They sit in a café on some quiet street, he sipping at tea and she merely poking at the small cake she asked him to buy for her when they arrived. At least she did away with that awful fairy costume, even if she was only temporarily opting for the stylish clothes he gave her. A floral dress, simple flats and a dark pea coat do wonders for the girl, even to the point of almost eliminating that ghastly blue tint she’s so attached to…

“You should get to eating, dear; it would be good for your mood and your figure.”

“It’s cake,” Annabelle mutters, sectioning off a small corner with her fork. “It’s not good for anything except adding more weight.”

The Organ Grinder frowns. “You’re not a dancer anymore, Annie-Bell. At least not one that needs to audition… A little cake won’t kill you.”

Annabelle makes another face at him, but eats the corner of cake anyway, swallowing it almost against her will. She can practically feel the extra ounces sticking to her insides as the piece moves into a stomach that hasn’t held anything in ages, but it makes the Grinder smile in approval.

“That’s a decent girl.”

Annabelle forces out a smile. “Decent.”

“Well simple acts of necessary violence notwithstanding…” The Organ Grinder’s smile of approval fades to allow for a businesslike sort of seriousness. “Do you have what you want now?”

“From Daniel?” She reluctantly eats another small portion of cake. “I did at first, but…I’m running into a problem.”

“How so, dear?”

“He’s starting to change.” The ballerina’s green eyes harden with anger. “He’s starting to resist me.”

“That’s always the trouble with using physical collars,” the Grinder muses.  “I keep saying you should have opted for mind control; at least that way, you wouldn’t have to spend so much time forcing him to love you.”

“I like challenges,” she says offhandedly. “Besides, if I didn’t try forcing him to love me, he’d have no guilt to keep him busy later.”

“And they say men are the crueler sex.” Sighing, the Organ Grinder rises. “Well…if things are going well for you, perhaps it’s time to begin enacting my plans.”

“What sort of plans?”

“Now, now, Annie-Bell. Surely, you know better by now than to ask that. I only share my plans with whom they do concern. As it stands…you are currently none of my concern.”

Annabelle’s little glare as she cuts away more pieces of cake amuses him. Any man built of lesser emotional constitutions--men like her little Daniel perhaps--would crumble beneath the weight of that gaze. But the Grinder merely returns her glare with the sort of smile that would make the Devil afraid.

“Enjoy your cake.”


The minute my parents let me inside the house, I waste no time in ignoring them, favoring instead to immediately retreat to my room clutching three boxes of Cadbury Crème Eggs. My mind is on other things, has been ever since Essex popped in during the between-class break with news that the fever Past woke up with yesterday took a turn for the worse. It’s not only Past who worries me, though; it’s Present, too. I can only imagine what he must have gone through, seeing Past go through what happened… Last night he was so worried that he barely slept, and this morning…this morning he looked like he was feeling a lot more than the “older-brother” pinch.

Barely ten seconds into my house and I know Present isn’t here. There’s a different feeling in the house when he is, one that I’ve gotten so used to that when he’s gone, there’s a strange sort of emptiness taking the place of his physical presence. He’s not here, but there are others. Saint Orpheia sits on the floor underneath my large new window, lost in a gentle guitar melody probably designed to make anyone within range several levels of drowsy. On the bed, Past is fast asleep, curled up with the very stuffed cow Present seems to have claimed for himself.

Mechanical engines are no harmonious accompaniment to Spanish guitar. Orpheia looks up after a few seconds and smiles. The Saint rises from the floor, leaving his red guitar to lean against the dresser. A beauty it is… I wish I knew how to play, wish I could make the kind of music Orpheia does.

“Llegaste.” He hugs me, and the faintest smell of coffee exudes from him. “¿Como fueron las clases, Leoncita?”

I sigh, smiling tiredly. Any other day, and his endearing nickname for me would cheer me even more than it does.

“Largo. ¿Y Past? ¿Como esta--?”

“Durmiendo, desde que llegué. ¿Essex te dijo lo que estaba pasando?”

“How bad is it, Orpheia? Tell me honestly.”

On the bed, Past stirs a little, but he doesn’t wake.

“The fever is not the problem,” he says softly. “As long as Saint Essex can keep the fever down, he will be fine.”

“Then it’s the nightmares?”

