#ktrosesworld

As there is nothing in the Church celebration of the ensuing day of All Saint's to justify these singular ideas and customs associated with Hallow eve, and none of them are of a religious character, we may justly regard them as relics of pagan times.

In all ages and countries, Hallow eve has been deemed, as it still is, the occasion par excellence for devilling the answer to that momentous question which absorbs so large a share of the thoughts of romantic young men and maidens, "who is to marry whom?" The means employed to gain this much desired information are as quaint and curious as they are numerous and varied.

Water, nuts and apples bear a prominent port in the spells and charms of Hallow eve. A quaint old book of charms, published in Edinburgh in 1070, entitled: "Old Father Time's Bundle of Faggots Newly Bound Up," declares that an infallible means of getting a view of your future husband or wife is to go to bed on Hallow eve with a glass of water, in which a small sliver of wood has been placed, standing on a table by your bedside. In the night you will dream of falling from a bridge into a river and of being rescued by your future wife or husband, whom you will see as distinctly as though viewed with waking eyes.

≑

Jennie hated All Hallow eve, but she loved a good party.

She crossed the reception room to refill her glass of wine. Her black silk cape, shaped like bat wings, floated behind her. She pulled the hood over her blond curls, hoping to escape Lady Rothermere’s attention. But no such luck.

“Iphigenia, dear, I believe it’s your turn to play.”

Thankfully, no one at this gathering, in London, knew of Jennie’s mother’s reputation or else they might have asked her to perform the same divination. Tonight, the guests’ interest in the permeability between worlds resided in predicting one’s luck in love rather than honoring Pagan gods of old.

Still Jennie could not entirely enjoy the festivities for it reminded her too much of her mother’s lunacy. A terrible illness of the mind had afflicted the poor baroness until her death, she would hear voices and see strange things to which she lent some mystic signification. The superstitions surrounding October 31st used to worsen her symptoms, and those who believed she had a supernatural power would flock to Featherstone Hall. They only increased her suffering, and caused Jennie to flee her own home for the night.

Jennie’s plan for Lady Rothermere’s party was simple: avoid anything to do with spirits except the alcoholic kind. But peer pressure threw a wrench in that plan.

Jennie’s friends thrust an apple and a knife in her hands with excited giggles. The game involved going alone in a dark room in which there was only a mirror and a candle, then trying to peel an apple all in one piece. If successful, one’s true love’s face would appear in the mirror.

“Why does she have to go? She’s already betrothed,” a girl pointed out, but the other ones were already pushing Jennie towards the door.

Her friends shut the door behind her. Despite the candle flame, it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to darkness. She sat on the floor in front of the small mirror propped against the wall, and started peeling the apple. The peel curled around her hand like a scarlet ribbon. Although, she didn’t believe in these silly games, she still applied herself to the task.

It would be a relief to see Richard’s face in the mirror, so that, despite her doubts and reluctance, she would know accepting his proposal would end happily. He was a decent man, willing to overlook shameful things about her family to acquire her father’s lands. And his fortune wasn’t uninteresting.

But in her heart of heart, she knew whose face she wished to see, a face she had not gazed upon in twelve years.

Moving to the underside of the apple was the most treacherous part, especially in the dark. Almost there. She cut off the last inch of the peel with too much pressure, and the blade hit the pad of her thumb. It sliced through her skin. A crimson drop rose to the surface.

The mirror shimmered.

Jennie held her breath and looked closer. It was only fog on the glass. She wiped it with her sleeve, but it stayed there. The fog moved, like smoke from a pipe, it unfurled along the edges of the mirror in a rough oval shape. Then it started to clear from two points in the center, leaving two holes in the fog, like hollowed out eyes. Blood drained from her face as the smoke gathered in an increasingly precise shape. The shape of a skull.

≑

The master of ceremonies introduced Peter Vincent to the crowd gather in the Sofia Theater, in the Bulgarian capital. The illusionist waited for a few seconds, letting the anticipation rise in the public. Once the chatter died down, he walked swiftly through the curtains. Fog rolled under his leather frock coat as he crossed to the stage apron in long strides. He wore a pair of black gloves which he removed and tossed into the air above the spectators, where they turned into a pair of ravens.

He bowed dramatically to the applause, then addressed the crowd in Bulgarian (a local friend had translated his text, though Peter was familiar enough with Slavic languages to understand most of the words).

