-Additional note: It's been a while since I published Chapter 20, "Dilemma," so if you're reading this in real time as I publish it, you may want to go back and refresh your memory.-
JB dashed out of the tavern for a fourth time that morning and vomited into the gutter. No one paid him any mind; the tavern was full of drunkards getting their fix at the only spot open on Christmas day. Only, JB wasn't drunk. He'd just needed a warm place to sit while he waited for Cira to contact him.
He knelt on the cobblestone and let his head hang forward a few minutes more as he waited for the nausea to fade. He had to stop thinking about Sam. Each time his mind wandered, the look of devastation on her face in the entry hall of the cottage flooded his memory and his stomach lurched. He'd hoped the clinking of glasses and slurred carols sung in the back of the tavern would drown out the sound of Sam's cries that still haunted him, but they lingered even so.
He retched again, and for a minute he thought he might pass out from the nausea. When the feeling subsided, he dug out the elucidator and whispered, "Cira, where are you?"
"I'm still waiting for an opening to come get you, K'Tah. It's not safe yet," came her response.
"Can you see Sam? Is she…is she okay?"
No answer.
"Cira?"
"It could still be a few hours. Just hold on."
"I asked you about Sam," he said, irritated. "Are you still monitoring her? How is she?"
He heard something that sounded like a cough on her end. Then, "K'tah, I was going to wait to tell you this…"
"What?" His chest tightened. What hadn't she told him?
"You have to understand, I had no other choice…"
"What the hell are you talking about, Cira?"
Cira's voice, usually blunt and professional, came out in a breathy murmur. "I really am sorry, K'Tah. I wouldn't have lied to you if there was another option. We've discovered Cretney's original identity and she's been returned to her native time. Luring her out would not have been possible had she still trusted you, which is why I had you confront her early this morning. She wouldn't have believed it coming from anyone else."
"What are you saying?" There was too much to process. He felt sick to his stomach again.
"Cretney could never be saved," said Cira. "She's gone. I'm sorry."
The words didn't register at first. It was like Cira was speaking another language, one he couldn't understand. She's gone. The sound ricocheted in his head, bounded against the inside of his skull and reverberated on his tongue. "She's…gone…?" he repeated, still struggling to comprehend. It was like his body had become a force field, paralyzed and numb, protecting his consciousness from the impact of Cira's words. Suddenly he was underwater, his amplified heartbeat throbbing in his ears.
"I know you're in shock, but please try not to make a scene. It will still be a while before I can get you." The elucidator went silent.
She's gone.
"No…" He surfaced and the realization crashed over him like waves from an arctic sea. "No!" He sprung to his feet, past the tavern, and into the road. Horses stood on their hind legs and whinnied as he bolted in front of them. Coachmen hollered and cursed. He sped onward.
The cottage stood just as it had before, except the door was open and he could see, even without stepping inside, that no one was home. Desperate to cling to denial, he burst inside anyway. The place was pristine: bare coat rack, bed made, table set, curtains closed…no trace that anyone had stayed there.
His airway caved in and it was as though his asthma had somehow emerged from the dead. He stumbled his way back outside, coughing and wheezing, desperate to cry out but lacking the lung capacity to do so.
Something soft and cold landed on the tip of his nose…then his ear, his forehead, his cheek…featherlight crystals falling from a silver sky. The chaos inside him suddenly fizzled out; all was silent and still. Around him, people trickled out of their homes to behold the first snowfall of the season. Children raced outside and skipped around, chanting holiday tunes.
He realized he was still holding the wrapped parcel, the one Sam had given him just hours ago. With shaking fingers, he pulled the string loose and unfolded the neatly wrapped brown paper. Inside was a box that held a total of ten books with leather spines, the same ones he'd found in the French language section of the book store. Somehow he gathered the strength to open the first book to the title page, which revealed a newly scrawled inscription in Sam's slanted cursive: "To love another person is to see the face of God."
He slid to his knees and watched the snowflakes flutter down. Finally, he let the tears follow.