Chapter 17
Adrian wraps the dagger in his handkerchief and tucks it into his pocket.
As we walk to the front door, I’m struck by the sudden realization I might never return.
This shop, the place I poured all of my time and love into, isn’t mine anymore.
My closest friend is dead—died thinking badly of me, even, considering I was apparently impersonating him in letters.
“Walk quickly and with your head down,” Adrian says when we reach the door. “But don’t rush. Pretend to be deep in conversation with me.”
I do as he suggests. When the door shuts behind me, it sounds like the closing of a tomb.
We walk several blocks before hailing a taxi.
It’s not until it disgorges us on the sidewalk in front of my apartment building that I relax even the smallest fraction.
The familiar sights and sounds of the Village surround me: the Italian restaurant owned by the generous Mrs. Rossi, the tea shop run by an aging bohemian and her “wife,” the club that holds drag balls twice a year but whose doorstep I haven’t been brave enough to cross.
The streets are relatively quiet, most of my neighbors still sleeping off Saturday night’s excesses.
For once, I’m glad I haven’t been able to bring myself to socialize with them. I don’t have to worry what relationships I might have damaged during my lost year, whose feelings I might have hurt without remembering.
I live on the fourth floor; there’s no elevator, so we have to take the stairs. I hesitate before slipping my key into the lock…then brace myself and open the door.
At first glance, the apartment looks very much like I remember it. The second-hand furniture, the clanking radiator, the tiny kitchen in clear view of the entrance. But as I enter and Adrian shuts the door behind us, I notice two things right away.
One is that a layer of dust I’d never ordinarily tolerate lies over everything, and the floor is in desperate need of a good mopping.
The second is that all of my books are gone. The shelf over my small dining table is bare, there’s no stack of novels beside my comfortable chair, not so much as a magazine or a newspaper sits on my desk.
A wave of light-headedness sweeps over me. “My—my books…”
“You should sit down,” Adrian says, looking a bit alarmed. “I’ll get you a glass of water. Or tea?”
“God only knows if there is any.” I sink into my chair and resist the urge to bury my face in my hands. “Why would I get rid of my books, Adrian?”
Adrian returns from the kitchen with a glass of water, which I gratefully sip. “I wonder,” he says slowly, “if it might be helpful to consult a psychiatrist, find out if there’s any chance of restoring your memories.”
“I’d prefer not to be locked up in a madhouse, but perhaps it’s where I belong,” I agree glumly.
“I’m not saying that at all.” He drags over the other chair and sits across from me, so we’re on a level. “Maybe a psychiatrist could hypnotize you?”
“It might be worth a try. Do you know one?”
“No, but I’m sure my employer could arrange something, if I can convince them it will cost less than paying out the insurance for the Key of Mithras.
Plus I should be in their good graces after finding The Wheel of Aion painting.
” He bites his lip. “Let’s keep that in reserve for the moment.
Why don’t you rest for a bit? I’ll search the apartment for any leads—with your permission, of course. ”
I wave a tired hand at him. “I sincerely hope you find something.”
While Adrian remains in the front room, poking around under the cushions, I retreat to the bathroom. My silk robe, a lovely shade of rose embroidered with chrysanthemums, hangs on the hook where I left it. Everything else remains as I recall.
I run my bath, climb in, and have a good cry. For James, for me, for the seemingly insurmountable problems I appear to have caused myself in an extended fit of madness.
When I’m done, I dry off and wrap myself in the robe. Bracing myself, I look into the mirror over the sink, forcing myself to meet my own gaze.
Every muscle clenches…then relaxes when I see my familiar features staring back at me.
I’m a mess, my eyes red and puffy, my hair a disgrace. I spend the next half-hour dabbing cold water on my eyelids, then attempting to do something with my hair.
When I emerge, dressed only in my robe, Adrian is sitting in my chair.
Upon seeing me, his eyes widen slightly, gaze finding the exposed triangle of my skin below my neck.
Then he blinks rapidly and looks away. “I, ah, searched your bedroom and the living room. There’s nothing.
In fact, there’s so little it’s suspicious.
No correspondence, no books, not a single slip of paper anywhere. ”
“My address book is gone?” Not that I had many written in it, but even so.
He nods. “Get dressed. I’ll look around in the bathroom.”
“Have a bath while you’re at it.” At least the porter on the train had been kind enough to brush the worst of the mud off our clothing.
“I’d offer to lend you a fresh shirt or pair of trousers, but, well…
” I gesture vaguely in the direction of his broad shoulders, which would burst the seams of anything in my wardrobe.
He smiles, and for some reason it feels genuine to me. “I will. Thank you.”
I retreat to my bedroom and try very hard not to think about the fact that Adrian is stripping down to his skin on the other side of the wall.
Thankfully, all of my clothes seem to be in place, though in my madness I seem to have neglected to buy so much as a single new sock, so everything is a year out of date.
I choose a gray worsted suit with a diamond weave, and pair it with a blue striped tie.
Feeling a bit more myself, I settle in my chair in the front room, only to remember I don’t have anything to read. When Adrian emerges from the bathroom, it’s to find me sweeping the floor. “Housework?”
“I like to keep busy. I don’t suppose you found my secret diary concealed behind the medicine cabinet, where I wrote down everything I did over the last year?”
“Sadly no.” He straightens his cuffs. “I suggest visiting the pharmacy, considering it’s nearby.”
The rain has returned, so we take a taxi despite the relatively short walk. The pharmacy stands on the corner of Waverly Place and 10th Street and is open due to the blue laws exemption for essential services.
As such, it’s a popular place today. Men and women crowd the soda counter, while children plead for sweets.
A line of people stretches from the register; most of them seem to be picking up their weekly pint of “medicinal” whiskey.
A girl peers at some toys through the glass of one of the mahogany display cabinets, while her mother peruses the magazine rack.
Old men study liniment tins, and an elderly woman is arguing loudly with her daughter in front of the bulk herbs.
I look around uncertainly. “I hope you have a plan, because I’m not certain what we can learn here, or how to go about finding it.”
“Mr. Caine!” exclaims a voice I don’t recognize. I turn to see a middle-aged fellow in a pharmacist’s coat making his way from behind the counter toward us, a welcoming smile on his face. “We weren’t expecting you, but of course it’s a pleasure—always a pleasure!—to see you, sir.”