“I thought we might begin this evening with a discussion of the Great Beyond. All of the greatest religions speak of the soul's endurance beyond the end of life. So, what then does it mean... to die? Tonight is a special night. A night when the veil between the worlds of the living and the dead is lifted. Let us see, if we can cross this barrier between realms and call forth some spirits.”

An assistant rolled a small table onto the stage. A paisley cloth covered it, and a crystal ball sat upon it, larger than normal to allow the audience a better view.

Peter stretched his long hands above the sphere, with each flourish of fingers, mist rose inside the crystal. The spectators had yet to be impressed, most squinted at the ball and exchanged comments, but Peter’s focus didn’t waver. The mist inside became more opaque, then turned from white to gray, to lilac and deepened to purple. Suddenly, the crystal cracked, a sharp pop of glass followed by gasps. The glass was cleaved and the fissure grew in a fractal pattern with that slow, spine-chilling creak. Pressure grew inside the ball, the smoke pressed against the edges. Everyone held their breaths, bodies tense, anticipating the explosion. The crystal ball shattered, and all the fog rushed out of it taking on ghostly forms that grew high above the stage. Three pairs of red eyes appeared, and then Peter was knocked off the stage.

He fell.

And he fell.

A never-ending descent. He landed under a bed, years earlier, knees to his chest, hands clapped over his mouth to keep his breathing and sobs silent. He heard his parents’ screams and that horrible gurgling noise. Hot tears ran down his cheeks.

Then it stopped. They stopped kicking and screaming. His mother’s arm fell limply off the bed. The murderer stopped drinking and smacked his lips.

The boy cracked open an eye. Blood dripped along the bedframe, thick and scarlet. Drip. Drip. A drop morphed into a raven and it perched on the headboard. The black bird turned to the child and spoke in a young girl’s voice. “Make us disappear.”

Peter woke up with a gasp.

“Are you quite all right, old sport?” asked his manager, Ingwer, sat next to him.

“Yes. Of course,” Peter replied though his heart still hammered in his chest. “That lass after the show tired me out, that’s all.”

He winked at Ingwer, who didn’t seem convinced, he twirled the end of his sandy mustache, looking Peter over. Peter turned away from his manager and towards the train window. It was night so it only returned his own reflection, blurry and immaterial, gossamer.

It wasn’t uncommon for Peter to dream about a performance going wrong: a defective prop, a mocking audience or being stark naked on stage (though that often turned into a wonderful dream). But it had never morphed into a flashback to the night his parents died.

Peter reached inside his jacket for his good luck charm, a raven carved out of ebony, flat like a coin and not much thicker. Absentmindedly, he manipulated the object. He turned it between his knuckles, from thumb to pinkie and back, then made it disappear in one hand and reappear in the other. The wood was smooth from years of use, the varnish long gone. It soothed him.

Not long after his parents’ death, a travelling showman had stopped in his hometown in Northern England. He’d performed a few magic tricks in exchange for a hot meat and ale, and like any eight year-old boy, Peter had been fascinated. The old magician had pulled a wooden raven from behind Peter’s ears. He’d hidden it between his palms, said a phrase in latin then blown on his hands, and a bird had flown out.

“Nothing is what it seems,” he’d said.

And Peter had thought, if one’s senses can be deceived so easily, then perhaps he had not really seen a monster that night, in his parents’ bedroom.

Sensing the child’s sadness, the old magician had patiently taught him a few tricks. And Peter had never stopped after that.

“We’ll be crossing into Serbia soon,” Ingwer said.

“That’s two nights in Belgrade, then Sarajevo?”

“Yes. Then Sarajevo, Budapest, Vienna, Innsbruck, Venice, Berne and Paris.”

“I want to go to London.”

Though he’d uttered the words casually, like a mere technicality, his manager’s pale eyebrows rose.

“Erm, well, I have some contacts there, maybe we can arrange something for December or January…”

“No, I want to go now.”

“You haven’t set foot there in over ten years. Always refused offers. Why the sudden urge?”

“I’m homesick,” he lied.

≑

London Daily News, 20 November 1895

PETER VINCENT’S FRIGHTFUL ENTERTAINMENTS

Egyptian Hall, London.

Saturday and Monday evenings. Doors open at 7:30; commences at 8 o’clock. Carriages at 10.

