15.
The spare key was still in a hatch behind the gas meter.
Mrs. Morris' apartment felt like a dead aquarium.
Prue opened the door slowly, less afraid that there would be someone inside, more afraid that there wouldn't. She dreaded the absence.
The African masks still dotted the hallway walls. There were the same ornate doilies on the cupboards and tables. Her knickknacks and travel mementoes stood untouched. Her comfortable shoes lay in an ordered line on a small shelf. Prue could trick herself into thinking the old woman was still here, making tea in the kitchen.
She went through each room. She did not look at anything specific, at first. She simply gazed on nothing. Hours seemed to pass this way. She touched a small cup, ran her fingers over a chintz curtain, felt the emptiness of the gesture. After some time, she tried to look for Mrs. Morris' personal documents. She searched drawers and desks and the large bookcase in the living room, but she couldn't find her ID or her passport. No credit cards or check books either. The Shadows must have taken them. Her fridge was empty too. Prue wondered if Barsad had taken care of that.
Prue sat on the edge of the woman's bed. She wanted to cry, but she felt that would be selfish. She stared up at an African mask hanging above the bed. She thought she could see Mrs. Morris' sad, resigned gaze in the downward carvings of the eyes. But there was something white in the corner of an eye.
Prue got up. She picked up the mask from the wall. She turned it over. A small note was stuck to the inside.
To Yvonne,
Remember your face.
Prue frowned. Had Yvonne been her first name? She recalled that the elderly woman had written Evie Morris on some of her food orders, but never Yvonne.
Perhaps Yvonne was someone else, a daughter.
But it also sounded familiar. Where had she seen it before?
She went back into the hallway and checked the rest of the colorful African masks, but none bore a message.
Prue went into the living room and looked through the bookcase again. She pulled out a thin photo album. As expected, the album was filled with pictures from Mrs. Morris' travels. In some of them she was white-haired; in others she was younger, but middle-aged. There were no photos of her as a young woman. The photos showed her hiking through forests and mountain passes, guided by a walking stick, carrying a heavy backpack on her shoulder. There were other photos of her in the savanna, by the side of a large Jeep, the trunks of elephants curled up the distance.
One particular photo made Prue wince. Mild-mannered Mrs. Morris stood proudly over the carcass of a lion, shotgun held against her chest. Her smile was grim. She looked younger, but her eyes seemed ancient. Prue couldn't quite believe her old friend capable of that. She pulled out a postcard that had been slipped inside the photo's sleeve.
The postcard was a nondescript image of an African sunset, a dark giraffe outlined against the sun gliding through the baobabs.
To Yvonne,
You are so beautiful when you kill.
R.
Prue rubbed her thumb over the name. Yvonne. Where had she seen it before?
The Bardo Thodol. The Tibetan Book of the Dead. She had signed her name in it. And right above hers, there had been –
Yvonne.
Prue dropped the photo album. She went to the bookcase and pulled out everything in a rush, all the books and notebooks and art albums.
She sat on the floor and flipped through pages feverishly, snapping photos with her phone at random, unwilling to confront the reality of the name yet. Mrs. Morris – Yvonne – had not kept a diary, but her notebooks were filled with impressions from her travels, superficial jottings that made her sound like a harried tourist. There were no mentions of Tibet, although she had taken pictures of Lhasa, of busy, snow-capped streets, of palaces and Buddhist temples. All ordinary and amateurish. Prue kept looking, but nothing struck her as particularly meaningful. The only thing that did not fit among all those travel keepsakes was a small postcard of a black Roman soldier with the halo of a saint. She set it aside. Her eyes were growing watery with exhaustion. Her mind was foggy with uncertainty.
The words kept ringing like bells in church. Remember your face. You are so beautiful when you kill.
Prue almost jumped when her phone started ringing too. She held it to her ear, almost expecting to hear Yvonne.
"Hey, girl, where are you? I got us a table by the window."
Prue checked her watch. She'd been doing this for four hours. And she was running late to her lunch date with Lisa. Fuck.
"Sorry, I got stuck in traffic, but I'm on my way," Prue mumbled, pushing the notebooks back inside the bookcase frantically.
"Okay, but hurry up. I gotta get back to work soon."
"I know, I'm coming!"
Prue hung up, chiding herself for losing track of time. She was on a mission. She had to talk to Lisa.
Prue stuck the note she'd found inside the African mask in her pocket. She took the postcard of the Roman soldier too.
She locked up after herself and took the key with her.
Yvonne.
Was that your name?
Were you one of them?
"Prue, are you even listening?"
"Oh sorry, I uh, didn't get much sleep last night," she mumbled, looking down into her coffee cup. "You were telling me about that rude guest."
"Yeah, he just talked over Melody the entire time, and ignored her questions. He didn't even let up during commercial breaks. Talk about ego."
