Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I remember the minute
It was like a switch was flipped
I was just a kid who grew up strong enough
To pick this armor up
And suddenly it fit

God, that was so long ago, long ago, long ago
I was little, I was weak and perfectly naive
And I grew up too quick

A Boy in The Basement

When Charles woke, the first thing he registered was pain. Blinding, burning, mind-numbing pain. Every tiny movement was met with an overwhelming wave of exhaustion, weighing him down like a sack of rocks at the bottom of a lake.

He knew he needed to move. He needed to start figuring out where he was, or to go find his mum, but he was just so tired. Moving sounded like so much work. It would be so much easier to stay there, nestled safely between the lines of bleak reality and peaceful unconsciousness.

Eventually, though, his need for pain relief won out. He did his best to roll over, or shift, but each attempt was squandered by a collection of bigger, scarier pains. Quick blinks triggered intense throbbing behind his eye, and every twitch made the soreness in his wrist even worse. He was pretty sure it was swollen, too, judging by how it refused to bear weight.

After his third failed attempt at sitting up, a rush of tears spilled down his cheeks. The idea of moving felt impossible. Even just the thought of it made him want to be sick.

"Mum?" he called out desperately. There was no answer. She never answered, when his dad got like this. Things would only get worse if she did.

A sob escaped his throat, echoing off of the cold stone walls. He just didn't know what else to do.

Up until now, his father’s punishments had been limited to slaps and shoves and words. Nothing that left a lasting mark. Discipline was a family matter. It was well understood that if Charles were to share these experiences with anyone outside of his mum or dad, there would be consequences. 

Now, though, his injuries were visible, and the prospect of explaining them to another adult struck his heart with fear. Teachers and counselors always told him that lying was wrong. “Honesty is the best policy,” they said. It was always better for him to tell the truth, no matter the potential outcome.

Charles tried to think of what his father might say to a statement like that. A brutal image of a fist connecting with his face surged to the forefront of his mind instead. The realization that he had been punished for disobeying yet another rule sank into his bones, clawing at his chest like a feral animal.

The next shuddering breath he took lodged in his throat. The one after that clung stubbornly to the back of his tongue, refusing to make its way into his lungs. His breaths came short and quick after that. For a moment, Charles thought he might pass out again.

It took some time, but eventually, he managed to slow his breathing to a normal pace. He told himself that his swollen eye didn’t matter much because the room was too dark to see anything anyway. There was still the matter of what to tell his teachers, but Charles had always been an overactive boy. If he told the adults that he'd run into a door, or fallen out of a tree, he was sure they’d let the matter drop.

He took another deep breath and wrinkled his nose. The scent of mildew and wet earth overwhelmed his senses. He recognized the smell easily. He’d gone and earned himself yet another punishment in his dad’s creepy basement. 

A small stream of memories returned to his mind, providing a bit of context. He’d mucked things up. Again.

Charles knew the whole ordeal had been his fault, really. He’d been spinning one of his mum’s dinner glasses on the kitchen table when it slipped out of his hands. The sodding thing hadn’t even been anything special—just a clear glass with a chipped rim and a red flower painted on the front. His mum had gotten it at a rubbish sale down the street as a free add-on to a set of plates. Charles had been there when she purchased it. The whole lot had only cost a quid.

Its lack of value hardly mattered, though. At the time of his mistake, Charles had been finishing out his previous punishment of sitting at the table and “thinking about his actions.” It apparently fit the crime of playing with his toy airplanes too loudly. Which, was hardly Charles’s fault. Imitating the rumbling sounds of a jet engine was the probably best part about owning model planes.

Remaining seated at the table for long stretches of time was one of his dad’s tamest punishments, though Charles always found it near impossible. His mum wasn’t allowed to speak with him while he sat there, and his dad never so much as spared him a glance. He felt like a ghost, sometimes; he wasn’t allowed to say anything, and his parents milled about the house as if he wasn’t even there. At least when his dad screamed, or banned Charles from meals for the day, his mum could still give him a cuddle without putting them in harm’s way.

Plus, it was boring. He wasn’t allowed to draw or listen to music or anything. He just had to sit quietly and think about what he’d done.

Which was dumb. Charles hated thinking about his actions. He just liked doing them. That was the whole point of them.

So, maybe he had been just a little glad when the glass shattered on the floor. His mum had finally turned to face him, and even if she'd looked horrified, Charles had still felt so relieved. He finally felt tangible, the sinking feeling of being ignored fading away. Then his father had looked at him, too, and the comforting feeling of being seen turned to ice in his veins.

His father had said nothing as he had dragged Charles from his seat at the table, pulling him along like a dog on a leash. Charles had struggled against his hold and reached a hand out to his mum, silently begging her to do something. Anything. But, all she did was stare. Her delicate hands clutched the broom she was using to sweep up shards of glass, thumbs methodically rubbing over the wood in a soothing gesture. Charles had never been more jealous of a broom in his life. 

It could have been much worse, all told. Charles may have been tossed down the basement steps like a life size rag doll, but he was awake and alert and not bleeding. He would take the wins where he could get them.

Searching for an exit briefly crossed Charles's mind, but he quickly decided it wasn’t worth the trouble. It wasn’t as if he could jimmy the lock with his bare hands. Until his dad came back, he was stuck here. Might as well get comfortable.

Finally, Charles finally managed to pull himself from the floor. He kept expecting to trip over his dad’s boxes of old magazines, or one of his mum’s birdhousing kits, but the space was curiously empty. He couldn’t remember the basement ever being so tidy, even when they had first moved house. 

As Charles stumbled clumsily around the unfamiliar space, he allowed his mind to wander. His thoughts eventually settled on a book he had read for a school project a few months ago. It had been an entire book full of bat facts, and it ended up being absolutely brills. He’d bothered his parents with those facts for days, spouting them off endlessly, until his dad had gotten irritated and tossed the book in the bin. The librarian still bothered him about the ever-increasing late fee every now and again, though Charles would have to be mental to bring that one up to his parents.

One of the terms he’d learned from the book was echolocation. As far as Charles could remember, echolocation made it so that bats could see in the dark by making a bunch of high pitched noises. He couldn’t remember exactly why bats could use echolocation and humans couldn’t. Maybe they could, and Charles had just never tried?

He let out a few high pitched squeaks and squinted his eyes, attempting to make out what was in front of him. The darkness didn’t seem to lessen at all. He let out a final shrill sound, took a large step forward, and promptly collided with a wall.

So much for his humans-using-echolocation theory.

Regardless of his method, though, Charles had found what he was looking for. He traced along the wall slowly, shuffling to the side, until he found a corner where two walls intersected. Corners were safe, he’d learned over the years. They provided him with some cover. Settling in the corner meant that he could see the entire room, and no one could sneak up on him. 

Not that it would make much of a difference now, given the lack of light.

Charles sank to the floor and wrapped his arms around his legs, trying his best to ignore his injured ribs. He tucked his knees against his chest and leaned his forehead against them, pretending he was up in his bedroom, hiding in the safety of his closet. 

The moisture of the basement air clung to his skin, adhering to his form like a soggy jumper. He listened to the drip drip drip of a steadily leaking pipe somewhere in the distance, lulling him into a trance-like state. The pain in his head faded to a dull ache as he lost himself in the surrounding darkness. Time slipped through his awareness like water through a sieve. There was nothing to do but wait.

Some time later, Charles’s ears picked up the sound of gentle footfalls above him. The steps were soft and slow, almost careful sounding; nothing like the heavy, quick steps of his father. He sat stock still as the footsteps stopped outside of the basement door. He curled around himself tighter and eyes screwed tightly shut, willing the person to go away.

Then, there was a light. A beautiful, soft light that Charles could see from behind his closed eyelids. He was drawn to the brilliance of it like a wilting flower to the sun, raising his bowed head to look towards its source.

To his shock, a teenage boy stood at the top of the basement steps, holding a brightly glowing book in his hand. He was much older than Charles, closer to an adult, and he looked as if he had stepped straight out of one of the old-timey movies that his dad sometimes fell asleep in front of after dinner. He wore a bowtie and a fancy waistcoat, complete with posh-looking knee length trousers and a thick brown overcoat. 

Charles shivered. It would’ve been nice if his dad let him bring a coat into the basement every now and again. It was always freezing.

The boy’s hair was slicked down and pushed off to one side, not a single strand out of place. Charles reached up and touched his own unruly locks, wondering how the other boy managed to get his hairstyle to sit so neatly. His own hair was thick and messy, always settled into a haphazard tangle of curls. He couldn’t imagine being able to flatten it all down on his head like that.

“Charles?” the boy asked, startling him from his thoughts. His voice was soft and kind, like his mum’s often was after a particularly rough night with his dad.

Charles looked up, his good eye blinking owlishly. “Who’re you?”

He looked back at Charles, lips set in a wobbly frown. If Charles had to guess, he’d say the strange, stuffy-looking boy was trying not to cry.

There was a long beat of silence. And then:

“Oh, my dear. What has she done to you?”

Jube's post

Twelve Hours Prior

“So you’re telling me that you finally found a fucking ghost therapist?" Crystal asked. "Glory hallelujah, I’ve been waiting for this day.”

“Psychiatrist, if you wanna get technical,” Charles replied. “Dr. Hargrove was a shrink back when she was alive, but don’t get excited—she’s not exactly the helpful sort. She’s more like the bloke who created Frankenstein, except with less scary lightning and more general mind fuckery.”

“The doctor in Frankenstein is the only character that bears the name of ‘Frankenstein,’” Edwin said.

Charles stared at Edwin blankly, thrown off by the abrupt change of subject. “Come again?”

“The doctor’s name is Victor Frankenstein. His creation is referred to by a variety of monikers, none of which are solely ‘Frankenstein.’ The closest colloquial title would be ‘Frankenstein’s monster.’”

“Are you sure about that, mate? Because—“

“I am quite sure, Charles. I’ve read the book numerous times.”

“Right, but—”

“Okay! Moving on,” Crystal said impatiently, before fixing Charles with an incredulous stare. “Did you seriously not know that?”

Charles shrugged. “Never got ‘round to reading it.”

“Bad excuse. There’s a billion movie adaptations, one of which I have literally watched with you.”

“Are you referring to that absolutely heinous musical production that you two watched with Niko last month?” Edwin asked, his face pinched in distaste. “I found their use of an abnormal brain in the doctor’s creation to be quite a discredit to Mary Shelley’s original work.”

Crystal shrugged. “I mean, I guess Young Frankenstein isn’t the best Frankenstein adaptation to use as a reference, but my point still—”

“ Oi, enough,” Charles said, cutting them both off. “Christ, you two are bloody impossible. I thought we were moving on.”

“Right, of course,” Edwin said, casting Crystal a sidelong glance. “A spirit named Dr. Violet Hargrove has been reportedly conducting experiments on other ghosts, the descriptions of which have been relatively disturbing in nature. She seems to be quite… eccentric.”

“Absolutely bloody barmy would be a more accurate description, mate,” Charles said sharply. “She’s nabbing ghosts and forcing them to relive the most traumatic moments of their lives.”

Crystal’s mouth dropped open slightly. “Fucking why? What could possibly be the point of that?”

“Currently unclear,” Edwin replied. “It’s unlikely that we’ll discover any specific motives until we are able to speak with her, but in the interest of a hypothesis, there are a few similarities between victims that should be noted.”

Edwin retrieved his notebook off of the desk and flipped it open, reading from a section of quickly scrawled notes. “After speaking with our prospective clients, I have discovered that all of the doctor’s subjects have a history of extraordinarily painful life experiences. They have all also managed to build a solid emotional support system post-death.”

Crystal blinked at him. “They did what now?”

“I will admit that Niko noticed this pattern, not I,” he said, looking vaguely embarrassed. “Every spirit that has been kidnapped by Dr. Hargrove was reported missing by at least one other spirit, if not more. The victims all seem to have built close interpersonal connections within their chosen afterlife: friends, family, lovers, et cetera.”

“Jesus,” Crystal said softly. “That’s really sad.”

“It is. It is also why time is of the essence, as it is only a matter of time before another spirit goes missing.”

“Right,” Crystal said, nodding in agreement. “So, are all of her past victims still present in the mortal world?”

Edwin steepled his fingers, his expression taking on an air of intensity. “Some of them, yes, though a number of them have disintegrated due to the intensity of their re-experiences. Given that they all had reported histories of horrific injuries, abuse, and violent deaths, I cannot say I’m surprised.”

Charles stifled a grimace at Edwin’s flippant use of the word abuse . No matter how many times he heard the word used in casual conversation, the ugliness of it still made him flinch. Fortunately, his friends were too absorbed in their conversation to take notice.

“So, where is she? Off haunting some deserted asylum somewhere?” Crystal asked.

“You watch far too many horror films,” Edwin said primly. “She is currently running experiments out of her old home office in Greenwich.”

“Which,” Charles interjected, “happens to be down the street from an abandoned hospital.”

“Called it,” Crystal said, offering Charles a celebratory high five. Charles obliged, the resulting crack ringing out through the otherwise quiet office. Crystal pulled her hand away, shaking it. “Ow. Good one.”

Edwin rolled his eyes, opting to ignore them both. He instead pulled a large roll of paper out from his bottom desk drawer and unfurled it over the desktop, revealing a set of marked-up blueprints.

“Charles and I have come up with a potential plan, though our lack of information has left a number of variables unaccounted for,” he said, pointing to a small circled section within the plans. “One of the victims’ friends reported that the good doctor has a hidden basement on the premises. Once her work is completed, it is used as a holding cell until she is prepared to release her victims back to their loved ones. We believe there is a decent chance of the basement holding spirits that we have not yet gotten reports of, and if that is the case, our first priority is rescue.”

Edwin looked to Charles expectantly. “Charles?”

“Right mate, just a tick,” Charles said, reaching into his backpack. “Given that we have no idea why she’s so keen on holding ghost hostages, we can’t exactly force her to move onto her afterlife. So—Where the devil is…” He pulled a burlap sack out of the backpack. “Aha! Found it.”

Charles upended the pouch, sending an iron neck shackle clattering to the office floor. Crystal moved to pick it up, turning the collar over in her hands.

“Is this the same one that Esther used on you?” she asked warily.

Charles nodded. Crystal scowled at the shackle as if it had personally murdered her entire family.

“The idea is that if we truss her up with iron and leave her to be claimed in place of the captive spirits, then it’s possible she’ll be dragged to Hell whether she’s ready to move on or not,” Charles said. “Good ol’ irons to fire play, innit?”

Crystal hummed in agreement, taking the sack from Charles’s hands and shoving the shackle back inside. “The name could use some work, but otherwise, I’m sold.”

“I’d like to see you come up with some, then,” Charles said. “I do all the heavy lifting ‘round here when it comes to naming schemes. It’s bloody exhausting.”

“And with all that practice, you should be better at it by now,” she teased.

"If you two are done," Edwin cut in imperiously. “Niko will be back from her shopping trip in a few hours, and we will need to leave time for transportation to Greenwich. If we are to prepare, now would be the time.”

“Oh yeah, sure,” Crystal said, leaning on the desk. “So, what comes next?”

Chapter Text

What Came Next

“Mate, I hate to complain,” Charles said, squinting past the threshold, “but I can’t see shit.”

The interior of Violet Hargrove’s home was nearly imperceptible from his position in the entryway, a collection of vague shapes barely standing out against the darkness. Charles gripped onto either side of the door frame and leaned a little farther into the entry, his upper half disappearing into the void.

“Here, let me see,” Crystal said, leaning clumsily over his shoulder. The sudden addition of her weight pushed Charles forward, nearly sending him toppling through the doorway. She caught his arm at the last moment and pulled him back onto his feet, steadying him.

“Yep, sure is dark in there,” she declared, still gripping his elbow. Edwin stared blankly at them both, stunned by the ridiculous display.

“Once again, your joint tomfoolery has left me speechless,” Edwin said, remaining very much not-speechless. He extended a hand towards Charles, waiting expectantly. “I need my copy of Lux Aeterna Linguarum Diligentium, if you please—the thin one bound in golden leather.”

“Bloody mouthful, that is,” Charles said, hefting his bag from his shoulder. “What’s it translate to?”

“The Eternal Light of Diligent Languages,” Edwin replied. “We really ought to work on your Latin retention skills—do you truly not know the English translation of ‘lux aeterna’?”

Charles groaned. “This again? I’ve told you, mate, I’m shit at the languages I already speak.The last thing I need is to add another to the list.”

“Students raised in bilingual households are proven to have an advantage in learning additional languages,” Edwin said, the familiar words rolling off of his tongue like a well-practiced monologue. This wasn’t the first time they’d had this conversation, and naturally, Edwin refused to let the subject drop. “I’m quite certain you could master Latin, were you to take an interest.”

“It’s true!” Niko piped up, her attention split between the conversation and a polaroid camera in her hands—the three of them had gotten it for her as a ‘welcome home’ gift, and she was still figuring out how to load it with film. According to the witch they’d bought it from, it had the ability to capture supernatural beings on film. “The more languages you learn, the easier it gets. You wouldn’t even have to learn a new alphabet, either.”

Edwin smiled, his expression a touch smug. “Tamil already uses a separate alphabet to English, so if Charles were interested in learning a new script, he would certainly be equipped to do so.”

Charles ducked his head, his thoughts stalling out. Edwin had an endearing habit of talking up Charles’s linguistic ability as if he were truly fluent in Tamil, when in reality, he barely knew enough to scrape by. His mum had made sure he could easily speak with his aunties—in case he ever needed their help, she’d said—but his written script was absolutely atrocious, and his translation skills were even worse.

Edwin didn’t seem to agree with that assessment, though; he continued to speak as if Charles were actually bilingual. Charles basked in the praise, pleased to have Edwin’s approval, even if he knew it was a bit undeserved. A familiar longing unfurled in his chest, delicate and wanting, the warmth of his partner’s gentle reassurances rooting itself in his gut. The thought of it made him want to cry, a little.

“Am I the only one of us that doesn’t speak a second language?” Crystal asked, pulling Charles back to the conversation at hand. Thankfully, no one seemed to notice that his thoughts had veered so far off course. “I’m starting to feel a little stupid here.”

Edwin’s lips quirked into a barely-perceptible smirk. “Well—”

“Don’t finish that sentence, mate,” Charles said, nipping their argument in the bud. He yanked the leather-bound tome from his backpack and placed it in Edwin’s hand. “Let’s just get inside, yeah? No use faffing about in the doorway.”

By some miracle, Edwin relented, turning his attention to the tome’s sparse pages. A finger traced, then retraced, the long lines of text. Charles found himself slightly leaning forward on his toes, filled with anticipation.

A smooth Latin phrase tumbled easily from Edwin’s lips, a legato strain of open vowels and soft consonants. The book’s weathered pages began to flicker like an old streetlamp, dim and unstable, but mystically beautiful. The Latin continued, weaving a blanket of honey-sweet phonemes, and as Edwin neared the end of his recitation, the parchment’s golden glow had stabilized.

Charles stared for a moment, completely transfixed. Spots bloomed across his vision, as if staring into the sun, but he couldn’t look away. Even if he could, he wasn't sure he wanted to.

“That’s brills,” he said, voice tinged with awe. “New spell?”

Edwin nodded. “The book’s enchantment is designed to activate upon accurate recitation of the written phrases,” he explained. “They are specifically designed to trip up the tongue.”

“It’s a book of Latin tongue twisters?” Niko asked.

“Yes, that’s an apt description,” he said. “The book itself has many uses aside from light. The more powerful the spell, the more difficult the incantation. There is a small amount of magical knowledge required to use it, but it’s hardly worth mentioning. Its the pronunciation that's key.”

Charles tore his eyes from the pages, meeting Edwin’s eyes instead. His irises were bright in a different way, curious and inviting, but no less hypnotizing. “Not for nothing, mate, but I think anything that pretty is worth a fair bit of mentioning.”

Edwin’s gaze went soft, if a bit surprised. It was the same expression that he always wore when Charles offered him praise, and every time, it made Charles want to give him more . He wanted to shower Edwin with so much kindness that one day, maybe, he would stop being so shocked by it.

“Could’ve just used my cell phone flashlight, but sure, a magic book works, too,” Crystal muttered, crossing over the house's threshold. Edwin’s features hardened into a bitter scowl, staring daggers at the back of her head.

Niko linked her arm with Edwin’s, leaning her head on his shoulder affectionately. “I liked it!” She said brightly. “I think we should always use magic when we have the chance, it’s way cooler than technology.” Edwin simply nodded in agreement and patted her arm, giving it a short squeeze.

Charles watched their exchange, an involuntary smile playing on his lips. This was their first case as a full team since Niko had returned from her temporary relocation to the astral plane, and none of them could quite believe that their venture to retrieve her had been a success. Charles had desperately missed the gentleness that Niko’s presence brought out in Edwin, and its reappearance was enough to make his spectral heart skip a few beats.

After a moment, Niko unwound herself from Edwin’s hold and raised her polaroid, pointing it in their direction. “Say cheese!”

Charles slung an arm over Edwin’s shoulders, pulling him close, and grinned as the camera’s bright flash stunned them both. He raised an arm to his face, rubbing the sparks from his eyes, but kept the other draped around Edwin. Edwin, to his surprise, didn’t shrug him off.

“You two are so cute!” Niko said, handing the film snapshot to Edwin.

“This film is still blank,” Edwin pointed out, turning it over in his hands.

“It’ll be cute when it develops, then,” she reasoned, squeezing past them. “Come on! I want to take more pictures for my haunted house scrapbook.”

Niko disappeared into the doorway, leaving them staring into the black abyss of Violet Hargrove’s home. 

Charles lingered in Edwin’s space, gently bonking their heads together. Again, to his surprise, Edwin didn’t pull away. His physical affections were becoming more welcome, these days.

“Niko’s right, mate,” Charles said, pressing his forehead against Edwin’s temple. “Your book is aces.” 

Edwin pulled back then, but only far enough to meet Charles’s gaze. His eyes were calm, his smile sweet and private; it was an expression that Charles had only seen in the safety of their office, so filled with affection and starry-eyed wonderment that Charles couldn’t help but mirror it himself.

Edwin repositioned himself at Charles’s side and wrapped an arm around his back, resting a careful hand on his hip. Charles hummed in contentment and nuzzled Edwin’s cheek, wrapping both arms around his shoulders.

“Thank you, Charles,” Edwin murmured, his hushed voice rich and warm. “I’m glad you think so.”

The entrance to the Hargrove residence was lavish and uninhabited, making for a picturesque haunted house. The entryway and parlor were laid with black-and-white checkerboard tile, lined by an aging blue carpet that spilled out across the floor in a wine-dark expanse of sapphire. A lightless chandelier dangled above the sitting room like a descending spider, its delicate gems coated in a thick covering of cobwebs, and a ghostly battalion of sheet-covered furniture gathered underneath, permanently at attention.

Charles briefly wondered how much Dr. Hargrove must have charged for sessions, if she’d had the funds to maintain such an expensive piece of property.

“Dang,” Crystal said, echoing Charles’s thoughts. “This doctor was rich rich, wasn’t she?”

“She inherited the remainder of her late grandfather’s wealth,” Edwin replied, his head on a swivel. Between his wide eyes and carefully neutral expression, he reminded Charles of an endearingly curious barn owl. “I imagine a large amount of it went into maintaining the property.”

“Is this really the decor she left behind?” Crystal wondered aloud, picking through a pile of extremely old mail. “It seems… dated, I guess, given her death was only twelve years ago.”

“It’s based off of the house’s old 1950’s design,” Niko supplied, staring down at a slip of paper in her hands. “I bet some of the furniture is even the original vintage!”

“How d’you figure that, then?” Charles asked.

“I found this!” Niko said, holding up an old magazine clipping. The title, Historical Homes: The Original Hargrove Mansion, was printed at the top, next to an image of Dr. Violet Hargove’s smiling face. Her mousy brown hair and icy blue eyes were frozen in a prison of glossy paper, staring indefinitely into the unchanging abyss of her abandoned home.

“The decor is an homage to her super rich grandparents, which is kind of sweet, I guess,” Niko said, handing the article to Edwin. “And,” she tapped her foot on the tile, “nothing says 1950’s interior design like a checkerboard floor!”

“Wonderfully deduced, Niko,” Edwin commended. “Dr. Hargrove’s family history indicated that she had no surviving relatives upon her death, so I tracked down her last will and testament. She left the house to a man named Dr. Asra Williams, though all records of his primary address point towards a home in Woolwich.”

“Are we in danger of him showing up, then?” Charles asked.

Edwin shook his head. “Unlikely. It seems he has left this property entirely untouched for the better part of a decade.”

“Yeah, ‘untouched’ is right,” Crystal said, pointing her phone’s flashlight at a collection of rat droppings in the corner. “This place looks like it hasn’t been cleaned since Dr. Hargove died.”

“Maybe they don’t have enough money for a housekeeper?” Niko suggested.

“My bet is that this place gives people the creeps, so no one wants to work here,” Crystal said. “That tends to happen when the house is fucking haunted.” She tugged at the sheet draped over a nearby loveseat, pulling it from its resting place. The movement sent a cloud of dust up into the air, billowing slowly like a sleep-stricken jellyfish. 

Edwin shot Crystal an annoyed side eye. “Please, don’t touch anything unless it’s strictly necessary," he said, wiping dust from the blue velvet cushions. "We don't want to tempt fate by ransacking her home."

“You do realize that using my powers requires me to touch things, right?” she said sourly.

“He did say ‘unless it’s necessary’!” Niko offered. Crystal rolled her eyes, clearly searching for an appropriately biting response to toss at Edwin.

Charles turned away silently, uninterested in mediating another argument. He trusted Niko to pick up the slack.

Charles wandered about, peeking into drawers and under sheets, until he found himself at the base of a beautiful, curving staircase. The light emanating from Edwin’s book was dim, its source now some distance away, but it still managed to highlight a beautiful mother-of-pearl inlay set within the mahogany banister. It curled around the handrail’s edges like a writhing snake, the image of its smoothly-carved scales almost lost amongst the darkness; Charles ran his finger along the pattern absently, imagining what the shallow grooves and varnished wood would feel like against his skin.

According to their blueprints, Dr. Hargrove’s office was on the second story, and according to all of their research, her office was where she spent most of her time. Charles had hardly placed his foot on the first step, intent on scouting out the upstairs landing, when Edwin caught his arm. Charles jumped, not having heard him approach—his partner could be deadly silent, when he wanted to be.

“May I speak with you for a moment?” Edwin asked.

Charles cast a glance towards the winding staircase, bouncing insistently on the ball of his foot. A burst of pre-brawl adrenaline crawled up his arms, the unused energy sparking at his fingertips. “Sure, but let’s make it quick, yeah? Don’t want to keep the doctor waiting.”

“Surely she can wait a few extra minutes,” Edwin replied, fists pressed together tightly. “I have a favor to ask of you.”

“‘Course, mate. Anything.”

“When we encounter Dr. Hargrove, I would like for you to keep behind Crystal and I as much as possible.”

Charles blinked. He didn’t know what he had been expecting, but it definitely wasn’t that . The request went against everything Charles stood for, and Edwin knew it.

“Why would I do that? Brawny weapon wielders stay in front of squishy magic users—that’s, like, agency rule number one.”

Edwin shifted his stance, gaze defiant.

“All of Dr. Hargrove’s experiments have been strictly focused on spirits, thus far. Crystal is alive, and therefore is not in danger of being victimized—”

“But she can still be hurt, can’t she?” Charles protested. “And what about you? I don’t give a toss how high your horror tolerance is, there is no way you relive Hell and come out of it okay.”

Edwin’s expression softened. “Charles, Dr. Hargrove is forcing spirits to relive the most painful experiences of their lives . My life certainly wasn’t ideal, but compared to my time in Hell, any physical pain I experienced while still alive was very minimal.”

An image of Edwin as a student at St. Hilarion’s crossed Charles’s mind, lost amongst a churning sea of brutish teenage boys with rough hands and scores to settle. The same boys who had gone and sacrificed him to a demon, for Christ’s sake. Charles may not be the brightest, but even he knew the likelihood of that night being a first-time offense was slim to none.

“Not sure how much I believe that, mate,” Charles said, crossing his arms defensively. “Besides, pain is pain, innit? No need to downplay it.”

“Yes, so you have said. And while I do appreciate that sentiment, you are missing my point.”

Charles set his jaw, slightly miffed. “Spell it out for me, then.”

Edwin took a level breath, folding his hands politely in front of him. “I know we haven’t spoken much about your life experiences,” he said delicately, “but I am not blind, Charles, nor am I clueless. I am concerned that if this woman corners you, then you will meet the same fate as the ghosts we are attempting to rescue.”

“Edwin—”

“I’m afraid this is not up for discussion. I may not have a full picture of your personal history, but I do know that if it is painful enough, re-experiencing it could cause your soul to be snuffed out.” The look he gave Charles was stern, but not unkind. “I will not allow you to risk your safety so unnecessarily.”

Charles looked down in place of a response, tapping his foot against the wooden step. He had no interest in letting Edwin take his usual place in their marching order, but it was nearly impossible to argue with Edwin once he took a definitive stance. His insistence left Charles tongue tied, and he had a sneaking suspicion that Edwin was using that reaction to his advantage.

“Do you understand?” Edwin pressed.

“Yeah, Edwin, I got it. I just—”

“Are you two done whispering?” Crystal interrupted, shining her phone flashlight directly into Edwin’s face. “I’m starting to feel left out.”

Edwin put hand up to shield his eyes, letting out an annoyed grunt.

“Irritant,” he said shortly, before turning back to Charles. “In all honesty, Crystal wanted to have you stay in the common area with Niko. I’m of the mind that we may need three sets of hands to subdue the doctor properly, so this is the compromise we came to.”

Charles’s eyebrows shot up. “You lot compromised?”

“I know, right?,” Crystal said, lowering her flashlight to a less irritating height. “But yeah, I’m with Edwin on this one. You should stay in the back, away from the creepy trauma-sucking doctor.”

“But—”

“Charles,” Edwin said, his tone taking on an exasperated edge. “Promise me that you will allow Crystal and I to take the lead on this.”

Charles huffed. He was outnumbered, and he knew a losing battle when he saw one. “Fine. I promise, alright?”

The door to Violet Hargrove’s office was, unsurprisingly, locked. 

“‘Scuse me,” Charles said, shouldering past both Edwin and Crystal. “Lockpicking expert coming through.” His hands shook slightly, fluttering with the nervous adrenaline of a caged hummingbird, as he made quick work of the pin tumbler. A few moments later, the door opened with a soft click.

“Reckon I broke my own record with that one,” Charles said, placing his hand on the knob. Before he had a chance to push into the office, a gentle hand grabbed his wrist.

“You remember our agreement, yes?” Edwin said lightly.

Charles grimaced. Right. 

“Sorry, mate. Just used to going first, aren’t I?” he said, shoulders sagging. “Being the brawn and all.” He retreated from the door, knocking his cricket bat anxiously against his knee. Allowing his friends to shield him felt a dozen different sorts of wrong.

“No harm done,” Edwin said, and, to his credit, managed to sound halfway sincere. 

Edwin waited for Charles to find his place, skulking to the back of their lineup like a dismissed puppy, then reached forward and pushed the office door open.

Dr. Hargrove’s office, in contrast to the rest of her home, was pristine. Every surface was free of dust and grime, with neat stacks of paperwork placed in their respective ‘in-going’ and ‘out-going’ boxes, and every pencil sharpened to an optimal point. The design of the room was relatively modern and dull, the color palette consisting largely of beige, white, and sage green. A small taupe sofa sat in the corner, across from a coffee-colored leather recliner.

To their collective relief, the space was devoid of people, living or otherwise. Dr. Hargrove was nowhere to be seen.

“If she’s not here, then she ought to be in the basement,” Charles said, immediately starting on the desk drawers’ locks. “Think Niko’s had any luck finding the door?”

Edwin picked at the paperwork on the doctor’s desk, separating it into piles. “We left her in the common area not fifteen minutes ago. Let’s give her a little more time than that, shall we?”

Charles hummed in agreement, putting his full focus towards opening the desk drawers. After a couple moments of fiddling with the locks, Crystal tugged on one of the handles, pulling the drawer open.

“Did you even check to see if these were actually locked?” she asked.

“‘Course I did,” he lied, tucking the lock picks into his bag.

While Crystal sorted through the desk and Edwin busied himself with the doctor’s paperwork, Charles focused his attention on a dark black oddity shelf against the far wall. The surfaces were covered in a sparse array of smiling photos, a stack of generic board games, and a handful of crystals of the metaphysical variety. Charles stared at the case, face fixed in a small, pensive frown. Edwin sidled up next to him, a light brown journal clutched in his hands.

“A penny for your thoughts?” he asked.

“You first,” Charles said, gesturing to the notebook in his grasp. “What’s that?”

Edwin flipped quickly through the book’s contents, revealing pages upon pages of hand-scrawled notes. “A portion of the doctor’s treatment records, I presume. It’s unclear whether it is for living or dead patients, but examining it may prove fruitful regardless.”

Charles nodded distractedly, his eyes still fixed on the crowded shelves. Edwin nudged his shoulder.

“What’s on your mind?”

Charles uncrossed his arms and reached out, grabbing a piece of pyrite off of the shelf. “Dr. Hargrove doesn’t seem much like the bits and bobs type, does she? And all these smiley photos seem a bit sentimental for the cold, evil scientist type.” He knelt down until he was eye level with one of the taller shelves, gazing into the dark, glossy paint. “Plus, this shelf is the only furniture in this office that isn’t green, brown, or white. Bit hinky, innit?”

Edwin tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Well observed, Charles. What’s your hypothesis?”

“I think the shelf’s hiding something she doesn’t want us to see,” he said, reaching through the army of knickknacks and photographs. He tapped his knuckles on the wall behind it, expecting the dull sound of drywall, but was instead met with the hollow knocking of wood, hidden behind the wallpaper.

“Don’t know about you,” Charles said, pulling his hand away, “but I’d wager that’s a secret door.”

Edwin nodded in agreement. “Likely not the basement, given its second story location, but perhaps a hidden storeroom of sorts?”

Charles stepped off to the side of the shelves and began knocking on the wall every few inches to the left, listening to the resulting sounds carefully. After the first few knocks, Edwin let out an uneasy exhale. “Charles, will you please allow me to take over?”

Edwin’s request was punctuated by the sound of Charles’s knuckles finding where the wood gave way to office walls. He gave Edwin a thumbs up and put an ear up to the plaster, listening intently.

“Charles, please—”

“I don’t hear anything,” he said, interrupting Edwin’s protest. “But that doesn’t mean—“

Before he could finish his thought, something painfully cold encircled his wrist, injecting a torrent of freezing energy through his veins. It was shocking, really; not many things in the world could truly make him feel anymore, and the sensation of an icy grip made his spectral skin prickle with gooseflesh. A blueish, ghastly hand wrapped around his forearm, dug in its nails, and pulled .

Charles reached for the shelf next to him, fumbling for the metal fixtures, but he was just a touch too slow. His fingers fell short, closing around nothing.

The last sound he heard before disappearing through the wall was Edwin calling his name.

Chapter Text

You can keep a dream in your mind
Only to find it's the hope that was killing you;
But you arrived like sunlight in the gloom
And burned off the haze when the year was still new

What Came Next (Continued)

“Charles!” 

Edwin banged on the wall, as if Charles might answer somehow. “Charles, can you hear me?”

One moment, Charles had been pressing his ear against the bland wallpaper of Dr. Hargrove’s office. The next, he yelped; and then, he was gone, pulled out of the room by the blueish hand of a hidden spirit.

“What the fuck?” Crystal demanded, the contents of Dr. Hargrove’s desk already forgotten. “I look away for five seconds and now he’s, what, in the goddamn wall?!” 

“It was the bloody doctor,” he said, pressing an ear to the offending surface. “She must have heard us messing about and pulled him through the plaster.” He gave the wall a final, sharp knock. “Blast it! I told him to let me handle it!”

“Yeah, well, you know how he—Edwin!”

Edwin had already begun to step through the wall, driven by a panicked sense of urgency. He’d only managed to phase halfway through before Crystal grabbed his arm, stopping him.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“There’s a hidden door behind the shelf,” he bit out, wrenching his arm from her grasp. “I am going to look for Charles; perhaps if you move the furniture quickly, you can open the door and accompany me.”

Crystal stared at him. “That’s a horrible idea, you should wait—”

Edwin slipped through the wall before she could finish her sentence.

Charles was not on the other side of the office wall, though in all honesty, Edwin had not truly expected him to be. However, his venture was not a total loss.

Hidden behind the wall was a storeroom-turned-library, its many shelves filled by a collection of the doctor’s personal journals. They were all identical to the one he had found on her office desk, constructed of the same bland, manilla-like material.

Edwin ran a thumb over the journal’s binding, nearly having forgotten its existence. He had yet to pore over its contents in full, but a brief look at the first page had revealed the beginning of a patient profile. Charles had been snatched soon after discovering it, so he hadn’t had a chance to investigate further.

Edwin took stock of the storeroom shelves, counting up the visible notebooks. The Agency had received fifteen official case reports concerning Dr. Hargrove, but if every one of her journals held documentation on a single patient, then her estimated victim count would still be somewhere in the low sixties—never mind if each book held profiles on multiple victims. The sheer volume of spirits detailed in her writings meant that she was quite possibly the most prolific offender the Agency had faced since the likes of Esther Finch. 

Edwin inhaled sharply, anxiety burning a hole in his torso. The four of them had unknowingly stumbled into a monster’s den, parading Charles around like a piece of bait, and he had paid the price for that careless mistake. Crystal had suggested Charles stay downstairs with Niko, where the doctor was known to keep away from, but Edwin had disagreed. He insisted that Charles be by his side, in the thick of things, as always—and he was woefully regretting that decision now. 

Demanding that Charles stand at the back of their trio had been an unsafe compromise, and Edwin shouldn’t have trusted that he’d adhere to it, regardless. Charles had a long-standing habit of treating himself as if he were expendable; allowing others to shield him was simply not within his nature. Edwin knew that. Expecting differently had been wishful thinking.

Guilt flowed through Edwin’s spectral veins like poison. He should have done more. He should have done more .

Before his mind could flood into an unhelpful deluge of panic, pulling him further away from the task at hand, the room was bathed in a sudden wash of dim light. Edwin blinked, startled.

“Sorry it took a sec,” Crystal said, stepping through the storeroom door. “That shelf was really damn heavy—could’ve used a hand. Or two.” She scanned the room, taking in her surroundings. “I take it he’s not in here?”

Edwin shook his head silently, opting not to speak. His nerves were pulled taught as a bowstring, primed to snap, and arguing with Crystal would only serve as a distraction. It would be better if he said nothing, for the time being.

Crystal hummed in acknowledgement, then gestured to the journal clutched in his grasp. “You find something?”

“Just another of the doctor's bloody notebooks,” he sighed, frustrated. “I found this one on the office desktop, though I haven’t taken the time to sift through its contents yet. It hardly feels pressing, given the urgency of our situation.”

“I mean, if it was in the office, maybe it was the last thing she was working on,” Crystal suggested. “Might have some clues, if we’re lucky.”

Edwin opened his mouth to argue, but found he had no rebuttal. Realistically, she was right; he should have looked through the journal as soon as he picked it up. His judgment had unfortunately been a bit clouded at the time, given Charles’s disappearance only minutes later.

“A sound suggestion, Crystal,” he admitted, handing her his magical tome. “Hold this, please.”

With both hands free and Crystal now holding his glorified reading light aloft, Edwin began to flip through the journal’s pages, skimming the material inside.

The first page consisted of a table of contents, listing the life story and treatment of a teenage spirit by the name of ‘Misty Summers’. Edwin flipped through her file, reading a detailed record of the physical abuse she endured at the hands of her parents, as well as her intimate involvement with a very controlling ex-boyfriend. It also spoke of the third and the final time she had attempted to run away from home, shortly before she had driven her car off of the road; she’d crashed into a thicket of trees, miles away from any hospital that may have been able to help her.

Finally, it listed her death date and cause: May 17th, 1976, due to the injuries sustained in her motor vehicle accident.

Edwin dreaded to think what the doctor had done to gain access to such a detailed account of private information.

“Wait,” Crystal said, reading over his shoulder. “Misty Summers… didn’t we talk to her girlfriend?”

Edwin nodded slowly, though his memories of the days prior were a bit distant and hazy. They were clouded over by a film of fear, making them difficult to access.

He took a deep breath, steadying himself. His panic was not important right now. Charles needed him to be smart, not scared.

Indigo Elwood had been one of the most recent spirits to speak with the Agency regarding Dr. Hargrove. Her partner, Misty, had been one of the lucky few to escape the doctor’s clutches, though she hadn’t returned home unscathed. Edwin and Charles had asked Indigo if Misty would be willing to participate in an interview regarding her experience, but Indigo had declined their request; apparently, Misty had barely spoken since the ordeal ended.

The last page of Misty’s profile was filled with a collection of scrawling arcane figures, interspersed with abstruse equations that Edwin recognized as the detailed workings of memory-based magic. He would need time to work out the equations himself, but with a little effort, he knew they could be translated. He made a mental note to revisit the pages once they returned to the office.

The following section contained the beginnings of a separate profile, scrawled out in a sloppy display of barely-legible handwriting. It was bullet pointed and half-finished, as if the doctor had completed it in a rush.

Name: Charles
Age: Late teenager
Death date: Unknown—clothing consists of styles from late 80's
Relations: Three friends—possible romantic partner? Concerned with well-being to a high degree
History: Unknown, but likely traumatic—Friend/partner insisted he allow himself to be shielded, considering the nature of my testing population
Initial Notes: Specimen stumbled into my parlor unprompted. Thanks is owed to friend/partner—Edwin?—for being so wordy.

Edwin slammed the journal shut, causing Crystal to jump. Horror and guilt flowed through him like a tidal wave, pooling behind his eyes and making them burn. She had been listening .

If Edwin were still human, he would have been sick all over the storeroom floor.

“Edwin…?” Crystal asked carefully. He closed his eyes, fighting back the onslaught of shame that crawled up his throat. If only he had forced Charles to stay downstairs. If he had only read the notebook sooner. If he had only kept his damn mouth shut.

“This is my fault,” he choked out. “This is all my fault.”

Said the Spider To the Fly

“Charlie,” Charles’s mum whispered. “Wake up, my love. It’s time for school.”

He groaned. “Five more minutes, mum, please.”

The sun from an adjacent picture window warmed his skin, its gentle rays soaking into the deep red walls of his bedroom. His room was always cozy in the mornings; at least, it had been, before his dad decided that the basement was a more suitable space for a son of such poor standing.

“Breakfast is ready,” she said. “You ought to eat before it gets cold.” The warm smell of freshly-made sambar wafted in from downstairs, the unspoken promise of dosa and coconut chutney nearly enough to drag him from his slumber. He hadn’t smelled anything so delicious in years.

His mum hardly made sambar and dosa in the mornings anymore; it took too much time, and his dad found the core ingredients and spices to be a waste of money. It was a shame, really; his mum was an excellent cook, but she was mostly limited to recipes befitting of his dad’s bland, boring palate. Charles liked her traditional food, but what he liked barely got a look-in when his dad was home.

Aside from birthdays, Charles’s breakfasts normally consisted of eggs on toast, or cereal. Was there a special occasion he had somehow forgotten about?

“Beta, you’re going to be late,” she said, her voice smooth and calm. “Please come downstairs; you know how your father is when you miss the bus.”

He yawned, eyes still gently closed, his thoughts slow and heavy. “I’m coming, just…”

Then, he stiffened. The bus? That wasn’t right. He hadn’t taken the bus since primary school.

Charles thought, hard, fighting through the fog that shrouded his mind. How was his mum here? He hadn’t spoken to her since… since…

Charles’s eyes blinked open, the mist finally beginning to clear. An ugly cement ceiling stared back at him, riddled with cracks and dripping with musty, rust-infused water. Spiders clung to the corners of the room, hanging down like spindly acrobats, and smatterings of moss and mold conjugated around the dampest sections of the walls. The smell and warmth of his mum’s home was snuffed out by the bland nothingness of a spirit’s dulled senses, leaving behind a hollow ache in his chest.

Charles attempted to sit up, but his extremities were affixed with manacles, which were connected to a table of some sort. He tried to lift his arm, to move his leg, but they wouldn’t budge. He was well and truly stuck.

Beside him, studying him curiously, was not the sweet, kind face of Mariamma Rowland; it was, instead, the ghastly visage of Dr. Violet Hargrove. 

The doctor’s brown hair was stringy and dull, hanging down past her cheeks in knotted, wet clumps. Her fingernails were long and jagged, as if she had clawed at something immovable, a few of the nails broken and bleeding. Her skin was translucent blue, fading to a horrendous black-purple hue around the extremities—after all their years in detective work, Charles recognized the discoloration immediately. The doctor had been a victim of frostbite.

He would have felt sorry for her, had she not gone and pinned him to a table like a moth in a shadowbox. Freezing to death was a horrendous way to go.

“Hello, Charles,” she said, her eyes empty, yet predatory. Charles shivered, despite himself.

“Cheers, doc,” he said, keeping his tone as light as possible. “You alright? Looks like you’ve seen some better days.”

It was curious, Charles thought, that even twelve years after her death, Dr. Hargrove still appeared in the form she had died in. Ghosts generally learned to fix their appearance early on, if they were planning to stick around the material plane.

It wasn’t unheard of, of course; beings like poltergeists or spirits trapped haunting the places they died in were often stuck in their death forms. However, most spirits learned to present themselves as they had been in life, so as to not exist in a perpetual state of their own death.

Dr. Hargrove was either stuck in her death form, or she simply didn’t care enough to change it. Charles wasn’t sure which option was more disturbing.

“I am well, thank you,” she replied calmly, unblinking. Ghosts didn’t technically need to blink, but most did out of habit; watching a person go so long with their eyes wide open was unnerving, to say the least.

Charles fought to maintain her unyielding eye contact, not wanting to show his unease, but he was beginning to feel a bit like a specimen under a microscope. He wondered if her patients had found her this off-putting when she was alive, or if her bedside manner had died with her.

“Right, Dr. Hargrove, I think there’s been some—”

“Tell me about yourself, Charles,” she said, still staring, still not blinking. A cool light caught his peripheral vision, drawing his attention away from her ghoulish face. Her jagged fingertips were settled beside his temples, fizzling with a bright blue magic that crackled in his ears. The energy looked like the insides of a huge plasma ball that had been on display at his favorite arcade back in the eighties; no one ever won enough tickets to bring it home, but its branching electricity had always mesmerized him.

He wasn’t so fond of that imagery now, though. He knew better than to consider unknown magic anything but a threat.

“I…” Charles hesitated. Edwin’s words echoed in his mind, warning him of Dr. Hargrove’s interest in traumatic experiences.

“I’m an open book, me,” he said, aiming for the illusion of sincerity. “Not a lot of secrets here. What d’you want to know?”

Her dull eyes sparked with electricity. “Everything.”

Charles had asked Crystal to read his mind, once. It had been for a daft reason, really; he’d misplaced a book that Edwin asked him to pack for a case, and Charles hadn’t wanted to admit that he’d lost it. So, he’d asked Crystal to take a peek into his memories and check where he’d seen it last.

Crystal’s magic had felt like a gentle wash of clouds, light as air and soft as cotton. It spread over his thoughts like a blanket, shifting, searching, until she found the right memory. Once she’d retrieved the book’s location and released his mind from her hold, she’d given him a hug and thanked him for trusting her.

Sharing his thoughts with Crystal had felt natural and comfortable, a mutual connection that Charles had requested. She hadn’t poked or prodded into any moments that Charles hadn’t consented to sharing, and she certainly hadn’t forced him to give up any information.

Sharing his memories with Dr. Hargrove was not like that. She sorted through his mind like two hands shoved into a filing cabinet, viewing each image as he spoke about it (or pulling it to the forefront of his mind when he refused). By the end, Charles's mind felt as if it’d been put through a blender, every one of his memories running together in a colorful, globby mess.

Despite his best efforts, the doctor learned everything he had tried to hide. She lingered mercilessly on the memories of his dad, drawing them out, slowing them down, as if she were analyzing every second and committing it to memory. Charles could feel himself slipping further and further away from the present, becoming intertwined with the experiences of his younger self.

The worst bit was, he could hear his friends searching for him. The basement must have been under some sort of cloaking spell, because they passed by multiple times and were absolutely none the wiser. Niko’s heeled boots clicked as she paced directly above him, and Crystal’s platform Docs scuffed the floor as she walked right past the basement entrance.

The one that broke his composure was Edwin calling his name, over and over again. He tried to call back, he tried , but given that Dr. Hargrove made absolutely no effort to silence him, he concluded that there must have been a soundproofing spell placed on the room. Eventually, he gave up, his heart squeezing every time Edwin’s increasingly-frantic voice echoed through the cracks in the door.

Finally, finally the doctor pulled away.

“Wonderful job, dear,” she said, her voice bland and cold as ice. “You’re the best candidate I’ve found for phase two so far.”

“Phase two?!” Charles cried, struggling against his bindings. “What are you on about, phase two? Let me go!”

Even to his own ears, his voice sounded young.

Dr. Hargrove’s lips betrayed a small smile. It was a fleeting smirk, nothing more than an uptick at the corner of her mouth, but to Charles, the message was clear: she was enjoying this.

“You seem strong-willed, Charles,” she said, placing a gnarled finger on his forehead, “and I’m confident you will emerge from this experience an improved soul.” She leaned closer, her voice low. “This is for your own good.”

There was a blue spark, bright as a supernova, and a sizzling pain that shot through Charles’s skull. Then, the world went black.

A Light Amongst Friends

Charles looked up at the boy near the basement entrance, still half-hidden behind his own knees. The boy stared back, eyes wide, his delicate features lit divinely by the glowing book in his hands.

In Charles’s mind, there were two possible explanations for how the boy got there: Charles was either still dreaming, or he was seeing things. Both of those options seemed equally likely.

Realistically, Charles had hit his head hard . Hard enough to knock him out, at least. Smacking his head had never made him see things before, but there weren't many other explanations for it: an unfamiliar teenager was standing in front of a basement door that had never opened, in a room with no other entrance, holding an impossibly glowing book.

He pinched himself, just to check if he might still be dreaming. The boy still stared, his green eyes glinting gold under the light.

Perhaps his dad had finally hit him hard enough to break his brain.

Charles pulled his face away from his knees, curiosity getting the better of him. “Are you real?” he asked.

“I am,” the boy said, descending the basement steps. His movements were graceful and delicate, like a rather posh swan gliding across a lake. “Though I do suppose the definition of ‘real’ tends to be a bit loose, in this instance.”

Charles hugged himself tighter, unconvinced. His answer sounded suspiciously like something someone not-real might say.

“Are you an angel, then?” Charles asked. He glowed like he could be.

The boy crossed the basement floor, his shiny black boots clicking softly on the cement. “My name is Edwin,” he said, kneeling in front of Charles’s shaking form. Edwin held the magnificent book out in front of him, presenting it like a peace offering. “I’m certainly no angel, but I am a friend. I shan’t hurt you, I swear to it.”

Charles shifted, falling silent. His answer sounded suspiciously like something an angel might say.

“Cross your heart?” he asked, tracing a purposeful ‘X’ over the left side of his chest. “It doesn’t count as a swear if you don’t.” He searched Edwin’s face closely, scanning for any traces of deception. 

“Of course,” Edwin said, mimicking Charles’s action. His smile faltered slightly, despite his reassuring words. “I am only here to help, I cross my heart.”

Charles nodded, satisfied with Edwin’s solemn-sworn promise. His gaze shifted to the shining pages laid out before him, their gleam possessing a distinctly solar-like quality. Their sharpened rays cut through the darkness, carving out a small alcove of light for them to rest in.

Charles had always viewed the sun as his savior, wielding the dawn like a shield. His father left for work every morning, driven out of their home by the light of day, taking his harsh words and rough hands with him. The violence that plagued their family would stop for a time, allowing his mother to act out the fantasy of a peaceful life, until the moon rose into the sky once more, signaling the immediacy of his father’s return.

The mysterious teenage boy, Edwin, held a slice of the sun in his palms. He sheltered Charles from the darkness that threatened to engulf them both, all while speaking to him more kindly than anyone ever had before.

If Edwin wasn’t an angel, then Charles reckoned they ought to make room for one more amongst their ranks.

“Charles, are you—” Edwin’s voice cracked, his soothing tone carrying an undercurrent of grief. He reached out a hand, then retracted, seeming to think better of it. “Are you in pain?”

Charles blinked at him, a bit surprised by the question. If he wasn’t bleeding or unconscious, then what did it matter? The pain would fade, eventually; it always did. Besides, Edwin looked upset enough already, and the last thing he wanted to do was chase away his new friend by complaining about a few bruises and a sore wrist.

“S’not so bad,” he said. Edwin stared at him, his kind eyes darkened with disbelief, so Charles took in a slow breath to demonstrate. The inhale immediately dissolved into a series of painful coughs, producing a sickly wheezing sound. His ribs twinged under the pressure, squeezing a few tears from his swollen eye.

This time Edwin did reach out, a gloved hand moving towards his wrist. Charles was pretty chuffed that he only flinched a little. Edwin didn’t seem quite so pleased.

“I apologize, I should have asked first,” he said, pulling his hand away. “May I take a look at your wrist?”

Charles tensed, then shrugged. “Okay. But only if I can look at your book.”

Edwin placed the book in his lap. “Of course you can. A light in the dark is best shared amongst friends, after all.”

Charles searched for a response, but his mind came up empty. Funny, that. Charles could almost always find something to say, even if it usually got him in a spot of trouble. He turned his attention to the book instead, hypnotized by the impossible light emanating from its surface.

Charles flipped through the pages with his left hand as Edwin gently examined his right, holding it carefully in his palms. He said a few things here and there, like “try and flex your fingers, please”, or “tell me if this hurts, darling.” Otherwise, he remained silent, allowing Charles to curiously explore his book in peace.

The words on the pages were mostly obscured, backlit to the point of near invisibility. Not that it mattered, really; aside from his book of bat facts and beloved Hardy Boys box set, Charles had no real interest in reading—especially not whatever fake-looking language his new friend’s shiny book was written in.

“Well, I have some good news, and some not-so-good news,” Edwin said, shrugging out of his brown woolen coat. “Your arm isn’t broken, but it is injured. It will likely need to be treated with some manner of first aid.” He draped the coat over Charles’s shaking form, tucking his swollen arm underneath the fabric.

“I knew that already,” Charles mumbled, suddenly exhausted. Edwin’s hands were gentle and slow, handling him as if he were something fragile. It felt odd to be treated so kindly, especially after getting in so much trouble only hours earlier.

“Did you, now?” Edwin asked, voice taking on an amused lilt. Charles wrinkled his nose, miffed. He didn’t like being spoken to like a little kid—like he didn’t know things.

“I know what a sprained wrist feels like,” he said, voice coming off a bit cross. 

Edwin’s playful expression fell almost immediately. “I’m sure you do, darling.”

Charles pulled the coat tighter around his body, not feeling especially soothed by Edwin’s concession. If anything, he felt a bit silly; he hadn’t meant to get so angry, especially at someone who had been so nice. He opened his mouth to apologize, but was interrupted by a large yawn, stretching his mouth until his jaw popped in his ears.

Edwin slipped his hands out of his fancy leather gloves and reached for Charles slowly, gently tilting his head to the side. He brushed Charles’s hair off of his forehead, accidentally skimming over a tender bump, and Charles whined as a sharp stab of pain splintered through his temple. Edwin quickly pulled his hand away, startled by the soft sound, and the sudden movement caused Charles to flinch. 

The startling chain of events caused both parties to freeze. They sat in silence for a moment, staring at one another. Edwin’s eyes looked sad, as if someone had just told him that the world had ended. Charles wished he knew how to make it better.

Eventually, exhaustion won out, and Charles stifled another yawn. “Do you know where my mum is?” he asked. “I need to see if she’s okay.”

Edwin gave a sorrowful smile. “I’m afraid I don’t, dove.”

“Oh,” Charles said, his heart sinking. He’d hoped that his mum had sent Edwin to help, maybe so she wouldn’t get in trouble for doing it herself. “That’s okay, I guess.”

Edwin tucked his heavy coat around Charles’s legs, the coziness of it drawing Charles further and further into the arms of sleep.

“‘M tired,” he mumbled, barely audible.

“Rest, then," Edwin said. "I will watch over you.”

A comforting weight settled beside him, offering companionship, but not demanding it. Charles immediately curled into his new friend's side, seeking shelter.

"Promise you won’t go?" he asked.

A careful arm settled around his shoulders, stirring something deep within him; an untouched, radiant warmth that sparked at the core of his being. 

A tentative feeling of safety. Of coming home.

“I will be here when you wake,” Edwin said, pulling him closer. "I cross my heart."

Chapter Text

A Shift In Priorities

Growing up under the roof of an affluent Edwardian household, Edwin’s formative years had been quite the lonely affair. His mother—a cold, waifish woman with hollow cheeks and humorless eyes—had feared his presence, to some degree. She had not feared him , specifically, but she had detested the existence of a child that openly sought her love and attention. She had kept him at a permanent arm’s length, handing him off to nurses and nannies, when all he’d wanted was his mother.

Edwin had been born unwanted, and grown up ignored. The gaping wound of his solitary childhood had not truly been revealed until Charles had waltzed into his afterlife, brandishing his fondness for Edwin’s peculiarities like a badge of honor.

With Charles’s small form tucked against his side, warm and clinging in his sleep, Edwin decided that he would never understand his mother. He would never understand how anyone could see a child, innocent and fragile by every definition, and consciously deny them the basic necessity of human connection. 

Charles murmured then, uttering a few tangled syllables, and Edwin was overtaken by the ridiculous urge to hide him away. No one else had earned the right to see him like this—all ruddy cheeks and tangled curls, completely vulnerable to the cruel nature of a world that had only ever sought to hurt him. Edwin selfishly wanted to shutter them both in the office, secluded from the universe, until he was sure that no one would raise a hand to Charles ever again.

As Charles’s small fists gripped at Edwin’s vest, instinctually seeking comfort as he slept, Edwin’s melancholic thoughts transformed into a low, simmering rage. Charles’s father had done this to him. He had introduced Charles to sickening levels of pain and terror long before he even had the ability to understand that this type of abuse was wrong.

Edwin felt that he might better understand the impulses of a banshee, now. The thought of a tiny Charles—bleeding, bruised, and blaming himself—made Edwin want to start screaming and never stop.

There was nothing he could do about it now, of course. Every visible injury was a memory, burned into Charles’s soul like a brand. Even after all this time, his father was still harming him, and all Edwin could do was hold him through it. The agony of uselessness sang hollow in his ribs, ringing through his chest like a death knell. 

Edwin couldn’t help but wonder what had happened in the aftermath, all those years ago. Had his mother taken him to the hospital, to splint his wrist properly? Had they iced his eye, or wrapped his ribs? Had anyone even bothered? Or had Charles simply gone to school the next day, his swollen arm hidden in his jumper, and told his classmates a barely believable lie about how his bruises came to be? 

Would anyone have questioned him, if he had? 

Perhaps this is where his tendency to cover up had started. To hide his bruises under a laugh, or behind a sunny smile, in order to keep others from looking too closely. 

It was an effective defense mechanism, after all; Edwin had fallen for it, time and time again—hook, like, and sinker. This hurting, lonely child had existed within Charles for decades, and Edwin had barely known he existed.

A soft flood of light poured down the basement steps, bringing Edwin’s parade of cynical thoughts to a halt. Crystal peeked into the room, face painted with frustration.

“I told you, lockpicking is way harder than Charles makes it look,” she said, tucking her Agency-issue pocket knife into her backpack. It had all the features of a regular pocket knife, with the addition of lockpicking tools and a simple, reusable binding spell. The blade itself was also constructed of iron, naturally. 

“I believe you!” Niko said. “I was just saying, maybe you need some lessons?”

“Charles already offered, and I told him I could figure it out myself. If you think I’m about to admit I was wrong, then—”

“Would you two mind ?” Edwin half-whispered, barely loud enough to catch their attention. He gestured to the sleeping child curled up at his side. “You’ll wake him.” 

Charles stirred, babbling quietly, his sleep-addled voice soft around the edges. Edwin brushed the curls off of his forehead and Charles settled almost immediately, sinking further into Edwin’s embrace.

“Oh,” Niko said, staring, wide eyed. “Sorry.”

Crystal’s expression twisted at the sight of his injuries, her complexion turning ashen. She swallowed thickly, as if she were fighting back a sudden bout of nausea.

“What happened to him?” she asked, her voice uncharacteristically quiet.

“About what you would expect, I imagine,” Edwin said. “He wasn’t in much of a state to give me details. His wrist is quite badly sprained, and I suspect his ribs may be bruised, as well.”

Crystal began her slow descent down the basement steps, careful to keep her heavy boots from clomping on the cement. “What about his eye? Did you check for a concussion or a head injury or something?”

Edwin huffed. “I tried. He kept flinching, so I stopped.”

“How do we treat ghost injuries?” she asked. “Is that even possible?” 

Edwin looked away. He didn’t know.

“Is he going to heal?” she pressed, when Edwin didn’t respond.

“I don’t have any answers, Crystal,” Edwin snapped, patience wearing thin. A wave of frustration flooded through him, not caused by Crystal specifically, but aimed at her nonetheless. “Perhaps we ought to seek out Dr. Hargrove and ask. Have you found something that might help us locate her within the walls? Or, better yet, have you discovered a single spell with the strength to overpower her wards? Because the only reason we found this bleeding basement is because she wanted us to.”

Crystal’s nose scrunched, irritation sparking in her smoke-dark eyes. “Hey, I’m just trying to help. You don’t have to be so—”

“How could anyone do that to someone so little?” Niko whispered, her eyes brimming with tears.

Edwin and Crystal stopped short, the mounting hostility of their argument popping like a bubble. The fight fled Edwin’s body in an instant, its buzzing, irritated energy replaced by an overwhelming sense of regret.

Crystal shot him an apologetic glance, clearly having had a similar reaction. The guilt of allowing Charles to be taken was a caustic substance, and it was eating away at them both.

Crystal linked her elbow with Niko’s, pulling her in close. “I think him being so young is probably part of why it happened,” Crystal said delicately, laying her head on Niko’s shoulder. Niko sniffled and leaned her head on Crystal’s, clutching her arm tightly.

“That’s really awful,” she said quietly. “Is he in pain?”

Edwin wished he could lie. “Yes, he is. Quite a lot of it, I am afraid.”

“Okay, look,” Crystal said, her tone taking a defensive edge. “I have a lot of questions that need answering, but I really can’t handle you being your usual asshole self right now. So, can you just not be a dick for, like, five minutes?”

Edwin looked down at Charles, who was beginning to squirm in his sleep. The bruise over his eye was still a mottled purple-black, and its swelling was indicative of a living human’s inflammatory response. He wasn’t healing, and Edwin didn’t know why.

Perhaps a proper discussion was in order.

“Very well,” Edwin conceded. “Say your piece.”

“Thanks,” Crystal said, a bit of tension seeping from her posture. “So, I guess the first question is, if he can feel pain, and he’s not healing, is he… I don’t know, ‘alive’ now? Are his injuries something we need to worry about?”

“I—” Edwin began, then paused, unsure. As far as he could tell, Charles currently existed in a metaphysical gray area. Edwin could still feel the warmth of his body heat, indicating his continued existence as a spirit, but his wounds were not healing; and, odder still, he was sleeping . As far as Edwin was aware—and he was aware of quite a bit—ghosts could not truly sleep. It was simply not possible.

“I admit that I have no concrete answer, “ Edwin confessed, “but I do have a theory.”

“Spill it,” Crystal said.

“I have not had an opportunity to go over Dr. Hargrove’s medical notes in depth, but her arcane equations look to be of the psychological variety,” he explained. “Specifically relating to memory, if I read her runes correctly.”

“So, what?” Crystal asked, gesturing towards Charles’s sleeping form. “All this is a memory?”

“That is my thought, more or less. When ghosts are trapped in their death forms, it is most often due to the lasting trauma caused by their final moments. It is why spirits often revert back to those forms during times of intense psychological distress—their passing is an ever-lasting wound that they will never truly be rid of.”

“But Charles didn’t die as a seven year old,” Crystal pointed out.

“Nor did he die from a sprained wrist, or a bruised eye,” Edwin said. “It seems Dr. Hargrove has found a way to press on other wounds—older ones, or ones that are less obvious—in order to bring them to the surface.”

Crystal hummed in acknowledgement. “Is there any way to snap him out of it?” she asked.

“Reading to him helps, normally,” Edwin said, earning a tender look from Niko. He bristled a bit, indignity burning in his stomach. “I believe it’s the sound of my voice that does the trick. It helps to differentiate the past from the present.”

“Can you try reading to him from your weird light book, then?” Crystal asked.

“The situation is more complicated than that, I’m afraid,” he said. “I cannot help him differentiate between the past and present when he has no memories of the present to grasp onto.”

Crystal let out a pained sound. “He doesn’t remember anything?”

Edwin shook his head. “As far as he’s concerned, he is seven years old and still lives with his parents. He—” Edwin closed his eyes. “He asked for his mother. I didn’t know what to say.”

“Why is she doing this?” Niko asked, her eyes still bright with tears. “Shouldn’t doctors want to help people? This just looks like it's hurting him more.”

“I haven’t a clue,” Edwin said, petting Charles’s hair. “I need to pore over her notes in order to understand her motivations more clearly, which is a task I would rather conduct back at the office.”

Crystal crossed her arms. “I fucking hate the idea of leaving this place with unfinished business,” she said.

“As do I,” Edwin agreed, then began to rise from the floor, hefting a sleeping Charles into his arms. “However, with Charles trapped in such a vulnerable state, my priorities have shifted. We will have to return another time, hopefully with a better plan in place.”

Both girls nodded in agreement, and began their ascent back up the basement steps.

Though the Hargrove mansion held nearly a dozen fully furnished rooms, it quickly became clear that not a single one of them contained a mirror suited for spirit travel. Every room that should have had one—the primary bedroom, the guest rooms, study, even the bathrooms—were curiously mirror-less. The doctor had even gone so far as to smash the one affixed to her bedroom’s armoire, its jagged shards still littering the carpet in a dusting of sharp, reflective confetti.

“This is just fucking ridiculous,” Crystal fumed. “After everything she’s put us through tonight, she couldn’t be bothered to provide us with an easy exit?”

“Would you please keep your voice down? ” Edwin snipped back. He glanced at Charles, who was still snoozing soundly against his chest. “I would rather he not wake until we are back at the office.”

“Shit. Yeah, sorry,” she said, reducing the rage in her voice down to a simmer. “I just cannot believe that there isn’t single intact mirror anywhere in this entire fucking house. I thought the doctor wanted her victims to go back home; why wouldn't she provide any mirrors for travel?”

“Likely because her victims are unaware that they are dead,” Edwin said. “Mirrors are absolutely useless to spirits that believe they are still alive.”

Crystal threw her hands in the air, exasperated. “Then that makes even less sense! If her victims can’t mirror travel on their own, then how are they even getting home? She has to have a mirror here somewhere; otherwise, this place would be full of amnesiac ghosts!”

Edwin allowed Crystal to ramble on, uninterrupted; after all, it was not as if he disagreed. He could somewhat appreciate the theatricality of Dr. Hargrove’s choices from a magician’s standpoint, but from his perspective as a captive participant, he found her dramatics to be incredibly irritating.

“In here!” Niko called, cutting Crystal off mid-gripe. The pair followed her voice back into the library, where they found her staring into the surface of a dirty mirror mounted on the center wall.

Edwin and Crystal shared a look of disbelief. That mirror had most certainly not been there the last time they set foot in the library.

“Okay, it’s a little weird that a mirror only appeared after we’d already been looking for one, right?” Crystal asked.

“The doctor has clearly been listening to every conversation we’ve had since setting foot in this house,” Edwin said sharply. “She likely placed this here after witnessing your tirade over her lack of reflective surfaces.”

“God, that’s so annoying,” Crystal groaned. She looked up towards the ceiling, addressing the bare walls of the office. “It’s rude to eavesdrop, you know!”  

Predictably, there was no response.

Edwin sighed, motioning towards Niko. “Niko, would you mind taking Charles, for a moment? I would like to check the mirror for any aberrant enchantments before using it to travel.”

“What, you don’t trust me to hold him?” Crystal asked.

Edwin gave her a once-over. “Do you have any experience with children whatsoever?”

“Well, not really, but—”

“I thought not.”

“And how do you know Niko does?” Crystal argued, crossing her arms. “You didn’t even ask.”

“I do!” Niko said brightly, carefully taking Charles from his grasp. She pulled Edwin’s coat tighter around his small frame, humming a soft tune in his ear. Charles mumbled incoherently as she did, settling comfortably into her hold.

Satisfied that Charles would be well looked after, Edwin focused his attention on the mirror, allowing all other conversation to fade into the background.

“Is he saying something?” he heard Crystal ask, in reference to Charles’s babbling.

“I don’t think so,” Niko replied. “It just sounds like little kid sleep talk.”

“Is that normal?”

“Kind of, I guess. It seems like maybe he’s dreaming, though, and that could be either good or bad.”

As if on cue, Charles let out a particularly sharp whine, pulling Edwin’s attention away from the precise hand movements needed for his spellwork. 

“Do you need—“

She waved Edwin off, focusing on the small boy in her arms. “It’s okay, little baby Charles,” she cooed, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Edwin’s going to get you home really soon. Just hold on a little bit longer.”

Charles burrowed further into Edwin’s coat, his erratic breathing immediately evening out. Niko began to hum once again, the sweet strain of her voice easing him back into a peaceful sleep.

“Okay, yeah, I get it now,” Crystal said, as Edwin returned to his spellcasting ritual. “Niko’s got little kid magic.”

“It hardly takes a detective to deduce that Niko would be good with children,” Edwin said, finally completing his somatic casting process with a flourish. A sudden shock of brilliant light reflected off of the mirror’s surface, momentarily bathing the library shelves in gold.

“What’s the verdict?” Crystal asked.

Edwin stepped away from the mirror, revealing a rippling view of the office. “Devoid of magic and fit for travel, thankfully,” Edwin said, lifting Charles from Niko’s arms. “Will you two be taking the train home?” 

Crystal rested an elbow on Niko’s shoulder. “Actually, I was thinking that we should probably stick around and sort through all of these notebooks.”

Edwin raised an eyebrow. “By yourselves?”

“The doctor’s only interested in ghosts,” Crystal said with a shrug. “It’ll probably be safer if just us alive girls stay behind.”

"Besides,” Niko chimed in, “you said your priorities changed, right? It's okay if you need to focus on baby Charles. We can finish up the field work!”

Edwin looked between them both, poised to argue, but was interrupted by another restless whine from Charles. They were right; Edwin needed to focus on Charles's well-being, and Dr. Hargrove's house was no place for an injured seven-year-old boy.

“Alright. If you’re sure,” Edwin conceded. “But, be smart, yes? If you catch even the slightest glimpse of the doctor, take your leave.” He paused, then addressed Niko specifically: “Please do not risk your safety in the interest of gathering information. This agency needs you alive and well.”

I can’t mourn you again, he didn’t say. Please don’t make me .

Niko gave him a smile, her eyes still red-rimmed from her earlier crying spell. “I know. Don’t worry, we’ll meet you back at the office when we’re done!”

Crystal nodded in agreement, her gaze still fixed on Charles, who squirmed slightly in Edwin’s grasp. She reached into her backpack and handed Edwin the journal containing Misty Summers’s profile. 

“Get cracking on that arcane stuff, and take good care of him, okay?” Crystal said, her tone intense, but not demanding. “We’ll be back soon.”

Edwin gave a terse nod, stepping through the mirror. “I shall try my best.”

Any Port In a Storm

Despite any lasting anxiety on Edwin’s behalf, the mirror provided by Dr. Hargrove did its job beautifully. He stepped into the familiar, cluttered atmosphere of their office with no issue, leaving the doctor’s twisting, turning house of horrors far behind them.

Edwin sighed, practically dizzy with relief. Logically, he knew that the diagnostic spell he’d cast on the mirror was a reliable one; he’d put his trust in it dozens of times before, and it had never once steered him wrong. However, with Charles’s safety at stake, a small, paranoid part of him had been worried that he’d made a miscalculation somewhere.

“Here we are,” Edwin said, mostly to himself. “Home at long last.”

Edwin carefully deposited Charles in the crook of the sofa, layering a soft blanket over top of his commandeered wool coat. He was unsure of whether the blanket would bring him any real warmth, but that was beside the point; right now, he was a little boy in pain, and it hardly seemed right to settle him on the sofa without the comfort of a fuzzy blanket.

With Charles curled up at his side, snoring softly, Edwin sank into the couch cushions and began to piece together the contents of Misty Summers’s patient profile. 

Most of the journal contained a hideous retelling of Misty’s traumatic life story, stretching from age five until the day she died at age seventeen. The layout was constructed of four specific memories, each one more horrific than the last, and Edwin couldn’t find it in himself to do much more than briefly skim the information. He was certain that Misty wouldn’t appreciate him committing any of it to memory, anyway; it was all extremely personal, and Edwin couldn’t imagine that it had been given up willingly.

Out of courtesy, Edwin focused most of his attention on the arcane equations drawn on the notebook’s back cover. Most of the runes and symbols were specific to memory-based magic, sketched out in a confusing web of unfamiliar figures. Edwin was normally quite adept at arcane analysis, but Dr. Hargrove’s high level of specialized work meant that her notes were a bit beyond his understanding. He had faith that he could parse them out eventually, but he also knew that Charles’s condition was a time sensitive one. Another set of eyes would be helpful, if only to speed up the process.

Unfortunately, Edwin usually conducted all of the Agency’s arcane legwork by himself. Charles and Niko knew very little about magic in general, and Crystal was a naturally gifted psychic. Her skills were better suited to intuition-based tasks and deciphering prophetic visions, not analyzing mysterious arcane equations.

As Edwin flipped through the pages, considering his options, a familiar name stood out amongst the text: Misty’s partner, Indigo Elwood. She had been one of the last spirits to approach the Agency about Dr. Hargrove’s nefarious experiments.

Even during their short consultation, Edwin had felt a certain kinship with Indigo. She, too, was a teenager of an era long past, having died in the mid-1920’s. Her manner of dress still matched the flapper adornments of that age, and she carried herself with the poise and elegance of someone that Edwin likely would have gone on to socialize with, had he lived past the Edwardian era. She was even a magician herself, specializing in the dating and identification of magical items.

Edwin tapped his fingers pensively. Perhaps it would do him well to pay her a visit.

As Edwin worked through the equations, absorbing what information he could, Charles eventually began to stir. The small sounds he had been uttering, strings of random words and nonsensical phrases, were beginning to grow in urgency.

Edwin looked down, concerned. He didn’t know much about young children, but he was fairly certain that such consistent sleep disturbances were not a sign of pleasant dreams.

“Charles,” he said softly, lightly jostling his arm. “Wake up, darling. You’re dreaming.”

Charles let out a pitiful whine, and the sound pierced through Edwin’s chest like an iron spike. 

“Charles,” he said again, shaking his shoulder a bit harder. “Charles.”

The second shake must have done the trick, because Charles shot up with little warning, nearly knocking his head into Edwin’s. He immediately clamped a hand over his own mouth, muffling the sound of his ragged, panicked breathing. The lost look in his eyes reminded Edwin of a baby doe, frozen in the headlights of oncoming traffic.

To Edwin, the message was clear: this was not a first-time occurrence. Charles had cried out in his sleep before, and he had likely been punished for it.

“I’m right here, dove,” Edwin said, pressing the back of his hand to Charles’s forehead. His skin was slick with a cold sweat, and the bruise over his eye contributed to a fair bit of swelling that stretched down the left side of his face. Charles looked back, staring through him, as if Edwin were nothing but a trick of the light. 

“You’re safe,” Edwin said, drawing an ‘X’ over his heart, for good measure. “Nothing will harm you here, I promise.”

Charles stared, unblinking, his breaths shallow and frantic. Then, he burst into tears.

The wails that poured from him were so wracked with despair that Edwin could feel them like a physical weight on his chest. Charles wrestled with the layers of fabric wrapped around him, struggling to free himself.

Edwin was quick to help, stripping away the coat and blanket that were tangled with his limbs. As soon as he was free, Charles practically jumped on Edwin, clinging tightly to his neck. His entire body trembled, the sobs causing his breaths to come shorter and faster. 

“I-I didn’t mean to,” he stammered, hiccuping into Edwin’s shoulder. “I didn’t–”

“Shhh, it’s alright,” Edwin soothed, wrapping the discarded blanket around them both. “You’ve done nothing wrong. I promise you, everything is alright.”

Charles clung to him like a life preserver, clearly still drowning in the depths of whatever dream he had woken from. Edwin held him as he cried, murmuring reassurances into his curls.

“Where’s—” Charles’s words came out in broken strains, his breaths catching in his chest. “Whe–re’s my mu—m?”

Edwin’s heart shattered into a million pieces.

“I wish I knew, darling. I’m sorry.”

Charles’s labored breaths suddenly gave way to a series of strangled wheezes, sending Edwin into his own state of panic. Charles was a spirit, but a spirit with the constitution of a human; Edwin didn’t know if a lack of oxygen would result in fainting, and he wasn’t keen on finding out. 

He carefully pulled Charles from the crook of his neck and sat him on the sofa, placing two hands on his small shoulders.

“I would like for you to breathe with me, alright?” Edwin said, as calmly as he could. Charles had done this for him a number of times before, when the sticky residue of Hell overwhelmed his senses and the walls of their office became bathed in green. They both knew ghosts didn’t need to breathe, but it usually helped all the same.

Charles whimpered, his eyes darting around the room, as if he were searching for a predator hiding in the shadows. His gaze was glassy and unfocused, dark pupils constricted with animalistic fear. 

Edwin’s heart may have already been shattered, but the haunted look in Charles’s eyes ground its remaining shards into a fine, granulated sand. 

Edwin recognized that look. It was the same one that he had often seen reflected in the mirrors of Hell, obscured by the mess of blood and viscera that had perpetually stained his skin. Seeing that expression painted on such a young face, on Charles’s young face, tore at something deep within him. Suddenly, his vision blurred, and he was struggling to hold back an unexpected rush of tears.

Edwin took Charles’s uninjured hand and maneuvered the small palm to splay out over his own chest. He inhaled slowly, encouraging Charles to do the same.

It took a few tries, but Charles caught on soon enough, matching the steady tempo of his exaggerated breaths. Finally, finally, he began to calm down.

“Excellent job,” Edwin said, his voice wobbling slightly. “You’re doing wonderfully.” The praise helped soothe Charles further, his trembling form slowly steadying itself.

Charles eventually collapsed back into Edwin’s arms, his breathing thick with mucus, but calmer than it had been since he’d woken. He sniffled noisily, but to Edwin, the sound was practically a symphony. Anything was sweeter than the anguished wails that Edwin knew would haunt him for years to come.

He rocked back and forth as Charles clutched at him weakly, exhausted. His breathing deepened as he was pulled into the arms of sleep once again, lulled by the safety of a strange teenage boy with warm arms and a soothing voice.

“I have you, my darling,” Edwin murmured, a few tears running down his own cheeks. “I promise, I have you.”

Made by Jube <3

Chapter Text

A Mistake Repaid

Charles had a difficult time staying asleep, after that. His shallow slumber was fraught with a desperate sort of restlessness, and every time he shook himself awake, he did so with unshed tears shining in his eyes.

Eventually, he refused to try sleeping again altogether. He adamantly insisted that he was no longer tired—though Edwin could tell that wasn’t quite true. His bleary-eyed gaze and near-constant yawns were proof enough of the opposite.

Edwin, unfortunately, had very little experience when it came to comforting children in the wake of nightmares; he had learned to deal with them alone, when he was young. Consoling a child was an altogether foreign concept under his parents’ roof, and Edwin had been taught that respectable boys learned to be self-sufficient as early on in life as possible. However, Edwin knew Charles, and Charles always responded well to one thing: storytelling.

In the end, it took three separate stories to finally convince Charles that it was safe enough to rest. The one that did the trick was Edwin’s memorized recitation of The Ghost of Massingham Mansions —one of Charles’s favorite Max Carrados tales.

Well, one of the older Charles’s favorites. This Charles had never heard of Max Carrados, which meant that Edwin had the unique pleasure of introducing the story to him all over again. Charles listened quietly, enraptured by the mystery, until the melodic rhythm of Edwin’s voice lulled him into a deep, comfortable sleep.

For a blissful while afterwards, the office was calm. Charles burrowed into his blanket cocoon, wrapped safely in Edwin’s arms, as Edwin thumbed through the doctor’s journal, picking apart what little of her arcane equations he could understand. Everything was, dare he say, peaceful. 

Then, the front door burst open.

“Crystal—“ Niko said placatingly, clearly in the middle of de-escalating some manner of disagreement.

“No, Niko, that was stupid,” Crystal interrupted sharply. “Not only was it stupid, but it was dangerous, and wreckless, and totally against everything Charles has ever told us about that damn bag.”

Edwin looked up from the journal in his hands, eyebrows raised. Arguments between him and Crystal were common enough, or even between Crystal and Charles, but between Niko and Crystal? Practically unheard of.

“Edwin would totally agree with me on this,” Crystal said, moving to slam a stack of manilla journals onto the coffee table. Then the presence of a sleeping Charles caught her eye, and she carefully set the books down with a quiet thud.

“Do not speak for me,” Edwin said, turning a page. “I am quite certain I would agree with Niko.”

“You have absolutely no idea what we’re talking about,” Crystal shot back.

Edwin leveled her with a glare. “Enlighten me, then.”

Crystal looked to Niko expectantly, waiting for her to elaborate. Niko’s eyes flitted between them both, looking vaguely uncomfortable. Then, she held up Charles’s bag-of-tricks backpack.

Edwin inhaled sharply. He had forgotten about the bleeding bag.

“Niko, you are an absolute gem,” he said. “Charles would have never let me hear the end of it if I had lost his backpack. Thank you for returning it.”

“She didn’t just find it!” Crystal snapped. “She fucking used it!”

Edwin stared at them both. 

“Explain, please.”