Orpheia draws in a breath. “I… It is difficult to say. They are not so much nightmares as…possession.”

“Possession?”

“It is difficult to say,” he repeats. “When I arrived, Past was screaming on the bed, writhing in pain, but…he was a very deep sleep.”

“And Present?”

“Present…” Orpheia frowns, looking mournful. “I found him sitting in a corner of the room. He was hysterical, Leoncita. It was quite an effort to calm him, but I could not help Past until I was certain that Present was well.”

“Figures…” I sigh. “Where is he now? I know he’s not here.”

“He said he wished to clear his mind, so I thought it best if he took a walk.”

“Great.” My eyes drift to the Ghost still sleeping on the bed. “Is it okay if I…?”

Orpheia nods, his curls shaking with the gesture, saying he’ll be outside in the living room if I need him. I hear his voice rise in friendly greeting to Saint Essex; no doubt, they’re two seconds away from breaking out the coffee and tea. Carefully I make my way to the bed. Without the music, Past’s peaceful sleep seems to be wearing off. I brush my fingers through his hair and his face scrunches up.

“Past? Past, honey…it’s me; I’m home.” He yawns a little; his eyelids flutter open, looking up with a drowsy sort of innocence that makes him so endearing. I smile a little. “Hey, kid. How’re you feeling?”

“Not… Not good,” he answers softly. “I’ve been… I haven’t felt good at all.”

“I know… Essex came to tell me.” He closes his eyes again when I rest the back of my hand against his forehead and cheeks. “Your fever’s gone down at least…”

“What are those?”

“Hm?”

“Those.” He points to the boxes in my other hand. “What’re--?”

“Oh! Oh…” I chuckle a bit. “Cadbury Crème Eggs. I figured we could both use a pick-me-up, so…I bought three boxes and four bars of Dove dark chocolate just to be safe.”

The Ghost smiles a little. Slowly he sits up, leaning against the wall to make room next to him for me on the bed. Wordlessly, he rests his head on my shoulder, letting me interlace one of my hands with his. The chocolate eggs sit on the pillow nearby; they probably won’t get eaten until later, when we’re both feeling somewhere closer to the mood of actually eating them.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?”

Past shakes his head, giving off his signature sniffle. “I don’t really remember m-much. Just being really scared…and feeling like…like I was being torn up. Kicked around… There were voices yelling things at me. Telling me things that weren’t true. It was awful. And then Orpheia…”

“Hm?”

“I dunno. It was like…he called me back. I heard the music. I heard him call my name and I… It was over. I was out of it. And Present--” Suddenly he looks around the room, startled. “Where’s Present?”

“He left.”

“Where?”

“I’m not sure. Orpheia said he went out for a walk to clear his head.”

“A-alone?” The edge of worry is in his voice. “H-how long has he been gone?”

“I’m not sure. But I bet Present can handle himself, Past.”

“Maybe. He looked so freaked out when I came out of it, before I went back to sleep… I’ve never seen him look that way before, y’know? And I’ve seen him get pretty bad.”

“I know.” I press a kiss to his forehead. “But Present will be fine, kiddo. I’m sure of it. Wandering is his thing. He’ll be back before you know it.”


“Look at you, man. You manage to last…what? A year? Almost a year… You didn’t touch a drink for practically a year, year and a half. You pu--you put up with your ex-girlfriend sta-sta--fucking…making your life hell. And the minute Past…the minute your fucking brother has a ni…has something go wrong that you can’t help him with…”

Present doesn’t finish the rest of the ramble. Instead, he knocks back his umpteenth shot of the evening and already reaches for the beer he ordered along with it. He’s not quite sure how he migrated from his usual preferred seating area in the dark corner to a seat at the bar, or when he decided to go from not drinking to getting completely shitfaced drunk, but he knows what he’s doing--even in this state. Walking aimlessly was not enough to clear his head; smoking his entire pack of cigarettes was not enough, either. Drinking, well… Drinking doesn’t exactly clear the mind as much as cloud it, but it numbs the guilt he has for doing nothing more than having a hysterical breakdown in the corner while Past thrashed about on Cris’s bed, screaming and crying in the midst of whatever nightmares he underwent.