Melody was the host of the popular Morning Melody, a pun-heavy, obnoxious-sounding morning talk show where the host, a forty-something self-help guru called Melody recommended facial creams, healing mantras, energy shakes, and "upbeat" songs to start the day with. Occasionally, she had guests on air, but they were as "positive" and "empowered" as her, which meant they mostly talked about themselves and how they could do so much good in the world if only people gave them more money. Lisa was Melody's resident DJ.
"He does sound awful, but not all the guests are like that, right?" Prue asked, knowing the answer.
"Oh my god, no! Most of them are amazing," Lisa gushed. "Like, meeting them was seriously life-changing. You listen to them for ten minutes and you realize you've been living your life all wrong. They really make you reflect on your past mistakes. There was this one guy who'd been a salesman all his life, but he got in a car accident after a little too much drinking, and he was declared dead for like five minutes before he was resuscitated, and that whole experience changed him, the visions he talks about, it really makes you reconsider life after death, it's really inspiring and thought-provoking –"
"That sounds pretty cool…but do you have, like, regular people on the show too?"
"That's just it; he was a totally regular person. This stuff happens to everyone, you know? We just choose not to believe in the supernatural, but it's all around us," Lisa argued, chewing on a fry.
Prue squared her shoulders. "Okay, but you know what I mean. That guy was probably selling a book."
"He was, but it's a really smart book, even you'd find it interesting."
"I'm sure it is. But has Melody ever had someone on who isn't selling something or promoting a lifestyle?"
Lisa pursed her lips. "What do you mean?"
Prue bit her tongue. She wasn't getting anywhere with this. It was time to grovel.
"Listen, this will sound really dumb and embarrassing…but you're my only friend right now, and the only person who can help me."
Lisa's eyes widened. "Oh, what's wrong, Prue?"
Prue could see she enjoyed being in the position of the mature friend who'd sorted out her life, for a change.
Prue ducked her head, gazing out the window. She had to sell this.
"I really miss Ben. I know he was a kind of an asshole, but he made me feel …really happy. And I still love him. I've tried not to, but I can't stop myself. I'm sure we could fix whatever went wrong between us. We only ever fought over the little things, you know?"
She didn't know if she sounded sincere. But it seemed enough for Lisa.
"Oh, hon," Lisa said, reaching out to pat her hand. "The little things are the big things. Melody taught me that."
Prue suppressed a grimace. "Look, I know I shouldn't ask, but…he left me because he didn't think I loved him enough. He didn't think I was…loyal." The word felt loaded on her tongue, but she pressed on. "If I could show him I'm still committed to him, maybe he'd change his mind. If I could come on the air and tell him how much I love him, maybe I could get him back. I'd just need two minutes. Melody wouldn't mind, would she?"
Lisa's lips parted in shock and pleasure. Prue knew how she looked: pathetic and stupid, losing her dignity over a man. It was hard for Lisa to resist.
"Maybe you could help me choose a song to dedicate to him too," Prue added, laying out the last bit of bait. "I know it's a lot to ask, but I could use your talents here."
Lisa smiled and squeezed Prue's hand. She felt generous and good.
"Let me talk to Melody and see if I can arrange something. Melody adores love stories and happy endings. They're part of her brand. She says we make our own happy endings. And that's what you're trying to do, right?"
Prue smiled, clutching Lisa's fingers.
She thought about what she planned to say on air.
Yes, perhaps that was what she was trying to do.
"New paper?" the librarian asked, depositing two more volumes on Tibetan culture on her desk.
"New dissertation topic, actually," Prue replied, giving her a wincing smile. The diligent student act she was putting on was starting to chafe. But the university library was the best place for intense research and the League of Shadows wasn't going to research itself.
"Hmm, is he your patron saint?" the librarian asked, pointing at the postcard of the Roman soldier that lay between the pages of her notebook.
Prue looked up. "Who?"
"Saint Maurice," the woman replied, tapping the postcard with one finger. "Catholic saint."
Prue stared at the black soldier. "No…"
"Well, anyway…have a good session," the librarian muttered, turning her back on her.
Prue picked up the postcard. So that's who it was.
Saint Maurice.
Maurice.
Morris.
She looked up his history online. Saint Maurice had been a Roman soldier, as she'd first guessed. He had been part of the Theban Legion, a group of Egyptian Christians in the 3rd century CE. When the Roman Emperor Maximian ordered them to quash a revolt of Christian peasants in Gaul, the Legion, led by Maurice, refused to fight. Maximian had every tenth soldier killed, in the well-known practice of 'decimation'. But Maurice and his rebels persisted in their mutiny, and they were all, eventually, decimated.
Prue sat back. She rubbed her eyes, as if removing a thin film.
