The Blue Book

The thirteenth chapter. Truth-time.

Monica was by her side in a heartbeat, but Kit had already bent down beside her. Could it be ...?

She didn't scream or clutch her shoulder, she simply fell. Hand-free and with nothing to dampen the impact between her bones and the ground.

'Ding- dong, sing the witch's song, the dead-girl lives, but not for long!'

'She's a monster made by Golovin, you fools!'

'Run from the witch, Bremners! She has not bled, it would be better if you fled!'

Shock paralysed me. The girl. The sweet girl he'd brought. The only girl he'd brought. Blue, Blue, Blue. Sweet girl. What did they ...? How could they ...?

'Charles!' Monica's voice had the same edge to it as it did when she'd been in labour. This was life. This could be death.

'What?'

'Get him out of here. Take her. Christ. It's my bloody anniversary. Blue, darling, I need you to be brave.'

Her lovely yellow dress tripled with blood, of course she bled, satanic morons.
I grabbed Kit's arm but he refused, and when I tugged at him I for a microsecond feared he would strike me. He wouldn't, but all I saw in his eyes was that he was to stay and nobody could hinder him. Blue sat against the gate, trying to push away the pain away as she reassured Monica she's fine. I watched mesmerised and horrified as she put her arm across her chest, putting her fingers over her shoulder and digging them into the wound. Kit grunted and faced away, me, I followed his lead, whilst Monica taught her to hyperventilate and told the girl to push on. Which she did, as though no nerves ran in her body or as though her odd brain could not perceive pain.
'Christ, Blue ...' Kit said and reached for her. After rejection, shame and hurt compelled him to do some good, well, mostly he wanted to get away from her. He dove into the house bringing back towels, warm water, needle, thread and a bowl.
'Done.' Blue announced. 'It's done.'

***

On our journey home over fields, fences and cobblestones I had my bloody arm draped across Mr. Bookman's neck the whole time. It took ages, both because I had to pretend it hurt and because I knew I couldn't move to fast not to rip a couple of very temporary stitches. He took me to my nest on the platform where I used to spend my sleepless nights.
Instead of saying goodnight and lingering for a second in the door before switching off from consciousness to snoring he folded his long legs a wee bit away from me.
Without a word, excuse or explanation he unfolded a book he'd begun only yesterday.
We stayed like that for some time, him waiting for ... heaven knows, reading intently, only a couple of feet away but in another universe, me laying down, soaking his pillowcase with trickles of blood, realising he expected me to sleep eventually. He didn't know that I didn't. Not even the blood loss or shock my body had been exposed to would put me out. I tried closing my eyes but was wildly aware and dreadfully reminded of the suffocating coffin, when I'd been stripped off choice, own volition and privacy.
The sun had long gone tired of this side of the world and went to shine on the other one, and was released from its shift by the moon. Mr. Bookman had made it through half of the book and was completely absorbed by it.
My thoughts should have sprinted by now, running on hollow ground, desperately trying to clasp why anyone should want to shoot me. Who could've done it, what had their taunting meant, and why on this green earth it had to rhyme for some reason? But because of something, highly vague and possibly unreal I knew that people would sometimes hate me for me. I have no home, no memories, no ancestry. I had faced it with some kind of calm and humour, but now I just didn't know if I cared. I could've fallen from the skies, I could've been made by Jeremiah as they said. I could have grown from the soil like flora, cutting off my roots and stepping away from them, then being found by Jeremiah, taken from him and put in the coffin, later escaped and at last found by Mr.Bookman and taken in by the Bremners. Somehow I found it didn't matter. Instead I painfully lifted my head and placed all my weight on my elbow.
'Do you care?' I asked Mr.Bookman. 'In general, I mean. About things ... Do you care about any of it?'
This, I think, matters.
I took him a while to form and answer and come back to this place, but his answer was well thought-through and candid.
'Not always. It depends on what it is.'
'What about Charles? The Bremners?'
'Very much.' He said truthfully.
'Your shop?' I posed. From the very limited information I had gotten to know about him, things, items didn't really interest him.
'The jewellery? Not so much, but the library, yes.'
'That boy, then? You told me about him. Kol.' I wondered.
'Also yes, I care a great deal for him.' Again, a people- person.
'How about girls?'
'I've met a few. Some were very smart, some unkind, some lonely, some happy and strong. I didn't wish them harm, but I can't say I cared much for any particular one.'
'And yourself?' I pried. So far he'd went along with this sudden inquiry without confusion or hesitation, the people around him were important but himself?
'Most of the time. I try.'
'And me?'
'No, not at all.' It burned suddenly in my shoulder, just for a second and then blood flowed loudly in my ears. A smile, grin in fact snuck up on him, but drained quickly. 'Oh, no, Blue, I couldn't even look at you, when you dug that bullet out. I've dragged you along to all my errands and visits these past two weeks. I brought you to meet Charles, the girls, Monica and James. I've let you roam free not only among jewels but I've given you free pass to my library. Not only do I care, I trust you. I've never seen a friend shot before, I regret that I wasn't more useful.' He looked at me and said something I was sure he had been once told:
'Just breathe and things will be good. Now, can you please just go to sleep so that I can too?'
I smiled and turned around, heaved a heavy sigh and faked regular breaths. He thanked something, the universe or space and immediately fell to the ground, snoring.