“Cris’ll throw me out for this,” Present slurs to himself pathetically. “She’ll make me sleep on the couch…or throw me outside, like…like…”

Like Annabelle, he wants to say. But instead of bringing the memory into clear focus, he drowns it under more beer and calls for another shot. The bartender asks if there’s someone who plans to pay for his lengthening bill; Present just flashes him half a grin, the kind of grin he used to give Annabelle when he tried to hide the fact he wasn’t drunk.

“Don’t…don’t worry about it. I-I’ll… It’ll get taken care of. You’ll see. I’ll…you won’t even know…won’t even realize what--I dunno. Don’t worry about your tab, man. Just let me drink--”

So the bartender leaves him to drink, because he gets the vaguest sense that something about the young man is very off. It’s not that he will start or get involved in any fights, but a bartender working as long as he has is able to develop a good sense of the people he serves. He keeps the shots and the beer coming, and he ignores Present’s occasional self-rambles and outbursts of emotion, which occur more frequently with each drink downed, until finally the Ghost is sobbing, rambling and drinking at the same time.

“GOD! (Sniffle.) I--I should’ve helped him, y’know?” He wipes his eyes with the back of his sleeve. “I…I could’ve--I could’ve really been there for him…y’know? The…the way a b--a bro-a brother’s s-supposed to be. And I just completely fu… I fucking--I fucked it up. (Defeated, he sinks his head into his arms, sobbing.) I f-fucked it all--all--all up! I couldn’t…I coul-couldn’t--couldn’t be there. I had to go and…and-and-and-and…and have a fucking panic attack or some shit while he-he’s on th-the-the bed writhing around like…like…”

The words escape him, but he knows--as he downs another shot of Jack--that if Cris were here, she would have the perfect simile for him. She would have the perfect words; she would hug him and tell him not to worry, that things would turn out all right. But it’s better she isn’t here to see him like this. She’d probably be ashamed to be his charge.


“It’s been hours already. Where the fuck could Present be?”

Past looks up from the bed, halfway through unwrapping his second Cadbury egg. Next to him, the laptop sits open, quietly playing whatever song comes up thanks to the shuffle feature. I can hear Orpheia and Essex out in the living room--talking softly, drinking their respective drinks of coffee and tea, playing guitar… I wonder what they’re saying and if any of it is about us. It’s like listening to my parents talk in their room after something big happens. They always talk in low voices, but I can always hear them anyway. Sometimes it’s about the house, sometimes about money or even about my brother and I. Usually, it seems to be about me, about what I’ve done or am thinking about doing…

They seem to talk about me a lot lately. I guess I should be used to it.

“Didn’t he used to do that?”

“Do what?”

“Wander around for days,” Past says. “Didn’t he used to do that?”

“Well, yeah, at first. But…” I sigh, staring at the quiet suburban street outside my window. “He hasn’t done that for a long time. And if he was as distraught as Orpheia and you said he was…well… I’m just worried, Past, and I got a bad feeling. Those two don’t go together well at all.”

“What kind of feeling?”

“I dunno… I can’t explain it, really. Like…like maybe he’s gone back to what he knows.”

Past raises an eyebrow in initial confusion. It only takes a few seconds for him to latch on, and when he does, he hurries to remove the rest of the egg’s colorful foil.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” he murmurs. “Present wouldn’t… H-he knows how much that would hurt you. He wouldn’t just start--”

“It wouldn’t hurt me, Past. That’s not it. If his job is to look after me, then mine is to make sure he’s able to do that. In a sense, it’s my job to look after him. And maybe his other charges treated him like shit or just didn’t care, but I’m his charge now. I’ll be damned if I just…leave him to his devices like that, y’know?”

The Ghost nods thoughtfully. “You’re the best one he’s had so far--maybe ever. We--we’re both really lucky to have you guys, y’know? You’ve gotta believe that.”

“I do.” Despite my worries, I can’t help smiling at him. “I really do.”

“Good. Because I mean it. And if Present was here, he’d agree.”

“I know.”

“I also know that he would want me to tell you that you should sleep. Although I guess we both won’t get much sleep…” Past sighs. “I’m worried about him, too.”

As if he needs to tell me that--the day either Ghost isn’t worried about the other…the day chocolate doesn’t improve their mood… We’re doomed. I grab the second box out of the top drawer and bring it with me to bed.

