Page 25 of The Devouring Time

“I wish I knew.” Despair scratches for an entrance at the edges of my mind. “Maybe I should turn myself in to the police. Let them sort this out.”

“And spend the rest of your life at hard labor, or rotting in an asylum if they believe you lost your memory?” Adrian appears horrified. “Not—not yet, all right?”

“Why not? I’m a danger to everyone around me—James is dead, you’ve been shot at.” I meet his brown eyes. “Maybe it’s better if I just accept the inevitable.”

“No.” His hand clasps my shoulder, fingers digging in slightly as though I might try to run off. “Surely you don’t want Hart to get away scot-free? I’m certain he’s at the bottom of this somehow. And what about Mr. Olden? The police will pin his death on you. The real assassin will get away.”

I find my gaze drawn to the strange dagger. “Why is it shaped like a clock hand?”

“I don’t know. But you won’t find out from inside a cell.”

I take a deep breath. Adrian is right. I need to shake off my melancholy, if not my grief. “What should we do, then?”

Adrian takes a long look at me, then glances in the direction of poor James. “Let’s go to your apartment. If nothing else, it will give us a chance to rest and regroup.”

And have a quiet breakdown covered by the sound of running bathwater. “All right.”

17

Adrian wraps the dagger in his handkerchief and tucks it into his pocket. As we walk to the front door, I’m struck by the sudden realization I might never return. This shop, the place I poured all of my time and love into, isn’t mine anymore. My closest friend is dead—died thinking badly of me, even, considering I was apparently impersonating him in letters.

“Walk quickly and with your head down,” Adrian says when we reach the door. “But don’t rush. Pretend to be deep in conversation with me.”

I do as he suggests. When the door shuts behind me, it sounds like the closing of a tomb.

We walk several blocks before hailing a taxi. It’s not until it disgorges us on the sidewalk in front of my apartment building that I relax even the smallest fraction. The familiar sights and sounds of the Village surround me: the Italian restaurant owned by the generous Mrs. Rossi, the tea shop run by an aging bohemian and her “wife,” the club that holds drag balls twice a year but whose doorstep I haven’t been brave enough to cross. The streets are relatively quiet, most of my neighbors still sleeping off Saturday night’s excesses.

For once, I’m glad I haven’t been able to bring myself to socialize with them. I don’t have to worry what relationships I might have damaged during my lost year, whose feelings I might have hurt without remembering.

I live on the fourth floor; there’s no elevator, so we have to take the stairs. I hesitate before slipping my key into the lock…then brace myself and open the door.

At first glance, the apartment looks very much like I remember it. The second-hand furniture, the clanking radiator, the tiny kitchen in clear view of the entrance. But as I enter and Adrian shuts the door behind us, I notice two things right away.

One is that a layer of dust I’d never ordinarily tolerate lies over everything, and the floor is in desperate need of a good mopping.

The second is that all of my books are gone. The shelf over my small dining table is bare, there’s no stack of novels beside my comfortable chair, not so much as a magazine or a newspaper sits on my desk.

A wave of light-headedness sweeps over me. “My—my books…”

“You should sit down,” Adrian says, looking a bit alarmed. “I’ll get you a glass of water. Or tea?”

“God only knows if there is any.” I sink into my chair and resist the urge to bury my face in my hands. “Why would I get rid of my books, Adrian?”

Adrian returns from the kitchen with a glass of water, which I gratefully sip. “I wonder,” he says slowly, “if it might be helpful to consult a psychiatrist, find out if there’s any chance of restoring your memories.”

“I’d prefer not to be locked up in a madhouse, but perhaps it’s where I belong,” I agree glumly.

“I’m not saying that at all.” He drags over the other chair and sits across from me, so we’re on a level. “Maybe a psychiatrist could hypnotize you?”

“It might be worth a try. Do you know one?”

“No, but I’m sure my employer could arrange something, if I can convince them it will cost less than paying out the insurance for the Key of Mithras. Plus I should be in their good graces after finding The Wheel of Aion painting.” He bites his lip. “Let’s keep that in reserve for the moment. Why don’t you rest for a bit? I’ll search the apartment for any leads—with your permission, of course.”

I wave a tired hand at him. “I sincerely hope you find something.”

While Adrian remains in the front room, poking around under the cushions, I retreat to the bathroom. My silk robe, a lovely shade of rose embroidered with chrysanthemums, hangs on the hook where I left it. Everything else remains as I recall.

I run my bath, climb in, and have a good cry. For James, for me, for the seemingly insurmountable problems I appear to have caused myself in an extended fit of madness.