“I, um.” Niko opened the bag. “Here, let me just show you.”

Edwin quickly reached out, the journal tumbling to the floor. “Niko, don’t—”

She unceremoniously shoved her arm inside, right up to her shoulder socket. If Edwin didn’t have a sleeping Charles on his chest, he would have gotten up and yanked the blasted thing from her grasp immediately.

After rooting around for a moment, Niko removed her arm, a small object clutched in her fist. Her arm, thank the Heavens, was not mangled, nor torn off at the shoulder.

“See?” she said. “I’m fine!”

Crystal gave Edwin a very obvious ‘what the fuck?’ look, gesturing towards Niko’s still-intact arm. Edwin sighed, extraordinarily relieved; that could have gone very, very poorly.

The bag-of-tricks backpack was much more complicated than Edwin’s silly pet name gave it credit for; it was essentially the entrance to an advanced magical demiplane, which was difficult to access—and even more difficult to navigate. Even as a spirit, Charles had been instructed to begin slowly and carefully, so as to not injure his ghostly form. It had taken him nearly two years to retrieve his first item from the bag, and nearly five to retrieve his first correct item.

“Niko, how on Earth did you manage that?” Edwin asked.

Niko shrugged. “You guys found me on the astral plane, remember? I figured navigating that plane and navigating the demiplane inside Charles’s bag couldn’t be all that different.”

Edwin regarded her for a moment, then retrieved the notebook from the floor, careful not to jostle Charles any further. Charles shifted slightly, eyelids fluttering, but thankfully did not wake. 

“I agree with Niko,” he said, searching the journal for the last page he’d read. “Her comparison between the astral plane and the bag’s demiplane was a perfectly reasonable assumption to make.” He then looked up, meeting Niko’s gaze sternly. “However, please be more mindful of your actions in the future. Our access to Charles’s collection of memorabilia is hardly worth losing a limb over.”

Crystal nodded in satisfied agreement, then looked closer at Niko’s closed fist. “What’d you end up grabbing, anyway?” she asked.

“Oh, I just grabbed the thing closest to the top,” Niko replied, holding out her hand.

Sitting in her palm was a small stuffed cat, affixed with blue glass eyes and a miniature bow tie constructed of scrap fabric. Edwin recognized it immediately; Charles had pilfered it from an estate sale some years back, insisting that it bore Edwin’s likeness. Edwin had vehemently disagreed, citing the cat’s blue eyes and lack of clothing as its main inaccuracies. Charles had ridiculously crafted a tiny bow tie for its neck in response.

“There,” he had said, holding it up next to Edwin’s face. “Now that’s a proper—”

“ — Edwin,” Edwin said mindlessly, the words falling from his lips before he could consider their odd meaning. “That’s Edwin.”

“What?” Crystal asked.

“He named it Edwin, the ridiculous boy,” Edwin said, absently running a hand through Charles’s hair. “Charles found it at an estate sale and handcrafted the bow tie himself.”

“That’s really cute,” Niko said. She walked over to the sofa and tucked the toy into Charles’s blanket folds, settling it next to his sleeping face. “Now he has two Edwins to keep him company.”

Edwin pushed the stuffed cat further into the fabric, where Charles’s hands could reach it. His tiny fingers immediately grasped onto the toy and pulled it further into the blanket cocoon, clutching the cloth animal like a lifeline.

“So,” Edwin said, placing the open journal face-down on top of Charles’s sleeping form. “Did you make any meaningful discoveries?”

“Mostly journals,” Crystal replied, taking one off of the stack now set on the coffee table. “Niko and I didn’t do much besides look at the table of contents for each one, but we tried to pick out a decent variety of patients for you to look at.”

“I thought a wide data set might help!” Niko chimed in. “There’s a bunch of different ages, personal histories, and death dates for you to compare.”

Edwin smiled, pleased. Despite Niko’s prolonged absence from the mortal coil, her detective skills certainly hadn’t suffered any atrophy. She was as sharp as ever, and Edwin found that she could often anticipate exactly what he needed to proceed with a case, even before he had thought about it himself.

“Excellent thinking, Niko,” he commended. “Perhaps you could assist me in poring through these notes; I would value your insights greatly.”

“I found this, too,” Crystal said, holding up a thick stack of loosely-bound papers. “It looks like it’s been heavily annotated, so I thought maybe it’d give us an idea of what’s going on in that fucked-up head of hers.”

Edwin reached out, taking the stack from Crystal’s hands. It looked to be some manner of early manuscript, scrawled upon in droves of red ink. The front cover read:

Trauma and Tribulations: Support In the Aftermath
A Psychological Study by Dr. A. Williams

“That’s the guy that Dr. Hargrove put in her will, right?” Crystal asked. “It looks like he ties into all of this, somehow.”

“It would seem so,” Edwin hummed thoughtfully. “I will admit that I know very little about this Dr. Williams, aside from the fact that Dr. Hargrove placed her mansion under his ownership. Perhaps it would be beneficial to search for more information on the Internet?”

“Yeah, sure,” Crystal agreed, pulling out her phone. “A Google deep dive should give us at least something to go on, especially if he’s a local doctor.”

The conversation petered out as Niko looked at Crystal nervously, something unspoken sitting heavily in the office atmosphere. Their silence stretched like fermata, long and unending, until Edwin’s impatience got the better of him.

“Well?” he prompted. “Did you find anything else?”

Crystal turned to Niko. “Do you want to tell him? Or should I?”

“Tell me what ?” Edwin bit out, irritated by their indecision.

Niko eyed them both nervously, then looked away. Crystal sighed and pulled a notebook from the stack on the coffee table.

“Just don’t shoot the messenger, okay?” she said, holding it out in his direction. “I’m not the one who wrote it.”

Edwin took the notebook from her hand, making no such agreement.

The book was the same color and material as every other journal collected from the Hargrove mansion, right down to the binding’s dark brown stitching. Edwin looked at both girls, though neither would meet his gaze. A foreboding omen, to be sure. 

He opened the journal, and began to read:

Edwin,

I am providing you with this patient record as an act of courtesy. Charles Rowland is quite a unique subject, and your involvement in his passing played an important role in cultivating such a rare and suitable candidate for my testing procedures. I consider your accidental disclosure of his traumatic history to be a personal favor, so please consider this journal a means of settling that score. You provided me with a patient, so in turn, I have provided you with a copy of my findings. 

If you set foot in my home again, you will not leave. Best of luck.

V. Hargrove

Edwin exhaled sharply, the letter’s contents squeezing every last bit of air from his nonexistent lungs. Her formal language addressed him as if he were a peer, having purposely dropped off a lab rat for the express sake of her experimentation. As if revealing Charles’s secret wasn’t the most abominable, unforgivable mistake that Edwin had ever made.

Edwin continued reading, only to find exactly what he had been expecting: a lengthy description of the actions that had led to Charles’s current state of injury. Dr. Hargrove’s cold, clinical words spoke of an incident in which Charles had accidentally broken a drinking glass—a cardinal sin within the Rowland household, apparently. His father had not only proceeded to beat Charles as a means of discipline, but had then tossed him into their house’s basement and locked him inside. Charles had been forced to stay there, alone and injured, until his father left for work the following morning.

Edwin dropped the journal as if it had burned him, suddenly unable to read any further. The doctor’s experimentation had already left Charles battered and frightened beyond belief, but if Edwin’s hypothesis was correct, then this memory was only the beginning—after all, Misty’s profile had contained four separate memories, each one more horrific than the last.

An involuntary keen caught in the back of Edwin’s throat, high-pitched and panicked. He didn’t know what to do. This child clung to him, and Edwin cared for him, hopelessly so, but he couldn’t do anything for him. Edwin was completely useless to him.

His breathing hitched, a deep pit opening underneath his ribcage. He wanted his Charles back.

For too long, Edwin had relied on his Charles to help keep him calm. When he was upset, or overwhelmed, or stuck in the sinkhole of Hell, unable to claw his way back to the present, Charles was there. He was always there with a kind word, a cheeky smile, and a firm touch that served to lower Edwin right back down to the ground.

Now, Charles needed him, and Edwin was frozen. All this Charles seemed to know was hurt, and fear, and all Edwin had to offer him was mistakes, and cowardice.

There was only one course of action that Edwin could think to take, without his partner to keep him steady.

Edwin carefully lifted Charles off of his chest and placed him on the sofa, making sure to tuck the blanket securely under his sleeping form. 

“Now that the two of you have returned,” he said, walking briskly towards his desk, “I must take my leave.” He opened one of the drawers and tucked the journal inside, placing it beside a number of other important files not meant for prying eyes. Charles had always been exceedingly secretive about his past, and leaving a notebook filled with such vulnerability out in the open felt like a betrayal, even in the safety of their office. He closed and locked the drawer with a click .

“You… what?” Crystal asked. “What do you mean you ‘must take your leave’? What about Charles?”

“If you must know,” Edwin snipped, “I would like to ask Indigo for her assistance in researching the doctor’s arcane endeavors. I imagine she would be quite pleased to get involved, given Misty’s history with the woman.” His voice wavered slightly, despite his best effort to keep an unaffected appearance.

“What happened to ‘my priorities have shifted’?” Crystal asked. Edwin had expected her to pick a fight, or point an accusatory finger, but her tone came across as more confused than anything else. “What happened to ‘Charles needs me here’? I thought—”

Edwin rolled his eyes. “A good detective does what they must to solve a case, Crystal. Or have you forgotten that already?”

“Edwin,” Niko said, intercepting Crystal’s inevitable response. “Are you okay?”

Edwin paused, meeting Niko’s gaze. Her eyes were intense, but kind, boring directly past the slowly-shattering visage of his carefully built facade. Niko had always been exceptional at poking holes in his masks, digging straight through to the soft, uncertain core underneath.

“I simply—” he exhaled slowly, pressing his fists together tightly. “I need a moment. I am aware that Charles needs me here, but every time I look at him, I see—” he looked down, eyes burning. “I cannot fathom why the adults in Charles’s life thought it necessary to strongarm him into submission. He is an exceedingly sweet boy, and I—”

“Edwin, hey,” Crystal said, waving away the rest of his explanation. “It’s okay. If you’re having a hard time with all this, I get it.” She looked over at Charles, shifting slightly beneath his nest of blankets. “It’s not easy for us to watch, either. I can’t imagine how it feels for you.”

Edwin tried to take a calming breath, as Charles had taught him, but it came out a shallow, disjointed sigh. “I will not be gone long—I only mean to gather information, and perhaps bring Indigo on as a short-term consultant. She may have some insights that are outside my field of expertise.”

“We can start on research-y stuff while you’re gone,” Niko said, giving him an encouraging grin. “And don’t worry about Charles—we’ll take good care of him!”

Edwin gave his best approximation of a smile in return. “I have absolutely no doubt that you will,” he said, eyeing them both gratefully. “I will not be gone long—you have my word.”

Two Dead Girls (& A Furry Friend)

Love and kisses
Never misses
Making a heaven for two

The dulcet tones of a woman’s sultry voice greeted Edwin as he emerged from the mirror portal, warbling from the horn of a nearby gramophone. It was a pleasant surprise to see one so old, even if the sound quality was a bit questionable—Edwin had not laid eyes on a proper gramophone since The Case of the Troubling Two-Step, back in 2002.

With a tender
Sweet surrender
Coming from someone like you

The ambient buzz of vintage static rendered her vowels tinny and shallow, rounding out her diction until the words were barely recognizable. Its sweet, obscured quality gave Edwin a moment of pause; the clarity of modern day recordings were a brilliant display of technological progress, but Edwin found that nothing could quite compare to the softened sounds of early 20th century recording techniques. It provided a certain charm that Charles’s walkman and Crystal’s mobile phone simply could not capture.

“A lovely tune, is it not?” a soft voice asked, breaking the songstress’s seductive spell. Edwin blinked, his attention shifting towards the voice.

An elegant young woman, about his age, eyed him curiously from across the room. Her mulberry-stained lips curved into a practiced smile, complementing the warm richness of her light brown skin and short, dark hair. She donned the same midnight blue dress that Edwin had first met her in, with a flattering drop waist and hand-tied shoulder straps, delicately adorned with a long string of freshwater pearls. A beautiful sapphire broach glinted off of her left garment strap, depicting a crescent moon set against the backdrop of silken blue fabric.

“Ella Fitzgerald came into fame a decade or so after my time,” she said, pulling the needle off of the record’s surface. “I find her records to be one of the best creature comforts that recent history has to offer.” 

“I cannot say I have many insights to offer on musicians past the mid-Edwardian era,” Edwin replied, clasping his hands behind his back, “though the recording quality certainly takes me back some years. It is lovely to see you again, Indigo—I do apologize for the sudden intrusion.”

“There is no need,” she said, waving off his apology. "Though I will admit, I am a bit surprised to see you. Is everything alright?”

Edwin pulled the doctor’s journal out of his coat. “I have come with a few questions regarding Misty’s case. Do you have a moment to spare?”

Indigo set an item down on her cluttered desk—a tarnished set of brass knuckles, by the look of it—and turned to face him. “I have a few identifications to tend to, but it is not anything that I would consider particularly pressing. What can I do for you?”

“My cohorts and I have discovered a number of these journals within Dr. Hargrove’s office,” Edwin explained, brandishing Misty’s patient profile. “They each contain a number of arcane figures that I cannot seem to decipher on my own, and I was hoping to trouble you for some assistance.”

Indigo’s eyebrows furrowed. “Do you not have a psychic assistant within your agency?” she asked.

“A partner, not an assistant,” he corrected. He and Crystal may not always see eye to eye, but her role in the Agency certainly begot a title more important than ‘psychic assistant’. “Her talents are better suited to intuitive magic. I am in need of someone with insight into learned arcana, specifically.”

Indigo hummed in response, opening the journal. Edwin delicately placed his hand over the first page, obscuring her view of the material.

“I ought to warn you,” he said, a touch darkly. “The information in this journal is not a pleasant read. Sifting through it is a necessary evil, but I recommend proceeding with caution.”

Indigo’s sociable smile turned strained. “I get the impression that if it were a pleasant read, you would not be here,” she said. “Don’t fret, dear; I’m made of sterner stuff than I look.”

Edwin nodded in assent and removed his hand, stepping off to the side. As Indigo began to read in earnest, he allowed his eyes to wander.

The small flat was charmingly cluttered, with collections of perfumed spell jars and tightly-tied flower sachets littering nearly every surface. It reminded Edwin of the many magical hobby shops that he and Charles had frequented over the years—filled to the brim with knick-knacks and trinkets, with a loose organizational system that likely only made sense to the person using it.

As he poked about the room, looking over the various bottles of oil and bunches of herbs, a bright metallic gleam flared in his peripheral vision. He turned towards its origin, interest piqued.

On the corner of Indigo’s desk, nestled in a lone abalone shell, was a small collection of star-like glowing marbles. Each sphere was cut with a pitch black seam, akin to the constricted slit of a cat’s eye. As Edwin stared into the shallow bowl, intent on analyzing their mystical nature, a cacophony of distant voices whispered into his mind. One of the marbles turned to meet his gaze, and the black void of its pupil sent a chill down his spine. 

Suddenly, Edwin’s mouth began to water; the colorful spheres looked sweet and positively delicious, like the most irresistible collection of candies he had ever laid eyes on. His hand began to move of its own volition, reaching out towards the dish. Surely a single taste couldn’t—

“Edwin,” a firm voice said. Edwin snapped back to himself, eyes fluttering. Indigo picked up the dish and moved it to the other side of the desk. “Do not eat those.”

Edwin huffed out a laugh, still feeling a bit dazed. “I was not going to—”

“Everyone tries,” she said, still not looking up. “I know the temptation is strong, but it is an unidentified magic item of unknown origin.” She turned the page. “Do not eat them.” 

Edwin clasped his hands tightly, pointedly looking away from the bowl. The ambient chorus of dissonant voices lessened to a manageable hum, though his mind remained fixated on the undeniable urge to press one of the whispering spheres into his mouth. A most curious item, indeed.

Finally, Indigo looked up, a distraught gasp escaping her lips. She shut the journal quickly, a hand flying to her mouth.

“This content is—“ she began, then stopped short, seemingly at a loss for words.

“Absolutely heinous, I know,” Edwin finished. “I apologize for bringing it to you, but there are few magic users that I would trust with such sensitive information.”

Indigo sighed heavily, flipping to the journal’s back cover. “I take it that this is why you have come to me, yes?” she asked, looking over the doctor’s arcane equations.

Edwin nodded, pointing out a few of the more basic runes. “I recognize some of these symbols from my own studies, but most of them are entirely unfamiliar to me. I imagine that you do not have much more experience with advanced memory magic than I do, but perhaps between the two of us, we can puzzle it out.”

Indigo opened her mouth to respond. “I—“

“Indigo?” a voice called from across the room. Their thick American accent was roughened by sleep, pitched down lower than Indigo’s soft, lilting tone. “Is someone here?”

Edwin looked up, his eyes tracking the voice to a slightly ajar door on the far side of the room.

There, in the doorway, stood another teenage girl, not much older than Indigo herself. Her translucently pale skin was marred by a smattering of bumps and bruises, slightly obscured by a tangled mass of wavy red hair that sat deflated around her shoulders. A ripped orange top revealed the mess of bruises that painted her torso, while her bright blue trousers were smeared with a dark substance—likely blood, given the open gash on her thigh. Her wide, green eyes looked guarded and lost, and Edwin was hit with a pang of residual guilt—her haunted expression held a similar quality to the look in Charles’s eyes, when he had first woken from his nightmares.

“Misty, darling,” Indigo said, her previous air of professionalism giving way to something much softer. She strode across the room to meet Misty at the doorway. 

“This is Edwin Payne, one of the detectives I told you about,” she said quietly, shielding Misty from Edwin’s view. It only mildly worked, given the extreme height difference between the two. “He and his agency are looking into the woman that hurt you.”

“Oh,” said Misty, stepping around Indigo and resting an elbow on her head. Indigo huffed, but allowed it to happen. “Violet Hargrove, right?”

“Yes, indeed,” Edwin said. “We attempted to pay her a visit, but—“

“Let me guess,” Misty interrupted. “Didn’t go so well?”

“It did not.”

Misty placed an arm around Indigo’s shoulders, pulling her closer. Indigo bristled, clearly embarrassed, but once again, allowed it to happen. “That lady’s pretty damn scary. I’m not really sure how she does what she does, but I’ve been stuck like this—“ Misty gestured to her various cuts and bruises—“for weeks now. Feel like shit all the time, too. It’s like she took all my memories out of their boxes and now, I can’t put them back in.”

“You said you couldn’t imagine that I have much experience with memory magic,” Indigo said, hardly meeting Edwin’s gaze. “In truth, it is all I have been studying since Misty’s return. I have been looking for a solution, but—“ she blew out a frustrated breath. “The experimental magic Violet Hargrove uses is too far removed from the realm of basic arcana for any existing texts to be of much use.”

“It seems we are in a similar predicament,” said Edwin, steepling his fingers. “Charles was held captive by the doctor during our visit, and we did not find him until well after she had completed her experimentation. He is stuck in a similar, yet dissimilar state, and I find myself at a loss of how to proceed.”

“Similar, yet dissimilar,” Indigo parroted. “Explain, please.”

“He is a child,” Edwin said simply. “He is a child, and he remembers nothing.”

Misty sucked air in through her teeth. “Fuck, that sucks. Was he also, like, abused and shit?”

Indigo elbowed Misty’s side gently. “Tact, dear. What have we spoken about?”

“Hey, Edwin seems like a practical dude,” Misty said, unweaving herself from Indigo and venturing towards the couch. She collapsed onto its cushions, an invisible weight bowing her bruised shoulders. “He knows it’s an important question.”

Edwin did know. That fact did not make the question, nor its unspoken answer, sting any less.

Edwin removed his notebook from his jacket pocket, tapping a blank page with his fountain pen. “Misty, would you mind providing us with a statement concerning your experience with Dr. Hargrove?”

Misty scoffed. “Ya’ll refer to that quack as a doctor?” She scrubbed a hand over her face, careful to avoid her injuries. “Yeah, okay. I can’t really tell you how I ended up in her house; I was playing with Rhiannon in the bedroom one minute, and the next, I woke up chained to some musty basement floor.”

Edwin’s pen stopped scratching. “Rhiannon?”

Misty’s face lit up. “Oh! That’s my dog.” She whistled loudly, causing Edwin to wince. “Rhi! C’mere, girl!”

Edwin heard the distant scrabbling of paws on the floorboards, then a series of excited, high-pitched whines. A long haired tan-and-white dog came sprinting out of the far bedroom, her ears flouncing as she barrelled towards Misty. A long, pink tongue hung from her snout as she stared up at Misty with a look of obedient adoration.

“This is Rhi,” said Misty, scratching behind her ears. Rhi spun in a few excited circles, before jumping on the sofa and settling peacefully at Misty’s side.

“Misty!” Indigo protested. “I thought we agreed: there are no dogs allowed on the sofa.”

Misty waved her off. “Chill out, Indi. She’s not gonna hurt the couch.”

“It’s the principle of it,” Indigo argued. “Allowing her on the furniture is a slippery slope into poor behavior.”

Edwin raised an eyebrow. “Is she… alive?” he asked, as delicately as a question so morbid could be asked.

“Nah,” said Misty. “She got hit by a car, right outside our apartment a few years back. I sat with her while she died, which means she’s mine now, I guess. She won’t pass on without me.”

Edwin nodded, scratching it down in his notes. Spirits with dead pets were not an altogether uncommon occurrence, though normally, the owner and pet had been acquainted while they were both still alive. A spirit befriending a live animal, and then bonding after death, was a new one. He was momentarily glad for Charles’s absence—it wouldn’t do to give him any silly ideas.

“Right, so, like I was saying,” Misty continued on, “I woke up in some dingy basement, and Violet was there, staring at me. Her eyes were totally dead and her face was all… gross looking.”

“Could you elaborate?” Edwin asked.

“Her skin was kind of loose, I guess?” Misty said, scrunching her nose. “Like it didn’t fit on her bones. It was white and cloudy in certain spots, like it was slipping off, and then her hands and forearms were really dark purple.”

Edwin paused his writing. “She was wet, I presume?”

“Yeah, actually. Her hair and clothes were both soaked.”

“Skin maceration?” Indigo guessed.

“And frostbite, most likely,” Edwin added. “The police report did mention that she passed due to an accidental drowning, though it is curious that she has not yet learned to mask her death form.”

“Yeah, I’m not really sure she cares about that,” Misty said. “She didn’t really seem to care much about anything besides getting inside my head.”

“Could you describe that process to me?” Edwin asked.

Misty thought for a moment, then snapped her fingers. “You ever seen Star Trek?”

Edwin shook his head.

“Do you at least know what a mind meld is?”

Edwin shook his head, again.

“Jeez, do you and Indigo live under a rock or something?” she said, her low voice pitched up in disbelief. “You’ve never heard of Spock? Or Captain Kirk? The galaxy’s most dynamic space-traveling duo?”

“Misty, dear,” Indigo interjected, shooting Edwin an apologetic glance. “I know Star Trek is an important topic, but Edwin and I are from an entirely different time. Please, press on.”

“Ugh, fine,” Misty said, pointing an accusatory finger, “but I will get you to watch it with me eventually.” Indigo gave her a pointed glare, but said nothing, allowing Misty to continue with her story.

“Basically, Violet went in my head and started digging around in all the things I try not to think about. My dad, my mom, my ex, the car crash—” Misty sighed, leaning her head back against the sofa. “It was like all those things were happening again, over and over, for hours .”

art by Becca <3

“Did it feel as though she was searching for something specific?” Edwin asked.

Misty lifted her head. “Yeah, actually. She asked me to share the times when I felt… unsupported, was the word she used. Any moments that felt particularly lonely, I guess, like I had no one to turn to.”

Edwin thought back to the doctor’s harrowing description of Charles’s own experience—having been locked in the basement, sobbing and in pain, with no hope for help or comfort. His heart settled heavily in his stomach as he took note of the possible connection, his interview shorthand suddenly feeling far too impersonal for the subject.

“You hadn’t shared that detail with me,” said Indigo, softly. She sounded as heartbroken as Edwin felt.

“Thats because I didn’t fucking tell her anything,” Misty replied, crossing her arms defensively. “Not willingly, anyway. I spat in her face instead of answering, and she stopped asking me questions pretty soon after that.”

Edwin fought off a smirk. Now that level of rebellion certainly sounded familiar. He jotted down the statement to share with Charles at a later date, certain he would appreciate the sentiment.

Misty then reached into her shirt, fishing out a pendant from beneath the torn fabric. “Only reason I even escaped was because Indi makes me wear this thing,” she said, pinching the necklace between two fingers. A small silver medallion dangled off of the long chain, a five-pointed star etched onto its smooth surface. Each point was embedded with a ruddy, faceted gemstone. 

"It is a single use arcane combatant,” Indigo explained. “It can be used to snuff out any low level magical effect on a physical object.”

“And it just so happens that Violet had me chained up using magical manacles, for some reason,” Misty said, rolling her eyes. “Damn caster hubris, if you ask me. Magicians like to use magic for everything, but if she’d just used freakin’ iron, I’d still be laid out in her basement.”

Edwin hummed in acknowledgement, quickly sketching out an image of the medallion in his notebook. Forcing his less-magical Agency counterparts to wear protective amulets was an extremely appealing idea, especially given the events of the past twenty four hours. Perhaps Indigo would be willing to pass along the design for him to replicate.

“Anyway,” Misty continued, tucking the necklace back under her shirt, “Violet left me in the basement on my own for a bit, so I was able to dispel the manacles and get outta there. I hopped in the first mirror I could find and came straight home to Indigo.”

That would explain the distinct lack of mirrors in her home, then. Edwin tried to picture the doctor descending into a fit of childish rage following Misty’s escape, smashing every mirror in her home simply because she had been bested by a teenage spirit with a basic, magic-snuffing necklace.

It was a rather satisfying image, if he were honest.

“And you returned home with your memories intact?” he asked, pressing onwards.

Misty rubbed the back of her neck. “I mean, yeah. That’s kinda the problem; now that Violet pulled them all out, I can’t seem to stop thinking about them.” She gestured to the cuts and bruises marring her skin. “These are all from the day I died. Nothing I do makes them go away.”

“It may be beneficial for you to speak with Crystal,” Edwin suggested, snapping his notebook shut. “She has quite a bit of knowledge concerning natural mind magic. You and Charles seem to be stuck in opposite states of memory, so perhaps Crystal could—“

Edwin’s voice was cut off by a loud ring, making him wince, again. Perhaps the previous night’s ordeal had left him a tad jumpier than he had realized.

“Oh!” said Indigo, reaching for a black rotary phone on the coffee table. “One moment, please.”

She picked up the receiver and cleared her throat. “Hello?”

”Oh, Crystal!” Indigo said, smiling. “Quite the psychic you are. We were just talking about you.”

She listened for a moment, then looked at Edwin. “Mmhmm. Yes, of course. I will tell him.”

“Charles has locked himself in your storeroom and will not come out,” she stated, holding a hand over the receiving end of the phone. “Crystal is requesting you return to the office immediately.”

Bollocks. Edwin jumped up from the sofa, pocketing his notebook. He had hoped to be back at the office before Charles awoke, if only to introduce him to Crystal and Niko properly.

“It was lovely to see you both,” he said hurriedly, practically stumbling towards the mirror. “I will return at a later time to finish our interview, I—”

Just as he was about to step through the mirror, back into the waiting arms of their office, his eyes fixed on Rhiannon. She slept soundly at Misty’s side, her fur looking soft and warm in the sun-dappled expanse of their sitting room. 

An idea formed in Edwin’s mind, then—a tried-and-true lightbulb moment. Rhiannon was a spirit, likely capable of spatial dislocation, and Charles had always been rather fond of dogs. “Do you happen to know if Rhiannon is capable of mirror travel?” he asked.

Misty grinned, picking up on his train of thought immediately. “Oh boy, you better bet she is,” she said, grabbing Rhi’s leash off of the side table. Rhi immediately hopped off the couch, nails tapping on the hardwood floor as she danced in a circle around Misty’s legs. 

“C’mon, Rhi,” Misty said, clipping the leash to her collar. “We’re going on a field trip.”

Chapter Text

So give me your hands, I’ll spin you around
You’re real in my arms, I won’t put you back down
We’ve been through the past, we’re still here somehow
We make this all real, when we say it out loud

Puzzle Pieces

Edwin wasn’t sure what to expect when he stepped back through the office mirror. The unmistakable sound of forceful muffled sobs, though, was certainly not it.

The sound didn’t match those of Charles’s cries—the details of which Edwin had become far too familiar with over the previous twenty four hours—but instead indicated the sobs of a teenage girl, utterly and thoroughly heartbroken.

Next to the desk sat Niko, rocking back and forth gently, with Crystal clutched tightly in her arms. Crystal’s face was buried in her shoulder, grief rolling off of her in devastating waves.

It was alarming, to say the least. Edwin had never seen Crystal so upset.

“Niko, what happened?” Edwin asked. “Is she alright?” A pang of worry flashed through him. “Is Charles alright?”

“I think ‘alright’ might be too strong of a word?” Niko said, her voice slightly hysterical. “Crystal was trying to comfort Charles after a nightmare, but I think she ended up reading his mind by accident. She screamed, which scared him, and then I tried to comfort him, but he only wanted you. He kept saying that you promised you’d be here, but—” she stopped short, looking up helplessly. 

“You weren’t here,” she was too kind to say.

Edwin knew her statement was not meant to be accusatory. He felt thoroughly chastened, regardless. 

Niko sucked in a shallow breath, her usual calm facade beginning to fracture. “He locked himself in the closet once he realized you were gone, which is when Crystal called Indigo. I thought everything was okay after that, but then she started crying, and I just—” a few tears dropped down her cheeks. “I just didn’t know what to do.”

“All that over a broken dish?” Crystal sobbed, her jagged words muffled by Niko’s shoulder. “How could someone do that? How could anyone do that?”

Niko shushed her, kissing the top of her head. “It’s okay, Crystal. It’s not happening now, remember? It’s really, really horrible, but this was all forty years ago. He’s safe with us.”

Crystal looked up, her face twisted with sorrow. “But it’s still happening for him! For us it's in the past, but as far as he knows, this all happened yesterday!”

The panicked urge to run clawed desperately at Edwin’s throat, but he tamped it down, forcing himself to stay put. His own flighty response to Charles’s situation had been what led to this entire mess in the first place. Departing again would only make things worse.

Edwin focused his attention back on the Agency’s guests, desperate for a distraction. Both Misty and Indigo peered curiously into the office’s nearby trinket cabinets, pointedly ignoring the scene unfolding before them. To their credit, they gave off no air of awkwardness or judgment; all Edwin read on their faces was sympathy, and a desire to provide Crystal with some semblance of privacy.

“I do apologize for the state of our personnel,” he said, trying to maintain some air of professionalism. “It’s been an extremely taxing twenty four hours, and—”

“Edwin, please,” Indigo interrupted. “Apologize if you must, but know it is not necessary. If anyone understands the mental state of you and your friends, it’s us.”

“Yeah, seriously,” said Misty, casually. “You should’ve seen Indigo when I first came home. She couldn’t even look at me for the first few days.”

Indigo’s eyes went wide, regret pinching her browline. “Darling—”

“Nah, Indi, it's okay,” Misty said, shrugging her off. “Don’t worry ‘bout it.” She pulled on Rhiannon’s leash, tugging her towards Crystal. “C’mon, Rhi. Looks like you’re playing therapy dog today.”

Indigo sighed and followed closely behind, her posture bowed under the weight of Misty’s dismissive words.

Edwin left the four girls to commiserate, grateful that none of them expected him to join. Mass amounts of emotions made him uncomfortable on a good day, and with Charles hiding in the storeroom, his attention was needed elsewhere.

Edwin stepped towards the closet slowly, hoping that his footfalls would be enough to warn Charles of his approach. He knocked three times, lightly.

“Charles?” he called out. “Is everything alright?”

There was a long moment of silence. Then, a small voice responded, muffled by the wooden barrier between them.

“You left,” Charles said, barely audible. His voice was tense with tears, every word soaked in mistrust.

Edwin pressed his forehead against the door, remorse threatening to swallow him whole. “I know, darling. I’m so sorry.”

Edwin waited patiently for Charles to reply, growing more anxious by the second. The pause stretched from long, to awkward, to slightly concerning. Edwin knocked again.

“Charles?” he called out, again. “May I come in?”

There was another long silence.

“‘S your closet, innit?” Charles snarked, an unexpected glimmer of his teenage counterpart shining through. Edwin was struck raw by the similarity, fondness and longing twisting hopelessly in his chest. 

“If you would like the space to yourself, then you need only say so,” Edwin assured him. “I would never begrudge you a moment of privacy.”

There was a pause. Then a click.

“Come in,” the small voice said.

Edwin stepped into the darkened interior of their game closet, shutting the door securely behind him. The room was pitch black, and Edwin momentarily wondered why Charles hadn’t bothered to turn on the light—before realizing that he was likely too short to reach the pull switch. Edwin yanked the chain himself, bathing the small space in a familiar orange glow.

On the floor, half hidden beneath the bottommost shelf, was Charles. He still wore Edwin’s coat, the long fabric puddled on the floor around him, with his stuffed cat peeking out of an oversized pocket. In his lap sat Edwin’s copy of Lux Aeterna Linguarum Diligentium, its worn pages wrinkled and dim.

“How d’you turn this thing on?” Charles asked, squinting at the text. He reached out to turn the page with a swollen hand, before pulling back with a wince. Guilt-ridden eyes flitted up to meet Edwin’s, promptly cracking his heart in two.

“Does your wrist still hurt, dove?” Edwin asked softly, kneeling down to meet him. 

Charles shrugged, looking away. “Not really,” he said, hiding his injured arm from view. “S’fine.”

An image of a teenage Charles formed in Edwin’s mind unbidden, shrugging off iron wounds as if they meant nothing. As if his pain hardly mattered.

“I would still like to take a look, if that’s alright with you,” Edwin said, ignoring the hollow ache in his chest. 

Charles eyed him suspiciously. “Why’s it matter?”

“Because you are my friend, and I am deeply invested in your well-being,” Edwin explained patiently. “I only want to be sure that further medical attention isn’t necessary.”

Edwin had no clue as to what medical professional could treat a half-corporeal spirit, but he would find one, if he had to. He would do anything to make this right.

Charles’s features flooded with panic. “No hospitals,” he blurted out. “Promise you won’t take me to a hospital. Cross your heart, too, and mean it this time.”

Edwin stifled a flinch, the reminder of his betrayal hitting like a swift kick to the stomach. The accusation was well deserved, of course; Edwin had promised to stay, and then he’d left. His reasoning mattered very little, in this instance.

“Why is it so imperative that we avoid the hospital?” he asked. “Surely a doctor would be of more adequate assistance than I.”

“You’ll do fine,” Charles insisted, his frantic words running together. “You talk all smart and you can make books glow and stuff. Can’t you just make my arm better with your angel magic?”

Edwin cleared his throat awkwardly. “Charles, we have been over this. I’m not an angel.”

“That’s rubbish!” Charles protested, his voice suddenly too loud for the small space. Edwin fought back the urge to cover his ears. “You found me in the basement even though I broke the rules, again, and now you’re letting me stay in your house even after I got all scared over some stupid dreams. You’re just—” he paused, a look of shame haunting his features. “You’re just too nice, okay? You’re too nice to me.” 

Edwin’s chest squeezed. “Charles—”

“You also have a book that glows, you dress like an old sod, and you got inside Dad’s basement without a key,” Charles continued. “How else could you do all that if you didn’t have angel magic?”

Edwin shifted uncomfortably, racking his brain for a believable answer—preferably one that didn’t involve turning the boy’s reality upside down. “Honestly, Charles, there is a perfectly reasonable—“

“You’ve gotta be an angel,” said Charles, hardly listening. “There’s no other reason you’d care so much, right? Angels care ‘bout everyone.”

The true meaning of Charles’s clumsy words hung in the air. “Why would you care about me, if not out of obligation?”

Edwin gave his best approximation of a reassuring smile. “As I’ve said, I care a great deal because we are friends. I apologize that I cannot be more precise at this time, but I’m afraid you will just have to take me at my word.” He held out a hand. “Now. May I please see your wrist?”

Charles blinked, his rebellious resolve finally weakening. “No hospitals?” he asked, warily.

Edwin drew an ‘X’ over the left side of his chest. “No hospitals, darling. I swear to it.”

Charles finally presented his wrist for examination, allowing Edwin to roll up his sleeve. The injury wasn’t severe enough to warrant a splint, but the spectral healing process had still not kicked in. Edwin doubted there was much any of them could do aside from wait.

After a long moment of silence, Charles plucked up the courage to speak. “Why’d you leave, then?” he asked, his expression guarded. “Did I say something wrong?”

Edwin shook his head fervently. “Absolutely not, dove. My reasons for departing had nothing to do with your behavior.” He gently patted Charles’s hand for emphasis, caressing his skin in a desperate display of affection. “As it just so happens, you have been quite the perfect angel throughout this entire harrowing ordeal.”

Charles smiled shyly, his cheeks painted beet red with embarrassment. Perhaps winning back his trust wouldn’t be so difficult after all, so long as Edwin fully devoted himself to earning it.

“I left because I got a bit overwhelmed,” he admitted truthfully. “Sometimes, when I get a bit upset, I need a moment away to collect myself.” 

“Oh,” said Charles, voice tinged with worry. “Are you okay now?”

“Of course,” Edwin replied automatically. It was not a lie, technically; so long as Charles was safe, then everything really was alright. “I am feeling much better now.”

Charles nodded, tension bleeding from shoulders. The room lapsed into a comfortable silence as Edwin moved on to assess Charles’s eye, carefully checking for any serious damage. 

Thankfully, all of the injuries appeared to be relatively minor. None of his facial bones were broken, and as far as Edwin could tell, there were no signs of a concussion. He was still in quite a lot of pain from the bruising itself, but again, Edwin doubted there was much they could do besides wait.

“I was told that you had another nightmare,” Edwin said lightly, brushing the hair from his forehead. “Would you like to discuss it?”

Charles shook his head quickly, the cornered look in his eyes returning. 

“That’s quite alright,” Edwin assured him, running a careful hand through his curls. He was unsure which of them the touch was for, at this point. It seemed a comforting action for them both. “Do you get nightmares often?”

“...Yeah,” Charles admitted, his voice brittle with shame. “Getting scared of something so stupid makes Dad throw a fit, so I try to be quiet about it. Can’t always control it, though.”

Indignation simmered in Edwin’s chest, poised to boil over. If this boy was simply a younger version of his partner, then… well, a whole mess of Charles-shaped puzzle pieces suddenly fell into place, didn’t they? Every behavior this child exhibited, sensical or not, was intimately familiar.

He could see his Charles in the boy's more brazen statements, betraying a learned mistrust towards authority figures that were supposed to keep him safe.

He could see his Charles in the boy’s stoic approach to pain, tucking away his reactions like a prey animal hiding from a predator.

He could see his Charles in the boy’s visible hopelessness, casually resigned to an awful fate of being punished for being afraid.

Edwin realized, not for the first time, that this boy had clearly existed within his partner for decades; unseen, unheard—unloved. He was lonely, and he was terrified. That likely meant Charles was, too—whether he realized or not. 

It was so obvious. It was so painfully, brutally obvious, and yet, Edwin had never noticed it. He had never even considered it.

He was no better than the adults that had looked past Charles all his life, shutting down his cries for help and pushing him away.

“Er,” said Charles, interrupting Edwin’s thoughts. “Sorry, but are you okay?”

Edwin blinked, surprised to feel tears gathering at his waterline. He wiped them away, irritated; now was not the time for such theatrics.

“Yes, darling, my apologies. You simply—well, you remind me very much of a close friend.”

“Oh,” said Charles. “D’you make friends with a lot of seven year olds, then?”

Edwin chuckled wetly. “I do not. He’s not a young child, but you remind me of him all the same.” He looked down, suddenly unable to face the familiar brown eyes staring at him. “I must admit, I miss him dearly. He always knows what to say in these moments.”

Charles sat silently, considering his admission. Then, he took hold of Edwin’s hand and patted it clumsily—a clear imitation of the comfort that he had been offered earlier.

“Wherever he is, I bet he misses you too,” Charles said, with a certainty that warmed Edwin’s soul. “If he doesn’t, then he’s a right tosser.” He paused. “And stupid, also.”

Edwin smiled gently, grasping loosely onto his fingers. “That means a great deal to me, Charles. Thank you for saying so.”

The two sat together in contented silence, until their tender moment was interrupted by the quiet sound of ambient chatter. Charles hunched down at the sound of the girls’ voices, burrowing into the folds of Edwin’s coat.

“I know being surrounded by strangers must be overwhelming,” said Edwin, keeping hold of his hand, “but I promise you: everyone present has nothing but your best interests in mind.”

“That one girl started crying when she touched me,” Charles said quietly. “I think maybe I hurt her.”

Edwin reached out on instinct, pulling the coat tight around his shoulders.“My darling, you are not to blame for anything that has transpired here today. If you cannot trust anything else I have to say, then please trust that.”

Charles sat silently for a moment, contemplating. “Okay,” he said eventually. “If you say so.”

Edwin gave his hand a parting squeeze and rose from the floor. “Now, if you are up for meeting a few more people, then there is quite a lovely surprise waiting for you just outside this door.”

Charles perked up. “A surprise? What kind of surprise?”

Edwin opened the door, motioning for Charles to follow. “Let’s find out together, shall we?”

Charles slowly climbed to his feet, sticking close to Edwin’s side. “Okay,” he whispered, sounding terribly brave and terribly afraid, all at once. “Let’s go, then.”

Their re-entry into the office’s common area was a much less dramatic affair.

Crystal had stopped crying by the time they emerged, her red-rimmed eyes the only sign of her breakdown still remaining. Indigo sat with her at the desk, the two seemingly absorbed in an important bout of research, while Niko flipped through the chapters of Dr. Williams’s manuscript off to the side. She had a fuzzy pink pen in one hand and a pad of heart-shaped note paper in the other, marking pages and taking notes as she went.

If Charles’s shaking stature was anything to go by, the desk area seemed a bit overwhelming. Too many people, all at once.

Edwin ventured towards the sofa instead, where Misty was slumped against the sagging cushions. She covered her bruised torso as they approached, hiding the worst of her injuries from Charles’s view.

“Well, hey there, kiddo,” she said, exaggerating her Southern drawl. Charles emerged from behind Edwin, suddenly curious. “How’re you feelin’?”

Charles shrugged, his face still half-hidden by Edwin’s leg.

“It’s fine if the answer is ‘bad’,” she said. “I don’t think I’d feel too good either, with a shiner like that.”

“‘S’not so bad,” he said immediately, as if the words were an automatic response. As if they’d been ingrained in him from an external source.

Misty made a noncommittal sound. “Dunno, looks pretty bad to me. But you’re a tough kid, I get it. Gotta stick it to the adults, eh? Show them you’re not afraid or nothin’.”

“I’m not afraid,” Charles said forcefully, finally meeting her gaze. There was something fierce in his eyes, simmering beneath his relatively pliant exterior.

Misty held her hands up in surrender. “Hey, I believe you. Like I said, gotta stick it to the old guys.” She pointed towards the front door, directing Charles’s attention. “I heard you like dogs, so I brought along a friend. She’s been waiting to meet you.”

Directly in the path of the office’s entrance, sleeping peacefully, was Rhiannon. Her lithe body was curled into a compact ball, her chin resting demurely on her paws.

Charles’s eyes widened. He whipped around to face Misty, finally releasing his deathgrip on Edwin’s clothing. “Can I—” he paused. “May I please say hi?”

“Sure can,” said Misty. “Me and Edwin got some work to do, so she’s all yours for the day.”

A gap-toothed grin spread across his face, betraying a look of pure excitement. Edwin couldn’t help but stare, once again hypnotized by the image of his Charles peeking through.

“Hello, puppy,” Charles whispered, slowly creeping his way forwards. Rhiannon’s eyes blinked open at the first sound of his steps, watching him calmly. “You’re real pretty, you know that?”

“Her name’s Rhi,” Misty supplied. “Or Rhiannon, if ya like. She’s real sweet, long as you treat her nice.”

Charles nodded absently, sitting down beside her. He ran a small hand over her head, rubbing the tips of her ears between his pudgy fingers. “Sorry I woke you up, Rhi. You got the right idea; sleeping’s brills, ‘specially when the sun’s out.”

Rhiannon lifted her head and yawned widely, emitting a high-pitched squeak in response. 

“Can—” Charles paused, scooching closer. “Can we be mates? I promise I’m proper nice; I won’t pull on your tail or your ears or anything.”

Rhiannon tilted her head, as if she were formally considering his proposal. Then, she jumped up, knocking Charles flat on the floor. He squealed in delight as she licked his face incessantly, wrapping his arms around her neck in a loose hug.

The gleeful sound of laughter brought Edwin’s anxious thoughts to a grinding halt. He had barely managed to get a smile out of Charles since discovering him in the doctor’s basement, and the sudden appearance of such unbridled joy made the entire situation feel much less dire, if only for a moment.

“Thank you,” he said to Misty, his tone a bit awestruck. “I cannot properly express how meaningful it is, to see Charles so happy after such an awful turn of events.”

Misty reached out and clapped Edwin on the shoulder, causing him to jump slightly.

“Seriously,” she said, brushing past him, “Don’t mention it. You’re the one that offered to help me, so I’m just returning the favor.” She wandered over to the desk, sidling up next to Crystal.

“So,” Misty said, nudging her shoulder. “What’d ya’ll find?”

“Possibly an answer,” Crystal said, holding out a journal for Edwin to peruse. “Have you seen this rune before?”

Edwin stepped forward, taking a closer look. In the corner of the page was an illusory symbol, circled twice in red ink. It resembled a cursive ‘M’ caught in a lazily-spinning circle, as if the symbol held an aspect of magic all on its own. 

Recognition sparked in his mind. “This rune is present in all of the journals, is it not?”

Crystal nodded, picking up Misty’s patient profile. “No matter what changes, this sigil is in every notebook, in the exact same spot. It’s, like, the one constant. And—” she pulled a thick tome off the desk, placing it in Edwin’s hands. The cover was an off-mint green color, with the title Arcanist’s Guide To Mind-Stepping stamped on the front in silver lettering. “It’s one of the mind fuckery runes featured in this book. I’m willing to bet that she’s been using it to pull memories from people’s heads.”

Edwin cracked open the tome, skimming its pages.“Is this merely a theory, or do we have confirmation?” he asked.

“Well,” said Crystal, then paused. “We—” then she paused, again.

“We need to see Charles’s notebook,” Niko said, piping up from her perch on the desk. “Crystal’s afraid to ask.”

Crystal scoffed. “I’m not afraid ,” she told Edwin. “You’ve just been kind of touchy since Charles got kiddified, and I don’t think our usual arguing will be good for him.” Then, she added quietly: “Or for me, honestly; I’m kind of sensitive right now.”

“I—” Edwin began, then cut himself off. She had a point. If his usual quips were enough to put Crystal on edge, then there was no telling how they would affect the skittish boy in his charge. Now was not the time for them to be arguing amongst themselves, in any case.

“Without Charles here to soften the blow of my statements, I will admit that my words have been a bit… brusque," said Edwin, carefully. “I shall try to be more cordial until he returns to his normal age.”

“Oh,” said Crystal, surprised. “That’s… big of you.”

Edwin handed over the key to his desk, fixing her with a warning glare. “My leniency will not last forever. Enjoy it while it does.”

Crystal opened the desk drawer, fishing the journal out from between Edwin’s confidential case files. “So, should we read this?” she asked, sounding unsure. “It feels like an invasion of privacy, but…” she shrugged. “I don’t know, it could be helpful.”

“These memories were taken from Charles unwillingly, and their extraction likely caused him quite a lot of pain,” said Edwin, venom seeping into his voice. “I’m of the mind that we should not add to that transgression, regardless of whether it could be helpful or not.”

Crystal nodded in agreement, carefully flipping past the journal’s intermediary pages. She searched the back cover for a moment, clicking her tongue in concentration, before pointing out the aforementioned memory symbol.

“Here it is,” she said, tapping the page repeatedly. “The reference book says that this symbol is most often used to pull memories to the forefront. Misty’s memories are all tangled up and impossible to control, but she’s retained her sense of time. Charles, though—”

“—is quite literally trapped in the past, yes,” Edwin finished. “Can you find a solution in the doctor’s arcane footprint?”

“It’s possible,” said Crystal. “I took a look at Misty’s mind while you were in the game closet, and it looks like the reason she’s still got her memories is because the ritual was never completed. She must’ve escaped before the doctor could finish her work.”

“Damn straight,” Misty muttered.

“Crystal and I have already begun developing a reversal spell,” said Indigo, holding up a piece of parchment. Various runes were scrawled across the surface in purple ink, reminiscent of the same variety that Edwin used to transcribe his own spells. It shimmered slightly under the office lights, glittering like an amethyst geode in the sun. “We’re hoping that if it’s effective for Misty, then it may be helpful for Charles, as well.”

“Is there a way for us to be certain?” asked Edwin.

Crystal grimaced. “I need to get inside his head and see what’s going on,” she said, fiddling with the desk key in her hands. “I don’t need to look at his memories or anything, but I do need to see if I can figure out exactly what the doctor did. Misty says it’s kind of a weird feeling, so he might not like it very much.”

“‘Weird’ is a uselessly vague descriptor,” Edwin pointed out. “Can you be more specific?”

“It’s like that Vulcan mind meld thing I mentioned earlier,” Misty offered, as if that comparison meant anything to him at all. “I could feel some of her emotions, and she could feel some of mine. It was okay for me ‘cause I knew what was going on, but it’ll probably be pretty confusing for a kid that doesn’t even know magic exists.”

Edwin peered over at Charles, considering their words. He lounged openly on the hardwood floor, engaged in a riveting conversation with Rhiannon and his new toy cat. 

“You are absolutely certain that this is necessary?” asked Edwin. He truly hated the idea of disturbing Charles so soon after finding some semblance of peace.

“If we want concrete answers, it is,” said Crystal.

Edwin sighed.“Right, then. Let me speak with Charles and see if he is open to it.”

Light As Air, Soft As Cotton

As Charles buried his face in the softness of Rhi’s fur, he reflected back on what was likely the best day he had ever had.

Well, if he didn’t think about the nightmares. Or the second nightmares. Or the fact that he made a girl cry, or that he made another girl cry, or that no one could tell him where his mum was. Long as he didn’t think about any of that stuff, then his day had been pretty mint. After all, he’d met a dog, and no one had threatened to lock him in a basement yet, so what more could he really ask for?

Charles held his new plush cat up to Rhi’s face, making sure the two animals made eye contact. “Haven’t decided what his name is yet,” he mused, straightening his little bow tie. “Should be something proper, right? And nice. He looks like a nice cat.” He placed the cat on top of Rhi’s head, balancing it between her ears. She stayed still, resigned to her fate of wearing the small stuffed toy as a hat.

“Charles, darling,” a gentle voice filtered in, drawing his attention away from his canine playmate. Edwin stood over him, backlit by the light spilling through the office’s smudgy windows. Charles rubbed his eyes, giving a small “hmm?” in response.

“How are you feeling?” Edwin asked. His face was all smiley, like he was trying to act normal, but his eyes looked sad—like he had bad news to share, but wasn’t sure how to approach the subject. 

“Better,” Charles fibbed, retrieving his cat from Rhi’s head. His arm still throbbed every time he moved, and his eye felt like it might explode if he blinked too many times, but he was—“Aces, really.”

To his relief, Edwin didn’t press. He simply hummed in response, bottle green eyes sparkling with concern. “I’m afraid I have a favor to ask of you,” he said, kneeling down next to him. “You remember Crystal, yes?” 

Charles looked back towards the group of older girls gathered around the desk, chattering quietly amongst themselves. One of them, Crystal, looked at him discreetly, twisting the ends of her curly hair around her fingers. She pulling gently at the strands, as if she couldn’t quite decide what to do with her hands.

Charles looked away, focusing back on his stuffed cat. He’d been trying his best to ignore the girls, really. Groups of people made him nervous—especially when his mum wasn’t around to provide at least some semblance of cover. She spoke for him a lot of the time, especially around people he didn’t know. 

His dad hated when he got all tongue tied around strangers, but it wasn’t like Charles didn’t try; there were just so many things he wasn’t supposed to say. He didn’t want to muck it up and break even more rules by accident. Breaking rules always hurt.

“I would like for her to take a peek at your head injury,” Edwin continued, voice gentle. “She has experience with that sort of thing, and if we are to avoid hospitals, then—“

“Okay,” Charles interrupted, wrapping his arms around himself. “If it means no hospitals, then it’s okay. Just—“ he blew out a shaky breath. “Will you stay with me? Please?”

Edwin’s features hardened a bit, then, his worried gaze solidifying with certainty. “Of course I will,” he said, his voice calm and sturdy. “My place is at your side, my darling. You have my word.”

Charles stared up at him, a bit gobsmacked. If Edwin was still trying to pretend that he wasn’t some type of guardian angel, then he was doing a really, really bad job.

Edwin lifted a hand in the air, waving towards the desk. The curly haired girl, Crystal, slowly walked over, her eyes betraying a look of slight nervousness. Edwin placed a hand on Charles’s shoulder, drawing his attention.

“If you are uncomfortable, or frightened, you tell me,” he insisted, holding Charles’s gaze. “Fear is nothing to be ashamed of, and there is absolutely no honor in suffering silently. Do you understand?”

Charles stared blankly, a bit at a loss for words. His dad had always said that real men took what they were given, without complaining. Real men didn’t feel pain. Real men weren’t afraid of anything, ever. If Charles was afraid, then there was something wrong with him, and if there was something wrong with him, then that probably meant he was breaking a rule, somehow.

And, well. Breaking rules always hurt.

Charles always tried so hard to hide how scared he was. He tried so hard to be strong like his dad, but the fear was just so much sometimes. It caught in his lungs and rattled his ribcage, shaking his bones like a condemned house caught in a gale force wind. 

And now, Edwin was saying it was… okay? Just like that? That being scared was fine and normal and maybe, just maybe, asking for help didn’t have to hurt? 

Charles’s breathing hitched, sticking in his throat. What was he even supposed to do with that?

Edwin squeezed his shoulder a bit tighter, pulling him from his thoughts. “Charles,” he said patiently. “Do you understand?”

Right. If he was afraid, he was supposed to tell Edwin. Edwin didn’t mind. Edwin wouldn’t hurt him.

“Yeah,” he said. “I guess.”

Edwin smiled approvingly and sat on the floor, crossing his legs beneath him. “You can sit with me, if you’d like. There’s no obligation, of course, but—”

Charles clambered into his lap without question, settling his back against Edwin’s chest. Edwin wrapped his arms around his middle and rested a cheek atop his head, letting out a soft sigh. 

An unfamiliar warmth bloomed in Charles’s chest, delicate and wanting. He had never felt so safe in his entire life.

Crystal sat down in front of them both, picking anxiously at her cuticles. “Hi again,” she said, giving a tentative smile. “I’m sorry I got so upset earlier. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Charles shifted in Edwin’s lap, avoiding her gaze. She didn’t scare him, really, but she did make him nervous. They all made him a little nervous. He wished his mum was here.

“Is it okay if I hold your hand?” she asked, reaching out. Charles uttered a small whine, shrinking further into Edwin’s hold. The last time she touched him, she’d screamed like she was the one on the wrong end of his dad’s punishments. Charles didn’t want anyone else to feel that way.

“It’s alright,” Edwin assured him. “Touch will help her to assess your injury, but we can stop at any time.”

Charles tried his best to focus on Edwin’s voice. If he said it was alright, then…

“Okay,” he said quietly, holding out his good arm.

“Thank you,” Crystal said, taking his hand in hers. The feeling was muted, somehow, like the heat from her skin was hidden beneath a thin piece of cloth.  “This might feel a little bit weird, but it won’t hurt or anything,” she said. “Just close your eyes and try to relax, okay?”

Charles tilted his head up, looking to Edwin for confirmation. Edwin nodded encouragingly, his features slightly tense, but free of immediate worry.

If Edwin thought it was safe, then…

Charles allowed his eyes to slip closed. A strange, fuzzy warmth trickled down from the top of his head, light as air and soft as cotton. It traveled all the way down to the tips of his fingers, momentarily dulling out the tender ache in his wrist.

A staticky, fish-eyed image swam across his mind’s eye, as if he were watching the telly through an underwater telescope. He was looking in on a darkened room, observing a conversation from Crystal’s perspective. A tall teenage boy sat next to her, with light brown skin and well-kept curly hair. His long black coat was studded with a wide array of insignia pins, and a four-pointed star dangled distractingly from his ear.

“Do you remember, um—” the boy stopped, his words cut off by a swallowed sob. “Do you remember what I said about my dad? When we saw my folks through the mirror?”

Crystal looked up towards the ceiling. “Yeah, you said he was…” she paused, searching for a word she didn’t quite believe. Something too vague. Too polite. “...rough.”

The boy huffed out a laugh. “Right,” he said, fixing his gaze on the creaky wooden floorboards. “But it was more than that. I do check in on my parents ‘cause I miss them. But I’m also making sure that—” his voice cracked, split by a faultline of despair. “That my dad isn’t hurting my mum. Like he’d hurt me.”

Crystal waited, even as her chest seized with sympathy. She had suspected this; she’d seen it coming, observed it in the boy's many errant behaviors, but that prediction didn't make his admission any less painful.

A small sob tore from his lips. “God, he was such a cunt. I could never make him happy; no matter how nice I was, or how good at sports I was, or whatever.” He held up a journal—an old, pink thing, with yellowed pages and looping, girlish handwriting. “This girl, she knew what that’s like. And now, she’s stuck.”

Crystal placed a hand between his shoulder blades, rubbing soothing circles. “Charles, I am so sorry,” she said quietly, tears gathering on her lashes. Her hands itched to make it better, to pull this weight off of his shoulders until he was confident enough to stand up straight again. “Are you—”

The image blurred away, as if it were suddenly shuttered behind a frosted pane of glass. Charles slowly regained awareness, pulled back to reality by the feeling of Edwin's protective arms.

“Charles, I am so, so sorry,” Crystal said, misplaced guilt masking her features. “I don’t know how that happened, you weren’t supposed to—”

“We’re mates?” Charles asked, a bit disoriented. He didn’t understand what was happening, or how this was happening, but it was important. He needed to know.

Crystal blinked, a few stray tears spilling down her cheeks. “Yeah,” she said, quickly wiping them away. “You’re one of my best friends, actually.”

“You know, then?” he asked. “‘Bout my dad?”

“I—” she started to speak, but her voice faltered. She nodded instead.

Charles patted her hand, a bit awkwardly. “I’m sorry you have to know that.” 

He felt Edwin tense behind him. “Darling, why are you apologizing? You’re not responsible for his behavior.”

Charles shrugged. “I make people upset. Adults try and ask me questions sometimes, but I just—” he let out a shuddering breath, lungs suddenly feeling too small for his chest. “I’m not s’posed to say, am I? So I just call everything an accident. They always look at me so sad after, but no one ever says anything, so—”

“Charles,” Crystal cut in, her voice firm, but kind. “That’s not okay. It doesn’t matter how sad it makes them, or how convenient your excuses are. They’re supposed to find a way to help you. That’s what adults are there for.”

Charles thought back to his mum’s old dinner glass, shattered on the kitchen floor. “Even if I broke the rules?” he asked. “Again?”

Crystal squeezed his hand. “There’s no broken rule in the world that makes this kind of punishment okay,” she said, putting emphasis on each word. “ Especially if that ‘broken rule’ is something as stupid as dropping a glass. You’re—” she cleared her throat, the choked-off noise sounding suspiciously like a sob. “You’re a little kid. Little kids drop things. Big kids do, too, actually, and so do adults. You’re supposed to make mistakes. It’s part of being a person.”

“Oh,” said Charles. The image he’d seen while communing with Crystal sat heavily on his mind, accompanied by an enveloping sense of contentment, like falling asleep next to a lit fireplace. He tapped on Edwin’s arms, silently requesting to be released.

“Fancy a hug?” he asked Crystal, climbing out of Edwin’s lap. “It’s okay if—”

Crystal leaned forward and scooped him up in her arms, clutching him tightly. Her embrace was secure and strong, and her hair smelled of sugary coconut and slightly burnt incense. He buried his face in her curls, their softness reminiscent of the fuzzy feeling her touch had brought. It felt familiar, in a far off sort of way. Like a home he couldn’t quite remember.

“I always ‘fancy a hug’ from you, Charles,” she said, voice thick with tears. “Always, always, always.”

Chapter Text

To snap and to sprain
To bandage it up till its stuck in one place
To cry and to say
I do not want to hurt you
But the truth is I will hurt you
I will hurt you either way

Deathlocked

Edwin tossed another book onto the steadily growing pile next to his desk. As much as he despised Dr. Hargrove’s general lack of basic morality, he had to give credit where credit was due: she truly had a remarkable talent for wasting their bloody time.

The office had been locked in a steady tempo of research for hours now, and the five of them still had very little to show for it. Their only fruitful endeavor so far had been Crystal’s initial venture into Charles’s mind, which had revealed an unfamiliar runic sequence left behind by the doctor’s slipshod spellwork.

Edwin had been assigned the task of runic translation, but he quickly found himself at a standstill. The doctor’s work was utterly nonsensical. He could not tell if her sloppiness was due to sadism, carelessness, or hopeless stupidity.

He had eventually recruited Indigo to assist in his research efforts, but even between the two of them, translating remained a frustratingly slow process. Their largest discovery had been that most of the symbols were bastardizations of runes from the Arcanist’s Guide To Mind-Stepping, a compendium of modern runes. The doctor had gone and spliced them with a series of ancient runes, which Edwin, of course, did not own a guidebook for. The sewn-together symbols created a sequence that was nearly impossible to make sense of.

He and Indigo decided that combing through his office library was the next most logical step, but it was to no avail. They had only been able to translate one of the runes in question, leaving them with nearly a dozen more to work through.

As Edwin silently cursed the doctor’s infuriating methods, there was a gentle tug on his trousers. He looked down to find a small hand peeking out from underneath the desk, clutching at the fabric. Somehow, both Charles and Rhiannon had managed to crawl past his legs without drawing any notice.

“Well, hello there,” he said, pushing his irritation aside. “I see you have discovered a new hiding space.”

Charles nodded silently. His eyes flitted between Edwin and the floor, as if he were waiting to be addressed.

“Is something the matter?” Edwin asked.

“No!” Charles said. “Just…” he trailed off. “Can I ask a question?”

“Well, I am quite sure that depends,” Edwin said, leaning in closer. He reached out and lightly poked Charles’s nose. “Can you?”

A giggle bubbled past Charles’s lips, erasing any visible traces of anxiety. “Okay, fine! May I ask a question?”

“Yes, darling, of course you may,” Edwin said, smiling fondly. “What can I do for you?”

Charles stroked a hand over Rhiannon’s head. “Is it okay if we sleep under here? I know it’s a bit daft to have a nap on the floor, but I didn’t see a bed, and the couch is all full up.” He wrapped his arms around Rhiannon’s neck, nuzzling her fur. “Plus, Rhi and I both fit, which is pretty mint. She likes it under here, too.”

Edwin considered his request for a moment. The wooden floor hardly seemed a suitable place to rest, but if Charles felt comfortable there…

“If you like the space, then it is as good as yours,” he said, rising from the desk chair. As he stepped away, making a beeline for the sitting area, a small hand grabbed his ankle.

“You’re going?” Charles asked.

Edwin leaned down and patted his hand. “I’ll be back in just a tick, dear. I promise.”

The hand clutched his leg a little tighter, then released, disappearing back under the desk.

Edwin ventured towards the office sofa, where all four girls were settled in a conglomerate mess of limbs. Niko was slumped against the far arm, clearly asleep, with a manuscript open in her lap and Crystal pulled into her side. Both of them were tucked beneath a large, fluffy blanket, arms wrapped around each other like a pair of dozing octopi. 

“They were both exhausted, so I told them to take a break,” Misty said from her spot next to Crystal. She had an arm draped around Indigo, who was busy thumbing through a copy of Functional Futhark: A Transalatory Guide.

“Have you found anything useful?” Edwin asked. He took a peek at her Nordic reading material, a veritable sea of fehu, uruz, and thurisaz staring back up at him.

“No such luck, I’m afraid,” Indigo sighed, snapping the book shut. She placed it on the coffee table with a dull thud . “Similar time period, wrong cultural background. I do hope Crystal is able to converse with her ancestors; these books are getting us absolutely nowhere.”

Edwin placed his hands on the blanket covering Crystal and Niko, grasping at the fabric.“If that is the case, then we best crack on as soon as possible.”

He yanked the blanket off with a flourish, exposing both live girls to the temperate office air.

“Wha—?” Niko murmured. The manuscript in her lap fell to the floor, startling Crystal awake.

Crystal groaned, eyes fluttering blearily. “Edwin, you asshole. What the fuck was that for?”

“Charles needs a blanket,” he said simply, gesturing to a few throw pillows that had fallen on the floor. “And one of those pillows, if you would not mind.”

Crystal picked one up and tossed it at his face. “There are other blankets in this office, you know,” she said.

He caught the pillow easily and tucked it under his arm. “This one is the warmest of the lot,” he said, turning on his heel. “Besides, we have work to do. Naptime is over.” He walked away before she could respond, leaving the two of them to shake off their sleep-induced stupor.

“Charles, dear?” he called out, knocking on the wooden desktop.

A long yawn preceded Charles’s response, vowels stretching past the point of usability. “Why’re you knocking?” he asked. “S’not a door.”

“It is always polite to knock before entering someone else’s space,” Edwin said, crouching down in front of the desk. Charles blinked slowly, as if Edwin’s arrival had pulled him from the brink of sleep.

“Apologies for having disturbed you,” Edwin whispered. He spread the blanket over Charles’s lower half and placed the pillow underneath him, cushioning the uneven wooden slats. “Are you comfortable?”

“Mmm,” was all Charles said. His tiny hands searched through the blankets for something, eyes barely open. Edwin spotted his stuffed cat fallen to the wayside.

“Are you looking for this?” he asked, holding it out in his palm.

Charles nodded. Edwin tucked the cloth animal into his hands, nestled snugly amongst a sea of blankets.

In the shadowed light of the desk’s underside, Edwin couldn’t help but notice that Charles’s face looked different, somehow. The swelling over his eye had lessened, but it seemed that his cherub-like cheeks had begun to thin out a bit, as well. It was a nearly imperceptible change, hardly worth mentioning, but a change nonetheless. 

“How are you feeling?” Edwin asked.

Charles rolled his wrist, testing out its range of motion. “Better, I guess. Things don’t hurt so much anymore.”

Edwin hummed, gently thumbing over the fading bruise on his cheek. Charles leaned into the touch with a sigh, nuzzling his hand.

“Rest now, darling,” Edwin said, tucking his observations away for safekeeping. “I shall be nearby if you need me.”

Edwin grabbed his runic reference sheet off of the desk and returned to the sitting area, allowing Charles to rest in privacy.

“Wow, Edwin,” Misty said, eyeing him gleefully. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen a teenage boy be such a mom before.”

Edwin scoffed, a bit embarrassed. He racked his brain for a response—a witticism, a quip, even a simple comment—but his mind came up empty. She was right, after all. Edwin had a natural tendency to fret over Charles when he was injured, and that instinct had increased tenfold with Charles's retrogression.

"Leave him be, Misty," Indigo said, taking pity on Edwin’s pride. "I am quite sure that your reaction would be similar, were I to wake up in the memories of my childhood self."

The mischievous grin on Misty's face melted away. "Don't even joke about that, Indi," she said, horrified. "You'll speak that shit into existence."

Indigo rolled her eyes. "You know I don't believe in that sort of thing. If Violet—"

Misty held up a finger, quieting her. "Don't say her name. We still don’t know how she’s finding people; what if she's like Bloody Mary, or Beetlejuice, or something?"

"I do not know of this 'Beetlejuice', but I am quite familiar with the tale of Bloody Mary," Edwin said, pulling up a chair. "Fortunately, I do not believe any of us has chanted her name into a mirror."

"And you gotta say her name three times in a row, if we're going by Beetlejuice rules," Crystal added. She gave Edwin a meaningful look, glancing back towards the desk. “How’s he doing? Any change?”

Edwin sighed, tapping his fingers together methodically. "Well, he is finally beginning to heal. The bruises are fading, thankfully, but his memories have not returned. We will have to see how he is feeling once he wakes up."

"Sounds like his nightmares are getting better, if he's willing to sleep by himself," Niko said brightly. "I think things are going well!”

Edwin's brow furrowed. Charles had spent the last day and a half sobbing and miserable. How could that possibly translate to things ‘going well’?

"Could you explain your line of reasoning, please?" he asked.

Niko pulled the thick manuscript up off the floor, setting it heavily on the arm of the couch. "I think I figured out why she's doing this."

Crystal sat up abruptly. "Wait, you did?"

"Maybe," Niko replied, unsure. "Or, partially, at least. I could be wrong, but I think she might be trying to help spirits move on to their assigned afterlives.”

A heavy blanket of silence fell over the room.

“Okay, how the fuck does that make sense?” Misty asked, shattering the quiet like a fist through a mirror. “Charles is stuck in his memories. Isn’t that the opposite of moving on?”

“I think her idea is that Charles needs to relive his childhood while surrounded by people that actually care about him,” Niko explained. “A lot of people with trauma end up dealing with the aftermath on their own. Apparently, having no support can have more of an impact than the actual incident itself.”

Crystal wrinkled her nose. "So this whole memory thing is, what. Experimental therapy?”

"I guess?” Niko shrugged. “This book can’t really be applied to people who have already experienced trauma, though. Most of it’s about ‘preventative measures’ and ‘early intervention’."

Edwin sighed, staring at his runic reference sheet. His mind played the image of Charles, bleeding and bruised in his father’s basement, over and over again. “That is the allure of memory magic, I suppose. The doctor has created an artificial environment in which ‘early intervention’ can come at any time she chooses.”

“Speaking of memory magic,” Crystal pointed at the parchment in his hands. “I spoke with my great-great aunt while I was asleep. None of our reference books are gonna be much help, but I think I have a basic understanding of how those runes are supposed to work”

Edwin let out a sigh of relief. “That is excellent to hear. I was beginning to fear that our research efforts were all for naught.”

"My aunt said that the doctor is trying to create a memory loop that is realistic, but survivable," Crystal said, taking the reference sheet from his hands. “For example, this one—" she pointed to the second rune in the sequence— "was created to give Charles the ability to feel pain, but also make him corporeal enough to withstand it. If the doctor hadn’t spliced the runes together, then he probably would've disintegrated hours ago.”

"I will be sure to thank her for the courtesy," Edwin spat, bitterness spilling out like crude oil on a pristine beach.

"That's not—" Crystal sighed. "You know that’s not what I meant."

"You are not the object of my frustration,” Edwin said tightly, as if reciting a mantra. “Please, carry on."

Crystal raised an eyebrow, but continued as requested. “Right, well, the problem is, splicing runes together makes for super unpredictable magic. The pain one, for example, makes him semi-corporeal—but there’s no way to tell how corporeal. He can feel, obviously, but can he smell? Bleed? Taste?” Crystal shrugged. “No one knows. We just kind of have to guess.”

Edwin tapped his pen on the table, frustration bubbling against his sternum. “Did your aunt mention anything about the mental effects of these runes?” he asked. “I would say that bringing his mind back to the present should be our top priority.”

“Kind of,” Crystal said. “All of these runes have been used to mess with Charles’s physicality: age, senses, spectral body, et cetera. But this one—" she pointed to an ornate symbol depicting an ankh fused with a skeleton key—"seems to be the only one that fucks with memory. I looked through some of the other notebooks, and it seems to directly correlate with something called ‘phase two’.”

"’Phase two’?" Edwin repeated skeptically.

"Yeah. Here." Crystal placed Charles's notebook in his hands, pointing to a small section titled ‘Second Phase - Deathlock Implementation’ . Underneath the heading was a variety of ankh-and-key runes, as if the doctor couldn’t quite decide on a design.

"I did not see this rune present in Misty's journal," Edwin observed, eyes skimming over the experimental symbols.

"That's because it wasn't there," Crystal said. "It's not in most of the journals, actually. A lot of her victims never made it to phase two. "

Edwin closed Charles's journal and handed it back to her, the general proximity of it making his skin crawl. "So, what is the purpose of this 'second phase'?"

Crystal brought a thumb to her mouth, gnawing anxiously on a hangnail. “From what I can tell, phase two locks the victim into a memory loop—like a really vivid flashback, but with physical effects. I’m not totally sure how all of it works, but I do know that Charles’s current memories won’t be ‘unlocked’ until after the phase ends.” She looked down, avoiding Edwin’s gaze. “I’m not sure what would happen if we tried to bring his memories back early. Probably nothing good.”

A sudden, canine whine interrupted Crystal’s explanation. Edwin cringed at the volume, but paid it little mind. He was too focused on the topic at hand to address any ambient distractions.

“Do we have any information on the various stages of phase two? Or does that remain a mystery as well?"

Crystal opened Charles’s notebook once again, handing it to Edwin. A phantom sense of nausea crawled up his esophagus, threatening to choke him.

"Crystal, I thought I made it perfectly clear that I do not wish to invade—"

She gently squeezed his forearm, an unusual display of affection between them. Edwin looked up, perplexed. 

"Just read it, okay?” she said quietly. “I’m pretty sure you’re in this one."

Edwin didn’t know what to make of that statement. So, he read.

Dr. Hargrove’s clinical ramblings told the story of a trembling teenage boy, tucked into the attic of his boarding school like a forgotten, well-kept secret.

It told the story of a spectral stranger with a beautiful lantern, armed against the darkness with a soothing voice and a kind, honest face.

It told the story of a budding friendship, as the stranger had wrapped Charles in a swath of musty blankets and eased him out of life in the most comforting way he knew how.

Edwin knew this story. This was the story that had birthed their partnership. It was also the story that Edwin knew he could never, ever watch happen again.

“Nearly every journal ends with the spirit's death as their final recorded memory,” Crystal said, picking at her nails. “It looks like the runic cycle ends with their ‘second death,’ I guess.”

Panic knocked on Edwin's ribs, rattling his spectral bones. 

He could not bear to watch Charles die. Not again.

Rhiannon whined again, the noise sawing at Edwin’s nerves like a dully-sharpened knife. He ran a hand through his hair, fighting the sudden urge to pull at it.

“Rhi, baby, what is it?” Misty asked, finally addressing her distressed companion. Rhiannon stood beside the desk, pawing desperately at the floor. She let out an anxious bark, as if she were waiting for them to do something.

The overwhelming wave of dread in Edwin’s gut gave way to cold realization. He had been so absorbed in their discussion that he had nearly forgotten: she and Charles had fallen asleep together.

Edwin stood, his chair wobbling dangerously. “Charles, dear?”

“...Edwin?” a voice responded. The voice was Charles’s, but it was… different, somehow. The shift was subtle, unidentifiable, but it was there.

Concern tangled in Edwin’s chest like a snarl of tree roots. “Are you alright?” he called out.

The response Edwin received was an unintelligible stream of syllables, rendered soft by an unresponsive tongue. He thought he could make out the words ‘Mum’ and ‘hide’, but the context surrounding them was less than sensical.

Edwin glanced over at Crystal on instinct. He found his own concern mirrored in her expression, a keen sense of shock twisting her features.

Something was wrong.

Edwin rushed around the desk, foregoing all previous attempts to respect Charles’s privacy.

“Charles—”

Edwin knelt down, and stopped short.

The small differences he had noticed in Charles’s appearance suddenly clicked into place.

Tucked beneath the desk was a scrawny young boy, closer to the age of ten. His defined jawline was still softened by the influence of youth, but his nasal bridge was strong and proud, bloomed over by yet another devastating bruise. A trembling hand was pressed to his bony shoulder, collarbone massively offset from its natural position.

Edwin leaned in to get a closer look, careful not to crowd his space. His breaths came short and shallow, akin to that of a cornered animal.

“Charles,” said Edwin, trying not to stare. “What happened?”

Charles remained silent. Then, he mumbled something, too quiet for Edwin to make out.

“What was that, darling?” Edwin asked. His own voice sounded far away, as if he were speaking from across the room.

“Y—“ Charles’s words hitched. “You came back?”

Edwin forced his gaze from Charles’s mangled shoulder, finally looking up at him. A pair of hazy, unfocused eyes stared back, glassy pupils blown as wide as dinner plates. Edwin reached forward, taking his chin in his hand.

Charles moved pliantly in his grasp, his usual skittish reactions completely subdued. Edwin hoped that his compliance was due to the steadily-growing trust between them, but deep down, he knew the cause was likely more nefarious than that. “Did you hit your head?” Edwin asked urgently.

Charles stared at him, eyes glistening.

“Charles,” he tried again, tapping his cheek. Charles blinked. “Did you hit your head?”

“Why’d you go?” Charles mumbled. “It's been… so long?”

“I—” Edwin paused, unsure of how to respond. He truly, desperately wanted to give Charles an answer that would settle his nerves, but the poor boy was not making any sense.

“I have only been across the room for a short while, darling,” Edwin soothed. “Where did you think I had gone?”

Now it was Charles’s turn to look confused.

“No, thas… wrong,” he said lazily, head lolling to the side. “‘I can’ remember proper, but it's been… three years, yeah? Haven’ seen you since I was seven.”

Edwin’s world slowed to a stop.

“Three years?” he echoed.

“Yeah. Was startin’ to think I made you up, maybe,” Charles admitted, words rolling off his tongue in long, legato lines.

Edwin’s stomach dropped. Of course. Of course. The doctor’s sloppy spellwork only allowed Edwin to exist in Charles’s individual memories—the ones she had handpicked for the experiment. Edwin had been there for a brief moment when he was seven, then simply disappeared. 

The mere feet between them had become miles. The minutes had become years.

“I am so, terribly sorry, darling,” Edwin said, voice tight with remorse. “I had no idea—”

“You never said goodbye,” Charles whispered. “You never said goodbye, an’ then I prayed for help, an’ no one came. I though’ maybe I was bad, ‘n maybe my dad was righ’ bout me, but— ”

“Absolutely not,” Edwin said firmly. That train of thought could not be allowed to continue. “I would venture to say that your father has never been right about anything in his miserable life—and that most certainly applies to his opinions of you.”

Charles blinked, his eyes feverishly bright. “Why’d you go, then?”

“The consistency of my presence in your life is beyond my control,” Edwin said, picking his words carefully. Charles deserved the kindest version of the truth he could offer. “If it were my choice, I would be by your side permanently.”

“Oh,” said Charles.

“I know it is quite a lot to take on faith, but I am here now,” Edwin assured him. “I am here, and I can help.”

Charles pressed himself further into the desk’s darkened corner, a film of tears glittering in his hazy, doll-like eyes. His hand still clutched at his injured shoulder, desperately trying to hide it from view.

Edwin reached out and removed his hand, giving it a squeeze. “Please, dove. Please let me help you.”

Charles stared back, entirely unmoving. He was silent for a long while, until he finally, finally, threaded their fingers together .

“Okay,” he breathed, eyes fluttering shut. “Okay.”

Hopes & Prayers

Edwin was real.

Edwin was real.

Charles’s mind swam with the thought of it. He tried to think back to the last time they’d seen each other, but his memories were all garbled and mushed together. He could feel every year that had passed since then, but… he was still tucked beneath the same desk he’d fallen asleep under three years ago. He couldn’t remember having ever left the office, either.

The whole thing made his head hurt. His temples throbbed, and fire licked down his arm, but it was all drowned out by a single, blissful revelation: Edwin was real, and he came back.

“Charles, darling,” Edwin’s posh voice filtered in. Careful fingers prodded at his shoulder, drawing a small cry from between his teeth. “Can you tell me what happened?”

Charles sighed. It was such a long, stupid story. The whole explosion had been over a sodding library book, of all things. Some kid’s book about bat facts that his dad had chucked in the bin almost four years ago. 

Charles had hoped his dad would never find out about the late fees. He had hoped that the school would just forget about them, or forgive the fees once they realized Charles wasn’t going to bring the book back. He had even tossed out a prayer to anyone that was listening— if anyone was listening—asking them to make sure that his dad stayed in the dark. All of his prayers had gone pretty much unanswered since Edwin disappeared, but it couldn’t hurt to try.

His prayers, as usual, had gotten him nowhere. A school-stamped letter had arrived in their mailbox that afternoon, stating that a fee would be charged to replace the book. That, on top of the years of late fees, added up to a whopping total of twenty five pounds.

It wasn’t cheap, Charles knew. But he was also pretty sure that even if the price had been five quid, his dad’s reaction would have been exactly the same.

He wished he could say for sure what had happened, after the letter got opened. He remembered a lot of yelling, then whole load of running and tugging and painpainpain—

The next thing he knew, his mum had tucked him under the desk in his bedroom. She’d asked him to stop crying, begged him, but he just couldn’t. He’d tried so hard to swallow the whines down, but they kept rising back up, like the pretty red balloons she’d blown up for his ninth birthday party.

His mum had made a noise herself then, desperate and high, before taking a small, rattly bottle of pills from her pocket. 

“This is medicine for pain,” she’d said, pouring them into her hand. “It will make your shoulder feel better, and help you keep calm.” Charles hated taking pills, but he swallowed it down anyway. His mum was usually right, when it came to fixing him up.

Then, his mum had left him there. “Like hide and seek, beta, okay?” she’d said. “If he comes in, you stay there. Don’t come out until I say so. ”

So, Charles waited.

And waited.

And—

And then a soft figure had called his name, and it was suddenly as if Edwin never left in the first place.

Charles had nearly cried, at the sound of that voice. A honey-sweet longing stirred in his stomach, so long untouched that it had nearly crystallized into resentment. He had hoped, prayed for this day for so long, and—

“Charles,” Edwin interrupted. Charles jumped. His face hurt from talking, the bruise on his nose beginning to ache. Had he really been prattling on that entire time?

"S'rry," he slurred. "Din' mean to go on so long."

“It is quite alright,” Edwin said kindly. “Though I will admit your explanation was a bit difficult to follow. You said your mother gave you something for pain?”