For the first time in England: Peter Vincent in his Extraordinary Sorcelleries or Creatures of the Night.

Peter Vincent’s astounding feats in natural magic are based on principles not within the power of any other Artist in the World, and declared by the Press to be of so singular a nature as to be past all human conception, and that in an age and country less enlightened, they would inevitably have appeared supernatural. Mr. Vincent who, alone, unaided by confederates, and without all ordinary apparatus, deceives the eye, amazes, bewilders, and baffles the keenest observers, will display his truly miraculous acquirements in Prestidigitation, which surpass everything hitherto presented to the Public, in fact exhibiting powers that seem impossible to be achieved by human agency.

With regard to the moral bearing of the performance, it is only necessary to intimate that the Very Rev. Dean Stanley, in his sermon preached the act as it demonstrates the power of our Lord over Evil.

The Proprietor feels justified in calling attention to the fact that no expense has been spared in this production. Endorsed by the entire Press as being most mystical, mirthful and marvelous.

≑

“And for my last feat, I need a volunteer,” Peter declared.

Spectators avoided eye-contact with him and shook their heads until a young man raised his hand. He walked from his seat to the stage with a smirk. A little shit who thought it was all a trick; Peter loved to scare them.

The illusionist uncovered a tall mirror and placed the young man in front of it.

“What is your name, Sir?”

“Walter Gardiner.”

“Mr. Gardiner, if you would be so kind as to inspect this mirror and assure our dear spectators tonight that it is not tricked.”

Walter walked around the mirror, inspecting its gilded frame and knocking on the back.

“Now, do you see your reflection in this mirror, Mr. Gardiner?” Peter asked.

“Yes.” He waved at himself.

“And do you also see our esteemed audience behind you?”

“Yes.”

“And now you see me too in the mirror?” Peter placed himself behind the young man.

“Indeed, I do.”

With the help of an assistant, Peter turned the mirror around as well as Walter so that he had his back to the stage curtains, with the mirror between him and the crowd.

“Keep your eyes on the mirror, Mr. Gardiner, and let me know if anything in the reflection changes.”

“Righty-o.”

Peter pulled on heavy silken ropes, and the green velvet curtains behind Walter parted.

Loud gasps rippled through the theater. In the third row, a woman fainted.

Walter laughed uneasily. “I don’t see the curtains anymore,” he said.

“Anything else?”

“No.”

“Behind you!” shouted someone from the balcony.

On the stage, three young women, all dark hair and pale blue skin, wearing only nightgowns had been revealed. They snarled at Walter, displaying long canines. Their shackles clanked as they lunged forward.

Mr. Gardiner scurried off the stage, and nearly broke his neck in the stairs.

"Back, spawn of Satan!" Peter shouted, brandishing a crucifix.

The three vampires retreated with loud hisses.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you my vampiresses!”

The audience applauded with some restraint.

“It is well-known by the Slavs that certain dead persons possess the power of returning by night to molest the living, to suck their blood, and by such refreshment to continue their own terrestrial existence, at the expense of their victims. These creatures do not have a reflection in a mirror.

But the worst part remains to be told: this faculty proves contagious; and those who have been sucked by a vampire, feel themselves condemned to become vampires, in their turn.

I saved these poor girls from the power of their sire in a remote corner of Transylvania. Animal blood furnishes them with the means of subsistence.”

Spectators flinched and covered their mouths.

“Thanks to my powers, and the power of the Christ, I can control these creatures of the night and make an example out of them. A cautionary tale. So you might recognize them and not fall prey yourselves.”

Peter stretched his arms and hands towards the three wild women, his face scrunched up with effort.

“Thou shall rise from the dead.”

A vein throbbed on his forehead. As he raised his arms, the three women slowly lifted off the floor and levitated high above the stage.

≑

As soon as he exited the stage, Peter collapsed. He didn’t even have the strength to remove the wig that scratched his scalp.

As usual, Ingwer ran up to him with a flask of whiskey and a cool, damp cloth.

In the theater, spectators were still applauding and talking loudly. Peter let their appreciation wash over him as he recovered from the exhausting performance.

The theater’s director came up to him and announced the Earl of Westmorland was here and wished to speak with him.

“Give me a minute,” Peter said.

“The Earl will not wait that long.”