“I’m not going to eat all of it,” I promise. “Just…we seem to be down to our last egg in the first box already.”

“Yeah…” He draws his eyes down to the empty foil in front of him.

“I suppose it’s too much to ask what happened? I mean this afternoon?”

Past shakes his head. “If I could remember, Cris, I would tell you. I really would.”

“I hope so.” The look in his eyes when he brings them up makes me feel bad. The idea. “I just… I don’t mean it like that. Just…”

He smiles a little. “I-I know. I know… But I mean it. If I could remember, I’d tell you. I’d feel bad about it, but I would tell you.”

“Why do you think I bought all this chocolate for, Past? Certainly not for my diet.”

I get a chuckle for my effort. And then “Ava Adore” comes on; for a while, we don’t think about anything but the song. He sings for me, even as it makes him blush terribly, and I find new reasons to love having him around. But even with the bit of relief, in the back of our minds, the same thoughts and worries persist in nagging us long after we fall asleep.


Present stumbles in late, gracelessly throwing open the bedroom door in an attempt to regain his balance. The sound of it echoes for what feels like eternity; the tiniest part of him still miraculously sober kicks at the rest of him. Only a drunken idiot would do something like this, and only an idiot would go out drinking in the first place--especially when that idiot knows that no good will come from it. He’s in the middle of whispering frustrations when he hears movement from the bed. Startled, Present looks up, barely able to discern two shapes huddled under the blankets on the bed--Cris, obviously, being one and the other perhaps being Past. It’s the old joke of the man finding his girl in bed with another man, with the other man turning out to be the first man’s brother, only…

The movement hasn’t stopped on the bed. It’s Cris, no doubt; she heard him come in. All at once, the Ghost is seized with a cold fear. If she wakes up, she’ll know he’s drunk. She’ll be upset with him. She’ll throw him out for sure. She’ll--

“Present?” Her voice is soft but carries in the silence. “Present, is that you?”

“Y-yeah. Yeah, I’m… I-I-I’m--I’m home. I… Sorry to wake you. I’m--”

“Present?”

“I’m going to--”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. No--” He scoffs softly, gripping the door handle tightly. “Nothing. I’m just--I-I’m just tired, that’s all. I’m tired and I…I-I’m gonna go--”

But he hears her throwing the blankets aside and getting out of bed; he sees her shape, silhouetted against the window, moving closer, closer, closer… The alcoholic in Present says to play off how drunk he really is. It tries to convince him that he’s nowhere near as drunk as he really feels, the way it used to when he was alive. It tries to stand him up straighter, tries to make his hand let go of the door handle, but the fear--that ever-present fear that she will see right through the whole thing--keeps him from buying into his own lies. It makes him grip the door handle tighter, keeps him leaning against the entire door and hoping beyond hope that she won’t--

“Present.”

The Ghost very nearly jumps from his skin at the sound of her voice. How did she move so quickly? He could have sworn that room was bigger…

“What’s wrong, Present? Talk to me.”

“I… Cris, I--”

“Hm?”

Lie, lie, lie, lie… The alcoholic in his head repeats the mantra to pulse-drum already beginning to beat at his temples. You can fool her; you know you can!

“You’re shaking.” She takes his free hand in hers; hers hands are warm and stable. “And you’re freezing… Where did you go?”

He bites his lower lip nervously. Instinct says to tell the truth. The alcoholic in him says to lie, but Present can’t seem to do either; try as he might, he can’t bring himself to speak at all. So he opts for the third idea--he kisses her, finally releasing the door handle to cradle his charge’s face in his hands. He kisses her, knowing that she can probably taste the alcohol on his lips, knowing that after this she’ll know for certain that he’s drunk and that he deserves whatever she does. Whether it’s to yell at him or throw him out or even, by some miracle, care for him…

The fist quiet sob is what breaks the kiss. Present stays leaned in close, trying to catch his mouth on hers again. If he can just do that, the rest of the world doesn’t matter. But the crying…the tears… They get in the way. They give him away.

“You’ve been drinking,” she murmurs. “You’re drunk, aren’t you?”

Present breaks down completely. Barely able to stay on his feet, he finally gives up altogether, collapsing to his knees while sobbing confessions and apologies.