Charles nodded, keeping his talking to a minimum. He and his tongue were not on speaking terms.

“Do you recall the name of it?”

Charles thought for a moment, his memories globbing together like the insides of a lava lamp. Before his dad made her stay home all the time, his mum had worked in the emergency room. She always carried around stuff in her pockets—pills, bandages, plasters, tissues—in case she needed to patch him up. He never knew the name of her medicines, or how to apply a bandage himself, but when his dad was done and his mum came to find him, she always seemed to have exactly what they needed.

She was like a superhero, really. Always able to keep him out of the hospital, even when they both knew that he probably needed a doctor.

“Dunno,” he said. “Works good, though.”

“I am sure that it does,” Edwin replied, eyebrows all pinched together. He gave Charles’s arm another push, and Charles barely managed to bite back a scream.

“Your shoulder is dislocated, I’m afraid,” Edwin confirmed. He looked about as sick as Charles felt.

Charles tried to let the information sink in, but the words floated across his mind like ducks on a pond. “Thas’ bad, yeah?”

Edwin nodded, swallowing hard. “Fortunately for both of us, I have plenty of practice in setting these injuries myself. It is a quick process, but it will not be pleasant.”

“Do it ‘fore the medicine goes ‘way then,” Charles insisted. “Thas’ how Mum always does things. Hurts less, and I move ‘round less. Easier on both of us.”

Edwin’s sea green eyes went all stormy then, dark and deep like the ocean. Charles had seen him irritated before, frustrated even, but he’d never seen Edwin proper pissed before. “Darling, have you ever been treated by a medical professional?”

“Mum’s a nurse,” was all Charles said.

Edwin didn’t look appeased. “Then she ought to know that these are serious injuries. Why has she never taken you to a hospital?”

That was a dangerous question. A red-alert-stop-sign-fist-in-the-face sort of question. Charles’s slow mind worked double overtime, scrambling to think up an answer.

“You’re no’ a doctor, either,” he said eventually, settling on a petulant tone. It was better that Edwin be upset with him, then think bad of his mum. “Why’s it okay when you do it?”

It was a stupid thing to say, really. It’s not like he actually meant it; he just wanted Edwin to stop asking questions. But, the comment still hit its mark, and a look of pure, nauseating shame washed over his friend’s kind features. Instantly, Charles wished he could take it back.

“Holy shit,” a voice whispered. Crystal peeked over Edwin’s shoulder, squatting on the ground next to him. “Holy shit, Edwin, what the fuck—”

“Crystal!” Edwin snapped. Charles flinched, the harsh tone taking him by surprise. “I am aware that this is a uniquely shocking situation, and I am sorry that you are unused to this level of bodily injury, but there are children present. Would you watch your language? ”

Crystal glared at him, frowning deeply. “Are you kidding? Charles has a broken shoulder and you’re mad at me over a few bad words ? ”

“It is dislocated, and I can fix it,” Edwin said, voice cold as ice. “Would you and the others be so kind as to vacate the office until I am finished?”

“Why the fuck would we do that?” she bit back. “He’s our friend too, you know.”

Charles’s chest clutched as Edwin looked over his shoulder, lips curled into a sneer. “Crystal—” he spat, before his jab was interrupted by a half-strangled sob. Charles’s hand flew to his lips, shoving the sounds back in. Now was not the time to start blubbering. 

Edwin’s focus immediately shifted, their tense conversation fizzling out. He reached for Charles’s hand and eased it from his mouth. “Apologies, darling,” he said, pretty green eyes tinged with regret. “I did not mean to shout.”

Charles nodded tightly, a few tears trickling down his cheeks. Edwin delicately thumbed the wetness away and gave a long, careful sigh. 

“I only ask that you leave for the sake of safety,” he said, addressing Crystal calmly. “Limb reduction takes precision, and I cannot afford to be distracted.”

Crystal shifted. “We can be quiet,” she said.

“It can also be a very vulnerable experience on the injured party’s behalf,” Edwin said, as if he knew. “Charles may not want an audience.”

Crystal opened her mouth, unsure. “But—”

Another whine escaped Charles’s lips, then, louder than the last one. He didn’t have any control over it, really. The pills his mum had given him were starting to wear off, and he really wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold everything in.

Crystal stood quickly, using Edwin’s shoulder to steady herself. “I’ll just take the other girls and we’ll go get some coffee, or something,” she told him. “We’ll come back in like, an hour.”

“Bring something to stabilize his arm, yes?” Edwin requested. He began gingerly prodding at Charles’s shoulder again, trying to get the muscles to relax. “A sling, or a sturdy strip of cloth to make one with.”

“Right, sling,” Crystal said. “Got it.”

Charles heard a few pairs of feet shuffling, and the click of a shutting door. Then, silence. He and Edwin were alone.

It took about five seconds for the tears to burst through his control, after that. 

“I know, darling, I know,” Edwin soothed, brushing the hair from his forehead. “You have been wonderfully brave so far, but there is no need for that now. Everything is going to be alright.”

Charles sobbed, ugly and loud. He was completely trapped by pain, wholly consumed by it, and there was nothing he could do but sit there and feel it.

“It hurts,” he cried, breaths coming out in wheezes. He felt so much younger than he had in years.

“I know it’s difficult, but I need you to take a deep breath for me,” Edwin said, his voice smooth as river pebbles. “Can you do that?”

Charles wasn’t sure, but he nodded anyway. The first inhale failed, getting stuck in the sticky parts of his ribs. The second caused him to him to splutter, which only made his muscles tighten more.

“I can’t, I can’t do it, I can’t—”

“Keep trying, Charles, please, ” Edwin practically begged. He leaned in and pressed their foreheads together, settling a hand in the back of his hair. “I cannot set your arm unless you are properly relaxed, darling, so please, please —just breathe.”

Now, Charles knew that on a technicality, he’d only known Edwin for a day and a half. They’d spent less than forty-eight hours together before his friend had up and disappeared, but those hours were packed with so much talking and crying and laughing that he felt like he’d known Edwin for years . He’d never felt so thoroughly seen by someone before, like Edwin could look into his mind and know exactly what he was thinking.

In all that time they’d spent together, this was the first time he had ever seen Edwin look properly scared. It tugged at something deep within him—like a big, slumbering lion, waiting to be woken. 

He knew, he knew, it was his job to make sure that Edwin was okay. If Edwin was scared, or upset, then he wanted to fix it. He needed to, because he had Edwin, but Edwin also had him. He was trying to make things better, so Charles wanted to do that, too.

So, Charles took a breath. A short one, not very calming, but a breath nonetheless. Then he took another, and another, and—

“Good, Charles, excellent job,” Edwin murmured, staring at Charles’s bungled shoulder as if it were a particularly difficult maths problem. “Now, I will not lie to you: this is going to hurt. But, the pain will end, and you will be alright.”

Charles sniffled, doing his best to quell an impending bout of hiccups. Crying was always so gross . “You sure you know what you’re doing, yeah?”

Edwin nodded, still focused on his injured arm. “I will admit that I have only ever completed limb reductions on myself, but the general idea is the same.” He reached out and patted Charles’s leg, in what was probably supposed to be a comforting gesture. “You are in well-practiced hands, if nothing else.”

Charles’s thoughts did a bit of a record scratch, then. His beautiful, soft, glowy friend had done this before? By himself? Multiple times, by the sound of it?

Well, that just didn’t sound right at all.

“Your arm’s been disnotated before?” he asked.

“Dislocated, dearest,” Edwin corrected, though Charles could tell his heart wasn’t in it. He sounded, guilty, almost—like he’d accidentally let a secret slip. “I have suffered a number of limb dislocations over the years. I shan’t bother you with the details; it is a rather boring story.”

The far-off look on Edwin’s face said otherwise. “Tell me anyway,” Charles insisted.

Edwin scoffed. “No, Charles. We need to get on with this procedure before the medication wears off.”

“Gotta tell me later, then. Won’t let you reduct my arm unless you promise.”

“Reduce, ” Edwin said lamely. “You won’t let me reduce your arm.” The two stared at each other, locked in a stubborn game of mental chicken.

Edwin finally looked away. “Fine. I will tell you. But only if you quit stalling, Charles Rowland.”

“Okay! Okay,” Charles said, nervous heart fluttering like a moth in a jar. “Just… just be careful, yeah? Need my arm to hold a cricket bat, don’t I?”

Edwin gave a weak smile. “Of all the things to worry about,” he huffed.

Charles grit his teeth as Edwin moved his forearm to the left of his body, pushing the top of his arm back towards its socket. The pain was bad, but not terrible. Charles could manage it. He’d handled worse.

“I would like you to count to three for me, dove,” Edwin instructed. “Can you do that?”

Charles nodded. He wasn’t always the best at reading, but he was aces with numbers.

“One…”

Edwin put a steady palm on the back of his shoulder, and braced the other on his bicep.

“Two…”

Then, there was a sickening pop and a blinding burst of pain. He thought he heard a scream—was that him? He couldn’t tell.

There wasn’t much time to consider the details, really. He heard a scream, shrill and desperate, as the world faded into a shroud of dark, blissful nothingness.

Chapter Text

I wanna fit right in your pocket
Since I was a kid what I always wanted
Push it away, blow dandelions
Lighter than clouds and disappear out
Grow flower fields in my stomach

Keystone Conversations

For the first time in nearly thirty five years, the office was quiet. Not the bustling sort of quiet created by comfortable companionship or a focused afternoon of research, but well and truly silent.

Normally, any sort of stillness would be impossible to achieve within the walls of their home. Charles had always been a prime example of Newton's First Law of Motion—endlessly moving, unless physically forced to remain still. The office was constantly filled with the crisp staccato of clicking pens and tapping feet, often overlayed with the tinny strain of two-tone ska blasting through a pair of vintage cassette headphones.

It had been a difficult adjustment, in the early days. The presence of a new companion had been endearing, certainly, but Edwin’s time in the Doll House meant that he had grown accustomed to the oppressive silence of solitude. His survival had depended on uninterrupted focus, and the only way to ensure he remained in one piece was to eliminate all distractions.

Charles, on the other hand, could not have found uninterrupted focus if someone had pointed it out to him on a roadmap. He often reminded Edwin of a chatty, jittering bird: flighty and friendly and always looking for conversation—regardless of whether that conversation included a willing participant or not.

As the dust had settled on their new partnership and they began to form a joint routine, some of those old, guarded habits started to fall away. Charles felt less of a need to ramble endlessly, allowing Edwin to conduct his research in peace, and Edwin learned to appreciate the charming leitmotif created by Charles’s restlessness. The part of him that was always on guard, always frightened of being hunted down and dragged away, slowly began to release its bruising grip. If Charles was relaxed enough to put on his headphones and pitter around the office aimlessly, then Edwin could relax, too. It was just that simple.

Now, with Charles’s young form lying cushioned in his lap, Edwin mourned the presence of their joyful office atmosphere. It hardly felt like home, without those keystone sounds as a backdrop.

As the encroaching silence settled heavily around his shoulders, Edwin tried his best not to blame himself for their current state of affairs. The reduction of Charles’s arm had been for the best, and Edwin knew that. There was absolutely no question. He made the right decision.

That fact, however true, did not keep him from feeling as though he had committed an act of torture on a child. An unanesthetized limb reduction was not an experience he would wish on anyone, and while it had been necessary, he had still done it. There were no justifications in the world that could truly make such an act feel warranted—even if Edwin had been perilously short on options.

It dawned on him, then, with his fingers buried in Charles’s curls, that Mrs. Rowland must have done the exact same thing. She had most likely sat with Charles on his bedroom floor and shoved his shoulder socket back into place, without an anesthetic, despite the fact that she did have options.

Charles was just a little boy, then, still constructed of blood and bone and a beating heart. She could have taken him to the hospital. She could have told someone what was happening for the sake of her child’s safety, but she didn’t. Edwin didn’t know how she had allowed the abuse to continue, nor did he particularly care. All he knew is that she had options, and Charles didn’t. She had chosen this fate for him by deciding to stay silent.

Edwin knew he shouldn’t be angry. Charles wouldn’t want him to be angry. His father had held their household captive through the use of endless violence, and as simple as it would be to dismiss Mrs. Rowland as a terrible mother, Edwin knew that it was more complicated than that. After all, he knew what the looming threat of violence could do to a person. It was unfair to judge anyone for their reactions, in those moments.

And yet… Edwin found himself angry, despite it all. Despite the reasoning, and the excuses. It felt nearly impossible to overlook her transgressions when such a beautiful, sweet boy laid broken in his lap for the second time in less than forty-eight hours. Each new bruise on his skin completely blotted out any ounce of sympathy he might have held for Mrs. Rowland, even if he could theoretically understand the difficulty of her position.

He knew that Charles would not want to blame her for the path she’d chosen. He would rather blame himself than sully the fond memories he had left of her, and Edwin understood that. He really did.

Fortunately, Edwin was perfectly capable of remaining angry enough for the both of them.

A small, confused sound escaped from Charles’s lips, then, drawing Edwin away from his meandering train of thought.

“Charles?” he asked quietly. “Are you alright?”

"Wha' happened?" Charles mumbled, annunciation loose and slow.

"You lost consciousness," Edwin said. “It is a risk, with unanesthetized procedures. Nothing to worry yourself over.”

Charles gave a quiet hum, eyes fluttering shut once again. He made no effort to move, so neither did Edwin. They sat together for a long while, hidden beneath the desk like a pair of field mice in a hutch, as Charles drifted in and out of consciousness.

Just as Edwin was beginning to grow concerned over his lack of lucidity, Charles finally began to shift.

"Help me sit up?" he asked.

Edwin did as requested, making sure his injured arm bore no more weight than necessary. Charles settled back against the desk’s bare underside and pulled his knees up to his chest, effectively creating a small fortress for one. 

"Thanks for patching me up,” he said, ducking his head. “Again."

Edwin gave his best reassuring smile. "Helping you is not a hardship, darling. I simply wish we could stop meeting like this."

Charles let out a joyless laugh. "Pretty stupid, innit?" he joked, the bruised bridge of his nose stretched by a slow, guarded grin. "Every time you turn up, it's somehow right after Dad's gone spare. He can be a bit rough, knocks me around when I break the rules, but he's not usually like—" Charles gestured towards his newly-fixed shoulder—"this."

There was a brief flicker of tension across his face as he spoke—an expression so fleeting that Edwin might have missed it, had he not been watching so closely. It was a flash of something familiar, something Edwin recognized. 

Charles was lying. 

Please, don’t hide, Edwin wanted to say. Not from me.

Instead, he simply frowned. "I find that to be rather unlikely.”

Charles squinted, feigning confusion. “How’s that?”

“From what I have seen, the sort of rage displayed by your father is not situationally dependent.”

"Huh?” Charles asked. “It’s not what?”

"Situationally dependent," Edwin repeated. "He is always angry, regardless of the circumstances. I find that such consistent levels of rage do not normally breed low levels of consequence."

"'Situationally dependent'," Charles echoed, testing out the new addition to his vocabulary. He nodded to himself after a moment, seemingly satisfied with the result. "Do you use big words all the time?” he asked.

Edwin winced, offering an apologetic smile. "A product of my overly studious upbringing, I'm afraid," he said. “I’m sorry if they are difficult to understand.”

Charles shook his head frantically. “No, they're pretty words, honest! I just never heard ‘em before.” He reached out and placed a hand on Edwin's forearm, the kind gesture leaving a warm palmprint on his soul. “I like when you explain me stuff. Makes me feel all smart, too."

Edwin melted a bit, reveling in the kind words that Charles always seemed so keen to offer. “You are plenty smart, darling,” he said sincerely, “but thank you. I shall keep that in mind.”

The two of them sat in comfortable silence as Charles mumbled quietly to himself, applying his newfound language to various random sentences. Edwin waited patiently, allowing him the time he needed to absorb any new information

Eventually, the gentle murmurs slowed to a stop, providing Edwin with a decent moment to interject. “Charles,” he started, causing Charles to jump slightly. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but there is a rather important topic that I believe we should discuss.”

Charles cocked his head. “What’s that, then?”

Edwin let out a tense exhale. It was not a topic he particularly wanted to discuss, but an honest explanation was necessary—for Charles’s sake, if nothing else. “I need for you to trust me when I say that I am not an angel,” he asserted. “Not by any stretch of the imagination.”

Charles’s face fell. “But—”

“No, dove, I need you to hear me,” Edwin insisted. It felt cruel to snuff out his hope in such a blatant way, but the only thing crueler would be to continue allowing its persistence. “I have no ‘angel powers’ to speak of, nor am I an omniscient being. Any prayers you speak, while they may reach someone , will not reach me, specifically.”

“Oh,” said Charles dejectedly. He wrapped an arm around his legs, pulling them closer. 

“If I had the ability to appear in all your times of need, then I would do so in a heartbeat,” Edwin offered, “but it is simply not possible.”

Charles placed his chin on his knees, staring loosely into the distance. He looked distraught, but pensive, so Edwin allowed him to unpack his thoughts in silence.

Eventually, he scrunched his nose. “If you’re not an angel, then you gotta be something else, yeah? You have that glowing book, and you can get in and out of rooms without keys and doors and stuff. Dunno how many people you met, but I never met anyone who can do that.”

Edwin cleared his throat. “Yes, well—”

“Are you a fairy?” he guessed. “They glow, don’t they? I know you don’t have wings, but—”

“No,” Edwin said, suppressing a shiver. The fae were unseemly devils, often cruel in the name of trickery. Every interaction he’d had with the realm of Faerie had eventually resulted in far more trouble than it was worth. “I am most certainly not a fairy. In fact, I—”

“Oh!” Charles interrupted, unbothered. “What about a spaceman? I saw one on the telly that lives in a police box before. Can you time travel?”

Edwin smirked at the thought. “I cannot, though that would make for quite an interesting existence. Now, if you—”

“What about—”

“Charles.”

Charles stopped, sealing his mouth into a long, thin line. He looked as though a dozen more guesses were gathered just behind his lips, desperate to escape.

“I am a spirit,” Edwin said carefully. “A ghost. That is why I can move through solid objects unopposed.”

“A ghost?” Charles echoed, posture deflating. “You died?”

“Over a hundred years ago, yes.”

There was a long pause after Edwin’s admission. He wasn’t sure if Charles was going to speak again, until he let out a small, unsteady exhale.

“But only adults are supposed to die,” Charles said with conviction. He spoke as if his word was law, as if his astute assessment could somehow reverse the passage of time and fend off the forces that had cut Edwin’s life off at the knees.

“Death does not discriminate based on age, I’m afraid,” Edwin said. “She has taken souls much younger than mine, and will continue to do so for as long as there are souls left to reap.”

“But that’s not—” Charles’s voice cut out. “That’s not fair.”

A bleak laugh slipped from Edwin’s lips. Of course it wasn’t fair. Nothing that had ever happened to either of them was fair. If the concept of equity held any bearing on reality whatsoever, then Edwin would know what Charles's young face looked like when it wasn’t littered with an ugly array of bruises.

“You are correct,” was all Edwin said. “Very little of what happens to people in this world is fair.”

Charles frowned, huffing in disbelief. He opened his mouth to respond, then closed it again, seemingly at a loss for words. 

“Is that how you got dislocations, then?” he asked, in lieu of a proper rebuttal. “When you died?”

Edwin winced. He had been hoping that Charles would forget about that particular slip of the tongue. Casually mentioning his time in Hell was a habit that Edwin was powerless to break, and in a moment of stress, he had completely forgotten that this version of Charles was nothing more than an innocent, curious child. He had no idea the gravity of what he was asking Edwin to share.

“No, darling, I suffered those at a much later date,” he said, feigning nonchalance, “and if it is all the same to you, I would prefer to keep those memories to myself.”

Charles’s eyes shone in the darkness, his own damaged arm cradled delicately against his chest. He looked so fragile—so awfully breakable —that Edwin had to fight the urge to look away. “But you said you’d tell me, if I let you fix my arm.”

The disappointed catch in his voice was enough to give Edwin pause. In theory, he could say no. He could deny the simple request, and his decision would be easy enough to defend. Edwin’s memories were not a subject suitable for children—or for anyone, quite honestly. Hell was a matter best left to those with firsthand experience.

The doctor’s notated manuscript, though, played prominently on his mind. As much as he despised her ghastly methods, the research used in her work held a surprising amount of merit. It had spoken of support and camaraderie, of being certain that victims knew they were not alone in their desperate times of need. 

Charles had spent the emotional equivalent of three long years believing that Edwin no longer wanted him—no longer wanted to protect him—when that could not have been further from the truth. Even though he had no control over when he appeared in Charles’s memories, the fact still stood that Edwin had effectively abandoned him. He had disappeared, without so much as a word, and Charles had suffered the consequences.

Commiseration was a small price to pay in order to right such a damnable wrong.

“I cannot reveal every detail,” Edwin said slowly, “but I may be able to give you an idea of where some of my injuries originated.”

Charles nodded silently, settling back against the wooden panels surrounding him.

Edwin exhaled, steeling himself. Any information he gave would need to be worded very, very carefully; the last thing he wanted to do was give the poor boy more nightmares to contend with. “Right, then. If memory serves, the first dislocation I ever experienced was one of the hip. My leg was—”

—trapped within the spider’s mouth, bitten down to the bone, its hulking jaws tugging mercilessly at the sparse collection of muscles still remaining. He held onto a nearby steam pipe with all the strength he could muster, the steady flow of hot air burning his hands and making them blister. The skin began to slip, red and raw and full of blood, only to be overshadowed by the mind-numbing burst of agony as his hip joint was—

“ — yanked out of place by a being much stronger than I,” he said delicately. “I was being chased, and the blasted thing grabbed my ankle. It would not let go, and I would not give in. Our standstill resulted in a rather painful game of tug-o’-war.”

“Did you get away?” Charles asked, eyes wide. “In the end?”

Edwin gave a rueful smile. “Eventually.”

Which was true, in an abstract sense. When the spider finished him off, there was always a blissful moment of blackness afterwards. A taste of freedom, before it all began again.

Edwin had learned not to relish in it. A moment’s peace was easy to get lost in.

“Did you ever get hurt like me?” Charles asked, pointing at Edwin’s shoulder. 

Edwin nodded. “A handful of times, yes. There was one time in particular, when the same being—”

—was stalking him, searching through the wretched halls for him, as he hid amongst a pile of his own rotting corpses. He laid there, still as the dead, hoping, praying , that the stench and visual of decaying flesh would be enough to obscure his presence. The creature crawled across the room, searching through the pile of bodies, lifting and tossing them to the side like a collection of worthless ragdolls. It found his wrist eventually, grasping him in its porcelain pincers, and it—

“—picked me right up, and tossed me across the room,” he relayed, voice a bit distant and bland. “My injury was quite similar to yours, if I recall correctly.”

“Did you fix it on your own?”

Edwin gave a hollow hum that echoed within the blurry confines of his skull. “I did, in fact. Popped it right back into place afterwards, good as new.”

Which, again, was the roundabout truth. Edwin had indeed managed to slip his shoulder back into place while sprinting down the hall, which had been a small triumph. However, his good fortune had come to an end when he tripped over a doll head just moments later. Escaping had been impossible after that, his ability to run severely hindered by a twisted ankle.

Still. It was the truth.

“Edwin?” Charles asked loudly, causing him to startle. “Did you hear me?”

Edwin shook his head, clearing away the static drowning out his thoughts. “No, dove, I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“Is it just arms and legs that can be popped out of place? Or are there other parts too?”

Edwin coughed around the sudden lump in his throat. “There was one time when my jaw—” he ran a finger along his chin— “took a rather nasty blow. It—”

—wouldn’t close, he couldn’t get his jaw to close, saliva dripping from his teeth like a feral, rabid animal. The jaw injury was new, and it hurt , but the nature of it was so unfamiliar that all he could do was sob. He didn’t know what to do, he didn’t know how to fix it, but the spider was coming, it was—”

“Edwin!”

Edwin snapped back to reality, his tunneled vision meeting a pair of warm, brown, human eyes.

Not doll eyes. Not doll eyes.

“You’re scaring me, a little,” Charles admitted. “Are you okay?”

Edwin nodded quickly, sucking in a gasp of air. Had he stopped breathing? It shouldn’t matter if he stopped breathing. “I apolog—”

“No!” Charles protested. “No apologies allowed.” He slid out from the safety of his hidden corner and settled comfortably beside Edwin, who lifted an arm to allow him closer access. Charles wrapped a small arm around his back, grasping loosely at his shirt.

“It sounds like you got hurt a lot,” he said quietly.

Edwin draped an arm around his small form, pulling him in close. “I suppose I did,” he said. At least it was an answer he could give honestly.

“Well, you help me when I get hurt, right?” said Charles. “That goes both ways, I reckon.”

Edwin sighed. “All of my hurt is in the past now, darling. There is very little that can be done for the scars of my old wounds.”

“My nightmares are always about old stuff,” Charles said with a shrug. “Nothing makes them stop, but a cuddle usually helps.”

Edwin squeezed him tightly in response, letting their conversation fade into a long, comfortable silence. He focused intently on slowing his breathing, counting each inhale like his Charles had taught him to do.  Eventually, the phantom burn in his chest faded, leaving a spreading pool of warmth in its place.

Charles looked up as Edwin’s desperate hold on him began to loosen. “Is it working?”

Edwin blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“The cuddle. Do you feel better?”

A small smile tugged at Edwin’s lips. He had thought that Charles’s sudden plea for affection had been driven by a childish need for comfort, but no. He’d done it solely for Edwin’s benefit.

“I feel much better,” Edwin murmured, dropping a quick kiss on the top of his head. “Thank you.”

Charles gave a satisfied nod, nuzzling further into Edwin’s side. “So, can I ask another ghost question?”

Edwin hummed in assent. “Consider me your personal spirit encyclopedia,” he said, earning a giggle from Charles.

“I guess I just wanna know if there’s any good parts to being a ghost,” he wondered. “I know you’re dead, but you can also walk through walls and go to the cinema for free, yeah? So it can’t be all bad.”

Edwin tilted his head, thinking for a moment. “There are some aspects of it that I do enjoy,” he mused. “After all, opening doors tends to be such a wretched inconvenience.”

“What part of it do you like the best?”

You, Edwin’s brain supplied. My favorite part of being dead is an eternity with you.

“I quite enjoy the ability to mirror hop,” he said instead. “I can visit Souk Semmarine in Morocco one moment, and then pop ‘round to see the Giant’s Causeway in Ireland the next. It is a very convenient method of transportation.” 

Charles pulled away from his side, eyes twinkling. “You can do that?”

Edwin smiled. “I most certainly can. I—”

“Have you gone a lot of places?” Charles blurted out. “Which one was your favorite? I’ve always wanted to visit my aunties, I wonder if—”

“Would you like to see how it works?” Edwin asked. “I can demonstrate the mechanics, if you’d like.”

Charles’s face split into a grin. “For reals?”

Edwin crawled out from underneath the desk, holding out his hand. “Come, darling. Let me show you.”

Charles trailed closely behind, carefully keeping his injured arm tucked against his chest. He clambered to his feet, straightening his posture slowly, only to stagger once fully upright. His face went slack, losing its warm, youthful glow, and his good arm shot out to grip Edwin’s wrist for balance.

“I don’ feel…” he trailed off, eyelids fluttering rapidly.

“Charles?” Edwin placed a hand on his shoulder, worry flaring in his gut. “Are you alright?”

Charles gave a lazy nod. “Jus’ a bit dizzy, ‘s alright,” he said airily. “Happens.”

Edwin’s eyebrows knitted together. He most certainly did not sound anywhere near the realm of alright. “Do you get lightheaded often?” he asked.

Charles gave a sheepish grin, somehow having the audacity to look apologetic for nearly losing consciousness. “Jus’ when I get up too quick. I’m okay now, honest.”

Edwin reached out and turned Charles’s palm to face the ceiling, settling two fingers over the veins of his wrist. It felt a bit ridiculous, searching for the heartbeat of a long-dead spirit, but if the doctor’s runes truly simulated the existence of a corporeal body…

There it was. Rabbit-quick and flighty, but present nonetheless.

“Has your mother mentioned what might be the cause of these dizzy spells?” Edwin asked, leaning down to check his eyes. His pupils were no longer dilated, indicating that the pain medication had finally run its course. 

Charles shrugged uncomfortably. “I dunno.” A shadow of embarrassment crossed his face, staining his cheeks a deep, plum red. “Can we talk about something else now?”

Edwin sighed inwardly. It was odd, to say the least, but not imminently threatening. Certainly nothing to push his already flimsy boundaries over. “Alright, darling, if you like,” he said, leading Charles to their travel mirror. “Just be sure to tell me if the feeling returns.”

The office travel mirror was a rather nice piece of furniture, all told, with a well-varnished frame and neatly polished surface. Charles had nicked it from a haunted antique shop shortly after they first met, during the Puzzling Poltergeist Paradox of ‘92. There was nothing particularly special about it, aside from the fact that it was theirs. Anything that could be referred to as ‘theirs’ was special by default.

It wasn’t until they were mere inches from the mirror that Edwin suddenly tensed with worry. 

Due to the doctor’s meddling experiments, Charles was now semi-corporeal. The flux nature of his spectral form meant that there was a distinct possibility that his reflection would not appear in the mirror’s surface, and Edwin was completely unprepared to explain such an anomaly to a boy that had only just learned that children could die. 

He lurched forward, reaching for Charles’s wrist. “Charles, wait—”

“For what?” Charles asked, waving at his own reflection. He made a few silly faces in the mirror, then did a double take. “Hang on a tick. Why aren’t you showing up?”

“Spirits do not show up in mirrors,” Edwin said, suppressing a sigh of relief. “I have not seen my reflection in a very long time.”

Charles looked up at him, expression solemn. “How d’you comb your hair so neat, then?”

The concerned crease on his brow took Edwin by surprise, comically out of place on his young, innocent features. Edwin did his best to stifle the warm seed of joy growing in his chest, but it was no use. A burst of laughter escaped his lips, earning an offended glare from Charles. 

“Hey!” he said with a frown. “I was serious!”

Charles’s pout could be used as a lethal weapon, Edwin decided. A lethal weapon against anyone in a poor mood within a ten mile radius.

“I know darling, I’m sorry,” Edwin said, forcing the fit of giggles back down. “I do not need to comb my hair. Another perk of being a spirit, I suppose.”

Charles’s jaw dropped open. “You don’t have to comb your hair ?” He reached up and touched his own mass of tangled curls. “You lucky sod. My hair’s always a right mess, no matter how hard Mum tries to sort it out for me.”

“Nonsense,” Edwin said lightly. “I think you look rather dashing.”

Charles’s eyes widened as he looked down at his feet, cheeks blooming red once again. “Thank you,” he mumbled, scuffing his shoe against the floorboards. 

Edwin gave a fond smile, then pointed towards the mirror, directing his attention. “Here, dove,” he said, poking the glassy surface. “Watch closely.”

A soft mercury ripple lapped at the frame’s wooden corners, rendering the mirror’s surface a vague pool of silver. Edwin focused his mind on something a child might find appealing; a place that was interesting to look at, and comforting to think about. 

After a moment, the undulating puddle of glass finally settled on an image. In place of Charles’s reflection stood a beautiful French patisserie, its decadent interior bustling with a veritable frenzy of customers. A well-stocked pastry case stood proudly against its center wall, the mirrored shelves laden with a jewel-toned rainbow of French macarons and sugary pâte de fruits. Beside the case sat an ornate counter painted in hues of teal green and shining gold, serving hand pressed waffles to a queue of patrons that stretched out the door and around the corner.

“Woah,” Charles breathed. “What’s that?”

“It is a wonderful sweet shop called Méert, located in the north of France,” Edwin regaled. “I accompanied Niko on a pilgrimage there not too long ago. She was adamant that their homemade waffles are the best this world has to offer.”

Charles inched towards the moving image, hopelessly transfixed. “And all those boxes are…?”

“Chocolates, mostly,” Edwin replied. He pointed out a small green box on the cashier’s desk, its paper lid affixed with beautiful gold lettering. “That one is a spiced pear truffle that Crystal is quite fond of, and Niko took a liking to their lemon sugar waffles.”

“Can we—” Charles leaned forward, nearly broaching the mirror’s surface— “Can I mirror hop too? I want—”

Edwin grabbed his arm just in the nick of time. “Not today, I’m afraid. This is a visual demonstration only.”

Edwin had anticipated another pout in response, or perhaps a cheeky argument. What he had not expected was for Charles to spiral into a near state of panic, his eyes glossy and desperate under the dim office lights.

“Please?” Charles asked again. He pulled harshly towards the mirror, nearly yanking out of Edwin’s grip. “I promise we can come right back, I just need—” His words cut off with an involuntary gasp, catching pitifully in his throat.

Edwin dismissed the portal to Méert immediately, as a necessary precaution. Charles could mirror travel, as he had discovered upon their return from the Hargrove mansion, and the last thing he needed was a teary-eyed ten year old running amok in a popular French patisserie.

Charles was still fixated on the reflective surface, watching as the sweet shop slowly rippled out of view. He let out a devastated, stifled sob.

Edwin placed himself between Charles and the mirror, blocking his view of the silvery surface. “Speak to me, dove,” he said, sinking onto one knee. “What’s going through that mind of yours?”

“I—I can’t—“ Charles huffed out a shallow breath, producing a familiar wheezing sound. 

“Breathe, Charles,” Edwin said gently. He placed a hand on his shoulder, rubbing a thumb over his collarbone. “I will not stop listening in the time it takes to gather your thoughts.”

Charles nodded tightly. He sucked in a few mouthfuls of air, small chest heaving with effort, before attempting to speak again.

“I’m not s’pposed to say,” he whispered, eyes trained on the floor.

Edwin set his jaw. “Is this one of your father’s rules, then?”

Charles shrugged, which was about as close to a ‘yes’ as Edwin was going to get.

“What if I can promise that he will never find out?”

“You can’t,” Charles said helplessly. “He knows everything.”

“Charles, I am dead,” Edwin reminded him. “The only way your father could possibly discover our conversation is if he is a psychic medium, or is dead himself.”

Which could certainly be arranged, said a small, vengeful voice in the back of his mind. Edwin batted the suggestion away, unwilling to entertain such a self-indulgent train of thought.

Just as Charles was about to speak again, the office door swung open. Their careful conversation was shattered by a parade of teenage girls with arms full of shopping bags and hands full of coffee cups.

“Oh, hey!” Crystal said cheerfully, placing her bags on the coffee table. “Look who’s up and around.”

The shift in Charles’s demeanor was near instantaneous. Edwin could physically see his gleeful, sunny mask slip back into place, effectively pushing all of those difficult emotions back below the surface. He was helpless to do anything but let the subject drop as Charles turned away.

“Crystal!” Charles called out. He sat down cross-legged on the couch and patted the space next to him. “I missed you so much!”

Crystal glanced at Edwin, confused. “You did? It’s only been—”

“Time slippage,” Edwin posited. He had not been given an opportunity to fill her in on the status of Charles’s memories, but Crystal had become quite studious as of late. Hopefully, she would catch his meaning. 

“Oh.” She dropped down on the sofa and draped a careful arm around his shoulders. “I missed you too, bud. How long’s it been?”

Charles turned into her hold, burying his face in her side. “Three years,” he said, voice muffled. “Didn’t know if I’d ever see you again.”

Crystal mouthed a quick ‘fuck’ in Edwin’s direction, before engulfing Charles in the biggest hug she could manage. Edwin couldn’t help but agree with the sentiment wholeheartedly.

“Me and Edwin will always be around, okay?” she said. “Doesn’t matter how much time passes. We’ll always be here waiting for you.”

Charles pulled away with a shrug. “You know you don’t have to be, yeah?” The smile he gave was fragile, not quite reaching his eyes. “It’s okay if you got better things to do.”

“A ridiculous notion,” Edwin said dismissively. “If we get separated, you will see us again. Our presence in your life is a universal constant—the only variable to consider is when .”

Crystal made a show of rolling her eyes, drawing a genuine grin Charles. “Yeah, sure, I guess.” She nodded her head towards Edwin. “Whatever the nerd said.”

Edwin shot her an unimpressed look, but let the jab go unopposed. For Charles’s sake.

“So, what’s all this, then?” Charles asked, eyeing the sea of bags on the coffee table. “Got anything fun?”

“Not really,” Niko said. “It’s mostly boring medical stuff. We got antiseptic, a sling, some bandages… Oh! Almost forgot.” She pulled a paper-wrapped sandwich out of the last bag and handed it to Crystal.

“Oh thank God,” Crystal said, unwrapping it immediately. “You’re a lifesaver, Niko. Really.” She took two large bites, one after the other, and groaned in satisfaction.

Charles perked up a bit, his eyes trained on the food in her hands. “What’d you get?” he asked.

“Just some vegetarian thing,” she replied, mouth full of food. “A little bland, but it’s whatever.”  A loose array of vegetables splattered on the paper, causing Edwin to wrinkle his nose in distaste. Eating was such a horribly messy affair—especially when Crystal was the one doing it. “Niko and I haven’t eaten in, like, a stupidly long time, so we figured—”

“Can I have those?” Charles blurted out, pointing at the scraps of food on her paper. “If you don’t finish them?”

The stunned silence that followed his innocent question was near deafening. All of Edwin’s small observations suddenly began to make sense—the constant exhaustion, the dizziness, the panic when faced with the mere possibility of food. Edwin cast Niko and Crystal a glance, the three of them sharing a grim moment of realization.

“I’m alright if someone else wants it,” Charles said, his tone deceptively light. “I don’t need it. I just thought maybe if no one else wanted the dropped bits—”

“Charles,” Edwin said, putting an end to his nervous rambling. “Are you hungry?”

Charles shrugged. “A bit, maybe,” he said sheepishly. “I could eat.”

Crystal placed her half-eaten sandwich back in its wrapper. “How long you been hungry for?” she asked. 

“I dunno,” Charles said, his fragile tone indicating that he very much knew.

Niko squeezed next to him on the sofa, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “Please talk to us, baby Charles. We only want to help you feel better.”

Charles huffed and went quiet for a moment, staring up at the ceiling. The three of them waited patiently for him to respond, the bitter anticipation rotting a hole in Edwin’s torso.

 “Three nights, maybe?” he said eventually, as if it were nothing. “I try to stop counting after the first one.”

The ease of Charles’s tone made Edwin want to immolate something—or someone, more specifically. If Charles’s father ever managed to escape his fated path to Hell, then Edwin would enjoy nothing more than finding the man himself and forcing him to suffer for the remainder of his afterlife.

“Here,” Crystal said quickly, placing the rest of her sandwich in his lap. Her voice came across strained and hollow, a poor imitation of her usual expressive tone. She shot Edwin a heated glance, and he knew they were seeing the world bathed in the same shade of scarlet.

“Eat this, okay? It’s yours now.”

Charles looked at her nervously. “Are you sure?” he asked. “You just said you hadn’t eaten, yeah? I don’t want to take your supper.”

“Nah, I’m okay,” she said tightly, vacating her spot on the sofa. “Lost my appetite.” She grabbed a stray bag off of the table and gave Edwin a meaningful look, before joining Misty and Indigo on the opposite side of the room.

Edwin sat down next to Charles, taking Crystal’s empty seat. “Darling, I need to speak with Crystal for a moment. Would you mind terribly if Niko were to help immobilize your arm?”

“Whas ‘mmobilize mean?” Charles asked, mumbling around the food in his mouth. Edwin reached out and wiped a crumb from his chin. 

“It means she is going to bandage your arm properly, so that it does not move as it heals.” He handed the sling to Niko, smoothing out the fabric. “Do you need any instruction on proper application?” he asked her.

Niko shook her head. “Nope! I was in a babysitting club at Gray Wake, and first aid was my second favorite segment.” She gave Charles a playful nudge, placing a packet of cat-shaped biscuits in his lap. “Besides, whatever I can’t figure out on my own, baby Charles can help me with.”

“Why do you keep calling me ‘baby Charles’?” he asked, mouth now full of pastry and sandwich. Edwin did his best not to think about the potential results of such a heinous combination. “I’m ten, aren’t I? Not a baby.”

“And I’m sixteen,” Niko countered. “To me, you’re a baby, and you’re Charles. So: baby Charles.”

Edwin smiled as the two lapsed into an easy conversation, confident that Niko would be more than capable of tending to his needs. He stood from the sofa and stepped across the room, only to enter into the middle a quietly heated conversation.

“...come on, Indi, just take them,” Crystal said, holding out the shopping bag. “You did research with us basically all day, and we didn’t even end up helping you with the spell you hired us for. Consider the ingredients a thank you gift.”

Indigo brandished her finely beaded coin purse, a few monetary notes peeking out of the top. “Really, Crystal, I’m afraid I must—”

“Thanks, Crys,” Misty cut in, taking the bag from her hands. “Your mom’s card really came in clutch.”

Crystal snorted. “Sure, no problem. I’m pretty sure I could buy a goddamn private jet and neither of my parents would notice, so a few spell ingredients is really nothing.”

A hot pang of inadequacy spilled through Edwin’s chest. In the wake of Charles’s transformation, he had somehow managed to forget about Misty’s memory affliction entirely . 

“Are you two taking your leave?” he asked. “If you still need assistance with the memory spell, I could accompany you—”

“Nah, don’t even worry about it,” Misty assured him. “We talked it over, and Indigo’s pretty sure she can handle it herself.” She looked over at Charles and Niko, laughing on the couch and sharing a packet of cat-shaped biscuits. “Besides, it sounds like you got your hands full. If that kid hasn’t eaten in a few days, he’s gonna need more than half a sandwich and a few cookies.”

Edwin nodded, suddenly feeling a bit out of his depth. The eating habits of children were not a subject he was particularly well versed in. 

“Yeah, she’s right,” Crystal sighed. “We should probably run out and get him something else. Do you know what kind of food he likes?”

“His mother’s cooking,” Edwin replied immediately. Charles often spoke of her food as if it were an old friend he mourned, waxing poetic about the tantalizing spices and slow-simmering techniques she used to craft old family recipes. “He likes his mother’s cooking.”

Crystal blinked at him. “That’s… nice, but we can’t exactly show up at the Rowland household and ask for a plate to go.”

“That is not what I’m suggesting,” Edwin said with a scowl. “I am certain there are plenty of culinary establishments that can provide a passable replica of Mrs. Rowland’s cooking. Perhaps the four of us can seek one out.”

Crystal rolled her eyes. “‘Culinary establishment,’” she muttered. “Just call it a fucking restaurant.”

“That’s actually not a bad plan,” Misty said, cutting off Edwin’s inevitable response. “Charles probably didn’t get much of a chance to do fun stuff as a kid, so taking him on a field trip is a great idea.”

Edwin paused, then, sparing Misty an appraising glance. He had not gotten to know her as well as he had Indigo, but something about her behavior was so achingly familiar . She ran a gentle hand over Rhiannon’s head, chin held high with bravado and shoulders slumped low with exhaustion.

“Are you leaving?” a small voice asked. Edwin spun around to find Charles standing there, arm set in a sling and hand clutching an empty sandwich wrapper. Not a single discarded piece of vegetable remained on the paper—not even the ones Crystal had left behind.

“‘Fraid so, kid,” said Misty, crouching down with some difficulty. She winced as the muscles of her torso flexed, pulling against the visible bruises on her ribs. “Edwin’s gonna take you on a little outing, and Indigo’s got some boring business stuff to do. I gotta tag along and make sure no one tries anything stupid while she’s working.” She snapped her fingers to draw Rhiannon’s attention, directing her to sit in front of Charles. “Wanna say bye?”

Charles gave Rhiannon a scratch behind the ears. “You’re a really good girl, Rhi,” he cooed at her. “The goodest. I hope I get to see you again.”

Misty offered a lazy smile as the two said their farewells, then motioned towards the office door. “Should we…?” 

“You may use the mirror, if you like,” Edwin said. “Charles has been informed of my spectral existence, so there is no need to hide our true natures any longer.”

“Oh,” said Charles. “You died, too?”

“Yep,” Misty said, putting a heavy emphasis on the ‘p’. “Been a while, though. We’ve both had time to grieve our own losses.”

“You can have my consolations anyway,” he said solemnly.

Indigo gave him a sweet smile. “The word is ‘condolences,’ dear,” she corrected, “but thank you. That is very kind.”

As Indigo began searching for a portal back to their apartment and the focused silence became slightly awkward, Charles gave Edwin’s sleeve a gentle tug.

“Why did Misty say you’re taking me somewhere?” he whispered loudly.

Edwin knelt down, leaning in close. “Crystal and I thought that you might like to find some food outside of the office,” he said, matching Charles’s mock-whisper. “I imagine you are still quite hungry.”

“But—” Charles stopped, biting his lip.

“Please, dove, speak your mind,” Edwin insisted. “There are no consequences for asking questions in this office.”

“Oh.” Charles blinked in surprise. “I was gonna say: it’s not a special day. Why’re we going out for food?”

“It’s a special day if I say it’s a special day,” Crystal chimed in, holding up her wallet. “I’m paying, so therefore, I make the rules.”

Charles’s eyes widened. “No, it’s alright! I can just—”

“Ah ah, nope,” Crystal chided, “no arguing. We’re gonna go out and get food and have fun .” She swung an arm around Niko’s shoulders, almost throwing them both off balance. “Every time you even mention money, I’ll spend more on you. Got it?”

Charles giggled, the sound bubbling past his lips like a nervous impulse. “Guess so!”

Indigo stepped away from the mirror, its image finally settling on the disorganized visage of their apartment. “This is us,” she said, giving Edwin a warm smile. “I wish all of you the very best in your endeavors against Violet. If we can be of any further assistance, please let us know.”

“Only if you promise to do the same,” Edwin replied. “I am only a mirror away, should you need me.”

Indigo inclined her head politely. “I shall keep that in mind.” There was a pronounced ripple in the mirror as she walked through, disappearing onto the other side.

Misty stepped up next, pulling Rhiannon towards the portal. “Keep an eye on your friends for me, will ya?” she said to Charles. “Make sure they stay out of trouble.”

Charles gave her a serious nod. “I will!”

She and Rhiannon disappeared through the glass with a final wave, the image of their apartment finally shimmering away.

A moment of silence passed as all four of them stared dazedly at the reflective surface. Then, Niko piped up. 

“I really liked them!” she said.

Edwin hummed in agreement. “As did I. Personable consultants are so difficult to come by, these days.”

Charles glanced up at Edwin, eyes wide. “Was Rhi dead, too?”

“Okay, enough chit-chat!” Crystal said, tossing a few errant journals into her backpack. “Let’s get this kid some more food.”

“Yes, I quite agree,” said Edwin. He grabbed a stack of runic guides off of the coffee table and turned towards Niko. “Would you mind terribly if I asked you to pack these away? We may have time to do more research while out of the office, and I fe—”

“I don’t mind being your supply carrier!” Niko assured him, picking up Charles’s backpack. “Only until you get your regular one back, though.” She grinned down at Charles, who smiled back innocently.

“Right, then.” Edwin placed a steady hand on Charles’s back, gently pushing him towards the door. “Are you ready, darling?”

Charles began to nod, before his face went slack with recollection. “Wait, just a tick!” He dashed across the room and disappeared under the desk, mumbling quietly to himself. When he emerged moments later, there was a small toy cat in his hand, eyes electric blue and bow tie slightly crooked.

“Okay, now I’m ready!” he said brightly. “Let’s go.”

Chapter Text

West End Woes

Edwin stared down at the tome in his hands, trailing well behind Crystal as he considered the finality of his discovery.

This book was his last chance. The final stone left unturned.

He flipped open the faded red cover. The book was a well-worn grimoire of a time long past, previously tucked away to be catalogued at a later date. Edwin had nearly forgotten it existed, until Niko had pulled it from Charles’s backpack while searching for his travel copy of The Arcanist’s Guide To Mind-Stepping. 

He and Charles had gotten it from a client—a rather insufferable client, but a client nonetheless. She had told them that the grimoire’s pages contained powerful arcane information from every corner of the world, which should have been Edwin’s first clue towards deception. Her claims were simply too good to be true.

They had accepted the grimoire as payment anyway, and its timely reappearance had given Edwin a final burst of hope. A last-ditch attempt at finding some real, honest answers.

Edwin froze as he reached the tome’s final page, standing stock-still in the middle of the pavement. He barely noticed as a pedestrian walked directly through his spectral form, his awareness blanketed by the heavy shroud of defeat.

It was nothing but a simple witch’s grimoire. There was no new information to be gleaned from its pages, despite what their client had promised. Every spell was one that Edwin had already seen, catalogued, and learned to cast himself.

He had never wanted to tear a book’s pages from their binding so badly.

“Hey, Edwin?”

As he fought back the urge to decimate such a fragile piece of history, Edwin couldn’t help but think of Simon. Simon, with his dull, watery eyes and terrible, bleeding fingers.

When he had come across Simon in that dismal replica of their old school library, Edwin had been furious . While he had become a demon’s worthless plaything, Simon had been given a safe place to hide . He had been allowed to sit there, alone and unbothered, and given the punishment of tearing endless pages from a book that never seemed to empty. A mess of gore and endless screaming, set against an eternity of papercuts.

Edwin had found it nauseatingly unfair, then. Most of him still found it unfair now.

With another dead end cradled in his hands, though, a small part of him was beginning to understand. Simon’s punishment had never been about the papercuts. It had been about the unyielding torture of a menial task that never ended. It had been about the spoken promise of respite, dangled before him like a worm on a hook, only to be torn away time and time again. 

His punishment was Sisiphysean. It was barbaric.

Edwin’s task of bringing his Charles home was beginning to feel awfully Sisyphean, too, and he wasn’t sure how much more of it he could take.

“Edwin?”

Charles was going to die. That much was certain. Edwin’s books held no clues, his notes held no answers, and Charles was going to die.

Again.

The thought of Charles, hypothermic and bleeding , pierced his heart like a shard of ice. Even if his ‘second death’ meant that the runic cycle would finally end, Edwin still felt powerless. Just like the first time, there was nothing he could do but watch.

Charles was going to die, and it was all his f—

“Hey! Earth to Edwin!”

Edwin snapped back to reality, a shrill voice interrupting his stupor. He looked up to find that Crystal had stopped walking, her brow pinched with concern.

“You look like you’re about to chuck that book into oncoming traffic,” she said. “You alright?

Edwin fought back a sneer. Of course he wasn’t alright. He had gone and given this book a proper home, perfectly safe inside of Charles’s trans-dimensional backpack, and it had provided him with absolutely nothing in return. He was doing everything in his power to keep himself from setting the tome ablaze in a fit of mindless rage.

Unfortunately, the book was still a witch’s grimoire, which meant that its previous owner had warded it against all types of damage. He would have to settle for burying it at the bottom of Charles’s bag and leaving it to stew for another twenty years.

“I am perfectly fine,” he said, falling into step beside her. “How fares your research journey?”

“Dunno yet,” said Crystal. She held up a new book, its shiny cover glinting under the dismal London sky. “I just started this one, though. I think it looks promising.”

The book itself was tall and glossy, with a cover so full of ‘50% off’ stickers that it practically doubled as a billboard. The clean, white pages were decorated with mosaics of polished crystals and dried flower petals, each item arranged into a so-called ‘healing formation’. Edwin estimated that each kaleidoscope-like pattern held about as much arcane merit as a toad with a crystal ball. 

He didn’t know where Crystal had gotten such a book, but it was most certainly not from his collection. He would sooner flee the office than allow that sort of New Age drivel anywhere near his precise spellwork.

“Why on Earth are you reading that?” he asked, tone soaked in judgement. “Do you hold a personal grudge against reliable information?”

Crystal looked over the cover. “The fuck do you mean?” she asked. “The title has ‘healing’ in it, and Charles needs healing. What’s your issue?”

Edwin rolled his eyes. “Crystal magic falls under the same metaphysical subtype as astrology: vague, unreliable, and categorically weak. You may as well consult a deck of tarot cards, as far as dependability is concerned.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Crystal said. “I’ve got some of those in my backpack, too.”

A few minutes passed as they continued to read in silence, following the noisy trail of Charles and Niko up ahead. The four of them were headed towards Haymarket, where Charles had been able to identify a restaurant that his mother had taken him to for his ninth birthday. He’d tried to brush the idea off, worried about the cafe’s high pricing, but Crystal would hear nothing of it. If he wanted to go, then all he had to do was give Niko the restaurant’s name and let her lead the way.

Edwin snuck a peek over Crystal’s shoulder, curiosity getting the better of him.

“Have you gleaned any insights from your ridiculous book?”

She covered the page with her hand. “Oh, so now you’re interested?”

“If you’re not going to share, then at least let me read it once you have finished,” he said with a bitter scowl. “Perhaps I will find something you missed.”

“Jesus, you’re no fun.” She snapped the book shut. “I’m fucking with you. This thing’s useless, and probably a fake.”

“So it seems that I was—“

“Correct, yeah.” She shoved the book into his hands. “Congratulations. You win the grand prize of putting it in my backpack for me.”

Their well-practiced volley of insults was interrupted by a nearby burble of laughter. Edwin looked up to find Charles playing in a rather large puddle, splashing dirty water all over his and Niko’s clothing.

“Edwin…” Crystal said, sounding uncertain. “How are we going to handle the end of this runic cycle? Are we really going to let Charles die again ?”

Edwin sighed and pulled out his journal, the cyclical plight of Simon Mould coming to mind once more.

“We may not have much of a choice,” he said, flipping through his field notes. “Given that the ‘deathlock’ phase of this runic cycle poses very little threat of spectral disintegration, allowing the cycle to end naturally may be our safest option.”

“Right, but…” Crystal paused, frowning. “Isn’t that, like, super fucked up? To let him suffer through his own death again , even if it’s not technically dangerous?”

“Yes,” Edwin answered honestly. “It is absolutely horrific.” He sighed again, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I have no alternative solutions to offer, Crystal. I am out of answers.”

“Okay, well, let’s talk it out. If ending the cycle early were to go bad—like really, really bad—what do you think would happen?”

Edwin thumbed through his journal, searching for his notes on the doctor’s spellwork. 

“In the absolute worst case scenario, I believe that Charles could become locked into the runic cycle permanently,” he said, paraphrasing his own research. “He would be trapped, in the past and in pain, until we found a way to untangle the doctor’s work ourselves.”

Crystal winced. “Jesus,” she said quietly. “So what the hell do we do , then? Just sit back and watch it happen?”

“I suggest that we focus on one memory at a time,” Edwin said, pocketing his notebook. “You have spent more time with his patient record than I. How many more memories are listed before the final one?”

“Just one more after this one,” she said. “I know that each memory is supposed to be worse than the last, but I have no idea how anything could be worse than what we just witnessed.”

Edwin waved her off, not missing a beat. “Let us put that thought aside for now. If we are able to focus on navigating one memory at a time, then—”

“No, wait, hold on.” Crystal grabbed his elbow, pulling him to a stop. “What do you mean ‘put that thought aside'?”

Edwin blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“I mean,” Crystal bit out, “how the fuck am I supposed to put that thought aside?”

“I am certain you can figure out the concept, with a bit of extra effort,” he said, voice tight with irritation. “Would it be helpful if I drew you a diagram?”

”You motherfucker,” said Crystal, eyes flashing with anger. “Honestly, what is the matter with you?”

Edwin’s shoulders tensed. “Crystal—”

“No, Edwin, come on!” She gripped his arm tighter—not enough to constrict his movement, but enough to make him listen. “This is your best fucking friend we’re talking about. He’s been your partner for thirty five years and you wanna take whatever’s worse than a dislocated shoulder and put it aside ?”

Edwin yanked his arm away, forcing her to let go. “Forgive me, Crystal, but I fail to see what other options are available to us!” he snapped, his careful facade cracking under pressure. “We cannot go back in time to protect him, and we cannot stop him from reliving the traumas of his past. We are completely powerless in the situation as it stands, and your refusal to accept the inevitable is as dimwitted as it is arrogant.”

The tense atmosphere shifted as Crystal took an unbalanced step back, her visible irritation giving way to a rather damning look of betrayal.

Edwin gave a sigh, his indignation cooling to a low simmer. “That is not what I meant to say.”

“Walk it back, then,” she said, crossing her arms. “I’ll wait.”

Edwin nodded, taking his time to parse out the actual meaning of his words. “You are not dimwitted, but you are behaving arrogantly. Believing we can overcome this situation without placing our emotions to the side is foolish, at best.” 

“Okay, you know that’s not any better than what you actually said, right?”

“I stand by it nonetheless.” Edwin spun on his heel and began walking again, hoping that Crystal would observe his hint and drop the subject.

“You know what?” she said, very much not dropping the subject. “Fine. You do what you want. I can’t stop you.”

“Thank you for the permission, as if that is something I needed—”

“I’m not fucking finished,” she snapped. “You do what you want, but I’m not going to pretend that everything’s okay. What Charles went through is fucking upsetting, Edwin, and I don’t understand how you can act so unphased by everything we’ve seen so far.”

Edwin slowed to a stop, his spectral bones splintering like thin ice underfoot.

“Is that really what you think?” he asked. A resounding crack reverberated through his sternum, splitting his chest like a faultline. “That I am immune to the abuse he has suffered? That his pain has no effect on me?”

Crystal froze, a brief look of horror flashing across her wide-eyed face.

Good, a small part of him hissed. Let her see.

“I am the one that has spent the most time with Charles since his transformation,” Edwin said, his ribcage crumbling beneath the weight of his words. “I am the one that found him trapped within the doctor’s basement. I am the one that had to reduce his shoulder, because his most recent memory did not include a trip to the hospital.” Edwin’s breath caught in his throat, the fractured shards of his spectral heart suddenly on full display.

“His mother would not take him, Crystal. His mother would not give him proper medical treatment, so neither could I. My participation in his suffering will haunt me for eternity, and that is my cross to bear.”

“Edwin, I didn’t mean—”

He held up a hand to stop her. “I have already lost Charles once, and every time a new cycle begins, I lose him all over again.” His voice broke like a drinking glass, shattered on the kitchen floor. “If I am to be sure that he is properly cared for, then my emotions cannot matter. Only he matters.” 

Crystal listened silently, her forehead creased with worry.

“Do you understand?” he asked, voice thin with desperation.

Please understand, a quiet part of him whispered.

“I do,” she assured him, her steady gaze full of warmth. “Or at least, I think I do.”

She carefully linked her arm with his and began to walk, pulling him to her side. 

“I think, for me, connecting with others is kind of like a sixth sense,” she explained. “I use my emotions to make sense of other people’s memories, so putting them to the side is, like… I don’t know, cutting off a limb or something. It’s really, really hard.”

Edwin nodded and allowed her to tug him along, too exhausted to resist.

Crystal continued, taking his silence in stride. “You’re, like, the opposite. You have to put your emotions aside in order to be objective, and honestly? Given everything you’ve been through?” She gave his arm a squeeze. “I think that makes a lot of sense.”

Edwin opened his mouth to contribute, but closed it almost immediately. He didn’t trust himself to speak quite yet.

She pulled them to a stop. “Look. I know Charles is your best friend, and nothing will ever change that. But Niko and I are your friends, too. We want to help however we can—even if you’re an insufferable know-it-all sometimes.”

Edwin gave her a weak smile. “Thank you,” he said. “I think.”

“Totally not a compliment,” she said warmly. “We’re a team, and if we’re gonna see this case through to the end, then we all need to be on the same page.”

Just as Edwin was about to offer his own insights, their conversation was interrupted by a distant yell.

“Hey, guys!” Niko waved from up ahead, pointing at a well-polished storefront. “I think we’re here!”

Crystal untangled herself from his arm. “Table this for later?”

“Certainly,” he agreed, feeling lighter than he had in almost two days. “We still need to discuss precisely how Dr. Hargrove is going to answer for all the damage she has wrought.”

“Oh, great,” Crystal said, flashing a predatory grin. “Can’t wait.”

The two of them joined Niko shortly after, looking in on the busy cafe that Charles had picked out. Its expensive decor had a decidedly modern feel, with hanging lamps and angular decorations set amongst a sea of teal velvet dining chairs. The cafe’s mirrored bar took up a large portion of the far wall, filled to the brim with patrons ordering all varieties of signature house cocktails and modernized specialty cuisines.

“It’s, like, super fucking crowded in there,” Crystal said, placing a hand up to the glass. “Maybe Niko and I should go in and see how long a table will take to open up.”

Edwin nodded in agreement. “Don’t forget to—”

“—get a table with an extra seat, so you can sit with us,” she finished. “Yeah, I know the drill. Been friends with ghosts for a while.”

 “Should we get a table with two extra seats?” Niko asked. “For you and Charles?”

Crystal’s eyes went wide. “Wait, can living people even see him? I feel like they should be able to, right?”

“Well—” Edwin stopped, giving the question some thought. “Given that he is visible in mirrors, he should be visible to the naked eye. That would make the most logical sense.”

“Right,” said Crystal. “But since when has Dr. Hargrove’s spellwork made any logical sense whatsoever?”

Since never, was the unfortunate answer. Her craft was ludicrously difficult to predict.

“I didn’t see anyone look at him on the way over,” Niko chimed in, “but it's possible I just missed it. I wasn’t really paying attention.”

Edwin steepled his fingers in thought. “I imagine the answer to our question will reveal itself in time. We ought to take extra precautions where we can—it wouldn’t do to have Charles discover the nature of his spectral form before we do.”

“Should we eat outside to avoid the crowds, then?" Crystal asked, nodding towards the near-empty patio. "It was kinda stupid to think we could walk into a restaurant on Haymarket without a reservation, anyway. Might save us some time.”

Niko gasped, clapping her hands together. “That’s a great idea!” she said brightly. “We should ask Charles first, but I think eating outside would be lovely.” She turned back towards the patio, where Charles had taken to loitering near an oblivious older couple enjoying their lunch. 

“Charles!” she called out. He spun around to face her, looking as if he’d been caught at something nefarious. “Come back over here, please!”

He pittered over from the tables, guilt staining his features. “Am I in trouble?” he asked, ducking his head. “Because I wasn’t staring at them, honest. Their food just smelled real good.”

“It’s alright, darling, you’ve done nothing wrong,” Edwin assured him. “We simply wanted to ask if dining outdoors would be an acceptable change of plans.”

“Oh!” he said. “Yeah, that’s alright. How come, though?”

Edwin pointed towards the cafè entrance, where yet another family was waiting to be seated by the hostess. “The restaurant is quite busy today, and it may take a while for us to get a table. I know you are hungry, so we thought it may be best to avoid the crowds altogether.”

“We can sit inside, if you want!” Charles said with a too-bright grin. “I don’t mind waiting, honest.”

A loud grumble interrupted their conversation, shattering his unaffected facade.

“It sounds as if your stomach disagrees with you,” Edwin said.

“I guess.” Charles folded an arm over his middle. “Sorry.”

For perhaps the hundredth time since meeting this version of Charles, Edwin desperately yearned to discover what Mr. Rowland sounded like when subjected to an unspeakable amount of agony.

Not helpful, he reminded himself. Unbridled violence was tempting, but not helpful.

Instead, he placed a firm hand on Charles’s shoulder. “You have absolutely nothing to apologize for,” he insisted. “Food is a necessity, and the fact that you have been left to go hungry for so long is unacceptable. You deserve to be properly cared for, regardless of any perceived slights that your father may have mentioned.”

Charles blinked rapidly, his brown eyes going wide and glossy with overwhelm.

“Do you understand?” Edwin asked.

“Yeah,” he said, awestruck. “I got it.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Edwin said, then pointed back towards an empty corner of the patio. “Why don’t you go on and pick out a place to sit? I will come and join you in just a moment.”

Charles gave a quick nod and scampered off, sparing the dining couple one last glance as he went.

“Do hurry and get those food orders in, if you would,” Edwin said, turning his attention back to Crystal. “He is severely downplaying the extent of his hunger, and I fear that any residual pain may impede the progression of this runic cycle.”

Crystal glanced back towards the restaurant. “I mean, I’ll try, but we are practically in Piccadilly Circus. Ordering shit here takes time.”

Niko cleared her throat, pointing towards a large, pillared building next to the café. “Isn’t that a West End theater?” she asked innocently. “Your parents have connections to some of them, right?”

Crystal’s eyes lit up like a pair of marquee lights. “Oh my god, they totally do. This place probably has a pre-show menu and everything. ” She swung the door open, driven by a sudden burst of excitement.

“We’ll be back in a bit. I bet I can even get us some free stuff, if I play my cards right.”

“Crystal, we don’t need anything for free,” said Niko, stepping past her. “You’re not even spending your money.”

Crystal shrugged. “Yeah, but free shit tastes better. Plus, it’s not like—”

Their conversation cut off as the door clattered shut, leaving alone Edwin in the restaurant’s busy entryway. He took a moment to collect himself, utilizing the breathing techniques that his Charles was so fond of, before setting off to join his younger counterpart at the far end of the patio.

To Edwin’s express relief, Charles had chosen a table as far away from the other patrons as possible. The living had a habit of setting Edwin’s teeth on edge, and he had no real desire for interaction past the point of necessity—barring Niko and Crystal, of course. It seemed that this Charles felt quite the same, pointedly staring at his toy cat and ignoring every pedestrian that passed by. 

“I see you’re spending some time with your feline friend,” said Edwin, folding his hands on the table. “He’s a rather dashing fellow, isn’t he?”

Charles gave a shy smile. “A proper lad, he is.” Then, much quieter: “I missed him while I was gone.” 

“Do you have any plush toys at your parent’s house?”

“Used to,” Charles said, shoulders slumping. “Not anymore, though.”

His heartbroken expression made Edwin want to wrap him in a hug. It also made him want to hide.

“What happened to them?” he asked.

“Bit old for plushies now, aren’t I?” Charles said with a shrug. “Got home from school one day and they were gone. Reckon Dad tossed them in the bin, but I never got to know for sure.”

Edwin briefly wondered if it were possible to grieve a loss that was not his to mourn—though the yawning chasm in his chest seemed to answer that question well enough.

”I’m sorry that happened to you, darling. I’m sure you miss them something terrible.”

Charles held the toy up to his cheek, rubbing its fur against his face. “S’okay,” he said absently. “I got this little lad waiting for me every time I come back. That can be good enough for me.”

“He will be well cared for while you two are apart,” Edwin vowed. “I will make sure of it.”

Charles nodded, fiddling with the small bow tie. “Where did he even come from, anyway? I just woke up last time and he was in my hands.”

“From Niko’s backpack,” Edwin said, “and I am certain she has more of them in there, if your cat would like some company.”

Charles gave him a skeptical look. “You mean in that beat-up old rucksack she carries around? She’s got space for even more toys in there?” 

Edwin chuckled lightly. “She most certainly does. In fact, her backpack is capable of holding an infinite number of things.”

Charles’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re taking the mick.”

“I am not. Niko—”

“—is a nanny with a magic bag that holds loads of toys,” Charles finished. “Have you ever seen Mary Poppins ?”

The name rang a bell, but brought no images to mind. “I’m afraid not,” Edwin said. “I tend to be quite behind on most forms of modern media.”

Charles nodded thoughtfully. “That makes sense. I guess you were alive before telly was invented, and I don’t think I saw one in your flat,”

Edwin gave a tight smile, fully aware of where their conversation was headed. He and Charles had engaged in the same discussion a number times—so many, in fact, that it had practically become routine. 

“I find that books are quite enough to satiate my need for storytelling,” Edwin assured him. With any luck, that would be the end of it.

Charles gasped, his sunny smile a touch too familiar for comfort. “Maybe we can get one!”

And there it was. Yet another cyclical conversation. His Charles had been attempting to convince Edwin that they needed a television since the day they claimed the office, but Edwin would not budge on the matter. He was not about to lay down his sword simply because this Charles was too charming for his own good.

“Would you be so kind as to tell me the story yourself?” Edwin asked. “I would much prefer to hear your version of the tale.”

Charles perked up a bit. “You would?”

“Certainly,” he said. “You are a wonderful storyteller.”

Charles bounced happily in his seat. “Right, then,” he said, raising his hand with a theatrical flourish. “The story starts in London, with a brother named Michael, and his sister Jane…”

Edwin listened intently as Charles dove into the whimsical tale of a magical nanny and her two rambunctious charges, gallivanting through London with magic to cast and laughter to spare. He had to admit, the character of ‘Mary Poppins’ did bear a striking resemblance to Niko’s dreamlike disposition, regardless of whether she was a working nanny or not. He made a mental note to discuss the similarities with her later.

As Charles continued weaving his story, Edwin couldn’t help but notice how clearly his Charles shone through in this Charles’s love for cinema. There had been many times over the years when Charles had sought to engage Edwin in conversations about his favorite films, and Edwin had always been more than happy to oblige. The silver screen had never held a candle to the mental images Charles created, his haphazard storytelling far more entertaining than any film could ever hope to be.

Eventually, the tale of Mary Poppins came to an end, and Charles sat back, looking satisfied. Edwin got the impression that he was unused to receiving any sort of undivided attention, and sought to bask in what little he could get. His Charles often behaved similarly, acting as if his tendency to ramble was a flaw, rather than a hopelessly endearing characteristic.

Edwin drummed his fingers on the table, considering.

“Do you mean to say,” he asked, feigning disbelief, “that this woman was able to fly from house to house through the use of an umbrella ?”

Charles nodded.

“Well, I’m sorry, but I find that a bit difficult to believe. An umbrella could never sustain the weight of a fully-grown woman, magic or otherwise.”

Charles burst into delighted laughter. “ That’s the bit you’re hung up on? What about the magic chalk? Or the live carousel horses? I reckon those are more—”

His gleeful rebuttal caught in his throat, giving way to a heavy shock of silence. Edwin waited for him to continue, but his focus had shifted, fixating on a distant point past his shoulder.

”Charles?”

Charles said nothing, his eyes vacant and vaguely terrified.

“Charles, darling?” Edwin repeated. “Are you alright?” He reached across the table to tap his hand.

Charles flinched away, and for a terrible moment, Edwin thought he might vacate his seat and bolt in the opposite direction.

“Do not disappear on me, darling,” he said calmly. “Did something scare you?”

“I—” he pointed a shaky finger past Edwin’s shoulder— “I think that’s my dad.”

Edwin whipped around, the world tilting on its axis. Standing beside the cafe’s entrance was a tall, robust man with sickly pale skin and thinning black hair. He wore a loose brown cardigan over an olive green shirt, along with pair of ill-fitting trousers held up by a black leather belt. Everything about his posture was relaxed, but from their angle, it was impossible to get a clear view of his face.

He was not Charles’s father. He couldn’t be. Thirty-five years had passed since Charles’s death, and the man in their sights didn’t look a day over forty.

A small, spitting part of Edwin wanted to watch him bleed, anyway. 

“Darling, that man is not your father,” he said with certainty. “It may look like him, but I promise you, it is not.”

Charles shrank down in his seat, nearly disappearing from view. “How would you know?” he asked. “You’ve got no idea what my dad looks like!”

Edwin’s mind raced, trying to formulate a response. It was not as if he could tell Charles that his father was an old man. This Charles had been beaten senseless by the younger version of his father only hours ago.

“I cannot explain how I know,” Edwin said lamely. “You will just have to take me at my word.”

Charles shook his head. “That’s not an answer ! That could be him, and I’m supposed to be in my room right now! If he finds me here, he’s going to kill me , he’s going to—”

“Breathe, Charles, please ,” Edwin said, moving to take his hand. Charles yanked away and stood, his chair wobbling dangerously. 

“He can’t see me, I can’t have him think I snuck out, I’m gonna get in trouble.” He heaved one shallow breath after another, as if his lungs were suddenly too small for his chest.

Edwin stood along with him. He needed a distraction—something to disrupt the panicked spiral that Charles had worked himself into. His eyes latched onto the large theater that Niko had pointed out earlier, a long-forgotten memory bubbling to the surface.

“If he thinks I left then he might have a go at Mum, and I can’t let that happen. I have to keep her safe, that’s what she has me for, and if he finds out—“

“Did you know,” Edwin said abruptly, “that I used to attend the theater quite a lot as a child?”

Charles blinked tearfully. “What?”

“My mother was quite fond of live performances—though you wouldn’t know it, given her rather dismal personality.” He pointed towards the ostentatious building behind them, directing Charles’s attention. “In fact, she took me to see a number of performances in that theater, right over there.”

Charles’s eyes finally shifted away from the strange man in the distance. “She did?”

Edwin nodded, stepping a bit closer. “My favorite was a stageplay called The Blue Bird. It was performed at the theater during a number of Christmas seasons, but they added a new scene to the script when I was ten.” He took another step. “My mother would not have missed it for the world.”

Charles wiped a few stray tears from his cheeks. “W–what was it about, then?” he asked, voice wobbling.

Edwin held out a hand. “Come, darling. I will tell the story as we walk.”

Charles took his hand and held on tight, allowing Edwin to lead him towards the quiet grounds of the Haymarket theater. Its grand entrance was guarded by an orderly collection of pillars, their pristine gable roof providing protection from the gloomy London mist. The surrounding area was empty, blanketed by the lull between performances, and Edwin hoped its relative silence would allow Charles to recover from his terror in peace.

“The Blue Bird tells the story of two troublesome children by the name of Mytyl and Tyltyl,” Edwin recounted, as Charles ventured towards the theater’s massive entryway. “They were sent on a quest by the good fairy Bérylune, who was in search of the rare Blue Bird of Happiness.”

“Why’d she need it so bad?” Charles asked, peeking through the windows. “Was she sad?”

“An excellent guess,” Edwin commended, “but not quite. Bérylune planned to bring the bird to her sick daughter as a gift, and was unable to locate the animal herself.”

Charles stepped away from the windows and made his way towards the door, tugging on its handle. It didn’t budge. “Why? Did it have healing powers?”

Edwin gave a soft laugh. “No, darling, it did not have healing powers. She simply wanted to do something kind for her ailing daughter.”

“Oh.” Charles knocked on the glass windows, pressing his ear against the surface. “Did they end up finding the bird?”

“Eventually. Mytyl and Tyltyl traveled through a great many lands in search of it, only to find that the poor creature had been locked inside their home the entire time.”

Charles frowned. “Did they let it go, then?”

“In a way. The bird managed to escape their clutches in the end, but its departure was an inevitable aspect of the story. The Blue Bird is a tale about the fleeting nature of happiness, and learning to find joy in the simple aspects of life.”

Charles nodded absently, peeking through a small seam between the theater doors. “Did you like going to the theater with your mum?” he asked. “I go to the cinema with mine sometimes, when my dad is away for work.”

Edwin offered a tense smile. “Do you enjoy going to the cinema?”

Charles opened his mouth to answer, but stopped short. “I asked you first ,” he said, narrowing his eyes.

Edwin stifled a sigh. Whether he had enjoyed going to the theater, and whether he had enjoyed going to the theater with his mother were two entirely separate questions.

The theater, on one hand, had been marvelous. The extravagant costumes, the blue velvet seating, the gold-trimmed decor inlaid on nearly every available surface—Edwin had simply adored it. He looked forward to it every Christmas season. 

The only downside to those wonderful performances had been the ever-present company of his mother. Edwin had rarely been allowed to venture off of their estate for the sake of enjoyment, but when he was, he was often treated as little more than a sentient accessory. It had been maddening, to say the least, but any future outings depended on his ability to endure those moments with obedient silence and a pleasant smile.

“I enjoyed going to the theater immensely,” Edwin decided, because despite all of the unpleasantries, he had. “My mother was often occupied by social events for days at a time, and my father was far too absorbed in his work to pay me much mind. A day spent in the company of others was quite the special occasion.”

Charles stopped pulling on the doors. “Your mum just… left you home?”

“With nannies and nurses and such, but yes. My mother had apparently been quite the gem of polite society before she married my father; I suppose being shackled to a small child did not suit her reputation as a wealthy socialite.”

Charles’s face scrunched in confusion. “What’s all that mean, then?”

Edwin pressed his fists together, suddenly feeling very small himself. “In short, my existence caused irreparable damage to my mother’s preferred lifestyle. She was content to pretend that I did not exist, and I’m afraid my father was quite the same way.”

Charles stared for a long moment, blinking slowly. Then, he said: “Nah. That’s bollocks.”

“Charles!” Edwin chastised. “Such crude language is quite unnecessary.”

“No, it’s not!” Charles walked up to Edwin and wrapped an arm around his middle. “You’re the best person I ever met, and you’re loads of fun to be around. Your mum can go kick rocks.”

Edwin stifled a sudden laugh, the thought of Charles uttering such a ridiculous statement to his mother eclipsing any errant feelings of inadequacy. “That is very kind of you, darling,” he said, burying a hand in Charles’s curls. “Thank you for saying so.”

Charles peeled himself from Edwin’s front, but didn’t go far. “Did you ever see the blue bird show without her?”

“I did not,” Edwin confessed. “By the time I was old enough to travel without a chaperone, I had already been enrolled in boarding school. I never went to the theater again after that.”

Charles turned towards the theater doors. “D’you think we could go inside?” he asked.

They could. Under normal circumstances, they would be perfectly capable of walking through the locked doors and viewing whatever show they fancied.

“We do not have tickets, I’m afraid. Patrons require a ticket to gain lawful entry.”

“Shame, that.” said Charles, pressing his face against the glass. “D’you think we could come back, then?”

Edwin’s spectral heart fluttered, chirping like a sparrow. Now, that was a thought.

He could practically picture it. The two of them searching for their seats amongst a churning sea of patrons, programs in one hand and fingers clasped in the other. Whether it was his Charles, or this Charles, or some other version of Charles—Edwin was beginning to realize that it mattered very little. They were all echoes of the same charming boy he loved, and he enjoyed each of their company just the same.

“Darling, I think that is a wonderful idea,” he said giddily. “I would love nothing more than to attend the theater with you.”

Charles turned away from the window, eyes wistfully bright. “Really?”

“Absolutely.” Edwin strode across the pavement, peeking into the building’s beautifully lit interior. “I’m not sure when we will have time, but perhaps—”

“Jesus christ, there you guys are!” a frazzled voice cut in. Both he and Charles startled at the sudden intrusion, their careful moment shattered like dropped porcelain on the pavement. Edwin looked over to find Crystal walking quickly towards them, a worried Niko trotting in her wake. 

“Hi Crystal!” said Charles, giving a wave. “Have you seen this place? It’s got all sorts of blue chairs and high ceilings and stuff. Looks aces from out here.”

“Yeah, and it’s even better on the inside,” she said, giving Edwin a weary glare. “What are you two even doing over here? I thought we were eating at the café tables.”

“Just a bit of exploring,” Edwin said vaguely. “I apologize if we worried you. I didn’t realize you would be back so soon.”

Crystal held out her arms, showing off an impressive collection of takeaway bags. “Yeah, well, a West End theater menu usually means that my parents have at least met the owners. I managed to get our orders moved to the top of their waitlist.”

Niko handed a creamy orange drink to Charles, who latched onto the straw immediately. “It looks like someone else took your table,” she said, pointing towards the green-sweatered man now seated where Charles had been. “Do you want to go pick out another one?”

Charles leaned heavily against Edwin’s side, pointedly ignoring her question.

That would be a no, then.

“This area is a bit… busy,” Edwin said, opting to keep Charles’s anxiety to himself. “I would much prefer that we seek out a quieter location, if that is amenable.”

Crystal set her bags on the ground. “Yeah, okay,” she said, stretching out her wrists. “Did you have somewhere else in mind?”

Edwin looked skeptically down the length of Haymarket, considering their options.Their most obvious choice would be to venture into Piccadilly Circus, but any nearby areas were likely to be just as crowded. Of course, they could venture away from the Circus, but that left more than a few notable locations to choose from. They could travel into Soho, which was bound to be teeming with pedestrians, or possibly take the train to another part of the city altogether—though that sounded like quite the undertaking.

There was one place within walking distance, though, that could potentially have the calming atmosphere they sought—especially on such a gloomy, overcast day.

Edwin placed a hand on Charles’s head, running a few fingers through his curls. “Darling, how would you feel about a picnic?”

A Much-Kneaded Encounter

Crystal shifted to the side as a group of children scurried past, very nearly running through Edwin’s spectral form. 

“Are we sure this place is any less crowded than the Circus?” she muttered. “I’m pretty sure St. James would have people trying to feed the ducks even if London was in the middle of a fucking snowstorm.”

Edwin shot her a withering look. “Must you be so dour? This park is over fifty acres in size, and London has been heavily overcast for nearly a week. I refuse to believe that every corner of this park is filled with pedestrians.”

“‘Over fifty acres in size’,” she mimicked, showcasing her spectacularly terrible British accent. “God, why do you even know that?”

A pair of young boys barreled through the middle of their conversation, pushing past Crystal and very nearly colliding with Charles. Neither of them changed trajectory as they sprinted past, which left Charles to dodge out of the way.

Well. That answered their question as to whether Charles was visible or not. None of the passing children had so much as spared him a glance.

Edwin’s stomach flattened as Charles turned around, looking after them with interest. 

“Can I go play?” he asked. “I’m aces at tag.”

“Er,” said Edwin. “Not, today, I’m afraid. Your arm is still on the mend, and I fear that participating in sport may result in further injury.”

“Oh.” Charles stared at other children longingly, but allowed Edwin to pull him away. “That makes sense, I guess.”

Edwin continued to lead him down the winding path through St. James, stopping periodically to point out a waddling of ducks or a patch of wildflowers. Charles humored him, greeting the ducklings and flowers with as much enthusiasm as he could muster, but it was clear that he was much more interested in the joyous shouts of other children. After a short while, Edwin pulled Niko and Crystal to the side.

“I fear we may not be able to keep his attention away from the other children for much longer,” he said, voice hushed.

Crystal placed the takeaway bags on the ground. “Yeah, the amount of people here isn’t ideal,” she said. “Do you think we should leave?”

“I think it might be a little bit late for that,” Niko said, pointing towards the hill behind them. “Baby Charles is on the move.”

Both Edwin and Crystal spun around to find Charles meandering across the grass, heading towards a small group of children skipping ropes and chanting nursery rhymes. 

“Charles!” Edwin called out. Charles stopped where he was and spun around, eyes wide with feigned innocence. “Where are you going?”

“To see if those lads need another jumper,” he said, pointing towards the other children. “I’m no good at turning the rope, but I can jump fast as anything.”

