Chapter 2

Souls are eternal, and like time, they have a beginning but no end and many, many branches.

-Hecate's Guide to Arcane Philosophy

Rorick

I knew right where the pub would be even though I had no clear memory of ever stepping onto this street. To my knowledge, I'd never even been on this side of the historic district. Yet, pulled by instinct, there I was. The potions Quiet insisted I drink had helped to strengthen me, though at times they made my nightmares more vivid.

The healing tonics had other side effects, too. Flashes of thoughts that hadn't been there before snuck in like a thief in the night. Knowledge I didn't know I possessed presented itself at unexpected times. Now was one of those times.

The moon sat fat and yellow at its highest point in the sky above me. I'd left Quiet to her slumber not an hour ago.

I recognized the pub's glass front and the brick siding and its placement on a nearly deserted street corner. Before grasping the knob, I knew it would stick just so. I knew the sound the door would make as the lintel scraped against the tile. Before my eyes had found it, I knew in the frame of the door there would be the smallest little carving: a reaping hook symbol.

The small pub was owned by the gargoyle behind the bar. I recalled that he kept consistent night hours but not what his name was.

I paused by the threshold. The reason for my impromptu visit sat at a side table—the only table in the intimate establishment—like she'd been waiting there for me. Like she knew I'd come. Perhaps she did.

Hecate stared at me expectantly. The time witch was no longer in the crone form I'd met her in on the Night Train, but she was recognizable all the same. She was the spitting image of Quiet. Same stormy gray gaze, same inky black hair, only she wore it pinned up tight. She appeared to be in her late thirties, though I sensed she was much, much older than that in truth.

Hecate sent me a small beckoning smile that creased the corners of her mouth. "You remembered our favorite spot," she said as I crossed to her.

Even her scent was similar to Quiet's.

"Prim made potions for me to drink. Healing ones to assist with my malady of the mind." I ran a finger across the grain of the tabletop and knew immediately that I'd touched it once before. "I don't properly remember this place . . . not exactly. But I'm getting flashes of recollection. Vague notions."

Hecate gestured for me to sit across from her. As I claimed my chair, the strangest sensation fell over me, an overwhelming déjà vu. An image came to mind of me sitting down, my old, charmed journal out, ready to take notes on theories and equations while the witch across from me spoke of things . . . things that faded out of my reach.

As quickly as it had come, the image was gone.

Hecate steeped a teabag in the cup in front of her, something herbal and strongly scented. "Does Quiet know you're here?" she asked in her drawling accent.

I shook my head. "I wanted to clear up a few things for myself before I discussed this with her."

"In that case, where would you like to start?"

I studied her, searching for the right words before deciding that blunt was best. "You're not Quiet's mother."

Her next smile was sad. She added sugar to the tea, two lumps, and she watched them dissolve, like she didn't know the proper way to make tea . . . Or perhaps that only looked like sugar . . . It didn't smell quite right.

"No," she confessed, "I'm not her mother."

"Why didn't you just tell her the truth from the beginning?" The deception troubled me, but not only because it might hurt Quiet. This was a new puzzle, one I didn't have all the pieces of, making it impossible to put together, and most aggravating of all, I sensed the rest of the pieces were already inside my head somewhere, out of reach.

"Oh . . . many reasons," she said, tapping her spoon to dry it before setting it aside. "For what it's worth, I never claimed I was her mother. Quiet had a difficult upbringing, as you know. When I sent witches to fetch her from the forest, they saw our resemblance and made assumptions. They think highly of me here, and I knew such fanciful thoughts might transfer to my ‘daughter' and would benefit her."

I snorted at her cavalier tone. "Fanciful is an understatement. Most witches are convinced you're a god. The goddess of magic, they say. Quiet's the one who's always correcting them."

She frowned at that. "I've never asked anyone for their prayers. In any case, I knew they would treat her as special if I didn't make any effort to correct them. Given what she's been through, I felt she deserved that extra care and attention. Don't you?"

"No child should have to fend for themselves in the woods, if that's what you mean." Hecate's intentions didn't make up for her deception, whatever her reasons.

"They shouldn't," she agreed, vexation edging her words. She dropped another lump of sugar in her tea and stirred it vehemently with the tiny silver spoon.

"If you're not her mother . . ." I said, grasping at the pieces, trying to let these new instincts guide me. Hecate remained silent, allowing me to reach my own conclusions. ". . . then . . . you're . . ." I grasped blindly at the concept, but the notion of exactly who—and what—she was remained as hazy as the rest of my memories.

At one time I'd understood everything perfectly. The loss of knowledge stiffened my shoulders.

"I'm Hecate," she said plainly, "an interdimensional traveler. A witch. That is all."

"A witch who just so happens to look exactly like my partner but is in fact not related," I said, annoyed by her attempts to simplify something we both knew was complex—although perhaps the concept was simple to travelers like her.

She shrugged. "You could say we're related . . . We are in a fashion. I'm just not the useless woman who birthed her."

"Explain it to me, Hecate. And use small words." I rubbed at my brow, a headache brewing.

