Chapter Twenty-Seven
She went home, because she didn’t know what else to do.
She left her shop, locking the door behind her, glancing at the pile of pumpkins that were still sitting in a disorganized heap in the window as she left.
Her mind felt empty, even numb, and as she made her way across Greenwich, passing skeletons hanging by shop doors and ducking past tourists with spiced lattes in their hands, she hardly even blinked.
It was like being on autopilot, and it was only when she reached the door of her rickety old loft and her key jammed in the lock that she came to.
How long have I been here? When did I move in? She asked herself as she jimmied the key back and forth, but no answers came. Her mind was still muddled, still caught somewhere between the past and now, and the more she tried to think, the worse the gaps in her memory seemed to be.
The door finally gave in with a reluctant click, and Augustine stepped inside slowly, like she half-expected the rooms to have changed in her absence.
But they hadn’t.
Everything was where it should be. Roy’s chair by the fireplace. The transparent 90’s landline on the little table in the hall. The stack of junk mail by the door. The faint, familiar scent of something she couldn’t quite place but knew was hers.
Or at least, maybe was hers.
She closed the door behind her and stood there, hand still resting on the handle, taking a moment to let her thoughts settle. They didn’t, though. How could they?
Exhaling, Augustine crossed the room and sank into the chair by the window, her body suddenly heavy, like the adrenaline had burned out of her all at once and left nothing in its wake.
It seemed Roy wasn’t in, and she tried not to be too grateful for that fact.
She needed quiet, not her nosy roommate digging into the absolute shitshow of a day — no, scratch that.
The absolute shitshow of a day, week, month and year she was having.
The silence pressed in as a soft, familiar weight landed in her lap.
Augustine startled slightly, looking down at the black ball of fur that was curling up against her. “Bird,” she breathed. “Sorry, baby. Haven’t seen you in a couple of days, have I? Did you miss me? Did Roy feed you?”
She felt a pang of guilt for how long she’d left him, but Bird seemed well enough for the lack of attention.
He settled in against her, neat against Augustine’s stomach, his tail flicking once before going still.
A low, contented purr rumbled up, steady and grounding.
Augustine brought a hand down to stroke him.
He was soft and warm. Entirely real, and something in her chest eased, just a fraction.
“At least you’ll never lie to me,” she said quietly, and Bird blinked up at her, entirely unconcerned with existential crises, missing memories or spectral boyfriends.
Augustine stilled, her hand pausing mid-stroke. “But I still don’t remember getting you,” she said slowly. “I don’t know where you came from.”
Bird, unhelpfully, continued purring, and Augustine frowned, her gaze losing focus slightly as she reached back through the fragments of memory she did have.
There was nothing, though. When she thought back, Bird had always just . . . well, been there. In all her memories, he was already there, and always hers.
Abruptly, Theo’s voice, clear as anything, sounded in her mind.
He was small. So small that at first I thought he was a baby bird that had fallen from a tree.
Her breath caught, and Augustine looked down at Bird again. His sleek black fur and his calm, steady presence. She admired the way he fit so easily and naturally into her world, like he’d always been part of her life.
Except he hadn’t.
“Is that how you came to me?” she whispered. “Did Theo find you? Did he give you to me?”
Bird tilted his head slightly, as if considering the question.
“You’re an odd gift,” she went on. “I mean, I don’t even like cats—”
She stopped, the words hanging there, sounding wrong the moment they were spoken, and Augustine clapped a hand over her mouth.
Of course I like cats, she tried to tell herself. She had Bird, didn’t she? Why would a woman who didn’t like cats keep one as a pet? Still, even as the thought formed, something else stirred, older and sharper. A memory.
Her own hands, small and childlike, in a hallway that always smelled faintly of polish. And her mother’s voice, cool, distant, threaded with a particular kind of magic that never failed to make her smile.
Her mother had a cat, and Augustine’s nose wrinkled slightly as the image of that feline came into focus.
She’d been pale furred and sharp-eyed, always watching and waiting.
That cat had never liked Augustine, nor any of her sisters — not really.
It would wind around her mother’s ankles, purring like it belonged there, just another daughter to add to her mother’s brood.
Augustine tried to love her, she really did, but the moment she got too close, the cat would hiss and extend her claws.