Edwin walked across the grass to join him. “I’m sorry, dove, but I worry you might re-injure your arm.” He placed a hand on Charles’s back, nudging him towards the central path. “Perhaps you can skip rope another day.”

Charles pushed his hand away. “I don’t care if my arm is all mucked up. I want to play!”

Edwin looked back towards Niko and Crystal.

Help me, he begged silently.

Niko slung Charles’s backpack from her shoulder,  immediately taking Edwin’s plea in stride. “Oh, you wanna play, huh?” she asked, sticking her hand inside the bag. “Well, we’re gonna play a super cool, super fun game that none of those other kids are gonna get to play with us .”

Charles’s focus finally shifted. “We got something to play with?”

“Of course we do!” she said brightly, her arm now disappeared up to the shoulder. “We’ve got lots of fun things to play with, and they’re all way better than jump ropes.”

Charles trotted back over. “Like what?” he asked.

Niko rooted around for a moment longer. “Well, we got—” she pulled her arm out, hand clasped around something small and round— “this!” 

Clutched in her grasp was a glowing orange hoop, buzzing and bright like a circular neon sign. Its material was smooth and blemishless, reminiscent of colorful porcelain, with a large, precise hole cut in its center. The shape of it reminded Edwin of Saturn’s rings—though the hypnotic brightness left him with the impression of a blazing hot star, rather than the planetary body itself.

It was a beautiful item. Edwin had no idea what its purpose was, but it was truly a sight to behold.

“Woah,” Charles gasped, equally impressed by its glowing visage. “What is it?”

Niko eyed the disc appraisingly, turning it this way and that. Her expression was stern, as if she were a particularly discerning antiques dealer sizing up a product for auction.

“A frisbee!” she declared, holding it aloft. “A weird, buzzing, slightly-warm frisbee.”

“Oh, that’s brills !” Charles said, pushing his half-empty drink container into Edwin’s hands. “Pass it here!” 

Niko tossed the disc into the air as Charles jogged down the path, his one good arm reaching up to intercept it. It nearly flew right past him, Niko’s toss a little high for his short stature, but he managed to tip the light into his grasp and land back on the ground with a soft ‘ oof ’.

He held the disc up in the air, waving it triumphantly. “Edwin, did you see that?” he yelled out. “I got it!”

“I did!” Edwin called back. “Excellent work!”

Crystal sidled up beside Edwin as Charles tossed the glowing hoop back to Niko, his trajectory nearly perfect.

“Just so you know,” Crystal said casually, “you two are, like, insufferable.”

Edwin blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Insufferable,” she repeated. 

He said nothing, shooting her an offended glare.

Crystal rolled her eyes. “God, not like that! Insufferable in, like, a good way.” She shook her head. “Ugh, never mind. Forget I said anything.”

Before Edwin could consider her aborted meaning any further, his attention was pulled away by another pass of the disc. Charles slipped in the mud as he threw it back to Niko, nearly falling face-first on the grass. 

“Be mindful of your surroundings, please!” Edwin called out. His earlier excuses for holding Charles back hadn’t been entirely untrue. He was still injured, and colliding with the pavement would do nothing to help that fact.

Charles paid him little mind as Niko tossed the disc back, its circular form flying far past his location. He took off in a slow backwards run, looking up and into the sky, watching as it continued to hover just out of reach. Before Edwin could call out another warning, he took a small leap off of the ground, propelling himself into the air and—

—colliding directly with a man stepping off of the green, rain-slicked grass. Charles let out a pained yelp as he fell to the ground, landing heavily on the soft earth beneath him.

“Charles!” Edwin shoved the half-empty cup into Crystal’s hands and took off into a jog, leaving her and Niko behind. It was not a far distance, only a few yards at most, but it still felt much too far for Edwin’s liking.

“Oh, dear me,” Edwin heard the man say. “Are you alright?” He offered an arm for Charles to grab, but Charles looked away, trembling at such close proximity. 

“Excuse me,” Edwin snapped, stepping in between them. “I will take it from here, thank you.”

The man calmly shifted backwards and straightened his coat, its neutral shade of beige neatly matching his tartan bow tie and delicate gold pocket watch. “Of course, of course. Are you his guardian, then?”

Edwin fell silent, taken aback by the question. Was he Charles’s guardian? Was that a role he could appoint himself? Even after everything they’d been through together, he hardly felt qualified to receive such an official title. 

For all of his qualities, Edwin had never considered himself an especially nurturing person. He had been raised an only child, the youngest amongst his cousins, and the other children at school had despised him. Naming himself the main caregiver of a hurting, desperate child felt reckless at best.

Or dangerous, at worst.

He was so fragile, Charles was, and so terribly malleable . Every time Edwin held his hand, he felt as though he were leaving Hell-stained fingerprints all over his tiny, wanting soul. 

He had already done Charles irreparable harm by practically handing him to Dr. Hargrove on a silver platter. What if he accidentally did something worse? What if he scared him? What if he hurt him?

He should say no. Charles deserved more than Edwin had to offer. 

Then, Edwin looked down. He looked down at the tiny hand clutching his trousers, and the way Charles stared at the muddy ground, clearly waiting to be spurned.

There was only one answer he could give, after that. If he ended up hurting Charles, he would simply have to walk back into Hell himself.

“Yes,” Edwin declared, standing up a bit taller, “I am. He is in my charge, and I think it would be best if you were to move along, please.” He reached down to help Charles, who immediately took to hiding behind his back.

The beige man tutted in sympathy, before reaching into the inner pocket of his overcoat. “I believe I may have something… Ah!” He pulled his hand out, brandishing a rather large baguette. “Here it is.”

Edwin blinked in shock. The man could not only see them both, but he was also clearly a magician of some sort. He racked his brain for any mentions of a kind older man with an oddly cherubic grin, but his internal audit came up empty. None of his London connections had ever mentioned such a man for as long as Edwin had been practicing.

“For the ducks,” the man clarified, holding the crusted bread for Charles to take. 

Charles peeked around Edwin’s hip to take the loaf from his hands. “Thank you,” he said timidly.

The man gave a rather foolish grin and pointed towards the small hill behind them. “If you are looking for somewhere to settle in, there is an open spot over that way.” 

Edwin turned to find the previously bustling lawn now still and silent. Any pedestrians occupying the space had quickly dispersed, seemingly content to vacate their comfortable perch on the grassy gnoll.

He turned back, regarding the man as if he were a terribly difficult puzzle to solve. “How did you—”

“Angel!” a sharp voice rang out. The beige man turned towards another man just down the lane, this one clad in head-to-toe black. His dismally dark style was partially betrayed by a shock of scarlet red hair, purposely tousled to look as if it were a mess.

“Time to go,” the scarlet man said, his short words drawn-out and angular. “Reservation’s waiting.”

The beige man gave a parting nod and walked off to join his friend, not sparing Edwin another glance as he did. The two men sauntered towards the north end of the park, arm in arm, chatting quietly as they went.

Edwin and Charles glanced at each other. It was not everyday that one met such an odd pair of spiritually inclined figures, especially in a place as public as St. James Park.

“What was that all about?” Crystal asked, walking up beside them. “You make a new psychic friend?”

Edwin scoffed. “Hardly. The man didn’t even offer his name.”

“The red-haired bloke called him ‘angel’,” Charles pointed out. “Reckon that’s his name?”

Edwin picked up the glowing disc, still lying on the ground where Charles had dropped it. The odd thing was clearly magical, buzzing like a hive of bees beneath his fingertips. He suppressed a shiver and handed it to Niko, who quietly stuffed it back into the knapsack.

“It’s possible, though I believe ‘angel’ is more likely to be an affectionate nickname, rather than a permanent moniker.”

“Like ‘dove’,” Niko added helpfully. “Or ‘darling’.”

Charles’s cheeks turned a bright, cardinal red as Edwin looked away, suddenly taking interest in a nearby patch of grass.

“He did some funny stuff with his coat,” Charles mumbled, crackling the baguette crust in his hands. “D’you think he was maybe an angel for reals?”

Edwin considered the question for a moment. The beige man’s magic had certainly been unexpected, but there were more arcane practitioners in London than Edwin would ever care to admit. It was unusual to find one that would practice magic so openly, but it was certainly not unheard of. After all, Edwin wasn’t exactly known for his subtlety within the local arcane community.

However, even Edwin had to admit that he was strange . The fact that his appearance had coincided with the clearing of such a popular seating area was confusing, to say the least. The odds that so many people would decide to leave at the exact same moment were slim, given that most of them seemed to have no relation to one another whatsoever.

“I should think not,” Edwin said eventually, guiding Charles back towards the now-vacant grassy hill. “After all, what reason could an angel possibly have to be in St. James Park?”

Chapter Text

When A Dove Begins To Mourn

Charles collapsed onto the picnic blanket with a sigh. There was no point in denying it any longer.

Something was wrong with his friends. 

Well, no. Nothing was wrong with them. His friends were perfect in every way, and Charles would have words with anyone who dared say otherwise. 

They were definitely acting weird, though. They’d been acting a bit off all day.

Charles had first noticed their behavior when they were on their way to visit his mum’s favorite restaurant. Everything had been just fine for most of their journey, with Crystal and Edwin hanging back to chit-chat while he and Niko led the charge towards Piccadilly. The sky had been a bit rainy, then, but it’d hardly mattered—more rain just meant more puddles to play in and more snails to save.

It wasn't until they'd reached the edge of the Circus that Charles had noticed a bit of a row taking place. Crystal and Edwin had been pretty far behind, which meant he wasn't able to make out what they were saying, but they’d both sounded real upset. 

Then, he’d heard them say his name. Multiple times, like they were arguing about him. He’d tried to keep his nose out of it, he really had, but it was hard— like when his mum and dad argued ‘privately’ in the kitchen. He wasn’t supposed to listen in, but if his mum lost those arguments, then that usually meant he was about to have a real bad night.

He needed to be ready for whatever was coming next. 

To his relief, though, neither Crystal or Edwin seemed keen on including him in their argument. The two of them stopped fighting as soon as they reached Haymarket, and everything was aces from then on out. Crystal and Niko had gone to order a whole load of delicious food for the three of them to share, while Edwin insisted on showing him around some big, fancy theater. Their adventure had eventually led to St. James’ Park, where Charles got to toss around a glowing frisbee and meet a funny old bloke with free bread and a magic coat.

All in all, their day had been brills. A perfect day with his perfect friends, topped off by the prospect of a perfect, delicious picnic.

Except…

Charles rubbed his plush cat against his cheek. Without the presence of theaters and crowds and magic buzzing frisbees, he could tell his friends were worried about something. They were edgy, and distracted, and it was starting to scare him.

Something had clearly gotten mucked up. Something had gone wrong, somewhere, and Charles had completely missed it. He wracked his brain, trying to think of anything that might have made his friends upset, that might have made them angry, but eventually, he came up empty. Everything had been wonderful.

Well, except for one thing: Crystal and Edwin’s tiff from earlier. They had definitely been fighting about something, and whatever it was, it had to do with him. 

Charles toyed nervously with the strap of his sling. Was he the cause of this, then? Had he done something wrong? Or asked for too much help? It sure felt like he’d asked for too much help, but if he had, wouldn’t he have gotten in trouble by now?

Maybe the day had only been perfect for him. Maybe his friends hadn’t had any fun at all.

A hard, uncomfortable knot twisted in his stomach. Maybe they had more important things to do, and he was mucking up their plans by just being there.

Charles looked into his stuffed toy’s eyes with stark determination. He could still fix this. So long as they were willing to speak to him, then he could find a way to make it better. He just had to figure out how.

It didn’t take long to decide that talking to Edwin was probably his best shot at finding an answer. Edwin was kind, and smart, and loved to answer questions—almost as much as Charles liked to ask them. Maybe he could use one of Edwin’s explanations to suss out exactly what he’d done wrong.

“Edwin?” he asked cautiously, testing the waters. Edwin had his neck bent over a small journal in his lap, completely entranced by its contents. “What are you doing?”

Edwin didn’t reply. The air grew heavy with silence as seconds ticked by, his question going unanswered for a good, long while.

“Edwin?” he repeated, a bit louder. “Did you hear me?”

Finally, Edwin gave a hum of recognition. “Yes, dear, I’m sorry. What can I do for you?”

“What are you doing?”

“Just a spot of arcane research,” he said distantly, scribbling on his notepad. It looked like he was sketching out some funny little drawings—like symbols, maybe, or made up letters—though Charles had no real guesses as to what they actually were. “Nothing to worry yourself over.”

Charles nodded, unconvinced. He could buy that Edwin needed some time to do research, but did he really have to be so quiet about it? ‘Research’ usually meant that he and Crystal argued a little, talked a lot, and Charles got to listen in. He never really knew what they were talking about, but at least if they were jabbering at each other, then he knew they weren’t mad at him.

Charles gripped his ankles, digging his fingernails into his socks. Aside from a few nearby ducklings and the rustling of some takeaway bags, Edwin's scratchy pencil was the loudest thing in earshot.

For the first time, all his friends were silent.

Was it him? They all liked to talk to each other. Maybe they just didn’t want to talk to him.

Maybe he was annoying them—after all, his dad gave out punishments for talking too much all the time. He always said that Charles was too loud, or too distracting, or just too… something. He was always too something, no matter how hard he tried not to be. Maybe his friends were finally starting to see it, too.

A gnawing sense of loneliness ate at his belly. He needed someone to talk to him.

He needed someone to talk to him now.

Charles leaned into Edwin's space and pressed a cheek against his arm. “Can you tell me a bit about your drawings, at least?” he asked timidly. “Do they have names, or…”

Edwin nodded, barely looking up. “They are called runes,” he said, tapping his pen against a few of the artistically-rendered squiggles. “Casters often use them as guidelines in their work.”

Charles waited patiently for him to elaborate, but when no further explanation came, he continued the conversation himself. 

“They’re real pretty,” he said sweetly. “What’re you gonna use them for?”

“Nothing.” Edwin retraced a few of the images, before turning to a new page. “Crystal and I are only working to decode the spellcraft of another caster.”

“How come?”

“We have a…” he paused, his expression going a bit fragile. “A sick friend. These runes are the catalyst for his illness, and fully translating them may help us prevent further symptoms from developing.”

“Oh,” said Charles. “Will figuring it out make him feel any better, then?”

It was the wrong question to ask. Edwin finally looked up from his journal, expression absolutely distraught.

“No,” he said weakly, “but there is very little else I can do for him at this point in time.”

Charles nodded in agreement, even though he didn’t really believe that. He was pretty sure Edwin could find a way to fix anything.

“Do you want to talk it over?” he asked. “I know I’m not much good with magic, but I’m pretty brills at listening.”

Edwin cracked open a big reference book, keeping his eyes trained down. “Thank you, darling, but I’m afraid this task requires focus on arcane penmanship, rather than verbal explanation. Perhaps Niko could find you something to play with in the meantime?”

Charles slumped. He didn’t want something to play with. He wanted Edwin to look at him.

“Are you sure you don’t need any help?” he asked, leaning into Edwin’s direct line of sight. He didn’t want to sound pathetic, but the idea of leaving Edwin’s side made him want to crawl out of his skin.

Edwin said nothing in response, once again distracted by the journal in his lap.

Leave me alone, the vague curve in his posture said. Stop bothering me.

Charles stood. If that’s what Edwin wanted, then who was he to refuse?

“Right!” he said brightly. “I’ll go talk to Niko, then. Be back in a jiff.”

He turned away, desperately hoping Edwin would stop him, and tried not to be heartbroken when he didn’t.

The pathway towards Niko was a cluttered one, paved by the hazardous combination of wayward books and half-open food containers. Charles inhaled deeply as he clambered over each obstacle, desperately attempting to shake off the uncomfortable ache of rejection clawing at his belly.

Niko was busy spooning out bowlfuls of sambar as he approached, and the cloud of spices surrounding her smelled absolutely scrummy. Every inhale was more delicious than the last, wrapping around Charles’s tense form in a warm, comforting hug. He was momentarily transported back to the familiar atmosphere of his mum’s kitchen—when his dad was away and she was finally able to make use of the beautiful masala dabba hidden in their cluttered kitchen cabinets.

The thick, dense haze of tamarind and coriander suddenly caught in his throat, making him cough. His mum. In all of the day’s commotion, he’d nearly forgotten about his mum. She was probably wondering where he was, by now. She was probably trying to figure out how he’d even snuck out of their house in the first place.

A blurry rush of tears sprung into his eyes. His dad was probably looking for him, too. They were probably both looking for him, together, and his dad was probably getting angry.

Charles blinked quickly, wiping the thought away. He couldn’t let himself think about it. If he thought about it, he’d really start crying, and his friends were already worried enough. There was no point in dragging them through another one of his pointless tantrums.

Instead, he plastered on a smile and reached mindlessly for Niko’s backpack. 

“Hi Niko!” he said, tossing open the buckled flap. “Mind if I peek in here for a mo’?”

Niko looked over just as he was about to reach in, her eyes going wide with panic.

“Charles!” she said frantically, reaching out to grab his arm. “Stop!”

Charles flinched, his heart pitter-pattering in his chest. He’d heard Edwin scold Crystal before, and Crystal snap at Edwin, but Niko…

Niko never yelled. 

“Sorry,” he whispered, barely audible. “Didn’t mean to.”

Niko eased the bag from his hands and set it on the ground, opening the flap up herself. “It’s okay!” she assured him, sticking her arm inside. “This bag can just be really, really dangerous. If you need something from inside, I can get it for you.” 

Charles nodded, his eyes burning.

“Now,” she dug around a little deeper. “What were you looking for?”

“Nothing anymore,” he said with a wobbly smile. “S’all good, yeah? Sorry to be a bother.”

Niko gave him a curious look, like she was trying to puzzle him out. She didn’t look upset, her eyes all soft and twinkly, but…

She rooted around in the bag for a moment before pulling out what looked like a well-loved copy of a paperback book. The crumpled cover was faded and worn, with a little blonde lad and a tall, orange tiger painted on its front.

“Why don’t you go and join the reading party for a little while?” she suggested, gesturing towards Edwin and Crystal. “I think you’ll love this comic, and Edwin could probably use all the study buddies he can get.”

A whine bubbled in Charles’s throat. He didn’t want to read. He wanted someone to talk to him.

Why did no one want to talk to him?

Niko gave him a gentle pat, and Charles swayed towards her. Her touch was so soft, and warm. It reminded him of his mum. 

Maybe she would understand, if he tried to explain. Maybe she would talk to him. Maybe she could help—

Charles turned away, a lump forming in his throat. She’d already told him what to do. She’d set out a task for him, and the last thing he wanted to do was upset his friends because he couldn’t follow their rules.

He sat down next to Edwin and flipped open his new book. He could do what he was told. He would prove it.

Despite any initial doubts about her taste in comics, it turned out that Niko was right: the book she'd given him was pretty mint. Its text bubbles were short and the characters were funny, even if Charles wasn’t much in the mood for laughing. The main lad even reminded him of himself: a bit annoying, a bit rude, and absolute rubbish at following the rules. He also carried around a stuffed tiger that talked when he got lonely—which made Charles all sorts of jealous. If his plush cat could talk, then maybe it wouldn’t be so bloody quiet .

As he continued to read, doing his best to tune out the piercing sound of silence, a small bead of restlessness began to jitter beneath his sternum. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was doing something bad—that any sense of calm he found was in direct violation of the rules. That sitting still and reading was going to get him in trouble.

But, that was daft. Niko had told him to read, and following her rules wouldn’t get him in trouble. So, he wrestled those flighty instincts into submission, tucked them away, and focused his attention back on the comic.

Except, those restless instincts kept coming back. 

They kept coming back, time and time again, until the fluttering panic in his chest eventually gave way to a heavy knee pressed against his spine. It felt as if the phantom form on top of him was convinced he’d struggle—as if Charles would have the nerve to fight back against a person that was well over twice his size. 

He wouldn’t fight back. He couldn’t. He was too busy being terrified. The wooden floor pressed harshly against his breastbone as a rough ring of fingers twisted his arm, pulling its socket in the wrong direction—in a direction it couldn’t go.

But it did go. It kept going, kept twisting, until the joint popped and a starburst haze of white-hot pain shattered behind his eyelids. The crushing weight of his dad’s lower half bore down on his ribs until he had no choice but to to plead for mercy, to beg, to scream—

Charles rubbed his eyes, desperately trying to push the memories away. He tried to keep reading, to keep doing as he was told, but every bit of his focus was being swept away by a current of horrible, stomach-churning visuals.

The next mental image was one of his dad, standing on their front porch with a lit cigarette between his fingers. He stared at Charles with angry eyes—hateful eyes—before stubbing out the burning end on an old wooden banister.

Charles winced. His mum hated when his dad put cigarettes out on the porch. She’d bought half a dozen ashtrays over the years in the hopes he’d change his habits, but the more she tried to stop him, the less he seemed to listen.

With one hand, he flicked his cigarette off of the porch, discarding it into the overgrown bushes below.

With the other, he gave his belt a two fingered tap. A threat, and a promise.

Then, he turned, and went inside.

At that moment, Charles felt psychic. This was almost certainly what his immediate future looked like. He’d left home without permission, and regardless of whether he meant to or not, he would have to deal with the consequences.

He snapped his book shut. He didn’t want to disturb the quiet, but he needed someone to talk to. He needed someone to distract him, and he needed it now.

One of Edwin’s nearby spellbooks caught his eye, its brick red cover faded and dull in the warm afternoon sun. He didn’t know what it was, or what it said, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that Edwin could tell him about it.

“Hey, Edwin?” he asked, voice dripping with false curiosity.

“Hmm?”

Charles held up the book. “What’s this one about?”

Edwin scoffed, shutting the book in his hands with a dull thud.

“That,” he said bitterly, “is an old witch’s grimoire, though I struggle to see it as anything more than a waste of good parchment at the moment. Its contents have somehow managed to be less than useless.”

Charles winced, the harsh words prodding on his soul like a thumb against a bruise. He knew the statement wasn’t aimed at him, but…

“I’m sure it tried its best,” he offered. “To be helpful, I mean.”

“Perhaps,” Edwin hummed. He scribbled a few notes down in his journal. “Though if that is the case, then I do wish it had tried a bit harder.”

Charles wanted the world to swallow him up, right then. Even if it meant going back to his parent’s house, he wished he would just… disappear.

“Right!” he said cheerfully, backing away. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

Since Niko had already sent him away, the only distraction that Charles had yet to try was Crystal. She seemed a bit busy, staring down at a flimsy journal in her lap, but maybe she would be nice enough to share her findings with him.

“What’re you reading?” he asked, leaning over her shoulder. The pages were covered in long lines of scrawled handwriting, somehow both looping and scratchy at the same time.

“Nothing!” she said, voice high and fake-sounding. She snapped the cover shut, obscuring its contents from view. “Nothing you need to worry about.”

“Oh.” Her sharp dismissal stung like a switch. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” she said, rubbing her eyes. “Just reading through a friend's old journal for clues. It’s pretty boring stuff.”

The little gears in Charles’s brain began to turn in tandem, drawing a few connections from his earlier conversation with Edwin.

“Is it your sick friend’s?” he asked cautiously.

Crystal glanced towards Edwin. He didn’t glance back. 

“...Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, it’s our sick friend’s. There’s not much we can do for him right now, but we’re just trying to make sure he doesn’t get any worse.”

“Can I help, then? I know I don’t know much about magic, but…”

“Sorry, Charles,” she interrupted, “but no. This stuff isn’t really for kids.”

“But—”

“Why don’t you go and read some more Calvin & Hobbes?” she said, pulling the cap off of a highlighter. “That’s probably more entertaining than what Edwin and I have going on right now.”

Charles plopped down on the blanket, tears burning in his eyes. Why wouldn’t anyone listen to him? He didn’t want to read —he wanted someone to talk to. Someone to pull his mind away from his mum, and his dad, and the absolute horrorshow that was probably waiting for him once he got home.

“Guess I’m just not much in the mood for reading,” he mumbled.

Crystal hummed distractedly. “What about some food, then? I think Niko's unpacking some of those rice cakes and chutney, if you want some.”

Charles turned around immediately. He watched from a distance as Niko opened up a few containers of freshly made idlis and coconut chutney—which was just about the last thing Charles wanted to think about. The familiar smell hit him hard, its sweet, nutty aroma twisting his insides like the ribbons ‘round a maypole.

Coconut chutney was his mum’s favorite.

“No thanks,” Charles said, pushing down a sudden wave of nausea. “I’m not hungry.”

Crystal looked up from her notebook.

“Really?” Her gaze was heavy, making his insides squirm. “Are you sure?”

He nodded, suddenly feeling a bit stifled. 

He needed to go. He needed to get away.

“Edwin?” he asked, turning away from Crystal.

“Yes, dear?”

“Can I go feed the ducks?”

Edwin also finally looked up, giving Charles a onceover. “Have you eaten?”

“I already told Crystal, ‘m not hungry.”

“Oh,” said Edwin, brow crinkled. “Are you certain?”

“Yes!” Charles bit back. Why was everyone so concerned now? He was fine.

A look of shock flashed across Edwin’s face, sinking Charles’s stomach like a sack of rocks. Had he said that out loud?

“Alright, darling, I’m sorry,” Edwin said kindly, as if he were the one being a git for no reason. “Of course you can go. Just stay within eyesight, yes?”

Charles gave a quick nod and sped off across the grass, leaving his friends and their collection of books behind.

Charles tossed another bit of bread onto the ground, heaving out a heavy sigh. It was official. Leaving his friends to feed the ducks had been an awful idea.

He didn’t want to be alone anymore. He’d thought he needed space, but he didn’t. He needed his friends. He needed his cat. 

Edwin’s kind, gentle hands prodded at his mind, slow and soothing against the backdrop of his memories.

He wanted—

He just wanted—

Charles tore off another chunk of bread. It didn’t matter what he wanted. He couldn’t go back to his friends now. Everything inside him was starting to get scary, and he didn’t want to drag his friends through another one of his pointless tantrums. Not for the third time in the same day.

One of the ducks at his feet let out a small quack, interrupting his cyclone of hopeless thoughts. Charles looked down and tried to smile back—though he was pretty sure a wobbly frown was all he had left to offer.

The little duck stared up at him with pleading eyes and quacked again, tugging at Charles’s heartstrings. She was cute, and so familiar. Something about her was just so familiar . 

Then, it dawned on him: she reminded him of Buttons.

Charles sniffled wetly. It’d been a while since he’d thought about Buttons.

Buttons had been a birthday present from his mum, back when he was still allowed to have plush toys. She’d come into his room late one night, after one of his ‘nighttime episodes’, and handed him the cutest little mallard duck that Charles had ever seen. She’d told him that she couldn’t sleep in his room anymore, but Buttons could. Buttons would keep him company.

And she had. Buttons had been a proper brills little friend. The two of them had slept together near enough every night, and Charles’s dreams had gotten better. Not good, or happy, but… better. Buttons had kept him safe. 

At least, until…

Charles threw some more of his baguette on the ground. He had no stuffed toys anymore. The only one he had left was Edwin’s little cat—and even that was gone now, too. He’d left it back at the picnic. Like a numpty.

With his last piece of bread scattered lamely on the grass, Charles gave an empty sigh. Neither his self-proclaimed ‘alone time’ or the Buttons-like ducks had improved his mood at all . Now he was just out of company, out of bread, and he couldn’t stop thinking about Buttons . He couldn’t stop thinking about Buttons, and Edwin, and—

He fought back the sudden urge to curl up in the grass. His mum. He couldn’t stop thinking about his mum.

He'd left her. He hadn’t meant to, he hadn’t even wanted to, but he had. Charles had left her all alone, and now that he was gone, his dad would definitely blame her for his absence. Whatever happened to her would be his fault.

A torrent of old punishments spun through his mind like an out-of-control carousel. What if his dad yelled at her? Or locked her in their room? Would he make her sit at the kitchen table? Or go a few days without proper meals?

His next exhale caught in his throat, sticking in his flesh like a fish hook. 

What if his dad hit her? 

What if he really hurt her?

Useless. They were all useless questions. Charles knew that whatever happened would be bad, and he couldn’t let her take that on. His mum needed him home. His mates were brills and he wanted to stay, but he needed to go home.

Fresh tears spilled down his cheeks, leaking from his eyes like a broken faucet. He needed to go home, but he couldn’t. If he went home now, his dad might actually kill him, and he really, really didn’t want to die. He knew that kids could die, now, and dying at the hands of his dad…

A stifled sob rose in his chest. He didn’t know what to do.

Ask Edwin, a tiny, traitorous thought suggested. Edwin can help. He’ll know what to do .

Charles shook his head frantically. Edwin was busy. He and Crystal were trying to help their sick friend, and Charles just kept getting in the way. What if he went back, and Edwin couldn’t get his work done?

He hugged an arm around his middle. Maybe it would be better for all of them if he just went home. They didn’t need him mucking up their study session—especially when one of their friends so obviously needed their help.

Of course, even if he did sneak off, Charles didn’t know how to get home from St. James. He didn’t even know how to get to a tube station.

He didn’t know how to do anything. He was useless, and scared, and he just wanted—

“Charles!” A soft, startled voice cut cleanly through his thoughts. He whipped around to find Niko crouched beside him, her face wrinkled with concern. “What happened? Are you hurt?”

Charles shook his head automatically, swiping his uninjured hand across his cheeks. “No! No, I’m okay, everything’s fine, don’t worry ‘bout me,” he babbled. “Everything’s aces, promise!” 

Niko’s eyes widened in alarm, and Charles pulled away, hands trembling. Maybe he should have run away. All he did was make his friends sad.

“Honey, what’s going on?” she asked, her voice smooth and warm as herbal tea. It spilled between his ribs and across his chest, easing up the block nestled in his throat. “Whatever it is, we can fix it. I promise.”

Charles shook his head. “No, I’m okay,” he insisted, still wiping at his cheeks. “Everything’s fine.” He tried to hold in the tears, but they just wouldn’t stop .

“Charles,” Niko said seriously. “It’s okay if things aren’t okay. I just want to help.”

Something cracked in his chest, then, a harsh, dark sound spilling from his lips. His whole body shook with it—an uncontrollable tremor deep within his soul.

“I don’t know what to do!” he sobbed. He tried to tuck some of it away, but it was just so much. Once the floodgates opened, it all came spilling out. “I have to go home and I don’t know what to do!”

Niko scooched closer. “What do you mean? Why do you have to go home?”

“My mum needs me home!” he practically wailed. “I need to go and make sure she’s alright, because if I’m not home, then she’s alone with my dad!”

Niko placed a steadying hand on his shoulder—a kind, friendly anchor dropped into the panicked sea of his own making. “Your mom is an adult, Charles. She can take care of herself for an afternoon.”

“But—”

“Besides,” she continued on, “your mom is supposed to be keeping you safe. Not the other way around.”

Charles’s next breath got lodged in his throat. No, that wasn’t right. It couldn’t be right. This was his fault.

“That’s not—” he stuttered, then stopped. A second breath got caught in his ribs, stuck behind the first one. “I can’t—”

Niko took his hand and squeezed. “It’s okay, honey. I promise everything is gonna be okay, but you just need to breathe .”

Charles gasped for air, feeling a bit like a fish out of water. He kept trying, but it just wasn’t working.

Niko inhaled deeply herself, looking a bit overwhelmed. “Can I give you a hug?” she asked. “You can say no.”

Her permission was all Charles needed before he launched himself into her arms. He grasped at her neck like a lifeline, burying his face in her silk-soft hair, and finally, finally , sucked in a shaky breath.

“You’re very sweet for worrying about your mom,” she said, running a hand over his back, “but let us take care of you, first, okay? It would make us feel a whole lot better if you did.”

Charles nodded, a residual sob spluttering past his lips. He held on tight and let Niko rock him in her arms, just like his mum used to do when he was really, really little. 

After a while, Niko pulled away. She wiped his cheeks as he hiccuped, still trying to fully catch his breath.

“Do you want me to get Edwin?” she asked delicately.

Charles looked back over his shoulder at the picnic blanket, where Edwin was pouring over some old books with Crystal. They both looked worried, but focused—more focused than they had been when Charles was pestering them with his silly questions.

“No, don’t tell him,” Charles said, staring down at the grass. “Don’t wanna bother him, do I?”

Niko sighed lightly. “If that’s what you want. I’m pretty sure he would want to know if you’re upset, though.”

“But I—” Charles choked on his words, giving a cough. “I shouldn’t be, should I? After everything he’s done, and you’ve done, and Crystal’s done. I’m just—” he kicked absently at the ground. “I dunno. I’m being a bit stupid, aren’t I?”

Niko shrugged. “I think how you’re feeling makes a lot of sense.”

“Does it?” he asked, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “I’m in double digits now, and I’m crying ‘cause I miss my mum. It feels proper stupid.”

“I cry because I miss my parents all the time. Does that make me stupid?”

Charles immediately shook his head. “No.” Then, he asked: “Where are your mum and dad, then? Back in America?”

The smile Niko gave him was so awfully sad that Charles almost started crying all over again.

“My dad died,” she said quietly, dropping his heart off a cliff. “My mom lives in Japan, but she sent me to America so I would miss him less.”

“Did it work?” he asked, before he could stop himself.

“No. I don’t mind missing him, though; I think it just means he hasn’t left me yet.”

Charles hunched over, feeling like an absolute twit. Niko’s dad died, and he was standing there crying because he’d been away from his mum for a few hours. 

“I’m sorry,” he said sullenly. “I wish I could fix it.”

“My feelings don’t need to be fixed,” she assured him. “They just need to be felt.”

Charles placed a hand on his chest, tapping against the anxious knot where his heart was supposed to be. “Does it hurt, ever?”

“What, feeling things?”

He nodded.

Niko tapped her chin, considering. “If you don’t let yourself feel things, they can sometimes get stuck—” she reached out to poke his sternum— “right in there. Until you let them go.”

Charles rubbed at the tension there, willing its heaviness to subside.

“My mum gets sad a lot,” he confessed, like he was telling a secret. “It gets worse when I’m sad, so I try to stay happy enough for both of us.” He tried to take a calming breath, but his lungs just weren’t having it. Something big was in the way.

“It’s only fair, yeah? To make sure you’re happy for the people you love?”

Niko just looked at him, for a moment. 

“No, Charles,” she said, eventually. “That’s not fair at all.”

Her gentle correction felt like permission, causing the block beneath his ribs to crumble. Charles thought it would burn as it went, or crush his lungs, but it felt like... relief. Like he was actually able to breathe again.

“It’s not?”

Niko shook her head. “Everyone’s allowed to be sad,” she said, giving his cheek a playful pinch. “You get to be happy, sad, angry, scared—all of it. We’ll love you no matter what you’re feeling.”

Charles froze. “What?”

“Everyone is allowed to be s—”

“No, not that," he interrupted. "The other thing.”

Niko paused for a moment, looking a bit confused. “We’ll love you no matter what you’re feeling?”

Charles’s stomach swooped. 

“You love me?”

Niko blinked. “Did you not know that?”

Charles shook his head.

“Oh my god, Charles! ” She pulled him into a tight hug, like she was trying to squeeze him back together—broken parts and all. “Of course we do! All three of us love you so, so, so much.”

“Really?” he asked, voice muffled by her shoulder.

“Yes! And no matter what happens, we will never stop loving you.”

Charles tried to pull away. “You won’t?” he asked skeptically. “Even if I—”

“Yes,” she said, not letting go. “I don’t know what you were going to say, but yes. We love you, always.” There was a beat of silence before she whispered: “Okay?”

It felt wrong to accept that as the truth. It felt fake, and hopeful, and too good to be true, but Niko sounded so sure of herself. More sure than Charles had ever been of anything in his life.

He didn’t trust himself. He wasn’t really sure he trusted his parents, either.

But he did trust his friends.

“Yeah.” He finally relaxed, letting Niko fully fold him into her arms. “Okay.”

The two stayed there for a long while, until Charles finally felt brave enough to pull away. His head was all cottony, and there was a big wet spot on Niko’s shoulder, but it didn’t matter.

Because she loved him.

Niko wiped the lingering tear tracks from his cheeks, before running a hand over her own.

“Feel better?” 

“A bit,” he said honestly. “Still miss my mum, though.”

“That makes sense,” she said, then reached into her jacket pocket. “I have something that might help, a little.”

Out of her pocket came Charles’s little plush cat, with its fancy bowtie twisted around in the wrong direction. Two electric blue eyes stared up at him with a familiar intensity, almost as if it were scolding him for leaving it behind.

“You forgot him on the blanket,” she said, placing the kitten in his hands. “Edwin said you’d probably want him.”

Charles sniffled, petting over the cat’s ears with two careful fingers. Edwin. He felt bad for having left the picnic in such a horrid mood earlier, but Edwin was acting so… distant. Like he was there, but his mind was a million miles away.

It scared him. It almost felt like Edwin wanted to take off running and never come back.

“Is Edwin upset at me?” he asked. 

Niko’s expression softened. “Why would he be upset with you?”

“I don’t know,” he said miserably. “He just seemed really frustrated, I guess. Almost like he didn’t want me there.”

Niko gave a gentle sigh. “I think Edwin is just having a really, really hard time right now. Someone he loves is in a lot of pain, and there’s not a whole lot he can do about it.”

Charles blinked, his eyesight going all blurry. “Did I make things worse for him, then?”

“I think this is a conversation you need to have with Edwin,” she said, holding out a hand for him to take. “Not with me.”

“But…” Charles hesitated, his stomach burning with nerves. “What if he’s mad at me?”

“Charles, I don’t think Edwin could be mad at you right now.” She wiggled her outstretched fingers, enticing him to grab hold. “We just need to go talk to him about it.”

He stared at her hand, considering.

“Cross your heart?”

Niko curled her hand into a fist and offered up her little finger. “I pinky swear,” she said earnestly. “That’s the most serious of all swears.”

Charles gave a nervous smile. “Okay,” he said, linking his finger with hers. “Pinky swear.”

When Charles and Niko returned from their excursion, all of Edwin’s books were gone. He and Crystal were finally taking a study break, it seemed, and they’d finished setting up for the picnic that they'd promised. A bit of tension bled from Charles’s shoulders; maybe things weren’t so bad between them after all.

The blanket’s previous layout had been completely reconstructed to imitate that of a neat, makeshift luncheon. Stacks of plates were carefully arranged to resemble a haphazard table for three, closely accompanied by an orderly line of entreés—slightly congealed, but waiting to be served. Crystal and Edwin had even gone so far as to add a few wildflowers to a half-empty bottle of Ribena, placed in the middle of their setup like an improvised red-and-blue centerpiece.

It felt nice, to know that someone cared enough to put the effort in. It also made Charles want to cry, a little.

“This is brills!” he said instead, leaning down to inspect the floral bouquet. “‘Specially the flowers." He toyed with one of the little stems, picking it out of the bottle. "Red’s my favorite.”

Edwin gave a shallow nod. “I know, dear,” he said, sounding pleased, if not a bit nervous. He kept his eye trained on the ground—as if something down there was really interesting. “I am also aware that Crystal and I have been unfairly preoccupied these last few hours. I do apologize if your day has gotten a bit boring due to our need for a research interlude.”

Charles shrugged. “S’okay. Seems like it was real important.”

“It was, but that is not an excuse,” Edwin insisted, finally looking up at. “Nothing is more important than what you wanted, today. This outing was supposed to be about…”

He trailed off at the sight of Charles’s tear-stained cheeks, bottle green eyes going soft with concern.

“Charles, darling?" he asked, voice soft as snowfall. "Are you alright?”

Charles looked up at Niko, who gave him a small nod of encouragement. “Not really,” he finally admitted. He took a deep breath and tried not to let the mounting sense of fear overwhelm him. “I miss my mum, I think.”

Edwin just looked at him, for a moment. The expression he wore was fragile, and maybe a bit bittersweet, but not angry. Nowhere near it, in fact.

Then, he patted the space beside him. “That is a perfectly natural reaction,” he insisted, face lax with understanding. “Would you like to join us for lunch? I cannot imagine that an empty stomach is an effective tonic for melancholy.”

Charles wrung his hands together. “You’re not mad at me, then?”

“I—“ Edwin looked up at Niko, a fissure of panic cracking his gentle expression. Charles waited while they exchanged a series of wordless glances, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

Finally, Edwin turned back to face him. “I am not,” he said carefully. “Why did you think I was?”

Charles cringed at the question. Why was talking about this stuff so hard?  

“It felt like you didn’t really want me here, earlier,” he mumbled, awkwardly toying with the cat in his hands. “Like I was just getting in the way. That’s why I went to feed the ducks instead.”

Edwin’s expression dropped, and for a second, Charles thought that he might start crying, too.

“Charles, my darling, you could never be ‘in the way’. Your mere presence is an unequivocal delight.”

Charles sniffled. “It is?”

“Absolutely.” Edwin’s expression was open and earnest, as if he were begging Charles to believe him. “You will always have a place with us, here. I am terribly sorry if I led you to believe otherwise.”

Charles didn’t know what to say to any of that, really. So he just slid into place at Edwin’s side and curled up beneath his arm, nuzzling into the warm fabric of his jacket.

How could he have forgotten?

He was safe here.

“So, can you tell me more about your books now?” Charles asked shyly—because for some reason, his friends seemed to like when he asked for things. “I really, really wanna be a part of whatever you lot are working on.”

Edwin took a small box of what looked like fried potatoes and red fruit seeds off of the blanket. “Of course I can,” he said, placing the container in Charles’s lap. “After you have eaten something.”

Charles wrinkled his nose. He knew that he must be hungry, that he probably needed food, but a strong bout of leftover nausea swirled uncomfortably in his belly.

“‘M still not hungry. It all smells real good, but…”

“Just try a bite,” Niko piped up. “If you don’t want more after that, then you don’t have to have any.”

Charles gave a heavy sigh, his stomach churning. “Right, then. Just one bite.”

As it turned out, a single bite was all it took. He scarfed down another bite, after that, and then another, savoring the flavors of tamarind, ginger, and pomegranate until all of the potatoes were gone.

“Right,” he said sheepishly, belly finally full enough to actually feel hungry. “Guess I needed that.”

Edwin handed him another container of fried potatoes in response. “Please, then. Have some more.”

Niko placed a bowl of sambar beside him as well, though Charles barely noticed. The potatoes and chutney that Edwin had given him were much more interesting.

“So,” Charles mumbled, mouth full of food. “Runes. Magic. Tell me now, please.”

Crystal groaned, flopping down on the picnic blanket.

“Crystal and I have managed to translate all of the spell’s remaining runes, save for one,” Edwin explained, shooting her a judgemental glare. “This last symbol is the final piece of our arcane puzzle.”

“Except the ‘final piece of our arcane puzzle’ is missing,” Crystal complained, rolling over onto her stomach. She stuck her hand into Charles’s food container, nicking some of his potatoes.  “We haven’t been able to find any concrete answers anywhere.”

“What’s ‘arcane’ mean?” Charles asked.

Crystal flicked a stray pomegranate seed at Edwin, earning herself a disgruntled side eye. “It’s just a fancy word for magic.”

Edwin scoffed. “There is a difference between arcana and magic, Crystal. You should know that by now.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, I get it. All arcana is magic, but not all magic is arcana. You told me already.”

“You didn’t tell me ,” Charles insisted, shoveling another helping of potatoes. “What’s the difference?”

Niko nudged at the bowlful of sambar beside him. “Don’t just eat potatoes, Charles. The lentils and stuff will keep your stomach full.”

Charles nodded and slurped down a mouthful of that, too.

“Well,” said Edwin, steepling his fingers, “the difference between magic and arcana is a simple one…”

Charles listened intently while he finished off the potatoes, thoroughly entranced by his dinner-side entertainment. Edwin’s voice was his favorite thing to listen to, and every last bite of food was absolutely delicious—warm, filling, and spiced to perfection.

Eventually, after Edwin began lamenting the differences between runes and arcane equations, it finally dawned on Charles that no one else was eating. He knew that Edwin couldn’t eat, that being a ghost meant he didn’t need to, but he’d seen Crystal and Niko eat before. They were both magic, in some ways, but they were still human .

After a fair bit of prodding, both girls finally admitted that they were waiting for Charles to finish. They wanted to make sure he got enough to eat, so they were just going to hold off until he was done and share whatever was left over afterwards. They didn't mind, apparently. They said that Charles’s hunger was their ‘top priority’.

It was the most ridiculous thing that Charles had ever heard in his life. So ridiculous, in fact, that he put down his fork and refused to eat any more until they agreed to join him. After all, what kind of friend just ate up all the food and let everyone else have the scraps?

A bad friend, that’s what kind. And his friends deserved good ones.

Niko and Crystal finally dug in alongside him, eating their fill of sambar and rice, before lying down in a tangle of limbs and slowly dozing off. Charles and Edwin soldiered on without them, discussing arcane basics well into the late afternoon hours, until Charles’s tired mind could think of no more questions to ask.

With his belly finally full, and his curiosity thoroughly sated, Charles let out a long, jaw-popping yawn.

“Today was real nice,” he said, curling into Edwin's side. “Don’t you think?”

Edwin gave a short hum in agreement. “Any day spent with you is the most joyous occasion I can imagine," he said thoughtfully, "but I do think the picnic was a lovely touch.”

Charles’s face heated as he looked away, staring pointedly at the plush cat in his hand.

“I haven’t picked a name out for him yet.” He twisted the kitten’s bowtie so it was the right way ‘round. “Reckon he needs one, yeah? A proper name for a proper lad?”

Edwin hummed in agreement. “Do you have one in mind?

Charles held the cat up between them, comparing it side-by-side with Edwin.

“Looks a bit like you, doesn’t it? With the bowtie, and the eyes?”

Edwin gave a fond huff. “As far as I can recall, my eyes are green, not bright, electric blue.”

“They look a bit blue to me,” said Charles, running the cat’s tail between his fingers. “Like the sea after it rains, I guess. Or the sky in the morning, right before the sun comes up.” 

“Oh,” was all Edwin said in response. His blue-green eyes went a little shiny, then, and it really was like Charles was staring into the sea.

He held the cat in his hands as if it were something precious. “Think I’ll name him Edwin,” he decided. “Edwin the cat. Most proper name out there, innit?”

Edwin didn’t respond, at first. He just looked down, expression impossibly tender, before dropping a quick kiss to Charles’s temple.

Charles let out an involuntary squeak before burying his face in Edwin’s jacket. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to receiving such a kind gesture from someone he loved .

A near-silent laugh rumbled through Edwin’s ribcage. “Feeling a touch shy, are we?”

Charles nodded and mumbled into Edwin’s coat.

“What was that, dove? I did not hear you.”

Charles turned his head, cheeks bright red. “Love you,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to say so too, but I—”

“Of course I love you,” said Edwin, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “You are perhaps the most lovable person I know.”

The affirmation warmed his soul like the soothing glow of a morning sunrise. Edwin loved him. Edwin really loved him. 

“Can you—” Charles stopped, feeling a bit greedy. As if he hadn’t earned the right to ask for more. "Can you say it again, maybe? Just one more time?"

Edwin fiddled with some of his bouncier curls and gave him smile—a real one, with teeth and everything.

“I love you,” he confirmed, drawing a purposeful ‘X’ over his chest. “I will say it as many times as you would like to hear it. All you have to do is ask.”

It was like a dream, almost. A surreal, wonderful dream that Charles never wanted to wake up from.

“Now,” Edwin pressed on, “how are you feeling? Are you still hungry?”

Charles yawned again, suddenly overcome by a content wave of exhaustion. He gave a long, thorough stretch, like a cat languishing in the sun. “Nah, ‘m okay,” he said, settling comfortably into Edwin’s side. “Am a bit sleepy, though.” 

Edwin reached off to the side and pulled a blanket over them both. “Please, darling, get some rest,” he said softly. “I will be here when you wake.”

And, really, how could Charles say no to that?

Chapter Text

Dear Charles—It's Me, Edwin

Edwin tossed an acorn from his side of the blanket, aiming carefully for Crystal’s cheek. His throw went wide, and the acorn bounced off of her arm instead, disappearing into the grass.

”Crystal!” he hissed, careful to keep his voice low. Charles shifted against his side with a grumble, but thankfully did not rouse.

Edwin picked up another nearby acorn and flicked it. This missile deflected off of Crystal’s curls. She shifted, murmuring some nonsense, before settling back into her slumber. 

Finally, Edwin lobbed a third acorn, which hit Crystal squarely on the forehead. She woke with a start, flinching away.

“Ow,” she muttered, rubbing a hand over her brow. “What the fuck was that for?”

Edwin gestured towards the encroaching night sky, a smattering of stars twinkling in the distance. “It is getting dark. We ought to get going before you two are cited for loitering.”

“Oh, shit,” Crystal said, shaking a hand through her hair. “Didn’t mean to sleep for that long. Guess it’s been a minute since Niko and I actually went to bed.”

Edwin opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted by a low, contented mumble. Charles buried his face further into Edwin’s jacket, its fabric swallowing up the rest of his sleepy, whispered words.

“How’s he doing?” she asked, nodding towards Charles. “Any signs of aging yet?”

Edwin ran a careful hand through his curls, relishing in their softness. “Not just yet, but he has been this age for quite some time now. I do not know when the next runic phase will begin, but I would prefer that his transformation does not occur while we are still in a public setting.”

Crystal stood with a sigh, stretching her arms above her head. “Sounds like we should probably get you home, then.” She reached over and lightly tapped Niko’s leg with her foot. “Niko. Wake up.” 

Niko rolled onto her back with a groan. “What’s happening?”

“Can you open up the bag-of tricks?” Crystal asked, beginning the process of lacing her overly-complicated combat boots. “We need access to the Dead Boy Doorway.”

“Will you stop calling it that?” Edwin said with a glare. “It is nothing but a simple travel mirror. There is absolutely no need to give it such a ridiculous title.”

Crystal hopped on one foot, struggling to pull on her other shoe. “Oh, so the mirror is where you draw the line at stupid names? I didn’t realize you’d suddenly gained some standards.”

“Excuse me, Crystal Palace Surname von Hoverkraft, but I hardly think that you are in any place to judge our naming conventions.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault I have weirdass parents. What’s your excuse?”

Before Edwin could retort, Charles shifted again, wrapping his arms around Edwin’s middle. His sleepy mumbles transitioned into a long string of whispers, then quickly faded into silence.

“Oh,” said Niko, her voice soft with realization. She reached out and gently pinched one of his cheeks. “I’m really going to miss this version of Charles, I think. He’s such a cutie.”

Crystal gave a heavy sigh. “Yeah, me too. I knew he wasn’t gonna be around forever, but it still feels like I’m losing a little brother or something.”

Edwin flinched, the thought of never seeing this Charles again running through his heart like a sword. Everything about him was so exceedingly sweet that Edwin just wanted to keep him tucked away forever—away from a life that no longer existed, and safe from people that could no longer hurt him.

It almost felt as if he were losing his Charles all over again, except this time, Edwin knew it was coming. He sighed gently and absently rubbed a hand over Charles’s back.

 There was just nothing he could do about it.

A soft thunk jolted him back to the present as Niko settled their travel mirror into the grass.

“Here you go!” she said brightly. “One Dead Boy Doorway, just for you.”

As Edwin stood and scooped a sleeping Charles into his arms, preparing them for transport, a sudden burst of puzzling heat slowed him to a stop. Edwin bent his head and pressed a gentle cheek to Charles’s forehead. The poor boy had developed a fever—low grade, thankfully, but high enough to be noticeable.

“Oh, before you go.” Crystal dug into her backpack and pulled out a purple notebook, the front reading ‘ Crystal Palace’s Mega-Awesome Dream Journal’ in bold black script. “I talked to Iris about the rune we couldn’t decipher. It has no ties to memory magic, which means it’s totally useless in helping us prevent his re-death.” 

Edwin sighed, resting his chin atop Charles’s head. “I figured as much. Its base shape feels vaguely familiar, but I simply cannot put my finger on it.”

Crystal slung her backpack onto her shoulder. “Look, Niko and I need to go do some living girl upkeep, I think. Shower, sleep, change our clothes—all that jazz. Maybe I can give Indigo a call and see if she has anything that might be able to help us.”

“And I’ll reach out to Dr. Williams about his research, too,” Niko chimed in. “He’s the only loose end we haven’t tied up yet. He probably knows more about Dr. Hargrove’s life than we do, so maybe he can give us some more information.”

Edwin gave a curt nod. “A sound plan, both of you. Once Charles and I are back at the office, perhaps I can—”

“Nope,” Crystal interrupted. “You already have a job.”

Edwin blinked. “Excuse me?”

Then, Charles twisted in his grasp, wrapping his uninjured arm around Edwin’s neck. A soft string of mumbles flowed from his mouth, casting realization over Edwin like a spell.

“You two wish to continue the legwork while I care for Charles?” he asked, hugging Charles tightly. Charles quieted immediately, settling comfortably into Edwin’s hold.

Crystal nodded. “I mean, Charles pretty clearly didn’t want us around the last time he transitioned into a new memory. Niko and I can go take care of our living needs and make headway on the case while you get Charles settled. Just let us know when he’s ready to see us.”

“I…” Edwin trailed off, considering the proposition carefully. “Perhaps I ought to provide you with a list of witness questions before I go. And do you have a plan for gaining Dr. Williams’ trust if his records are sealed by medical confidentiality? Normally—”

Niko stepped forward and placed a hand on Edwin’s arm, effectively cutting him off. “Edwin,” she said kindly, “we’ve done this before. Go take care of Charles, and trust us to do our jobs!”

“Yeah,” Crystal agreed, flicking a piece of lint off of her jacket, “what Niko said. We got it covered. Charles’s wellbeing is more important, anyway.”

Edwin let out a deep sigh, willing his anxieties to go with it. This was partly why he and Charles had decided to expand the Agency, after all. If one—or both—of them was indisposed, they needed more hands on deck in order to handle emergency situations.

“If you’re both sure,” he said tightly. “But there is a landline in the office. Should you have any questions, please call me immediately.”

“As if you’d ever pick it up,” Crystal muttered.

Niko lightly smacked her arm. “We’ll be okay,” she assured him. “Really!”

Edwin stepped towards the mirror and poked its silver surface, the familiar image of their office slowly rippling into view.

“Right, then,” he said, placing one foot through the glass. “I shall see you both soon.”

Just as he was about to leave the majesty of St. James Park behind, he was startled to a stop by a sudden: “Wait!” 

Edwin turned around, looking at Niko curiously. “Is something the matter?”

Niko stuck her hand deep into the bag-of-tricks, rummaging around for a moment, before pulling out her spectral-grade polaroid camera. “Can I take your picture before you go?”

“Oh, right,” said Crystal, smiling fondly. “Your project. Sorry, I forgot.”

Edwin raised an eyebrow. “Your project ? What project?”

“Crystal!” Niko shot Crystal an irritated glance, then turned back to Edwin. “It’s nothing!” She pressed the viewfinder to her eye. “Just say cheese.”

Edwin stared directly into the camera’s lens, maintaining his deadpan expression. “Something cannot be both ‘nothing’ and ‘a project’ at the same time,” he pointed out. “And why would I say ‘cheese’? It bears no relation to our present conversation.”

Crystal rolled her eyes. “She’s asking you to smile for the picture, Edwin. Just do it.”

Niko moved a bit to the left, searching for a better angle. “Or else I’ll just take a picture without you smiling, and you can look all sour in a picture with baby Charles forever .”

Edwin sighed. Niko’s threat would normally mean very little to him, but given that he may never get a chance to see this version of Charles again…

He quirked his lips up into a small smile—barely enough to be noticeable, but a smile nonetheless.

Crystal wrinkled her nose. “Edwin, that’s—”

“Perfect!” Niko cut in. “I’ll take it.”

The camera flashed bright white, accompanied by the subtle sound of film being dispensed from the camera’s ejection slot. Charles let out a small sound of discomfort as the light disturbed his peaceful slumber, squirming restlessly in Edwin’s arms.

“Oh, shit,” Crystal whispered. “Did we wake him?”

The three of them waited with bated breath as Charles wiggled dangerously, letting out a series of small, uncomfortable whines. After a few moments, he finally settled, allowing them all to breathe a collective sigh of relief.

Crystal leaned over and looked down at Charles pensively, before giving him a parting kiss on the forehead. “Take good care of him, okay? Make sure he knows that we’ll wait for as long as he needs us to.”

Edwin gave a curt nod. “I shall.”

“Good luck!” Niko called, as he stepped through the mirror’s surface. “And don’t forget to give him lots of cuddles!”

Edwin did not dignify that with a response. He spun on his heel and disappeared fully into the waiting arms of their office.

Arriving back at the office was an uneventful, if aggravating, affair. Every surface was still cluttered with remnants from their earlier research session. Edwin almost wished that at least one of the girls had taken time to pick after themselves. He had Charles to look after. He could not afford to be distracted by such a frivolous task.

Ah well. Edwin stepped past the mess and padded towards the sofa. Their office, tidy or not, was still a place for Charles to rest. He could overlook the mess until all of this was over.

Right, then. First point of order was getting Charles to bed. Edwin tried to deposit him on the sofa, but Charles, even in his sleep, resisted. He clung as if Edwin were nothing more than a preserver on a turbulent sea—which, given Charles’s tendency towards nightmares, likely wasn’t far off.

After some coaxing and gentle reassurances, Charles allowed Edwin to set him down. Edwin buried him a small mountain of pillows. Then, confident that Charles was finally ready to sleep, he turned away. Research awaited him. Book keeping duties. Perhaps he could tidy up, just until Charles woke.

A small whine filled the room, halting Edwin's plans. He looked back over his shoulder. Charles, in his sleep, was tugging at the strap of his sling. Edwin sighed—half concerned, half relieved. So much for settling in. How had this poor boy ever gotten rest when he was alive? The pain must've been worse then, given his mother's refusal to treat it properly. Had he simply... not slept?

Edwin reached down, undoing the strap of his sling. Despite his concern, the fussing was a good sign. If Charles was able pull the strap and remain asleep, then his shoulder was likely healed enough to stabilize itself. Edwin eased his arm out of the fabric. Charles, ever the trusting soul, didn't so much as stir.

As the sling came free, a flare of heat took Edwin by surprise. Concerned, he pressed a hand to Charles's arm, then his forehead—a comforting gesture and temperature gauge, all rolled into one.

His skin was burning up. Not high enough to cause damage, thankfully, but high enough to raise concern. Edwin sat down beside the sofa, lips downturned.

What could be the cause of this new symptom? Could it be due to an upcoming memory? Not likely. If that was the case, Charles would have outgrown of his ten-year-old form already. Was his current memory ending with a fever? Again, not likely. If that were true, his fever would have begun before he fell asleep at the park.

It was a puzzling question, to be sure. Edwin scratched at Charles’s scalp, completely lost in thought. 

Right up until something brushed against his fingers.

Edwin looked down, blinking in surprise. He stilled his hands, but Charles’s hair continued to twist and shift.

Growing.

Moving.

On its own.

Dipping his head, Edwin watched the hair closely. For a moment, nothing happened. Had he imagined it? He must have. Then the curls began to lengthen, centimeters at a time.

Edwin placed a hand on Charles's forehead, gauging its warmth. The result was clear. Charles’s hair was growing at the same rate his temperature was rising. The spell was forcing his body to create additional spectral energy, resulting in a fever.

It made sense, Edwin supposed. The amount of energy needed to change a spirit’s form was monumental. Charles’s soul could not produce enough to accommodate so many physical changes, so the doctor developed a spell that created its own supply.

A keen slipped from Charles’s lips. The sound pressed on Edwin’s heart like a bruise. If this fever was a side effect of the aging process, then there was very little Edwin could do. Charles would simply have to endure until his transformation was complete.

Edwin stood from the sofa and ventured towards the washroom. They didn’t have much in the way of fever reduction, but they did keep toiletries for Crystal and Niko. He retrieved one of Crystal’s washcloths from the cabinet and turned on the tap.

For perhaps the hundredth time since their encounter with Dr. Hargrove, Edwin considered how out of his depth he was. He was an arcanist, after all. Not a caregiver. He felt much more comfortable picking through the ramblings of Dr. Hargrove’s work than he did tending to a child’s fever. Arcane equations had answers. They had a definitive end. Charles’s pain, regardless of what Edwin did for him, never seemed to end. 

Well, until it did end, for a moment. Or Edwin thought it had.

Charles had seemed so happy, at the park. He had seemed so excited during his game of toss with Niko, and so at ease after the mysterious, magical man gifted him that loaf of bread. 

He’d thought that Charles had been relaxed. He’d thought that Charles had felt safe enough to settle, which meant that Edwin could finally release the reigns a bit, too. He’d thought they could simply exist, side by side, as Edwin focused on research; just as he and his Charles had done for the last thirty five-odd years.

But what did Edwin know about the emotional states of children? Nothing, was the honest truth. Charles had been lying, and Edwin hadn’t even noticed until Niko spelled it out for him. He had failed, ultimately.

Again.

Edwin turned off the washroom tap. Now was not the time for such pointless thoughts. Charles was waiting, and if Edwin had learned anything, it was that Charles did not like to be left alone. Which was just about the only need he could meet. Even if Dr. Hargrove’s spell forced them apart at the end of every cycle, he could still stay by Charles’s side.

By the time Edwin returned from the washroom, Charles’s fever had climbed even higher. Edwin laid the wet cloth on his forehead, but it was no use. There was no stopping what Dr. Hargrove set in place. All he could do was wait for the fever to break.

As Edwin sat by, useless, helpless, a desperate idea popped into his head.

When Niko had first started hosting weekly ‘media nights’ for the Agency, one of the programs she’d added was an American medical drama with terrible reviews. Forever driven by her egregious taste in television, Crystal had agreed to watch it. And Charles… well. Charles had simply been pleased to be there. He would have agreed to watch anything.

Edwin had fought against it at first—the show’s medical mistakes should have been reason enough to abandon the idea—but Niko eventually won him over. The excuse of using its storylines to study malpractice had been a stroke of genius, on her part. A fair number of clients came to them citing medical negligence as the cause of their untimely deaths.

The show was absolutely awful. Every episode consisted of far more romantic gestures than medical discussions. But, despite his attempts to scrub the show from his mind, some of the sweeter moments had lingered. 

In the show, when patients were unconscious, their families often spoke to them. It was generally portrayed as nothing more than a foolish gesture. In the end, the patient always found their way back to consciousness—whether they'd heard their loved ones speaking or not.

Edwin had always considered those scenes heartwarming fodder for the show’s storyline. Perhaps he had been mistaken. Perhaps his Charles was only in need of a friendly voice to guide him back to the surface.

“Charles,” he whispered lightly. “Can you hear me?”

The only reply that came was the sound of this Charles’s breathing, light and hitching as he slept. 

“This is Edwin,” he said awkwardly, crossing his hands in his lap. “I hope you are doing well.”

His words fell to the floor, weighed down by formality. Of course Charles wasn’t ‘doing well’. It was a ridiculous thing to say, but here was no social guidebook for Edwin to follow, here. No emotional outline for him to copy. All he had to go on was guesswork, and personal introspection. None of which had ever worked out for him in the past.

Edwin sighed, placing his chin in his hand. Perhaps Crystal had been correct. Perhaps his emotions were inaccessible. It felt as if every feeling he’d ever had was tucked away, only to be accessed as his fickle mind saw fit.

Or perhaps his lack of distraction was the problem. After all, taking detailed notes was Edwin’s specialty. He always did his best problem solving while recording information related to the subject at hand.

Edwin grabbed a piece of paper from a nearby case box, setting it atop the coffee table. There were no official records concerning Dr. Hargrove’s case, yet. So he pulled out his ballpoint pen, tapped it twice, and began to write out the details.

“Crystal and I had quite the insightful conversation today,” he said casually, while scribbling out a description of their experiences at the Hargrove mansion. “She is of the mind that I cannot be functional while also addressing my emotions. As a result, I tend to push them aside.”

A long silence stretched as Edwin’s pen scratched across the page, telling the tale of how he had gotten Charles captured by an evil psychiatrist.

“As loath as I am to admit it,” he said, placing his pen on the table, “I fear she may be correct.”

A suffocating wave of guilt crashed down. Edwin pushed the feeling away, locking it in his core. He didn’t have Niko or Crystal nearby to pick up the pieces, were his careful facade to shatter. Charles needed him to be the reliable one. The adult. He shoved his notes into an empty folder and sat up, straightening his spine.

The adult. He could do that.

“I never spoke much of my family to you, did I?” he asked, quickly moving onto his next report. “Not when you were… you, I mean. Our Charles.” He paused, lowering his voice to a near whisper. “My Charles, as it were.”

For a brief moment, part of him hoped the vague admission might wake his Charles. That he might look up and find that familiar grin staring back at him, ready to call Crystal up and break out their favorite edition of Cluedo.

That didn’t happen, of course. The boy on the couch was a bit older, but still young, skin shiny from a sweltering arcane fever. 

“My parents were quite insistent that emotions were an optional occurrence," Edwin continued, throat tightening. "Any outward expression of emotion was considered nothing more than a plea for attention. My father fancied himself an emotionless man, and my mother, well…” He paused, eyes burning.

“My mother possessed a great deal of emotions. She simply had very few reserved for me.”

A shiver rippled through Charles’s body. Edwin reached across the sofa and grabbed a nearby comforter, pulling it over his legs.

“I fear I have not shown up for you in all the ways I could have, over the years," Edwin admitted. "That in pushing my own feelings away, I may have done the same to yours. You needed me today, and I wasn’t—” His voice broke at the thought of a ten-year-old Charles, alone and sobbing, because Edwin had been too bloody busy.

“I was not there. I know you would not blame me for such a thing, but I was not there. I fear I have not shown up for you in all of the ways that I could have, over the years.”

Edwin stopped, staring down at Charles’s young, peaceful, face.

“I have not been the companion that I thought myself to be," he whispered.

Which was the painful truth of it all. None of this process would have been a shock, had Edwin been the friend that Charles deserved. It would have been upsetting, certainly, but not a shock. If Edwin had pressed Charles for details about his past sooner, then Dr. Hargrove may not have had cause to target him at all. 

Now it was too late. Dr. Hargrove had dug into Charles’s past without consent, and Edwin was nothing more than a helpless pawn in her plans. He’d learned far more about Charles’s history than he was ever supposed to know. He could only hope that one day, Charles would forgive him for committing such a betrayal.

Edwin watched distantly as his hands reached under the coffee table and retrieved a blank time card from one of their case boxes. 

“I will do better, Charles.” The nib of his pen met sturdy cardstock as his hands scribbled down… something. His vision was too tunneled to make sense of the letters. “I promise I will do better. When you come back, I will be here. When you come back, things will be different.”

Edwin placed his pen on the table and looked up. On the sofa, in place of the small boy he’d come to adore, laid a new iteration of Charles. Older and lovely, with an unruly head of curls and a tarnished safety pin where his earring ought to be. He was unconscious, still, but emotive—brow pinched nervously, even as he slept.

Edwin loved him already. How could he not? He was Charles, after all. There was no version of Charles that he wouldn’t love.

But this boy was not his Charles.

Unable to look any longer, Edwin refocused on the time card. Over the top, in his own shaky handwriting, were two short lines.

Charles Rowland
The Case of The Missing Memories

It was then, and only then, that he burst into tears.

A Mirror Too Close

Sleep had always been a bit of a thing, for Charles. He’d deny the fact if ever asked outright, but the truth was, he hated it. He liked the concept of a good night’s sleep well enough, but a good night’s sleep was rarely ever what he got. What he actually got were dreams that rivaled the plots of horror films, more terrifying than The Shining and more gruesome than The Evil Dead.

When Charles was younger, those dreams had been a real problem. His mum had called them ‘terrors’ at the time, and she’d had done everything possible to get him to quiet down: stories before bed, armfuls of plushies, a regular sleep schedule—but none of it made any difference. 

It eventually got so bad that even his teachers started to notice his exhaustion. Instead of asking him questions, though, or checking in with his mum, they’d simply stuck him in the back of the class and officially labeled him ‘nuisance’.

Which was fine, really. Dodging questions about his home life had never been a fun pastime, and Charles slept better in the back of his class than he ever did at home, anyway.

As time progressed and he got a little older, his terrors started getting worse. He woke up the whole house, on those nights, kicking and screaming and tangled in blankets—unable to calm or quiet down, even if he wanted to. His mum wasn’t allowed to sleep in his room anymore, and he definitely didn’t want his dad showing up, so dealing with those terrors on his own had been a normal thing for a long time.

He hadn’t enjoyed it, but he’d gotten by. He and Buttons had done alright on their own.

Until, one day, his dad got fed up. He decided that Charles was too old for the likes of plushies and bedtime stories, and if he was going to wake up the entire house screaming, then he was going to give Charles something to scream about.

His nightmares got a lot quieter, after that—almost as if his subconscious had gotten the memo and decided to make a switch. From then on, Charles didn’t yell, or scream. He didn’t cry out for his mum in the middle of the night, or get tangled up in his blankets

Instead, he froze. When he woke from nightmares, Charles couldn’t move. He couldn’t talk. He could barely even open his eyes, sometimes. All he could do was wait, motionless, until his limbs unlocked and he could finally get out of bed, as if nothing ever happened. 

His mum had been so relieved when the new, quieter episodes started. She’d thought that he was getting better; that she wouldn’t have to worry about his nightmares anymore. Charles wanted to tell her that the terrors hadn’t stopped. They’d just gotten smaller, and scarier. But he could never find a good time to bring it up. If his dad was appeased, and his mum was happy, then that was all that mattered. He could learn to live with it—for their sake, if nothing else.

So, when Charles woke, skin buzzing with warmth and limbs frozen in place, he wasn’t exactly shocked. He wasn’t chuffed about it, but he wasn’t shocked. He knew the drill. Until sleep fully released him from its grip, he was well and truly stuck. There was nothing he could do but wait.

What was a shock, though, was what had woken him. It wasn’t a nightmare, this time, or the sound of his dad’s fist banging on his bedroom door. Instead, it was a voice. A soft, calming, beautiful voice.

“Charles?” it whispered, floating through his consciousness. “Can you hear me?”

Every fiber in Charles’s being sang with dizzying relief. He knew that voice. He’d been waiting to hear that voice for three years.

“This is Edwin,” said the voice.

“I know,” Charles wanted to say. “I’d know you anywhere.”

“I hope you are doing alright.”

“I wasn’t,” Charles wanted to say. “But I am now.”

Edwin’s gentle voice washed over his limbs like a salve, soothing the burn that licked against his skin. Charles was only able to catch his words every few sentences, but it hardly mattered; each syllable worked in tandem to mend his battered soul, sewing each nerve back together stitch by fragile stitch.

“I never spoke much of my family to you, did I?” the voice said, full and warm and bursting with feeling.

Charles wanted to smile. He wanted to nod his head and recite back the stories that Edwin had told him when they visited the theater—about the bluebird and the fairy and how much he disliked his mother. About how they were gonna go back to the theater with tickets, one day, so they could finally sit in the audience together.

“Not when you were… you, I mean,” Edwin clarified. “Our Charles.” 

Charles’s warm thoughts stuttered, his sluggish brain going all fuzzy. 

What did that mean?

There was a long pause. And then: “My Charles, as it were.”

A cold, stabbing bloom of ice unfolded in the center of Charles’s forehead, eclipsing any warmth that Edwin’s presence brought.

What was Edwin saying?

Was there… another Charles?

Edwin continued to speak, but the freezing ache behind Charles’s eyes left him too distracted to follow. His whole body burned, skin scorched by a mysterious fever , but the headache felt more… real, somehow. More dangerous.

It wasn’t until he felt the warmth of a blanket that Charles finally tuned back into their one-sided conversation.

“I fear I have not shown up for you in all the ways I could have, over the years,” Edwin said softly, piercing through his hazy thoughts.

Charles wanted to disagree, but all he could do was lay there. He didn’t know where Edwin was even getting all this from. He’d been nothing but nice and helpful ever since he first found Charles all those years ago, locked up and freezing in his dad’s bloody basement.

A shock of pain lanced through his temple, piercing his scattered brain. Had they met in his dad’s basement? He could’ve sworn they did, but something felt a bit—

Edwin continued his sullen declaration, chasing Charles’s thoughts off track. “When you come back—”

“I’m right here!” Charles tried to say, but his lips wouldn’t budge. For some reason, his body was taking even longer to wake up than usual.

“I will be here,” Edwin finished, voice wobbling. “When you come back, things will be different.”

Then, there was a gasp—a horrible, shuddering sob, almost as if Edwin had lost someone.

Almost as if someone had died.

That was all Charles needed to shake himself from his stupor. He wasn’t sure what he was going to say, but he was going to say something . He needed to say something.

“Edwin?” he croaked, voice cracked and raw. He slowly peeled his eyes open, blinking away the lingering fog stamped across his vision.

Two watery eyes snapped up to meet his gaze, glinting a beautiful hazel under the dull office lights.

Charles coughed, clearing his throat. “You alright?”

“Charles, darling.” Edwin brought a hand to his face, wiping at his eyes. The movement was quick and flighty, bordering on the edge of panicked—as if he were trying to hide the tears that Charles was already privy to.

If Charles were a braver lad, he would’ve told Edwin that it was okay. He would’ve said it was okay to cry, okay to be sad—okay to be all of the things that Edwin had told him about, back when they first met. 

But, Charles wasn’t brave. Not even close. So, he just laid there instead, watching as Edwin tidied himself up, and tried not to feel like the absolute coward that he was.

Eventually, Edwin pulled his hands from his face, giving Charles a sweet smile; the kind that always made his chest ache with longing. “Welcome back. It is lovely to see you.”

Charles sunk in on himself, cringing at the thought. He knew he looked a proper mess right now—covered in blood and sweat and definitely smudged kohl. He wished he could be more like Edwin: always put-together and proper, even after what looked like a pretty nasty crying spell.

“‘S good to see you too,” Charles mumbled, rubbing a finger over his waterline. Maybe if he smudged the kohl some more, it would at least look purposely messy. “Didn’t answer my question, though.”

Edwin huffed out a laugh, light, but guarded. “Yes, I’m perfectly alright,” he said fondly. “Please, do not worry yourself over me.”

Charles scoffed. “Been worrying ‘bout you near constant since I saw you last, haven’t I?” he half-joked. “Don’t know why I’d stop now.”

It was only meant to be a bit of a laugh, really, something to lighten the dense mood, but Edwin didn’t even smile. Instead, he brought a hand to Charles’s brow, as if he were feeling for a temperature. “Oh, my darling,” he sighed, brushing a few curls out of his face. “How long has it been, this time?”

Charles closed his eyes, leaning into the touch. It’d been years since anyone had bothered to be gentle with him after a nightmare.

Or bothered to be gentle with him at all, really. Of all the things that Charles inspired people to be, ‘gentle’ never seemed to be anywhere on that list.

“A little over three years,” he said, voice cracking. “I did alright for the first two, but after the third ended, I was starting to worry that you might’ve got stuck somewhere.” He paused, considering. “Guess I’m not sure how this all works, really. Did you get stuck somewhere?”

Edwin gave a soft, joyless smile. “I wish I had a reasonable excuse, dove. All I can say is that I'm sorry to have left you for so long.”

Charles shook his head, brushing off the apology. “Not your fault, is it? Just wish I didn’t have to wait so long to see you.”

“As do I,” Edwin said, settling his hand on the sofa—not grabbing, or demanding, but simply offering. “Three years is an awfully long time to be apart, isn’t it?”

Charles nodded silently and reached to take his hand, only to be stopped by a prickling pain beneath his jacket sleeve. He hissed sharply, pulling his arm against his chest.

“Charles?” Edwin asked, alarmed. He pulled his hand back, immediately on high alert. “What’s the matter?”

Charles sighed, blinking quickly. He was over the moon to finally have Edwin back, but bloody hell. He sure had a talent for picking the worst possible moments to show up in Charles’s life.

“You sure you wanna know?” he asked, pulling his sleeve down nervously. “Might just be easier for us to pretend I’m alright.”

Edwin shot him an impressively lethal glare. “That it is quite possibly the most obtuse suggestion you have ever made, Charles Rowland,” he said primly, somehow managing to sound both cross and kind at the same time. “Tell me what has happened right now, so we can address the issue properly.”

Charles let out a soft laugh. “Alright, alright, no need to get in a tizzy.” He propped himself up on an elbow, wincing slightly at the pressure. “Help me sit up, would you?”

Edwin’s hands were on his shoulders in an instant, gently guiding him into an upright position. Charles relaxed and let him do most of the work, wholly relieved to finally have someone nearby that actually wanted to help him.

Once Charles was fully seated against the pillows, he gave a nervous sigh. 

“Just don't freak out, yeah?” he said warily, beginning the process of peeling off his jacket. The tacky fabric scraped harshly against his skin, making him wince. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

Edwin’s brow furrowed even further, eyes darkening with worry. “Charles, please. What has happened?”

Charles said nothing. He just pulled off the rest of his jacket so that Edwin could see for himself.

It wasn’t even that bad, was the thing; at least, to Charles it wasn’t. He’d managed to get away from his dad before he’d actually done any real damage, like rip out his piercing, or shatter his hand against the basement floor.

Going by Edwin’s pained gasp, he clearly didn’t agree. 

“Oh, my darling.” He reached out slowly, allowing Charles time to pull away, before wrapping a gentle hand around his wrist. “What did he do to you?”

Charles, once again, said nothing. The soft skin of his arm was laced with a harsh collection of bruises, each one taking the shape of his dad’s favorite belt. Most of them were flat to the surface, only a purple mark beneath the skin, but some of them—the worst of them—were raised into bloody, weeping welts. The split ones were shallow—not deep enough to scar, at any rate—but they were ugly. Charles didn’t know how Edwin could stand to look at them, much less touch them.

“He doesn’t usually have a go with the buckle end,” Charles said as Edwin examined one of his nastier gashes. “I’m just lucky he didn’t clip me in the head, this time ‘round.”

Edwin’s face went a bit pale at his statement. “I’m not certain I would attribute such a small victory to luck.”

Charles barked out a laugh, far too bright for the conversation at hand. “Nah mate, it’s lucky. Last time Dad went spare, it was a bloody mess. Couldn’t even read for two days after, ‘cause my vision went so wobbly. I’ve gotten better at keeping my head covered since then, so this really isn’t that—”  

“Darling, please.” Edwin gave Charles’s knee a squeeze, fingers warm and solid through the fraying material of his jeans. “I know you are likely used to this treatment by now, but please. Do not make light of this situation for my sake.”

“I’m—” Charles started, then stopped. He was about to tell Edwin that he wasn’t making light of it, that this was just how his life was, but the words got caught in his throat. 

He didn’t want to lie. Not to Edwin, at least.

“Don’t worry, yeah?” he said instead. “These hits weren’t even on purpose. Dad just caught my arm when I was trying to block.”

Edwin’s eyebrows furrowed, wrinkling his forehead to an impressive degree. “Your phrasing suggests the presence of other injuries that were on purpose,” he said, voice carefully neutral.

Charles bit his lip. He wanted to reassure Edwin that everything was alright, that what his dad did wasn’t that bad— but the words got stuck behind his lips. He tried to force them, to squeeze out a couple syllables at a time, but it was no use. All he could manage were a few soundless puffs of air, caught somewhere between an exhale and a wheeze.

It’d been a long time since he’d tried to talk about his dad. Maybe he just couldn’t anymore.

Edwin placed a hand on his uninjured arm. “It’s alright,” he said kindly. “We can revisit this topic later, if you’d like.”

Charles nodded and let the subject drop, allowing the resulting silence to swallow up his thoughts. Edwin busied himself with a small collection of medical supplies on the nearby coffee table, their quiet companionship only disturbed by the sound of ripping bandages and rattling medicine bottles.

After a few long moments, Edwin refocused his attention on Charles’s arm, brandishing a cotton pad and a bottle of peroxide.

“I apologize if this stings,” he said, upending the bottle onto the swab. “I will try to be quick.”

Charles shrugged. “Can’t hurt much worse than when I got them.”

Edwin gave a gentle hum and pressed the pad to one of his open sores, dabbing lightly at the dried blood collecting on his skin. A sharp, pained hiss pushed through Charles’s teeth. Edwin pulled away, but Charles just shook his head. 

“’S alright, mate, you can keep on. I can handle it.”

Edwin sighed before pressing the cotton swab back to his wounds. “I’m certain you can,” he said bitterly. “I simply tire of you being forced to do so.”

Charles made a point to keep quiet, after that.

After all of his lashes had been thoroughly cleaned, Edwin reached across the table to retrieve a roll of bandages. “Would you like to tell me about the events that led up to all of this?”

Charles clenched his jaw tightly, considering the offer. He’d known the question would come eventually, and he definitely wanted to talk to someone about it, but…

This was big. Big enough that Charles wasn’t totally sure how Edwin was going to react. He’d never had any cause to question Edwin’s intentions before, but after all of the shit his dad just put him through, plus the weird stuff he’d caught Edwin saying before he woke up…

Well. Couldn’t hurt to test out Edwin’s honesty before telling him something really bad, could it? For safety’s sake, if nothing else.

Charles cleared his throat. “Can I ask something first?”

“Of course,” Edwin said distractedly, wrapping some of the bandages around his forearm. “Questions are always welcome in this office.”

“Who were you talking to? Before I woke up?”

There was a small, soft sound as the bandages slipped from Edwin’s hands, falling to the floor next to his feet. They bounced once on the wood before rolling across the room, leaving a long trail of fabric between them and the front door.

“Bugger.” Edwin stood to retrieve them, posture as prim as could be, though the slight wobble in his hands betrayed a sudden spot of nerves.

“I was unaware that you could hear me,” he said casually, rolling the bandages back into their neat little log. “I was…” 

Then, Edwin paused, the fabric stilling in his hands. It wasn’t a long pause, really, barely more than a tick, but it was enough to make Charles’s heart sink. 

“I was speaking to you.” His fingers began to move again, tucking the cloth’s edges back into place. “I know it was a bit silly, given your unconscious state, but I was speaking to you.”

Charles felt as if he’d just been slapped. Hell, he’d prefer to have been slapped, if this was the alternative.

Edwin was lying . And he was bad at it.

“You said something about someone being ‘your Charles’,” Charles pressed. “Were you talking about me?”

The conflicted look on Edwin’s face spoke louder than his careful words ever could.

