The Cost of Memories

In Which My Two Worlds Almost Get In A Fight

"No one is going to believe that you're not someone working for the DMA," I say, crossing my arms as Finn walks into the pawn shop. "Your clothes are too nice, and you have a presence that screams that you're looking to take someone down."

He tugs off the newsboy hat that he has pulled low over his eyes and tosses it onto the counter hard enough that I swear a cloud of dust attempts to choke me. "For the last time, Mae, I am not letting you go to the Night Market alone. While most people go there with the intentions of buying and selling commodities legally, there are enough people who are in the shadowy part of business."

"I haven't worked for the DMA for five years, and most people who would recognize me at the market know me from the pawnshop. You, Finn, are too noticeable, and if one person who happens to know that you work for the Department sees you with me, I could lose business here. Not everyone who comes here to sell me things are doing it for nefarious reasons, but all of them are desperate. And desperate people trust you less with their possessions and their secrets when they think you are a spy for the government."

He sighs and leans across the counter until our noses nearly touch. "I'm still coming with you, but I guess I better let you choose my outfit."

Finn scowls as we make our way through the crowded streets, and I push his hand away from his face. "Don't you dare. I spent too long making sure that no one could quite tell if that's dirt on your face or not, and I will not have you messing it up."

It has been years since I was last at the Night Market, probably back when Uncle Pierce was still alive and before my time with the DMA, but it always strikes me how silent it tends to be. People only speak when they need to as quietly as they possibly can as if they cannot stand to break the blanket that night drapes over the city.

My partner makes another swipe for his face. I catch his hand, curling my fingers between his. "Don't touch your face, or the next time that you decide that we need to go somewhere like this, I am going to find you a dress."

My threat doesn't make the landing that I was hoping because Finn is too busy staring down at our entwined hands. When I try to pull my fingers loose, he increases the pressure so I can't. His gaze migrates back up to my face.

"I missed this," he whispers, lips curling in a sadness-tinged smile.

Breath stuck in my throat at the emotions cycling through his eyes faster than a runaway washing machine, I stop attempting to pull away. I wonder why out of all the memories that have wandered through my mind, I can't seem to find the ones that tell me exactly what happened between the two of us. For someone who frequently wades through others' memories to safely copy them, this conundrum is bothering me worse than having a broken nail.

"Finn, we need to be looking for this dealer before someone wonders why we are just standing in the middle of the street, staring at each other like a couple of lovestruck teenagers," I say, forcing the questions that are pressing at my tongue to retreat to a corner where they can't slip out. "The Night Market isn't going to stay open forever."

He sighs, something in his posture telling me that there is more he wants to say too, but he merely nods. We set off into the thick of the crowds, my hand still clutched in his as if he is worried that he is going to lose me again.

My stomach rumbles when I smell something that reminds me of the orange spice cake that Uncle Pierce would let me make once a year, my little fingers sliding against the worn pages of a cookbook that the aunt I didn't remember had compiled. I can almost see the sadness and joy of remembrance that crinkled the corners of his eyes equally each time he smelled that cake, and my heart aches even with nearly six years past.