Chapter Nineteen #3
Augustine opened her mouth to answer — then stopped just as suddenly.
The shape of the explanation hovered just out of reach.
“I . . .” Her gaze drifted, unfocused. “I don’t know.
I just . . .” She shook her head once, sharper this time, hoping the motion might dislodge it.
“I can’t remember.” A prickle ran over her skin, sudden and unwelcome, like a draught through a closed room, and her brow furrowed. “Why can’t I remember?”
“I don’t know. Why can’t you?” Theo watched her, something more serious settling into his expression. “You really can’t remember?”
“No, I do, it’s just . . .” she trailed off.
Why do I call him Bird? she asked herself, trying to remember. When did I get him? How did I get him? Why can’t I remember?
“Except I don’t,” she finally admitted, her voice shaky. “I can’t remember.”
Theo swallowed. “Don’t you find that strange?”
Augustine let out a small, uncertain breath, turning back to the cabinet with its neat rows of bottles, willing them to offer some kind of answer.
“I guess. But I mean . . . people forget things all the time, right? Names, reasons, where they put things.” She reached for a bundle of dried lavender, then paused, frowning when she couldn’t quite recall where it belonged. “It doesn’t have to mean anything.”
Even to her own ears, though, her words sounded thin.
“Augustine—”
“Look, I know I have him,” she carried on quickly before Theo could say anything else that might make her feel even more uneasy.
“I know he exists. I can picture him perfectly. The way he sleeps. The feel of his fur under my hands. The noise he makes when he’s annoyed, the way he—” She broke off, shaking her head.
“I remember him. I just can’t remember how I got him.
Not even a little.” The prickle along her skin deepened, and she turned back to Theo, something uneasy flickering in her eyes. “What was your cat called?”
Theo didn’t answer straight away. He looked down, brow furrowing slightly, perhaps searching inward and finding only fog. Then he shook his head. “I can’t remember.”
Augustine swallowed. “That’s odd, right?”
“Yeah. I’d say so.” Theo’s gaze lifted back to hers, searching now, intent in a different way. “Do you think . . .?” He hesitated, then said it anyway. “Do you think it’s the same cat?”
She inhaled sharply. “No.” Her reply was quick, almost instinctive. Then, softer, and far more certain, “No. I would remember that. I told you, I would remember you.”
The air between them suddenly felt thick, newly weighted with emotion. “You think you would remember me?”
She blushed. “Well, I—”
“Because that’s how I feel too, when I’m with you,” Theo rushed on. “Like I should remember you. Like I should know you. Despite the fact I don’t.”
The air between them shifted subtly, and Augustine’s breath hitched, just slightly, implying something had brushed too close to the truth of things. She held his gaze a moment longer than she meant to, caught and suspended in that strange shared certainty.
Quickly, she looked away, fingers curling faintly at her sides.
He’s a ghost, she reminded herself. A mystery. A problem to be solved. Not . . . whatever this is becoming.
She had to stop it. Stop the way her pulse quickened when she was with him; stop the way that moments between them seemed to stretch, thick with possibilities.
So, she drew in a careful breath and stepped back, physically breaking the moment before it could deepen even further.
“Anyway,” she said brightly — far too brightly — turning towards the desk. “Excellent. Emotionally confusing supernatural revelations aside, what’s the plan? Tea? Research?”
There was nothing but silence from Theo, and so she risked a glance back.
He was still watching her.
“Augustine,” he said quietly.
“Don’t,” she returned, just as quietly, a plea to her voice. “Just . . . don’t.”
She made a point of picking up a bowl of charms, sorting them needlessly into colours, and she heard Theo sigh behind her.
“Augustine.”
She shook her head once. “Seriously. Let’s not do this, okay?”
“What?” he asked gently.
“This.” She made a vague gesture between them without looking back at him. “The emotionally complicated part.”
“Don’t you think it’s a bit late for that?” Theo asked her softly, and Augustine’s fingers faltered.
Don’t. Don’t do this.
She wasn’t sure whether she was speaking to herself or sending a silent plea to him. Maybe both.
“Augustine. Look at me,” he said softly.
“No.”
“Augustine.”
There was warmth in the way he said her name. A mix of familiarity and concern; maybe even something dangerously close to tenderness, and she hated — she absolutely hated — just how much she wanted to turn around.
“Augustine,” he said again, and she finally relented, looking over her shoulder towards him.
She refused to meet his gaze, however, looking anywhere but his face.
Instead, she watched as his hand lifted hesitantly, like he’d forgotten himself, or perhaps remembered something he shouldn’t.
Tremulously, his fingers found hers, brushing against them where they hovered over the table.
Augustine’s breath caught sharply in her throat while Theo froze, and for one impossible, suspended second, neither of them moved.
Because they were touching.