“I-- If-if I…h-had-had just stayed--”

“Shhh.” She runs her fingers through his hair. “Hush, now. You’ll wake Past.”

“P-Pas--Past?” He forces his eyes towards the bed. “H-how is he?”

“He’s fine. Sleeping.” Cris sighs. “I don’t think he remembers much.”

“Th-thank God…”

She nods, tugging at him. “Come on.”

“Wh-where?” He sniffles, trembling as the fear returns. “Where are we--?”

“The bathroom. Just…just wait in there while I get you some clothes, okay?”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I-I-I shouldn’t--I shouldn’t have--”

“Present, just don’t worry about it right now, okay? Just go wait in the bathroom.”

Her tone with him is firm--any hint of sleep long gone--but underneath the firmness he can pick up a tone of…relief, almost. Cris is just relieved to have him home instead of out where God only knows what could happen to him. Somehow, that makes Present’s guilt all the worse, but he does what she tells him. He finds strength to rise; he goes into the bathroom and slumps down onto the lid of the toilet seat, weak. He’s sobbing so hard now that he doesn’t hear his charge come in, doesn’t hear her close the door or turn on the ventilator fan to muffle the sound of his tears. No doubt, she’s doing it to keep Past and any others asleep. Bad enough that he comes home to her drunk; if Past wakes up and sees him like this… If the Saints see him like this…

“I-I failed--I failed. I-I’m so-sor-sorry. I sh… Oh God, I-I f… I fucked up. I--I f-f-fucked up s-so bad, Cris…”

“You didn’t fail, Present.”

“I--I did! I-I shouldn’t be doing this--”

“Shh…”

She tilts his face up to hers, catching his tears. Present wants to tell her to stop, to leave him alone and go back to sleep, but he doesn’t resist when she pulls him into her arms. He spends a good few minutes just sobbing apologies into her shoulder, clinging to her and letting her tend to him like it’s something she has to do when she doesn’t. Cris doesn’t have to do anything for him; it’s his job to look after her. But for some reason she looks out for him, anyway--worries about him, even--leaving Present to wonder for the millionth time how his luck worked out so well.

“There, now. There. You done yet?” The writer pulls him far enough away to look him in the face. “Any more crying and I’ll have to get the mop.”

Present smiles weakly. “I…I think so.”

“Good. What are the chances you have enough strength to climb out of your clothes and into the bathtub?”

“My…my clothes?”

“Not a lot, I guess…” The writer sighs and runs a hand over her face and through her hair. It’s not an urge to teach him a lesson but instinct that guides her. “Okay. Okay, I can… I guess I should just…”

With another sigh, she sets about to following instinct. Present doesn’t say a word. He just watches her unzip the army jacket he borrowed from Past, moving arms that feel like lead to help her get it completely off. He tenses a little when she starts on the buttons of his shirt, the idea of being exposed causing him to tremble again. It sets him thinking fleetingly of Annabelle, of a night in January when he came home so drunk he could barely see.

(“Ann! Ann…come on, baby; this…this isn’t funny!”

“Neither is you coming home fucking drunk, Danny.”

“It’s fucking COLD, Ann. Le--let me back in. P-p…please, Ann. I-I’m f-f-fucking f-freezing my ass off out here.”

“You should have thought of that before you broke your promise!”

“Ann--”)

“Ann…”

“Hm?”

“Ann, let me--”

“Present?”

“Let me in; let me… I’m f-freezing out here, Ann. It’s--it’s fucking cold…”

“Present. Annabelle’s not here. You’re not outside.”

The Ghost blinks at the sound of the Cris’s voice. New guilt comes over his face the moment he realizes what he’s said out loud. Her fingers are undoing the final three buttons of his shirt but her eyes are focused completely on his face. Any other girl would have probably tried to get all over him and he probably would have gone along with it, the way he used to when he was alive, because it felt good--felt better, really, than his regular alcoholic despair.

“Cris.” His voice sounds distant to his own ears. “Cris…”

“Your arms,” she says. “Move your arms.”

Present does was she says. The shirt winds up draped over the sink like the jacket and followed by his undershirt. His breathing picks up a little when he feels her fingers running over his chest, stomach and sides.

“Cris--”

“Just making sure you’re not injured.” She frowns. “If I was trying to get in your pants, I’d do it while you were sober.”

