The small note desk was uncovered, papers scattered like a map. I sat in the small chair, the dry wood creaking and settling much like I did. I pulled the cigarette, my nail burning on the dry match before pushing the smoke through my nose, though it didn’t do much to help the stuffiness.
The collection of papers on his desk looked something like a mix of invoices, transcriptions, things of a business nature. All addressed to NEW YORK, NEW YORK. I propped my elbow up and shifted through the papers with my free hand, picking up a small square of paper.
Fifth Avenue—Chimera.Scrawled across the bottom, presumably in Silas’s handwriting.
It was a small, muddied photograph of a tall corner building. It looked like it could be some sort of expensive hotel.
His handwriting scrawled across most of the documents, small notes in the corners, sometimes some mathematics in the margins. His spellings were odd, with an excessive number of vowels or strange variations of the consonants. He wasn’t illiterate, but his writing habits aged him.
I allowed myself a quiet laugh and leaned back in the chair, remembering the sharp pain in my head.
“Something funny?”
I nearly dropped my cigarette, hitting my knee under the desk when I flinched.
Silas leaned on the doorway, head tipped against the frame as he watched.
“Just looking.” I relaxed into the chair again, a bit dizzy from the fright. “You’re under my roof after all.”
“The devil loves holding idle hands.” He stalked over to the desk, glancing at the papers and then to me. “Hopefully it wasn’t my number work making you laugh.”
I shook my head and smirked. “Two hundred.”
“Pardon?” His brow creased, and he leaned over the desk to glance at the papers again for the correction.
“Two hundred years old.”
A small smirk teased as he looked over to me. “I beg again,pardon?”
“When we spoke those years ago, you spoke of a plague.” I shook my head laughing. “I assumed the first Black Death of 1300, not the Great Plague of 1665, since you never specified.”
“What of it?”
“Nothing.” I shrugged, putting out the cigarette on the ashtray. “I just thought you were older.”
“Older?” He laughed. “How old did you assume I was?”
“I don’t know, but your spelling tells me about two hundred. I was a couple hundred off.”
“You have an odd compulsion to beright. I don’t know how this information serves you.” He rolled his eyes.
“Entertainment. That is all.”
“Are you?” He tilted his head at me. “Entertained, that is?”
I shrugged, thinly veiling a laugh.
“Is this how you tell me I’m too young for you?” he joked, sitting on the edge of the desk.
“Practically a boy.” I shook my head, picking up the small square photograph. I pinched it between my fingers and held it up to him. “Is this it? Your Nest?”
He squinted and plucked it from between my fingers, “It looks less impressive on this tiny piece of paper, but yes.”
“This won’t work you know,” I exhaled, nearly a mumble. “Not if you can’t learn to roll over.”
“Roll over?” He raised a brow, tossing the photo gently onto the pile of papers. “I thought that’s what this was.” He gestured around to the abode we resided in.
“I still have a hard time believing that when this is all over, we willbe equals,” I began, standing from my seat slowly to prevent vertigo. “The more I think about it, equality is not what we need. It’s equity.”