With Ingwer’s help, Peter rose to his feet. They both knew the approval of the aristocracy could open many doors and make him a rich man.

A group of people awaited him in the salon, the Earl at the center. He held his head high perhaps to compensate for his small stature. Generous sideburns covered part of his cheeks down to his jaw.

“Your lordship, may I introduce Peter Vincent, the Illusionist?”

“Fascinating demonstration,” the Earl said.

“Thank you. It’s not easy keeping these lasses under control.”

The Earl chuckled, but it wasn’t genuine.

“It stimulated a great debate amongst us.” He gestured at his entourage. “Rainier here thinks you have supernatural powers? Do you claim supernatural powers?”

“Well, I can certainly do things on stage that mere mortals can’t.”

“Then you won’t mind a question or two. You needn’t divulge anything I cannot guess.”

“Shoot.”

“Mr. Gardiner was in league with you. Or there were lights in the mirror frame perhaps and angled mirrors.”

“I’m sure there are illusionists who would do it that way.”

“I think I understand it all. Except the gloves turning into ravens at the beginning. Where did they go?”

“Right here.” Peter pulled his gloves out of his pockets, much to the amusement of the Earl’s entourage. “Maybe you will understand it next time. Another viewing?”

“You must come to St. James’s Park. We'll gather our best minds next time. You'll really have a challenge then. What do you think, Iphigenia, dear?”

The Earl turned to a woman sitting a little farther in the room.

When he saw her, Peter forgot to breathe. Those plump, pink cheeks, and that gorgeous mouth, but her golden eyes had lost their mischievous glint.

Jennie.

Peter’s heart swelled with hope.

She was a woman now, and what a woman. The low neck and short sleeves of her elaborate green dress, showed off skin so creamy and fair he wanted to dip a spoon in it-- actually, to hell with a spoon, he would lick it.

He kissed the back of her gloved hand more slowly than decency allowed. He didn’t miss the way her chest rose with a sharp intake of breath.

She narrowed her gaze, and he realized she didn’t recognize him.

The Earl put a proprietary arm around her, and Jennie smiled sweetly at him. Peter’s heart plummeted.

“I shall like to see these creatures of the night for myself,” the Earl said.

“Another time, perhaps. If you will forgive, I must see to it that they cannot escape... And I need to go look for my birds.”

He held Jennie’s gaze for a moment, hoping for some kind of acknowledgment, but her face betrayed nothing. She averted her eyes and clasped her hands.

Peter returned to his hotel. He discarded his wig and fake beard and loosened his neck tie. Only one thing would do to deal with this: la fée verte. He poured an inch of absinthe into a crystal stemmed glass and placed a slotted spoon across the rim with a sugar cube over it. He liked the ritual— at least for the first glass or two, then it was straight from the bottle— like a magic trick, positioning precisely each piece, then as he trickled cold water over the sugar, the liquid turned cloudy unlike his mind. Absinthe produced such a sharp sort of drunkenness, and his memories became that much more vivid: the green, dry scent of sawdust in his father’s workshop, the ribbed smoothness of a grosgrain ribbon between his finger, her laughter in bursts of light.

≑

The first time they met, they were only children. Her straw bonnet hung crookedly over her messy blond curls, and blue ribbons floated beside her cheek. She introduced herself as Jennie, but he knew who she was: Iphigenia Goldfinch, daughter of the Baron. Her father owned most of the hamlet where they lived, a remote corner of Northumberland, between the Scottish border and the North sea. Peter worked for him. He was but a farm boy, having to earn his own living now that he was an orphan. Other children never spoke to him, they thought him a bit odd, and the circumstances of his parents’ death didn’t help.

“What are you doing?” she asked, watching him flip the wooden raven between his fingers.

“I’m looking for my bird,” he replied. “Do you think it’s in the bushes?”

Jennie followed him to the edge of the forest. Peter picked a small purple flower.

“Perhaps it made its nest amongst the petals.”

“What are you talking about?”

He struck a match and lit the flower. With a flourish of his hand, it vanished in a puff of smoke, and was replaced by a black feather. Her hand flew to her chest, followed by delighted laughter. He decided then and there to make her smile and laugh as much as possible.