The scratches on her skin were delivered quickly, with a precise and unapologetic aim, leaving sharp red welts across her arms and hands.
“You shouldn’t provoke her,” her mother would say. “She’s just a baby.”
Some baby, Augustine thought now, as she remembered the fear she’d developed of that cat, which transferred easily onto others.
Her fingers tightened slightly in Bird’s fur without her meaning to, as another memory layered over the first, this time of their neighbour’s garden.
She recalled the warmth of summer and long grass under her feet.
She remembered she and her sisters playing happily outside, an ice cream in each of their hands.
But she also remembered the feeling of something watching them from just beyond the fence.
That cat.
It was larger and much meaner than their mother’s, the kind of cat that didn’t just scratch but stalked.
It would slip through the hedges like a shadow, silent and deliberate, scattering birds, sending anything smaller running.
Augustine remembered the way it had looked at her once, perched on the wall, tail flicking slowly like it was deciding whether she counted as prey or as a nuisance, yellow eyes glinting in the shadows.
She’d stopped going into the garden after that.
It was true. She didn’t like cats. She hated them, in fact.
Her gaze dropped to Bird, still curled comfortably in her lap. Her hand moved automatically, stroking through soft black fur, her touch gentle and familiar against him.
“I don’t like cats,” she repeated, but the words were wrong, because whatever she felt about those cats, this one was different.
This one had chosen her. Or maybe been given to her. So no, Augustine didn’t like cats, but she loved this one.
“You’re mine,” she told Bird, the words quiet but certain, and Bird purred louder, as if in agreement. “I just wish I remembered where you came from.”
“Charming,” a voice said dryly from across the room. “What a touching, not at all inappropriate moment.”
Augustine jumped. Properly jumped, in fact, her shoulders jerking and heart lurching into her throat as she twisted in her chair.
“Jesus Christ, Roy! You want to scare me to death or something?”
“Maybe.” Roy lounged in the armchair like he had always been there, legs stretched out, one arm slung over the side, watching her with open amusement.
“You weren’t here a second ago,” she accused.
“I was,” he said easily. “You were just having a moment and didn’t notice.”
“I was not having a moment.”
“You were talking to the cat.”
“Well, I always talk to Bird—” Augustine stopped and exhaled, waving her free hand. “Besides. That’s irrelevant. I was not having a moment. I was brooding. That’s entirely different.”
“How so?”
“Length and intent,” Augustine retorted, scratching Bird behind his ears.
Roy only grinned, though, entirely unrepentant. Then his expression shifted as something sharper and more curious slipped in beneath the humour. “So,” he said, tilting his head. “Where were you last night?” A pause. “Or,” he added, more knowingly, “do I not want to know?”
Augustine looked at him for a long second. “You don’t want to know.”
Roy raised his eyebrows. “That bad, huh?”
“Worse.”
“Impressive.” Roy grinned again. “Did you do anything illegal?”
“I broke the laws of physics. Does that count?”
Roy blinked. “Let me guess — more metaphysical travel into your mystery man’s grieving girlfriend?”
Augustine shook her head. “Kind of. But also kind of not. It’s hard to explain.”
There was a brief silence as Augustine grappled with what to say next. She shifted slightly in her chair, adjusting Bird absentmindedly.
“What have you been up to?” she asked, trying to buy time.
Roy shrugged. “Oh, you know. Lived my quiet, uneventful life. Wrote a little. Listened to the Dick Tracy soundtrack again. Fed Bird.”
“Thanks for that.”
Roy shrugged. “His litter tray is an absolute state, though, and I refuse to touch it. I’m fond of you Augustine. But not that fond. Oh, by the way. The landlord called this morning.”
Augustine stilled, mentally working out when she’d last paid the rent. “God, what did he want?”
“Obviously, I didn’t speak to him,” Roy replied, and something in his eyes flickered with . . . was it sadness? “But he left a message on the landline that I overheard. Something about the leaking pipe? He said he would come by tomorrow morning to fix it.”
Oh.
Augustine exhaled in relief. That was fine. She leaned back into the chair again, her fingers still moving across Bird’s fur.
“Right,” she said. “I forgot I called him. There’s been a lot going on.”
Roy watched her carefully. “You all right?” he asked, and this time, there was no joking in his voice. He was really concerned, Augustine realized. Concerned about her.