Had Yvonne rebelled against the League? Had she been Maurice? Had she been the leader of her own mutinous group?
Had she chosen this surname as a symbol of her new path?
She turned the postcard, thumbing over its blankness. If this were true, why would Yvonne keep this image? To remind herself of what she had done?
Remember your face, the note inside the African mask had said.
Prue scanned the other desks around her. There was one guy wearing a hoodie and headphones to her left. He seemed to be reading a book, but his head was lying on the page. He looked like he was dozing.
Prue got up. She went over to his desk and tapped his shoulder. The guy startled, lowered his headphones.
"Sorry, do you happen to have a lighter?"
"We can't smoke indoors," he mumbled sleepily.
"Yeah, I wasn't going to."
He rummaged through bottomless pockets and fished out a scummy-looking lighter. "I'll want it back."
"Priceless heirloom, I'm sure," she mumbled, taking it gingerly.
Prue walked to the end of the reading room and dove between two shelves. She knew this might not work and she might accidentally set the postcard on fire, but she had to try.
She struck the lighter and held the small flame close enough to the back of the postcard.
Seconds passed in strange, warm agony. One corner of the postcard curled and singed. And then she saw them; the scratches, as if made with a safety pin or a tooth pick. The writing was small and trembling.
They've found me.
It would be pure vanity to think they've come for me. No, as always, they intend to raze a city to the ground. I just happen to live here.
Two birds with one stone.
Prue dropped the lighter. It broke on impact with the floor. The guy in the hoodie would be mad.
But she had it. It wasn't proof. It wasn't even solid, but it felt real.
Mrs. Morris – Yvonne – had been one of them. She had tried to flee. She had rebelled. And they had tracked her down. They'd had plans for her, as they had plans for Gotham. Two birds with one stone.
Prue shivered. Her kill had been no accident. It seemed the League of Shadows never forgot and never forgave.
As always, they mean to raze a city to the ground.
They had done this before, many times. Just like in Bhutan – the destruction of the historical records – that must have been them.
But why?
It couldn't just be about cleansing the world. It never was. The League picked and chose what it wanted to destroy, but what was its logic? That's what she needed to find out.
Prue had expected this, but it still stung.
The next time she went to Mrs. Morris' place, she found it locked. The old key didn't turn in the lock. She tried and tried, with nothing to show for it. Miranda's men must have changed it. She could try to break down the door, but she had a feeling there'd be nothing inside. At least she had the pictures in her phone, but what if she had missed something?
Prue sat down next to the door. She gathered her knees to her chest.
She remembered Mrs. Morris' last words to her.
If we both die, if your father dies, what will it have been for?
She hadn't thought it remarkable at the time.
What will it have been for? The question lapped on the shores of her mind.
She took out her phone and rang her dad. His voice was warm and relieved.
"You're feeling better, sweetheart? The flu's gone?"
"Yeah. I'm feeling all better. How are you?"
"Well, you know…I miss you. You coming home for spring break?"
Prue made a noncommittal sound. "I'm not sure, but I'll let you know. I'm swamped with deadlines and work."
"Don't work too hard. You've got the rest of your life to do that. I hope you're taking care of yourself. And you've made new friends? You've never mentioned Miranda, but she sounds nice."
Prue closed her eyes. She was pretty sure it had been one of Miranda's men who'd texted her dad that she was ill, but it was signed in her name.
Her stomach heaved.
"Yeah. She's real nice. She's a bit older. She's…involved in all sort of projects. I'm learning a lot from her."
"That's great. You're making connections, huh? I hope people see how clever you can be."
Prue suppressed a snort. If only that were enough.
She leaned her head against Mrs. Morris' door and listened to her dad's soothing voice.
When she dropped into bed that night, she could still hear his loving voice in her ear. A reassuring echo of home.
She could feel his touch on her cheek too.
His fingers pulled a lock of hair from her face.
Prue leaned into his calloused touch. His palm was warm. She rubbed her cheek against it.
"Daddy…" she murmured softly.
He removed his hand too quickly.
When she opened her eyes, the room was dark.
The shadows flickered with movement. In the distance, the air seemed to thrum and whir. The sounds of the city, or the sounds of a man.
She parted her lips to say his name, but she stopped. She didn't want to find out. Not because he might be there. But because he might not. It was absence that spooked her.
A/N: hello, long time no update...longer than usual I know. I'm sorry about that, it's been a weird, busy time in my life. I'm really touched that many of you have kept up with this story and keep writing me such lovely reviews. I am very thankful for them. I hope you like this chapter; some things that I planted in earlier chapters are revealed here and I hope they make sense. Some mysteries still have some way to go, and I hope that I can pull them off. There are some intense Bane/Prue interactions coming up next chapter (hopefully I won't take another two years to post it). See you soon.