“Oh.”

“Lean forward a little.” Her voice is gentle. The Ghost complies, resting his head against her shoulder again. He shivers when her hand runs down his back. “Are you cold?”

“Turned on, maybe. Or maybe starting to get turned on…”

Cris chuckles. “Now is not the time nor place nor mental state for you, my dear. Sit up straight again?”

Present tenses when she begins feeling out the roses still imprinted around his neck. He closes his eyes, feeling himself losing control over his balance. For a moment, the world seems to lose meaning--

“Cris…”

“Present!”

Her fingers lock around the back of the Ghost’s neck and she jerks him forward, awake. He regains control over himself again, pale fingers finding some grip on the sink’s countertop. Cris sighs, resting her forehead against his. A soft chuckle escapes her.

“What the hell am I going to do with you, Present? I can’t carry you…can’t lift you if you fall off the seat… What do I do if you fall?”

“I don’t know,” he murmurs hoarsely, honestly. “Leave me on the floor? I don’t…I don’t know. I wish I knew, but I don’t know.”

He finds brief solace when she kisses him, and he fights the urge to tense again when her fingers resume their expression around his neck. He tilts his head to the side, better exposing the roses.

“They’re still there, but…” She sighs, sitting up straight. “Can you do your belt? Your pants?”

“I’m never drinking again,” is all Present says quietly. “I promise.”

“Guess that’s a no…”

“I mean it.” The Ghost catches her hands in his; he looks up at her, hazel eyes shining not with tears now, but with conviction. “I’m ne--I’m never drinking again. I’ve said it before, but I--I mean it. I…”

He kisses her fingers. It’s all he can think to do to make the promise more concrete. It startles him when she pulls her hands away; his heart flutters with old feelings when she tilts his face up to his again.

“Right now, I’m not worried about that. Right now, I’m just worried about getting you into cleaner clothes and off to sleep. The rest can wait for when you’re feeling better, okay? When you can actually think straight.”

The Ghost flashes another weak smile. He tucks her hair behind her ear and presses a kiss to her lips. A kiss meant for someone else, someone he’ll never see again--at least, never in the way that part of him hopes. Thoughts slide backward into old memories, and he…

“I love you,” Present murmurs, caressing the side of Cris’s face. “I don’t always show it, but I…I love you so much, Ann. You know that, don’t you? That I love you?”

The writer smiles a little, understanding it’s the alcohol talking.

“I know.” She sighs. He doesn’t say a single word while she undoes his belt, eyes downcast only because she doesn’t want her hands to stray by accident. “Now, can you stand?”

Slowly, Present nods, mentally returning to the here and now. He can find the strength--he knows it’s around somewhere inside of him--but just where and how much exists is questionable. The writer frowns.

“Okay. You’re gonna have to do the rest of your pants; I’m only willing to help you so far. But just…just do that, and shower, and while you’re in there I’ll get you blankets and pillows and stuff. You’ll have to sleep on the couch--”

“On the c--on the couch?” Just the idea of doing that tonight makes him panic.

“Just for tonight, Present.”

Reluctantly, he nods again. It’s probably better that he does, if only for tonight.

“Just relax for now, okay?” Cris runs her fingers through his hair. “You’re home at least. You’re safe, y’know?”

“Safe.” The Ghost sniffles. “S-safe… You make me feel s…safe. More than anyone…ever… I feel safe.”


It feels like hours before I get back to bed. Past is sitting up, wide-awake. I was hoping he wouldn’t be, but I should know better by now. Their bond as Ghosts, as brothers… If one is hurting, the other can never be completely content. It’s just the way they work. It needs no further explanation.

“Present’s back, isn’t he?”

“Yeah.”

“Is he hurt?”

I settle under the blankets. I don’t want to talk about it; he knows I don’t, but concern presses him to ask. I suppose I can’t be upset about it.

“He’s drunk, but…I got him to shower and to sleep. If anything, he’ll sleep through tomorrow to battle the hangover.”

Past nods. The mattress shifts as he lies down again. When I roll over, his concerned expression greets me.

“Did he say anything to you?”

“What does it matter, Past? He’s drunk; he won’t remember in the morning.”

“You’d be surprised,” Past says. “But did he say anything to you?”

