The House for Lost Things - Part Six

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NOTE: All pictures here are strictly for viewer's pleasure. Those of any people may or may not be the writer's idea of what a character looks like and were chosen to reflect the mood of the scene or an attribute or emotion of the individual, rather than the character.

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Weeks have passed. Or maybe months. It could be years for all I know. For as they used to say, “Every day is a thousand years”. But in a world like this, stuck inside, doing the same thing, day after day…every moment can seem like a thousand years.

Things scrape against the floor and dust flies as Andrew, Master, and I work our way through today’s pile. Things are nearly finished for the day and soon we will be moving on to our last pile, one thing my aching arms are glad for.

The long sleeves on my recently acquired lavender gown repeatedly slide down my arms. Over and over, I shove them back up to my elbows and carry armfuls of books to Master to be “checked”.

The day is drawing to a close and weariness consumes us all. Corners of spines dig into my arms as Andrew packs them into my arms. Hard covers thud together. I grimace and my shoulders hunch beneath the weight of the load.

“More or stop?” Andrew asks.

He holds a book in each hand. His hair sticks to his forehead with sweat. There are dark circles under his eyes and sorrow in his smile. I shake my head and look at my feet.

Still, so long after he’s come to join us. So long after we’ve come to think of him as family. I can see it in his eyes.

Andrew dreams of leaving, of going home.  

Taking the books to Master, I sigh. One by one, he removes them from my arms, piling them into his own to go before the Mirror. His movements are jerkish and uneasy as he re-stacks the books under his arm.

“How much more do we have?” he asks in a low voice.

“Just a few more piles,” I say softly, trying to sound encouraging.

Master looks ready to drop the books he has taken from me as he replies, “That’s what you said hours ago.”

My semi-smile falls and my shoulders slump a little. Something in his tone makes me feel small and inadequate.

Perhaps, he’s hungry. Hunger makes him grouchy.

“Are you hungry, Master? I could get you something to eat,” I offer.

Master looks toward the remaining items and Andrew. Andrew wipes his forearm across his forehead. His damp hair mousses, giving it an almost natural cowlick where his sweat has caused it to stick together.

“No,” Master said slowly. “Let’s finish here.”

Nodding, I return to Andrew as Master works with the Mirror. Andrew and I stack the rest of the books in piles. First, we open the front cover to check for evidence of names to tell us if multiple books belong to one person. We then pile those together. The left over books are merely stacked in piles of five.

It only takes us a short time to finish sorting the books between which may return to their homes and which will be joining our collection.

“Alright,” Master begins to speak. I rub my red hands together, massaging the sore spots as I turn back to Master. “Let’s break in here. Esme, help me carry the books that weren’t sent back and we’ll take them to the library.”

“Yes, Master,” I agree.

He’s finally ready to stop. Maybe he’ll let us leave the rest until tomorrow.

Master and I gather up the few books, twelve in all, that will be joining our collection. Some are thin, others are thick. Some are titled in English or Welsh, others are titled in languages that I do not recognize. Most of them have hard covers in dark colors like black, brown, blue, or grey. Several have red covers and one is leather bound.

We stride down the corridor toward the library side by side. I look up at Master, only able to see his cheek, the curve of his jaw, and the side of his head from my position. He walks quickly with a sense of need in the jerky movements of his body, as if he is trying to walk through a line of royal guards with a knife and not be noticed.

But there is no murder, no hate, no evil in his gaze or body language. Only weariness and uneasy which borders upon an unknown (and therefore unmerited) fear.  

“Did you see anything you would like to read?” I ask him, trying to coax out some piece of normality, of my happy, relaxed Master.

“I hadn’t paid much attention today,” he admits in a tone that borders upon sheepish.

He doesn’t smile, but I can feel it somewhere inside him. The smile in his body is in the air. For me, it is as if I am listening to someone laugh silently and I desire to see the smile, to hear the laugh, to watch the stiffness in his body melt away.

I desire to please. As always.

Was I born that way or has it been since I came to this place? I don’t even remember anymore.

“If you wish, we can read in front of the fire tonight,” I encourage, following him into the library.

A small huffed breath escapes him and I catch a twitch at the corner of his mouth as he turns and heads for the bookcases along the east wall.

There’s a smile.

“I’d like that,” Master says at last.

He begins by freeing one of his armfuls of books before reaching and removing mine, one by one. The soft thump of each one onto the bookshelf causes tiny flurries of dust to rise. I sneeze and tuck my nose against my shoulder.

Once my arms are empty Master says, “Why don’t you go and join Andrew. Pile the rest up by the far wall and we’ll stop for the night.”

He looks down at me through tired, but soft eyes. There is a smidgen of his usual lightheartedness hidden behind them. I nod and scurry out of the room without another word, smiling to myself as I go.

He does love his books.

I hurry back to the front room saying, “Andrew, Master says--”

I stop short.

Andrew stands in front of the Mirror. My eyes widen. In the Mirror’s reflection, I can see a woman walking down a street. Her lips open as she calls out for someone, her eyes are as hopeless looking as Andrew’s.

My, but she is lovely with thin waves of dark brown hair and eyes the color of the grass in summer.

“Andrew?” I call his name.

He either does not hear me or is not listening.

“Elizabeth?” he whispers as the woman stops, heading down an alleyway in the city.

Is she--? No. No. I’m seeing things.

“Andrew,” I hurry towards him through the hall and into the front room. “Andrew, come away from there, it’s dangerous!”

“It’s Elizabeth!” He cries out joyously. “She’s looking for me!”

He reaches out to the Mirror and it begins to ripple.

That can’t be…

My eyes widen and I hear footsteps rushing from the library toward my frantic voice. Andrew’s hand disappears into the Mirror and I run forward to grab him as he pushes to get through the keyhole and into the Outerworld.

“Andrew, no!” My voice is a scream.

He’ll get stuck! He’ll die!

I snatch a hold of his arm and try to pull him back. It’s like a raging current, as if I’m being pulled along with him into the Mirror. My lips form a scream of terror that doesn’t come out.

The Mirror is a mass of darkening ripples in which I can only see the grey skirt of the woman’s dress and Andrew’s body disappearing inside. I scramble, trying to pull him back. But then he is gone entirely and my wrist has disappeared inside the Mirror.

The pain is excruciating. My wrist feels as if I’ve stuck it in open flame, as if it is being stabbed by shards of glass, as if it is being twisted off, all at the same time. I cry out, closing my eyes tightly.

Master!

Before I can even breathe, two strong arms are wrapped around me and I am violently yanked away from the Mirror and into a body. The pain in my arm is gone and I am no longer holding onto Andrew. My heart thuds in my chest.

And then I’m sobbing. I can feel my body heaving with the sobs. I can hear myself trying to gasp to breathe. I can feel the hot tears burning my face.

Andrew...I lost Andrew. It’s my fault he’s lost in there.

I can hear Master speaking as if he’s in another room. His voice sounds foggy. He’s asking if I’m hurt, if I’m alright. I cling to him, burying my face in his chest, trying to hide myself in the warmth of his arms.

Now I understand why Master is afraid.

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