“No,” his expression said, clear as day. “I wasn’t talking about you, and you were never supposed to know that.”

A deep chasm opened in Charles’s chest, miles wide and aching . He’d waited over three years for Edwin to come back. He’d spent three bloody years hoping, praying, for all the good it did him, that Edwin would come back and save him.

All that time, and Edwin hadn’t even been thinking about him. He’d been too busy waiting on somebody else.

“Charles—”

“Wait,” Charles cut him off. He slowly climbed to his feet, wincing as the rest of his injuries screamed in protest. “Just… wait.”

Edwin obliged, his moss green eyes going wide and unblinking.

“All I want is a straight answer, yeah? Please, just—” he stopped, his words getting muddled by the pounding ache in his skull. “Is there some other Charles you’re waiting on?”

A gentle rush of static filled his ears, punctuated by the tense silence settling thickly between them.

Finally, Edwin blinked. “Darling, I am very happy to see you ,” he said, masterfully sidestepping the question. “I cannot offer you much more information than that at the moment, so I’m afraid that you will simply have to—”

“Take you at your word,” Charles finished, his face growing flush with frustration. “Right, I know. That’s what you always say. But it's a bit hard to do that when you’re lying to me, innit?”

“Charles, I have never lied to you,” Edwin insisted, taking a small step forward. He sounded so sincere, so honest, that Charles almost dropped the subject entirely—but the look of raw guilt spreading across his face told a completely different story. “There are minor details that I have kept to myself, and I may have directed your attention away from the truth a handful of times, but—”

“So you let me believe in some load of tosh that you knew wasn’t true,” Charles cut in, the bitter truth tearing his heart in two. “Edwin, that’s still lying.”

A small, desperate whine eked past Edwin’s lips. “Dove, please, I—”

“Is that why you call me that, then?” Charles snapped, all of his hurt and confusion concentrating into a toxic stream rage. “Give me a few nice names so I stop asking questions? Make sure I don’t figure out whatever it is you’re hiding from me?”

Edwin’s kind words died out immediately, his wounded gaze swimming like the sea. “I call you those names because I care for you,” he said softly. “Quite deeply, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, come off it, Edwin,” Charles scoffed, crossing his arms. A sharp pain shot up his arm, making him wince, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore. “I’m not your Charles, am I? Secret’s out. You can give it up—have a laugh, if you want. You fooled me.”

“Charles, I would never laugh at you,” Edwin insisted, voice thick with desperation. “I know it’s been some years, darling, but I still love you.”

The words floated between them like a delicate bubble, suspended in the air by silence. Their eyes locked together, desperate and wild—as if they were each daring the other to pop it.

Charles punched out a sigh, fighting back the urge to scream. He almost wished that Edwin was lying, now. It would be so much easier if he was lying, because if Edwin didn’t love him, then all of the lies would make so much more sense.

But Charles could tell that he wasn’t. He could see it in the nervous twist of his hands, could hear it in the tiny hitch of his voice. It was painted across his face in a pleading display of devotion, shrouding his delicate features in a desperate shadow of love—in a desperate shadow of fear.

For some reason, Edwin loved him. Edwin loved him a lot.

But if Edwin loved him so much, then why the fuck did he keep lying about everything?

Charles was the first to look away, suddenly overwhelmed by the intensity of Edwin’s gaze. He would take any diversion, any distraction, anything to draw his focus away from the familiar, heartbreaking pools of green staring back at him. He looked down at the coffee table, searching amongst the scattered papers for something to latch onto, for something else to look at, and—

There it was. Plain as day, sitting on the table’s cluttered surface.

Charles Rowland
The Case of The Missing Memories

Charles swiped the card off the table, heart thumping in his chest. 

“What’s this?” he asked, voice quiet, but hoarse.

He watched as Edwin froze again, staring at him with hollow, deer-like eyes.

“Edwin, what is this?” he repeated, harsher this time. “What am I missing?”

Edwin took a shuddering breath. “Darlin—” he clicked his tongue. “Charles. I need you to listen to me.” He approached the couch slowly, hand outstretched, as if he were trying to calm a spooked animal. Charles took a step backwards, edging around the sofa’s arm.

“There is quite a lot I cannot tell you, just now. I know this all must be rather confusing, but it will make sense in the end. All of this secrecy is for your own safety, I promise.”

The surrounding office went all faded and dull, then, retreating into the corners of Charles’s mind.

“This is for your own good, boy," his dad said, wrapping his belt around his fist.

Charles stepped away, pressing his back against his bedroom wall. “Dad, please, I swear! I barely know him, I swear, please don't —”

A sharp pain rocketed up Charles’s spine as he backed directly into the desk’s protruding corner. One of the hidden wounds on his back took the brunt, throbbing steadily, and Charles barely managed to bite back a scream.

“Right,” he said, voice shaking. “I ought to leg it now, yeah? My dad’ll be looking for me, and trust me: neither of us wants him tracking me here.” 

Edwin took another few steps towards him, standing directly in front of the office door. “Charles, darling. Look at me.”

Charles shook his head, gulping down a mouthful of air. “Haven’t seen my pack, have you? Don’t remember grabbing it before I left the house.”

“No, I haven’t. But, Charles —Charles.”

Edwin’s stern-yet-soft tone grabbed Charles’s attention, forcing him to look up. The gaze that met his own was the same he’d seen when he was seven, eyes lit by booklight in the depths of that cold, dark basement. It was the same he’d seen when Edwin tended his wrist, fixed his shoulder, and rocked him to sleep after his nightmares.

“All of this secrecy is for your own safety.”

“This is for your own good, boy.”

A shower of blue sparks splashed across Charles’s vision, burning brightly behind his eyes. There was no way he could run past Edwin without getting caught. Charles took a few more steps backwards until he ran into the office mirror, its polished surface beckoning him like a still, silver pond.

The last thing he remembered, from when he was ten, was bright flash of light, and the whispered phrase:

“Oh, shit. Did we wake him?”

After that came a smooth wash of cool, liquid glass enveloping his skin, and a gentle rocking as someone carried him in their arms.

Charles reached out and touched the mirror, its shining surface rippling beneath his fingertips. “You brought us back from the park through this, yeah?” he breathed. The glass was cool, and calm—like the surface of a lake. “I felt it.”

“Charles.” Edwin’s voice lacked its usual warmth, instead replaced with a heavy dose of warning. ““Let’s just have a chat, alright? We can talk about whatever you like—just come away from the mirror. ”

Charles leaned his foot on the mirror's bottom frame, testing its strength under his weight. “Will you tell me what you’re hiding, if I do?”

Edwin’s expression broke, and a small whine snuck past his lips. “Darling, I can’t.” His next breath hitched, clearly catching in his throat. “If I tell you, then I may hurt you.”

Charles swallowed hard, his instincts warring within his chest. Part of him wanted so badly to stay—to wrap himself in Edwin’s arms and never think about any of this ever again. But the other part…

“All of this secrecy is for your own safety.”

“This is for your own good, boy.”

“Then, sorry,” Charles said, sticking his hand through the glass, “but I can’t stay.”

Edwin suddenly rushed towards him, moving far faster than Charles had ever thought him capable. “Charles, wait, you don’t know how to—!”

But he was too slow. Charles just barely dodged Edwin’s grasp and slipped into the mirror’s surface, leaving nothing but a silver ripple behind.

Chapter Text

A Mirror Too Far

Mirror-hopping, Charles quickly realized, was a lot harder than he thought it’d be.

To his credit, the only experience he had with mirror portals was through Edwin, and Edwin made it look easy. If it hadn’t been for the cool wash of tepid glass against Charles’s skin, he never would have even known that they’d mirror hopped back from St. James at all. 

Of course, Edwin was a proper genius. He did magic all the time, and he was aces at it. Charles was just… Charles. He’d never done magic before in his life.

As he tumbled through the stretching abyss of melting glass and boundless reflections, Charles decided that mirror travel was probably not the best place to start his wizarding journey. The idea of a mirror dimension was cool and all, but he had no idea what he was doing. He should have started with something smaller. Like, literally anything else.

But it didn’t matter. He was in it now, and there was no going back. The only way forward was through.

Charles reached out, hands searching for an outcropping to grab onto, but everything he touched was far too smooth to be an anchor. Each time he tried to pick a door—er, mirror—to poke his fingers through, it promptly shattered into a dozen different reflective openings, each surface thinner and less defined than the last. 

Some of the pieces he tried to grab were angular, like sharpened edges of broken glass, while others were globby and melting, like the gummy insides of a lava lamp. Every time his fingers finally skimmed a mirror’s surface, its silvery material immediately transformed into its opposite state, slipping out of his hands like sand through an hourglass.

Charles had no idea what it meant. He barely had any idea what he was looking at. All he knew was that he was surrounded by mirrors, and if he had to keep staring into the infuriating echo of his own reflection, he was going to bloody lose it. 

So, Charles closed his eyes. If Edwin could find a way to make sense of this magical maze of mirrors, then there had to be some sort of logic to it. 

It took a few deep breaths to get his brain back online, but eventually, a memory of the beautiful French bakery, Méert, came to mind. Back when he was ten, bruised, and starving, Edwin had created a sweet shop portal that either of them could have stepped through at any time. It hadn’t been an immediate process, though; even though Edwin was an expert, he’d still needed a moment to search for the location before it rippled into view.

It stood to reason, then, that Edwin’s seamless method of travel required him to have a location in mind before he stepped into the mirror. He didn’t have to search for anything once he was inside, because he already knew exactly where he wanted to go.

Well, Charles had already mucked that up. His only choice now was to pick a location on the fly and hope it kept him from getting trapped in some bottomless mirror pit for the rest of eternity.

He managed to come up with a few random places—his favorite music venue, a local park, even the dingy loo mirrors at his school—but the truth was, Charles didn’t really have anywhere to go. The only place he’d ever wanted to go was Edwin’s office, but he’d tossed that option out the window as soon as he called Edwin a liar and slipped through the office mirror unattended.

A small, sobbing part of him wailed at the thought, begging him to just go back— to go find Edwin, or Niko, or Crystal, and apologize— but he couldn’t. Niko and Crystal would want to tell Edwin where he was, and Edwin…

Well. Edwin probably wouldn’t even want to see him, after what he’d said—though Charles wasn’t sure that Edwin had ever wanted to see him in the first place. He was just some… replacement, it sounded like. A disposable, second-best stand in to keep Edwin company until ‘his’ Charles got back.

Whoever that was.

So, no, going back wasn’t an option—but it wasn’t like he had a lot of other options, either. Charles wasn’t unpopular, by any means, but he didn’t have a lot of close friends. Being the family secret keeper made it hard to trust people like that.

There were a couple of lads on his cricket team that could maybe be of some help—a second string named Nathan and their wicketkeeper, Cole. Both of their families were minted—like, properly so—so Charles could probably talk them into fronting him some money for a cheap hotel. Just until he figured something else out.

After a tick of consideration, though, Charles decided against it. Borrowing money from his teammates was risky, and it’d probably come back to bite him in the arse sooner or later. The last thing he needed was more angry people on his tail.

His concert friend, Etta, was a slightly better option. She was the only other rudie he knew from the 100 Club, and they met up for a bit of moshing, and maybe a bit of tagging, nearly every weekend. The two of them got along swimmingly, and she’d probably be happy to have him spend the night on her bedroom floor, if he asked.

Only problem was, Charles had never interacted with her outside of those dark, wild weekends. He doubted her mum would be too pleased if some dodgy bloke turned up on their front steps in the middle of the night—especially looking as rough as he did.

His last, and riskiest choice, was Etta’s cousin, James. The two of them had only met a few hours ago, but even just the thought of him sent Charles’s heart racing

Getting help from James was a longshot, really. Barely more than a chance. But, if Charles could just find a way to reach a payphone, then maybe…

Charles shook his head, reality sinking his stomach like a stone. What the hell was he thinking? Calling James was a terrible idea. Probably the worst idea he’d ever had.

No, Charles was on his own, now. He had no one, and he had nothing. That was just how it had to be.

“So, what do I do, then?” Charles asked the mirrors, staring at his reflection.

The boy staring back didn’t even look like him anymore. He looked small and shaking and scared— covered in welts and bruises dealt by a man that he would never, and could never, protect himself from.

“I can’t go back, but there’s—” his voice cracked down the middle, and the mirror cracked along with it. “There’s nowhere else for me, is there? I just— I want—”

Charles bit his lip, barely stifling a sob. “I just want to go home,” he didn’t say. Because yeah, he wanted to go home. He wanted to go home and try to make things better—to make things different— just like he did every time he and his dad fought. He always thought that if he was just good enough, just nice enough, then maybe things would be okay. Maybe his dad would stop.

But every time, he was wrong.

His home wasn’t nice, or welcoming. It wasn’t kind, or warm, or comforting. His home was hard. It was cruel, and unforgiving. A place of nightmares.

Deep in his heart, Charles longed to go home. He ached for it. Yearned for it. 

But the home he wanted just didn’t exist.

A whining, homesick sob finally burst from his lips, bouncing off of every mirrored surface in the vicinity. The shiny puddle holding his reflection reacted immediately to the sound, distorting his features until everything recognizable was gone.

It was interesting, Charles thought, and new. None of the other mirrors had reacted like that before. So, without thinking too hard about what it might mean, Charles did the only thing he could think to do: he reached out, and gently poked his own reflection.

The silver surface was cool, and slimy, and didn’t transition into a new form of glass, like all the others had. Instead, it let his hand pass straight through, disappearing up to the wrist. Then, the surface hardened, gripping tightly at his skin, and pulled.

Charles's body got all compressed down, then, kind of like he was being vacuumed through a straw, before the portal finally spat him out of a small, mounted mirror hung about fifteen inches in the air. He fell from the wall and tumbled directly into what felt like the basin of a washroom sink, before rolling off of a high counter and landing on the floor with a loud, resounding thud.

He groaned, long and dejected and only slightly muffled by the cool floor against his cheek. Of all of the stupid shit he’d gotten up to over the last handful of years, tonight would have to go down as his worst cock-up yet.

The thing was, Charles hadn’t even been planning to go out, before the night got started. He’d been sneaking out a bit too much lately, really pushing the envelope, so tonight was supposed to be his night to stay in. He was meant to be doing coursework, cleaning his room, avoiding his dad—all the things he normally got up to on a boring weekday evening.

But, then, Etta and James had called after dinner and said that The Rolling Stones were headlining at the 100 Club—one night only, first come first serve, with limited pit space. It was some sort of a tribute show, apparently, and it was going to be legendary.

How was he supposed to say no to that? 

So, he’d gone. And now, all because of that sodding show, Charles was beat to shit, absolutely skint, and had nowhere left to go.

Except… 

Charles thumped his head against the floor, hard , but the thoughts just kept on swirling. 

It wasn’t entirely because of the show, was it? Sure, his dad had gone on an absolute rampage when Charles walked in at half two in the morning, house keys in one hand and a new Rolling Stones shirt in the other. And yeah, maybe Charles had been pushing it a bit when he decided to get cheeky, and apologize for not getting him a shirt. But when his dad had practically yanked off his jacket, and accidentally pulled that secret, handwritten note out of his pocket in the process…

Well. Who’s fault was that, then? Because it definitely wasn’t the show’s, and it definitely wasn’t his dad’s.

Charles slipped a hand into his pocket, feeling around for the tiny slip of paper. The poor thing was crumbled, and half torn to shreds, but it still sent his heart racing all the same. He really should’ve just tossed it out—for safety’s sake, if nothing else—but…

Charles pushed onto his knees, biting back a groan. He didn’t have time to think about all this. The floor beneath him felt like tile, which meant he was probably in someone’s house. He needed to leg it before he got cited for breaking and entering.

It took a while, but with the convenient help of a nearby countertop, Charles was finally able to pull himself to his feet. The room was still too dark for him to get his bearings, which really wasn’t helping to ease his nerves, so he felt around the wall for a light switch and finally flicked it on.

The room quickly flooded with soft, orange light, and suddenly, Charles couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. All he could do was stare.

The room Charles had landed in was a washroom, which, given the tile flooring, wasn't much of a shock. Every corner of the room was impressively tidy and dusted to perfection, with a folded set of towels and fluffed-up bath mat to match. The walls were mostly bare, completely free of decorations—save for one piece of art hung proudly on the wall. 

On the canvas, staring back at Charles, was the immortalized face of a very charming little boy. His gap toothed grin was wide and sunny, accompanied by a pair of rounded, chubby cheeks and a wild mass of unkempt curls.

Charles knew that painting. It was the same painting that his auntie had sent for his seventh birthday, just before he first met Edwin. 

Suddenly, it felt as if all of the air had been sucked from the room, leaving Charles completely breathless. All that running, all that pain, and he'd still only managed to get as far as his parents' bloody washroom.

A hushed sob pushed against Charles’s throat. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t be back here again. The prospect of facing his parents—of dealing with his dad’s anger, of watching his mum’s fear unfold—was too much. He couldn’t do it, he couldn’t—

Charles fumbled his next inhale, unable to fully catch his breath. He had to go. His dad was still pissed—like, properly so—and Charles was in no shape to go another round with his belt. He needed to leave, to hide, but he was trapped.

With each passing moment, his breaths only got shorter, and shallower, making his head spin. His dad was going to kill him, he was going to—

Then, amidst all the panic, a small, sweet thought came to Charles’s mind.

“Breathe, Charles. Just breathe.”

Right. That’s what Edwin always said, wasn’t it? 

So, he made sure his next breath came in deep and slow, just like Edwin taught him all those years ago. He splayed a hand across his chest, tapping gently against breastbone, and tried to remember what Edwin’s fingers felt like against his aching, wanting skin. 

And, like a miracle bestowed by the angels that Edwin said didn’t exist, it worked. The creeping panic began to recede, and Charles was finally able to think again.

Maybe, despite it obviously being a shit turn of events, landing back in his parent’s house didn’t have to be all bad. After all, if Charles was going on the run, then supplies were a must, and if supplies were a must, then there was really only one thing he actually needed: his bag.

Charles’s bag was a long term project, really—one that had been years in the making. It’d been nothing but a precaution, at first, but as time went on, it slowly became clear that he might actually need to use it someday.

See, back when Charles was still in primary, his home life had been alright. Not good, in any sense, but good enough. He’d found a way to make it work.

His dad had always been a mean old bastard, but back then, he’d still been predictable. If his dad walloped him, there was usually a reason for it. It’d fucking sucked, sure, but even if Charles couldn’t avoid the beating, there were at least things he could’ve done to prepare for them.

Somewhere in the last three-odd years, though, something changed. Charles still got a good lashing for his shit grades in English, or a stray elbow for forgetting to wash the dishes, but it wasn’t just that. Even if he was good, and did everything right, his dad always found a reason to beat him silly. What Charles did just didn’t seem to matter anymore.

So, Charles did the only thing he could think to do. He’d started packing a bag. 

A few tenners here, a couple cassette tapes there—he’d even managed to nick his birth certificate long enough to get a copy made. It’d felt a bit ridiculous, all told, like he was making the situation out to be worse than it actually was; but deep down, he knew. He knew his dad was a dangerous fucking cunt, and there would probably come a day when living at home would no longer be a survivable option.

Well, that day had come. It was time for him to pack up, and go.

Charles pressed his ear against the door, listening carefully for any signs of life. He expected to hear the sound of his mum’s gentle snoring, or the rustling of his dad getting ready for work, but there was nothing. No light filtered in from underneath the door, either. 

The bedroom, by some miracle, seemed empty.

After taking a minute to build up his nerve, Charles cracked open the door and stepped out slowly, careful to keep his footsteps light. The washroom he’d landed in was connected to his parents room, which meant that leaving its enclosed space was nothing short of entering the lion’s den. If he’d made a mistake, and his dad was asleep in bed, then he was fucked.

It turned out he was right, though. Just as Charles suspected, the room was completely empty. 

It felt a bit odd to be standing in his parent’s room, like he was somehow breaking and entering in his own home. He wasn’t normally allowed inside—one of his dad’s rules, decreed after a nightmare when Charles was nine—but as far as he could tell, it looked the same as it always did: neat as a pin, right down to the recently-hoovered carpet.

Their big, double bed was perfectly made, with the comforter folded down to reveal a clean, white top sheet hidden underneath. Their night tables were neat and orderly, virtually free of clutter, with a Stephen King book set precariously on his dad’s side, and a bottle of lotion and picture frame settled on his mum’s.

Charles stopped short, staring down at his mum’s night stand. The bottle of lotion set there was the same she always used, just some cheap, scentless brand she picked up from the shop, but the picture… that was new. 

Well, not new new. The picture itself looked old , withered and dull around the edges, with his mum and a blurry teenage boy posing for the camera. The boy clutched a cricket bat, hanging loosely at his side, while his mum had an arm wrapped around his waist in a loose, affectionate hug.

Leaning in towards the picture didn’t make the details any clearer, somehow. He could make out everything about the boy—the slumped posture, the sport attire, the short, curly hair—except the face. One small, delicate earring dangled from the boy’s ear, too, glinting gently against the photo’s shiny, backlit lighting.

Charles gave his own dirty safety pin a tug, still stinging from the pain of being pierced earlier that night. Between the earring, the bat, and his mum, the older boy almost looked like…

Like…

A harsh, biting pain exploded through Charles’s mind, then, stabbing through his forehead like an icepick to the skull. He pressed the heel of his hand into his eye, trying to push it away, but the gentle pressure only made it worse.

Amid the swirling blend of blinding pain and building pressure, a whispery, creeping voice crawled into his ear:

“Hello, Charles.”

The deadpan words were cold and menacing , turning his insides to ice. Every one of his muscles locked up as he waited for her to speak again, but she didn’t. The room was quiet, and still as the dead.

One minute of silence turned to two, which quickly became three. After a good five minutes or so, Charles finally turned back towards his parent’s bed. He was still alone, somehow.

Thank fuck for that. 

Their big, double bed was perfectly made, with the comforter folded down to reveal a clean, white top sheet hidden underneath. Their night tables were neat and orderly, virtually free of clutter, with a Stephen King book set precariously on his dad’s side, and a bottle of lotion and picture frame settled on his mum’s.

The picture inside was…

Wait.

An eerie sense of déjà vu crept down the back of Charles’s neck. Hadn’t he had this realization already? 

What… had he been thinking about, before the whispery woman spoke? Because he’d definitely been thinking about something. He could practically taste it, right on the tip of his tongue.

It was something about his mum, maybe. His mum and… someone. Someone familiar. Maybe it was…

His thoughts faded into a sea of blue static, fuzzing together like a broken telly screen. He tapped on his temple, trying to clarify the mental picture, but it was no use: whatever he’d been thinking was gone.

Oh well. If he couldn’t remember what he was thinking about, then it must’ve not been that important. That was what his mum always said, anyway. He took one last look at the blurry picture frame before stepping out into the kitchen, leaving his parent’s room behind.

Now, Charles’s parent’s room, as far as he could tell, had looked the same as it always did: clean, tidy, and organized. Not a single stitch out of place.

The kitchen, however, was a bit of a different story.

For long as Charles could remember, cleaning the kitchen had always been his mum’s favorite go-to stress relief. Tiffs with his dad often occurred with the sound of running water as a backing track, the snap of his belt layered harshly over the twinkling tones of dishware being organized by his mum’s shaking hands.

Now, though, his mum’s cooking space looked a bit more normal. It wasn’t a mess, really, but it was homey—like someone actually used it. There were a few dirty cups in the sink, still half-filled with his mum’s favorite tea, and an open tin of biscuits on the counter, as if someone had simply taken a few and forgotten to put them away. The stove was clean, but not scrubbed to sparkling, and a dirty pan sat on top of the burners, waiting patiently to be washed.

It was odd, to say the least, but Charles wasn’t complaining. His parents had never left a packet of hobnobs out on the counter before. Since the sleeve was half empty, he could probably nick a few and actually get away with it.

The biscuits were a bit dry, and a bit bland, but they were food. He knew that taking too many of them wouldn’t do—his dad was a bit precious about his biscuits, after all—but it was hard not to just scarf them all down. The last time he’d had open access to sweets had been… God, he couldn’t even remember. Years, probably.

The sweet, oaty taste must have coaxed the rest of his appetite out of hiding, because as soon as Charles packed them away, his stomach gave a angry growl. He, Etta, and James had stopped at a kebab shop on their way back from the concert only a few hours ago, but it hardly mattered. Ever since Charles hit his growth spurt a couple months back, his stomach always wanted for more.

After a minute of hemming and hawing, he finally gave a sigh. Fuck it. If his parents weren’t home, and he wasn’t coming back, then what could it hurt to raid his mum’s leftovers one last time?

What Charles expected to find, upon poking about his parents’ fridge, was standard fare for the Rowland household: bangers and mash, roast chicken, maybe some leftovers from the chippy down the street. His dad loved traditional British nosh, and no matter how good his mum was at making her own cultural foods, anything more flavorful than salt was all but banned for use in their kitchen. His dad’s taste was just about as bland as his personality, and all the dishes his mum cooked were made to reflect those unfortunate preferences.

Except, again, something had changed. Amid all of the various containers of his dad’s boring food, Charles also found signs of his mum’s favorite dishes. There were covered bowls of biriyani sitting in the fridge’s bottom drawers, and what looked like homemade sambar ladled into recycled takeaway containers. Coconut chutney and idlis—which his mum hadn’t made in years— sat proudly on the center shelf, carefully stored in an old set of chipped glass tupperware. It all looked, and smelled, absolutely delicious.

Despite all of his options, though, cold, leftover pizza seemed to be the move. Charles reached in and swiped a slice—making sure to nick the biggest one—while still staring intently at the containers of sambar. Their rippling plastic was condensated and warm, as if his mum had just finished packing them away, which… wasn’t possible. He looked back towards the used pot on the stovetop, chewing thoughtfully on his slice of sausage and mushroom. 

Sure enough, the pot’s dirtied rim was coated with what looked like the dried remnants of his mum’s homemade sambar. He stuck his finger in the pot and took a lick, just to confirm.

It tasted like home. Just like his mum’s cooking always did.

Another flare of confusion rolled through Charles’s belly. When the hell had his mum made sambar? She’d made jacket potatoes for dinner, before he’d snuck off to go see The Stones—with beans and cheese, just like his dad fancied. The last time she made sambar was just after he’d gotten back from visiting Edwin, as an apology for his absolutely busted shoulder. 

Was there a special occasion he’d somehow missed? Maybe—

“Breaking and entering, are we?” 

A soft, sudden voice interrupted Charles’s investigation from somewhere beyond the kitchen. He jerked in surprise, then spasmed again when a piece of mushroom lodged itself in his throat. He coughed violently into his hands, each harsh movement pulling at the unhealed lashes on his ribs.

“Alright in there, duckie?” the voice said lightly, followed by a soft thump . “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Finally, Charles managed to hack up the stray piece of mushroom. He set his half-eaten pizza on the counter, too agitated to take another bite.

“S’not nice to sneak up on people, you know,” he said sourly, scanning the kitchen for any signs of life. “Who even are you, anyway? Last I checked, the only people that live here are out.”

The voice rang out again, originating from the dining area just off the kitchen. “Too right, duckie,” it said. “Not much a person, am I?”

Which, admittedly, didn’t put Charles’s mind at ease. He stepped around the kitchen counter and towards the dining room, peering into its dim, lightless void.

Charles didn’t see anything, at first. The room was so dark that even its giant dining table was a bit lost; nothing but a vague outline in the shadows. Just as he was about to turn back around, though, something shiny caught his attention.

A pair of big, round eyes, flashing yellow in the dark.

Charles took a shaky step back, muscles tense with shock. He knew that magic was real, now, so did that mean all the other things were real, too? Was there some sort of dodgy mythical creature shacked up in his parent’s house, talking to him in the voice of a posh old lady with terrible timing?

Even though Charles had fled the office by choice, he suddenly found himself wishing that Edwin was there with him. Edwin knew more about myths, magic, and ghosts than Charles had ever known about anything. All Charles knew was the little Edwin had told him about ‘ghost rules’ and the bedtime stories his mum used to read him when his night terrors were still in full swing.

One of the stories, he recalled, was about a type of spirit called the Yakasha. They were magicky beings with glowy eyes and a tricky personality, but they were friendly spirits of the forest. Not friendly spirits of his parent’s dining room.

The only other light-eyed being he could think of was a type demon called a Rakshasa. They were magic casters with animal heads, and only had shiny eyes if they were powerful.

And they definitely weren’t as nice as the Yakasha were.

“What are you?” he finally asked, voice wavering. He was usually so good at coming across unbothered, but there was something about being in his parent’s house, alone and injured, that made every fiber of his being wobble with anticipation.

“Oh, dear me,” the voice said, moving closer. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

The voice, as small and polite as it was, sent a shiver down Charles’s spine. He backed up further into the kitchen as it got closer, and closer, and…

“I mean you no harm, duckie,” the voice said. Charles blinked in shock. A small calico cat, with green eyes as big as the moon, blinked back. “In fact, I would only like to thank you.”

“Um,” Charles said, still trying to rationalize the whole talking cat thing. “Sorry?”

“I’m a housecat, dear,” the cat said patiently. “My days are very boring, and it’s not very often we get a little visitor sneaking about the kitchen.”

“…Right.” Charles quickly ran a hand through his hair, searching for any signs of a concussion that he might have missed, but there was nothing.

“I’m Clementine,” the cat pressed on, sniffing the air. “Or Clem, if you like.” Her eyes shifted towards the counter, obviously clocking the cold pizza that Charles had placed there only moments earlier. 

A hysterical laugh bubbled up Charles’s throat. “Sorry, but am I on drugs, or something?”

Clementine cocked her head. “Did you take any drugs?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Then I suppose that settles that, then.” She jumped up onto the counter, eyes still laser focused on Charles’s abandoned dinner. “You got a name, love?”

Asking questions was a pretty clever cover, on her part, but Charles was smarter than she gave him credit for. They both lunged for his pizza at the exact same moment, and he managed to edge her out by barely more than a hair. 

“I’m Charles,” he said smugly, taking a victorious bite. Clem’s big, pleading eyes made him feel like a bit of a knob, though, so he placed a bit of sausage on the counter as a peace offering. “I live here.”

“ You’re Charlie?” she asked, whiskers twitching. “Paul and Mariamma’s boy?”

“Only my family calls me Charlie,” Charles said stiffly, “but yeah. That’s me.”

“Well, this evening just keeps getting more interesting, doesn’t it?” She scarfed down the sausage in one bite, letting out a satisfied little mrrp. “Your mum’s told me loads about you, love. She adores you.”

The persistent band of tension around Charles’s skull tightened a little more, effectively killing off the last dregs of his appetite. He tossed his pizza crust across the kitchen; it hit the bottom of the sink with a thunk . “You talked ‘bout me that much since…” he thought back, trying to gauge how long he’d been gone. “Two hours ago?”

Clem’s big eyes bore straight into his brain.“What do you mean?”

“That’s when I was here last,” said Charles, rubbing his temples. “‘Bout two hours ago, I reckon.” Then, he paused, taking in the half-full cat food bowl next to the sink, and the scratching post off near the entrance to the dining room. “Er… did we get all this cat stuff in the last two hours?”

“There was no one here two hours ago. Your mum and dad went on a date to the cinema, and probably out to the pub afterwards—just like they do most Saturdays.”

Charles barked out a laugh. “The cinema? No, no way. My mum and dad don’t go on dates, they—” He clenched his jaw, an icy ache blooming in his bones. “And today’s Tuesday morning, innit? Not Saturday night. If anything, Dad should be at the station, not at the cinema.”

Clem’s tail swished furiously, almost knocking over a nearby bottle of coriander. “Duckie, I don’t mean to pry, but…” She trailed off, as if she wasn’t quite sure how to phrase her question.

The small, inquisitive lilt in her voice immediately set Charles’s teeth on edge. She was clearly concerned, which was bad—but she was also curious. Which was worse. 

Curiosity was nothing new, to Charles. Adults looked at him with curiosity all the time. Some of them clearly wanted to ask him questions about his home life, but they rarely ever went through with it. Charles could count on one hand how many times an adult had directly asked him about what was going on at home, and he could count on no hands the amount of times he’d been honest about it.

Unfortunate as it was, Charles did get it. It was like that old saying about circuses and monkeys or whatever—his home life just wasn’t their problem. If they asked him about his dad, and Charles responded honestly, then they’d actually have to do something about it. They couldn’t go on pretending that the quiet house on the corner wasn’t owned by an actual fucking monster.

So, yeah, Charles got it. But that didn’t mean he felt good about it.

“Just spit it out, Clem,” he said bitterly, walking towards the dining room. “Whatever you want to ask, just ask it.”

Another small thump rang out as Clem hopped off of the counter, darting between Charles’s feet as he walked. He almost tripped over her, twice, but she didn’t seem to mind

“Right, well, it’s just…” She blinked quickly as Charles flicked on the overheads, forcing them both to squint. “I feel it prudent to ask, love: what on Earth are you still doing here?”

“Oi!” said Charles, slightly miffed. “I’ve lived here longer than you, haven’t I? Dad and I had a row, sure, but this is still my house.”

Then, he muttered: “For now, at least.”

The curious twinkle in Clementine's eye didn’t dim one bit, with that answer. If anything, it only got brighter, regarding him as if he were some particularly difficult puzzle to solve.

Between the green of her eyes, and the sparkle in her gaze, it was hard for Charles not to think of Edwin. A burst of longing split through his ribs, and suddenly, Charles wished he was talking to anyone but this bloody cat.

“I don’t mean to offend,” she said primly, jumping up on a nearby dining chair. “I simply thought you’d have passed on by now. It’s been an awfully long time, after all.”

Her ominous comment stirred something deep in Charles’s gut, shifting like a glacier beneath the ocean’s surface. The sinking feeling was familiar and unfamiliar all at once, cold and broken and painful—

“Passed on?” he echoed. “What are you on about, ‘passed on’? Passed on to what?”

“Come now, duckie. Surely you must know what I mean.”

Charles raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to explain.

“Passed through the gateway to eternal peace?” she asked, as if that clarified anything. “Taken your journey to the Sunless Lands?”

"The Sunless Lands?" A peaceful image of Edwin instantly came to mind, with his soft, radiant smiles and shiny, glowing book. "Why would I want to go somewhere without any sun?”

Clementine was silent for a moment, then gave a big stretch, paws kneading against the chair’s upholstery. “It’s more of a metaphor, I think. No one really knows what’s in the Sunless Lands.”

As odd and out of place as her words were, Charles couldn’t shake the feeling that they should make sense. The longer he considered it, though, the more it felt like he was trying to shove a plug into an outlet the wrong way round: the information just wouldn’t fit. 

The way she talked about The Sunless Lands, revered them, even, almost made them sound like…

A freezing shock of pain lanced through Charles’s forehead, then, completely destroying his train of thought. The only thing left in the fallout, again, was a woman’s calm, creeping voice.

“Tell me about yourself, Charles.”

Somewhere deep inside his mind, a missing puzzle piece clicked into place. He knew that voice. He knew that voice from somewhere, and it fucking scared him.

“Everything alright, duckie?” Clementine asked. Her voice was soft and careful, clearly schooled to be comforting—but its sudden onset nearly startled Charles out of his skin all the same.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, heart pounding. “Yeah, I’m good, just…” He turned back towards the kitchen. “Did you not hear that?”

“Hear what?” Clem asked.

“That woman’s voice. It sounds so familiar— like someone I met in a dream, or something.”

“There’s no one else here, love,” Clem said kindly, as if Charles didn’t know that already. “Are you certain it wasn’t me? I do tend to ramble, on occasion.”

“Nah,” he said dismissively. “Your voice is warm and nice and stuff. Hers was all…”

The muscles in his scalp locked up tight, then—like he’d gone and drunk a Slush Puppie all in one go. “All… um…”

“Grating?” Clementine guessed.

“Sure, I guess, but not the word I had in mind,” he said, rubbing his temples. “It was all….”

“Disquieting?”

Charles snorted. “Yeah, kind of, but that’s really not the word I had in mind. Where does a cat even learn all these big words, anyway? Find time to read a Webster?”

“Your parents love a bit of Scrabble, now and then,” said Clem—which was a laugh, really. Charles was pretty sure his mum and dad didn’t even own a proper deck of cards, much less a bloody Scrabble board. “Oh, I know! What about ‘abstruse’?”

“I don’t think I even know what that word means, Clem.”

“Nor do I, but your mum used it on a double word slot last week. Ran circles ‘round your dad’s use of ‘acorn’, didn’t she?”

And with that last bit of information, the woman’s wispy voice fully slipped away, fading out of Charles’s memory completely.

“Just… never mind, Clem,” he said, walking towards the entryway. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. I’m here for one thing, and then I’ll be out of your hair—er. Out of your fur, I guess.”

“Are you certain you can’t stay for a tick?” she asked, trotting alongside him. “It really does get so dull, cooped up inside all day. It’d be nice to have some new company, for a change.”

“Nah, Clem, sorry. Mum and Dad could be getting in any time, and I need to be gone before they…”

A subtle shine of silver caught Charles’s eye as he spoke, glinting from from the edge of the basement’s crooked door frame. The wood was burgundy, now, instead of its usual brown, and much more weathered than he ever remembered it being—but the door’s overnight paint job wasn’t what concerned him.

Two glinting sets of metal stared at him from the wood, a brand new hasp and staple holding the sodding thing shut. He’d only been gone two hours and his dad had already installed a brand new padlock on the damn thing.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he muttered, yanking at the lock. “That bastard never makes anything easy on me, does he?”

“Problem, love?”

“Nah.” Charles reached into his pocket and fished out his keys, working ‘round the loop until he found his lockpicks. “Just a hiccup, is all. I’ll have this open in a jiff.”

There was a small stretch of silence as Charles worked at the lock, making sense of its internal mechanism as he went. His lockpicking skills were nothing to write home about yet, but he’d been practicing on the basement door for some time now. Padlocks were a new beast to tackle, but given enough time and effort, he knew he could suss out the inner workings.

Probably.

“So,” he said casually, desperate for something to fill the silence. “D’you know why Dad decided to lock up my bedroom? Last I checked, the only thing he ever tries to keep down there is me.”

“It’s hardly a bedroom anymore, love,” Clem said, before giving an indignant mrrp. “Hang on a tick—he locked you down there?”

Charles huffed out a joyless laugh. “Near enough every night, yeah. Can’t have me running ‘round while he and Mum are asleep, can he?” There was a small click as a locking pin slid into place. “Not that it ever really stops me any. Pretty aces with locks, me.”

“I see,” Clem said carefully. “Well, your dad’s always been a bit paranoid, since I’ve known him; says he can feel someone watching them, sometimes. Your mum doesn’t pay him much mind, really, but he affixed the basement door with all new hardware, just in case.”

Charles scoffed. “Finally gone ‘round the bend, then, has he?”

“Your mum thinks so. But, since you’re still hanging around, I suppose that could also be the culprit.”

A sharp, blinding pain burst behind Charles’s eyes, suddenly, causing him to flinch. He automatically reached up to rub at his temples, which helped a tick, but the clatter of his falling lockpicks did not. He let out a pained whine as they hit the floor, bursting from his lips like a sneeze.

“Alright there, duckie?” Clementine asked. Charles distantly heard her start to purr—almost like she was trying to soothe him in her own funny, cat-like way.

“Aces,” Charles grumbled, one eye still throbbing. He bent down and swiped his picks off of the floor with a sigh. Great. Now he’d have to start all over again. “What were you saying, then? Something ‘bout me still hanging around?”

“I’m…” Clementine sighed, tail swishing pensively. “Never mind, love; it's nothing important. I’m much more interested in your reasoning behind this venture into the basement.”

Dodgy fibbing skills were another thing that she and Edwin had in common, then. 

“Sorry, Clem,” he said bluntly, “but you’re a terrible liar.”

“And what a noble act to be terrible at, it is,” she countered easily. “My question still stands: if you hate the basement so much, then why go down there at all?”

“Need my pack, don’t I?” A small click sounded, and one of the pins gave way once more. “It’s got everything I need—clothes, money, papers—y’know, the works.”

“And you need those things because…?”

“Because I’m running away.” Another click. “Gonna go shack up at… I dunno, a park maybe? I haven’t got that bit figured out yet, but I’ll get there. Maybe one of my mates will let me stay at theirs until I get a job.”

Clementine looked past him, peering out the front windows. “Love, how could any of that be better than staying here?” she asked nervously. “I will admit that being locked in the basement sounds… less than ideal, but it must be better than having no home at all.”

Charles whipped around to face her, anger bubbling in his gut. “Less than ideal?” he echoed. “Less than ideal? Clem, do you have any idea how it feels like to be trapped like that? To know that no matter how much you yell, or beg, that no one one’s gonna come and let you out?”

“I’ve been confined to the indoors since I was a kitten, duckie,” she said plainly. “I believe I understand better than most.”

The anger in Charles’s gut soured, immediately curdling into guilt. Right. Talking housecat.

“Well, you get why I need to leave, then, ” he said, focusing back on the lock. “Besides, it's not just about the basement, is it? My dad can be a proper villain, when he wants to be.”

“Meaning?”

Charles bit his lip, considering his response. Telling anyone anything about his dad, especially in relation to his injuries, was asking for a world of trouble—but Clem was a talking cat. Even though she apparently lived with his parents, now, Charles was pretty sure that she wouldn’t snitch him out to his dad.

“I’m not much for chatting about it,” he said, transferring both picks to one hand for a moment. “But I can show you.”

Charles pulled up the bottom of his shirt before she could respond, hissing as the rough fabric rubbed against his skin. He couldn’t see the damage without using a mirror, but Clementine’s sharp, shocked gasp told him all he needed to know.

“Oh, dear Lord, love,” she said, voice thin with shock. “Your dad did that?”

“Yeah,” he said distantly. “I tried to run, at first, but then I fell, and he just… wouldn’t stop. I thought he was gonna kill me—like, for reals , this time.” 

Clem’s eyes went all Edwin-ish again, at that: so curious and conflicted and sad. Like she knew something he didn't, and just wasn’t sure how to tell him.

“Charles, love, I think he—”

“ It’s all fine now, though, yeah?” Charles turned back to the padlock, unable to stand her wide, pitying stare any longer. “I got away, in the end. So, now, I’m out of here, and I’m not coming back.”

“...Right,” she said, still sounding awfully conflicted. “Of course, love. That sounds very… sensible.”

Click. Another pin shifted.

“Duckie,” Clem said, not stopping to let the silence settle. “I don’t like to be nosy—”

“Sure you don’t,” Charles muttered.

“But does your mum know? She’s talked about Paul’s temper before, but she never mentioned it affected you much.”

Charles snorted, hanging his head. He loved his mum to bits and pieces, but bloody hell. Did she really have to lie to the fucking cat?

“She doesn’t talk about it, but yeah, she knows.” Click. The last pin dislodged, finally freeing up the lock’s internal plug. “I think she wants to cart me off to boarding school, with how bad it's been lately—but I can’t wait around for that to happen. Even if she does manage to nab me a spot, the transfer won’t be until after end of term.”

“But she never tried to get you away from him until now?”

Charles pulled impatiently at the padlock, trying to get its cheap shackle to release. “Didn’t need to, did she? Up til’ now, we had it all sorted. She didn’t get hurt, Dad had his outlet, and no one outside the house needed to know. It worked out alright for everyone.”

“Except you.”

Charles looked down at Clem, her little spotted ears twitching innocently. “What d’you mean?”

“It worked out alright for everyone, except you,” she clarified, blinking slowly. “Sounds as though you got the short end of the stick on that one, love.”

The padlock’s shackle gave one last click before finally freeing the hasp.

“Well, hardly matters now, does it?” Charles tossed the lock to the floor; it landed with a clatter. “It’s not like I’ll have to deal with it much longer.”

Finally, the old brass doorknob twisted in his hand, allowing the latch to open. Charles took a slow, deep breath and pulled on the door, edging it open with a creak.

A familiar set of steps came into view, after that, leading down into the pitch black void below. The stretching darkness reached out like a living, breathing thing, and deep, deep down at the bottom, nearly sunken into the ground, Charles saw a glow.

Thin, willowy lines of arcing blue light fluttered across the floor, stirring something deep within Charles’s memory. Charles was curious, naturally, overcome by the urge to seek out an answer, but it was also undercut by the confusing instinct to run away . A tiny presence in his mind screamed at him to shut the door, pleaded with him to look away, but his eyes were glued to the shiny, sapphire lights dancing in the darkness below.

“Duckie?”

Charles blinked, finally tearing his eyes away. He turned to face Clem instead. “Huh?”

“Did you hear me?”

Charles shook his head, suddenly feeling as if his blood had been replaced with ice. “No, Clem, sorry,” he said absently. “What’d you say?”

“I asked what you were looking at,” she said kindly. “You were staring down those steps an awful long time.”

Which…  couldn’t be right, could it? He’d only been looking at the light for a few seconds, tops.

“Yeah, I’m alright, just…” he paused, feeling a bit off kilter. “You didn’t see those?”

“See what?” she asked. Her chipper tone wobbled slightly, betraying a more prevalent sense of worry.

“Those blue lights,” he insisted, pointing back down the basement steps. “They were right—”

Charles looked back down the steps, and all he found was a dark, black void of empty space staring back at him. The dancing blue lights were nowhere to be seen. 

“Tell me about yourself, Charles,” the papery voice whispered again.

Charles shivered, gooseflesh spreading across his skin.

“Are you alright, love?” Clementine asked, her words warm and lush by comparison. “You’re acting a bit… odd.”

Charles nodded slowly, forcibly pushing the mysterious blue beacon from his mind. “Sure, Clem,” he said, starting down the darkened steps. “I'm aces.”

Chapter Text

Down The Rabbit Hole

The basement used to terrify Charles, when he was little. 

It hadn’t even been a bedroom yet, back then. The space had been nothing but cold, hard, and dark; a solitary place for Charles to go when he’d broken yet another one of his dad's hidden rules. 

When his dad got so angry with Charles that he wasn’t even allowed to be seen. 

Then, as he got older and less obedient, his dad designated the basement his brand new bedroom. He and his mum had tried to gussy it up with a whole load of new posters and records—which helped. But a nightmare with a fresh coat of paint was still a nightmare, in the end. 

Charles liked to say that he was too old to be scared of all that, now. Sure, his dad still had a habit of trying to lock him in at night, but the basement was his place. His dad couldn’t trap him down there anymore. Not when Charles had spent years figuring out how to avoid all of his spiteful, nasty tricks.

Despite all that, though, the basement was still the basement. No matter how many records he piled on the shelves, it was still where most of his nightmares had been born. Every time he walked down the steps, it was hard not to feel like he was seven years old again—drowning in his own tears and waiting for someone to let him out.

“Charlie, love?”

Charles winced, his old nickname itching like the tag on a shirt.

“I told you, Clem,” he said, irritated. The basement stairs creaked underfoot, echoing his discomfort. “Only my family calls me that.”

“Sorry, love. My mistake," she said, voice light. “In fact, if you don’t mind me asking: why are you so against the use of your nickname? It seems to be all your mum uses, when she talks about you.”

Charles shrugged. “I just like 'Charles' better,” he said truthfully. “Mum and Dad still use 'Charlie', but that’s only ‘cause I can’t make them stop.”

Clem hummed attentively. “Is there a reason you prefer ‘Charles’ so much more?”

“Well, I didn’t always,” he admitted. “Everyone used to call me ‘Charlie’ when I was little. I never really noticed until Dad took it up.”

“What changed, once he did?”

“He ruined it,” Charles said. “Y’know, yelled it. Screamed it. Ground it into the dirt. Didn’t want to keep using it after all that, did I?”

The soft sound of Clem’s paws on the steps came to a stop. “Love, I don’t mean to pry—”

“Doubt that.”

“—but have you ever spoken to anyone about what your father’s done?”

Charles paused his descent, too. “I’m talking to you, aren’t I?” 

“That’s sweet, duckie, but not quite what I meant. I was more referring to someone that could help you… move on, I suppose.”

Charles scoffed. “What, like a counselor?”

“Sure, love, a counselor would do the trick. Or maybe a doctor? There must be someone out there for people in your very specific situation.”

Her suggestion, sound as it was, left a bad taste in Charles’s mouth. His mum always said that doctors were for emergencies. Going to see one for a chat sounded like a waste. Besides, even if his mum did take him to the hospital, Charles didn’t want to talk to anyone about his dad. Especially not a doctor.

And yet…

Hadn’t he?

“Wonderful job, dear.”

The woman’s clinical voice crawled up his spine like an army of spiders. A small, terrified part of him kicked up a fuss, crying out for someone to save him, but…

Charles bit his lip, tasting blood. No one was coming. He was alone, and it was better that way . No frills, no risks, no attachments. He could finally pack up and disappear, just like he’d always wanted.

“Don’t see many doctors,” he said, crossing his arms. Edwin’s bandages tugged at the welts, making him wince. “Mum’s a nurse. She takes care of me just fine.”

“Hang on,” Clem cut in. “Your mum’s a nurse? ”

“Well, used to be,” Charles amended. “Mum left work when she had me. She talks about going back, sometimes, but I don’t think Dad wants her to. He likes when she minds the house.”

“Heavens, duckie.” Clem sounded stricken. Horrified, even. “I don’t seem to know your parents very well, do I?”

Charles shifted awkwardly. She didn’t seem to know his parents at all, really, but he wasn’t about to make things worse by telling her that. He blindly reached out into the dark instead.

“It’s not your fault,” he assured her. Soft fur brushed against his skin, nuzzling his palm. “It’s not like Dad shares our house rules with outsiders.”

“I’m not an outsider,” Clem snipped haughtily. “I listen to your mum tell stories about the family near enough every day. If she was lying, then I should have noticed.”

Charles fiddled with her ears, unsure of what to say. If Clem were anyone else, he might actually agree with her. His mum wasn’t a flawless storyteller. She messed up, sometimes; contradicted herself by accident. Clem should have realized she was putting on a show.

Except, no. She shouldn’t have. Clem was a housecat. A talking housecat, but still a housecat. She’d been raised to bat at socks and take naps in the sun. She wasn’t built to suss out the emotional minefield that Charles had been born to navigate.

“I’m sorry, love,” Clem sighed, bumping up against his arm. “I don’t mean to brood. An indoor life has made me horribly self-centered, it seems.”

“Nah, Clem, you’re brills.” Charles scritched her chin, earning a happy purr for his trouble. “Definitely in the top ten talking cats I’ve met.” 

Clem’s affectionate purring disappeared. He’d meant it as a joke, really, but she didn’t even toss him a pity laugh.

“Enough about me,” she said instead. “Let’s focus on you. ”

Charles wished he could say ‘no, thanks’ without sounding like an arsehole.  

“So, no counselors, no doctors,” she listed off. “What about a friend? Surely you must have a friend worth talking to.”

The question took Charles by surprise, leaving him breathless. Of course he had a friend. A friend was all he had, most days. He almost let Edwin’s name slip, sitting on his lips like a prayer, but…

“Not when you were… you, I mean. Our Charles.”

His heart dropped like a lead balloon. 

“My Charles, as it were.”

That was the kicker, wasn’t it? Edwin was his, but he wasn’t Edwin’s. Edwin, for all his talk of love and trust, had been waiting on someone else the entire time. Once this other Charles came back, he wouldn’t need a stand-in anymore. Charles was doing them a favor by shoving off early. 

He was being practical. Edwin should be glad .

“Nah, no mates,” he said, throat aching. He continued down the steps, taking two at a time. “Bit of a lone wolf, me. Besides, talking about Dad is a pretty massive downer. It's usually better if I just leave it out.”

Charles could feel Clem’s concern before she spoke. “Duckie—”

“Clem,” he warned. “I’m serious, yeah? Enough’s enough.”

Clem sighed as Charles pulled the switch, flooding the basement with light. “Alright, love. If that’s what you want.”

The basement was a bit of a mess, all told. Posters, cassettes, loads of comics—every corner of the room was filled with proof of Charles’s multifaceted existence. The rest of their house was fairly uniform due to his mum’s housekeeping habits, so all of his interests had to be confined to the basement. It was the only reason that Charles actually liked spending time down there. It was easy to tell that he lived there.

Except, now, it wasn’t full of only his interests. Mixed in with his carefully curated clutter was what Charles could only describe as a massive heap of rubbish. Loads of boxes sat on top of his belongings, each one covered in layers of dust. It looked as if no one had been down there in quite some time.

As if he hadn’t been down there in quite some time.

“Clem?” he asked warily. “Where’d all this stuff come from?”

“I imagine it came from a bit of everywhere,” she said, kneading an errant pillow. “Your mum wanted to keep the basement as your space indefinitely, but your dad wouldn’t entertain that idea for long. He started using it as storage some years after you...”

Charles hummed in agreement, mind wandering elsewhere. As much as he appreciated Clem’s jabbering, her sentences were coming out a bit off kilter. Something about his mum, dad, and… old belongings? It felt like he was solving a broken rubik’s cube. None of her words made sense.

He shrugged it off. The boxes in his bedroom were more interesting than whatever she was nattering on about, anyway.

Most of the boxes he picked through were full of actual rubbish, but among the duds hid a few diamonds in the rough. Collections of vintage records, cases of acrylic paints, an electric guitar —all things that Charles wanted, but couldn’t afford to buy yet. He was practically standing in a gold mine. 

It wasn’t until he reached an old, decrepit wicker basket that he stumbled upon the best of the lot. 

The basket seemed to be full of his dad’s Stephen King novels, at first. Charles almost walked right past it. But, then, a half-hidden book title caught his eye.

Hidden beneath his dad’s collection of novels was his coveted archive of Hardy Boys books. 

Charles dug through the basket, hands trembling with excitement. He pulled out one edition after another, each bringing up some of the best memories his childhood had to offer. It was too bad his pack was filled with necessities. He’d take the entire basket with him, if he could.

Finally, Charles reached the novel that had caught his eye initially: book number twenty five, The Secret Panel. He pulled it free, running a hand over its cover.  

At a certain point in his childhood, Charles had given up on reading proper books. It wasn’t that he didn’t like them, mind. Comics were just easier to get through. The Secret Panel was the last edition he’d tried to re-read before making the switch. There was even a crimson bookmark still tucked into chapter thirteen, as if he’d just set the copy down yesterday.

Charles flipped the book over, skimming through its plot. Outside of having read it before, the whole summary sounded weirdly familiar. Old mansions, hidden locks, secret doors… it almost sounded like a dream he’d had, but couldn’t remember.

“Well observed, Charles,” a sweet voice rang out. “What’s your hypothesis?”

Charles whipped around, heart fluttering. He knew that voice. He’d spent half his life waiting to hear that voice. 

The basement’s surroundings faded out of view, revealing the backdrop of a posh, pristine office. Standing near the concrete wall, thumbing through his journal, was Edwin. He wasn’t smiling, but his posture was casual, and virtually free of tension. Even his browline was smooth, not a single worry line in sight.

Charles had never seen Edwin so at ease, before. He always looked so stressed when they were together.

“Edwin?” he asked, creeping forward. “Where are we?”

Edwin simply flipped to the next page in his journal.

Okay, ouch. Charles waved a hand in front of his face. “Edwin?”

“I think the shelf’s hiding something she doesn’t want us to see,” another voice said from behind him. Charles spun on his heel, nerves spiking.

There, in the space where his bed used to be, stood the unsettling presence of another teenage boy. His face was hidden in a set of black shelves, but everything else about him was familiar: black coat, curly hair, gold earring. He was the same lad that Crystal had accidentally shown him when he was seven.

And the same lad from the picture on his mum’s nightstand.

“Don’t know about you,” he said, knocking on the wood, “but I’d wager that’s a secret door.”

Charles hugged his copy of The Secret Panel to his chest.

Edwin hummed in agreement. “Likely not the basement, given its second story location, but perhaps a hidden storeroom of sorts?”

The other boy stepped off to the side and began knocking on the wall. After the first few taps, Edwin let out an uneasy exhale. “Charles, will you please allow me to take over?”

But the other boy didn’t listen.

A knot formed in Charles’s stomach. That was him, then. The other Charles. He was closer to Edwin’s age, with a confident persona that probably got him all the girls he wanted. Plus, he sounded smart. Like some sort of detective.

How was Charles supposed to compete with that?

A long, pitiful yowl broke through his thoughts. The uncanny scene snapped away, yanking Charles back to reality.

“...to me, love,” Clem said urgently. Two little paws batted at the cuff of Charles’s jeans. “What are you seeing? Are you hurt?”

“Ow,” he answered eloquently, rubbing his temples. “Nah, I’m not hurt. Could use some quiet, though; I’ve got a wicked headache.”

Clem sat back on the floor, tail swishing quickly. “Are you certain you’re not hurt?” she asked, quieter this time. “You look as if you’ve seen a—” she cut herself off. “Well, as if you’ve seen something frightening.”

Charles’s mind moved like sludge, struggling to keep up. “Yeah, I’m sure,” he said. A nearby wicker basket caught his eye, distracting him. It was full of old Stephen King novels—probably his dad’s. “I was just wondering where all this stuff came from. None of it was down here a couple hours ago.”

Clem’s ears twitched outwards. Charles sighed, resigned.

“Go on, then,” he said. “Something’s on your mind. Let’s hear it.”

Clem padded across the floor, twining between his ankles. “Well, I already told you where it all came from, love. Don’t you remember?”

Charles bit his lip, thinking back. His memories from before Edwin had appeared weren’t entirely gone. He still remembered coming down the stairs, and turning on the light. However, those moments weren’t a complete set. Charles could tell some pieces were missing.

“No, sorry,” he said, stomach sinking. “Must’ve slipped my mind.”

Clem rubbed against his shins. “It slipped your mind in the span of two minutes?” she prodded. “That seems rather unlikely.”

Another cold ache assaulted Charles’s skull, squeezing his temples like a vice.

“Ow,” he muttered again. “This bloody ache just won’t quit, will it?”

Clem sat between his feet, her tail looped around his ankle. “Perhaps we ought to go back upstairs,” she suggested lightly.

A small voice in the back of his mind tittered nervously, begging him to listen, but Charles brushed it away.

“Nah, not yet.” He stepped over her small form, dropping down beside the bed. “Got things to do down here first, don’t I? My pack’s not gonna find itself.”

Clem’s whiskers twitched furiously. “Right, duckie,” she agreed, sounding awfully concerned. “Just be quick. This basement is doing funny things to your head.”

Charles stuck his arm underneath the bed, feeling around the floorboards. It was a good hiding spot, all told. Lockpicks, spray paint, local show fliers—anything he put under there was bound to go undiscovered. It was the only way he’d been able to keep his bag tucked away for so many years. 

It felt good, being able to keep a secret of his own. Making sure it stayed hidden was stressful, sure, but it also meant that he had options. If things went wonky at home, all Charles had to do was grab his bag and climb out the window. A trip to King’s Cross would get him out of the city before his parents even realized he’d gone.

That was the plan, anyway. Charles had fantasized about it for years. But, the longer he poked around under his bed, the more that plan began to slip away.

Because his pack wasn’t there.

Charles sat back on his heels, mind racing. How was that possible? He’d only been gone for a few hours. Surely his parents hadn’t sniffed him out already.

“You look a bit green around the gills there, duckie,” Clem observed, nosing at his hand. Her patient tone felt forced, as if she were discreetly trying to rush him. “Is there something I can help you with?”

Charles shook his head, clearing it. “I’m good,” he said, climbing to his feet. “Just can’t find my pack. You haven’t seen it, have you?”

Clem peeked under the bed herself. “I don’t spend much time down here, I’m afraid,” she answered. “Is it possible you misplaced it?”

“That’s what I’m wondering.” Charles made a beeline for the closet, wrenching it open. “Misplacing stuff is pretty standard, for me. Lost count of all the times I’ve had to sneak in ‘cause I couldn’t find my keys.”

“Could your parents not open the door for you?” Clem asked.

Charles shrugged. “Nah, they could. Dad just gets fed up with me losing shit, and likes to turn it into a lesson. Says it prepares me for the ‘real world’, or whatever.”

“Oh.” Clem’s pink nose twitched, but she said nothing more.

“Don’t worry, though, yeah?” Charles reached into the closet, hands trembling. “I’ve never lost my pack before. Not gonna start now.”

The closet, like the rest of the basement, was much fuller than Charles remembered it being. Its shelves were packed with various items—jars of marbles, fishing poles, stacks of wood—but he barely registered any of them.

Because his pack still wasn’t there.

A deep pit grew in his stomach, threatening to swallow him whole. There was no way he could leave home now; not without his supplies. He wouldn’t get far without it. He wouldn’t survive without it.

The hole in his gut snuffed out his last bit of hope. He was stuck here. For good.

Charles grunted and reached into the closet again, pulling out a stack of board games. He tossed them to the ground carelessly, spilling their contents across the basement.

Clem’s flinched at the sudden noise. “What are you doing?” she hissed, back arched. “Your mum and dad will be home soon. Do you want to get caught?”

Charles shoved a few sewing kits aside. “I told you,” he bit out, “I’ve never lost my pack before, and I’m not gonna start now. It has to be here.”

Clem tucked herself against the nightstand. “I’m sorry, duckie, but I don’t think it is. It probably hasn’t been here for a very long time.”

“But it has to be!” Charles pulled a pile of old clothes out next, throwing them on the bed. “It didn’t disappear in the two hours I was gone. There’s no way!”

Clem let out a distressed mrow in response. Charles expected her to start talking in riddles again; to ask him more questions. Instead, she just sounded sad.

“Charlie, love—”

“Stop!” The demand burst from his lips like a firecracker. “Stop calling me that! I’m sick of hearing it!”

Clem’s fur puffed up. “I’m sorry, duckie,” she placated, ears flattening. “It’s a habit I picked up from your mum. I’ll try harder to adjust.”

Charles stepped out of the closet, a box of holiday baubles in his hands. “How could it be a habit already?” he demanded. “You weren’t even here two hours ago.”

“I don’t have an answer for you,” she said hesitantly. “I’m sorry.”

“Oi, don’t give me that!” Charles cried out. “You’ve got to know something. You don’t live here, my parents don’t go on dates, and all this shit—” he hoisted the box of baubles up high— “didn’t get here in two hours! None of it’s adding up!” He flung the box aside.

Glass shattered on the basement floor. Clem yowled and bolted away, kicking up dust in her frenzied wake.

Charles’s heart seized. He blinked fast, hands frozen, as Clem’s terrified mewls rang in the air like a warning bell.

What was he doing? Clem was just a cat. A lively little creature that lived in his parents’ house. He didn’t want to scare her. He didn’t want to scare anyone.

Charles sucked in a breath, trying to shape his desperation into something more palatable.

“Clem, please,” he implored her. “Just tell me what you know, yeah? I’ll leave you alone after, I swear.”

A bushy tail swished from behind the packages. “I’m not so sure I should.”

“Why not?” Charles snapped, before he could stop himself. “I’ve got a right to know!”

Clem let out another frightened yelp, scampering off towards the stairs.

Shit.

“Sorry, I’m sorry!” Charles babbled. He yanked at his hair, and a few strands came loose in his grasp. “Christ, this is like Edwin all over again. You’re a lot like him, you know? Big words, green eyes—loves to hide things from me.”

“I don’t know who that is,” Clem said from behind the banister. “You’ve never mentioned anyone named ‘Edwin’ before.”

Charles gulped, chest burning. “Edwin’s my best mate,” he said hoarsely. “He takes care of me, sometimes.”

Clem peeked around the railing, green eyes eclipsed by black. “I thought you didn’t have any mates.”

“Well, I dunno what else to call him, do I?” Charles defended. “He’s a ghost that saved me from my dad when I was seven, then he saved me again when I was ten. He even took me out for lunch when Dad was on another one of his ‘no nosh’ punishment kicks.”

“On another one of his what?” Clem interrupted, aghast.

Charles ignored her, pressing onward. “Edwin always shows up when I need him the most. He says it's because he ‘cares about my well being’, which is probably true, but it feels like more than that. Every time he pops up, it almost feels like he’s—”

Charles stopped short. The words ‘my partner’ sat on his tongue, forming out of muscle memory.

A wave of nerves clenched his stomach. Charles didn’t even know what that meant. What could ‘partner’ possibly mean, in this context?

The basement walls flickered again, shifting into that neat, orderly office.

The other Charles kept knocking on the wall, ignoring Edwin’s request. He gave a thumbs up and put an ear up to the plaster, listening intently.

Charles’s hands flew to his eyes. He didn’t want to watch this.

“Charles, please—”

Morbid curiosity got the better of him. He peeked between his fingers, heart pounding in anticipation.

“I don’t hear anything,” the other Charles said, interrupting Edwin’s protest. “But that doesn’t mean—“

Before he could finish his thought, a blueish, ghastly hand popped out from behind the wall. The long, gnarled fingers wrapped around his forearm, dug in its nails, and pulled him through the surface.

Charles gasped as the bedroom swirled back into view. He staggered, just managing to catch himself against the closet door.

“...should really go back upstairs, love,” Clem prattled on, a disembodied voice in the stairwell. “You don’t sound good at all.”

The room spun like a whirligig. “I’m not budging ‘til you tell me what you know!” Charles objected, stomach churning. “I’m forgetting things about my life, aren’t I? Like, a lot of things.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about your life, dear.” Clem stepped out from behind the banister. “I only know that it's over.”

The room stopped spinning. “What?”

“Love, you don’t have a life,” she said, again. The floor gave way beneath Charles’s feet. “You haven’t had one for a long time.”

Somewhere, deep in his memories, the sound of electricity buzzed.

“No, Clem. You’re wrong.” Gnarled, bluish fingers prodded at his mind, making him squirm. “I was here two hours ago. I swear I was, I had to have been!”

“Charles, love, I’m so sorry,” she said, voice all thick with emotion. “I don’t know why you’re having such a hard time with this. It’s been so long since you…”

The rest of Clementine’s words were swept away in a dizzying rush of static. Pops of blue light blotted out Charles’s vision as the basement faded away, his senses overtaken by thin, cutting words:

“You seem strong willed, Charles.”

The whisper sliced through him, striking terror in his soul. Heavy metal snaked around his wrists as the bedroom transformed again, this time into a dingy basement that was far colder than his dad’s had ever been. Spiderwebs clung to every corner, and its horrible, icy atmosphere ate at his skin like frostbite. Confusion squirmed in his belly, making him nauseous. Where was he? What was happening?

Then the sound of ragged breathing met Charles's ears, and his heart came to a standstill.

He wasn’t alone.

Turning his head, Charles found the source of the noise: a woman, hunched over in her seat. Her form was pale and soaked to the bone, with a pair of purple, rotting hands folded politely in her lap. 

A shiver ran down Charles’s spine. “How’d you get here?” he asked, teeth chattering. The woman didn’t respond. “How’d I get here?”

“I’m confident you will emerge from this experience an improved soul,” the woman rasped. The words were familiar, though Charles couldn't quite place them. Had he had this conversation before?

“I don’t know what that means,” he whimpered. “I don’t even know who you are. ”

The woman said nothing, empty eyes boring into his soul. 

Charles bit back a sob. “I've got nothing you’d want,” he said shakily. “You saw Clem, yeah? The cat? Just ask her. Haven’t even got a quid to my name.”

The woman leaned closer, mere inches away. Her form radiated cold like a reverse furnace, making Charles’s skin burn.

“I haven’t broken any rules, since I got home,” he babbled, chest heaving. An ugly, decaying hand reached for his face. “Right, I nicked Dad’s food, but that’s all I’ve done! I’ve been good, I promise I’ve been good, you don’t need to—!”

One, single fingertip pressed to the center of his forehead, freezing cold against his skin. The air flared blue, obscuring his vision.

Then, something in his mind began to bend.

Hot, searing pain spread behind his eyes, scalding his brain like a brand. Then, for the first time in a very long time, Charles screamed.

“Clem!” he yelled, eyes squeezed shut. He thrashed his head, trying to throw the woman off, but she didn't budge. Almost as if she wasn't actually there.  “Edwin! Mum! Help me, please!”

The woman chuckled. Shattered bits of Christmas baubles cut into Charles's palms as he pressed them into the floor, desperately trying to breathe through the terror.

Ice cold breath ghosted over his ear as she spoke again. “This is for your own...”

Charles stayed completely still, hyperventilating quietly. He waited for the woman to finish talking, but… nothing happened. The pressure, the words, the dull roar of electricity—it all faded away. Instead, another voice took its place, floating across the basement like a whisper in the wind.

“I’m here,” it said. “I’m right here.”

The statement was rich and sweet, like a spoonful of stove-warmed honey. Charles grabbed it and held on tight, allowing it to guide him back to safety.

“Everything is going to be okay.”

A whimper slipped past Charles’s lips, somewhere between a sob and a plea.

“She’s coming,” he said, voice hoarse. A protective arm curled around his shoulders, tightening its hold.

“You’re alright,” the voice soothed. It still sounded far away—like something from a dream. “Everything is alright, now.”

“No, she’s coming,” he insisted. The glass in his palms cut deeper as he pushed the arm away. “I have to go!”

“No one’s coming,” the voice assured him, finally slipping into the foreground. Careful fingers clutched his hands, keeping them still. “You’re safe, dove. I swear it.”

Charles froze, muscles locking in place. He knew that voice. There was only one voice in the world that would ever call him that.

When Charles finally opened his eyes, the rotting lady was gone. Her basement, and blue lights, were nowhere to be seen. Instead, he found a familiar face to match that familiar voice—both belonging to the only person that he actually wanted to see.

Charles bit down a whine. The only person, and the last person.

“Edwin,” he breathed. A warm hand rubbed his shoulder in response, soothing his nerves. “What are you doing here?”

Edwin smiled down at him, eyes crinkling. “I came to bring you home,” he said. “There’s no version of this scenario in which I didn’t do so, I’m afraid.”

Charles stared down at a pair of mangled hands—his own, by the look of it. A drop of blood landed on the basement floor.

“Charles?” With his spare hand, Edwin pulled a roll of bandages from his jacket pocket. “Can I fix that for you?”

Charles’s first instinct was to say yes . All he wanted to do was melt into Edwin’s arms and let himself be taken care of. His place against Edwin’s side felt right and safe; like it was exactly where he was supposed to be.

 Except…

“Not when you were… you, I mean,” Edwin clarified. “Our Charles.”

“My Charles, as it were.”

His heart sank through the floor. No matter how right it felt, he was still sitting in someone else’s spot.

Charles shrugged Edwin’s arm off and pulled away. “How’d you find me?” he asked, eyes narrowed. “Did you follow me?”

Edwin released him, this time, but didn’t go far. He bumped Charles’s shoulder affectionately, like a magnet drawn to metal.

“Of course I did,” he said, unspooling the bandages. “Mirror-hopping is hardly an activity for beginners. It’s pure luck that you didn’t land in an abyssal pit somewhere.”

Frustration ignited in Charles’s belly. “But you weren’t supposed to follow me,” he blurted out. A small part of him— deep in the back of his mind—begged him to roll over and apologize, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. “I didn’t want you to follow me.”

Edwin’s warm expression crumbled . “Charles—”

“No!” Charles pressed his injured palms together, forcing the glass deeper. “You’re not supposed to be here!”

Edwin winced in sympathy, reaching out. “Charles, your hands.”

Charles yanked away. “You were supposed to leave me alone! You were supposed to—”

“Supposed to what?” Edwin asked sharply. His posture went all tense, like someone stuck a rod up his spine. “Stay at the office? Let you dissolve into the mirror portals? Was I simply supposed to sit by and watch you leave?”

“ You weren’t supposed to care!” Charles cried, against his will. “You were supposed to let me disappear!”

The tension between them snapped like a thread, fluttering in the breeze. Edwin’s face was so stained with indignation, with heartbreak, with love, that it made Charles want to be sick.

“Charles—”

“I’m not yours, Edwin,” he croaked. The sting of glass flared again as he squished his hands together again . “You said so yourself. I’m not your Charles.”

“Charles.” Edwin reached out again, trying to take his hands. “You’re bleeding.”

Charles scooted out of his grasp. “I can’t take all this niceness when I know it's not for me.” More blood seeped into his bandages, staining them red. “I can’t do it, Edwin, I really can’t, so can you please—”

Two solid arms wrapped around Charles, then, scooping him up like a limp, oversized toddler. He tried to struggle, but any motivation to fight was weak at best. It wasn’t like he had anywhere to go. Edwin was the only person he’d ever wanted to run to.

“Charles, I need you to listen to me,” Edwin said, sounding so much younger than he used to. “This is all a terrible, terrible misunderstanding.”

“No, it's not!” Charles squirmed in his grasp, trying to free his hands. “I saw the other Charles. You won’t need me once he comes back, and I can’t get stuck here alone again!”

“Charles,” Edwin said, voice sharp and demanding. “Just stop, for a moment.”

Charles froze, mouth clicking shut. He’d done it, then. He’d found Edwin’s tipping point, and Edwin was going to lose it. His arms curled instinctively around his middle, bracing for a blow.

But that blow never came. Instead, Edwin did something different. Something unthinkable. 

He smiled .

His expression was barely visible, almost lost amongst the worry, but it was there. Charles unfurled, confused. He’d almost disobeyed a direct order. Why wasn’t Edwin angry?

Edwin let out a breath, prompting Charles to do the same. “I’m sorry that I have caused you so much distress over this ,” he said, kind, but firm. “I’m telling you the truth when I say there is no other Charles. As confusing as it is, we’re both talking about you.”

Charles’s panic ebbed, like the unexpected eye of a storm.

“We are?”

Edwin huffed a laugh. “Yes, and thank goodness for that. Trying to keep two of you out of harm’s way would surely be the end of my sanity.”

It was tempting to take the out that was being offered. Charles wanted to accept what Edwin said at face value, and let it all go. But…

“How can he exist, if I exist?” Charles questioned, brow furrowed. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Edwin opened his mouth to answer, but a low groan beat him to it. White-hot pain shot up Charles’s neck, settling behind his eyes.

“Sorry,” he said on impulse, rubbing his forehead. “Headache.”

Edwin hugged him closer. “No, Charles. I’m sorry,” he said, sounding awfully resigned. “I’m afraid I must rescind a promise that I made to you quite some time ago.”

Charles tensed. Had he mucked this up already? It’d only been thirty seconds.

“I told you once that I’m always available to answer questions—which, generally, is true. I’m more than happy to be your encyclopedia in any way you see fit.”

“But?” Charles guessed.

“Yes,” Edwin smirked, “but. I can’t answer any questions about this ‘other’ Charles. I don’t want to lie to you, but the truth isn’t safe to share. In order to spare us both pain, I suggest you let it go.”

Charles went quiet, considering his options. A small, curious part of him wanted to press for more information. Edwin knew things about Charles that Charles didn’t even know, and curiosity gnawed at him endlessly.

 A smaller, stronger part of him, though, really didn’t want to know. Something in him knew Edwin was right—that whatever this information was, it wasn’t safe. All the headaches and memory glitches spoke to that logic.

“Do you understand?” Edwin asked nervously. “I don’t mean to be harsh, but—”

“Okay,” Charles agreed. Even if he didn’t know the full truth, he knew that he was Edwin’s. There wasn’t much else that mattered. “But only if you stay.”

“I told you once that my place is by your side,” Edwin reminded him. Warm fingers carded through his hair, mapping out every curl. “That has not, and will not, ever change.”

Charles looked at Edwin closely. His expression was open and honest; even the worry seeping in at the edges felt right.

Finally, Charles nodded and buried his face in Edwin’s shoulder, all of the fight seeping out of him. Edwin gave him a squeeze and began to fiddle with the bandages, clearly trying to assess what kind of first aid was needed.

“I’m sorry,” Charles slurred, words swallowed up by Edwin’s jacket.

“What was that, my love? I didn’t quite catch it.”

Charles’s breath hitched. My love. That was new. He tucked the endearment up next to his heart for safekeeping.

“I didn’t mean what I said,” he said, louder this time. “I never wanted you to go. I’m sorry I said I did.”

Edwin gave a pleased hum. “I’m quite glad to hear that. After all, I’m not quite sure where I would go, if I wasn’t going with you.”

And, well. Charles wasn’t sure what to say to that. So, he said nothing, hiding his heated cheeks in the safety of Edwin’s jacket.

The two of them sat in silence as Edwin began to pick the glass from his hands, wiping up blood as he went. Clem’s frightened yowls echoed in Charles’s ears as each freed shard landed on the floor with a clink.

“Have you seen Clementine?” he asked Edwin. Edwin blinked, clearly confused. “Little cat, white and spotty? She was with me when this whole mess started.”

“I believe I saw a cat scamper upstairs, when I arrived,” Edwin noted. His fingers slipped on a large glass shard before finally fishing it out. Charles barely flinched. “Didn’t catch her name, I’m afraid.”

“It’s fine,” Charles said quickly. Guilt burned in his belly like a furnace. “Probably best she keeps away from me, anyway. Think I gave her a proper scare.”

“Which is hardly your fault,” Edwin added. “Tonight has been filled with nothing but impossible scenarios. You can’t be blamed for situations out of your control.”

Charles nodded as if he was listening. Instead, he was lost in thought, mind swirling with what Clementine had told him:

“You don’t have a life. You haven’t had one for a long time.”

Charles didn’t know what she meant—not specifically, anyway. But… he didn’t not know what she meant, either. Edwin probably knew exactly what she meant, but Charles couldn’t find it in himself to ask.

“I think I get it, now,” was all he said, instead.

Edwin’s hands stilled. “What do you mean?”

“I get why you didn’t want me to remember,” he sniffled. A few tears escaped, clumping on his lashes. “I wish I didn’t know about any of this. I wish I never even came here.” 

A steady forehead pressed against his temple. “I’m sorry you had to learn all of this the hard way. You didn’t deserve that.”

Charles shook his head, breath hitching. “Nah, it’s me who should be sorry. I shouldn't have been such a cunt, before. You were just trying to help.”

“Water under the bridge,” Edwin said. He pressed a kiss to Charles’s hair. “None of what happened tonight was your fault.”

His gentle reassurance was the last straw. The final chink in Charles’s armor.

An unexpected sob burst from his lips, making them both jump. Charles tried to cover his mouth, to keep himself quiet, but the glass stuck in his palms made it impossible.

“Sorry,” he gasped. His hands fluttered uselessly, searching for a place to rest. “I can’t stop, I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright, my love.” Gentle fingers cupped his palms, holding them still. “Everything is alright, now. I promise.”

“I just don’t know what to do anymore,” he sobbed. Charles was thirteen now—practically an adult—but the simple truth made him feel so small. “I keep trying to make things better, but I can never figure out what I’m doing wrong.”

"You’ve done nothing wrong,” Edwin soothed. He tucked Charles against his chest, cradling him like a child. “Not a thing."

“Then why does he keep doing this to me? If I’m not wrong, then why does he hate me so much?”

“I wish I knew,” Edwin murmured. His whole body trembled—with tears, or with something worse, Charles couldn’t tell. “I don’t know how anyone could hate you. You’re a very easy person to love.”

Charles sobbed again, muffled by Edwin’s jacket. “I’m not, though. Dad clocked me as useless the day I was born, and he’s been right this entire time. That’s why I live in the basement; I belong down here.”

“You live in the basement because your father is a monster,” Edwin said. His concordant mask began to slip, and at that moment, Charles was grateful that his parents were out. Not for his sake, but for his mum’s. She’d be proper devastated if her husband got hurt at the hands of a vengeful ghost. “His behavior is abhorrent, and completely inexcusable.”

“You don’t know that for sure. Mum always says he was nicer, when they first met. What if I’m the reason he’s like this?”

“Charles,” Edwin said vehemently. “Your father’s behavior is not your fault.” He spoke as if he held dominion over the truth; as if his dictations were indisputable facts of the universe. 

Charles shuddered through another breath. “What if it is, though? What if I was born wrong, and he’s the only one who can see it?” 

Edwin shook his head. “Oh, my love,” he sighed. A hand settled on Charles’s chest, rubbing at his sternum. “You weren’t born right, or wrong. Who you are is decided by your choices, and I can confidently say that you’ve chosen to be someone wonderful .”

And then it really was like Charles was seven years old again, sobbing hysterically on his bedroom floor. Except, this time, his mum didn’t beg him to quiet down. This time, his dad didn’t bang on the door and threaten to give him something to cry about.

Instead, Edwin rocked them both as Charles wailed into his shoulder. He whispered kind, sweet words as three, long years of hurt spilled from his bruised, trembling body. 

Something about having Edwin so close felt like magic, really. 

It felt like home.

“I have you now,” Edwin vowed, curling around him like a shield. “You’re mine, and I will always have you.”

Chapter Text

The clock on the wall ticked a steady metronome. Every time the second hand lurched forward, Edwin’s stomach lurched with it.

Fifteen minutes. He’d only been in the Rowland’s basement for fifteen minutes, somehow. It felt like hours. Days, even. Was his internal clock ticking sideways again? Or was the slow drip of time just a result of his impatience?

Edwin shook his head, clearing it. It didn’t matter how long he’d been here. All he wanted to do was leave. 

The clock ticked on. One hundred and twenty more seconds passed. Eighteen minutes total. Edwin watched closely as Charles’s breathing lined up with the second hand. His chest rose, and then it fell. Neither of them spoke.

Edwin's mind wandered in the silence, driven by the clock's steady tick, tick, tick.

The concept of time had been a confusing concept for Edwin, after Hell. After all, minutes and hours meant nothing down there. All he’d had to track the passage of time were his own life cycles—which were never consistent. One life might have stretched on for weeks; the next, only a moment. 

Then, upon his return to Earth, those cycles came to a stop. There was no more blood, or running. No more torturous ends. He was finally, properly dead. A spirit fated to remain static for all eternity. 

It was a relief. Of course it was a relief. But how was he supposed to track the days when there was no pain to count the minutes by? 

At first, Edwin had tried to ignore time altogether. He did not sleep, or age, so what difference did it make? When he sat down to read a book, stars twinkled in the sky. When he finally finished, the sun had snuffed them out. Had the night lasted a minute? An hour? A day? Edwin didn’t know. He couldn’t tell the difference. It wasn’t until he stole a book on clockwork from St. Hilarion’s that he finally decided on a workable system.

Timekeeping. Meticulous, regimented timekeeping. Calendars, sundials, hourglasses, pocket watches—he collected timepieces like a dragon hoarding gems. Each one confirmed that death was no longer his only anchor. Time, however intangible, grounded him. So long as the date existed, he knew where he was. So long as the clocks ticked, he knew when he was.

