Eleven
JOSIE
Minutes pass.
Then hours.
And still nothing.
Panic starts creeping in.
No.
No, no, no.
He's probably busy.
Right?
He's with his old employer.
Maybe that's normal.
Maybe—maybe I'm imagining this entire bond thing.
Trying to shake it off, I head into Madame's room.
“There you are, Pussycat!” she announces happily.
But the moment she sees me, her smile fades.
Because apparently I look as terrible as I feel.
“I'm just taking your blood pressure,” I tell her.
My hands are shaking.
The cuff slips twice.
“Dear heart,” Madame says softly.
I blink.
“What?”
“You look like you've seen a ghost. What's wrong, Pussycat?”
My eyes burn.
And before I can stop myself, I whisper:
“I can't feel him.”
Her expression immediately softens.
“Oh.”
“I know that sounds crazy.”
“No, it doesn't.”
The old woman reaches for my hand.
“Let me try.”
I almost laugh.
Try what?
But then Madame closes her eyes.
And I just stare as swirls of light seem to circle around her.
Suddenly, she gasps.
Her eyes snap open.
“Oh, Pussycat. I’m sorry, but he’s beyond my reach. He's crossed over.”
Everything inside me stops.
Crossed over.
Crossed over?
My heart breaks.
“No.”
Tears spill instantly.
“No, no, no.”
Madame grabs my hand.
“Wait—”
But I can't wait.
I can’t stop.
I can't breathe.
Desmond.
My beautiful Desmond.
Gone?
Dead?
After waiting three hundred years?
After finding me?
No.
No!
It’s so unfair.
I start to run.
Out of the room.
Past the nurses' station.
Ignoring people calling my name.
Ignoring Abigail shouting after me.
Tears and sobs rack my body.
I don't even remember getting into a cab.
I barely remember giving the driver the address.
All I know is pain.
Pain so enormous it feels impossible.
How can this hurt so much?
I've known him one day.
One day.
But somehow… somehow he became my everything.
The house appears through my tears.
And before I even reach the door—it opens.
By itself.
Magic.
Desmond's magic.
Fresh tears spill.
“Desmond?” I cry.
No response.
Of course not.
The house is silent.
Too silent.
I run upstairs.
Straight to the bedroom.
Our bedroom.
Oh God, it hits me then because it could have been, right?
Mine and his.
I collapse onto the bed and grab his pillow.
It smells like chocolate and cinnamon.
Like him.
I clutch it to my chest.
“How can this be real?” I sob.
“How can I feel like this over someone I just met?”
The room offers no answers.
Only silence.
And loneliness.
The same loneliness I'd lived with for years.
Only now—now I know exactly what I'm missing.
And the pain of it is too much.