Another journal

You can find all the sections here.

Emily sat cross-legged on the bed, her bed, staring at the wall. Her aunt had left Emily’s room mostly untouched, other than winter clothes and some empty boxes for electronic gadgets it was the same as when she’d left. The collage of magazine pictures and photocopied album art was mostly still on one wall, though some pieces were hanging by just one brittle piece of tape, about to join the handful below on the carpet.

Fresh sheets were on the bed, but every surface had a thick layer of dust, obscuring the junk jewellery and knick-knacks accumulated in a childhood.

“I kept up on dusting in here for a long time,” Janice had said when she’d ushered Emily to bed after hours of talking. “But I just couldn’t keep it up, after a while.”

The three women had spent a long time going over what Emily had done and what she’d learned. Her aunt sat quiet while she talked about the king and Emily wondered if Janice had still loved him. When she told them about the queen, her aunt bit back tears, shredding a tissue in her fingers.

Becky was apologetic, radiating pain. “I keep records, or kept, so I could see what was happening but I didn’t tell Janice, or anyone. I figured I couldn’t stop it anyway, plus—” she flushed, unable to finish.

“Plus, it would be something different that happened, right?” Emily couldn’t keep the edge from her voice. “Something to shake up the day-to-day, something new to record.” The other woman nodded, hair falling in front of her face. Emily’s heart stirred, but the folks’ attitude still stung too deep for her to really care.

When Becky spoke again, her voice was almost a whisper. “Janice would read your letters to everybody as soon as we’d get them. After a while, there was some grumbling, that everything was taking too long, that you were tarrying on your journey.”

“I still didn’t know what kind of people they all were.” Janice cut in bitterly. “They’d played their parts so well for so long, but this close to the finish line their masks were slipping.” She looked at Becky and touched her lightly on the hand.

“So I finally talked to your aunt, told her what I knew. That was just before your last letter.”

“Which they still don’t know about.”

Emily frowned. “So, they don’t know I talked to the king?”

“No.” Janice shook her head. “They still keep that arbour up, fresh flowers every midsummer, like they think you’ll come walking out of it any day.”

Their talk had devolved from there. All three women were tired and too full of information and emotion to be coherent.

“They’ll know you’re here soon, if they don’t already.” Janice pressed her lips together angrily. “It’s up to you how you tell them and how much.”

The gooseneck lamp lit Emily’s hands in harsh shadow when she tore her eyes away from the wall. Becky had gone home and Janice to bed hours before. Still used to the Sidhe’s endless stretches of time, Emily had sat to think and hadn’t moved since.

Unfolding her legs, Emily felt shooting cramps, reminding her that here she was nothing but another mortal. Her knife belt rose up awkwardly and she unbuckled it. Curious, Emily slipped the knife from its sheath. There was no glow and the blade was only a sensible eight inches. Dark red blood stained the metal, patchily filling in the engraved “Luck.”

Emily lay back, still holding the knife. She’d need to clean it. She was wondering how best to do that when she fell asleep.

Mirrored from Journal of a Something or Other.