Charles had always been helpful in that regard. He had his own struggles after death, of course, but timeline confusion was never one of them. He always knew the year, the date, and the hour—at first out of coincidence, and then out of necessity. If Edwin wanted to know the time, Charles would find a way to figure it out. Always.

Those days were over now. Dr. Hargrove’s spell had set Charles adrift in time. When present day Charles returned, he would likely be confused and unmoored, just as Edwin had been.

What would they do then, Edwin wondered? Would Edwin's methods of time readjustment work for Charles? Would he ever be the same? Would they, as a pair, ever be the same?

Edwin shook his head, freeing it doubt. They would sort it out. Charles would have to reacclimate, yes, but they would work through it together. As always.

Edwin glanced at the wall clock again. Another two hundred and forty seconds had passed. Twenty-two minutes total.

Charles shifted carefully as Edwin ran a hand over his arm. He was limp and light in Edwin’s lap, like a malnourished bird too exhausted to take flight. When he moved, it was all too easy to count his ribs.

Despite Edwin’s sparse efforts to get him talking, it had been eleven minutes since he’d last spoken. His silence was beginning to grow worrisome, and not just because of his usually social disposition. What if visiting his childhood home had disturbed the runic cycle?

What if his mind was reverting back to its previously empty state?

What if he forgot who Edwin was again?

What if he forgot who Edwin was for good?

What if—

“Hey, Edwin?”

Two small words, and Edwin’s spiraling thoughts melted away along with the growing stiffness in his spine.

“Yes, Charles?”

“I know we should probably go, but can I ask a favor first?”

Edwin’s heart squeezed. “Always,” he promised. “What can I help you with?”

Charles slowly crawled out of his lap, wincing, and sat on the basement floor. “Can you check my back? Mum doesn’t usually let me run around after Dad works me over. Everything really hurts.”

His request was as heartwarming as it was worrisome. Charles, at any age, was frustratingly allergic to asking Edwin for help. The fact that he was willing to acknowledge an injury betrayed either a profound level of trust, or a devastating amount of agony. Either way, Edwin saw his request for what it was: a second chance. This was where all of his secrecy had splintered Charles’s trust—yet Charles, in all his goodness, was letting Edwin try again.

There was only one problem: the longer they stayed in this house, the more likely it was that they would run into Charles’s father.

The scenario wasn’t a physically dangerous one. At least, not for him or Charles. Mr. Rowland was no psychic. If he arrived, it would be easy enough to slip away unnoticed.

Theoretically speaking.

Realistically speaking, the possessive growl rumbling through Edwin’s chest was much more concerning.

Even as a living boy, Edwin and his anger had never been close. Always distant cousins, rather than immediate friends. He’d been easy to annoy, yes, or frustrate, but true anger rarely ever got a look in. 

Until he met Charles, that is. Witnessing the cruel, terrible death of such a kind soul birthed something rabid in Edwin. Something territorial. The only being in Edwin’s bestiary that could ever hope to compare with the snarling fury beneath his sternum was the feral existence of hellhounds.

Hellhounds, as Edwin understood them, were the keepers of misplaced souls. Hulking, red-eyed dogs, with leathery skin and crags of obsidian teeth. They fell somewhere between misery wraiths and Lust’s writhing souls on Edwin’s list of ‘creatures to avoid’.

It was an apt comparison. The righteous rage shredding his soul felt like a beast separate from himself. It clawed his bones like the sides of a cage, demanding to enact its only objective: keep Charles safe.

Fortunately, Edwin was well practiced in keeping this fury contained. It never appeared during cases, or burst free during tiffs. His self control was far too developed to allow for such unexpected outbursts. Most days, he barely even noticed it. 

However, the mere idea of encountering Mr. Rowland made the beast within him writhe. Its hungry, tearing, ripping snarl rattled his ribs like an earthquake. Never, in all of Edwin’s afterlife, had his need for vengeance felt so great.

There was only one thought that kept the howling hound at bay. He couldn’t let Charles watch him lose control. He would never forgive himself for that.

So, Edwin wrestled the beast into submission, and plastered on a smile. “Of course I can. Take off your jacket and I’ll have a look.”

Charles pulled the garment tighter around himself. “Do I have to?”

“You don’t have to do anything,” Edwin assured him. “However, the fewer layers there are between us, the easier this process will be.”

Charles’s expression went from wary to cornered, which was to be expected. Edwin knew he wore his jackets like armor. Requesting he remove it was like asking a knight to remove his breastplate. 

In a split second effort at establishing trust, Edwin shrugged off his own jacket. He folded it neatly and placed it to the side, leaving him in his shirt and waistcoat.

“There,” he said. “I will join you.”

Charles didn’t fully relax at the gesture, but it certainly helped. His face pinched into a tight smile. “Thanks. You didn’t need to do that. But, thanks.”

Edwin rolled up his sleeves as Charles stuck a hand in his jacket pocket, seemingly searching for something. Then, he finally took the jacket off, letting it puddle on the floor.

“Just be really careful, yeah? And don’t worry too much, either. It probably looks bad, but I’m okay. For reals.”

Edwin swallowed a bitter, hysterical laugh. The fact that Charles was trying to preemptively comfort him, in the face of his own injuries, made Edwin want to scream.

“I will worry about you regardless,” he said calmly. “But I will be careful. You have my word.”

Unsticking Charles’s shirt from his bleeding wounds was a painfully arduous process. Charles flinched with each careful movement, hissing as the fabric tore at his scabs. Edwin tried his level best to be careful, but there was only so much he could do. 

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, mopping up some blood from a reopened gash. “I wish there was a more delicate way to do this.”

“It’s okay,” Charles assured him, which only made Edwin feel worse. “I swear I don’t usually let it get this bad. Didn’t really even hurt till you got here, somehow.”

“Adrenaline will do that,” Edwin uttered numbly. He knew that well enough. Adrenaline was the only painkiller he’d ever had while fleeing the Doll Spider. His mind provided an image of Charles, small and terrified, trying to flee his father in a similar fashion.

Unhelpful, he told himself. Entirely unhelpful.

It took some time, but Edwin was eventually able to peel the shirt away. He pushed it up to reveal a collection of belt marks cross-crossed over Charles’s spine. The majority of them were raised and bruised around the sides, with only a couple split enough to bleed. Those ones were deep, more akin to gouges than surface level scrapes.

They were ugly, and heartrending, but it wasn’t the new wounds that upset Edwin most. It was the layers of scarring underneath.

Objectively, the markings weren’t as extensive as Edwin expected. Given the prolific nature of Mr. Rowland’s beatings, there should have been more. That realization was a small, momentary comfort.

Until Edwin considered the implications. The defensive wounds he’d bandaged back at the office, the ones on Charles’s arm, had been shallow. Quick clips, rather than deep gouges. His father clearly knew how to avoid injuries that would scar. These markings were indicative of times he chose to leave them anyway.

Edwin tried to take a mental step back, seeking objectivity. Perhaps he was granting Mr. Rowland too much credit. After all, Edwin had spent the majority of his death with torturers in Hell. He was likely seeing purposeful intent where there was none.

The mere thought pushed a bitter, vengeful growl up the back of his throat all the same.

“Edwin?” a faint voice asked. Edwin blinked. He’d been staring at Charles’s back for a touch too long, hands clenched in his shirt. “Alright back there?”

“Yes, everything’s fine,” he said, swallowing hard. “Though I’m afraid these wounds are quite likely to scar.”

Charles shrugged. “It’s alright. Once I’m old enough, I’m gonna cover ‘em with tattoos. Dad’ll hate it.”

The image of Charles, older, tattooed, and happy, punched Edwin in the chest. He had to fight not to put his head in his hands. 

“You never told me that,” he murmured, before he could stop himself.

“Told you what?”

“About the…” Scars , he wanted to say. “Tattoos,” he said instead. 

Edwin didn’t know about either. No version of Charles had ever mentioned tattoos, or scars. It felt like something he should know.

Charles shifted awkwardly. “I try not to think about the scars they’d cover, I guess. Makes my breathing go all funny.”

The admission snapped Edwin out of his self-pitying stupor. “Of course, I’m sorry,” he relented, chiding himself. This wasn’t about him. “Is there anything I can do to ease your discomfort in the meantime? I’d like to make this process as painless as possible.”

“Well, Mum’s got pain pills upstairs if you want to…”

“Absolutely not.” Charles flinched at his insistence, so Edwin added, softer: “Not unless that’s what you want. I would never force medication on you.”

“Oh,” said Charles, slumping with relief. “Could you just talk, then? Your voice helps a lot.”

Edwin smiled to himself, heart swelling with pride. “Of course I can. What would you like me to talk about?”

Charles pointed towards a book on the floor. “Do you know any Hardy Boys? I haven’t read any since I was a kid.”

Edwin did know a few Hardy Boys stories, in fact. On their lazier nights, Charles—older, present-day Charles—often tried to recite their pages from memory. His aging recollection left holes in each story to the point of nonsense, but his excitement over the tales never wavered. Each boisterous retelling made Edwin feel as if Charles was letting him in on something special. Something just for them.

Just as Edwin was about to launch into a summary of The Tower Treasure , he noticed something odd about the paperback Charles had pointed out. Its surface was stained with something small, and red.

He leaned in closer. The cover was littered with bloody fingerprints. Charles had likely been holding it shortly before, or after, purposely destroying his hands.

Perhaps another trip down memory lane wasn’t what he needed.

“I have a number of Max Carrados and Sherlock Holmes stories committed to memory,” Edwin offered instead. “Would either of those take your fancy?”

Charles was silent for a moment. “I think I want to know how you found me, first,” he decided. “Those mirror portals are wicked hard to navigate. How’d you decide where to go?”

“Well, darling—er.” Edwin paused. “Charles.”

“S’okay,” Charles mumbled. “You can call me whatever you want.”

“Are you certain? You were quite insistent about your dislike of my endearments earlier today.”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” He hunched in on himself, clearly a bit nervous. “I’m not much into nicknames, but I think I miss yours. Feels nice when you use them.”

Edwin’s chest filled with bright relief. He would have gone along with whatever Charles wanted, but truthfully, he missed the names just as much. “Alright, dove. Thank you for telling me.”

Charles said nothing, a blush coloring his ears. Edwin could only imagine what his face looked like.

“I will confess that the story of your discovery was little more than a flurry of panic, for me,” Edwin admitted. “It turned out alright in the end, but I’m not entirely proud of how I conducted myself in your absence.”

Charles turned to look over his shoulder. “Look where we are, Edwin.”

Edwin did. The basement was dismal and filthy, covered in broken glass and dust. He imagined it could have been pleasant, once. Now, it was just horrible. 

“You’re in my house, patching me up ‘cause Dad couldn’t keep his belt to himself. I’m not gonna judge you. Besides, you’re my best mate. Don’t mind if you let me in on a few panicky moments, do I?”

Edwin stifled a sigh. He shouldn’t indulge. Detailed storytelling meant spending more time in the basement, which, in turn, provided ample opportunity for missteps. Lingering felt like a dangerous idea.

Once again, though, Dr. Hargrove’s wretched manuscript came to mind. Wasn’t the whole point of the doctor’s treatment to linger on those moments? To remind Charles that, no matter how hopeless the situation may feel, he wasn’t truly alone?

Edwin peered around the room again. Charles’s bedroom, while well-decorated, was perhaps the loneliest place Edwin had ever seen. The only potential rival he could think of was the Doll House, and that was in Hell.

Perhaps his presence in this memory might do Charles some good.

“Oh, alright,” he finally caved. “Just do your best to sit still, yes? I’ll bandage your wounds as I talk.”

The Search For Charles

The office mirror ebbed. Edwin stuck his hand through, desperately searching for something to grab onto, but there was nothing.

Charles was gone. Fallen through the mirror like a stone into water, leaving nothing but a ripple behind.

Edwin knew he needed to move. He needed to start searching, to dig out his spellbooks, to find some way to track Charles down, but he couldn’t. All he could do was think about the damning look of betrayal in his eyes. In all of their years together, Charles had never looked at him like that. 

A deep, shuddering breath rattled his phantom lungs. Edwin didn’t know what to do. His usually sharp mind was clouded over by fear. Every idea he had was immediately punctured by another spear of terror.

Charles was semi-corporeal. What if he was incapable of traveling on his own? What if the mirror portals viewed him as an intruder? Or, worse yet, what if he got lost? What if the portals spat him out on the other side of the world, or at the bottom of a lake, and oh God, Edwin knew Charles couldn’t swim. He didn’t know if Charles truly needed to breathe in this state. What if he got hurt? What if he drowned?

A high keen snuck past Edwin’s lips. He didn’t know what to do here. What was he supposed to do?

Crystal’s words from earlier suddenly rang out, piercing through his panicked thoughts. Niko and I are your friends, too. We want to help however we can.

Edwin retrieved their emergency telephone from the desk’s bottom drawer. There was no time like the present to truly test that statement.

It took only two short rings for Crystal to answer.

“Hey, Edwin, what’s—”

“Charles is gone,” he blurted out. “I made a mistake, and Charles is gone. I believe a search is in order, but I need—”

“Woah, woah, hang on.” Crystal’s voice was slightly fuzzy, rendered vague by the poor connection. “The fuck do you mean Charles is gone?”

Edwin’s stomach twinged with frustration. “What exactly do you think I mean, Crystal? He was here, we got in an argument, and now, he’s gone. There’s precious little story to tell.”

“No. No, no, you don’t get to be the asshole, here. You lost the baby? You explain yourself.”

“He’s hardly a baby anymore. He’s thirteen years old, and quick as a whip. It took him all of five minutes to discover how many lies we’ve concocted over the last day and a half.”

Edwin heard Crystal inhale quickly. “But we haven’t actually lied to him, have we? I mean, maybe we haven’t told him everything, but…”

“Lying by omission is still lying,” Edwin recited, parroting Charles’s sentiment. “Learning that we’re waiting for a ‘different’ Charles to return was also quite the betrayal.”

The silence on the other end of the line was deafening. “You didn’t say that to him, did you?”

White-hot guilt churned Edwin’s stomach. “Not in so many words.”

“So, you did say that.”

“Not… on purpose.”

“Holy shit,” Crystal whispered. Edwin could practically see the look on her face: disappointed, shocked, and seething. “Holy shit, Edwin, what were you thinking!?”

“It was an accident,” he said pathetically. “I thought he was asleep.”

“It doesn’t matter! You know how sensitive that poor kid is. Hearing that stuff in his sleep is probably enough to give him nightmares!”

A childlike part of Edwin reared back, teeth bared. “I didn’t mean to hurt him!” he snapped. Even through the vitriol, his voice was thick with tears. “I just wanted my Charles back!”

Neither of them spoke for a moment, after that. “I’m sorry,” Crystal apologized. “I didn’t mean—”

Her voice suddenly went muffled, followed by the sound of hushed murmuring. Shortly after, the line clicked.

“Hi, Edwin!” Niko chirped, voice light and kind. “You sound really stressed. Do you want us to come to the office?”

All of the fight fled Edwin’s body in an instant. He wished he could tell her that he didn’t want that. That he didn’t want to distract Crystal from her arcane legwork. That he didn’t want to pull Niko away from her important research plans.

But, it didn’t matter what he wanted. Not when he’d been the one to drive Charles away. All that mattered now was ensuring that Charles returned home safely.

“I think it would be best, yes,” Edwin forced out. “There should be someone here in case Charles returns.”

There was a chorus of muffled sounds in the background, as if someone were packing a bag. “Crystal and I just got home from the park. We can be over in a few minutes.”

Crystal’s voice suddenly popped back in, fuzzier than before. “Wait, are you leaving? Where are you going?”

Edwin reached into his pocket, searching for his journal. “I have a few locations in mind that Charles may have run off to. The two of you can let yourself in when you arrive.”

“Right, okay, sounds good.” Crystal paused, leaving the line silent. “And, look, Edwin. I’m sorry. Losing Charles wasn’t your fault. He’s a slippery little fucker at his current age; I can’t imagine what he’s like at thirteen.”

Edwin’s throat went tight. Charles was slippery, yes, but that hardly mattered. He should have held on tighter.

“All is forgiven, Crystal. With luck, I shall see you both soon.”

Edwin continued to paw through his pockets as he hung up the phone, searching for his elusive journal. He eventually found it tucked alongside a secondary prize: a tan and brown cat with a neat blue bow tie. It started up at him judgmentally, as if it knew exactly what he’d done.

Edwin placed the toy back in his pocket, its paws and head peeking out of the opening.

“Charles would be rather upset, if I were to leave you behind,” Edwin sighed. “And I did promise to take care of you in his stead.”

The cat didn’t respond. Not that Edwin expected it to.

“Right, then.” Edwin raised a trembling hand to the mirror. “Where should we hop off to first?”

“Crystal and Niko aren’t mad at me, are they?” Charles interrupted. Edwin blinked, pulled from his story. “I didn’t mean to worry them so much. I was just really, really scared.”

Edwin patted his hand. “Not even a smidge, darling. If anything, Crystal is angry with me . You should have heard her voice when I told her you went missing. It would have been quite funny, had the situation been less dire.”

Charles frowned. “Well, it’s not fair to slag you off, is it? I’m the one who ran away.”

“You are not to blame in any way, shape or form.”

Charles frowned deeper. “But—”

“No,” Edwin insisted firmly. “No ‘but’. You acted out of fear in an understandably frightening situation. Your behavior was natural, and I won’t have you blaming yourself for this. Do you understand?”

Charles huffed. “Fine,” he groused. Then, he perked up, eyes hopeful. “Did you say you brought my cat?”

“Ah, yes.” Edwin dug into his jacket and revealed the little stuffed toy. “I thought you might want him. I’m sorry I didn’t mention it earlier.”

“It’s okay,” Charles breathed. At first, Edwin thought he was still talking to him. Then, Charles reached out with still-bloody hands. “Everything's okay,” he cooed at the plushie. “I’m back, now.”

It broke Edwin’s heart to pull the toy out of reach. 

“Let me bandage your palms first, dove. Otherwise we might stain his fur.”

Charles pulled back, a fragile look on his face . His expression was so devastatingly young that Edwin wanted to cry.

“Can you tell me where you went next while you do?” he asked, offering up his hands. 

Edwin took them and smiled. “Of course I can.”

The Flat

Misty and Indigo’s flat was completely dark when Edwin stumbled through the mirror. Their usually messy workstation was clear of its usual clutter, and Indigo’s briefcase was nowhere to be seen. There was no sign of Misty or Rhiannon, either.

Edwin sighed. He’d been hoping that Charles would seek Rhiannon out in his time of need. The two had gotten along famously, after all. It would have been the most ideal outcome out of the few he had in mind.

However, he’d also known it was a longshot. Misty had mentioned that they were needed on a business call before leaving the office. Even for a professional, arcane identification took time. They were likely still attending to their client.

Edwin pulled out his notebook and pen, before scribbling out a quick letter.

Indigo,

Charles has fled the office via mirror travel. If you see him, please contact me immediately.

Edwin

He tore out the page and placed it next to Indigo’s bowl of whispering marbles. A knot formed in his throat, threatening to choke him. If Charles wasn’t visiting Rhiannon, then where could he possibly…

A vintage cuckoo clock chimed on the wall as the hour turned. Edwin flinched, turning to stare at the wooden bluebird erupting from its little green house. It twittered a sparkly tune, ringing hollow in the flat’s silent atmosphere.

Edwin huffed, shaking out his jitters. Then, he raised his hand to the mirror, and began his search anew.

“So you didn’t get to see Rhi?”

“As I said,” Edwin teased, “the three of them weren’t home.” He looked back at Charles from the closet as he thumbed through a spare first aid kit. “I assume they were out on business.”

Charles ducked his head. “Right, sorry. I kind of stopped listening after you said Rhi’s name the first time.”

“I assumed as much.” Edwin sat down beside him, extra gauze and medical tape in his hands. “I left them a letter explaining the situation. I hope it doesn’t startle them too badly.”

“I do. Maybe if you freaked them out enough, they’ll bring Rhi for a visit.”

“A devilish hope, dear,” Edwin commended, ruffling his curls. “You would make quite the trickster, I must say.”

Charles leaned into his touch. “Yep, sure. Always willing to cause mayhem for my own dog-petting needs.”

“And what an important need it is,” Edwin said sagely. “Now. Care to guess where I went off to next?”

After a moment of thought, Charles snapped his fingers—or, tried to, against the gauze. “The theater?”

Edwin raised an eyebrow. “And why would you think that?”

“Because of the clock! The bluebird’s just like that show you told me about, innit?”

Edwin smiled knowingly. “So it is. How very observant of you, Charles.”

“Oh.” Charles shrank down, ears going red. “Thanks.”

The Theater

Edwin phased through a set of double doors just as the Haymarket Theater was letting out. Children and their families bustled outside of the theater’s main entrance as Edwin frantically scanned the crowd. When it was clear that Charles was nowhere amongst the other children, he ventured inside the building.

The large space was mostly empty, inhabited only by ushers and janitors turning down the inner theater. There were precious few patrons still in the lobby, but Edwin searched amongst them all the same.

Just as he was about to give up and leave the historical theater in peace, a sudden voice startled him.

“Hey! Wait for me!”

The voice was small, that of a child. Edwin’s heart pounded as he whipped around to find a young boy, around the age of ten, running towards the exit. He was slight, and quick, with curly brown hair and light brown skin.

Edwin stepped forward, heart racing.

“Charles, darling, I’m right—”

The boy sprinted out of the open double doors, and ran right into his mother’s arms. 

“I’m sorry, little lark,” she cooed at him. “I didn’t mean to leave you behind.”

Edwin was able to get a better look at him, then. The boy’s hair was curly, but lighter brown than it’d first appeared. His form was slender, but not worryingly small. Most importantly, his face bore no bruises, and he had no ugly, black sling to immobilize his arm.

A false breath caught in Edwin's throat. Stupid. Of course it wasn’t Charles. The boy he was looking for was charming, tall, and spitfire. Ten year old Charles lived in the past, now. Immortalized only in a faded polaroid snapped by Niko’s spectral camera.

Edwin stalked off towards the theater washrooms, stomach clenching. How many versions of Charles did he have to fail until there was at least one he could keep out of harm’s way?

Charles tugged on Edwin’s wrist. The bandages slipped from his hands as a result, rolling just out of reach.

“Charles!” Edwin scolded. “I was in the middle of something.”

Charles tugged at his arm again, body trembling. “I’m really, really sorry,” he babbled. “I didn’t realize. I should’ve put it together, but I didn’t.”

Edwin got the feeling that he wasn’t apologizing for the bandages. “Darling, what could you possibly have to be sorry for?”

Charles blinked, eyes watering. “It’s always three years for you too, innit? When I go back to my parents?”

It wasn’t, technically. Edwin instead had the unique privilege of watching Charles withstand a three-year growth spurt magically condensed into a half hour.

“In a sense, yes,” he admitted vaguely.

“Well, you’re always the same after three years. I change a lot, don’t I?”

Stark honestly spilled past Edwin’s lips before he could even consider his answer.

“You do. Each time you disappear, I lose the opportunity to watch you grow. It’s not the same as grieving a life, of course, but it’s a loss all the same.”

“Oh,” said Charles. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Edwin wasn’t sure what to say, either.

“Can I give you a hug?” Tentative hands reached towards Edwin, already closing the gap between them. “Please?”

Edwin barely had time to give a nod before he was nearly tackled to the ground. Charles clung to him like a koala, face buried in his shoulder.

“You can keep talking,” he mumbled, voice muffled by Edwin’s shirt. “I’m staying here, though.”

Edwin wriggled his hands free in order to clutch Charles back. “Alright, darling. You’ll hear no complaints from me.”

The Park

“Charles!”

Silence.

“Charles!”

Still, nothing. The only sound he heard was the nearby quacking of St. James’ ducks as they settled in for the night.

Edwin collapsed against a nearby tree. Charles was nowhere in sight. His assumption had led to nothing but another dead end.

Mounting panic clawed at his chest. Edwin knew nothing about thirteen-year-old Charles. He knew seven-year-old Charles and his adorable personality: shy as a mouse, but twice as kind. He knew ten-year-old Charles and his penchant for laughter and telling colorful stories. They would have looked to Misty and Indigo for help. They would have tried to visit the theater, or gone to play at the park. 

It was useless. Edwin was useless. He didn’t even know where to start. Present-day Charles’s mirror travel skills had taken them years to build together. The idea of this younger version trying to hop on his own, oblivious and scared, was almost too much to bear.

Then, in Edwin’s moment of despair, realization struck. Spatial dislocation, while a tad tricky, was a common activity amongst ghosts. Over the years, general guidelines had been developed. Perhaps Edwin could use them to his advantage.

Charles was an inexperienced traveler. Inexperienced travelers, when left to their own devices, often confused where they wanted to go with where they felt they should go. It was a common trick of the portals. One that was difficult to avoid.

During the small amount of time Edwin had spent with this younger, teenage Charles, he’d managed to glean one thing: the poor boy’s sense of self-worth was staggeringly low. He was beaten down, bruised, and wholly convinced that he deserved his father’s mistreatment.

The mere thought of it made Edwin’s blood boil. However…

Edwin spun on his heel and strode back towards the public restrooms with renewed purpose. He knew exactly where to look.

"...And that's how I found you,” Edwin finished. He pointed towards a mirror in the storage closet, half buried under a mound of rubbish. “The other locations I chose may seem silly, but as I said. I wasn't thinking straight."

Charles toyed with a few pins on his jacket. “Sounds like pretty straight thinking to me. I wish I’d thought of any of those places, instead of coming here.”

“Well, as I said. You likely wouldn’t have arrived at your intended location anyhow. Mirror portals often take new travelers to the location their soul deems fit.”

Charles slumped down, looking nervous. “I meant to ask, actually. Does that mean I wanted to come here? Like, deep down? Because right before I popped out of the mirror, I accidentally thought about how much I missed home. I don’t really know what I meant by that, but I don’t think I wanted to come here. I swear I didn’t. This is the last place I wanted to go.”

“Slow down, my love,” Edwin soothed. He reached out and gave Charles’s arm a squeeze. “That’s not what I meant in the slightest. Your appearance in this house simply means that your soul, through no fault of your own, thinks that you deserve to be here.”

Charles’s face went pinched at the idea. “My soul can get bent, then,” he grumbled. “It's proper luck my parents weren’t home when I got here. Don’t think you and Dad would get along too well, would you?”

The feral hound in Edwin’s soul snapped to the forefront, howling in agreement. He forced it into a muzzle.

“No,” he said, voice clear and calm. “I don’t imagine we would.”

There was a short lull in conversation as Edwin took the time to pack up his bandages. Then, he re-broached the subject that had first led their night astray.

“Speaking of your father. Would you like to tell me about what led up to all of this?”

Charles shrugged half-heartedly. “There’s not much to tell. I snuck out and Dad caught me. Things were already going bad, but then I—” he paused. “Well, doesn’t matter now, does it? I pissed him off and got beat up. That’s the lot of it.”

Which was absurd. The brief flicker of hurt on his face told Edwin that it mattered a great deal.

“You know you can tell me anything, yes?” he offered. “I’m not here to judge. Only to help.”

Charles’s expression fractured down the middle, at that. Something jagged and hopeful peeked through, like a crystalline geode cracking in half.

“Anything?”

Edwin drew an ‘X’ over his heart. “Anything.”

“Well…” he blew out a long, shaky breath. “You know how I said I snuck out?”

Edwin nodded.

“I kind of met someone… new? His name’s James, and I’m not sure what to think about him yet. Which sounds so stupid, doesn’t it? We got on like best mates, so how can I not be sure?”

“Charles,” Edwin interjected. Charles went quiet, jaw clicking shut. “It’s alright. Whatever the issue is, we can sort through it together.”

“Right,” Charles breathed. “Right, okay.” He looked a bit sick, but continued anyway. “Well, I met him tonight, and he’s pretty great. Funny, smart—you know. Totally aces.”

Edwin nodded again, silently. Charles gulped down a breath, then reached into his jacket pocket.

“Thing is. I think that I might—”

“Duckie?” a woman’s voice called out from the stairs. “Are you still down there?”

The unexpected voice was soft, and dreadfully kind. Edwin imagined it might be soothing in a different context. Now, it only filled him with dread. 

Edwin stretched an arm out in front of Charles and immediately began to stand. “Charles, darling, stay here,” he instructed, stepping towards the stairs. “Everything’s alright. Just stay here.”

“Edwin!” Charles’s hand wrapped around his wrist, trying to tug him back. “Edwin, mate, what’re you doing?”

“Your mother’s home, I need to—”

“My mum?” Charles sounded confused. “No. No, Edwin, that’s not my mum. That’s my mum’s cat.”

Edwin tried to focus through the protective snarling in his chest. “Her cat?”

“The one I asked you about earlier, remember? Clementine? White and spotty?”

The vague image of a shape skittering up the stairs came to mind. Of course. The family cat. She must have been scared off by all the ruckus.

Not that Edwin could blame her. If he were anyone else, he might have been scared off by all of the ruckus, too.

Edwin sat back down slowly. “Of course, I’m sorry.” He crossed his legs, and tried to shake the disjointed fury hammering at his ribs. “I don’t know what came over me.”

Charles gave him a small grin. “It’s okay. She spooked me pretty good too, the first time we met.” He swiveled to face the stairs. “Yeah, Clem, we’re here! You can come down now. I’m done going mental.”

Clementine was down the stairs before he even finished his sentence.

“I’m so sorry I ran off, duckie. I’m not much a fan of loud noises, you know, and I figured someone ought to keep an eye out for your parents.” She stepped carefully across the room, avoiding the broken glass. “But, enough about me. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, Clem.” Charles rubbed his neck sheepishly. “Sorry I scared you.”

Clementine hopped onto Edwin’s lap, using his legs as a bridge. “No need to apologize, duckie. Like I said earlier, this basement does funny things to your head.”

Edwin winced as Clementine’s claws burned into his thigh. “Mind your claws, please,” he grit out. “I’m not quite as solid as Charles is.”

“Oops.” She jumped onto Charles instead, pushing a soft “oof” from his sternum. “My mistake.”

All of the tension seemed to bleed out of Charles’s frame as Clementine settled in his lap. He placed his toy cat on her midsection, seemingly chuffed to have them in the same place.

It was curious. Charles had always taken well to animals, but with Rhiannon, and now Clementine, they seemed to be the most effective method of calming him down. Perhaps Edwin should have taken his present-day counterpart’s request for an office pet more seriously.

“You’re sure you’re alright?” Clementine asked between purrs. She nosed at the plushie on her back, giving it a lick. 

“Yeah,” Charles confirmed. “I told you, Edwin takes care of me. He’s gonna make sure I get out of here okay.”

Clementine’s tail flicked in the air. “Is that true? You make sure he stays safe?”

Wasn’t that a loaded question.

“I try my absolute best.”

“Then what on Earth were you thinking, letting him come here?” she hissed, fur puffing up. She looked like an angry cotton ball. “Are you daft?”

Edwin bristled. “Excuse me?”

“You’re in charge of an injured child, and this is what you allow him to do with his time? What kind of minder are you?”

Edwin looked away, stomach churning. As much as he wanted to defend himself, he knew she was right. The fact that Charles had run off, returned to his abuser’s home, and subsequently suffered even more injuries was Edwin’s burden to bear.

He’d failed. Again. It seemed to be all he was capable of, lately.

Charles let out an offended gasp. “Clem, come on!” He tried to lift her off of his lap as a punishment. “It wasn’t his fault!”

Clementine clung on stubbornly, her claws digging into his jeans. “If he’s your minder, then yes, it is! You’re a child, duckie. You shouldn’t have been allowed to run off by yourself!”

“But it wasn’t his fault! He tried to stop me!”

Edwin cut into the argument, silencing them both. “It’s alright, Charles. She’s correct. You’re under my care for the time being. The harm you suffered here is my responsibility, and my responsibility alone.”

Charles sighed unhappily. “That’s bollocks,” he argued, though there was no heat behind it. “I’m not your ‘responsibility’. You’re not even that much older than me, anyway.”

Clementine let out a curious mrrp, giving Edwin a once-over. “Hang on a tick. How old are you?”

“One hundred and—”

“No, no. How old were you when you died?”

Edwin straightened up. “I was sixteen. Though I hardly see what that matters now.”

“Oh.” Clementine’s bushy fur finally smoothed back down. “I’m sorry, love. That’s my mistake. I didn’t realize you were so young.”

Edwin sniffed at the suggestion. “I’m one hundred and twenty three years old. Hardly a young soul, I would say.”

“Your insistence on reciting the exact age of your soul suggests otherwise,” she countered. “A hundred year old child is still a child, I’m afraid. Charles is right. This isn’t your fault.” 

Edwin opened his mouth to argue. “But—”

“Now,” Clementine said, ignoring his protest, “as much as I would like to continue our chat, the basement of this house is hardly a place for two wayward children. Paul and Mari could return any time. You two ought to get going before they do.”

Edwin agreed wholeheartedly. But, it wasn’t his decision to make.

“How are you feeling, Charles?” he asked. “Are you ready to go?”

Charles pressed a kiss to Clementine’s head before shooing her off of his lap. “I just want to pick through the rubbish heap one last time, if that’s okay.” He placed Edwin-the-cat on his shoulder. “This little lad can help me look.”

A twinge of unease sparked in Edwin’s belly. Clementine was right. It was getting late, and they needed to go. But, this was Charles’s childhood home. Edwin didn’t want to pull him away before he was ready to move on.

“Of course,” he assured Charles, climbing to his feet. “Take all the time you need. I’ll get a mirror portal sorted in the meantime.”

The two walked in their respective directions, Charles heading for a pile of boxes, and Edwin to the storage closet. As he began to finagle the mirror out of its cluttered space in the back, he heard a sharp mrow at his feet.

Clementine stared up at him expectantly. Edwin stared back, waiting for her to speak.

Finally, when she didn’t, he sighed. “Can I help you?”

“What happened to him?” she asked, looking towards Charles. He was picking through a pile of cassettes, completely oblivious. “Why didn’t he get to move on?”

Edwin leaned the mirror up against a nearby wall. “The tale of Charles’s death is not mine to tell. As for why he’s still here: Charles and I linger together because we want to. It’s as simple as that.”

“But why? Don’t you two want to move on?”

Edwin put his hand to the mirror and pulled up the office portal, its familiar visage shimmering on the surface. “If you must know. Charles and I are employed by the afterlife to assist spirits in carrying out unfinished business. Death isn’t allowed to ferry us on without our overseer’s permission.”

“You two have an overseer?” she asked, perplexed. “They must be quite terrible at their job, if you ended up here.”

Edwin breathed a partial laugh.“In all fairness, she’s been at an interplanar conference for some time now. Unreachable except in cases of non-regenerative destruction.”

“In cases of what?”

“Non-regenerative destruction,” Edwin repeated. “In other words, afterlife-or-death emergencies. She will likely hear about this entire situation through written reports, after Charles has regained his memories.”

“After he’s regained his memories?” Clementine echoed. “He normally knows he’s a spirit, then?”

“He does. This lack of awareness is a temporary lapse that will hopefully be resolved by tomorrow’s end.”

Clementine put a paw on his boot, somehow still not satisfied. “Why is he so young? Mari always said that Charlie died at sixteen. He doesn’t look a day over twelve.”

“He’s thirteen,” Edwin corrected her, then stopped short. “Hang on a tick. ‘Charlie’?”

“Oh, blast it,” she swore, tail flicking. “Charles. I meant Charles.”

Edwin’s stomach swooped. “Is his name Charlie?”

“To his parents, it is. I didn’t even know his name was Charles, until he told me.”

Edwin pressed his fists together. He’d never thought to ask this younger Charles if he had a preferred nickname. Had he been calling him by the wrong name this entire time?

“Excuse me for a moment,” he said to Clementine, moving to step around her. “I believe Charles and I are due for a conversation.”

“No!” Clementine bolted forward to block his path. “No, leave it. He hates being called Charlie. Threw a wobbly when I used it by accident.”

Which, while somewhat relieving, was also a concern. “I see. Did he mention why?”

“His dad uses it against him, it seems. Not many happy memories there, so best avoid it if you can.”

Edwin’s heart sank. That would explain this younger Charles’s initial distrust of his pet names, then. The loving endearments would have felt like nothing more than a threat.

The thought of his affections being so horribly misconstrued made Edwin want to claw his skin off. It just wasn’t fair.

He pressed his fists together tightly, shoving the feeling back down. “Thank you, Clementine,” he said evenly. “Your discovery, however worrisome, has cleared up quite a few unanswered questions.” He knelt down and offered her a hand to sniff. “I’d also like to apologize for the ruckus we’ve brought into your home. Our work tends to land Charles and I in unusual predicaments, but these past few days have been some of the most difficult by far.”

Clementine rubbed her cheek against his fingers. “No need for sorries, love. Things were a bit dodgy at the beginning, I will admit, but it’s alright now. He seems to do much better with you here.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Edwin said, scritching her ears. “Thank you for watching over him in my stead. I have no idea what might have happened had he been left to navigate this home on his own.”

“Anytime,” she purred, nuzzling his hand. “He’s Mari’s son, after all. What else is family for?”

“Oi!” Charles called over. “What are you two whispering about?”

Edwin stood up quickly. “Nothing worth mentioning, darling,” he responded. Clementine looked at him, blinking slowly, and Edwin found himself wondering if cats could wink. “Did you find anything interesting?”

“Just some cassettes, and a couple old books. Oh, and—” he held up something small and dangling. “A new earring. Can’t find the other, but I only need one.”

Edwin strode across the room to get a closer look. Sure enough, sitting in Charles’s palm, was a familiar gold star.

“I know there’s another Charles that has the same one,” he admitted quietly, “so I can put it back if you want me to. But it just feels right, y’know? Like I need to take it.”

Edwin steepled his fingers. “You’ve had no new headaches since finding it?”

“Nope.”

“No hallucinations?”

“Not that I’ve seen.”

“Any other odd mental symptoms?”

“Nah.” He nudged Edwin with his shoulder. “Really, mate. I feel fine.”

Edwin reached out and closed Charles’s fingers around the earring. “Then you should have it. I’m certain it will look lovely on you.”

Charles ducked his head. “Right,” he muttered, then held up a rucksack full of pilfered items. “Well, I think I’m ready if you are. Picked this place clean of all the good stuff I can carry.”

Clementine trotted over and sniffed the bag curiously. “Is this the pack you came down here for?”

“Nah,” Charles said, slinging it onto his shoulder. “That one’s not here. Don’t know where it got off to, but it’s alright. Don’t need it now that Edwin can hop me places and Crystal can buy me clothes, do I?”

Edwin smirked. “I’m certain that Crystal would be more than happy to spend her parents’ money on you, should you ask. There seems to be an endless supply of it.”

“Don’t say that, mate. If Crystal lets me, I’ll run her minted parents straight into bankruptcy.”

It was such a Charles thing to say that Edwin couldn’t help but laugh. Charles practically glowed at the sound.

“Funny, yeah?” he grinned proudly. “You know, one time, me and my mate Etta—”

Then, Charles suddenly stopped, his gleeful story lost to the basement’s eerie silence. All of the color drained from his face as he whipped around to face the stairs.

“Charles?” Edwin asked, alarmed by the sudden shift. “Are you alright?”

Charles turned back, eyes wide. “You heard that, didn’t you?”

“No, darling, I didn’t hear anything.”

Charles took a step towards the stairs. “Listen harder, then.”

“Charles, what are you—”

“Just listen!”

So, Edwin did. He heard nothing, at first—only the sound of Charles’s panicked breathing. Then, there was a grinding sound. The soft, mechanical click of gears shifting beyond the basement wall.

The beast in Edwin’s chest howled at the sound.

“Fuck,” Charles whispered. 

Its meager muzzle stretched and frayed. 

“Fuck, Edwin. We need to go.”

The hollow bars of its cage bent and snapped. It longed to be loose. To be free.

“What’s the sudden rush, love?” Clementine asked, oblivious.

“That was the garage door,” Charles said shakily. Edwin felt a trembling hand in his, trying to tug him towards the mirror. “I think my parents are home.”

Edwin tried to maintain his composure. He tried to wrestle his fury back into submission. The last thing Charles needed was to see more violence, and the last thing Edwin wanted was to subject him to it. All he wanted to do was take Charles home.

But it didn’t work. He wasn’t strong enough. Beneath his desperate, pleading efforts, the last tether of his control snapped without a sound.

Chapter Text

Capital loss
Love was the law and religion was taught
I'm not bought
Feel when we argue, our skin starts to rot

Guardian Angels: Born or Made?

Charles’s heart leapt in his throat. The rumbling of the garage door reverberated in his skull like marbles in a glass jar.

“Fuck.”

This was bad. No, this was worse than bad. ‘Bad’ was three hours ago. ‘Bad’ was when his dad was throwing a fit, but Charles was the only one around for him to target.

Now, Clementine was here. His mum probably was, too. Worst of all, though, Edwin was here. His dad had no supernatural powers to speak of, but that didn’t mean anything. If hurting Edwin would cause Charles pain, then his dad would find a way to beat the shit out of a ghost.

He choked down a dry heave. This wasn’t just bad. This was a bloody nightmare.

“Fuck, Edwin. We need to go.”

Clementine’s ears twitched towards the staircase. “What’s the sudden rush, love?”

“That was the garage door,” he choked out, trying to pull Edwin back towards the mirror—but he wouldn’t budge. He just started off at the wall, completely ignoring Charles behind him. “I think my parents are home.”

The words pulled him even further away from his body. If they’d left two minutes earlier, this never would've happened, but Charles just had to stay and to pick through his dad’s old rubbish. And for what? A few books? Some old cassettes? A bloody earring? What had he been thinking?

He hadn’t, was the thing. The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. Edwin and his dad standing under the same roof, at the same time, had felt like too cruel a cosmic joke to consider—even in Charles’s fucked up horror show of a life.

He clenched his fist, squishing Edwin-the-cat in his bandaged hand. Stupid. He was so, so stupid.

“Are you sure that was the garage?” Clementine asked. “I didn’t hear anything.”

“Yeah,” he gasped, chest tight with panic. “Yeah, I’m sure.” He tugged at Edwin’s hand again, but it was no use. For some reason, he just wouldn’t move.

“God, Clem, what do I do? Edwin’s all froze up, and I can’t mirror hop by myself. What am I supposed to do?”

“Don’t you worry, love,” Clem soothed. “We’re gonna get you home.” She rubbed her side on Edwin’s leg. “Isn’t that right, Edwin?”

Only silence came in response. Edwin just continued to stare, fixated on the stairs like a full-color statue.

Clem let out a soft mrow, flicking her tail pensively. Then, she brandished her little claws.

Charles’s nerves suddenly skyrocketed. “Wait, Clem. What are you—“

But she didn’t wait. Instead, she took a hearty swipe at Edwin’s leg, aiming for his thin-knit socks. There was a sizzling sound as claw met skin, like rashers of bacon in a frying pan. Edwin hissed and yanked away, whipping around to face them both. 

“Oh no,” Clem whispered. Charles echoed her, gasping before he could stop himself.

Edwin, despite all his stuffiness, had always been one of the warmest people that Charles had ever met. Even when he was squabbling with Crystal, or frustrated with research, there was a comforting sort of light about him. It was why Charles had such trouble accepting he was dead, at first. Well, besides the whole ‘ghosts are real and your best mate died a hundred years ago’ business. That little light had made him feel so alive.

Now, that lantern-like warmth was gone, and Edwin looked as dead as he was. His breaths were uneven and shallow. His pale skin was shiny and slick with sweat. Both his waistcoat and tie were gone, his smart collar replaced by a dirty undershirt that peeked out from beneath his jacket.

Worst of all, though, were his eyes. Their inquisitive depths were so horribly empty, like the unsettling gaze of a lifeless doll. Charles tried searching them for a fraction of that comforting warmth, but all he could find was pale, heavy rage.

A drop of blood dripped from Edwin’s hairline; Charles shivered. Whatever was happening, it didn’t feel dangerous—at least, not yet. Given enough time, though, it felt like it could be.

Charles jumped at the feeling of a bump against his leg. “Edwin left a mirror doorway open, duckie,” Clem said quietly. “You should be able to walk through just fine on your own.”

Indignation sparked at his core. “What?” he sputtered. “No! I’m not leaving him here!”

“Charles, love, it’s not safe,” she hissed. “You ought to go before—”

“How dare you?” a harsh voice growled. Gooseflesh prickled up Charles’s arms. Was that voice coming from Edwin? “How dare you try to split us up?”

Clem let out a frightened mewl and darted under the bed. Charles’s first instinct was to drop down and comfort her, or maybe even join her, but he didn’t have the chance. Two freezing hands settled on his shoulders before he even had time to think.

“I’m going to ask you a question,” the voice rumbled. It was, in fact, coming from Edwin. It just didn’t sound like him. “It is an unfair question to ask, but I need an honest answer all the same.”

Charles nodded, stunned. “Okay.”

The hands on his shoulders flickered, as if they were trying to decide whether they existed or not. “Would you like me to hurt your father?” he asked. “Because I would be very, very happy to do so.”

More drops of blood dripped down his cheek. The stark contrast of vibrant red and papery skin make him look like nothing more than a memory. To everyone else, he probably was nothing more than a memory.

But to Charles, he looked divine.

Suddenly, Charles wasn’t thirteen anymore. He was seven years old all over again, staring into the face of angelic retribution. Charles knew, deep in his soul, that Edwin would do whatever he asked. Whatever choice he made, Edwin would honor it.

And, for a split second, Charles almost took advantage of that. He wanted so badly to say yes. To let Edwin drag his father into the basement, and show the same amount of mercy that he’d always shown Charles. 

None.

Except… That felt wrong. Because Edwin wasn’t an angel.

Edwin wasn’t his guardian. He wasn’t a savior. He was just a boy, like Charles, and he'd already been hurt. A lot. Why would Charles want to subject his best mate to more violence, when he was already leaving drops of blood on the basement floor?

“Nah, mate,” he said casually. “Old sod’s not worth it, is he? Let’s just get out of here.”

Edwin just stared at him, looking a bit lost. It almost seemed like he wanted to agree. But, then, the slam of a car door made Charles flinch. Apparently a punishable offense, to this version of Edwin.

His stuffy jacket up and disappeared, at that sound. Long, dirty pants popped up where his trousers ought to be. With every change of clothing came a new dip in his posture, twisting his form into something downtrodden and full of shame.

It wasn’t right. Edwin was supposed to be tall and proud, like those carved marble statues displayed in museums. Charles almost wanted to offer up his jacket. It probably wouldn’t fit him, but at least it’d give him some cover.

“Are you certain you don’t want me to hurt him?” Edwin asked again. Half of his face was covered in red, now. “It would be no trouble at all. Hardly a sweat, really.”

Charles didn’t respond right away. Instead, he reached up and wiped some of the blood from Edwin’s cheek. It came away easy; tacky, warm and red. Edwin flinched away, breath hitching.

“No, Edwin,” he insisted firmly. “I don’t want you to hurt him.”

Edwin’s brow furrowed. “But why?” he rasped. “Your father hurt you. He deserves to be punished.”

Charles sighed deeply, indecision swirling his stomach. “Maybe, but not like this,” he sounded out. “I don’t want you to get hurt down here. Don’t think I could stomach it.”

Edwin’s lip wobbled, tugging at Charles’s heartstrings. “But what if I want to hurt him?” he whispered. “What if I need to?”

He didn’t sound like the makeshift adult that Charles remembered anymore. Instead, he sounded like a proper kid, just looking for answers. 

Charles straightened up, trying to stand at full height. “My dad’s really not worth it, mate,” he promised, drawing a shaky ‘X’ over his chest. “Cross my heart.”

Another car door closed, startling them both, and the blood pouring down Edwin’s face only got thicker. Charles briefly wondered if he should be scared of Edwin, like this. If the fear and anger might make him lose his sense. 

But, he couldn’t find it in himself to feel anything but love.

Without giving himself another moment to think, Charles jolted forward and wrapped his arms around Edwin’s waist. He smelled gross, like drying sweat and blood, but Charles didn’t care. Edwin staggered back, letting out a surprised grunt.

“Please , Edwin,” Charles begged into his chest. “Please don’t fight with Dad. Let’s just go home.”

The stiff body in his arms relaxed. “Home?”

“To the office,” Charles reminded him. “That’s home for you, innit?”

A few seconds passed before Edwin reacted at all. Then, Charles felt a shaky hand settle in his hair.

“For you, too,” Edwin whispered. His tone was heartbreaking, all thick and sad, but at least he sounded like himself again. “It’s not home without you there.”

Finally, the minging fabric of Edwin’s undershirt disappeared, replaced by his usual waistcoat and jacket. His trousers and bowtie followed suit. The tie appeared undone around his neck, and his hairline was still a bit bloody, but everything else seemed in working order.

“There,” Charles said, pulling away. The impending arrival of his dad still made him want to be sick, but that worry could wait a bit longer. What mattered right now was Edwin. “That’s better, innit?”

Edwin offered a small smile. He looked upset, and a bit guilty, but… composed. More like himself. “I suppose. Thank you for staying. I would have understood if you went back to the office alone.”

“And left you here by yourself?” Charles scoffed. “Don’t be daft, mate. We’re in this together. Always.”

Before Edwin could speak to his point any further, an exasperated voice cut through their conversation.

“Good heavens,” Clem groused. “You two are going to push this old cat into her second life.”

Charles bent down to look under the bed. Two big, yellow eyes peered back at him from the darkness. “Alright under there, Clem?”

Clem crawled out from her hiding spot, dust clinging to one ear. “Significantly better now that your friend’s vengeful fit has been dealt with,” she retorted. “You’re both lovely lads, but this evening has been far too exciting. I’m in desperate need of a nap.”

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Charles said, giving a sheepish grin. “We’ll go on and get out of your fur, now. I promise.”

“As you ought to have already,” she scolded. Then, she addressed Edwin directly. “I don’t mean to rush you, love, but get a move on. Paul and Mari may be slow moving these days, but they’re not that slow.”

Edwin nodded shakily. “She’s right, Charles. Let’s go. Quickly.”

Clem padded after Charles as he followed Edwin, easily dodging his footfalls. “And don’t you worry about revenge now, love. Paul is about to discover just how irritating it is to be out of favor with a housecat.”

Charles snorted and bent down, giving her ears a scritch. “Just look after yourself and Mum till I get back, yeah? It’s hard enough on her when I am here; can’t imagine what it's like when I’m not.”

Clem nuzzled his hand. “Don’t worry about this old house anymore, duckie. it’s your time to be free—whatever that means for you.”

Charles shivered. He didn’t really know what she meant by that.

He didn’t not know what she meant, either.

“I’ll still visit,” he swore. “I’m not sure what that’ll look like, but I will.”

“Charles?” Edwin gestured towards the mirror. Its surface shimmered with packed bookshelves and an old, musty couch. “We ought to go.”

It was brilliant timing, really. The inside garage door opened just as he finished speaking. Charles froze on the spot, heart racing. That was his dad. Those were his footsteps.

Edwin reached out a hand. “Come, now. Crystal and Niko are just on the other side. I’m sure they’re anxious to see you.”

Charles shook off his paralyzing stupor. “Right, mate,” he said, taking Edwin’s hand. “‘Course. Lead the way.”

And with a final wave to Clem, Charles let Edwin pull him through the mirror. The last thing he heard was the sound of footsteps stopping outside the basement door.

Cosmetics & Camaraderie

The sound of heavy, demanding footfalls nearly stopped Edwin in his tracks. That had to be him. That had to be Charles’s father, just up the stairs, and instead of doing what needed to be done, Edwin was running away. Like a coward.

How was he supposed to reconcile that? What kind of friend would allow such a horrible, disgusting man to walk free, while Charles was, once again, left to deal with the aftermath of his actions?

A respectful friend, he reminded himself. He was only doing what Charles had asked. That’s what mattered. So long as Charles knew Edwin’s offer was genuine, then whatever he decided upon had to be an acceptable outcome. Taking away his final bit of autonomy was not something Edwin was willing to do.

No matter how bloody unfair it was.

Edwin had to wonder if Paul Rowland knew how lucky he was to have such a merciful son. Because of Charles, he would likely spend his time in front of the telly tonight. He would read the newspaper tomorrow morning, and play board games with his wife. His comfortable days of retired bliss could continue to their natural end, all because of Charles. If it were up to Edwin, he would be on his way to Hell at this very moment—with Edwin as his personal escort.

But, he wasn’t, and Edwin had to accept that. The only comfort he could find was in the rigidity of Hell’s induction rules. No matter how much mercy Charles showed his father, Mr. Rowland’s fate was likely sealed. He would find his way to eternal punishment, eventually. With or without Edwin’s help.

“Crystal!” Charles cheered, bringing Edwin’s thoughts to a satisfying stop. He bolted from the mirror and past the desk, where Crystal was perched on the arm of the sofa.

“Charles!” She stood up and caught him in her arms. The research book in her hands tumbled to the ground, forgotten. “It’s really fucking good to see you, bud. You scared the shit out of us, running off like that.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled into her hair. “Wasn’t really thinking when I left. Just turned tail and ran.”

“It’s fine,” Crystal hummed, “I get it. Just don’t do it again, or I’ll actually lose my shit.”

Charles chuckled, pulling away. “Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere. I like it here, I think.” He gave Edwin a knowing grin. “Feels good. Like home.”

The residual fury in Edwin’s chest dimmed into a low growl. He offered Charles a smile in return. “As I said before, dove. This home is as much yours as it is mine.”

Charles's cheeks darkened. “Thanks,” he murmured, stepping past Crystal. “So, where’s—”

The washroom door swung open at that moment, as if summoned by Charles’s question. In the doorway stood Niko, with a blue velvet bag swinging from her wrist.

“Charles!” she squealed. The bag fell to the floor with a heavy thud as she bolted forward, wrapping her arms around his waist. Charles jolted backwards with a soft oof. Edwin caught the pain in his eyes before he shoved it behind a smile.

“Niko!” Charles said joyfully. It was quite impressive, really. His voice didn’t betray a single hint of discomfort. “It’s really, really good to see you.”

“Be mindful of his torso, please,” Edwin warned. “He has—”

“Nah, Edwin,” Charles cut in, shutting him down. “I’m good. Just a hug, innit?”

Edwin folded his hands unhappily. Charles was not a ten year old child anymore. He was a teenager, and could speak for himself. Edwin needed to let him make his own decisions, as reckless or undesirable as they might be.

Still. That didn’t make holding his tongue any easier.

Niko pulled away from their hug, frowning. “Did I hurt you?”

“No!” Charles tried. He reached for her again, attempting to cling on. “No, you didn’t, honest.”

Niko pulled back further. “Because if I did, you have to tell me,” she said, holding out her little finger. “Pinkie swear.”

Charles looked down at her hand. Then, he sighed, hooking her finger with his. “Yeah, okay, maybe a little. Dad had a proper go, and I’m still healing up. Everything’s gonna hurt for a bit.”

Niko leaned back in and wrapped her arms around his neck instead. “I can be gentle,” she murmured.

The two embraced for a long while, until Charles pulled away and wiped his nose. His eyes looked watery, and a little bit awestruck, which Edwin understood. Even if he couldn’t personally feel Niko’s hugs, he knew they were a transcendent experience.

“So,” Charles said, tossing his backpack on the sofa. His patchwork jacket and stuffed cat followed shortly after, folded haphazardly over the side. “Does anyone have food? Anything will do, really. I’m starved.”

Edwin heard Crystal suck in a tense breath. Her attention was fixed on his bandages, revealed by the absence of his jacket.

“Oh, Charles,” Niko crooned. She reached for his arm, eyes wide. “What happened?”

Charles pulled away and crossed his arms, though it did little to hide his injuries. “Nothing,” he deflected, looking uncomfortable. “Just got in a bit of a row, didn’t I?”

“That looks like more than ‘a bit of a row’,” she frowned. “Did your dad do that to you?”

Charles’s cheeks blanched. “I… um… I don’t…” He turned to Edwin, face awash with overwhelm. “Do you mind if I go wash up? I feel gross from all the dust and stuff.”

Edwin nodded and pointed off to the side. Providing Charles with an escape from prying eyes was the least he could do. “Of course, darling. The washroom is that way.”

“There’s also some of my shirts in there, if you want to borrow one,” Crystal offered.

Charles flashed her a tight smile. “Cheers. Be back in a jiff, then,” he said, and quickly walked away.

“Be careful with your bandages!” Niko called after him.

The room stayed quiet until Charles was gone, and the washroom door was shut tight. As soon the sound of running water started, Edwin found himself swarmed by the manic energy of two frantic girls.

“Oh my god,” Crystal whisper-yelled. “Oh my god, what the fuck? Is he okay? Are you okay?”

Edwin bristled. “I am perfectly fine, thank you. Charles is the one that is injured, not me.”

“But you’re bleeding, too,” Niko pointed out, eyeing the cut at his hairline. “Did you get hurt?”

Edwin brought a hand up and wiped at his forehead. Predictably, the red stain didn’t budge. “The blood is a memory. I’m normally able to maintain control over my spectral form, but I may have let it slip for a moment.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Crystal sputtered, far too loudly. “You slipped into your death form? Like, the same one that nearly destroyed a house during that case with the babydoll poltergeist? Are you serious?”

“Shush!” Edwin hissed, looking back towards the washroom. Thankfully, the water was still running. “Yes, I’m serious. I’m not proud of it, Crystal; there’s no need to rub it in.”

“I’m not trying to rub it in! I’m just—”

“—worried,” Niko finished. “We’re worried. What happened?”

Edwin straightened his collar, suddenly feeling a bit stifled. “Nothing that bears in-depth retelling. Charles fled to his parents’ home, I found him, we were in a bit of danger, and now we’re not. That’s the lot of it.”

Crystal’s eyes went wide as the moon. “You went to his house?”

“Oh my gosh,’ Niko gasped, hand flying to her mouth. “Did you see his parents?”

“I did not,” Edwin retorted, voice clipped—which was technically true. He’d only heard them; not seen them. “It was quick. I met a… cat.”

“A cat?” Crystal demanded. “What fucking cat?”

“It doesn't matter what cat!” he snapped, frustration peaking. “Will you please focus on Charles? He’s in the thick of one of his worst teenage memories, and had to stop me from taking biblical actions against his father. I imagine he may be feeling a bit unsteady.”

“So you did see his dad,” Niko countered gently. The growling beast in his chest quieted down as she reached for him, finally settling back into its cage.

“I may have heard him,” Edwin admitted as she wiped at his forehead. Her sleeve came away a bit bloody, at first, but then the stain flickered, and disappeared. “As I said, we weren’t there long.”

“That must’ve been hard,” Niko said.

Edwin nodded. He didn’t bother responding. If he tried to speak now, who knew what would come out? Screams? Sobs? Growls?

Best not find out.

“Did the two of you manage to get any research done while I was gone?” he asked, instead. “I know my outing was short, but any new information would be beneficial at this stage. We are making a worryingly small amount of headway.”

“We did, actually,” Crystal said. “Or, well, Niko did.”

Edwin straightened up. Perhaps their evening hadn’t been a complete loss after all. “You did?”

“Yep!” Niko said proudly. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a sticker-laden journal, alongside a fuzzy pink pen. “We called the author of that manuscript from Dr. Hargrove’s office—you know, Dr. Williams? I posed as Dr. Hargrove’s niece to try and get some information from him.”

“Excellent work, Niko,” Edwin commended. “Very quick thinking on your part.”

Niko smiled brightly. “Thank you. I thought maybe they were friends, since she left him her house in her will, but it turns out they were just business partners. I don’t think she really had any friends.”

“I cannot imagine why,” Edwin snipped. Even leaving the poor sod her house hadn’t been a selfless act; after all, she was spending her afterlife in it. “Did he have anything useful to offer?”

Niko flipped quickly through her notebook. “A lot, actually! He had all sorts of stories that I couldn’t find anywhere else. I think Dr. Hargrove’s lawyers scrubbed it all from public record.”

“I know how much you like secondary sources, though,” Crystal chimed in, “so I did a Google deep dive. Managed to dig up an old Facebook group with a bunch of complaints from advocates for ‘displaced teens’.”

Edwin raised an eyebrow. “Displaced teens?”

“Yeah,” Crystal said, face going sour. “Hargrove’s thing was working with traumatized teenagers. Go fucking figure.”

Niko finally seemed to find the journal page she was looking for, and traced a finger over the data. “According to Dr. Williams, the manuscript started as a joint project. All of the initial data is his, but Dr. Hargrove was supposed to write up a supplemental guide for future use by professionals. Follow the treatments, write up reports, that sort of thing.”

“I imagine that it didn’t quite happen that way,” Edwin deadpanned. 

Crystal snorted. “Fuck no. She ended up just skipping all of his preliminary treatments in order to ‘expedite the process’. Never taught her patients how to cope with bad memories, or deal with the aftermath—just tossed ‘em in the deep end and left them there to drown. I read that a few of them came out better for it, but most of them… ” she paused. “Let’s just say a lot of those kids never really recovered.”

Revulsion slithered up Edwin’s throat like a snake. Charles was just another victim in a long line of children, then. A helpless soul tossed to the wolves in the name of scientific progress.

“And all of this was done in secret?” he asked, swallowing hard.

“Up until a patient reported her in 2011,” Niko answered. “Dr. Hargrove lost her license after that. Dr. Williams tried to continue on his own, but ended up shelving the research for good. He felt awful that his work was being used for something so horrible.”

“As he should,” Crystal muttered. “I can’t believe he wasn’t, like, monitoring her shit.”

“Have we located this supplemental guide she was supposedly writing?” Edwin asked. “I’ve seen books full of notes and arcane tests, but nothing resembling a treatment guide.”

Crystal chewed her lip thoughtfully. “Not that I’ve seen. We took a bunch of journals from her house, but they were all pretty easy to find . Do you think we need to go back and look harder?”

“Eventually, yes,” Edwin said. “Based on what you have discovered so far, finishing a more magical version of this supplemental is likely her unfinished business.”

Niko tapped her chin with her fuzzy pink pen. “If that’s true, can’t we just destroy it?”

Edwin steepled his fingers, considering. “Even if we can destroy the guide, there’s nothing stopping her from restarting the work. We’ll need to find a way to squander her abilities completely.”

“How do we do that?” Crystal asked.

“I am not sure. But, if we’re successful, then it may put us one step closer to discontinuing this psionic psychiatrist business for good.”

“Psionic psychiatrist,” Niko echoed, jotting it down. “Sweet name.” 

Crystal toyed with a few of her curls, face pinched with distress. “Okay, but does any of this help Charles now, though?” she asked. “Because we’re, like, on the cusp of watching him die again and we still don’t know how to stop it.”

Edwin’s heart went galloping at the mention of Charles’s next transition. Keeping it out of his mind had been an exercise of internal discipline, so far, but Crystal’s practical words brought his dread back full force. 

“I’m afraid not,” he admitted. “I’ve not had the time, nor the means, to look into a solution since Charles’s transformation. Have you discovered anything in your research that might serve as a lead?”

Crystal sighed. “No, that’s all I got. I even called Indigo to see if she’d brainstorm with me, but no one picked up. I ended up leaving a message.”

Niko’s eyes went wide. “Oh! About that —”

But, before she could finish, the water in the next room slowed to a stop.

“We will have to continue this discussion later,” Edwin decided, stuffing his looming panic down. “We are not at the end of this runic cycle yet. As much as I want to help future Charles, this version of Charles deserves our full attention.”

“We’re not at the end?” Crystal asked. “Why? It sounds like you guys went through a lot already.”

“We did,” Edwin agreed, “but if Charles were ready to let go of this age, then he would be exhausted. It is a clear pattern: at the end of each cycle, he transitions by falling asleep.”

“What else do you think he needs?” Niko wondered.

Edwin’s mind wandered back to the conversation he’d been trying to have with Charles since earlier that evening.

“There was… something. He made a new friend just before this memory began; someone named James. It seems to be a rather sensitive subject, but we haven’t had the chance to speak in depth about it.”

“Uh.” Crystal looked down at the floor curiously. “Did you say ‘James’?”

“I did. Why? Is something the matter?”

She bent down and picked a small item up off of the floor. “This fell out of Charles’s pocket when he took off his jacket,” she said, holding it up. It seemed to be nothing more than a crumpled piece of paper. “I thought it was a receipt or something, but I’m pretty sure I saw the name ‘James’ written on the back.”

Edwin snatched the scrap from her fingers. On the paper was, indeed, the name ‘James’. Written above it was a telephone number, as well as a short note:

hey Charles (not Charlie, I remembered),

You’re something else, mate. Don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you before.
Ring me if you ever fancy a trip to the arcade. First game’s on me xx

James

P.S. New piercing looks well fit, good choice

“Oh,” breathed Edwin, the word punched out like a whimper. A whole night of painful puzzle pieces slowly slid into place, then. The nerves, the hesitation, the rampant distrust—all of Charles’s skittish behavior could be traced back to this note.

And so could the beating. Christ, this note must have been a catalyst. Just the thought of Mr. Rowland discovering such sensitive information made Edwin want to be sick.

“Poor Charles,” Niko whispered over his shoulder. Crystal peered over his other, saying nothing. He could feel her trembling—from anger, or distress, it was impossible to tell.

It wasn’t until Edwin heard a sharp gasp that he finally looked up from the note.

In the washroom doorway stood a near-frozen Charles, now sporting Crystal’s long sleeve Beach Bunny shirt. Edwin could see panicked calculations forming behind his eyes as they leapt from the note in his hands to the front door.

He was going to run. It painted on his face, clear as day. Charles was going to try and leave, again, and all Edwin could do was stare. 

It felt like he was in shock—which he shouldn’t be. He should be jumping in to offer some level of comfort, or coming up with ways to keep Charles in the office. But, only a single thought was able to penetrate the foggy confines of his mind.

Are you like me? A small, childlike voice whispered. Have you been like me this whole time?

Luckily, Crystal wasn’t quite so locked up. She stepped directly into Charles’s path and held up her hands in surrender.

“Charles, it's okay,” she said smoothly. “Really, it's all good.”

But Charles either didn’t hear her, or didn’t believe her. To Edwin’s horror, his eyes flicked towards the mirror, skimming over its smooth surface. Edwin’s insides lurched, yearning to stop him, but his body stayed put, completely frozen.

Not again. Not again, not again—

Thankfully, Niko was as quick on the draw as Crystal. She stood steadily in front of the mirror, guarding its shimmering surface with a smile.

“I only saw a little bit of the note,” she said to Charles, “so I promise nothing’s changed with me. You can tell me what it said yourself—or not! Whatever you want to do is totally okay.”

Her kind smile was dulled by tears, but it seemed to calm Charles all the same. Or, perhaps he was simply giving into the inevitability of his capture. Either way, he took a step towards Edwin, face smeared with a look of absolute defeat.

“You said I could tell you anything, yeah?” he asked. Edwin forced himself to nod.

“So you—” he cleared his throat, coughing back what sounded like a swell of tears. “You won’t hurt me yet, right? You’ll hear me out?”

That was enough to snap Edwin out of his stupor. Letting such a horrid assumption stand was inexcusable. He crossed the room in two large steps and latched onto Charles as tightly as he could without hurting him.

“I would never hurt you,” Edwin swore. “Not for anything, and certainly not for this.”

Charles sniffed into his shoulder. “But he likes me. Dad says it’s disgusting.”

“It’s not,” Edwin insisted. “I swear to you, dove, it's not. Nothing about you, or your experiences, could ever disgust me. I love you far too much for that.”

The next sound out of Charles’s mouth was a stuttering sob. Then another, deeper and louder. He shuddered in Edwin’s embrace as Crystal joined their hug, wrapping her arms around them both. For once, Edwin had no desire to shrug her off.

“You’ve done nothing wrong,” Edwin murmured in his ear. “None of this is your fault. Or James’s fault, for that matter. The only person to blame is your father.”

Charles just nodded into his shoulder, crying harder. 

“We still love you,” Crystal said.

“Always,” Niko added. She joined the huddle alongside Crystal, weaving her arms in wherever they would fit.

Charles’s legs suddenly faltered, forcing Edwin to support his weight. His lithe frame had never been heavy, but with Crystal and Niko there for support, he was practically weightless.

“Thank you,” Charles sobbed again, the words almost incoherent with relief. “Thank you so, so much.”

It took time for Charles to calm down, after that. He gripped onto Edwin like a lifeline, forcing him to remain still—which was certainly of no detriment to Edwin. He had no intention of moving until Charles was ready to let go, anway. It seemed that Crystal and Niko were of the same mind, so they all remained in a huddled clump for the remainder of Charles’s crying spell.

Finally, once his sobs had transitioned into sniffles, Charles pulled away, allowing them to disband. Smokey rings of black circled his eyes, giving him the appearance of a very tired raccoon.

Edwin reached into his breast pocket and fished out a handkerchief. “Do you feel any better?” he asked, handing it to Charles.

“Yeah,” Charles said, wiping his face. The cloth came away stained with soot-like streaks. “I shouldn’t have redone my kohl so soon, though. Probably looks a right mess now, doesn't it?”

“Not at all,” Edwin fibbed. “You look—”

“A little smudgy,” Crystal cut in. She reached out and dragged a thumb under his eyes. “Do you want me to redo it for you?”

Charles perked up, sniffling. “For reals?” he asked. “That’d be aces. These hand bandages make it hard to hold a pencil.”

“Sure. Pencil liner’s easy as fuck, so it should only take a second.”

“Well…” Charles bit his lip nervously. “While you’re at it. Do you think you could make mine look a bit more like yours? I can never get away with wearing anything but pencil at home.”

To say Crystal looked pleased was an understatement. “You like my eyeliner, huh?”

“Yeah. It’s so—”

“Gaudy?” Edwin interrupted, giving Crystal a once over. She rolled her eyes.

“Fucking rude,” she quipped. “I look hot, and you know it.”

Which, objectively, he did. Crystal’s careful combination of dark angles and shiny highlights were sharp and attractive in a way that Edwin could never quite understand. Both she and Niko took pride in their artwork, and Edwin knew that present-day Charles admired it greatly. It was hardly a shock that this version of Charles had taken to it as well.

“Go sit on the couch,” Crystal told Charles, heading towards the washroom. “I’ll get my stuff.”

“Oh!” Niko gasped, clasping her hands together. “Can I help, too? I have some lipstick that would look so good on you!”

Charles’s face rippled with nerves. “Oh, lipstick? I dunno if—”

But Niko scampered off before he could finish. As soon as she was out of earshot, Charles grabbed onto Edwin’s hand. 

“Would you do this with me?” he asked, eyes red-rimmed and earnest. “Just so I’m not the only one.”

Edwin’s first instinct was to say ‘absolutely not’. Experimenting with something as frivolous as cosmetics felt like a dangerous activity to participate in. Even just the thought of it made him want to crawl into a hole and hide there for eternity.

Edwin’s second instinct, however, was curiosity. Why was ‘dangerous’ the first word that came to mind when he was faced with the idea of wearing makeup? It was nothing more than a collection of pigments, emollients, and preservatives. There was nothing unsafe about it.

Charles squeezed his hand. “If you don’t want to, then just forget I said anything, yeah? I know it's a lot to ask. But, if you do want to…”

And that was the question, wasn’t it? Objectively, Edwin did want to. He wanted to do anything that would make Charles happy. But, if that was the case, then why did it feel as though agreeing to this endeavor was the equivalent of being hunted for sport?

His exercise in questioning didn’t matter much, in the end. Any emotions he felt were wholly irrelevant. It wasn’t as if he was going to tell Charles no.

“Niko?” he called over.

“Hm?”

“Would you be so kind as to…” he paused, unsure of how to ask. “Provide me with cosmetics?”

Niko’s face scrunched in confusion. “Provide you with… Oh! Oh, Edwin, do you want a makeover?”

“Not entirely,” he recounted quickly. Niko was an absolute gem, but if given no parameters, he was not sure how far she would take such a request. “Not my clothes, or my hair. Just… cosmetics.”

“I’d love to!” she chirped. “It’d be an honor! Oh, you’re going to look so handsome.”

Edwin swallowed, fear biting at his gut. Everything would be fine.

Everything would be fine.

“Thanks,” Charles said under his breath, pulling Edwin towards the sofa. “Really appreciate you doing this, even if makeup’s not your thing. You’re the best mate ever.”

Edwin gave a shaky smile. Charles’s words were a light in the cold, almost bright enough to snuff out the anxious swirl in his stomach.

Almost.

“So,” Crystal said, finally emerging from the washroom. She perched herself on the coffee table, makeup bag in hand. “Spill it. Who’s James? How’d you meet?”

“Is he cute?” Niko asked. She upended a bagful of beauty products onto the coffee table. The loud clatter made Edwin’s ears hurt.

“Um…” stuttered Charles. “I don’t…”

“You don’t have to answer that,” Edwin offered, though he was distracted by Niko’s avalanche of cosmetics. He had never seen so many colors side by side in his entire existence. “Just start wherever you feel most comfortable.”

Crystal brandished a tube of light brown paste. “Close your eyes first, though. We’re skipping straight to eyelid primer, unless you want me to do your full face.

“Just eyes and lips is good,” Charles agreed, letting his eyes slip closed. “Did I get to tell you about my friend Etta, yet?” he asked Edwin.

“Not in any detail,” Edwin replied. Niko motioned for him to close his eyes, too. He obliged. “You may have mentioned her.”

“Well, she’s the one who taught me how to put on kohl. Wears loads of makeup herself—real dark, dramatic stuff. I thought I fancied her a bit when we met, but turns out we’re better off as weekend mates.”

“Did you ever tell her you liked her?” Niko asked.

“Nah,” Charles said, sounding nonplussed. “Never bothered. I could tell she didn’t fancy me. I used to think I wasn’t her sort, but now I reckon she doesn’t fancy blokes at all.”

“Ohhh,” Crystal and Niko chorused knowingly. Edwin cracked an eye open, only to find the girls sharing a conspiratorial glance.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

“No, we’re good,” Crystal assured him. “Just that having a crush on the wrong type of gay is a canon event. Can’t stop that shit if you try.”

“The wrong type of gay?” Edwin inquired.

“Canon event?” Charles followed up, brow scrunched.

“Ugh,” Crystal groaned, backed by Niko's quiet giggling. She tapped Charles’s forehead; a silent request that he relax his face. “Never mind, I forgot who I was talking to. Just move past it.”

Charles shrugged and obeyed, allowing Crystal to continue her work. Edwin settled back in to do the same for Niko. “I wasn’t even supposed to go out tonight, actually. I was meant to be doing coursework. But, Etta rang and asked if I wanted to go see the Stones with her and her cousin . They don’t play small venues much anymore, so it’s not like I could say no.”

“Wait, the Stones?” Crystal cut in. “Do you mean The Rolling Stones?”

The sofa creaked as Charles bounced excitedly. “Yeah! You know The Rolling Stones?”

Crystal laughed. “I mean, who doesn’t? They’re, like, classic rock.”

“Well, I dunno if I’d call them classic yet, but…”

“Edwin?”

Niko’s voice pulled Edwin from their musical conversation, and over towards her instead. He opened his eyes to find a palette of pressed powders in her outstretched hand. “Do you want to pick a color?”

The polychromatic palette was dotted with a vibrant array of jewel tones—ruby reds and sapphire blues set amongst the cardboard like corundum in matrix. They were beautiful hues. Very pleasing to the eye. It should have been easy to choose one.

Except, it wasn’t. Indecision gripped Edwin like a cold, hard fist. Was there a wrong answer? There had to be. It felt as if anything he chose would become the wrong answer as soon as it left his lips.

“I can also pick one, if you want,” Niko offered patiently, though Edwin barely heard her. His mind was too busy spiraling into a loop of damning shame and frustration.

Why did this have to be so difficult? It wasn’t as if the idea of men wearing makeup was new to him. Cosmetics seemed to be nothing more than an art form, in modern times. Anyone was allowed to participate. He’d spent enough time watching flashy performance competitions with Niko to understand that. 

But, if it was so widely acceptable, then why did Edwin feel as though he needed to run?

Suddenly, the ambient chatter of his friends faded into nothingness. The only feeling he could register was the rough scratch of a gag being shoved into his mouth. Tattered strips of fabric encircled his wrist, holding him down, and the raucous sound of boys laughing echoed in his ears.

“We offer up this little Mary Ann to the demon Sa’al as a sacrifice.”

Edwin clenched his jaw. He would not ruin this moment for Charles with such needless dramatics. There was plenty of time to lose his wits after the runic cycle was over.

“Let’s give this little prat a proper scare.”

Except, it didn’t feel like dramatics. It felt like he was going to die.

And then there was screaming, so much screaming, so much—

“Edwin!”

The image of Simon and his brutish friends faded away in an instant. Their faces were replaced by Niko’s gaze: strong, sturdy and worried.

“You’re shaking,” she said softly. “Do you want to stop?”

Edwin gave a thin smile, nearly faltering into a grimace. “No, thank you. I’m certain I can withstand a few unpleasant memories in order to support Charles through this process.”

“I know you can,” she said solemnly. “You’re so strong. But you know you don’t have to, right? Charles won’t be mad if you change your mind.”

It was curious how Niko always seemed to know what to say. Her reassurance was as warm as a soothing cup of tea, dissolving each memory like a sugar cube. 

“I think I’d like to continue,” he confessed, surprising himself, “but the idea of using such bright colors is a bit daunting. Do you have anything less eye-catching?”

“Sure!” She reached for a palette of neutral-colored powders on the far side of the table. “I think gold would look handsome on you, anyway.”

The anxious coil in Edwin’s gut finally unfurled. Metallic shades sounded much more manageable. He forced his eyelids to flutter shut and tried to refocus on the story that Charles was so engrossed in telling Crystal.

“So, we got to the club, and the music was bangin’, yeah? But some tosser knocked me flat on my back as soon as I pushed into the pit. He didn’t even stop to help me up, the wanker. Some other bloke had to do it instead.”

“Let me guess,” Crystal asked. “James?”

“Yeah,” Charles replied, a smile coloring his voice. “Didn't know it at the time, though. He just yanked me off the ground and shoved me back into the crowd. Dunno for sure, but I think he tried to stick by me for the rest of the set.”

Niko finally tapped Edwin’s leg and put her makeup palette away, allowing him to open his eyes for good. “What’d he look like?” she asked. “Paint us a picture, please!”

“Tall, bright red hair, spikey jacket?” Charles listed. “Oh, and there was a big gap between his teeth, too. He tried to hide it, I think, but I saw it when he laughed.”

“He sounds rather dashing,” Edwin commented. There was no way to truly envision James’s appearance based on such scant information, but it felt the right thing to say. Niko gave him a grin, confirming that decision.

Charles chuckled nervously. “I guess? Haven’t given it much thought, really. James gave me his number, sure, but I’m…” he trailed off, slumping in on himself. “I’m not sure I’m like that.”

“Like what?” Niko pressed.

“You know,” Charles said uncomfortably, “like that. Always fancied girls, haven’t I? Even had a girlfriend in primary, and I definitely fancied her.”

Crystal pulled a small container of shiny powder out of her bag. “Maybe you like both,” she offered. “You can open your eyes now, by the way.”

Charles's eyes fluttered, rendered wide and doe-like by the artful decoration. “Wait, you can like both?”

“Sure,” Crystal shrugged. She dipped a small brush into the powder and dabbed it into the corner of Charles’s eyes. “Girls are hot, guys are hot. Why limit yourself to just one?”

Charles’s jaw dropped, as if Crystal had just given him the solution to world peace. A metallic cosmetic tube twirled ceaselessly in his fingers—a nervous habit that Edwin recognized.

“Do you?” he asked cautiously. “Limit yourself?”

Crystal screwed open a new makeup cylinder with a black, spindly brush. Edwin distantly wished that he knew what any of these products were called. “Nah. Girls, guys—whatever. I’m on a dating break right now, but I’ve gone out with both. As long as I like the person, then it doesn’t really matter.”

Edwin caught Charles peering his way, gaze half hidden beneath his lashes. “I didn’t even know that was possible,” he muttered quietly. His simple statement bore no question, but the curiosity in his eyes was clear.

What about you?

A new rush of nerves seeped into Edwin’s bloodstream, which only frustrated him further. Such pointless anxiety was ridiculous. Crystal and Niko knew of his preferences already. This younger, impressionable Charles would clearly take no issue with them, either. There was no reason to be so nervous.

And, yet. With Niko pulling more makeup out of her case, and the taunts of his classmates ringing in his ears, it was a difficult truth to admit.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Niko whispered, the words hidden behind her curtain of hair. “It’s okay.”

Edwin exhaled calmly, feeling oddly reassured. Right. He didn’t have to; he wanted to.

“I have no interest in women, outside of forming friendships,” he stated hoarsely. There was more to that sentence, Edwin was sure of it, but the words got caught in his throat. No matter how hard he tried, it felt like some part of him didn’t want to let them go.

“He’s kind of like me!” Niko took over. Thank Christ for her. “I’ve never dated before, but if I did, I’d want to date a girl. Girls are pretty.”

“Mhmm,” Crystal hummed sagely. A wistful expression crossed her face, near identical to the one Charles wore moments ago. She seemed to be mostly focused on Niko.

Before Edwin could consider that meaning any further, a quiet sniffle caught his attention. Any thoughts about Crystal and her sneaky behavior immediately evaporated.

“Charles?” Edwin asked, alarmed. “What is it? Is something the matter?”

Charles chuckled. “Nah, mate, I’m brills.” He dabbed at his eyes, avoiding the makeup. “Just never thought I’d meet people like you lot, is all. James was the first, and I don’t think I’ll ever see him again.”

The tearful admission drove a spike through Edwin’s chest. He’d nearly forgotten, amongst all the cosmetics and camaraderie. This story didn’t have a happy ending.

Crystal rubbed Charles’s shoulder soothingly. “Do you want to tell us the rest?”

“So long as I can keep from crying, yeah,” he joked. “Don’t wanna ruin your hard work, do I?”

Crystal flashed him a playful grin. “If that happens, we’ll just do it again. Niko and I got plenty of makeup to go around.”

Charles nodded, then exhaled slowly, clearly steeling himself.

