Nathan blinked a few times trying to piece together his dreams but the nightmare slowly faded as if they were refusing to be remembered. It only left him with more questions.
So he just gave up thinking about it. He closed his eyes.
Just for a few seconds. Yeah
*******
Mabel woke up feeling refreshed. Uncle Nathan should be here by now, shouldn't he.
She got out of bed. As she did, her door opened and Mrs Davies walked in.
"Your uncle's here Mabel," the woman said, "He's sleeping on the bench."
Mabel smiled, "Sleeping huh."
"He came here last night but we thought it would not be appropriate to wake you up. Is your suitcase ready."
She nodded.
She then walked over to her mirror and started combing her blonde hair. Her mom had loved doing it for her, always saying she had her father's hair. But Mabel had always loved her mom's black hair and sharp blue eyes more. She'd only gotten the eyes.
Mrs. Davies, who was watching from the doorway, hesitated. "Mabel, dear… are you sure about this? Do you really want to leave with that man?"
Mabel was surprised by the directness, but her answer was a single, solid word. "Yes."
"Your mother… She told me he was comfortable. Well-off, even. But looking at him now…" Mrs. Davies trailed off, her meaning clear. The man sleeping on the bench in a cheap, smoke-smelling suit did not look "well-off." He looked lost.
Mabel put the comb down. "Mom said a lot of things about Uncle Nate. That he was flaky, and lazy, and that he had a weirdly nice house he never took care of." She met Mrs. Davies's gaze in the reflection. "But she also said that when the world was actually on fire, he was the only person you'd want at your back. She said he knew how to put fires out." She shrugged, a gesture too old for her thirteen years. "Our world's on fire. So I want him."
She then went down the stairs and found her uncle dozing off while sitting straight. She giggled. His white hair was dyed black, but apart from that he was the same. He must have dyed it black to avoid questions, she thought. He hates questions.
She walked over and patted his shoulder. His head slowly rose. As his eyes opened, they revealed that familiar gold—but they were strangely, dangerously alert. For a fractured second, it wasn't her lazy uncle looking back at her, but a primordial being who had once, perhaps idly, considered setting a universe on fire to see what colors it would make.
Then he grinned at her.
Then, before she could protest, he ruffled her freshly combed hair, making a complete mess of it, and pulled her into a hug. "Sorry, Mabes. Got hung up by something."
Mabel squirmed in his embrace, but it was half-hearted. He smelled of antiseptic and, faintly, of smoke. Underneath it all was his usual scent of old books and coffee, a comforting anchor in the strange new smells. "You always are," she mumbled into his suit jacket. She pushed back, her hands on his chest, and fixed him with a stern look that was so much like her mother's it made his own forgotten heart give a phantom twinge. "You reek of hospital," she said, her eyes narrowing. "And why is your hair black? Did you actually dye it?"
"Fashion," he said, his face deadpan, his golden eyes glinting. "It's all the rage with the lethargic and tragically injured."
She wasn't buying it. "What happened?" She poked the suspiciously clean sleeve of his suit
"It was a whole... thing," he sighed, the weariness in his voice suddenly profound and real. The memory of the rebar grating against his spine surfaced, and he dismissed it with the mental equivalent of a shove. "A very tedious thing involving structural instability and a marked lack of fire safety. I'll tell you on the way. Is that your suitcase?" He nodded towards the stairs, already looking for the fastest route back to horizontal silence.
"Uh huh. Mrs. Davies said you slept on the bench."
"It was adequate." He cast a weary glance back at the foyer. "A bit heavy on the religious iconography for my taste—felt a bit targeted, honestly—but the blanket was warm."
They collected her suitcase. Mrs. Davies was waiting by the door, her expression a complex map of concern and resignation. She handed Nathaniel a paper bag. It was warm. "Egg and cress. For the road, Mr. Alden. And Mabel... be good."
"Thank you for everything," Mabel said, and she meant it, even as she eagerly stepped across the threshold to stand beside her uncle, leaving the scent of cocoa and safety behind.
Nathaniel took the bag with a nod that was almost polite. "The blanket is in the foyer."
"I know," said Mrs. Davies. Her sharp brown eyes held him for a moment longer than was comfortable. "Mend the spirit, Mr. Alden."
Quiet, you, Nathaniel thought back. She gave me a sandwich. A warm one. That buys a significant amount of spiritual nagging.
He offered his hand to Mabel. After a slight hesitation, she took it. Her grip was surprisingly strong.
The moment they stepped onto the porch, the world fell upon them. No, it assaulted them. The city outside was fully awake now, loud and demanding. The sun was a personal insult, the cacophony of traffic a physical pressure against his skin. Nathaniel flinched inwardly from the assault of sunlight and sound. So many people, so many tasks, all happening at once. The sheer, overwhelming effort of it all. He felt the gravitational pull of the nearest bench, a siren call of stillness.
Mabel looked up at him, her blue eyes seeing too much. "So, where's your car?"
Nathaniel stared blankly at the traffic, a river of metal and impatience. "A strategic oversight."
"You don't have a car," she translated, her shoulders slumping. "Mom told me you had a cool car"
"I was impaled last night, Mabel. Cut me some slack." He took a deliberate breath, committing to the horrendous effort of forward momentum. He began walking, pulling her gently along. "We'll take a bus. Or a train. Or we'll find a friendly pigeon. We have options."
I'm fostering a sense of adventure, Nathaniel shot back. And the pigeon idea has merit. They seem like unambitious creatures. I respect that.
Mabel fell into step beside him, her small suitcase bumping against her leg. She was quiet for a long moment, watching the city pass by—the towering glass buildings that reflected a sky they couldn't quite touch, the hurried faces of people who knew exactly where they were going. Then, she squeezed his hand.
"Uncle Nate?"
"Hmm?"
"Are we going to be okay?"
Nathaniel looked down at her. At the messy blonde hair he'd ruffled, at the blue eyes filled with a hope she was trying hard to conceal. He saw the ghost of his sister in her face, and the weight of a thousand forgotten oaths on his own shoulders. He saw the burning cottage, the four interlocked circles, the disappointed face of a comrade. All of it, a colossal, divine, eternal hassle.
The easiest thing, the most slothful thing, would be to offer a comforting lie. But the look in her eyes demanded something more. It was a hassle.
He squeezed her hand back.
"It's going to be a colossal hassle," he said, with complete and utter honesty. "There will likely be more fires. And probably pigeons. And an ungodly amount of paperwork." He met her gaze. "But yes. We'll be okay."