Seeker

Quin was in the back room of her healing office, tidying up after mixing a bag of herbs for the little redheaded Asian boy. The bells on the front door rang, alerting her that someone had just entered the waiting room.

“Mother?” she called. For the first time in a long while, she was eager to see Fiona and tell her about saving the boy.

She moved into the front room and discovered it was not Fiona.

It was a young man. He was about her own age, quite nice-looking, with fair skin and light brown hair. He stood with his back to the entry door, and his blue eyes were looking at her like he was drowning and she might save his life.

Somehow she lost control of her hands and dropped a canister of herbs. It fell to the ground, spilling its contents across the floor.

“Quin,” he said softly. “Is it really you?”

She’d been worried that his voice would be different, twisted, terrifying even, but it was not. He sounded quite ordinary, and very, very familiar.

He was watching her closely, as if worried she might do something dangerous or wild. His eyes followed her as she bent to pick up the herbs. She too felt like she might do something unpredictable. But what?

She took her time retrieving the canister from the floor and setting it carefully on a counter. Her motions felt awkward all of a sudden, like her muscles had stopped working properly in his presence.

“Quin,” he said again. She knew his voice. She knew it so well. And him. Of course she knew him. He was important in her life somehow.Copyright Nôv/el/Dra/ma.Org.

“Do you know me?” he asked. He took a step toward her.

“Of course.” She said it automatically and found herself backing into the doorjamb of the room behind her. It was good to feel the solid wall there. She did know him. She could imagine herself walking over and laying her head on his chest. But there was good reason, her mind told her, that she did not remember him. “Of course I know you.”

He took another step toward her, like he couldn’t keep himself away.

“What’s my name?” he asked.

Quin bit her bottom lip. His name was right there, on the tip of her tongue. It was something common, and yet she couldn’t think of it. It was part of that gray area in her mind, where other people thought memories should be. The gray was like her own Victoria Harbor, drowning the first fifteen years of her life.

He was getting closer. The way he moved … She had seen him in a barn, in a field, far away from here. There was a river in the distance. These things were like marks left on an ink blotter after you’ve taken your paper away—she could feel them more than she could see them.

He was standing right in front of her, and Quin was pressed against the wall. He smelled of soap and salty ocean air.

“What’s my name, Quin?”

She whispered, “John.”

The sensation of dizziness rolled over her. Her knees gave out, and she was sliding down the wall. John caught her. She pushed herself up and away from him, moving into the back room.

She could not remember, and yet not remembering was exhausting. It was hard to walk. She was staggering. She knocked over another canister of herbs, heard it spill all over the floor. She should not be with him.

“I was so worried,” he was saying. “I thought—ever since that night—”

“No.” Instinctively her hand came up to stop whatever he was going to say. There was John’s face. She’d seen it looking at her through a hole, while numbness spread across her chest …

“Thank God you’re all right,” he breathed, now following her as she tottered around the examination table.

She pulled another few canisters off a shelf as she tried to hold herself up. The old wound in her chest was aching. She was actually falling; her legs had collapsed.

Instead of hitting the ground, she was lifted into John’s strong arms. It felt so natural. Even though he was dangerous. He was dangerous, somehow. And so was she. Together they would be very dangerous.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.”

He was carrying her up the stairs to her bedroom, and it was like being on the deck of a rocking boat. She didn’t mind that he was touching her, didn’t care where his hands had been. She let her eyes close. Then they were in her bedroom, and he was laying her gently on the bed.

The dizziness was worse. This had happened to her before, during her first months in Hong Kong. It’s your past trying to overtake your present, Master Tan had explained patiently. You may leave it in the past, if you wish. You must simply wait for the moment to pass.

“I’m here,” he whispered. “I’m here with you. I’ve missed you. God, I’m so sorry …”

Why was it dangerous to be with him? It didn’t make sense. She could sleep, because he was there to stand guard. Things were right again, because John was here.

“I missed you too,” she murmured, holding one of his hands in her own as she drifted into unconsciousness.