“Right. Well, the show’s interval was at half eleven, so James invited me out to the alley for a smoke. Turns out we got a lot in common, he and I. Cricket, ska, video games. He swears up and down he’s aces at Frogger.”

“Aren’t you quite good at that game?” Edwin asked. Present day Charles had mentioned it once, when they’d visited a closed arcade. They’d spent the entire night tricking the machines into allowing them to play for free.

“Sure am,” Charles said proudly. “Probably better than him, at any rate. We got so lost in talking ‘bout Pac Man skills and Tetris that it took me the entire interval to realize how many bloody piercings he has. It was too dark to see them all inside.”

“Ooooh,” Niko said, rifling through her makeup bag. She pulled out a small compact of blush-pink powder and a large, fluffy brush. “How many? Did you count?”

Charles tugged on his own safety pin. “Four on each ear. Apparently he did them all himself, so he offered to do mine.”

Crystal nearly dropped a handful of brushes, eyes wide with panic. “You pierced that ear in an alley?”

“No!” Charles protested, crossing his arms. “James pierced it. Cleaned the needle with a flame and everything.”

“Oh my god, as if that matters,” Crystal snarked. “I bet he didn’t sterilize that little safety pin before he stuck it in your ear after.”

Charles’s jaw went a bit slack. “Uh…”

“I knew it! I can’t believe this. Edwin, can you believe this?”

Objectively, their conversation was a pointless one. Charles was a spirit. Dirt and infection had no true affect on him; not even in a semi-corporeal state. And, even if it did, all of this was in the past. The scolding wasn’t warranted.

However, Edwin was fairly certain that Crystal wasn’t an imbecile. She knew Charles couldn’t get an infection. She just wanted to show him that someone cared if he was reckless. That if he treated himself poorly, it mattered to someone.

The gut-churning memory of Charles taking point in Dr. Hargrove’s office, despite Edwin’s warnings, came to mind. Perhaps, just this once, Crystal was onto something.

“Preposterous,” he settled on. “Absolutely ridiculous.”

“See?” she said. “Even he agrees. Next you’ll tell me that James gave you a fucking stick ‘n poke in the gross ass venue bathroom.”

“What’s a ‘stick ‘n poke’?” Charles asked.

Crystal opened her mouth to answer, then shook her head. “You know what? Never mind. I’m not giving you any more bad ideas. Finish your story, and then we’re getting that shit out of your ear.”

“Alright, alright,” Charles chuckled. “My story’s almost done, anyway. We went back into the venue after that , and it all shut down a bit past one. I didn’t have a ride, so his parents offered to give me a lift. They even took us to a kebab shop on the way home. James must’ve stuck the note in my pocket while we were eating.”

“That’s romantic,” Niko gushed. She brushed a cloud of pink onto Edwin’s cheeks, sending blush-toned particles into the air.

“I guess,” Charles mumbled. A small smile pulled at his lips, despite the sullen tone. “He’s pretty brills, James is. Couldn’t tell you a bad thing about him.”

“I’m surprised his parents picked you up that late,” Crystal commented, uncapping a tube of Niko’s lipstick. “Doesn’t he have a curfew?”

“Usually, yeah, but he got permission to stay out late since it was the Stones.” Charles paused, allowing her to apply the lipstick. “They’re nice, his parents. Like to make sure he and Etta have a safe ride home, no matter what.”

It was easy to spot the disappointed dip in his posture at the mention of such a caring family. Edwin desperately wanted to slide across the sofa and tuck Charles into his side, but he was too busy holding still for Niko.

Charles smacked his lips together, distributing the makeup across his lips. “Anyway, I didn’t get home until half two. Could have gotten in a bit earlier, but I stayed on the porch a while. Dad gets in late on Tuesdays, so I knew he’d be awake. Figured why not enjoy the stars before I got belted.”

Niko paused her application of something glossy to Edwin’s lips. “Is that what happened?” she asked, sounding horrified.

Charles shrugged. “Kind of, yeah. He was watching telly when I got in. Saw my piercing, pulled off my jacket, found the note, and…” he looked down at his bandages. “Well, you can guess the rest. I shouldn’t have gone out on a Tuesday.”

“Your father’s abhorrent behavior is not your doing, darling,” Edwin assured him. “Sneaking out does not warrant such a harsh punishment.”

Charles shrugged again. “Warranted or not, Dad said a lot of nasty things about James. Don’t care much what he does to me, but James’s different. He’s all rough on the outside, sure, but he’s nice. Like, really, properly nice.”

“Like a porcupine,” Niko offered. “Spikey on the outside, soft on the inside.”

Charles smirked. “Yeah, like a porcupine. People don’t mess with him at shows, but a few metal spikes aren’t gonna stop my dad from having a go. It’s best if I just stay away.”

Crystal pulled the safety pin out of his lobe carefully, as if she were removing an unruly splinter. “I’m sorry, Charles. Meeting boys is supposed to be exciting, not terrifying .” She dumped some rubbing alcohol on a cotton swab. “Okay, maybe a little terrifying, but only because first dates always suck. Not because your dad is a fucking piece of shit.”

“It’s alright,” he said, as if any of this was alright. As if everything he’d said didn’t make Edwin want to scream his long-dead lungs out. “I’m probably headed off to boarding school soon anyway. This’ll just save James the trouble of having to say goodbye.”

Edwin shared a look with both Crystal, and Niko. All he could see was the anticipatory grief of Charles’s next runic phase reflected back at him. 

A fraught silence fell as Crystal finished cleaning the unhealed piercing to her standards. Then, she pulled away, face settled in a small frown. 

“Niko, do you have an extra earring?” she asked. “I don’t think I brought any with me.”

“Hmm…” Niko picked through her makeup case. “I’m not sure. Do you want me to check my backpack?”

“Oh, wait!” Charles said, digging through his pocket. “I got one.” He pulled out his hand and opened his fingers to reveal a small, dangling star. 

Now, Edwin had to admit. For as much as he harped on Crystal about her overly emotional reactions, she’d done a remarkable job of holding herself together during this case. He hadn’t seen her shed a single tear since Charles was in his seven year old stage, which was nothing short of impressive. After all, he and Niko had managed to cry multiple tears at every stage. Crystal’s strength and control was something to be commended.

Which was why watching her eyes well up at the sight of that little, golden star, was a bit of a shock. Charles must have thought the same, because his full-fledged excitement went dim in an instant.

“Will this work?” he asked timidly. “Should I put it away?”

Crystal blinked quickly. The shininess of her eyes disappeared as quickly as it came. “No, it's fine,” she said thickly, taking a star from his palm. “This is perfect. Thanks, Charles.”

Watching her affix the star to his ear felt like a coronation; an honor bestowed upon a version of Charles that could not fully grasp its meaning. Every new addition to his appearance—the makeup, the jacket, the earring—brought them a little bit closer to having present-day Charles back within their grasp.

Finally, Charles turned to fully face Edwin, fiddling with his new-not-new earring. “So, how do I—”

But that’s as far as he got. His words dropped into silence as his jaw went completely slack. It was worrisome, at first—until Edwin realized it was a look of awe.

“Oh, wow,” he breathed, the words ghosting from his lips. “Niko did a bang up job on yours.”

“I could say the same for Crystal,” Edwin admitted—which was true. Precise lines accentuated the pleasing shape of Charles’s eyes, while both inner corners were dusted with a whimsical gold shimmer. His carefully applied lipstick looked beautiful, in contrast. Deep and dark as charcoal, or perhaps a moonless night. The best part, though, was his brand new earring. Edwin reached out to press the familiar brass star between his fingers. Charles seemed to hold his breath, eyes going wide.

“You look wonderful,” Edwin croaked. A bittersweet chasm opened in his chest, which he barely managed to swallow back down.

You look like him, he didn’t say.

“Cheers,” Charles said, blushing a healthy rose red. “You don’t look so bad yourself.”

Chapter Text

Two Scared is Better Than One...

For the next few hours or so, the office was mercifully quiet. No transitions, no arguments, no attempts at escape—just peace. It was a welcome bit of respite after such a stressful evening. But, with Charles’s final cycle looming like a dark, heavy rain cloud, Edwin couldn’t find it in himself to relax. He was too busy trying to keep Charles from dying.

Not that his devotion was making much of a difference. 

According to every scrap of information he’d found, Charles’s ‘second death’ was a mandatory step. There were no secret loopholes, or carefully-hidden tricks. No other surreptitious paths to take. In order for the spell to end, Charles had to die. That was the lot of it. Edwin’s efforts were useless, here. They were useless everywhere. 

The distracting sound of crinkling plastic cut through his focus like a knife. Edwin sighed, flipping his book shut. Oh, well. It was not as if continued research was getting him anywhere. Perhaps a brief interlude would do his mind some good.

“Charles?” he called. Charles was lounging on the sofa, facing the far wall. All Edwin could see was the back of his head. “What are you doing over there?” 

His question was drowned out by the tinny melody of muffled, two-tone ska. If Charles heard him, he did not reply.

 “Charles?” he repeated. More music, and crinkling plastic, was all he got in response.

Finally, Edwin stood to get a better look. Part of Charles’s attention was focused on a Hardy Boys paperback, while another was taken up by a pair of orange headphones. They blasted music at a volume that made Edwin want to cringe. The rest of his attention was devoted to the packet of jaffa cakes sitting in his lap.

Jaffa cakes? “Where on Earth did he get those?” Edwin wondered aloud.

“I found them for him!” 

The sudden voice made Edwin jump. Niko. He’d completely forgotten she was there. “You did?” he asked, frowning. “I must have been distracted.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “You were reading, and Charles was hungry, so I went snack searching in the bag-of tricks.” She opened a packet of crisps to punctuate her point. “Speaking of which: there were a lot of snacks in there. Do you know why our Charles collects so many? Does he carry them around for fun?”

A pang of grief echoed in Edwin’s chest. He did know why. It most certainly was not for fun.

Snack hoarding was a habit that Charles had picked up after a poltergeist removal in 1996. They had been hired by a ghost to exorcise his home of a reportedly ‘demonic creature’. Since banishing Hellish influence was a good deed done, he and Charles had agreed on the spot. 

The so-called ‘demonic creature’ had turned out to be the spirit of a starving toddler; the neglected daughter of a previous owner, haunting the halls of her childhood home. An offered packet of jellied sweets had been enough to put her to rest. She hadn’t even tried to eat them; the knowledge that someone cared was all she truly needed.

It had been a heartbreaking case, to say the least. Charles had been devastated for days. Even now, twenty eight years later, he still insisted on collecting snacks. Just in case the need arose.

Shameful realization struck Edwin— hard . It all made so much sense, now. Of course Charles had been devastated. The similarities between him and that starving toddler were staggering. 

Why hadn’t Charles said something? Why hadn’t he told Edwin what happened?

Why hadn’t Edwin ever bothered to ask?

Logically, Edwin knew that the case had occurred quite early in their partnership. Charles had not been as open as he was now, and Edwin had found discussing emotional matters uncomfortable. They had simply orbited the subject like two planets on separate paths.

But, that did not matter. It was Edwin’s job to know better. He should have asked. He should have asked.

“Edwin?” Niko asked, breaking through his downward spiral. Her gentle smile was patient and kind—barely a curve on her lips. “You don’t have to answer that, if you don’t want to. I was just curious.”

“Right,” he said awkwardly. Bless Niko and her endless amounts of psychic-level empathy. “Perhaps we ought to focus on research, instead. We still have one rune that has yet to be identified.”

“Oh!” Niko’s hair brushed the desk as she leaned to look at his notes. “The rune that activates after his cycle is over, right? Do you know what type it is?”

“Not quite,” Edwin replied, “though I have ruled out any relation to memory, transformation, or corporeality. I am not entirely certain what else that leaves us with.”

It does not matter, a small voice whispered. Because, it didn’t. Not yet, anyway. All this rune provided was a distraction from the inevitable: Charles was going to die , again, and there was absolutely nothing Edwin could do about it.

“Edwin?” Niko’s voice cut through his thoughts once again. “Is everything okay?”

Unwanted tears sprang into Edwin’s eyes. “Yes,” he replied, blinking them back. “I only wish we had more answers to go on.”

The desk groaned as Niko sat on its edge, balancing an unfamiliar blue bag in her lap. Edwin tried to be curious about what it was, but he could not find it in himself to care. “I think the only person that actually has answers is the one we’re trying to avoid,” she reasoned.

“Dr. Hargrove, you mean?” 

Niko nodded. 

“That is hardly an excuse,” Edwin scoffed. “I have been practicing magic for far longer than her. She should not be able to best me like this.”

“But,” Niko countered, “she has the advantage of being an evil doctor with no morals and a creepy grudge against teenagers.”

“True, but I—”

“Hey, Edwin?” Charles interrupted. Edwin quickly shoved his thoughts back in their box. He could revisit the topic of his emotions at a more appropriate time. Or never, preferably.

“Yes, darling?” he answered. “What can I do for you?”

“D’you know where Crystal’s gone off to?”

Edwin looked around the room. Had she gone elsewhere? He hadn’t noticed.

“She’s in the game closet!” Niko piped up. “I saw her drag a few blankets in there for a nap. She gets grumpy when she’s tired.”

Charles stood, stretching as much as his bandages would allow. “I think I’ll go check in with her,” he yawned widely. “Could use a bit of a kip myself, if I’m honest.”

Edwin’s heart compressed down into a small, bitter lump. This was it, then. The last he would ever see of this younger, wonderful Charles—whether he liked it or not.

“Alright, dove,” Edwin said. Walking across the room felt like walking towards an open casket. “Would it be alright if I requested a hug from you first?”

A grin spread across Charles’s face, as if he’d been waiting for someone to ask. Without a moment’s hesitation, he ran into Edwin’s arms.

“Thanks for everything,” he muttered. “You're the best person I know. For reals.”

Each word burned into Edwin’s soul like a brand. He would never forget this version of Charles. He would never forget any of them. Every part of Charles deserved to be remembered for the kind, incredible children that no one allowed them to be.

Click!

The room filled with a sudden, disorienting flash. Edwin found Niko across the room, holding her spectral camera to her eye.

“Super cute!” she chirped, holding up a piece of film.

Charles squinted at its glossy surface. “But it hasn’t developed yet.”

“Then it will be super cute,” Niko said. “Can you pose for another? Just so I can get your makeup.”

It was difficult for Edwin not to walk away. After all, he had more important matters to attend to. Like preparing for Charles’s impending death. “I am not sure if I—”

“‘Course we can!” Charles interrupted. “Niko and Crystal did all the hard work, yeah? Least we can do is pose for a picture.”

The statement felt like a nudge. A gentle reminder to be kind, even when it wasn’t a priority. A bedside manner, as older Charles called it.

Edwin loved this boy so much he could cry.

“Oh, alright,” he relented instead, wrapping an arm around Charles’s shoulders. “But only because you insist.”

As Niko bustled about, preparing her camera for a second picture, Edwin couldn’t help but notice that Charles had grown… taller . Not drastically so, but enough that his hair now tickled Edwin’s nose. The realization was a bittersweet one, certainly, but it also meant his head was now at perfect nuzzling height. 

Charles’s curls were soft against Edwin’s cheek, and smelled of sweat, dust, and sunshine. Of home, his mind supplied. Perhaps this Charles didn’t have to go, just yet. Perhaps, if he could stay for a moment longer, then…

Click!

Another light flashed, snapping the moment like a twig. “Niko!” Edwin sputtered, pulling away from Charles’s hair. “I was not prepared!”

“Don’t worry!” she giggled. “You look great. Candids are always better than posed photos, anyway.”

Giving another yawn, Charles pulled away. Everything in Edwin screamed to pull him back. To keep him close; to keep him safe; to keep him awake. But, he knew he couldn’t. The cycle needed to progress. No matter how bloody unfair it was.

It was all just so unfair.

“You coming?” Charles asked. Edwin nodded and began to follow, but Niko grabbed his arm. A short sigh escaped him—driven by relief, or anticipation, he could not be sure. 

“I will be there to join you soon,” he called after Charles. “Be sure to save some space for me.”

Charles gave a thumbs up and disappeared into the closet, leaving Niko and Edwin alone in the office. As soon he was out of sight, the strings holding Edwin’s perfect posture snapped. Each limb hung down like the branches of a willow tree.

“I cannot do this,” was all he could think to say. The office walls began to tremble, as if they were closing in.

“Do what?” Niko asked. “More research? I know. it’s so boring, and we’re not finding anything.”

“That is not what I meant.” The walls drew closer, boxing him in. Phantom nausea swirled in his belly. “May I request a favor?”

“Of course!” Niko said. “I want to help."

“Would you watch over Charles, if I were to make myself scarce?”

There was a short, tense silence.

“You want to leave him? ” she blurted. “Now?”

Her words tore through his heart like tissue paper. “No, I—” Edwin paused. “Or, yes, but—” He sighed, frustrated. There was no valid justification for what he was asking her to do.

“Just answer my question, if you please,” he insisted. The walls moved again, shimmering like a mirage. Claustrophobia clawed at his throat like a living, breathing thing. “If I were to go, would you watch over Charles in my stead?”

Niko’s gaze grew more concerned by the second. “Of course I would,” she promised. “You know I would. Edwin, what’s going on? Why are you talking about leaving? It’s really, really not like you.”

Misplaced bitterness pooled in Edwin’s gut. She sounded so unfailingly certain—as if she truly believed this urge to run was outside of Edwin’s character. But, she was wrong; he had always been this way. He’d just gotten good at hiding it.

The walls inched closer. He needed to be alone. He needed to hide.

“I would not expect you to understand,” Edwin snapped with a biting heat he barely felt. “You do not know me as well as you think you do.”

Niko’s gaze hardened. “You’re right,” she said, “I don’t understand. But maybe I could, if you explained it to me. I bet you’d feel better if you did.”

No. She was wrong. Talking never made him feel better. It only ever made him want to cry, and since when had crying ever been a good thing? He opened his copy of Functional Futhark: A Translatory Guide. Perhaps if he looked busy, Niko would leave him alone.

After a moment, Niko peeked over his shoulder. “Does that have any new research in it?” she asked.

“It does not,” Edwin said coldly. “Indigo and I cleared it earlier today.”

“Then why are you looking at it?”

Pressure built in Edwin’s chest, driven by an urge to scream; to cry; to run. He was supposed to be the adult in this situation. The reliable one. Not a blubbering child on the verge of losing control, all because— 

Because—

“Because there’s nothing else I can do,” Edwin stuttered. “I am going to fail Charles, again, and there is nothing I can do.”

“What are you talking about?” Niko balked. “You haven’t failed him! He’s still with us! How is that failing him?”

“Because I am supposed to be able to fix this!” Edwin insisted. “Charles is the brawn. I am the brains. He takes beatings so I can puzzle out our problems. The doctor captured him because I desired his protection, and what have I been able to provide in return? Nothing. I have made no progress, and now he is going to die because of it.”

“Edwin,” Niko said bluntly. “You know that Charles isn’t really going to die, right? He can’t. Our Charles—the real Charles—died a long time ago.”

“All of them are the real Charles,” Edwin bit out. “Every version of him is real, and they are all suffering. No matter what I do, I cannot save them.”

“Of course you can’t save them!” Niko said, as if it were obvious. “None of us expected you to! Charles passed the point of being saved from this stuff a really long time ago.” She paused. “Do you think it’s Charles’s fault that he couldn’t save you from being taken to Hell?”

Edwin scoffed. “Absolutely not.” 

“Then why are you trying to take responsibility for what happened before he died? There’s nothing you could have done. You didn’t even know each other!”

“My failure to help Charles now, and Charles’s inability to save me from Hell, are not the same thing,” Edwin stated plainly.

“They are, though!” Niko refuted. “There’s nothing you could have done for him then, and there’s not much you can do for him now. All he really needs is for someone to love him—which you do . You’re doing a really, really good job taking care of him.”

A confession sat on Edwin’s tongue, begging to be spoken. “Perhaps. But those facts do not make up for my inexcusable actions at the beginning of this case.”

“‘Inexcusable actions’?” Niko asked. “What ‘inexcusable actions’?

“All of them!” Edwin burst. His words were sharp, cutting his lips on the way out. “I was the one who failed to do adequate research before taking on this case. I was the one who insisted that Charles accompany us to the doctor’s office. I was the one who accidentally revealed his history to Dr. Hargrove. None of this would have happened if I had simply been a better partner.”

Someone sobbed, in the distance. Edwin bit back the urge to scold them. It was his best friend that was suffering; not theirs. It was his partner that would have to be mourned, again. Why was someone encroaching on his turn to be upset? He didn’t want to share it with anyone else. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t—

Another sob echoed, shaking his skull like a bell strike. 

Oh. 

He reached up and clamped a hand over his mouth. That was coming from him, then. The only one encroaching on his grief was himself.

It took a moment for Edwin to realize that Niko was pulling his hand from his mouth. Her touch wasn’t tangible, but it coaxed another sob from him all the same. The mournful sound spilled past his lips like waves lapping over a levee.

“Oh, Edwin.” Two arms pulled him into a big, enveloping hug. “This isn’t your fault. We were on a case, and things went wrong. It happens. I know that, and I’m sure Charles does, too.”

“No,” Edwin shuddered. “This is my fault. This is—”

“No one’s fault but Dr. Hargrove’s,” Niko stressed gently. “Charles will say the same thing. I know he will. He would never blame you for something like this.”

“But I blame myself,” Edwin half-sobbed, “and I cannot stand to watch him die again knowing it is my fault. I am nothing but a wretch, and a coward.”

“You’re not a coward,” Niko asserted. Another harsh sob tore from Edwin’s throat, loud enough to hurt his ears. “You’re scared, and that’s okay. I’m scared, too. We can be scared together.”

Bitter laughter bubbled in his chest. Being scared, together. What a peculiar thought. 

“My fear does not make for pleasant company,” he warned, trying to pull away. “I can be quite nasty, when I want to be.”

You can leave, was what he meant. I will not hold it against you.

But Niko held on tightly. “I don’t care. I’m not friends with you because you’re ‘pleasant company’. I’m friends with you because I love you, and I really want to help.” Her voice was all thick, like she’d been crying too. “So, let’s stay together, okay? I can’t do this without you, either.”

A new wave of tears spilled down Edwin’s cheeks. “Okay,” he caved. Niko’s insistence was a blessing, really. The last thing he truly wanted to be was alone. “Thank you. For everything.”

He felt her pull him a little bit closer. “You’re welcome.”

In (& Out) Of the Closet

“Crystal?” Charles whispered. He shut the closet door behind him, making sure the latch didn’t click as it closed.

“Huh?” a bleary voice responded from the darkness. “Charles? Whas’a matter?”

“Nothing,” Charles said quickly. “Everything’s alright.” He blindly moved towards Crystal’s voice, dragging his fingers along what felt like dusty shelves. The ground beneath his feet was soft and uneven. He was probably stepping on the masses of blankets she'd stolen from the office.

“Mind if I join?” he asked, crouching down.

Crystal mumbled some sleepy nonsense as she pushed a few pillows aside. Charles plopped down onto the sea of comforters and immediately took one for himself.

“How’re you feeling?” Crystal asked.

It was only then that Charles noticed just how okay he felt; like all of his cuts and bruises were already starting to fade. Which was weird. It usually took at least a couple days for him to start healing up. 

“Less achy, I guess. Being around you lot helps take my mind off it.”

“Glad to help,” she yawned. “Sorry I kind of snuck off. Niko’s good at pulling all-nighters, but I’m not really used to it.”

“S’alright,” Charles yawned right back. The swirling colors of darkness danced across in his vision, leaving behind a muddy hue of rainbow. “No need to stay awake on my account, is there? ‘M tired too.”

“Mmm,” Crystal trailed off, leaving Charles alone with his thoughts.

For a long minute, Charles tried to listen to the sound of Crystal's breathing. Her inhales were calming and slow, like the dependable roll of the tide. A steady rhythm that he could get lost in. But, the longer he laid there, the more restless his mind became. Memories of Edwin, bloody and vengeful, replayed alongside the images of his delicate, gold-lined eyes.

Of Niko’s blushy powder highlighting the cut of his cheekbones.

Of the office’s low light glinting off his glossy lips.

Charles groaned, embarrassment washing over him. He shouldn’t be thinking about Edwin like that. Not in the same way he thought about Etta, or his first girlfriend, Erika—and definitely not the way he thought about Gillian from his maths class. It was wrong. It was—

Well, not wrong, apparently. According to Crystal, he could like both. She liked both, too. She’d even dated both, plus she was older than him, so she probably knew everything. Except… Edwin being a bloke wasn’t exactly the issue anymore, was it? After all, Charles knew he liked James. Admitting that wasn’t so hard, now.

But, James was… James. Edwin was Edwin.

James was a fit bloke with funny jokes and a charming, gap toothed smile. In another life, they could have gone to the arcade together. Maybe they would’ve hit it off. Maybe they wouldn’t have. It wouldn't have mattered either way, because they barely knew each other.

Edwin was Edwin. Charles cared about him more than he’d ever cared about anything. It wasn’t the same as dating Erika, or going to the arcade with James. Fancying Edwin meant there was a real chance that Charles could muck things up—and that was not a risk he was ready to take.

Oh, and. Right. How could he forget the biggest, most important detail? Edwin was dead, and had been for years. Charles wasn’t. That little difference was bound to put a wrinkle in things

(“Love, you don’t have a life,” Clementine said. “You haven’t had one for a long time.”

Charles didn’t know what that meant. He didn’t know what to make of it. The longer he thought about it, the more his head hurt, and the more his head hurt, the more he started to remember that he was—)

A throbbing pain shot up Charles’s neck, making him wince. Keeping all his thoughts boxed in wasn’t working. Maybe he could still catch Crystal before she fell asleep.

“Hey, Crystal?”

“...Yeah?”

“D’you…” he paused, biting his lip. It tasted like chapped skin and lipstick. “D’you think a dead person could ever date a living one?”

He heard Crystal roll over to face him. “I mean, I’ve seen people try it before. Never met anyone who’s made it work, though.” She sounded a bit mournful, like she was speaking from experience. “Why?”

“I dunno,” Charles mumbled. “Just been thinking a lot, haven’t I? About how It’s possible to like both girls and boys?”

Crystal’s curls tickled his nose as she inched closer. “You got your eye on a dead boy?” she asked innocently. As if she didn’t know exactly who he was talking about. “If you wanna share details, I’m all ears.”

Charles’s stomach clenched. Okay, yeah. This was a bad idea. He loved Crystal, and wanted her reassurance, but he also kind of wanted to die from embarrassment. 

“I think I’m gonna sleep, actually,” he said, hiding his face in the blanket. “Good night.”

“Wait!” Crystal pulled the blanket back down, re-exposing him to the stuffy closet air. “Wait, wait, come on Charles. Talk to me. Let me be a cool, older friend for once and actually give you some advice.”

“You’re always my cool, older friend,” he argued, wrestling the blanket from her grip, “but I’m being a knobhead! Edwin is the best, and should be with the best he can find. That’s not me.”

Crystal didn’t respond for a while—two seconds, then five, then ten. The longer the silence went on, the more Charles worried that she actually agreed with him. Maybe she knew he wasn’t good enough for Edwin. Maybe Edwin wasn’t even available. For all Charles knew, he had a dozen other lads falling at his feet, and Charles was just the latest to the party. Maybe—

His thoughts were obliterated by a projectile pillow smacking him squarely in the face.

“Oi!” he blurted, shielding himself with his hands. “What the bloody hell was that for?”

“Consider it an attack on your future self,” Crystal shot back. The pillow struck again, hitting him in the chest. “You like Edwin, the prissiest, bitchiest ghost in the history of anything, and you think he deserves someone better? Than you? You’re actually insane.”

Charles managed to intercept the pillow as it came at him a third time. “Right, okay,” he said, yanking it from her grip. “Now I’m real lost. ‘An attack on my future self’? What are you on about?”

Crystal pulled the closet’s chain switch, flooding the room with light. Her eyes were slitted and determined, like she was preparing for an argument. “Look. I’m gonna say something that’s really hard to hear, but I need you to try and listen to me.”

A deep pit opened in Charles’s stomach. Was she angry? He couldn’t tell. He’d never seen Crystal properly angry before, and the prospect of it scared him more than he cared to admit.

“Right,” he said nervously, bracing himself. “Have at it, then.”

Two warm hands grabbed his own, thumbing over his bandages. “I know it’s probably really hard for you to accept,” Crystal said, “but you’re a good person. Like, a really good fucking person. You’re funny, and nice—nicer than you have any business being—and super smart, no matter how much you try to convince people you’re not.”

Charles blinked in surprise. “Crystal, that’s not—”

“I’m so not even close to finished,” she interrupted, glaring daggers. “I know your dad probably says a lot of terrible shit about you, but he’s a goddamn liar, okay? I know for a fact that anyone would be lucky to have you. Including Edwin.”

Charles sat in silence, stunned by such a glowing review of his mediocre personality. What the fuck was he even supposed to say to that? She was definitely wrong, but he was a little scared that if he corrected her, she’d just attack him with a pillow again.

“Right,” he settled on. “You’ve had this conversation locked in for a while now, haven’t you?”

“Longer than you could ever guess,” Crystal grumbled. “God, I wish I could put your dad in the fucking ground. Or at least, like, terrorize him a little. Convincing you that you’re a bad person is the most evil villain shit I can think of.”

“Pretty sure Edwin has dibs on that, if it ever comes down to it,” said Charles. He placed Crystal’s weaponized pillow under his head, pondering her words. “So, what do I do now, then? Do I tell Edwin I like him?”

“If you want my informed opinion?” Crystal asked. “Not yet. Now’s not a good time.”

“But you said—”

“I know what I said. But, I also know that you know how much shit we’re hiding from you. Edwin said that’s why you ran away earlier.”

Charles’s posture deflated. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Crystal said with a shrug. “I would’ve bolted too, if I were you. But, we’re just trying to keep you safe. Think you can trust us to do that?”

“‘Course I can,” Charles agreed easily. “I’d trust you lot with anything.”

“Then go with me on this one. There’s a lot of complicated shit that has to be considered right now. Like age, for one. Edwin might be a ghost, but he’s still technically sixteen. Three years between you two is kind of a big difference.” 

“Right,” Charles mumbled, face heating. He hadn’t even thought about that. “Fair point, I guess.”

Crystal’s smile was careful, and kind. “You’ll get a chance to talk to him about it eventually, okay? I promise. Just… not right now.”

A yawn crept up Charles’s throat. “If you say so,” he relented, suddenly too tired to keep up. He pulled the comforter up to his neck; it smelled of books, ink, and magic. Of home, his mind supplied. “Could you shut off the light? Think I really do need that nap.”

There was a small click, and the room was dark once more. “You know I love you, right?” Crystal asked, tucking Edwin-the-cat into the blanket with him. “Like, a lot.”

A giddy storm swept through Charles's stomach. He didn’t think he’d ever get tired of hearing those words.

“Love you too,” he mumbled. There was more he wanted to say, but his eyes kept slipping closed. A warm, soft hand swept the curls out of his face.

Oh well. His comments would keep. Maybe they could talk more after he rested his eyes for a tick.

...And Three Prepared Is Better Than None

By the time Edwin was able to pull himself from Niko’s embrace, his fearful sobs had dwindled down to nothing but quiet sniffles. It seemed that crying was just the pressure valve he needed to regain focus on the task at hand.

“Feel better?” Niko asked. 

Edwin nodded, wiping his nose. 

“Good.” She thrust a small satchel into his hands. “Because this is for you, and I really want to know what’s in it.”

Right. Of course. The mysterious blue bag. Edwin had been too distracted to take much notice of it before, but it certainly had his attention now. The bag was made of a soft-looking velvet, and emitted the ozone-sweet scent of abjurative magic.

“Where did this come from?” he asked, turning its soft body in his hands. Affixed to the cinch string was a letter labeled ‘Dead Boy (and Living Girl) Detectives’ in familiar, looping script.

“It’s from Indigo!” Niko answered. “Misty dropped it off right before you got back with Charles. I was washing my hands in the bathroom, and she just popped right out of the mirror! I don’t think I’ll ever get used to ghosts doing that; it scared me so bad.”

Edwin fought back a frown. “She didn’t have a moment to stop in?” he asked. “Charles would have been quite happy to speak with her.”

“I tried to talk her into it, but she said something about obeying the rules of spectral… quarantine?” Niko shrugged. “I have no idea what that means, but this bag is supposed to help since Indigo can’t be here.” 

Edwin sighed inwardly. Quite a shame, that. Misty and thirteen-year-old Charles would have gotten along famously—especially if Rhiannon had been added into the mix.

Though, on second thought... The potential combination of Misty’s flippant attitude and younger Charles’s dislike for authority gave Edwin pause. Perhaps they would have gotten along a bit too well. Like a house on fire.

“Open the letter first,” Niko nudged. “I want to see what it says.”

The envelope was sealed with a stamp of blue wax, beautifully encapsulating the pressed image of three stars. The seal popped off of the paper easily, revealing a letter inside.

Edwin,

I apologize for sending Misty with such an impersonal reply. Our own case has gone a bit sideways, and a magical artifact has infected our household with an energy-eating contagion. I would hate to pass our symptoms onto you or Charles.

I hope these items will prove useful in our stead.

Indigo

“An ‘energy-eating contagion?” Niko grimaced. She took the letter from Edwin’s hands, skimming it herself. “What’s that?”

“A common curse that results in severe phantom nausea,” Edwin explained. “Not transmissible to living beings, but very contagious amongst ghosts. It was quite thoughtful of Indigo to keep her distance.”

“Sounds like the ghost flu,” Niko hummed.

“An apt comparison,” he agreed, pulling open the bag. Inside were three tissue-wrapped items. Gifts from Indigo, by the look of it. “Indigo and Misty have contracted the ghost flu.”

The first item’s neat packaging fell away easily, sending its contents to the desk with a clatter. At first, it seemed to be nothing but the mundane set of brass knuckles he’d seen in Indigo’s flat earlier that day. But, as Edwin looked closer, he just managed to catch a flash glinting off one of the rings. 

“Hm,” he hummed, frowning with concentration. It was a fleeting glint; difficult to see. Perhaps additional light would help. 

The addition of lamplight turned the knuckles into a gleaming, ghostly light show. Each ring’s outer edge was encrusted with shards of gemstone, glinting green in the office’s atmosphere. Their gentle glow almost reminded Edwin of natural bioluminescence.

“Oh, wow,” Niko breathed. “That’s pretty.”

“Quite,” Edwin agreed. He looked around for any additional information, but found nothing. “Did you see an identification card for this? I cannot imagine Indigo would send such a wondrous item without providing adequate information.”

“Ummm…” Niko picked up the opened envelope and flipped it upside down. Two small index cards fluttered to the desk. “Oh!” She picked one up and handed it to him. “I think it's this one.”

“Ah, good,” Edwin commended, skimming over its neat script. “Thank you, Niko; quite the detective, as ever. Now, let’s see…”

-

#1062: Tsavorite Knuckles 

Constructed of brass and magically enhanced tsavorite garnet. Enables the user to inflict physical damage on incorporeal beings. 

Can be used by corporeal or incorporeal beings.

-

Edwin gave a dissatisfied hum. “This item is not of much use to me,” he lamented, “but perhaps present-day Charles will enjoy it upon his return. He is always happy to add another arcane weapon to his arsenal.”

Niko ran her finger over one of the crystallized edges. “You know who else might really like these?” she asked. “Crystal.”

Now that was an image. The idea of Crystal’s scrappy, rough-and-tumble self wielding such an item was admittedly quite satisfying. 

And perhaps a bit worrying.

“I fear that giving Crystal such an item may raise our risk of inter-Agency violence,” Edwin mused. Niko’s brow momentarily furrowed, before sinking into a fond smile.

“That was a joke.”

Edwin’s lips curled into a smirk. “Only partially.”

“Well, what’s next?” Niko asked excitedly, pulling out the second package. “Maybe this one has something for you in it!”

As Edwin went to pick up its corresponding notecard, an untouched third item caught his eye. It had his name scrawled messily on the packaging. Neither of the other gifts had been labeled, so Indigo must have thought this one especially important. 

He tore into the paper immediately. It was too mysterious to resist.

Inside the packaging was a small journal, similar to his own. It was constructed of non-magical leather, and on the front cover there was—

Hunger.

A cacophonous wave of whispers washed through Edwin’s mind, nearly bringing him to his knees.

Consume.

The journal dropped to the floor, forgotten. He was starving. The feeling tore through his soul and gnawed at his ribs, as if it were trying to burrow through his stomach.

“Edwin?” Niko asked, her fearful voice muffled and slow. “What’s wrong?”

Edwin tried to focus through the sudden shock of starvation. The whispers seemed to be coming from a small, open sachet in Niko’s hand. Its fabric oozed arcane potential, enhanced by a collection of runes stitched into its edge. The general construction of each shape was sturdy and aggressive in a way that Edwin recognized.

Abjurative runes. Protection magic.

“The bag,” he grit out. His stomach twisted again, making his head swim. “Close the bag!”

Niko cinched it shut. The whispers immediately ceased, and his ravenous hunger disappeared with them.

“What happened?” Niko asked. She set the satchel down as if it were an unstable explosive. “Are you okay?

“Yes,” said Edwin, running a hand over his front. “A bit unsettled, but otherwise alright.” He stared at the sachet, memories of hunger still gnawing at his stomach. “You did not hear the whispers?”

“The what? What whispers?”

Edwin reached for the identification card. “How odd,” he mused. “It must have only affected me.”

-

#1069: The Meandering Eyes of Malebolge

A collection of spheres used to capture sinners of the arcane variety. 

Tempts magic users into consuming the Eyes via telepathic persuasion. Absorbs all magical ability of its target once swallowed. Those who have never wielded magic cannot be not tempted by the Eyes.

Traditionally wielded by the Malebranche.
Wielding by a magic user is not advised.

-

Edwin stifled a sigh. Malebolge. Of course. He should have recognized Hell’s magical signature when he first encountered the Eyes in Indigo’s office.

Niko peered over his shoulder, squinting at the paper. “The meandering eyes of who?”

“Not ‘who’,” he corrected. “‘Where’. Malebolge is the section of Hell created for those guilty of fraud. They have a specific area reserved for sorcerers, so I imagine this item was created to help subdue profoundly magical souls. The spheres’ origin was still a mystery, last I saw them; Indigo must have done some quick identification work for us.”

Niko stiffened at the mention of Hell. “And the Malebranche? What’s that?”

“A hoard of demons within Malebolge,” Edwin recounted. “They dole out punishment to corrupt politicians, chiefly, but Hell is quite understaffed. The majority of demons wear multiple hats.”

“Oh.” Niko swallowed hard, looking a touch green. “Does that mean all people who use magic go to Hell?”

“It is a circle reserved for fraudulent individuals, so no, not necessarily. Only those guilty of using their magic to defraud others would be damned to that section of Hell.”

“Oh.” Niko twisted her hands together. “Do… you or Crystal do that?”

A soft smile crept onto Edwin’s lips. Her concern never failed to make his heart swell with gratitude. “Not to the point of damnation, I wouldn’t think. You needn’t worry about us.”

“Okay,” she breathed out, the stress melting off of her face. “Okay, good! So, do you think we can use these?”

“I cannot,” Edwin stated, picking up the small journal once again. “Nor can Crystal. I imagine Indigo sent the Eyes for you.”

Niko picked up the small sachet again, weighing it in her hand. “You think so?”

“I do. You’re the only one of us that has never dabbled in magic. Even Charles casts the odd spell, now and again.”

“He does?”

Edwin gave a distracted hum, his focus narrowing to Indigo’s journal. The first page was filled with several renditions of a simple, hand-drawn rune. It looked like two small, interlocking arrows drawn in several different styles.

His phantom pulse halted to a stop. He knew that rune. 

He knew that rune.

“Niko, would you be so kind as to retrieve my Futhark translatory guide?” Edwin asked, holding out a hand.

Niko, spurred on by his urgency, quickly reached into the desk. “I thought you said there’s nothing in it,” she recalled, placing it in his hand.

Edwin didn’t respond. It had to be in there somewhere. It had to be…

“Ah!” He flipped the book around and held it beside Indigo’s journal. “She found something new.”

Niko squinted at the pages. “Oh, that looks familiar. Why does that look familiar?”

“Because we have been staring at a restructured version of it.” Edwin pointed out the last symbol in Charles’s runic sequence. “I cannot believe I didn’t see it before. The last symbol bears some resemblance to ‘jera’, the Futhark rune that represents a repeating cycle’s end.”

“But we already know that Charles’s cycle is going to end,” Niko pointed out. “Why does it matter if the rune is there or not?”

“I haven’t the slightest. But, if we are able to discover which rune it was spliced with, then we may be one step closer to finding an answer.”

The sound of the closet door’s latch punctuated the end of Edwin’s thought.

“Edwin?” Crystal called, peeking her head out. Her clothes and hair were a rumpled mess, as if she’d been tossing and turning for quite some time. “If you wanna be with Charles when he wakes up, I think now’s the time. He fell asleep a little bit ago.”

Edwin’s heart sank. This was it, then. All of his runic research would have to wait. Joining Charles in the closet had to be his top priority.

If only he could get his fear-frozen body to agree.

“I’m unsure if I can do this,” he whispered, looking to Niko for answers. “I know that you have talked me through this already, but I find that I am… quite scared.”

“It’s okay,” Niko soothed. “We’re gonna be scared together, remember? I’ll be with you, and so will Crystal. You and Charles aren’t alone this time.”

Edwin cleared his throat, head swimming.

“Yes.” Please. “Of course.” Not again. “Just give me a moment to…” 

His mind stalled, blanking out like the white sheet of a snowstorm. Both girls stared at him expectantly.

Why were they staring, again?

“A moment to…?” Niko prompted. 

Ah, yes. Of course. He had been saying something. “A moment to…” 

The words slipped away like soap bubbles down the drain. What had he been saying?

“...retrieve a light,” he finally sounded out. “I had a lantern, the night we met. Some manner of light source may be a comfort to him in this state.”

Crystal gave him a tired smile. “That’s a good idea,” she encouraged. “I'm sure it'll be a big help."

Edwin fought back a scoff. A ‘big help’. What a sodding lie. It was a useless plaster over a gaping wound, and they both knew it. But, a plaster over a gaping wound was still better than a wound that was left to bleed freely.

With what little presence of mind he had left, Edwin retrieved his copy of Lux Aeterna Linguarum Diligentium from the desk. The Latin section’s light-infused pages provided no warmth to speak of, but they would have to do. Their lantern was still in Hell, and Edwin had no plans to retrieve it any time soon.

“Right, then,” he said, tucking the book under his arm. He took Niko’s hand in his, threading their fingers together. “Lead the way, if you please. We had best not keep Charles waiting.”

Chapter Text

I had all and then most of you
Some and now none of you
Take me back to the night we met

I don't know what I'm supposed to do
Haunted by the ghost of you
Oh, take me back to the night we met

A Boy In The Attic

Cold.

Freezing, biting, painful cold. It nipped at Charles’s skin and ate at his bones, rendering his fingers completely numb. He tried to open his eyes but everything was so… slow…

And he was tired. So, so tired.

Memories dripped like a thick, sluggish syrup. His mates. Christ, his mates. They’d beaten the shit out of him. They’d chased him into the lake and left him there to drown.

And Cole…

Fuck. Cole had been his mate for years. They’d snuck out together. Gotten sloshed together. They’d even stayed up on Charles’s sixteenth birthday, smoking fags and chinwagging until the clock struck midnight. Charles hadn’t felt that close with anyone since…

Since…

Well, it didn’t matter now. What did matter was that Cole knew Charles hated the water. They’d talked about it that night, under the blanket of stars that hid their smoke from supervisors. But he’d let their mates chase Charles into the lake anyway.

From behind his eyelids, a dim light flickered. A pretty, radiant glow that warmed Charles to his core. “Charles?” a voice called out. Childishly, he squeezed his eyes shut. What if it was Cole? The last thing Charles wanted was to see Cole’s face right now.

Careful footsteps drew closer. “Charles,” the voice said again. For some odd reason, the image of an old lantern came to mind. “Can you hear me?”

Shit. This was bad. His hiding spot was bust, and he could barely breathe, much less put up a fight. Maybe if he got up now, he could make a run for it. Maybe there was still time to get away.

Charles tried to stand. Immediately, his knees gave under his weight. The shock of falling on the floor raced up his spine, pushing a whine from his mouth.

Right, then. Guess fleeing wasn’t an option.

“Charles!” The voice sounded panicked now. Two hands grabbed his shoulders, keeping him on the ground. “Charles, please try to stay still. You are very injured.”

Charles froze, head swimming. That voice. Everything about it—its prim vowels, its gentle cadence, its kindness—sounded so familiar. And it was calling him Charles. No one called him that anymore. The only people that still called him Charles were…

No. Charles shook his head. There was no way. He was hoping too hard again. He had to be.

The gentle voice continued to murmur. “You’re safe now,” it said. “I shan’t hurt you. I swear to it.”

Right, that definitely wasn’t Cole. Or Tyler. Or Steven. They’d never say something so soft to another bloke. Charles pried his eyes open—out of curiosity, not desperation. And definitely not out of hope. 

Standing there, outlined by the glow of a light-bearing book, was a beautifully familiar form. Not familiar like his schoolmates, but familiar like a dream. Like a thought revisited so many times that it miraculously came to life.

“Edwin?” he croaked. “That you?”

The figure knelt in front of him. “It is,” Edwin said. His smile was small, but it gripped Charles’s heart all the same. “I cannot overstate how happy I am to see you.”

A tear traced down Charles’s cheek. God. He understood why he used to think Edwin was an angel, now. All this time and he was still so bloody radiant. “Me too,” Charles said clumsily. “Sorry for the state of me. I know our reunions are always fucking bogs.”

Edwin reached out and wiped the tear away. “You have nothing to apologize for,” he assured. 

Charles leaned into the touch. He couldn’t help it. It’d been so long since he’d cried, much less in front of someone who actually cared. “I haven’t even told you what happened yet.”

“It doesn’t matter. I am quite confident that your injuries were not deserved in any way, shape, or form.

Charles huffed out a laugh. “Well, I won’t disagree with you there. This one wasn’t on me. I was just trying to do a good thing.”

Edwin frowned deeper. “These beatings are never ‘on you’, Charles. I only wish I knew why the universe was so intent on distributing punishment to someone so undeserving.”

And there it was. One of those proper, gut-punch lines that Edwin liked to use so much. It socked Charles in the stomach, taking away what little breath he had left.

“Haven’t heard that name in a long time,” was all he could think to say. “Thanks for remembering.”

Edwin’s brow furrowed. “Remembering?”

“To call me Charles. All my mates call me Charlie now. ‘S nice to hear my real name again.”

Edwin toyed with his hands. “I was told that you quite dislike the nickname. I can use ‘Charlie’ if you prefer—”

“No!” Charles blurted, teeth chattering. “No. You’re right. I hate it. My mates just call me ‘Charlie’ either way, so I gave up asking them to stop.”

“That’s not very nice of them,” a new voice chimed in. Niko leaned over Edwin’s shoulder, her pretty face paler than the light side of the moon. “Friends are supposed to listen to each other.”

Charles shrugged. “Different kinds of friends, I s’ppose. Not as nice as you lot, but at least they were there.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Charles wished he could shove them back in. Edwin’s flinch was impossible to miss. “I didn’ mean it like that,” he offered quickly. “I know it’s not your fault, don’t I? You’d have been there if you could.”

Edwin hung his head. Not dramatically, but enough to be noticeable. “You needn’t spare my feelings. Anything you have to say is perfectly acceptable.” The statement was soft and downtrodden, almost like he wanted Charles to insult him. The whole thing left a bad taste in Charles’s mouth. 

“Nah. Don’t have much more to say than that, do I?” He clenched his muscles, trying to keep his chattering teeth steady. “Jus’ don’t want you thinking my mates are all bad. They can be alright when they want to be.”

“Forgive me,” Edwin said icily, “but I would hesitate to call anyone involved in attempted murder ‘alright’. I do not believe those two concepts go hand in hand.” 

Charles’s stomach dropped like a carnival ride. Attempted murder? That seemed like a bit of a bloody reach. Before he could respond, a hand came out of the darkness and tapped Edwin on the shoulder.

“Edwin,” a high voice hissed. Crystal. She was here, too. “Take it easy.”

Edwin’s cold expression thawed. “I apologize,” he said, shoulders hunching in. “I did not mean to be so harsh.”

Charles’s attention fell on Edwin’s book, its glowing pages beckoning him like a moth towards candlelight. “If I can hold your book, then apology accepted. I know it's not warm or anything, but…”

Edwin slid it into his lap. “Of course you can. As I have said before, a light in the dark is best shared amongst friends.”

With the new light source settled so close, Charles could clearly see Crystal in the corner. Her posture was relaxed, but her face looked so haunted—like she couldn’t really believe what she was seeing.

“Hey,” she said. “Been a while, hasn’t it?”

Charles choked back a cough. “Three years again. I was hoping that maybe things would be better next time I saw you, but…” he paused, swallowing hard. “I missed you. A lot.”

Crystal pushed off of the wall and crouched down next to him. “I missed you too. I’m so, so sorry we weren’t there.” 

“Not your fault,” Charles said.

“Still fucking sucks, though,” she responded. Charles didn’t disagree. One of her hands disappeared, rooting around beneath his blankets. “But the good news is that I kept an eye on your buddy while you were gone. He’s been waiting for you.”

“You—” Charles’s sluggish mind stalled. “You what?”

Crystal retracted her hand from the covers. In her grasp was the little bean-filled cat that Charles had been forced to leave behind. 

The sight of it was an absolute kick to the chest. The last time Charles had seen Edwin-the-cat felt like a lifetime ago. He’d crawled into the closet with Crystal and fallen asleep wrapped in a cocoon of safety; warm, happy, and loved. Minutes later, he’d woken on his dad's basement floor with no bandages, no Crystal, no stuffed cat—no nothing. Just him and the lashes left by his dad’s belt. There hadn’t even been any Clementine to keep him company.

Charles took the cat from Crystal and prodded its soft, plush tummy. His fingers were so cold that he could barely feel its fur. “Sorry I had to leave again,” he whispered. The cat didn’t answer, of course. He knew it wouldn’t, he wasn’t a kid. But he kept on speaking anyway. 

“Mum said that St. Hil’s was supposed to be safer than living with Dad. I think it was, at first, but then things got all fucked up. No matter where I go, things always seem to get fucked up.” He swallowed down a sob and looked at the actual Edwin. “I can stay with you, yeah? ‘Cause my parents don’t want me at home, and I don’t think I can go back to St. Hil’s after this.”

Edwin’s green eyes sparkled like gems under the low booklight. “Of course you can. Your place is by my side, and mine is by yours. That has not, and will not, ever change.”

Despite every betrayal he’d faced that evening, Charles couldn’t bring himself to doubt that for a second. He was with Edwin, and Edwin was with him. That was where they both belonged.

A Few Final Moments

Memory was a fickle thing, Edwin knew. Every article he’d read on the subject said so. Faces, conversations, sequencing, colors—none of those details were reliable, after a time. His own memories were proof enough of that. Jewel tones had faded to pastels over the years; clusters of events had disappeared. Even the details of his own mother’s face had been erased by the militant passage of time

The only memory that had never faded was this one. No matter how many years passed, the progression of Charles’s death remained just as shocking as the night it occurred.

Edwin stood for a moment, taking everything in. It was difficult to remember that this new Charles was not the same boy he’d spent thirty five years with. After all, he certainly looked the same. The mop of curls, the earring, the suspenders, the vest—he was the spitting image of the Charles that Edwin was so desperate to get back to.

Well. Except for the bruises. The bruises were a gruesome reminder that this Charles was a product of that night in the attic. The superficial ones were darkest; blotchy spots of purple that speckled all across his skin. The deep bruises, the deadly ones, would never progress beyond their mottled shades of red. Hypothermia would take Charles’s life long before they got the chance.

A hand grabbed Edwin’s arm, pulling him off to the side, while Niko slid in front of him, taking his place. A proper bait-and-switch if Edwin had ever seen one. Before he could offer any protest, he was face-to-face with Crystal.

“What happened to him?” she demanded, voice trembling. “Why does he look like that?”

Edwin blinked in offense. “Charles was beaten and stoned by a pack of incensed bullies,” he felt himself say. “Do you honestly need an explanation as to where his injuries came from?”

“No,” Crystal said quietly. “I just meant that this is wrong. I’ve seen parts of this memory before. He’s not supposed to look like that.”

Edwin crossed his arms. “Why on Earth have you seen parts of this memory before, Crystal? That is a violation of privacy.”

“It was an accident! I grabbed his arm while he was spacing out once and got a front row seat to all this. I remember him looking all tired, yeah, and cold, but he didn’t seem so…”

“Dead?” Edwin finished for her.

Crystal’s expression sank. “He didn’t seem so scared, was what I was gonna say. From what I saw, this memory’s supposed to be kind of… safe, I guess. He didn’t look so freaked out, or banged up. At least as far as I could tell.”

Edwin bit back a bitter jab. As much as he wanted to pick on Crystal for being so naive, her confusion made sense. Knowing Charles’s glass-half-full mentality, he likely viewed their meeting through a rose-colored lens that it did not deserve.

“The mind is fallible,” Edwin recited clinically. “Emotion and age play a part in the accurate retention of memory. In all likelihood, you were shown a doctored image that has been heavily influenced by time.”

To Edwin’s surprise, Crystal took his explanation on board immediately. “That makes sense, actually. I always forget people’s memories are, like, stained by bias or whatever.” She looked over towards Charles, who was laughing-coughing at something with Niko. “Do you think there’s anything we can do for him, pain-wise? All those bruises have gotta hurt.”

Edwin inhaled deeply, steeling himself. “Nothing that will truly make a difference. Charles is dying, Crystal. The best we can do is keep him company.”

“And keep him comfortable,” Crystal pushed back. “It’s like hospice, right? Nurses do everything they can to keep dying patients happy. Can’t we do the same for him?”

Edwin tapped his fingers on his arm. It was certainly a thought. When Charles died the first time, leaving the attic had been out of the question. Taking time to hunt down a heat source could have resulted in Charles dying alone. Now, Edwin had two extra sets of hands to help. Improving their circumstances would not require him to leave Charles’s side.

“If there is something in this office that can help him physically, then I leave that discovery to you,” he bestowed on Crystal. “I was unable to provide much more than the heat of a candle the first time. Perhaps you will have more to offer than I.”

“Mind if I search the office?” she asked.

Another burble of choked laughter spilled across the closet. “By all means,” Edwin said. “In the meantime, I am needed elsewhere.”

The closet door closed behind Crystal as Edwin rejoined Niko and Charles on the floor. Niko’s hands were full of a fluffy stuffed octopus, seemingly pulled from the bag-of-tricks. 

“Where’d Crystal go?” Charles asked. His toy cat was placed on his knees, watching Edwin from its perch.

“She left in search of supplies,” said Edwin. “What are you two doing?”

Niko held up the octopus. “I was just showing Charles that caring for toys is nothing to be ashamed of! I mean, I have a plushie too, and we’re the same age. They’re meant for everyone, not just little kids.”

“Niko!” Charles sank down until only his eyes and forehead peeked out from the blanket. “I said that to you in private, didn’t I?”

“Oh,” said Niko. “Oops.”

Edwin reached out and patted Charles’s cat on the head. “There is nothing to be embarrassed about,” he insisted. “People of all ages care for their belongings. Why should a stuffed cat be any different?”

“‘Cause I’m too old, remember?” said Charles. “Dad tossed all my other ones when I was nine. Can’t imagine what he’d say about me having one now.”

“I could not care less about what your father has to say,” Edwin bit out. “Besides, I am still quite fond of the books I revered as a child. Should I toss them out simply because I have outgrown their intended audience?”

“I mean, no. But those are books, mate. No one’s judging you for reading… What did kids even read, back in your day? The Bible?”

Edwin laughed. “Yes, but only when forced. Alice in Wonderland was a favorite of mine, along with Rewards and Fairies by Rudyard Kipling. But the crown jewel of my book collection was The Secret Garden. It is a story that I still read regularly to this day.”

“The Secret Garden?” Niko echoed. She reached into the bag-of-tricks. “I think I saw that one in here.”

Edwin eyed her skeptically. “I’m sure you are mistaken. The only copy we own is kept within my desk.”

Niko withdrew her hand, wielding a well-worn book. “Is it this one?” 

The book’s binding was painful to look at, with fraying corners and a faded cover. Each bit of damage, while heartbreaking, was intimately familiar. After all, Edwin had been the one to land the book in such a state. Carefully, he took it from Niko’s hands. “It is. That’s odd. How did this get in—”

A small note fluttered from its pages, landing in Edwin’s lap.

Edwin’s favorite. Take to Soho for rebinding.

The chicken-scratch handwriting sent Edwin’s heart racing. He had never told present-day Charles about his affinity for The Secret Garden. It wasn’t a secret, per say, but it was Edwin’s. His connection to simpler times, when he was a human boy with skinned knees, warm cheeks, and soft dreams to fall into. Charles must have noticed and taken it upon himself to get the book rebound.

Something about its familiar cover kicked a memory loose. A memory from before Hell, before his death, before St. Hilarion’s. Before Edwin’s mother and father had decided he was not worth their time. A soft memory surrounded by clouds and cushioned by the kindness of a time long past.

“I had a blanket.”

Charles coughed lightly. “Think you might need to be a bit more specific there, mate. There’s a lot of blankets in here.”

“No, I mean a child’s blanket. A comfort object. It was small, and— and blue, I think.” Edwin scrunched his nose. “Or was it white? Either way, it was mine. I had it all the way up until I turned six.”

“What happened to it after six?” 

“My father had it disposed of. I wanted to keep it—or at least part of it—but he said I was too old for such things.”

“Oh, Edwin,” Niko crooned. “That’s so sad.”

Edwin let out a laugh. “I suppose it is, isn’t it? But that is not my point.” He turned to Charles, gesturing towards his toy. “My point is that you and your cat are in good company. Had it been left up to me, I would have kept my blanket well past the age of social acceptability.”

Charles took Edwin-the-cat off of his knees and held him close to his chest. “How’d you choose The Secret Garden as a stand-in, then?” he asked. “Books aren’t exactly what I’d call cuddly.”

Edwin hummed in agreement. “It was not cuddly, no, but it brought me comfort all the same. My father was quite fond of confiscating belongings as a punishment. He could take my book from me—and he did. Many times. But the story itself was mine to keep.”

Charles’s eyes went a bit dark. “Mate, don’t take this the wrong way, but I really don’t like your dad.”

“I suppose we have that in common, then,” Edwin said. “I don’t care much for yours either.”

The commiseration didn’t seem to improve Charles’s mood, so Edwin continued. “Regardless. This book is mine, and I do intend to keep it. You should feel free to keep your cat, as well.”

“What’s The Secret Garden about, anyway?” asked Charles. “Must be pretty mint if you like it so much.”

The long-forgotten burn of sheepishness flooded Edwin’s stomach. “Oh, it is nothing so spectacular,” he downplayed. The Secret Garden was his story. What if Charles were to find it odd? Or childish? Or boring? “It is not a tale of knights, detectives, or other great heroes. I doubt you would find much interest in it.”

Charles’s focused expression certainly denoted otherwise. “Maybe I could nick it off you some time,” he suggested. “Just to see what it’s all about.”

“Or you could read it to us!” Niko chirped. “Edwin loves reading to people.”

Charles perked up. “You do?”

Blast it. Edwin shot Niko a discreet glare of betrayal. “I do. However, there are plenty of books in this office that would be better suited to your tastes. Perhaps we can—”

Charles coughed, cutting him off. “Sorry,” he mumbled weakly.

Before Edwin could respond, he coughed again. And again. Then, he collapsed in on himself with a groan. Each inhale sounded far wetter than any breath ever should.

“Charles?” Edwin quickly closed the gap between them. “What is it? What hurts?

“My side,” he wheezed. “Think my ribs might be bruised.”

Which was a given. Edwin knew they were bruised. He’d been so lost in his own pointless memories that he’d nearly forgotten about the severity of Charles’s injuries—not that remembering would have done him any good. There was nothing they could do about them, either way.

“Do we have anything that might help with pain?” Niko whispered. “Maybe something warm, or…?”

Edwin stammered helplessly. “I— I don’t—”

Suddenly, the closet door flung open. In the doorway stood Crystal, with a soft pad in her hands and a jumble of wires wrapped around her arm. “Jesus fucking christ,” she groused. “Why don’t you guys have any outlets in this damn office?” 

For once, Edwin held his tongue. “Charles is in quite a lot of pain,” he relayed to her. “Did you find something that could help?”

Crystal unspooled the wires from her arm. “Yep. Me and Niko keep a heating pad in the bathroom. I had to rig it up with, like, three extension cords to reach the closet, but it should work.”

Introducing too much heat to a victim of hypothermia would do no good. Heat was also not the premiere treatment for fresh rib injuries; ice was. But like Crystal had said: Charles was dying. There was no stopping it. The least they could do was keep him comfortable, and comforted.

Edwin took the pad without so much as a ‘thank you’. “This should help ease any muscle spasms,” he informed Charles. “Just let us know if it gets too warm.”

“Cheers,” Charles said tightly. He unwound his blanket cocoon and allowed Edwin to press the pad against his middle. Immediately, his posture relaxed. “Oh. That’s nice, innit?”

Edwin caught Niko’s eye, then Crystal’s. They both looked as solemn as he felt. This was the extent of what they could do for Charles in this phase. Whether they liked it or not. 

“You don’t happen to have anything else that’s warm, do you?” Charles asked. “The heating pad is aces, but I’ve never been this cold in my life.”

Crystal tapped her chin for a moment, lost in thought. Then, she reached up and pulled a bottle of clear liquid from one of the closet shelves. "Try this," she told him, twisting off the cap.

Charles took the bottle and downed a sip. “Bloody hell,” he sputtered. His face puckered as if he were sucking on a lemon. “That's awful.” 

Niko took the bottle and sniffed it. “Ew. What is this?”

“It’s gin,” Crystal answered, sitting down beside her. It was a squeeze with all four of them, but Charles didn’t seem to mind the crowding, so Edwin said nothing. “Cheap stuff, I think. Tastes like shit, and burns going down, but I’ve heard alcohol keeps you warm. Or something.”

An old wive’s tale. Under normal circumstances, alcohol would only make hypothermia worse. But, again, Edwin didn’t comment. Better to let them enjoy their moment of adolescent rebellion than ruin it with depressing facts.

“I did not realize you kept a bottle of spirits in the office,” he said to Crystal. Unfettered judgement colored his voice. He was too tense to try and hide it.

Crystal shrugged. “Just because you can’t drink after a hard case doesn’t mean I can’t.”

Edwin only hummed in response. In truth, he was a bit jealous. Alcohol had been a widely used remedy when he was alive—especially in the case of acute anxiety. It was difficult not to crave a tipple on days of such high stress.

Charles took another swig. “I must’ve been drinking posh stuff, if this is cheap,” he commented. “Never had anything to compare it to ‘til now.”

“Where’d you get your hands on expensive gin?” Crystal asked. “Steal it from your parents?”

Charles snorted. “There’s enough chance of me getting walloped without stealing my dad’s booze, thanks. Cole brings it back to St. Hil’s after every school holiday. His parents don’t give a toss if he steals from them or not.”

Cole. That was a new name. Present-day Charles normally avoided the topic of cricket boys, but a few had come up over the years. Cole had never been one of them.

“Who is Cole?” Edwin asked. “A teammate?”

Charles’s face fell, and he took another swig. “Cole is—er, was— my best mate. He’s the wicketkeeper for St. Hil’s. We transferred from my old school together.”

Edwin waited for Charles to continue, but he just took another swallow of gin. A sudden impulse to take the bottle burned in Edwin’s fingertips. He knew alcohol would not make Charles sick. It likely would not even intoxicate him, in this state. But his unfounded concern remained all the same.

Niko, ever the keen observer, was the first to break the silence. “Was Cole one of the boys who hurt you?” she asked.

“He was the bait,” Charles recalled glumly “He said he wanted a fag. We smoke by the lake all the time, so I didn’t think much of it. Turns out half the cricket team was waiting on me.”

Venom rushed through Edwin’s veins. “That is barbaric,” he seethed. “To betray a friend’s trust in such a manner is absolutely inexcusable.”

Charles shrugged. “No use getting in a tizzy ‘bout it now, is there? It happened, it was shitty, and now I’m here with you. Can’t say I’m all that upset about the outcome.”

A lovely sentiment. Truly commendable. If only Edwin could dull his fury enough to appreciate it. He took a deep breath, willing himself to calm.

“Why’d they all turn on you like that?” Niko asked.

Charles drew his blanket tighter. “They were pissed at me for breaking up a fight earlier,” he said through a wave of shivers. “I was just s’pposed to keep walking. But I’ve never been any good at minding my business, have I?”

Edwin knew the story well. Calling it a ‘fight’ was generous. A ‘fight’ suggested that the victim stood a chance at defending himself. Charles, lion-hearted as he was, had stepped in on a beating. 

“It just didn’t seem right,” Charles continued. “Letting that kid get beat on ‘cause he’s from Pakistan. I mean, I’m half Indian. Why am I so different?”

Crystal gasped. Present-day Charles must have left that bit out, because she sounded absolutely horrified. “Is that what happened?” 

“Yeah,” Charles confirmed. He passed the gin off to Crystal, who took a swig herself. “George’s okay now, though. I got him to the infirmary. The nurse said it could’ve been a lot worse if I hadn’t stepped in.”

But what about you? Edwin wanted to scream. What about your life? Did that not matter to anyone? Clearly not, given the situation they were in. He stuffed the unhelpful sentiment down. “That was very brave, Charles. I am quite proud of you.”

Charles perked up a bit. “Really?”

“Of course I am. There are not many that would so easily stand up for someone else. George is quite lucky to have you on his side.” 

Which was true. Charles’s more courteous nature always came to the forefront when he spoke of George Pakar. He never bragged or boasted about what happened. He only spoke of helping George as if it was his duty. His friends had hurt someone, so it was his responsibility to make things right. 

Edwin wondered, not for the first time, how different his life might have been with Charles Rowland in it . Would Simon have felt safe to hate him so openly? Would the other boys have left him alone? Would he still have been murdered? Or would he and Charles have simply lived on, free of bullies and Hell and pain?

Edwin shook off the train of thought. It did no good to dwell on such things. He was not alive, and neither was Charles. If they had stayed alive, they never would have met. There were positives and negatives to both sides—though it was difficult to see the positives when Charles’s lips were tinged a concerning shade of robin’s egg blue.

“Thanks, mate,” Charles said quietly. “Think you might be the only one who’s proud of anything I’ve done. Well, except my mum. She was chuffed when I got into St. Hil’s. Everyone says it’s a mint school, with solid teachers and loads of graduates. Plus, she doesn’t have to worry ‘bout me and Dad fighting anymore. Think that was the big ticket item.”

Edwin bit his tongue. Again, ‘fighting’ was too kind a term. ‘Fighting’ insinuated there was a chance that Charles could have protected himself from his father. Even if he could have done so physically, the mental toll would have been too high a cost. Defending others from danger was one thing. But defending himself? From Paul Rowland? No. His father had beaten him, plain and simple.

Unable to stop himself, Edwin reached forward. “May I come sit with you?” he asked. Normally permission was implied, but it had been three years for Charles. Perhaps their dynamics had changed.

Charles looked up at him, eyes twinkling. The vulnerability of it punched Edwin in the gut. That seven year old Charles—he was still in there. Edwin could see him in flashes.

“Mate, I thought you’d never ask.”

It took a moment for them to shuffle into a comfortable position, but by the end, he and Charles were all but intertwined. Niko and Crystal shared a number of glances throughout the process. Edwin elected to ignore them.

“So, what do you want to do next?” Niko asked. “Do you want to play a game?”

Charles looked around the closet, then nodded towards the game shelf. “Never gotten a chance to play Cluedo before. St. Hil’s has an old version of it, but all my mates think it’s lame.”

“The three of us are quite familiar with its mechanics,” Edwin said. “Would you like us to teach you?”

Charles considered for a moment. “Only if I can play as Mr. Green,” he decided. “He was aces him in the film.”

The request set Edwin’s heart aflutter. Charles, in the thirty-five years they had known each other, had never played another character. 

 “Of course you can,” Edwin assured him. “In fact, I insist on it.”

Cluedo was a competitive sport, in the Dead Boy Detectives office. Even Charles’s state of amnesia could not change that. Excited voices yelled over one another, completely halting the game’s progress.

“I’m bloody telling you, Crystal. It’s got to be Colonel Mustard.”

“Oh my fucking god, no it's not. It’s for sure Professor Plum.”

“I think it's Miss White!”

“Niko, you already guessed Miss White.”

Normally Edwin would be right in the mix with them. By now he would have cracked the case, made his guess, and moved them on to a second game. His attention, however, was a bit scattered.

Throughout their years as business partners, Charles had been the subject of many unofficial titles. ‘Assistant’ was a common one. ‘Bodyguard’ as well. Their roles as ‘brains’ and ‘brawn’ had come from a conversation with a client. However, the one comparison that came back, time and time again, was that of Charles to a dog. Thankfully, Charles considered the comparison a compliment. Dogs were loyal and protective. ‘A bloke’s best friend,’ as Charles always said. But the main dog-like similarity that Edwin noticed was not one of such blatant stereotype.

Despite what people often assumed, Edwin had not grown up in a dogless household. Far from it, in fact. Doting on canines had been one of his father’s favorite hobbies. The last dog Edwin recalled having in the house was a sweet-tempered Airedale Terrier by the name of Jack. 

Jack had only been in the family four years, when he suddenly fell ill. One day he had seemed fine, and the next he was found near-lifeless beside his mother’s grand piano. The vet had been called immediately, but by then it was too late. Jack passed on later that afternoon. Edwin’s mother couldn’t have cared less, but his father had been devastated.

According to the vet, Jack had likely been unwell for days. The house staff hadn’t noticed because Jack hadn’t wanted them to. Dogs, at their ancestral core, were wild animals. They hid their wounds in the name of safety until it was far too late to help them.

“Right, okay,” said Charles. “I’m taking my guess. Colonel Mustard, in the billiard room, with the rope.”

“Seriously, Charles,” Crystal warned. “It’s not Colonel Mustard.”

“You wanna wager on it, then?”

“No bets during Clue!” Niko piped up. “That’s a rule that I came up with. It always causes fights.”

Charles reached for the envelope. “It’d only cause a fight ‘cause Crystal knows I’m right.”

Before Crystal could fling out a response, Charles suddenly went still. A hiss whistled through his teeth as every muscle went tense, suspending his arm halfway across the gameboard. 

Crystal tensed herself, reaching out reflexively. “Charles? You okay?”

Charles withdrew slowly and leaned against Edwin's side, as if he were unable to support his weight any longer. “Sure,” he said wearily. “I’m aces.”

Crystal and Niko waited for him to continue. When he didn’t, Niko spoke up. “Did you still want to make a guess?”

“No, thanks,” said Charles. His competitive spirit was gone. Now, he just sounded exhausted. “You two can make yours.”

Right. That was enough. Edwin couldn’t stand to watch this any longer. “Colonel Mustard, in the library, with the wrench,” he stated. They were the first words he had uttered in almost ten minutes.

Crystal blinked at him. “What? I didn’t even think you were paying attention.”

“I figured it out four rounds ago,” he said. “Check the envelope. I am right.”

Niko grabbed the slip of paper and slid it open. “He’s right!” she declared. “Edwin wins!”

“As fucking always,” Crystal griped, rolling her eyes. “I’m pretty sure you’ve got psychic abilities that can only be used during a game of Clue.”

Edwin started packing up the board before anyone could suggest another game. “I’m sorry that my powers of deductive reasoning are so difficult for you to grasp,” he aimed at Crystal. “Now, one round of Cluedo is quite enough for me. Perhaps we ought to move on?”

“One round?” Niko asked. “But you always say that setting up the board for one round of Clue is a waste of time.”

Edwin silenced her with a pointed look. “What do you think, Charles? Would you like to do something else?”

Charles smiled sheepishly. “I mean… if it's okay with you lot, I might need a break. I’m knackered.”

“Of course it’s okay,” Edwin assured him. “Cluedo can be quite a rambunctious activity. I’m certain we can find a game that's less taxing for us all.”

Charles adjusted the heating pad beneath his blanket. “Cheers, mate,” he said. “Think you just read my mind.”

Edwin smiled, despite the sinking pit in his belly. “Does anyone have ideas for an activity is less competitive?”

Immediately, Niko raised her hand. “Oh, oh, me! It’s my turn to pick!”

Edwin made eye contact with Crystal, who cringed in return. Niko, as lovely as she was, had absolutely atrocious taste in group activities. The last ones she’d chosen were ‘would you rather’ and ‘never have I ever’, both of which Edwin would liken to psychological torture. But, she was right. Crystal had chosen alcohol, he and Charles had agreed on Cluedo. It was her turn to pick.

“Very well, Niko,” he sighed. “I only ask that you choose a game that does not require divulging childhood embarrassments, this time.”

Niko gave him a bright smile. “Okay! We’ll stick with something easy.”

“Sure we will,” Crystal muttered. Edwin couldn’t help but share in her disbelief.

Edwin never should have agreed to this.

“Hmmm…” Niko said pensively. She regarded him with all the devilishness of a shark eyeing a minnow. He held his breath, hoping for mercy. How anyone enjoyed playing this game, he would never understand.

After a long pause, her eyes finally flicked away. Relief flooded Edwin’s system like a drug. He’d skated by. This time. Her scrutinizing gaze flicked over Charles, then settled on Crystal. Crystal looked away, as if that would change her fate. But Niko’s mind was clearly made up.

“Crystal,” she said. “Truth or dare?”

Crystal rolled her eyes. “Oh, c’mon, Niko. You know all my truths by now. Dare.”

“Oh! Okay.” Niko looked around the closet, forehead wrinkled in thought. “I dare you to… braid my hair?”

Crystal’s eyebrows shot up. “Really? That’s it?”

Niko shrugged. “There’s not a lot of good dares you can do in a closet full of people. Besides, it feels nice when you do it.”

“Oh.” Crystal’s lips wobbled with a poorly-hidden grin. “Yeah, okay. Come sit by me.”

Edwin shuffled to the side as Niko climbed into the center, seating herself in front of Crystal. Crystal took Niko’s hair, separating it into sections, before carefully layering one over another in a simple-looking braid.

“Okay, my turn,” Crystal said. “Charles. Truth or dare?”

The question was a bit silly, given Charles’s current state. He was half-slumped against Edwin’s side, eyes lidded with exhaustion. Any sort of movement-based dare would be out of the question.

Thankfully, Charles seemed to have reached the same conclusion. “Truth,” he picked quietly.

Crystal tapped her chin. “What’s the name of your latest crush?” she asked off-handedly.

Charles tensed at Edwin’s side, letting out a sharp exhale. Edwin couldn’t see his expression, but there was a split second of palpable panic before Crystal completely changed course.

“Celebrity crush!” she spluttered. “What’s the name of your latest celebrity crush, is what I meant to ask.”

The ambient tension melted away. Odd. Edwin cast Niko a glance, who shrugged. Clearly they’d both missed something.

“Easy,” Charles said hoarsely. “Freddie Mercury.”

“Yeah, that was a softball question,” Crystal agreed. “Any girls?”

Charles thought a bit longer for that one. “Pauline Black is pretty fit. But I dunno, there’s a lot to choose from.”

“Who’s Pauline Black?” Niko asked.

“She is the lead vocalist of The Selecter,” Edwin answered thoughtlessly. “I believe she has delved into the world of acting, as well.”

Charles twisted to look at him. “You know Pauline Black?”

“I do,” Edwin confessed, though it was all second-hand knowledge. Charles was the one who knew about Pauline Black. “I am less familiar with her ska music than you, but she delivered quite the performance as Billie Holiday in a play some years ago.”

A play that he and Charles had attended, at Charles’s insistence. It was all he had talked about for the remainder of the month.

Crystal eyed him skeptically. “Do you even know who Billie Holiday is?”

“Yes, ” Edwin retorted. “It required some research at the local record museum, admittedly, but yes. I can hear why Pauline was chosen to depict her.”

It was difficult to look at Charles as he spoke. The starry-eyed expression he wore was far too familiar. Present-day Charles wore the same one often, mostly when he thought Edwin was focused elsewhere.

Crystal cleared her throat. “Charles.”

Charles blinked, snapping out of his stupor. “Yeah?”

“Your turn.”

“Oh,” he said faintly. “Right. My bad.”

Edwin knew what was coming next. He was the only one who had not been asked a question yet. Charles coughed harshly, making them both wince. It sounded as if he was attempting to take shallow breaths through a straw.

“Alright, mate,” he rasped. “Truth or dare?”

“Truth,” picked Edwin. A dare meant running the risk of having to leave Charles’s side, which was absolutely not an option.

“You said a while back that your favorite part of death is mirror travel,” Charles posited.

Edwin hummed in agreement. “I did say that.” It was largely true, too. Edwin’s favorite parts of being dead were mirror travel, and Charles.

“If that’s your favorite, then what’s your least favorite?”

The question settled heavily on Edwin's shoulders. For every benefit death brought, a pitfall took its place—most of them relating to his time in Hell. Picking an appropriate example for the situation felt like an insurmountable task.

“S’alright if you don’t have one,” Charles offered, though it was clear he wanted an answer. “Just thought I’d ask.

Edwin picked at the pilling blanket in his lap. “I’m certain I do have one. I simply…” he sighed. “My death, specifically, was a very complicated process. It is difficult to pick my least favorite aspect.”

“Then how ‘bout something you just don’t like?” Charles pulled the blanket tighter around himself. “Like, I dunno. Does it hurt?”

The question took Edwin aback. From what he’d gathered, ‘truth or dare’ was supposed to be a relatively lighthearted game. Why did Charles have such a macabre question readily available?

“The process of death can be painful for some,” Edwin explained, “but being dead does not hurt, no. Being dead does not feel like much of anything.”

Charles frowned. “Nothing?” he parroted. “Like, at all?”

“For the most part, no. Ghosts can feel other incorporeal beings, but true physical touch is inconsequential. In other words: you can touch things, but you cannot feel them.”

Charles pulled away from Edwin’s side. “So all the times we’ve touched felt like nothing? All the times we’ve hugged, or held hands, or—” A violent cough erupted from his lips. Edwin tried to place a hand on his shoulder, but Charles shied away.

“Charles, please try to keep calm,” Edwin implored. “Your lungs can only handle so much excitement.”

Charles coughed again, a twinge of red appearing on his lips. “I’m trying, mate, but God. That's bloody awful. Every time we touch, you react to it. Were you only pretending this entire time?”

Edwin reached out and threaded their fingers together. “No,” he stated clearly. “I would never. Every moment we’ve shared has been entirely real. I swear to it.”

Charles relaxed, but only just. His expression was worryingly pensive. “Well, I’m chuffed to hear that. But how is that possible?”

“I think that’s enough truth or dare for one day,” Crystal cut in. Bless her irritating soul.

“I would have to agree,” Edwin latched on. “Perhaps we ought to find another activity.”

Edwin expected a bit of pushback to the topic change. Or at least more questions. Charles had always been inordinately curious, whether he had his memories or not. But he just slumped in on himself, eyes fluttering shut. 

“Right,” he said hazily. “That’s fine. Think I might need to have a nap anyway. But could I give you one last dare before we move on? We can drop the game after, I swear.”

The wording was clumsy, but his meaning was clear: Charles wanted to make a request. A last request, if his wheezing breaths and exhaustion were anything to go by. Regardless of its nature, Edwin had to honor it. It was his job as both Charles’s partner, and as a Dead Boy Detective.

“What is your dare?” Edwin asked.

“I dare you to read me a bit of The Secret Garden.”

His request didn’t come as a shock. After all, Edwin had given the book a rather glowing review. But the idea of putting his childhood story up for scrutiny made Edwin want to hide under Charles’s comforters.

“Are you certain?” Edwin asked. “The Secret Garden is a book that I was fond of as a young child. You may find it quite…” he cringed inwardly. “Boring.”

“Can’t be that boring if you like it so much, can it?” Charles asked. “Everything you like is aces.”

Which was a heartwarming sentiment. Truly, it was. But this book was Edwin’s heart. His soul. He knew that if Charles passed poor judgement on the story, it would be his undoing. 

“The story of a spoiled girl living in a mansion does not seem much like your taste,” he tried again. “Perhaps we ought to crack open one of your Hardy Boys books instead?”

Charles shook his head stubbornly. “Nah. I’ve read all those books at least ten times. I want to hear something new.”

“Well, I do have an entire library. I am sure we could find a story that would be more suitable to your—”

“Edwin,” Niko said sternly. “Charles dared you to read The Secret Garden. If that’s what he wants, then you should do it.”

Edwin slumped. Niko was right. There was nothing left to discuss. Charles had spent a day and a half publicly reliving the vulnerabilities of his childhood. It was only right that he honored Charles’s request—as Charles’s partner.

And as a Dead Boy Detective.

Before Edwin knew it, his dilapidated copy of The Secret Garden was back in his hands. Charles burrowed further into his blankets, leaning against Edwin’s side, as Niko and Crystal slotted in on either side of them. Edwin swallowed hard.

It was odd. Even though they were all waiting for him to tell this story from his childhood, Edwin didn’t feel scrutinized. He didn’t feel judged. If anything, he felt seen. Like he was about to reveal the barest building blocks of what created Edwin Payne. 

The thought of it, while thrilling, was terrifying. Like diving off a cliff without a safety harness. But he couldn’t back down now. Not when it was functionally Charles’s last wish. After all, wasn’t this the purpose of his second death? To allow him a say in the circumstances of his passing?

“Whenever you’re ready,” Niko whispered. Her voice was warm; the personification of sun-soaked tea left on an uncovered porch to steep. His mother, in her better moods, used to make the same kind for their estate staff.

Edwin shook his head and opened his book. Now was not the time for a walk down memory lane. Not when Charles was waiting for him to get on with it.

He cleared his throat once. Then twice.

“When Mary Lennox was sent to Misselthwaite Manor to live with her uncle everybody said she was the most disagreeable-looking child ever seen…”

Too Much, Too Soon

Charles blinked slowly. Keeping his eyes open was a full time job now, and Crystal’s heating pad made it a thousand times harder.