"It's better for your mind if I don't. You've already been through so much. It's better if I hint and nudge and annoy you along through your arising. Now drink your tea, Rorick. It's getting cold." She pushed the cup toward me. "I put something extra in it for you. It'll help."

I lifted it to my lips, suddenly remembering I used to like my tea extra sweet, pausing just before I could take a sip. "You're even bossy like Quiet is. Your voice, too. The only thing that's different is your accent."

"I'm your friend , Rorick," she said softly, gray eyes capturing mine. I found no dishonesty there, just earnestness. "You can trust me. That's the most important thing you need to know."

"‘We are always friends,'" I recalled her saying. "In all the worlds you've traveled to . . . but if I'm to trust you now, I need you to give me more. I don't want to leave here without understanding."

She sighed long and slow, the noise a schoolmarm might make when flustered by a petulant child.

"There are an infinite number of worlds," she said, briskly. "The world I once called home isn't so different from this one." She lifted a cube of sugar from the bowl centered on the table, pinching it carefully between her long fingers. Her nails were short and blunt and unadorned. Even her fingers reminded me of Quiet's. "Souls are powerful and eternal."

I squinted at her. "What's any of this have to do with Quiet?"

"A soul is like this cube of sugar." Hecate pressed it down hard, and the little granules separated, grinding into the table. She swiped at them, spreading them across the wood. "It's made of many similar pieces scattered about the cosmos."

I waited for her to say more, but she just stared at me expectantly.

"You and Quiet share pieces of the same soul," I guessed, "like the sugar when it was a cube."

Hecate's lips quirked. "See that? You're more than just a handsome face. Even after all your mind has been through, you've still got some smarts in you."

I was too agitated to be amused by her words. "What do you want, Hecate? Why are we here?"

"I have a case for you," she said simply. "But you can't work it alone. Quiet must help you."

I stared at her, torn by uncertainty. Quiet's feelings about Hecate weren't positive. Working a case for her wouldn't go over well, and we were already on rocky footing over the circus. "What's this case?"

She folded her hands in her lap with an innocence that felt unlike her. "I need you to solve a murder for me. It'll help you with your memories and put you both where I need you most. You're good with murder now, I hear. My case has gone a bit cold, though, I'm afraid, but that shouldn't be a problem for you and Quiet. You've just solved a crime that was more than three decades old, yes?"

I pinched the bridge of my nose. The ache in my head had moved behind my eyes. "Who was murdered?"

"Jonathan Rorick," she said, lowering her voice.

Hearing my true name pebbled my skin. Needing to busy my hands, I lifted the tea and drank deeply from it. The sugar hid well whatever else she'd put in there. Even with my keener senses, I couldn't taste it. "Is that supposed to be a joke?"

"Deadly serious, I'm afraid." Hecate pulled a timepiece from her cloak and looked it over. The clock face ticked loudly, and it had six different hands that spun in opposite directions at separate speeds.

"I'm alive and well," I said firmly.

"No, you're not."

I rolled my eyes. "Fine. I'm undead but well. I assume you're referring to my first death? My fall from a balcony . . . ?" I waited for her to respond. "I need something else to go on here if I'm to investigate anything. Give me a place to start at least."

"Start with the conductor of the Night Train. He'll tell you where to go next." Her placid expression gave nothing away. "Will you take my case?"

I chewed on my cheek for a moment. "Working this murder, is it for your benefit or for Quiet's?"

"Both," she said earnestly, stowing away her pocket watch. "Or haven't you been listening? Do you really still not understand who I am?"

"I do . . ." I looked behind me out the dark window. Late winter's chill covered it in a thin sheen of frost. Gas lamps burned dully, illuminating an empty street. I stared through all of it, my attention elsewhere. "I just worry how Quiet will respond to this. She's working a case of her own, and she won't be deterred."

"You need not tell her everything. It's for her own sake she's left in the dark," she added gently. "And I think you'll both find that if you work my case, you'll have a better chance of getting answers for hers as well."

"Quiet isn't a child anymore who needs saving from the wilds," I said, turning back in my chair to face her. "She's a capable witch in her own right. She doesn't need anyone's special attention now. Why not tell her all of this yourself?"

Cupping her hand, Hecate set to scraping the granules of sugar back into a neat pile. "There are consequences when I meddle too directly with a world I don't belong in. I've stepped over that metaphorical line before, but because I don't belong here, I'm not the one who pays the price."

"Are you saying that if you just tell Quiet outright, you could put her in danger of some sort of eternal consequence?"

Hecate nodded. "It's the reason why I recruited Inspector Sheridan and why my instructions are always so cryptic. He's remorseful and doomed. He won't live to see his next birthday. His situation can't be made much worse by my meddling."

A prickling fear shot down my spine at her words. The hair on the back of my neck rose. "Then why are you talking to me now? Why'd you risk meddling directly with me on the Night Train before?" I swallowed, afraid to speak aloud my next thought.

She gazed back at me, still allowing me to come to my own conclusions.

I forced the words out of a dry throat. "Do you think I'm doomed?"

Hecate's chest heaved with her next exhale. "Though I do wish to be gentle with your injured mind, I could hardly make your situation any worse."