“Oh,” heaved the woman, her hands falling. “Oh.” She shook her head, blonde curls bobbing in time. “Forgive me,” she said.
“It was I who barged in on you. Forgiveme.” Alora didn’t know what she’d been thinking, pressing herself upon a victim like this. What sort of person was she?
“It’s no matter,” said the woman, turning away. “I’m all out of sorts these days.”
Alora stilled. “What’s that there? On your head?”
The woman lifted a hand gingerly to the space just north of her ear, where the hair had been removed, the skin red, black thread puckering the wound. “I was hurt. A few days ago. Though I don’t remember it. It’s like I—Do you know what they took?”
The woman had spun back, eyes suddenly dry and wild. She reached for Alora’s arm and missed, as Alora swung it behind her.
“Who?”
“No! What did theytake?”
Alora, realizing more than ever that some impulses shouldn't be acted upon, backed away. “Who are 'they'?”
“Stupid girl! I don’t care about them. What did they take!”
“I don’t know. How could I know if you do not?”
It was the wrong thing to say. A keening sound left the woman’s mouth then, her hand coming up to the wound on her head and wrenching. Alora cried out, grabbing ahold of her, forcing her to stop. Their fingers both came away bloodied. “Let’s bandage this.”
“They took it. Theytookit.”
“I’ll get this fixed up right as rain.” Alora exhaled through her nose, the sight of the oozing wound, one stitch pulled free, being quite grotesque. Her arm looped through the woman’s; she led them down the hall.
Alora didn't know where she was going, but the home wasn’t any larger than her own. She discovered the washroom soon enough, and plunking the woman down upon the vanity stool, set to work wetting a rag and cleaning up the mess she’d caused. She felt absolutely terrible and told the woman as much.
“Why? You didn’t do it, did you?”
“No,” said Alora. “Did you see a doctor? You must have, I suppose, to close the wound.”
“Yes, and they didn’t listen either. They stole it from me, from right here!” Again, the woman reached toward her head, though Alora intercepted her before she could cause further damage.
“From your head?” And then she didn’t need an answer any longer.
Memories. They’d stolen her memories.
“Look at it! Of course from my head. Hurts something awful, too, and what did I do to deserve it?”
“I don’t know,” said Alora, horrified. She pressed clean fabric gingerly to the wound. “What did the constable say?”
“That I’d fallen and injured myself. Is that the truth of it then? That ‘they’ is me and what I’ve lost are my senses?”
The woman’s distress wrenched at Alora; her lips parted, eyes pleading and full of trust though Alora had done nothing to earn it. So she decided to try.
“I saw shadows outside your back door, the day of your attack. Urchins were thought responsible, though I can’t say I know anything about them. But I’m told they steal memories. Perhaps that is what you feel is missing?”
The woman nodded, bungling up where Alora tried to tie a bandage in place. “Yes,” she said, on a contented sigh. “That’s it.”
***
Alora left the house in better shape than she’d found it. After fixing the woman a cold lunch, she’d tidied the sparse kitchen and neglected living space, setting tea outside on the veranda to steep. The flowers in the windows hadn’t been watered all week, so those she’d helped as well before paying her respects to her new acquaintance, Ms. Vittabean, and departing. Though the haunted look had remained in her eyes, they’d stayed dry all the while Alora was there, and Ms. Vittabean had even smiled when Alora left, bright beneath the bandage, relieved to know now what was missing even if she hadn’t a hope of finding it again.
Alora steered herself in the opposite direction of Mr. Whitters’ shop, wanting to avoid crowds for the time being, hunting instead for a newspaper. Could such attacks on Enver’s residents really go unreported? And as Ms. Vittabean questioned, what had she done to deserve it?
She circled back home, entering Prints and Papers, the printer’s shop below her flat, with a prepared smile. “Today’s newspaper, Mister Zanfold. Please and thank you.”