“Mistress Mary, quite contrary,
How does your garden grow?”

So did Edwin’s voice. His tone was rich and soothing, like the warm adrak chai Charles’s mum always made for Christmas. For the first time since he was little, he felt like he was being read a proper bedtime story.

“With silver bells, and cockle shells
And marigolds all in a row.”

Crystal and Niko had disappeared sometime between chapters one and eight. One blink, they were there. Next, they were gone. Now it was just Edwin and the words of Mary Lennox to keep Charles company. A few blinks later, and his eyelids finally won out. Turns out a good bedtime story can put anyone to sleep.

Time passed. Charles couldn’t tell how long. For a moment, he feared he was slipping away again. The thought terrified him. He didn’t want to wake up in the attic. He didn’t want to be without Edwin, or Crystal, or Niko. He wasn’t ready to go. Not yet. There was too much left to say.

When the soft glow of booklight finally trickled back in, everything was quiet. The Secret Garden sat on the floor, forgotten. A pair of arms clutched tightly around his waist. If Charles didn’t know any better, he’d say they were shaking.

“Edwin?” he croaked. All the coughing made it sound like he’d just smoked a full pack. “That still you?”

Edwin sat up straighter, sniffling. “Yes, darling. I’m here.”

“Why’d you stop reading?”

“You fell asleep,” he said thickly. “I was unsure when you would wake again. I’m sorry if I disturbed you.”

Charles leaned in closer, soaking up Edwin’s warmth. “You didn’t. I woke myself up. Wasn’t ready to be without you yet.”

Edwin leaned a cheek against his temple. “That’s sweet, darling, but you would not have been. Not this time. Not ever again, if I can help it.”

Butterflies erupted in Charles’s stomach. The fact that Edwin cared so much made his cheeks heat like a kid on Valentine’s Day. Charles shifted in his arms, trying not to let his nervousness show. 

“Thanks for still being here,” he murmured. The words were garbled, but Edwin was smart. He’d get the picture. “I know three years is a long time. You didn’t need to keep waiting.”

Edwin sighed. “I wish you would not say such ridiculous things. Three years, ten, twenty—time matters very little to me. I do not age, and even if I did, I would have waited for you. I will always wait for you.”

The gentle declaration hit Charles like a truck. He really thought he’d gotten over this silly attachment. Living at St. Hil’s was like that. He and his mates were men, after all. They weren’t supposed to need anyone. Not like he needed Edwin.

Homesickness was a common problem, at St. Hil’s. Even if no one wanted to talk about it. They all pretended not having mums and dads around was mint. Headmasters and dorm supervisors couldn’t always have eyes on them. They did what they wanted, when they wanted, so long as they were quiet about it. 

But the secret was—they all missed home. It was impossible not to.

Everyone dealt with it in different ways. Cole complained about his parents non-stop. He pissed and moaned about them from day til fucking night, but the empty bottles of gin under his bed said differently. He never threw a single one away—despite how many write-ups he got from their supervisor because of it.

His rubbish collecting never made a lick of sense to Charles. Why risk getting expelled over empty gin bottles? Then, Charles had met Cole’s dad. He was a sharp-dressed businessman that smelled of gin and cigarettes. He couldn’t find it in himself to judge Cole, after that.

Their batsman, Steven, wasn't much different. He always used the same Looney Tunes pillow case on his school-issue pillow. No matter how many times Cole took the piss, or their supervisor said he had to use the sheets from St. Hil’s, Steven never budged. Charles didn’t ask him about it—they weren’t quite close enough for that—but late at night, he sometimes caught Steven with his nose buried in the fabric.

Charles knew that instinct. It probably still smelled like home.

The only one who didn’t seem to miss home was Tyler. Tyler was too busy missing his girlfriend for that. He didn’t talk about her much, but Charles knew they exchanged letters. Each new postcard came spritzed with what he assumed was her perfume—lilies, vanilla, and fresh-dried cotton. None of the boys knew her name, but whoever she was, her words always smelled like summertime.

Charles buried his nose in the blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Even after three years, it hadn’t changed a bit. The fabric was damp with lakewater and sweat, but it still smelled exactly as he remembered. Of books, ink, and magic. 

Of home, his mind supplied.

Okay, maybe this ‘silly attachment’ to Edwin hadn’t ever gone away. Maybe it’d just gone underground. And grown. A lot. He thought back to what Crystal had said about his budding crush three years ago.

“You’ll get a chance to talk to him about it eventually, okay? I promise. Just… not right now.”

She’d meant that they’d get a chance to talk when things were less ‘complicated’. Charles knew that. He didn’t want to overstep. But he needed to say something—even if it wasn’t the whole truth.

“Could you help me move over a bit?” he asked Edwin. The least Charles could do was look him in the eyes as they talked. Together they managed to prop him up on a few pillows. Not ideal, but it would work.

“What is it?” Edwin asked, tucking Edwin-the-cat in beside him. “Is there something you need?”

Charles blinked. The world faded and flowed, then stabilized, bringing acceptance with it. 

These injuries weren’t survivable. Not with the way he was feeling, and not with the way everyone was acting. He’d suspected earlier, but the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. The whispering, the games, the booze. It was all a front. His friends were just trying to keep him calm.

“I’m dying, aren’t I?” he asked. “That’s why no one’s called 999. I’m past saving.”

Edwin stiffened as he searched for a response. It wouldn’t be a lie, knowing him, but probably a platitude. Some sort of dismissal.

“I just wanted you to know that I know,” Charles offered, saving him the trouble. “And I sort of wanted to know if you know, too.”

Edwin looked down at his hands. “Yes,” he whispered. “I know. We meant to protect you from that knowledge, but I should have realized you would figure it out. You know me far too well by now.”

Normally, Charles would take this moment to try and lighten the mood. That’s what he was for, wasn’t it? Managing the situation. Even if he died, the least he could do was go out making Edwin laugh. But that felt wrong, this time. Maybe it was the hypothermia. Or the lack of oxygen getting to his brain. But just this once, he was feeling a little bit selfish.

“I need to tell you something,” he said. The words kept slipping from his mind, but he was determined. Edwin deserved to hear what he had to say.

“You can tell me anything,” answered Edwin. “You know that."

What Edwin deserved to hear was ‘thank you’. He deserved to hear how much Charles appreciated everything he’d done. After all, Charles didn’t know what might’ve happened if Edwin had never come into his life. He didn’t even want to think about it. 

But that’s not what came out of Charles’s mouth. What came out of his mouth instead was: “I think I like you.”

The words were a surprise to them both. Edwin blinked, clearly confused. “I like you too, dove.”

Charles steeled himself. Right, then. Fuck complicated. If he was dying, then this was what he wanted his last words to be.

“No, Edwin. I like you. In the proper, head-over-heels way. Have for a long time, I reckon. I’d take you out on a date if I could, but…” A cough crept up his throat. He hacked into the white comforter, leaving dark specks behind. “Think it might be a bit late for that.”

Edwin stared at him like a deer caught in headlights.

“You don’t have to feel the same,” Charles went on. “But if this really is the end for me, then I wanted you to know.”

The closet was silent for a while afterwards. Charles waited, stewing in his nerves. It was hard not to jump to conclusions. What if Edwin was pissed? Or was trying to figure out a way to let Charles down easy? Maybe now was a bad time. Maybe he shouldn’t have said anything. 

Then, a few tears dropped down Edwin’s cheeks, twinkling in the book's golden light like stars falling from the sky.

Oh, shit. Charles really shouldn’t have said anything. Why’d he always have to go and ruin everything?

“Really, Edwin, it’s aces,” he said easily. Anything to salvage the friendship he’d just shattered. “Don’t worry ‘bout it. Just forget I said—”

“Don’t you dare take those words back,” Edwin cut him off. “Not unless you truly mean to retract them.”

Charles shrunk in on himself. Edwin didn’t sound mad. He sounded more like someone had ripped his heart out and tossed it on the closet floor. “Right, then. I won’t.”

Edwin sniffled wetly. A thousand apologies danced on Charles’s tongue, but he held them back. It wasn’t his turn to talk. Edwin deserved a chance to say his piece.

“I adore you, Charles. You mean the absolute world to me. But our situation is… complicated, to say the least.”

That word, again. It dug into Charles’s chest like a set of claws. “Complicated how, exactly?” he asked. “Is it because I’m still alive? Or does it have to do with that other Charles we’re not supposed to talk about?”

Edwin sighed as more tears dripped down his cheeks. “All I can say is that this conversation has come too soon. I have too much new information to contend with, and you have too little. Any decision made at this moment would be highly misguided, at best.”

Charles’s eyes welled up. Edwin’s explanation was lost on him. All he heard was that Edwin wouldn’t give him a proper answer. Not while things were so ‘complicated’.

“Doomed to be like Romeo and Juliet then, are we?” he muttered. “Always on the opposite sides of a complicated situation?”

To Charles’s surprise, Edwin laughed. One of those half-giggles that lit Charles up to his core. It’d be a beautiful sight if Charles’s heart wasn’t so busy breaking.

“What’s so funny?” he asked.

“Nothing,” said Edwin, wiping his tears away. “Nothing at all. There are just some things in this world that will never change, I suppose. ”

Charles didn’t know what to say to that. When he didn’t reply, Edwin continued. “Never mind, Charles. Your literary comparison is sound. Romeo and Juliet were kept apart by complicated familial relations, and permanently separated by death.”

Leave it to Edwin to turn rejection into a literary lesson. “Yeah,” Charles muttered dejectedly. “I know.”

“There is, however, one important detail you are missing.”

Charles’s throat tightened. Of course there was. It’s not like he’d ever finished the bloody book. He’d just skimmed enough to get through Ms. May’s lit class. “Go on, then,” he mumbled, as if this wasn’t humiliating enough. “What’d I miss?”

“We are not Romeo and Juliet. Death does not have to be the end of our story. Once you pass on, you can stay with me for as long as you wish.”

Wait. Charles’s heart came to a standstill. Edwin wanted him to stay? Even after all that mess?

“I can?” he asked tentatively. “You’re sure?”

Edwin swiped a lock of hair from his face. “I meant what I said. Your place is by my side, and mine is by yours. We will have plenty of time to discuss this after you pass on. I am sure you will feel quite differently by then.”

Which was just about the stupidest thing Charles had ever heard. Did Edwin really think he would lose interest? In him?

“Don’t think you understand how fancying someone works, mate,” Charles mumbled. “Still gonna be me after I die, aren’t I? And you’re still gonna be you.”

Edwin gave him a wobbly smile. “Yes, Charles. You will still be you, and I will still be here. Anything else that changes is of little consequence.”

Charles wanted to make another quip, but darkness ate at the corners of his vision. Edwin tucked the blankets tighter around him. 

“Do you think you could keep reading?” Charles asked. “Just for a bit? Your voice is aces for it.”

“As you wish,” Edwin said thickly. He sat beside Charles and cracked open The Secret Garden once again.

“She thought she remembered the corners she must turn to find the short corridor with the door covered with tapestry—the one Mrs. Medlock had come through the day she lost herself. The sound had come up that passage.”

Darkness encroached. Its arms stole the warmth of the blankets. Its shroud turned Edwin’s voice into sounds. Charles could barely make out anything he was saying.

“So she went on with her dim light, almost feeling her way, her heart beating so loud that she fancied she could hear it.”

The darkness spread further, snuffing out the light of Edwin’s magical book. Its pages held no heat, but Charles felt colder all the same.

“The far-off faint crying went on and led her. Sometimes it stopped for a moment or so and then began again. Was this the right corner to turn?”

Then, replacing the light of Edwin’s book, was an icy blue glow. It was pretty. And familiar. Deeply familiar. It beckoned him like a siren’s song, lulling him to sleep.

The reading stopped abruptly. There was talking, and some shuffling. He thought he heard his name. Then, the blue light flared, and everything disappeared. No more toy cats. No more bedtime stories. No more Edwin. Just him and the blue light, suspended in space.

Then, it was gone. And Charles was alone.

Chapter Text

The Case of The Creepy Blue Lightning

A few teardrops fell onto the open book in Edwin’s hands. He wiped them away before they could blur the next lines.

“She thought she remembered the corners she must turn to find the short corridor with the door covered with tapestry—the one Mrs. Medlock had come through the day she lost herself. The sound had come up that passage.”

He couldn’t let himself break down. Not yet. Charles had asked for a bedtime story, and that’s what he was going to get, uncontrollable emotions be damned.

“So she went on with her dim light, almost feeling her way, her heart beating so loud that she fancied she could hear it.”

Edwin’s phantom heart beat along with Mary’s; moderato turned vivace by a dynamic swell of anger. Anger at Charles’s friends for their horrid, Hellish behavior. Anger at Dr. Hargrove for her cruel machinations. Anger at himself, for losing his composure.

Not that he could help it.

Edwin’s grief moved him like the moon moved the tide, or the Earth pulled the moon, or the sun moved the Earth. For grief, at its core, was love everlasting—and by God, was Edwin so deeply in love.

And this version of Charles was in love with him back.

“The far-off faint crying went on and led her. Sometimes it stopped for a moment or so and then began again. Was this the right corner to turn?”

Except he wasn’t in love. Not with Edwin, at least. This Charles barely knew who he was. The Edwin he loved was an illusory saint: a glorified savior that appeared every three years. He was in love with a dream. A rumor. A lie.

Which was par for the course, Edwin supposed. This Charles wasn’t the boy he loved, either. He talked like him, looked like him, laughed like him, died like him. But the memories they shared were short, sporadic. Accepting his confession would have been dishonest, at best.

But none of those facts made it hurt any less.

A small crackling sound pulled Edwin from his reading. He glanced around the room, checking for a source, but the sound petered out as quickly as it came. Edwin tugged at his earlobe. Odd. Perhaps he was going mental from the stress.

Or, perhaps not. Just as he was about to continue reading, the crackling resumed tenfold. Edwin sighed and put his book down. Whatever the sound was, he couldn’t ignore it. The Secret Garden would have to wait.

The crackling, Edwin discovered, was coming from a patch of sparks that danced between Charles’s fingers. Each arc of blue gave the impression of a retro-style plasma ball.

“Charles?” he asked, shaking Charles’s shoulder. His head lolled where it rested on pile of pillows beside him. “Darling, can you hear me?”

Charles didn’t stir. Another flurry of sparks climbed up his arm, casting his face in a cerulean haze.

“Charles!” Edwin called, louder this time.

Again, no reply. No movement, no breathing; not even an eyelid flutter.

Heavy realization settled in Edwin’s chest. He’d hoped it would be easier, the second time around. But that was ridiculous. How could this moment be anything short of excruciating?

Charles was dead. Again. Edwin was speaking to nothing more than an empty, energy-based corpse. 

Mournful tears threatened to fall, but Edwin had no time to grieve. The appearance of blue light meant Death was coming. He needed to get Charles to safety. But as Edwin reached out to grab his hand, a barrage of shocks met his fingers. He yanked away, gasping in pain. 

Since when had Death used electricity to reap dead souls? As far as Edwin knew, she was meant to help spirits pass on—not force them from a distance. What had changed? Why was she doing this?

All unanswerable questions. Edwin, as usual, was powerless. He didn’t know what was happening. He didn’t know how to fix it. He couldn’t even hold Charles’s hand. But Crystal and Niko had stepped out to do runic research. They likely had more information than he did.

“Crystal!” Edwin screeched, shrill as a banshee on the edge of madness. He hoisted himself to his knees and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Crystal!”

The closet door burst open. In the entry stood Crystal, with Niko close behind. “What’s going on in—oh, fuck me! What the hell?”

“Tell me you found something,” Edwin begged. More sparks gathered, obscuring Charles’s face. “Tell me you can fix this, please!”

Crystal looked stricken. “I—I can’t! We haven’t found any solid answers yet! Can’t you cast a counterspell or something?”

A basic, yet sound idea. Edwin could berate himself for not thinking of it later. He grabbed Charles’s backpack and shoved it into Niko’s hands. “I need the Spellbreakers Compendium, please! Quickly!”

“Okay, okay!” Niko said, voice edged with hysteria. “Just hang on! I’m not as fast as Charles; I need a second to find it.”

But a second longer was all it took. Just as Niko managed to pull out the spellbook, a flash of blinding light shrouded the room. Edwin squeezed his eyes shut. The sound of electricity grew into a dull roar, reaching its peak, before fizzling out. Whatever the spell was, they were too late. Its effect had taken hold.

Edwin sat with his eyes still closed. The spell's effect could be a positive one, he reasoned. After all, Charles’s runic cycle had ended. Maybe Edwin would open his eyes and find the boy he loved, memories intact and full of recognition. Two shaking arms wrapped around his shoulders. Edwin's heart leapt with hope, envisioning Charles—until Niko spoke up, dashing it to pieces. 

“We’re gonna figure this out,” she said, voice trembling. “Everything’s gonna be okay.”

Which did not bode well for Charles’s fate.

Against better judgement, Edwin opened his eyes.

Instantly, he wished he hadn’t. In Charles’s place was nothing but blankets, and the lone plush cat he’d left behind.

The sight punched a hole in Edwin’s chest. Charles had finally gone where he could not follow.

“What the fuck was that?” Crystal asked. “That wasn’t… Death, was it? Have you ever seen that happen before?”

“I have not,” Edwin said. Everything felt strangely calm, like he was sitting in the eye of a storm. “But Death is Death. She can do as she likes. I find her involvement to be quite likely.”

“Then we’ll go and get him, right?” Niko asked. “Like he did when you were in Hell.”

A wave of grief crested, only to dissipate. Edwin’s mind, still in shock, was too distraught to process. “I appreciate the sentiment, Niko, but Hell was a familiar place. It is terrifying, and cruel, but lacking infrastructure. Chasing Death into the afterlife is a different beast altogether.”

Niko rocked him, like a she was trying to soothe a child. “But we have to try. You guys found me when I was stuck on the Astral plane, right? You never gave up, even though it took months. If anyone can find Charles, it’s us. I know we can.”

Edwin stared down at the blankets. Usually he appreciated Niko’s affinity for silver linings. Now it only reminded him of Charles, and his rose-colored view of the world.

“Okay, enough." Crystal moved into Edwin’s line of sight, blocking the empty blankets. “I can’t believe I’m the one saying this, but can we please try and stick to the facts? We have no proof that Death actually did this. In fact, I’d say we have less than no proof. Like, a negative amount.”

Edwin squinted at her through distant, cloudy vision. “Explain, please.”

“Okay, well, first of all, why would Death come for Charles now? He’s been dead for decades. It’s not like this ‘second death’ was actually a death; it was just another phase in his runic cycle.”

“Dr. Hargrove must have created the final rune to summon her,” Edwin reasoned. “If her goal is to help spirits pass on, then calling Death would be a logical step.”

Crystal scoffed. “Hellooo, speculation. Are we just tossing out guesses like they’re facts, now?”

Edwin kept quiet. She was right. His assumption was based on nothing but theories. And yet, the hopelessness remained, eating a pit in his stomach.

“Right, okay, fine,” Crystal conceded. “Let’s say, hypothetically, that the rune did summon Death. How does that explain all the fuckass blue lightning?”

Irritation tickled Edwin’s throat. “Death always comes with blue light, Crystal. You should know that by now.”

“Yeah, but she always comes with the same blue light! That creepy lightning was the wrong shade blue, and a different type of light. It didn’t look like her energy at all.”

Which... was true. Death’s blue light was always calm and welcoming—like the peaceful underside of an ocean’s tide. The light that took Charles had been a malicious shade of ice. The kind that caused unsuspecting victims to lose several of their fingers. Not that it mattered to Edwin. Death or no Death, Charles was still gone. Thinking beyond that felt impossible, like trying to bypass an iron wall.

“I know you’re pretty freaked out right now,” Crystal went on. “I get it. I am too. But you need to snap the fuck out of it. There’s more runic research to do. If we want real answers, that’s where we’ll find them.”

Edwin stared ahead, motionless. Her words, smart as they were, were all Greek to him. Or, not Greek; he understood Greek. Some other language he didn’t speak. Like Minoan. Or Punic. He should study Punic. Once he woke up from this Charles-less nightmare, perhaps he would. Because that’s all this was: a nightmare. A dream. It had to be.

A flying projectile—Charles’s cat—hit Edwin in the shoulder. Edwin flinched, startled.

“Fucking wake up!” Crystal cried.

Ah. She must’ve launched it.

“Charles is missing! We need to get a move on!”

Niko, bless her, tried to jump in. “Crystal, hold on—”

“No!” Crystal snapped. “Do you think Charles just sat here when you got dragged to Hell, Edwin? Do you think he wasted his time on moping? No. He was on his way to find you in, like, less than a minute. But fine. Whatever. I guess if you don’t care enough to save him, then—”

Edwin looked up so fast that if he’d been alive, his neck might’ve snapped. “Excuse me? How dare you say that to me?”

“Say what?” Crystal shot back. “The truth?”

“Crystal!” Niko gasped. “Edwin, wait, just—!”

But Edwin ignored her, barreling onward. “I realize that in your short, sixteen-year-old life, knowing someone for a few months feels akin to a lifetime. But trust me, Crystal. It is not. Charles and I have been partners for longer than you’ve been alive. We are closer than you two could ever be. How dare you say that I don’t care?”

“Well, if you care, then start fucking acting like it!” Crystal spat.

“I’m trying!” Edwin’s bones shook with the force of his words. “Charles died, Crystal! The boy I watched grow from a small child, into the boy I have spent my afterlife with, died in my arms! I may have difficulties expressing emotion, but I’m not a heartless wretch like you. I need a moment to adjust!”

To Edwin’s surprise, Crystal huffed out a laugh. “Okay, ouch. But yeah, alright. I deserved that.”

Edwin sat up straighter as the room sharpened to a point. What was he doing? Charles was missing, and he was… Spacing out on the floor? Yelling at his employees? Giving up after a single roadblock? Some detective he was.

“I’m sorry,” he said to Crystal. “Calling you ‘heartless’ was uncalled for. And untrue.”

Crystal waved him off. “No, fuck that. I was being a bitch on purpose. Having you pissed off is better than having you shut down.” 

“Oh.” Edwin pressed his fists together, trying to re-center himself. “Thank you for being so irritating, then. It is quite an impressive talent.”

“Thanks,” Crystal snorted. “I’m a natural.” She opened up a copy of The Arcanist’s Guide To Mind-Stepping. “Now, will you help us figure this shit or not?”

Edwin shook his head, clearing it of static, and pulled out his journal. “Of course. What have you ruled out so far?”

The three of them pored through the pages together, comparing runes and symbols to no avail. After a short while, Crystal turned to the book’s runic index to speed up the process. Niko let out a gasp and pointed to a rune halfway down the page. Written next to it was the word ‘transportation’. “What about this one?” she asked. “It looks pretty similar.”

Edwin’s heart did a somersault as he compared the symbol to his notes. Dr. Hargrove’s spliced rune unraveled before his eyes. He could see exactly how she’d woven her two chosen symbols together. “Niko, you’re a genius,” he said. “This is it. The magic, the shape, the description—it all fits.”

“O-kay,” Crystal said. “Now we’re getting somewhere. The scary blue lightning transported him. Now we just need to figure out where.”

Edwin flipped to another page in his notebook. “No, we don’t. This rune has been spliced with the Nordic rune ‘jera’. Their combination begets a specific location.”

“Um…” Crystal scrunched her brow. “It does?”

“Yes!" Suddenly, Edwin couldn’t get the information out fast enough. Time was wasting. They needed to go. “‘Jera’ represents the end of a repeating cycle. If a cycle is repeating, then where does it end?”

Niko snapped her fingers. “Back where it started! If a cycle is made to repeat, then its end is the same as the beginning.”

“Oh,” Crystal groaned. “Oh, fuck. Does that mean—”

“Yes.” Edwin snapped his notebook shut and rose from the floor with purpose. “It’s time we paid Dr. Hargrove another visit.”

All Roads Lead To A Basement

“Charlie.”

Charles groaned, still half asleep. The voice was familiar, but faint. He couldn’t make heads or tails of who it might be. 

“Go away” he grumbled. “‘M tired.”

“Charlie.”

Charles flat out ignored it, this time. It was too early to be awake. The sun wasn’t even out yet. Maybe if he played dead, its owner would leave off.

“Charlie,” the voice said for a third time, finally loud enough to recognize. “Wake up, my love. It’s time for school.” 

The phrase’s inflection, so petal-soft and gentle, blossomed warmth in Charles’s chest. With its melodic cadence, soft consonants, and flipped r’s, it could only belong to one person: Mariamma Rowland. But instead of bringing comfort, it only brought confusion. Was Charles forgetting something? Because it sure felt like he was forgetting something.

Gentle fingers carded through his hair, wiping away any lingering doubts. “Breakfast is ready,” his mum said. The smell of fresh-cooked sambar wafted in from the downstairs. “You ought to eat before it gets cold.

Sambar? Charles’s mouth watered at the thought. His mum’s traditional cooking was weird for a weekday, but he wasn’t complaining. If she’d gone so far as to make sambar, then she’d probably whipped up dosas, too. She knew Charles would give anything for a proper meal before school.

Well, anything but his last five minutes of sleep.

“Just a few more minutes, Mum,” he mumbled. The feeling of fingers in his hair disappeared. “Please? I’ll be down soon.”

“Beta, you’re going to be late,” she whispered. “Please come downstairs; you know how your father is when you miss the bus.”

Charles sighed. Right. The bus. Missing the bus was a big deal in their house—especially if it meant his dad had to drop him off. Judging by his mum’s lack of urgency, though, it wasn’t a lost cause yet. Maybe if he hurried, there’d be time to both eat and run to catch the…

Wait, Charles interrupted himself. The bus? He hadn’t taken the bus to school since he was eight. His mum hadn’t made sambar for breakfast since he was nine. This had all… happened already? But how was that possible? What was going on?

Searing pain shot through Charles’s forehead. This—this was all wrong. Charles hadn’t visited his mum in a decade. She was enjoying retired life in Bromley with his dad and their cat, some little calico they’d picked up at a yard sale.

Memories of that same cat flickered to the forefront. “My days are very boring,” she said while circling his ankles. “And it’s not often we get a little visitor sneaking about the kitchen.”

Which wasn’t possible. Charles had never met his parents’ cat before. She wasn’t a stranger—Charles had watched his mum raise her from a kitten—but he hadn’t been back to his parents’ house since Auntie Isha’s wake. And that was four years before they’d even gotten a cat.

Another calico-based memory appeared despite all logic. She lounged on his mum’s kitchen counter, watching him gobble up a slice of pizza.

“I’m Clementine. Or Clem, if you like.” 

Clementine, Charles considered. The name sounded so familiar—like a forgotten word on the tip of his tongue. Clem… 

Another memory swirled into view, this time showing his old basement bedroom. The decorations were the same, but it was full of old junk—books, clothes and… broken baubles? Tiny shards blanketed the floor in glinting red and green. Charles’s hands stung at the sight. How had all that mess gotten there? Had he put it there?

Off in the corner, voices whispered. One of them was Clementine the cat. The other carried a stiffness that put Charles’s heart in a vice. He’d recognize that voice anywhere.

Edwin. 

He replayed the memory again, just to be sure. There was no question. That was Edwin’s voice, which meant Edwin had been in his house. Why had Edwin been in his house?

The rest of their visit came back in pieces. Running away from the office; bumbling his way through mirror travel; breaking into the basement; sobbing in Edwin’s arms, like he hadn’t run away in the first place. Every bit felt disjointed and distant—like the memories were his, but the experiences weren’t.

He frowned, tried to dig deeper, but found nothing of substance. All he got in return was a headache.

“Charles?”

Charles froze, thoughts skittering to a stop. That voice wasn’t his mum’s. Its clinical cadence was far too smooth, like a stone fished out of an icy river.

“Come now, Charles,” the voice prodded. “Focus. It’s time to wake up.”

Charles pried his eyes open. He’d been right, earlier. The sun wasn’t out; neither was the moon. In a room with no windows, it was Schrödinger’s nighttime. The only light came from a flickering candle in the darkness. Water dribbled from a crack in the ceiling, feeding a sparse spread of moss across the wall. Each drip, drip, drip bore into his soul, driving his mind to the edge of madness.

But none of that mattered; his madness would have to wait. Because staring at him, once again, was the rotting face of Dr. Violet Hargrove.

Mirror Travel Is For Mortals

Edwin scoured the bookshelves, his spectral bones humming with renewed vigor. Hope wasn’t lost; Charles wasn’t gone. He was only waiting to be rescued—which was usually Edwin’s prerogative.

This time, it would be different. This time, he would be the one to bring Charles home.

“Uh, Edwin?” Crystal asked, hovering by the closet door. “In case you forgot: Dr. Hargrove, like, totally fucking leveled us last time we went to her house. Shouldn’t we take time to, I don’t know, make a plan before going back?”

Edwin plucked several tomes off of the shelves and placed them in Charles’s backpack. “Charles needs us now, Crystal—whether we’re ready or not. Besides, I have a plan. Or the beginnings of a plan, at least.” He picked up Indigo’s brass knuckles and handed them to her. “I presume Niko has filled you in on the details of this item?”

Crystal slid the knuckles on. Their garnet coating glowed a subtle spring green. “I mean… yeah. And they’re great, don’t get me wrong. But I doubt a punch in the dead, rotting face is gonna stop Dr. Hargrove from turning you into a toddler.”

Edwin shot her a flower-wilting glare. “I’m not an imbecile, Crystal. We have other means of engaging in combat. But your powers are unstable, and Dr. Hargove's memory expertise is not to be taken lightly. These knuckles will keep you from having to use your abilities against her.”

“My powers aren’t ‘unstable’,” Crystal argued. Edwin raised an eyebrow. “Okay, maybe they’re a little unstable. Look, I haven’t started training with the Night Nurse yet, alright? We’re supposed to have our first lesson after she gets back from her intergalactic trip.”

“Interplanar,” Edwin corrected. “And my point stands, then. Dueling memory magic—especially against such a skilled opponent—is a dangerous idea. Stick to the knuckles unless completely necessary.”

Niko cleared her throat. “What about me? I want to help.”

“Oh, Niko,” Crystal said. “No. You shouldn’t be there. Edwin and I will go, you should stay—”

“You, Niko,” Edwin interrupted, “are going to be playing a very important role.” He handed her Indigo’s bag of Hellish, magic-eating marbles. “You are going to be in charge of subduing Dr. Hargrove.”

Juxtaposing sounds of agreement and disagreement assaulted Edwin’s ears.

“Okay!” Niko chirped, taking the marbles from him.

“What?!” Crystal gaped. “Edwin! Niko shouldn’t be anywhere near this fight. We—” She lowered her voice to a stage whisper. “We just got her back.”

Crystal’s protest needled Edwin’s conscience, but he pushed it aside. “I’m sorry, Crystal, but cutting off Dr. Hargrove’s access to magic is integral to our success. The marbles, which only Niko can wield, are a necessary evil.”

“But—”

Niko reached out and took Crystal’s hand, tugging her off to the side. Crystal stumbled after her like a colt on wobbly legs.

“I’ll be careful,” Niko said quietly—so quietly that Edwin hardly heard it. He grabbed a few more books and stuffed them into Charles’s backpack. The conversation clearly wasn’t for him, even if he was only a few feet away.

He heard Crystal scuff her shoes on the floorboards. “You can’t ask me to be okay with this, Niko. I can’t be responsible for you getting hurt again, or disappearing, or dying—”

“Hey,” Niko interrupted. Edwin snuck a glance. Her face glowed with a soft, radiant smile. “You heard Edwin. If I can help get Charles home, then I want to be there.” 

Crystal crossed her arms. “You’re sure you’re up for it?”

“I am,” Niko said. “Like, really sure.”

“And you’ll be careful?”

“Like I said. I promise.”

Crystal sighed and raised her hand, little finger outstretched. “Alright, fine. Whatever. Just pinkie swear that if things go sideways, you’ll let Edwin or I handle it. No trying to play the hero or anything, okay?”

“Pinkie swear,” Niko said, taking Crystal’s finger in hers. “And you know that’s a binding oath.”

“Yeah,” Crystal chuckled. “I know.”

Sensing the end of their private moment, Edwin thumped Charles’s bag on the desk. Both girls jumped, as if they’d forgotten he was there.

“We ought to go. Every moment spent lollygagging is another moment Charles is alone with the doctor.”

Crystal pushed herself off of the desk. “Right, yeah. So, how’re we getting there? Uber?”

“No. Time is precious and we cannot waste it on vehicular travel. Mirror hopping will be much faster.”

Crystal let out a huff. “Look, Edwin. I know you hate driving. But in case you forgot, me and Niko are mortal. We need an actual method of travel.” 

“We have an ‘actual method of travel’,” Edwin said, opening Charles’s backpack. “Get in. I will carry you.”

Crystal eyed the bag before setting her jaw. “No.”

Edwin opened the bag wider. “Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No, Edwin! You know how nauseous I get when you carry me around in that thing!”

“And you know that the longer we wait, the more Charles is going to suffer.” He picked up the bag and shoved it into Crystal’s hands. “So for the love of all that is good and Holy, Crystal: get in the bloody bag.”

Crystal glanced towards Niko for backup, who offered an apologetic smile. “I think he’s right. We need to get there fast.” She stuck out her hand, wiggling her fingers. “I’ll hold your hand, okay? Maybe that’ll help.”

“It won’t,” Crystal griped, throwing Edwin a dirty look, “but fine. I’ll do it for Charles. Just know that if I throw up, it’s your fucking fault.”

Edwin snatched a few tinctures from his potion cabinet and shoved them in his pockets. “I’m certain my conscience will survive.”

Doctor-Patient Non-Confidentiality

“Hello, dear,” Dr. Hargrove said. Her bloodshot gaze would almost be kind, if she weren’t eyeing Charles like an excited kid on Christmas. “I was not expecting to see you again so soon.”

It took Charles a second to remember what she’d done to him. One moment he’d been in her office, picking through her files. The next he’d woken in her basement—exactly where he was now. There’d been a lot of blue lights and bad memories and sizzling pain, right up until…

Charles flinched away, phantom electrical shocks crawling up his spine.

“This is for your own good.”

All his memories felt like a Rubik's cube, after that.

“What did you do?” Charles choked out. The manacle around his neck made it hard to talk. Christ, what was it with witches and bloody collars? “Where’s Edwin? And why are my memories all…” He paused, not sure how to describe the jigsaw puzzle behind his eyes.

“Spotty?” Dr. Hargrove offered. Her loose, waterlogged skin struggled to contain her smile. “Don’t fret; it's only a side effect. Everything that happened will come back in time.”

Charles gave the shackles around his wrists an experimental tug. They didn’t sizzle, so they weren’t iron. Binding magic of some sort, maybe? There wasn’t much else that could hold a ghost. Not that it mattered; he wasn’t getting out of them either way. 

“How’d I get here?” he asked.

“I added a bounce back effect to your treatment plan,” she explained. “Which, judging by your quick return, must have been a success. Not that I’m surprised; your partner seems to care about you a great deal. I’m certain he made an excellent caretaker.”

His partner and… caretaker? Those titles kicked another memory loose—this time swaddled in soft blankets and gentle, heartfelt words.

“Edwin?” Charles croaked. “That still you?”

Edwin sniffled. “Yes, darling. I’m here.”

“Why’d you stop reading?”

“You fell asleep,” Edwin said. “I was unsure when you would wake again. I’m sorry if I disturbed you.”

“You didn’t,” Charles replied. “I woke myself up. Wasn’t ready to be without you yet.”

Edwin leaned a cheek against his temple. “That’s sweet, darling—”

Charles perked up at the memory of his pet name. A few more came to mind—dear, dearest, dove. He should be embarrassed; mortified, even. But he wasn’t. The names made him feel whole, like they filled in the gaps that ‘Charlie’ could never properly satisfy.

“—but you would not have been. Not this time. Not ever again, if I can help it.”

“Fuck,” Charles breathed. He tugged at his bonds. They rattled mockingly against the metal table beneath him. Edwin had no idea this was going to happen. He was probably freaking out by now. “Fuck!”

The doctor’s ghoulish smile faded. “Watch your language,” she hissed. “How would your mother feel if she knew you had such a naughty tongue?”

Her question was saltwater on Charles’s raw nerves. “She never will, you old bat! I’m dead, and so are you. Why don’t you move on and leave me alone?”

Dr. Hargrove wrote something down on a clipboard. “Combative,” she muttered. “Agitated. Rude. You’re quite the defiant patient, Charles. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“I’m not your bloody patient!” Charles protested. “You’re holding me against my will! Isn’t that against proper protocol or something?”

Dr. Hargrove crossed her legs and sat up straight, as if preparing for a professional meeting. “There are no patient protocols for non-patients, dear. If you refuse my treatment, this is all you get.”

Charles bit back a frustrated groan. Her reasoning seemed daft, but what did he know? It wasn’t as if he’d gone to many doctors. So, he tried to focus on what he did know. 

He knew he’d disappeared in front of his friends, which meant they knew he was missing, and that meant it wouldn’t take them long to find him.

That was the benefit of having Crystal and Edwin on the same team. On a normal day, they bickered like a set of bloody siblings. In an emergency, they smashed through issues like a well-oiled machine. All Charles had to do was buy time until they figured out how to track him down.

“So, Charles,” said the doctor. “Tell me. How have you found this experience so far?”

It was such a stupid question that Charles had opened his mouth to chew her out before catching himself. Dr. Hargrove responded best to logical, reasoned replies. He would have to do his best to address her with respect.

“‘How have I found this experience’?” he echoed. “Are you for reals?” 

“I am."

“Well, no offense, doc, but your spell’s kind of made a mess of things, hasn’t it?”

“Oh?" The doctor paused her scribbling. "How is that?”

 “How?” Charles choked out a laugh. “Do you know how hard I’ve tried to keep my past in the past? I never wanted my mates to know. Then you swooped in and mucked it all up in a matter of a few bloody seconds.”

“I fear that ignoring the past is impossible when dealing with trauma,” Dr. Hargrove said. “No amount of suppression will ever change that fact.”

Charles clenched his teeth. He hated that word, ‘trauma’. It made him sound like some helpless victim. And he wasn’t. He wasn’t .

“Not gonna stop me from trying, though, is it?”

The doctor ignored his pissy reply. “Enlighten me, then. Why are you so afraid to tell your friends the truth? Surely they would be supportive, should you need to lean on them.”

Charles’s stomach dropped like a piano off a building. His hands fluttered, trying to break free—only to be stopped by their magical chains. It was bad enough that his mates knew more than he wanted to share. The last thing he wanted to do was to tell Dr. Hargrove about it. He pressed his lips together in an effort to keep quiet.

Dr. Hargrove tapped her foot impatiently. “Come now, Charles,” she demanded. “I don’t have all day. Why do you feel the need to be so secretive?”

Charles bristled at her insistence. “I don’t have to tell you anything,” he said, matching her hostility. So much for reasoned responses. “If you want me to talk, then you’re gonna have to make me.”

Dr. Hargrove sat back with a tight-lipped frown. “A tempting suggestion. And any other time, I might. But this portion of treatment is most effective when done free of arcane intervention.”

“Good bloody luck, then,” said Charles, “‘cause you’re not getting another word out of me.”

Dr. Hargrove sighed and began moving her hands in a funny pattern. “Oh, alright. I’d hoped to avoid any further discomfort, given all you’ve been through. But if you insist on being difficult.”

A floating sheet of cracked-glass energy appeared between the doctor’s palms. It split her face into fragmented sections; like a corpse encased behind a broken window. Then, it disappeared—as did Dr. Hargrove. A new figure sat in her place. Someone Charles recognized far too well.

His dad. Right down to the last terrifying detail.

Every muscle in Charles’s body both froze and screamed at him to run. But he couldn’t. Like a specimen on a slide, he was stuck. Forced to share proximity with this horrific doppelganger created by magic and malice.

“Why do you feel the need to keep your life a secret, Charles?” Dr. Hargrove asked. Her voice was gruff and hateful, pulled straight from the depths of his memory. “Answer me.”

“I don’t know,” Charles said. Dr. Hargrove-as-Paul-Rowland raised an eyebrow. Charles bit back a whimper. “I don’t know, alright? I don’t like people knowing about what you’ve —he’s— done. Just feels… wrong, I guess.”

Dr. Hargrove tapped her pen against her clipboard. The sound melded with the leak from the ceiling; a dual-tempoed rhythm that made Charles’s skin itch. “Feels ‘wrong’?” she asked. “Explain that to me.”

A long-forgotten twist of fear tightened in Charles’s throat, gathering beneath his magical collar. His dad had always insisted on keeping family secrets. Hearing his voice demand information was nothing short of a mindbend.

“I don’t want to talk about it." His words sounded young and scared, even to his own ears. “Please don’t make me.”

Dr. Hargrove stopped tapping her pen. The lack of sound felt like a warning. “What did we say about being combative, Charles?”

Charles gulped down another plea. It was no use arguing; he knew a threat when he heard one.

“Tell me.”

“Well, it’s…” Charles stared over the doctor’s shoulder, trying to scrounge up an explanation. He’d avoided the subject for over thirty years. How was he supposed to come up with an answer now? “Well, it’s all family stuff, innit?” he said, parroting his dad’s old sentiment. “And family stuff stays in the family.”

“You no longer have a family,” Dr. Hargrove reminded him. “Surely those rules must be moot by now, no?”

Charles finally met her gaze. Staring into his dad’s eyes—albeit illusory ones—was like staring into the mouth of an active volcano: scalding, unpredictable, bubbling with rage. But Charles held fast.

“I do have a family." Edwin, Crystal, and Niko were more of a family than his living one had ever been. “They might not meet your definition, but they suit mine more than ten times over.”

Dr. Hargrove hummed in assent. “A fair point.” The act of concession sounded foreign on his dad’s lips. “But if your colleagues are your new family, then why do you continue to follow your father’s rules?”

Charles tried to think up an answer, but couldn't. The proximity of this Dr-Hargrove-Paul-Rowland- Dad hybrid was short-circuiting his brain. He was too terrified to breathe, much less methodically sort through his feelings.

“Look, can you—” he gulped down a breath, trying to steady himself. “Can you get rid of the disguise? I’ll answer your questions, I swear, just, please. Stop making me look at him.”

With a wave of her hand, his dad’s face dissolved into cobalt sand, drifting away on an imaginary breeze. Dr. Hargrove wasn’t exactly a pretty sight, but compared to his dad, she was the bloody Venus de Milo. Charles never thought he’d be so relieved to see her again.

“Thank you for your cooperation, dear,” she said through purple, flaky lips. “Now, tell me. Why do you continue to follow your father’s rules? Is it because you still feel as if you’re under his control?”

Charles stared at the ceiling, ignoring her rotted face. “Nah,” he said. Because he didn’t. Part of him still felt trapped, sure—the part that liked bat facts and model planes and using Edwin’s coat as a blanket. But most of him knew his dad wasn’t a danger anymore. “Just don’t like talking ‘bout my rubbish home life. Tanks the mood for everyone else, doesn’t it?”

Dr. Hargrove shot him a warning glare.

Right. Bad answer. Her sense of humor must’ve died with her.

“Look, it’s not like I never talk about my past,” he tried, aiming for half-sincerity. “Edwin and Crystal have known about my dad for a while. I’m just not keen on telling them everything.”

The doctor tapped her cheek with her pen. “Why not?” she pressed.

“Because it changes things.”

“Changes things how?”

Charles thought back to the Agency’s first case after the Devlin house. About how Edwin had brought up his dad for the first time in twenty years. About how Crystal had tried to handle him with kid gloves. And, worst of all, about the fear and pity he’d seen on his friends’ faces after he’d turned the Night Nurse into fish food. 

“Dunno,” Charles said. “Just does. Usually for the worse.”

Dr. Hargrove leaned in closer. The smell of decayed flesh and fresh pine wafted from her death form. “But don’t you feel better now that it’s all out in the open?”

Charles knew what she wanted. She wanted him to admit defeat, to call her his saving grace. And maybe he should, in the name of self-preservation. But the only offensive weapon Charles had was the truth, and even if it was daft, he still intended to use it.

“No,” he said. “To be honest, doc, I feel way, way worse.”

Her gaze hardened. “Explain, please.”

Charles thumped his head against the surface beneath him. He avoided thinking about it all—his mum, his dad, his cricket mates—like the plague. Being asked to dissect those thoughts was like trying to finish an arcane equation in a dead language even Edwin didn’t know. He didn’t know how he felt. He didn’t even know where to start.

“Simply pick a point and start,” Edwin always said when they worked on equations together. “Whatever you cannot see will fill itself in as we go.”

It was as good advice as any, Charles figured. Pick a point and start.

“You know, I used to have a journal when I was younger,” he began. “Got it for Christmas from my Auntie Jiya. I never knew why she got it for me; everyone knows I’m a shit writer. But Auntie J said my writing didn’t have to win any prizes. It only needed to be something that made me see the world in a different way.”

“Your aunt sounds like a smart lady,” Dr. Hargrove hummed, jotting down his words. “Did you use it?”

Charles shook his head—or tried to, anyway. His bonds jingled as he did. “Not at first. I forgot about it until my teacher assigned a poetry project in year eight. It wasn’t anything special; we had to write a few poems based on the different structures. You know, haikus and sonnets and that.”

“Did you have a favorite?”

Charles snorted. “Bloody hated them all, didn’t I? My poetry was shit. But she also made us do freewriting at the beginning of every class period. Putting all my thoughts on a page helped keep them straight—even if the words weren’t in a pretty order.”

“Stream-of-consciousness journaling is a proven therapeutic tool,” Dr. Hargrove commented. “Was it something you kept up with?”

“For a few months, yeah. Looking back now, it was a bit daft—writing things ‘bout my dad in a journal meant for school. My handwriting was rubbish enough that most of it wasn’t legible. But that didn’t stop my teacher from putting a few things together, did it?”

“And as a mandated reporter, she would have had to disclose her findings,” Dr. Hargrove concluded.

“Yeah. Dad was proper pissed about the whole thing, so I never wrote in a journal again. Decided to keep it all in my brain, where no one else could find it.”

Dr. Hargrove’s face went all pinched, like someone stepped on her foot. Maybe, in some roundabout way, he was making his way towards a point. 

“But now my brain is as bad as my journal, innit?” he concluded. “I can’t trust what goes on in there anymore. Not after you broke in and spilled all my secrets to the world.”

“Not to the world,” Dr. Hargrove corrected, “only to your friends. Or, as you referred to them, your family.”

“Yeah, well, that’s even worse, then, innit? Now it's not just my old teacher who knows how weak I am. It's the people I actually care about.”

“Sharing vulnerabilities with loved ones is not indicative of weakness,” Dr. Hargrove reasoned. “In fact, many would say that allowing your struggles to be seen is a sign of strength.”

“Right, sure,” Charles spat back, “but I’m not the one who decided to share them, am I?”

“But you could be." Dr. Hargrove's eyes bore into Charles's soul. “With time. Rome wasn’t built in a day, you know. It was constructed, brick by brick, over the course of centuries.”

Charles bit his tongue. Right. He'd had enough of being this bird’s captive magic 8 ball. “What exactly am I doing here, doc? Did you bring me back here to… test me? Study me? Change my perspective?”

“All of the above,” said Dr. Hargrove, placing her clipboard to the side. “You are the first of my patients to emerge from phase two. All the others either lost their minds, or dissolved at the onset of treatment. You are an exception. An anomaly. ”

Charles groaned. No one had ever called him an ‘exception’ before. He wished he could take the title and shove it down her throat.

“And you worked through your memories with such efficiency,” she went on. “Though I imagine that had a great deal to do with your support system. It will be interesting to see if that changes as you move through the next round.”

Charles’s thoughts came to a standstill. “Sorry,” he blurted. “‘Next round? What are you on about, next round?”

“Why, your next round of treatment, of course. Now that we’ve catalogued round one, we can begin the implementation of round two.”

Charles had to stop his jaw from falling open. “You can’t be bloody serious,” he balked. “You want me to do this again?”

“With new memories, yes,” she said impatiently. “We have a whole sixteen years to sort through together. Don’t you want to get better?”

Charles yanked at his bonds like a wild animal in a trap. “Not if this is what it takes! You’re mental. I’ll find a way to evaporate myself before I let you do this to me again!”

Dr. Hargrove put her lips to Charles’s ear. Her matted, wet hair dangled in his face. “Let me make myself very clear, Charles,” she said quietly. “If you don’t submit to further testing, then I will be forced to find a new subject. I believe we both know a certain Victorian boy that could easily take your place.”

Charles knew what she was hinting at. He fought not to react. That was exactly what she wanted; to see how this affected him. Instead, he took a breath, and said, “Edwin’s Edwardian; not Victorian.”

“A certain Edwardian boy, then,” Dr. Hargrove amended, leaning back in her seat. “Would you like for me to treat him instead? Because I can make that happen.”

Charles clamped his mouth shut. He couldn’t afford to wing a reply, this time. Whatever response he decided to give had to be considered with care.

Dr. Hargrove’s threat was a bluff; it had to be. Like she’d said, Charles was the first to make it through her ‘treatment plan’. That wasn’t an accomplishment she’d just throw away. Starting over with a brand new spirit was a professional risk, at best.

Unfortunately, she was also right. Edwin did fit her parameters as a possible replacement. He’d always told Charles that his life hadn’t been so bad, even though it ended with a demonic sacrifice. A person's life didn't end that way if everything was sunshine and roses.

Another memory floated by—this time of Edwin, holding his hand outside a posh West End theater.

“My mother was often occupied by social events for days at a time,” Edwin explained, “and my father was far too absorbed in his work to pay me much mind. A day spent in the company of others was quite the special occasion.”

Charles stopped pulling on the theater doors. “Your mum just… left you home?”

Edwin nodded clinically. “With nannies and nurses and such, but yes. My mother had apparently been quite the gem of polite society before she married my father; I suppose being shackled to a small child did not suit her reputation as a wealthy socialite.”

Which was a lot of big words at once. Charles tried to put their meaning together, but his brain kept coming up short.

“What’s all that mean, then?” he asked, giving up.

Edwin pushed his fists together—a nervous habit that Charles knew well. “In short, my existence caused irreparable damage to my mother’s preferred lifestyle,” he admitted. “She was content to pretend that I did not exist, and I’m afraid my father was quite the same way.”

Charles envisioned a bumbling baby Edwin sobbing in his parents’ house— The Secret Garden in one hand, comfort blanket in the other. Being ignored by parents was a whole different kind of pain; one that Charles knew, though not as well as Edwin. There’s no way he wanted to risk Edwin reliving that. Not even in the face of a bluff. 

So, like a dog rolling over in submission, he conceded. “Alright. I’ll do it. But you have to promise me one thing.”

Dr. Hargrove rolled up her sleeves. The skin underneath was sickly with decay. “My agreement depends on what that ‘thing’ is.”

“Make sure I make it back to my mates, yeah?” Charles requested. “They’ll be worried about me, and—” he paused, gulping down his pride. “I don’t think I can go at this alone. I need their help.”

The electric twinkle in the doctor’s eyes grew brighter. “Now, that is an admirable amount of growth,” she mused. “Wouldn’t you say, dear?”

Charles didn’t offer a response. Dr. Hargrove didn’t seem to expect one. “Now, hold still. This will only hurt if you refuse to cooperate.”

As if Charles had a choice. His bonds pinned him to the table like a frog on a dissection tray. Even if he screamed, no one would hear him. This basement was his tomb; and Dr. Hargrove, his keeper. 

What memories would she pick for round two, Charles wondered? The first day he got locked in a cupboard seemed likely. That’d been his spot when he was small enough to fit. His dad always said it would ‘teach him a lesson’—though all Charles learned was to hate small spaces.

Or maybe the night he’d lost his keys before New Years? His dad had refused to let him in. If it weren’t for his mum, he would’ve spent all night out there—and probably frozen to death in the process. 

Then there were the moments that Charles hardly remembered. Like the night he met James. He knew they’d happened—he had scars to prove it—but they never felt like they’d happened to him. Dr. Hargrove’s treatment didn’t help that feeling. If anything, it made it worse.

But that didn’t matter; Charles didn’t matter. He had to do this, for Edwin’s sake.

Dr. Hargrove placed a jagged finger on his forehead. “Alright, dear,” she announced. “As I’ve said before: you will emerge from this process an improved soul. All this pain is for your own good.”

Charles gritted his teeth. “Yeah, sure; heard that one before. Just get on with it.”

A wave of sizzling pain burned through his skull. If he had any organs, they’d be seared to a charcoal. Charles opened his mouth to yell, but nothing came out. No screams, no pleas, no sobs—just silence. A memory of Edwin came to mind to bid him a final goodbye.

“Your place is by my side, and mine is by yours,” it said. “That has not, and will not, ever change.”

God, Charles wished that were true. What he wouldn’t give to be safe in Edwin’s arms now.

Edwin’s face faded as Charles’s memories began to melt. A blue light surged with the force of the sun. Every part of his spectral body went numb, and—

A heavy bump sounded upstairs. Dr. Hargrove jolted away, and the blue light fizzled out. After a moment, a second crash sounded—this time much louder than the first.

Dr. Hargrove rose from her seat. “For Pete’s sake!” she complained. “The vandals in this county are incorrigible. Why must I have trespassers at the worst possible time?” 

Charles tried to stuff down sob—half relieved, half in terror. Those weren’t vandals. Those were his mates. They’d found him just in time. Which meant it was only a matter of minutes before Dr. Hargrove found them, too.

“I’ll be back shortly,” the doctor said as she limped towards the exit. The basement door shimmered as she yanked it open. A sign of cloaking magic; invisible and impassible. It must have been how she’d hidden him last time. “Please stay put while I’m gone.”

“Wait!” Charles blurted. If his mates were here, they likely had a plan. He could still help by buying them more time. “Couldn’t you stay? I think the whole ‘talking ‘bout my feelings’ bit was helping.”

Dr. Hargrove paused, halfway out the door. The magic in her eyes dulled to sapphire embers. “How so?” she asked.

Charles swallowed, throat dry. “I mean, we were making good headway, yeah? With all that stuff about my dad, and trusting my ‘new’ family. Why not see what else we can dig up?”

Another thump came from outside. Charles tensed, expecting to see one of his mates in the doorway, but there was no one. Thank Christ. He’d rather be alone than trapped with one of them for company.

Dr. Hargrove watched him like a vulture tracking prey. “Oh,” she crooned, voice sickly sweet—like cough syrup, or rotting fruit. “Oh, you’re very clever, Charles. Did you honestly think I wouldn’t notice you trying to keep me occupied? The racket must be coming from your little friends upstairs.”

Fuck. Charles thought he’d been more convincing than that.

“I don’t know who’s upstairs,” he said. His hands trembled as he spoke, making the chains jingle. He tried to keep them steady. “Just wanna get better, don’t I?”

Dr. Hargrove clicked her tongue. “Nice try, dear, but you forget: I’ve been in your mind. I know what it looks like when you’re lying.”

“I’m not lying.” And stop calling me ‘dear’, he wanted to say. Only Edwin got to call him that. “My mates don’t know where I am. You stole me from them, remember?”

Dr. Hargrove scoffed, primed to volley an argument, when the door’s cloaking magic flickered and disappeared. Another crash came on its heels; a distant symphony of shattering glass.

The doctor whipped around to face the hallway. So much for buying Edwin more time. “Bloody teenagers!” she screeched. “Such untrustworthy little heathens! And after everything I’ve done to help you!”

Charles struggled with his bonds again, hoping they might give. No dice. Obviously. “I don’t want your help! I just wanna go home!”

“Well, you can’t,” Dr. Hargrove snarled. “And if your intention is to escape, then perhaps we ought to bring in a secondary subject, after all. ”

Panic tore through Charles’s sternum. “No!” he cried. “Leave Edwin out of this. I’ll do what you want. I swear!”

Dr. Hargrove stepped through the doorway, ignoring his pleas. “Actions have consequences, Charles. It would do you well to remember that. Now, be a good lad and stay here while I retrieve your partner. It’s usually best to test in pairs anyway.”

“No no no, wait—!”

The door slammed shut behind her.

Charles struggled to breathe. He had to get out. He had to warn them! But there was nothing he could do. He was trapped; useless. Claustrophobia clawed at his chest; pressure pooled behind his eyes; panicked adrenaline built, and built, and built, until it had nowhere left to go.

When the pressure finally peaked, Charles didn’t flood with tears. He didn’t explode with anger. He didn’t even call for help. The only sound that erupted from his lips was a base, instinctual cry. 

“Edwin!”

Chapter Text

Can I be free as a bluebird
In the open sky I'll fly high
To be free from my fears is the only wish I have

Ungrateful Little Heathens

Dr. Hargrove’s office was quiet and empty when Edwin peeked through the mirror portal. The desk chair was pulled out, pressed against the wall behind, and the storeroom was uncovered, as if she’d only stepped out for a moment.

Still mid-stride, stepping fully through the mirror, Edwin thrust his arm into the bag-of-tricks. Niko’s hand clasped his, and he pulled her out with ease. Crystal, gripping Niko’s other hand, tumbled out with a groan. Charles would’ve compared them to a barrel of monkeys, were he present: hands clasped, hoisting each other out of his rucksack. Edwin was sure of it.

In the eerie light, Crystal looked terrible: sweaty brow; flushed cheeks; twisted, hunched-over posture. She resembled a victim of cholera, moments away from vomiting. 

Edwin wrinkled his nose. Why did the living have to be so messy?  

Niko, at least, appeared unaffected, and she pulled Crystal’s hair out of her face. “So, what next?” she asked Edwin. “Should we go look for Charles? Or do we need more information first?”

An excellent question. Edwin retrieved his journal and flipped through the pages. They’d researched Dr. Hargrove’s history and decoded her runes, which meant their only unfollowed lead was her supposed ‘supplemental guide’: the crux of her unfinished business.

“The doctor's treatment guide is still here somewhere,” Edwin said, snapping his notebook shut. “Given how poorly our last confrontation went, we ought to seek it out. Having it on hand will give us both information and leverage.”

“Own the work, own the witch,” Crystal muttered, then dry-heaved.

Edwin took a step back. “Precisely.”

And so the hunt was on. Niko assigned herself to the back storage room, while Edwin rummaged through the doctor’s pristine desk. Inside he found magazines, research awards, organized pen cups, in and out-going files—but no treatment guide. Crystal joined him once her nausea passed, rifling through the office’s crystal-laden shelves and oak-brown side tables

A modern, angular clock on the wall ticked noisily. Two minutes went by, then three, then five, until each agonizing second was another stab in Edwin’s gut. This was taking too long. If they wanted to keep the element of surprise, they couldn’t search forever—not to mention that Charles was waiting, and probably suffering, in the process. 

Edwin strode away from the desk, sidling up beside Crystal. In her hands were a number of unanchored wall frames, each one holding what looked like academic memorabilia.

“Any luck?” he asked her, for what felt like the fifth time.

“Nope,” she said. “Found this, though.” She brandished a large white frame, which held Dr. Hargrove’s diploma. “How do you think she got it? Forged it? Won it in a box of Crackerjacks, maybe?”

Edwin paced back across the room and eyed the walls; no hands peeked out yet, but it was only a matter of time. “Focus, Crystal. We do not have time for dallying.” 

“Yeah, yeah, alright, sorry.” She raised her tsavorite-knuckled fist to the frame, primed to smash its face.

“Crystal!” Edwin hissed. She paused, arm held aloft. “What are you doing?”

She blinked. “Uh… breaking shit?” she said. “Y’know, smashing glass, ripping up paperwork, generally wrecking her stuff? It won’t take any extra time, I swear.”

Edwin opened his mouth to retort, then snapped it shut. The room, with its bland matching furniture and neatly-folded kaftans, gave the impression that it belonged to someone reasonable. Someone sane. Someone that hadn’t kidnapped and tortured his best friend, twice .

“Fine. If you’d like to make a mess, then you have my blessing.” He took the framed diploma from her hands. “So long as you do so quietly.”

Crystal put her hands up in surrender, then picked up a nearby psychology magazine. “Yeah, okay,” she said, tearing off the cover. “No breaking loud shit. Got it.”

The sound of ripping paper faded as Edwin ventured into the storeroom, carefully discarding the diploma face-down on a dusty shelf. Patient journals covered the floor, strewn in a messy circle, as smoke curled from a candle placed too close to their pages. Amongst it all sat Niko, rocking on her knees. Between her white hair and somber expression, Edwin might have mistaken her for a ghost.

“The guide isn’t here,” she told him. “I looked through all the shelves. Do you think Dr. Hargrove could’ve hidden it somewhere else?”

“It’s possible,” Edwin said, furrowing his brow. The guide was Dr. Hargrove’s unfinished business, the heart of her operation. Leaving it on a bookshelf, ripe for the taking, would be poor practice. Hearts, more than anything, deserved a proper ribcage.

Edwin tapped his foot, allowing it to become tangible. The floorboard squeaked under his boot. 

Hm. 

Dr. Hargrove was a dramatic enough woman. Perhaps she had taken the literary route and hidden her work beneath their feet.

Edwin dropped to his knees and started knocking on the wooden slats. “We should search for a hiding spot,” he told Niko, who slid over to join him. “Look for echoes, crooked nails, gaps in the boards, that sort of thing.”

He searched for slats that seemed bowed or creaky, which yielded nothing out of the ordinary, while Niko focused on boards that looked like maple rather than oak. She tapped on the first, which sounded normal. When she knocked on the second, a hollow echo replied.

Edwin sat up straight and whipped his head around; Niko looked up at him and nodded sharply, solemn but determined. “Here,” she told him, tapping the board beside her left knee. “This one.”

Still on his knees, Edwin shuffled over and held out a hand expectantly. “Hammer?”

Niko reached into Charles’s bag. “One hammer, coming up.”

As Edwin pried up the nails, anxious anticipation flowed through him. Due to the doctor’s isolated nature, he and Niko would be the first to lay eyes on her treatment guide. Not an unfinished manuscript, or a list of senseless equations—an honest-to-God instruction manual. The mere idea of holding it in his hands… a rush of adrenaline surged through him.

It did, however, put forth a moral conundrum. The guide was a dangerous piece of research, and once they had it, it would be their responsibility.

What were they to do once all of this was over?

They could bury it. Rip it up. Use its pages as kindling. 

Or…

They could study it.  

The thought popped up like an unwelcome fly buzzing in his ear. The doctor’s methods were barbaric beyond a doubt, but they were based on psychiatric research. What if, in the correct hands, they could be groundbreaking?

Edwin swatted the idea away. Charles had suffered—really, truly suffered—at the expense of arcane development. Nothing was worth that level of pain. Not even if it was for the benefit of all.

The last nail popped out, and Edwin pulled up the slat. He and Niko leaned over the opening together, peering at its contents.

Inside was their quarry: a small, wooden box with silver fixtures and a bird carved into its lid. Edwin reached into the alcove and lifted the box out. Its tangible weight and smooth wood meant magic of some sort—protective, if he had to guess.

Then, below the lid, attached to its latch, was a combination lock. Four dials, four letters, one answer. They could pick it open, but that felt risky. No telling what would happen if they failed. Opening it the old fashioned way seemed the safest option—even if it wasn’t the quickest.

Edwin toyed with the lock. 

Click, click, click, click. 

Four letters. He could solve four letters. The doctor’s initials, perhaps? No, that would be three. The name of a patient? Possible—except Dr. Hargrove seemed to hate all her patients. Maybe a colleague? Or a family member?

“Can I try?”

Edwin flinched, startled, and Niko blinked at him. Christ, he was unsteady. Without Charles at his side, he felt like a ship without an anchor.

“By all means,” he said, handing her the box. “Did you find any clues during your search? Perhaps a patient she was particularly close with?”

“No.” Niko twisted four letters into place. “I have another idea, though.” She pulled away, allowing him to look.

B-I-R-D. 

Edwin bit back a huff. There was no need to be rude—even if her idea was a waste of time. “An interesting thought, Niko, but Dr. Hargrove is a highly skilled arcanist. I doubt that she would choose a code that is so easy to—”

Click. The lock came free and fell to the floor.

Edwin’s jaw dropped. Bird? Really? Any admiration he held for the doctor’s intellect dissolved. Every time he thought her smart, she simply had to prove him wrong.

Inside the box, as suspected, was the guidebook they’d been looking for. It was of similar size to Edwin’s journal, its black leather cover embossed with the title Trauma and Tribulations: A Supplemental Guide .

Niko passed the book to Edwin, who tapped his fingers rhythmically on the cover before turning to the first page. 

The oldest entries read like an instruction manual: simple but informative, with additional descriptions that were easy to follow.

Then her writing changed, right around the time of her first ghostnappings. The wording went from academic to grandiose, as if her patients’ well-being had taken a backseat to her ego.The pages oozed so much hubris that Edwin had to wonder which crime Hell would charge her with: the violence of her actions, or the pride required to commit them.

Edwin snapped the guide shut, teeth clenched. So, she was egotistical. Lovely. He’d hoped to find more helpful information, for all the time their search had taken—but having the item on hand was an upside regardless.

“So, what happened to her?” Niko asked. “I know she wasn’t ever a good doctor, but how did she turn into…” she gestured to the guide. “That?”

“I couldn’t say,” Edwin said, climbing to his feet. “I am not a psychiatrist. What I can say, however, is that unfinished business is no small thing. Charles and I were able to move on after death because we started a new afterlife together. Our unfinished business lies in current goals; ones we created for ourselves. Souls that linger on past desires—ones left over from life—tend to deteriorate.”

Niko toyed with the drawstring hanging from her sweater. “So, she’s… losing her mind because of her past? Isn’t that exactly what she’s trying to stop other spirits from doing?”

“I suppose it is,” Edwin agreed. “Hypocrites can make some of the most dangerous foes, I find.”

Niko worried her bottom lip. Then, quite suddenly, she stood up. “Okay, stay here. I’m gonna go find Charles.”

Edwin furrowed his brow. “What?” he asked, startled. Stay here? Why would he stay here? “What are you—”

But Niko was out of the storeroom before he could finish. Edwin stuffed the journal, along with its little box, into his inner jacket pocket. If Charles were here, he would’ve handed it off. With all the items in his clothes, he was beginning to feel like a pack mule.

“Niko, wait!” he called after her. “You shouldn’t be going anywhere alone!”

She bulldozed past the office desk, hoisting Charles’s bag-of-tricks off of the floor. “If I shouldn’t be alone, then Charles shouldn’t be, either!” she said. “Especially if he’s alone with Dr. Hargrove.”

Edwin squeezed his fingers hard enough to cut off circulation—or it would cut off circulation, if he had any. It wasn’t as if he enjoyed the idea of Charles alone, terrified, either. They just… needed a plan, first.

Crystal—who had been in the middle of drawing inappropriate images on written reports—jumped into Niko’s path. “Woah, woah, woah,” she said, grabbing Niko’s shoulders. “Hold on a sec. We will find Charles, but Edwin’s right. You shouldn’t be wandering this place by yourself.”

Niko whined, shaking herself out of Crystal’s iron grip.

Edwin’s heart ached. He should never have put Niko in charge of the patient journals. Granted, she’d volunteered, but he should have said no. She was too empathetic for her own good. It was part of what made her such an admirable person.

And such a determined person, apparently.

“You brought me here to help, right?” Niko asked, spinning to face Edwin. He nodded. “Then let me! I’m no use to you up here. I can’t fight, or do magic, but I have gotten better at sneaking around. I can go find Charles by myself, and once I do—” she held up the sachet containing the Eyes of Malebolge— “I’ll come back and use these, just like you said. Dr. Hargrove won’t even know what hit her.”

Edwin frowned, absently rubbing his arm. Bringing Niko along to subdue Dr. Hargrove was already a risk—a necessary risk, but a risk all the same—and now she wanted to go off on her own? In an evil doctor’s mansion? The idea went against every stance he and Crystal had on her safety. 

Except… she wouldn’t be on her own. Not the entire time, at least. Once she rescued Charles, they would be together—and there was no one Edwin trusted to watch her back more.

Crystal gaped at Edwin over Niko’s shoulder. “You aren’t seriously considering this, are you?” she asked. When he didn’t answer, she let out a bitter sound—something halfway between a scoff and a laugh. “Edwin, come on. This is fucking crazy!”

Edwin exhaled slowly. As much as he agreed with Crystal, Niko was right. If their goal was to find Charles fast without losing the element of surprise, then splitting up was their best option.

“I agree with Niko,” he said to Crystal, speaking around the lump in his throat. “You and I can keep the doctor distracted while Niko makes her way to the basement. Without us, she has a better chance of finding Charles undetected.”

Crystal’s jaw dropped. “What?” she spluttered. Her boots thumped on the ugly green rug as she marched around Niko and stood toe-to-toe with Edwin. “No, you can’t just decide that! What if she gets caught? What if she gets killed? That’s so goddamn stupid, how could you even—”

Niko reached out and took Crystal’s hand, pulling her to a stop. Crystal fell silent.

Edwin clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to stalk out of the office himself. Once again, he felt as if he were intruding on a private moment—one he hoped wouldn’t last long. They needed to get a bloody move on.

Niko took Crystal’s hand in both of hers, rubbing circles into her palm. “Trust me, okay?” she asked quietly. “I can do this. I know I can. I just need you to believe that I can, too.”

Crystal opened her mouth to argue, but Niko shook her head. “Please?” she asked. “Just this once?”

Slumping down, Crystal gave a weak nod. “At least keep a weapon on you, then,” she said, throat bobbing. “Iron, magic—anything that’ll work against ghosts. It’s better than nothing, even if fighting isn’t your bag.”

Niko bounced on the balls of her feet, seemingly deep in thought, before reaching into the bag-of-tricks. From within, she pulled out a very familiar-looking cricket bat. Dark grain, new grip, cracks so well repaired they were barely visible. Charles had even added enchantments since Port Townsend—ones to strengthen the wood—and they gleamed under the lights like fresh varnish. 

“Will this work?” she asked them both.

“Yes,” Edwin said, eyes trained on the bat. The mere sight of it soothed his nerves. “That will work wonderfully.”

“And don’t forget,” Crystal added, “no—”

“—playing the hero,” Niko finished. “I know, don’t worry. I’ll keep my head down and let Charles do the fighting.”

Niko gave Crystal’s hand a squeeze, before reaching for Edwin to do the same. Then, after looking back at them over her shoulder one last time, she ventured out into the upstairs hallway. As she disappeared down the staircase’s dark maw, Edwin’s stomach clenched. How many more friends would he lose to the bowels of this accursed house?

“What now?” asked Crystal, hands stuffed in her overall pockets. She sounded unmoored, like a ship without an anchor.

Edwin could relate. He looked around the office for a suitable diversion.

Ah, perfect.

He retrieved Dr. Hargrove’s framed diploma and handed it to her. “Now, we distract,” he said. “I have a spell I’d like to cast. Would you care to drum up some noise in the meantime?”

Crystal’s lips twitched into something approaching a grin. “Are you giving me permission to go all rage room on this bitch?”

“I am. And, please: feel free to be as loud as you like.”

Which, Edwin discovered, was very loud. Crystal was quite the bull in a china shop. Picture frames, glass trinkets, coffee mugs—nothing was safe. In a mere few minutes, she'd reduced the entire office to piles of rubble and glass.

Meanwhile, Edwin focused on his own method of distraction. During their first visit to the Hargrove mansion, they’d all been aware of a hidden basement. But due to cloaking magic, they hadn’t been able to find it.

Not until Dr. Hargrove wanted them to, anyway.

Now, Edwin had a plan. He had a spell memorized—one created for dispelling magic—that was a bit lengthy, but easy enough to cast. With luck, it would reach the basement and reveal the door to Niko.

Edwin sat on the floor and closed his eyes. One wrong word would mean having to start over, so he needed to focus. It took a moment to drown out Crystal’s ruckus, but once he did, the Latin spilled from his lips with ease. His lips went faster, and faster, driving towards the speed of an auction chant, until—

“ Psst .”

Edwin snapped from his trance, eyelids fluttering. Being pulled from a spell was never pleasant. Even as a ghost, it gave him vertigo. “Hm?”

Crystal waved to get his attention. “You done casting?”

His lips buzzed with energy, and a pleasant exhaustion bloomed in his core as the world’s spinning faded: both sure signs of a spell taking root. “I am,” he said, rising to his feet. “The spell should activate soon, if it has not already.”

Crystal leaned her ear against the wall. “Then come listen to this. I think I heard something.”

Edwin obligingly sidled up beside her. At first, he heard nothing. Then, a slam—likely a door—followed by a faint, desperate cry. Not from the next room over, but from somewhere down below.

The basement.

“Edwin!”

Edwin pressed himself so hard to the wall that he almost went through it.

Charles.

All at once, he was grateful for Niko’s brilliant logic. The thought of Charles alone in yet another basement was beyond heartbreaking. Crystal reached down and gripped his hand. For once, Edwin gripped back. 

As they stood together, listening helplessly, Edwin allowed himself a glance around the room. Everything seemed the same: calm, quiet, still, dull.

Until something shifted in his periphery. Its body looked like a spider, at first. Darkened flesh; thick abdomen; long, spindly legs.

But it wasn’t a spider. It was a hand. A rotting purple hand with jagged nails crawling out of the wall, exactly like the one that had taken Charles.

Edwin froze. Even as he stood stock-still, he knew he should move. He wished he could blame his hesitation on magic—a basilisk's gaze, or a paralyzing hex—but it was cowardice, plain and simple. There was a reason Charles often pushed him through altercations. Without his shepherd, Edwin was stuck.

Luckily, though, he still had Crystal.

“Hey!” she yelled, giving him a shove. He stumbled aside, just out of grasp. The hand, now lacking its target, reached for Crystal instead. It tangled in her curls, and pulled. Hard.

Back when Charles had just died, medical textbooks had been Edwin’s reading material of choice. He’d wanted to understand if there was anything he could have done to save his new friend. Could he have warmed his hypothermia, if he’d had more information? Or stopped his internal bleeding?

The resounding answer had been no. 

As Crystal’s head slammed facefirst into the wall, pages of those textbooks flashed through his mind. Concussions. Brain bleeds. Traumatic head wounds. All dangerous, even with modern medicine—and especially when inflicted by violence.

The doctor yanked her hair again, and Crystal shrieked like an abused cat mewling for help. Edwin reached out, but what could he do? He had no weapons. He was no fighter. What could possibly give him the upper hand?

Then, he remembered. The guide.

Edwin reached into his jacket and pulled out the guide. “Let her go,” he said, holding the booklet up to the wall, “or I swear, I will destroy this.”

The hand paused its assault. It lingered for a moment, still clutching Crystal’s hair, before finally receding into the wall. Edwin rushed to Crystal’s side, anatomical diagrams flashing behind his eyes as he shoved the guidebook back in his jacket.

“Let me see,” he demanded. 

For once, Crystal didn’t argue. She slumped placidly as he checked her temples and forehead, looking for signs of scrapes or bleeding. Thankfully, there was none. A little bruising, but no blood.

“Headache?” He checked her pupils, which seemed the right size. “Dizziness? Nausea?”

Crystal shook her head, then winced. “Only what’s left over from the bag-of-tricks.”

Edwin nodded, half-listening. He’d have to reassess her for damage later. She seemed unaffected now, but that could change. Head injuries were tricky.

Crystal batted his hands away. “Really, Edwin, I’m good. If anything’s hurt, it's my ego. Just focus on the plan.”

A bitter laugh echoed from the walls. “The plan?” a voice taunted. “You meddling children are making plans now?”

Edwin bit back a jab. For an adult woman who hated teenagers, Dr. Hargrove certainly behaved like one. Stooping to her level would be all too easy.

Fortunately, Edwin had more self control than that.

“We have no interest in quarreling with you,” he said as cordially as he could. “We have something you want; you have someone we want. Show yourself so we can negotiate.”

A groan permeated the office. “Ugh. Fine.” And with all the grace of an undead corpse, Dr. Hargrove stepped through the wall. Sodden clothes hung from her frame, complimented by a lank mass of dripping, half-frozen hair. Her skin was bloated to the point of strain, as if her insides were ripe with putrifaction.

Edwin wrinkled his nose. Her state of decay was quite odd, all told. Dr. Hargrove seemed to be decomposing, which was not common for ghosts—even ones stuck in their death forms. She rolled her neck, as if to crack the joints. 

“You two again,” she sneered. “Edwin and… Crystal, was it? Quite brave of you to come back. Especially after I was kind enough to send a warning.”

The note she’d sent—back when Charles was still seven, crying and exhausted—flashed through Edwin’s mind: “If you set foot in my home again, you will not leave.” 

As if she’d given him a bloody choice.

“Not that I’m complaining,” she went on. “The more the merrier, I always say. There’s ample space for everyone in this house.”

Edwin stuffed down the litany of insults burning on his tongue. In the case of egotistical maniacs, flattery was a better place to start. “You are powerful,” he assented, re-brandishing the booklet. “We know this. That is why we only wish to trade your guide for Charles’s safety, and be on our way.”

Ingesting the lie easily, Dr. Hargrove stood up straighter—prouder, if that was possible. “Charles is safe,” she said. “He’s... resting.”

Edwin held back a scoff. Resting. Right. As if Charles would ever find peace in a basement.

The doctor held out a hand. “Don’t believe me?” she asked. “Come see him for yourself. I can walk you through my work as we go. You would make an excellent pupil, I’m certain.”

Her saccharine voice reminded Edwin of benzene: a toxic chemical that had been used quite liberally when he was alive. According to reports, its scent had been bitter, though in his memories, it had always smelled like cherries. 

That was Dr. Hargrove: poison masked with sweetness, luring him in with empty compliments. Rage boiled in his chest; his fingers dug into the guide as if that were enough to set it aflame. Edwin wanted to immolate the guide, if only to prove a point.

What would that solve, though? Aside from making her upset?

Destruction could come later. For now, distraction was the goal, and flattery was not the only tool that Edwin had on his toolbelt.

“Thank you for the offer,” he said, tucking the guide into his jacket, “but I doubt I will need a teacher to study your findings. Your instructions are quite easy to decipher. Isn’t that right, Crystal?”

A beat of silence passed before Crystal caught on. “Oh yeah,” she rushed out. “Totally. Pretty sure memorizing my times tables was harder.”

Dr. Hargrove scoffed. “ Excuse me—” 

Edwin turned towards Crystal, boxing the doctor out. “I would have to agree. Translating Latin is infinitely more difficult than deciphering this drivel.”

“Yeah no, for sure. The whole thing is so… what’s that word you use, sometimes? ‘Stupid’? ‘Silly?’”

“Slipshod?”

Crystal snapped. “Yeah! Slipshod. That’s the one.”

“My work is not ‘slipshod’,” Dr. Hargrove hissed. “It is revolutionary. There is no possible way that a runt of a natural psychic—”

“Hey!” Crystal protested.

“—and a cheeky, unspecialized teenager could make sense of such high level arcana. You two are lying.”

Edwin glanced at Crystal, who shrugged. “Are we?” he asked. “Or are you simpleminded? Because we did manage to find your guide quite easily. Perhaps you ought to have picked a better passcode.”

“Or hidden it better,” muttered Crystal. “Like, seriously? You put that shit under a floorboard? What is this, Scooby Doo? ”

Edwin tsked disapprovingly. “As I said. Simpleminded.”

That, it seemed, was the last straw. “You ungrateful little heathens,” Dr. Hargrove snapped. She waved her hands in a clockwise pattern—arcane motions that Edwin didn’t recognize. “I help your friend heal, and this is the thanks I get?”

Edwin opened his mouth to reply, but Crystal beat him to it. “Forcing Charles to relive his shitty past isn't healing. It’s torture!”

“Which can lead to healing, you brat!” said Dr. Hargrove. “After forty years of repression, your friend’s mind is practically gangrenous with traumatic memories. It needs to be aired out. And I’m sure that you both—” her eyes flicked between them— “could benefit from the same.”

Before he or Crystal could protest, a weeping puddle of blue energy spilled from her palms—the same color as her lightning. It plopped onto the floor, oozing and pulsing before undergoing mitosis, splitting from one pool into two.

Pulling Crystal’s arm, Edwin took a step back. As eccentric as the doctor was, she was still an arcane specialist. He and Crystal were meant to be a distraction until Niko returned—not worthy opponents.

One of the puddles rippled, as if disturbed from within. Then, it began to grow. And grow. And grow, until it formed a vaguely humanoid shape. No face. No clothing. Nothing but raw, unregulated magic.

Then, as if their situation couldn’t get any worse, its facade began to shift. Bright blue faded into pale, milky white skin. Familiar blonde curls sprouted from its head. Rosy, angelic cheeks rippled into view. Then it shuddered, cloaking itself in rumpled pyjamas—ones that Edwin wished he could forget. 

Crystal nudged his arm. “Who the fuck is that?”

None of your business, he wanted to snap, but held his tongue. It was a fair question; she needed to know. Dr. Hargrove was forcing him to share, just as she had with Charles.

“S–Simon.” He fumbled over the ‘S’, its phoneme sticking to his tongue. “One of my murderers. He…” Liked me. Loved me. “Despised me.”

Saying it out loud made it real. The feeling of cloth snaked around his wrists, and his throat constricted as if he were gagged. Would he ever be free of that night? Or would it continue to haunt him for the rest of eternity?

A sharp gasp cut through Edwin’s thoughts, pulling him back to the danger at hand. Crystal gripped his sleeve as a second figure solidified. Shaggy, unwashed hair. A fur coat stained with fish guts and blood. And, on its head, most offensively: a fedora, tilted at a jaunty angle.

“Shit,” Crystal said. In a rare show of support, Edwin grabbed her hand. He couldn’t feel her pulse, but he knew without question how fast it was racing. “David.” 

Both boys bared their teeth like a pair of rabid wolves; a duo of their nightmares, blocking the office door.

Suddenly, Edwin could see it. The lightning. The ramblings. The memory golems. Charles had been right all along: she was their very own Dr. Frankenstein.

“Now, Edwin,” she said with an odd, unsettling grin—all teeth, no lips. “What is it you were saying about my ‘slipshod’ work?”

Edwin tried to sling back a witticism, to say something smart, something worthwhile, but his mind went blank. Only one word came to mind, which he and Crystal uttered in unison.

“Fuck.”

One Last Pinkie Swear