“It’s not what he said to me,” I mutter, rolling over and away from his gaze. “He didn’t say anything terrible to me.”

“What then? What happened in there?”

“It…it doesn’t matter, Past. He won’t remember in the morning.”

And with some luck, neither will I. But suddenly the thought of Present lying on the couch all alone…wallowing in the state that he’s in… In a sense, it’s not fair. I should probably stay with him until he really does fall asleep. Still, Present is a grown man; he’s been through this stuff before. He knows what he’s doing.

And yet…it’s quiet enough that I think I can hear him crying to himself again.

“Cris?”

He shouldn’t be out there by himself. Not in that state, anyway.

“Stay here, Past. I’m gonna go see if your brother and I can fit on the couch as easily as we can fit on this twin bed.”


“It’s worse than you think.”

Annabelle looks up, her expression quizzical. They sit again in the same café (curiously enough, at the same table), he again drinking tea and she trying one of their other cakes. What fascinates the Organ Grinder is that she actually appears to be eating what she ordered without needing a prompt; perhaps, in the matters of what he considers appropriate feminine behavior, the ballerina is a faster learner than he originally anticipated.

“It’s worse than you think,” he repeats. “The situation with your lover is worse than you think.”

“How so?”

“I had some free time after running my errands, and I felt charitable enough to do some inspecting for you.” The Organ Grinder’s face becomes a mask of concern. “I am…afraid that…the reason for his resistance lies with the girl he’s looking after.”

“You mean the crippled one?” Annabelle asks.

“The writer, yes.” He bristles at her choice of words, ignoring for the moment that in his living days, her description would have been considered polite. “He’s grown quite close to her--quite…fond of her, really.”

“That’s nothing entirely new,” she retorts. “He loves a good pity case now and then. That’s what makes it so hard for him to realize how good I was.”

“Honestly, Annabelle, you’re missing the point. Not that I’m entirely surprised…” Ignoring the look she gives him, the Grinder hammers home a well-placed nail. “He’s taken up with her. Romantically.”

Neither the sound of a fork clattering to the plate nor the look of disbelieving shock has ever been so appealing to his sense of amusement.

“What are you talking about?”

“As I’ve said before, I did some inspecting on your behalf. Don’t bother thanking me; you’ll be repaying me in kind later.” He sips thoughtfully at his tea. “I saw them together. I must say, they were rather…invested in each other, for lack of a better term.”

Truthfully, all he saw in his inspecting from the window (because some force--no doubt, the work of Saint Essex--kept him out of her home) was the writer and her Ghost fast asleep together on a couch. But if it benefits the Organ Grinder’s future interest to keep Annabelle occupied with her precious Daniel, then what’s a little lie now and then? Nothing, really; nothing, save some personal amusement at her expense.

“You’re lying,” Annabelle fires back, picking up her fork. “Daniel would never take interest in her. I mean…you’ve seen her. Would you even think of touching a girl who looks like…like that?”

“Annie-Bell…I’m shocked. After all I’ve done to help you, what motive would I have to lie?”

“I don’t know.” She pokes at her cake more forcefully, trying to hide the flare of jealousy. “To make me upset? To see what else I’d be willing to do?”

“Honestly. Distrusting as ever.”

“I know you’re lying, Thomas. I--”

“Annabelle.” The Grinder makes his voice firm, paternal. “You said it so yourself that he was beginning to resist you and that he…loved a good pity case now and then, did you not? Perhaps…in her…he’s found himself just such a thing.”

Annabelle is left with this thought sitting in her gut like the unwanted cake she continues to eat for the sake of pleasing him, realizing that it wouldn’t be the first time Daniel did something like…like this. In his worse days, he was prone to bedding other women while under the influence of some substance or another. The only reason she took him back in those days was because she gave him the benefit of the doubt; he was simply too drunk or too high (or both) to know better. But things are different now; Daniel is clean now--clean and sober and completely in control of his own actions.

“He wouldn’t do that,” Annabelle says. “Daniel wouldn’t do that to me. He…knows better. He knows the consequences.”

“Perhaps.” The Organ Grinder sighs. “You know him better than I do. Oh, but do cheer up, dear. Finish your cake. And then, if you still do not believe that I am only looking out for your best interest, you can simply go searching for the truth yourself.”