They became inseparable. Jennie would bring him food and blankets, and whatever material he needed for his latest magic trick. She dreamt of becoming an actress, so they would put on elaborate performances. As they grew older, their act became more and more complex, lengthy skits with scenarios, costumes, decors and monologues heavily borrowed from Shakespeare. Sometimes for an audience, but more often for their own entertainment. She never asked for the secret behind his tricks, and sometimes he wouldn’t have known how to explain, cards floated in the air, handkerchiefs vanished and wilted flowers bloomed anew.

The other peasants warned him to stay away from her. “If the Baron finds out…” they said. But neither of Jennie’s parents seemed to care. Her father was never home, always in London, allegedly on business. The baroness preferred the company of ghosts. Even at a young age, Peter wondered which was worse: that one’s parents had died or that they didn’t care about their child. They were both orphans in their own way.

And so, Jennie and Peter sheltered each other from the harsh and confusing realities of adulthood. They surrounded themselves with magic and forgot all the rest.

As Peter grew older, he began to understand what he’d been warned against. What they said he would want but couldn’t have.

When she turned thirteen, her father hired a chaperone, and they had to find creative ways of meeting. An abandoned hut in the forest became their refuge after the chaperone had dozed off for the night.

For his fifteenth birthday, she gave him his first kiss, and he promised they would always be together.

For her fifteenth birthday, the baron came back to Featherstone Hall and announced his intention to take his daughter away to London. That night, Jennie ran to him with her jewels wrapped in a piece of cloth.

“We have to go!”

She was always more courageous than him. He hesitated for too long. Her father’s men came after them. They hid in their secret hut, huddled together in the cold night, as dogs sniffed and barked around.

“Make us disappear,” she begged. “Please, Peter, make us disappear.”

He tried.

He failed.

He waited for her.

But she never came back from London, and so, without an anchor, Peter drifted away.

≑

An insistent knock at his hotel door woke Peter up. His head hurt from too much absinthe. He’d slept the morning away. On the doorstep, he found a simple, handwritten note: “Meet me”.

He quickly washed the smudged eyeliner off his face and changed out of last night’s clothes before heading out where a coach awaited.

The cold november wind whipped the tail of his coat about and he held down his hat as he stepped inside the carriage. It was empty.

The carriage drove around for fifteen minutes, Peter rubbed up and down his arms, looking out the window for clues of his anonymous caller. He dearly hoped the message was from Jennie, but it wasn’t rare for some married women to seek him out after a show. His act thrilled them, reminded them that life was too short for a boring husband.

They reached a busy thoroughfare. Peter huffed impatiently at being stuck in traffic. Suddenly, the carriage door opened and someone slipped in directly from the coach beside his. A woman in a garnet-red dress, a veil concealed her face. Peter put a foot up on the bench, sprawling with a cocky smile, a reflex in female company.

When she lifted the veil, he recognized Jennie. Though the carriage was in motion, she had yet to sit. The feather on her hat wobbled and brushed against the ceiling.

“Are you Peter McHoolihee of Northumberland?”

“The one and only.”

She inspected him with narrowed eyes.

“It really is me, Jennie,” he assured her.

She sat on the bench opposite him.

“No one has called me that in ages,” she said.

She didn’t look as happy as he expected her to be. Staring down at her hands, she fidgeted with her wedding ring. The size of the gemstones was an unwelcome reminder of all the things Peter couldn’t buy her despite his fame.

“How long have you been back in England?” she asked.

“Three days.”

“Why did you come back?”

“I’d been gone long enough. Aren’t you happy to see me?”

“Yes. Of course.”

Although she’d learned to mask her emotions better, he recognized that slightly puckered forehead that belied her words.

“So, you’re Peter Vincent now.”

“And you’re a countess.”

“Only since last week.”

“I’m too late, then.”

“Twelve years too late. At least your magic tricks have improved.”

There was a bitterness to her tone he matched in his reply.

“So have your acting skills.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you must have done something to make an Earl want to marry below his station.”

“Must you be so unpleasant?”

“Must you be married?”

They outstared each other. The carriage creaked and horseshoes beat the gravel path, filling the silence. Jennie broke the staring first and looked out the window.

“What was I supposed to do?” she asked after a long moment. “I wrote to everyone in Featherstone for news of you, but you had left without a trace. I tried to find you.”

“So did I. I went to London.”

“You did?” Her face broke into a grin.

