work for the post office,” he said, sitting down. “Don’t you remember, Shauna? You sent me letters for Santa Claus when you were a child.”
Sloane smiled. “That’s right. I thought you knew his address.”
Evan smiled back. “It’s strange for a child to understand that it’s helpful to be well connected.”
Sloane moved to the pictures arranged on the mantel. Their Bert had lost his wife in a mysterious incident—he had never been specific—that had later motivated him to join ARIS, in search of explanations.
“I’ve never seen this picture of Anna,” she said, picking up one of the frames. In the photograph, a young Evan Kowalczyk sat beside a plump woman—Anna Kowalczyk—her hair tied up in a scarf and a pile of knitting on her lap. The picture of domesticity.
“Ah, you wouldn’t have. I was never very good at sending your mother copies.” Evan’s mouth pressed into a line. “Or staying in touch.”
“It’s a two-way street,” Sloane said, hoping it was true.
“How did she die?” Esther said.
“You don’t know?” Evan raised an eyebrow. “She was killed by the Resurrectionist.”
Esther’s and Sloane’s eyes met. Sloane thought of the rubble of the Drain site, a tomb of bodies and memories that would never be recovered.
“How is your mother doing?” Evan asked her. “I know the anniversary was always hard for her.”
“Oh, she’s all right.” Sloane shrugged. “Dad’s driving her crazy, as usual.”
It had seemed like a safe comment in her head, but it came out sounding wrong, like a dissonant chord. Evan froze with his cup of coffee on his lap, his eyes on her. Sloane didn’t dare to look away.
“I mean—” Sloane began.
“Pete’s been dead for ten years.” Evan set the coffee down on the table, his hand trembling. “You’re not Shauna, are you?”
He had gone rigid. Sloane felt her heartbeat all through her body—chest, fingers, throat, cheeks.
“Shit,” Esther said.
“No,” Sloane said. “I’m not.”
“Who are you?” Evan stood and stepped toward her. She stumbled back toward the front door. Esther was on her feet, too, inching out of the living room.
“Someone who knows what you could have been,” Sloane said coldly. “There are plenty of mysteries left in the world, Evan.”
“Who are you?” Evan demanded again. “How do you know me?”
Her eyes burned suddenly, like she might cry. Violence flared inside her, so similar to the burn of magic in her chest that she worried she would cause another gale like the one in the Hall of Summons that had shattered the oculus window.
She raised her voice: “The Resurrectionist killed your wife, and here you are delivering mail, living in your dead aunt’s house, like there’s nothing to avenge!”
“How do you know whose house this is?” