Where Shadows Lurk and Darkness Dwells

8

London,

Term of the Pike - Hunter's Moon

Swan's Pace, Sojourn of the Larkspur, at the Firefly Pass

Run 308 after the First Cataclism

Zhang WeiLan marched resolutely into the library room and dropped a notebook on the round table where Simone was pretending to do her homework. She'd been lost in a vicious circle of obsessive thoughts that went round and round in her head, giving no respite, no room to breathe, no rest. She'd not had a good night sleep since that damn zombie horde hunt.

But having WeiLan hovering about her in his usual tentative manner placed a smirk on her lips. She lowered her eyes on the paper she'd been trying to make progress on for the last three hours, hiding behind the sleek curtain of warm brown hair. After what felt like even longer than usual - WeiLan balancing from one foot to the other while trying to reach a decision, one that normally involved him rushing out of Simone's presence in a flurry of wide sleeves and long robes, and a red, red face - the young Draper sat on the edge of the nearest chair.

"I've taken the liberty of researching your father's...philosophy," he said, and Simone took a deep breath. If only they'd stop pestering her with this subject. "Compiled a few notes for you, in case you'd like to..."

Like to what? She eyed the pile resting as far from her as she could have them. Leon had brought those from lord knew where, full of scribbles and symbols and page after page of text. From histories to first-person accounts, academic texts to fictional tales, he'd apparently searched high and low through the whole of London to find her these, so she could learn. Only she didn't want to learn, didn't want to address this subject, all she wanted was to forget. Forget that fucking Blackthorne evening and how it had changed her life.

Not for the best, she might add.

"Please, read them, Simone," WeiLan muttered, and did the unexpected.

The hands he religiously kept hidden within the wide folds of his sleeves came out, both reaching for Simone's, clasping them in a warm, tight hold. She gasped and couldn't help staring right at him, lips parted in elated surprise, eyes widened in anticipation. WeiLan was always distant and timid while she clung to him, arms draped around his, teasing and playing with his awkwardness. He wasn't that shy around others, only with her, and would blush and blink whenever she touched him, though the small smile that curled his lips on those occasions assured her he quite enjoyed having her near.

"It'll help."

Snorting, she shook her head and returned to the tentative skeletons of the paper she was due next Columbine, wondering if she'd even make the deadline. Nothing was salvageable, of what she'd written so far, nothing made sense.

Nothing made sense.

"Simone," WeiLan insisted, and the way he spoke her name mollified her.

If only briefly.

But there was something in his accent that messed with her head and drove away the anger. Si-mohn, he'd say, and remind her of her mother, lost these many Runs. The Portuguese kitchenwitch who'd excelled in the use of herbs and ingredients that helped keep monsters at bay - her words, when trying to shush a terrified Simone. She'd also make the best sleeping draughts, for daughter and father alike, soothing and relaxing without risk of addiction. She'd healed Simone's colds and other sicknesses, fed her strengthening, nourishing dishes no one had been able to recreate, sang her to sleep and tucked her in bed. And she missed her, Simone did, now more than ever.