Loren’s nose twitched. ‘Truthfully, I’d prefer the weather clear all the time. Like this, you can’t see the stars. You can’t see the moon.’
Twisting around, Felix squinted. ‘It was a sliver last night. You’d barely see it anyway.’
‘I suppose that’s why I like it. You always get to watch the moon come back.’
Loren lapsed into silence as he finished off the bread. They sat shoulder to shoulder, not quite touching, while the night grew clammy and chill. A sea breeze whistled in from the coast, teasing a change in the weather, a break from the unseasonal autumn heat.
‘Felix,’ Loren broached, brushing crumbs off his lap. ‘If I ask a question, will you be honest?’
‘Depends.’
‘I should have anticipated that answer.’ The corner of his mouth pinched. ‘But I’ll ask anyway. You turned down the statesman’s offer because you thought he’d kill you once you fulfilled your end of the deal. But you’re wrong, I think.’
‘That isn’t a question.’
‘The helmet hasn’t been moved in three hundred years. Until now. What I’m asking,’ said Loren, ‘is why would he kill the only person who can handle it?’
Loren had a point. But the idea of the statesman taking Felix alive made him shiver. He had a sense that whatever the statesman woulduse him for would cost more than bleeding out in an alley.Collaborators, he had said.Cassius and Brutus of a new age.
Felix couldn’t. He couldn’t dwell on the statesman’s grip on his face, or he would lose himself completely.
‘The kind of power a relic like that holds is . . .’ Loren trailed off with a shaky, reverent breath. ‘That you can touch it must mean something. Have you had divine experiences before? Ritual training? A priest’s blessing?’
Felix tensed. ‘I don’t remember.’
‘Don’t you?’ Loren urged.
The thing was – it was both true and not. The memories were there, Felix knew, because they dogged his footsteps, invisible and unnamed. He knew because he felt thelack.But no matter how hard he tried, what questions he asked, they were gated and bricked, his mind refusing to recall. Most days, he didn’t know where to direct his grief, or who to channel his anger at, or where that anger stemmed from.
Impressions of a life lived, but not remembering it by half.
Crinkly hazel eyes. A kiss pressed to his forehead. His father’s footsteps against the road, and curly copper hair retreating from sight. Half-light from an open cella door, glinting off a marble face long after nightfall. Sweet wine saturated bitter. Sleepy.
But if he did remember in full, if he found the missing piece, how quickly would the absence become an abscess? How would swapping one wound for another help? Maybe some memories were best forgotten. Maybe Felix was right to be afraid. Maybe he was lucky.
He ran unsettled fingers through his curls, swallowing against his dry throat. In the corner, the trunk with Mercury’s helmet stashed inside cast a darker shadow than before. A prickle crept up Felix’s spine, phantom fingers pressing in.
A siren’s song:Use me. Use me, and I’ll explain everything.
Horseshit.
‘No, I don’t,’ Felix snapped, wrenching back to Loren, pulse racing and lungs tight. The rain was a lukewarm spray against his back. Grounding. ‘Whatever your fascination is with the helmet, I can’t tell you more. Talk about something else.’
Loren recoiled. Gently, he said, ‘Sorry. I won’t ask again.’
But the one-sided pinch of his mouth suggested otherwise. He plotted, and that plot would spell disaster. But Felix had work to do. Treasures to sell. He couldn’t afford to be lured down fruitless memory paths by clueless temple boys or provoked by lucky guesses from some statesman.
‘Another question, then?’ Loren said, fiddling with the cord he wore. ‘Not about the helmet, I swear.’
‘Go on.’ Gods, Loren talked a lot. Better to listen to his rambling than dwell in memory-land, though. Besides, filling the silence wasn’t such a bad change of pace.
‘If you were about to do something awful, would you want to be warned? So you could change your path.’
‘That supposes anyone could predict the future.’
‘Can’t they?’
Felix snorted. ‘Priests, augurs, oracles, it’s made up. They’ll say anything to get paid. The only way to change your path – control your path – is to keep running.’