***

The gunshot had changed me. Not because of the wound itself, I already knew I didn't hurt as others, and not the scar from it that was still pink and fresh. My truth time with Mr. Bookman had also altered something. No family and no ancestry- true. But a home and a friend- yes. It took a while for me to accept and I still kept some precautions, skilled psychologists could probably tell me how the deeply rooted ghosts of a past life haunted me and made me unable to truly settle, but I didn't care. Truth time had relived us both. We were such strangers, me more than him, awkward and lacking common ground, it took time, many conversations ending abruptly and long silences, mostly because both of us was of the opinion that when nothing needed to be said nothing should be. Eventually we made small memories, tiny stories and developed minuscule internal jokes. I'll be honest, the shot didn't make me eternally thankful to either God or the universe, as was probably expected of me, I was more grateful to my shooter who'd warned me, without me actually dying.
I fought off a little fever after scraps of the bullet caused a minor infection, and truth time again: I was in some sort of selfish way flattered by Bookman's anxiety. After that, loads of fluids, him reading aloud to me and visits from the Bremmer- sisters. They repeatedly sent love from their parents but said they needed, as much as I, to recuperate. I had tried to apologise for ruining their anniversary, but when they all laughed at me for being ridiculous, even delirious they called it, from the fever, they explained that this way, at least it be both be famous and memorable. Bookman spoke to the Scotland Yard but there wasn't much they could do. The bullet had shattered, and it was impossible to determine calibre and with it, the gun, let alone the hitman. The island was quite large and it's most likely they'd been hired from up north. My wound told them nothing and the jeers they threw at us when it happened were illogical and insane.
I still frequently thought of Jeremiah, I missed him. I wondered where he was and hoped he wouldn't do anything foolish now that I, too, was gone. I never said so to Mr. Bookman as he had gotten it into his mind that he was the beast. That I was never taken but Jeremiah was the one to put me in the blue house. I couldn't believe that. Jeremiah was, oh so brilliant and kind. He'd been somewhat handsome once, but loss changes a person. Solitude tears apart.
'I want to take you some place.' Bookman said, while looking up from his microscope he used to engrave details on his work, and my thought train made a halt. This was a new expression I'd learned. Train of thought. It made sense, because thoughts are often linear, can change course and speed, become jammed, be very loud and crash, like trains.
'Charles'?' I asked hopefully.
'No. But I'm glad he makes you light up like that, he has that effect on people. I want you to come with to the estate.'
'Really? But how about Kol?'
'Yes, I want you to meet him.' He said.
'You said he doesn't like people.' I pointed out.
'He's different. I got to know him, and his madam is on her way to, you will too.'
'He seems difficult to know.' I said.
'Yes, well, he is. Most difficult. But he's smart, like you, and he likes smart. Kol's special, he's warm and questions things, me, mostly. He's got imagination off the charts, but is also pretty lost.' He said, looking up from the silver- chain. 'Orphaned.'
'What do you mean?'
'He came to the estate without parents, or even a note. The madam was once famous for taking in children, but she lost one and shut down the house. All of them found a home but many who came after that, had to seek elsewhere. A few years later a boy, tossed in a bucked shows up, she took him in and I guess somehow he mended her. Losing one of them broke her soul and trust. After that more and more came and now she's got a legitimate business as mistress of the abandoned. She's extraordinary, you'll love her.'
'Do you?' I asked.
'Yeah, I do. You can't help it. I spend so much time with Kol I got a touch of her as well.' He shined.
'I'm orphaned too, no?' I asked. This question shook him. His posture softened and he turned to me as if he was going to embrace me.
'No, no, we can't assume that yet. There's a huge difference between abandonment and amnesia.' He assured me. 'You ready?'
'Ready.' I said, and meant it.
I believed that I was alone, it wasn't an impossibility. All I knew was that Jeremiah wasn't family, but the closest thing I had to it, and Bookman was my friend, but that wasn't the same. For now I thought only of meeting Kol, and placed my hopes in the difference between orphans and oblivion.