Since their first kiss, he’d learned how to seduce women, but now, one smile from her and he was a fumbling teenager again. His palms were clammy, and he couldn’t think of a single smart thing to say. Just like the courageous but naive seventeen year-old lad he had once been, the one who set out for London with only the clothes on his back and a literal ace up his sleeve.

But the city was much larger than he’d anticipated, and the sight of rich gentlemen-- the kind she may be presented to-- discouraged him. He found work on a cargo ship sailing to Denmark; if he traveled the world, educated himself and became rich, then he might be worthy of her. He roamed the Continent, taking odd jobs and performing magic tricks. But as he journeyed East, he started hearing legends of blood-sucking creatures, and his purpose evolved.

In Poland, he met Emily de Laszowska Gerard, a writer and literary critique. Scottish by birth, she took a liking to Peter and his skills, and hired him to work in her home. Her library contained many a book about myths and legends that they read together. When her husband, a Polish chevalier, twenty years her senior, was stationed in Transylvania, Peter followed them. Still officially a member of staff, but in fact, he and Emily researched the local vampire lore. She even published a book about Transylvanian superstitions the next year. She was the first person, after Jennie, to whom Peter revealed what he had seen kill his parents. She was also the first person, after Jennie, to kiss him. She was older than him by six years and taught him how to give a woman pleasure. They enjoyed each other’s company, but he didn’t love Emily as he had Jennie. Eventually, her husband found out about the affair and kicked him out. Armed with a new confidence and knowledge on two equally mysterious creatures— vampires and women— he started his life as Peter Vincent.

He didn’t confess his insecurities and affairs to Jennie, only summed up that he hadn’t found her in London and then started travelling.

“No wonder you could not find me in London. Father hired this dreadful tutor, and locked me up for hours with her so she might teach me everything a lady should know.”

“So he might offer you to the highest bidder?”

She didn’t deny the allegation, but amended, “He wanted a better life for me, better than I had with Mother. But I did not want it.”

“I’m sure you managed to sneak out every once in a while.”

Her eyes sparkled with mischief and his stomach swooped. Even if she spoke like a proper lady, in his presence her northern accent and idioms resurfaced. And he laughed, still incredulous that the baron’s daughter was so bold, and that she even deigned talk to him. Him, a peasant boy. It felt like they had never been apart. As he spoke, he lost his cocky façade, and Jennie leaned towards him, elbows on knees.

“I never escaped very far. Not as far as you did.”

“I crossed the continent. I saw Russia and the Ottoman Empire. Always searching… I learned about myths and the origins of faith and fear in men.”

“And vampires?”

“I saw what looked like the victims of vampires: illnesses that medicine has yet to explain, and corpses that decomposed in odd ways, but no real vampire. I must have imagined it all. It became inspiration for my show.”

He switched seat to be next to her, his legs pressed against hers, but she didn’t move. Head cocked to one side, she openly studied him. He didn’t feel unrecognized by her anymore. Her honey-brown eyes warmed him more than the autumn sun shining on his stubbled cheek.

“All that wandering, did you ever find what you were looking for?” she asked.

“In some measure. But something was always missing.” He brought her hands to his lips, holding her gaze, and turned on the charm.

Jennie chuckled softly. “I see you learned about more than folklore.”

“Shall I demonstrate?”

He scooted closer to her, Jennie instinctively leaned forward, smiling conspiratorially.

“You may.”

He ran his hands up, from her wrists to her shoulders, and rested them on her neck. His thumb brushed her jaw, and her lips parted. He had dreamt of those lips. He kissed her as slowly as his weak restraints allowed. He needed her to think about this kiss for days and weeks to come. He needed her to blush every time she was with her husband, and take pleasure in tasting the memory on her lips. He kissed her deeply, adoringly, and feeling her melt against him was his reward.

Too soon, the carriage stopped.

“I have to go,” she said.

Peter caught her arm to stop her, though his grip was light, she winced as if he’d hurt her which alarmed him.

“Rough honeymoon?”

“My husband is… mercurial.”

“Run away with me. I’m rich now.”

“You think that ever mattered to me?” She swiped his fringe to the side and kissed his forehead, but the gesture was too forlorn for him to enjoy. “I wish I could-- there’s so much to explain... Richard would hunt us down.”

“Jennie…”

“Goodbye, Peter.”

“When can I see you again?” he pressed.

“I don’t know.”

And she vanished into the street crowd.

≑