Pandora's Box

13. Searching for Clues

Evan hails a cab for me, giving the driver a couple of bills and strict instructions to take me straight home. I've never seen him so serious, but I've also always seen him through Indie's filter - a shy, quiet, sheltered kid. Seeing him now, calmly telling me to go home, shower, and rest, reassuring me that he'll keep an eye on Molly, I realize I've made a mistake in accepting that version of him. Evan, like most people, is far more complex.

Tucked into the cab, I watch through the window as he turns and heads back home. He's going to catch the brunt of the repercussions for my hasty actions this afternoon but there's nothing I can do about it now except hope that Molly doesn't take her anger on me out on him. Maybe Delian will distract her, calm her down somehow.

Something about Delian is still needling me. The shock of seeing him in her bed wasn't actually as surprising as I thought it would be. Of course, it was clear yesterday that she wanted him, anyone could have seen that. What's odd is that somehow I expected this of him, as if this wasn't the first time he'd chased after a woman he just met. Why was this so familiar? I literally met Delian yesterday - how could I know how he acts around women? Maybe it was my Sense, weakened but not lost, picking up on his womanizing personality. It feels like something more, though, something deeply personal that I can't figure out.

Back home, safely locked away from the world and with zero intentions of venturing back out into it any time soon, I take Evan's advice. A hot shower melts away the rest of the tension in my shoulders and brushing my teeth feels like heaven. The mystery of Delian still rattles around in my brain no matter how hard I try to direct my thoughts away from it. Curiosity burns through my thoughts, searing the conviction that I need to talk to him again into my mind. I will confront him about the story. Not today, though. One insane, stupid, hasty action is enough for one day.

Grabbing the mythologies book and a cup of coffee, I settle into the couch again. This time I thumb through the entries, stopping when something catches my eye but otherwise pretending to look at the words and pictures while letting my mind wander.

Helenus, mortal seer, son of King Priam and Queen Hecuba of Troy.

Another prophet in the mythologies, I wonder if this one was plagued by his gifts as well? Or is it only female prophets that struggle to convince the world that they're telling the truth?

Fates, daughters of Nyx and keepers of the past, present, and future of man.

I don't believe in fate, or fates, puppeteering mortals at their whim. There are connections between humans that I don't understand; aspirations and motivations that make no sense as they drive us forward, but even that is beyond the idea of fate. More like folly.

Moros, god of impending doom.

Molly's wrath is the impending doom in my future. Unless things went really, really well with Delian I probably need to steer clear of her for a while. Maybe Indie is right. Maybe this vision isn't real, won't come to pass. Maybe that's why it keeps changing on me.

Nyx, goddess of chaos and the night.

Chaos, that's a good word for my life right now.

Pandora's Box, a vessel which released untold evils like sickness and death on the world and which was closed before hope could be released.

On that depressing note, I close the book. 'Box' reminds me of my tarot box, so I retrieve it from my bag, emptying the deck of cards onto the suitcase-turned-coffee table with the photograph of my doppelganger. The box itself, while still beautiful, offers no inspiration or clues to its origin. I set it down and pick up the photo, taking in the context rather than the woman for the first time. Her quiet contemplation and eerie resemblance to me had captured my attention the last time I'd studied the photo.

Looking at it now, there's much more to the photo than I had realized before. Rows of neat bookshelves grace the background, cast in dark shadow so that aside from being able to identify what they are, there isn't further detail. The desk is far more interesting. There's a nameplate at the edge, near the stack of books waiting by the woman's elbow. I squint at the detail. Though the photo is hazy, I'm fairly certain the plate reads 'Alexandra Ukrainka, Librarian.'

The woman in the photo has a name! How did Adrian miss that?

I squint at the photo again, looking for more clues. I find them in the spines of the books: The Iliad, The Odyssey, An Anthology of Greek Mythologies, Apollo and His Muses. All of the books are about Greek mythology; two of them are the same as the ones sitting on my kitchen table.

What does that mean? Was this woman, this Alexandra Ukrainka, a Greek history enthusiast? Was she assigned to the Greek literature section of the library? Was that how librarians worked?

Setting the photo down, I retrieve the books from the kitchen table and bring them back to my detective's nest on the couch. I don't know what I'm looking for, or hoping to find, in the books but something about them feels important. Inside The Iliad is a neat pocket folder, the kind that libraries used to affix to the inside of books to hold cards indicating when a book had been checked out and when it needed to be returned. This one happened to have its card still tucked neatly away in the pocket. I tug gently to release it. The card is nearly full of intake and check out records, each captured in a precise flowing script. Ethel Mayberry, June 2, 1941 - June 9, 1941. Frank Corden, August 18, 1941 - September 19, 1941 (late). Beneath each entry are the initials of the librarian that oversaw the release and return of the book; more than half of them are 'A.U.'

I don't believe in fate, or coincidences. So how the hell did I end up with the exact book from this old photo of a woman who looks like she could be a distant relative?

I have questions. Unfortunately, I have no way to demand them from Adrian, so I'll have to settle for Delian instead.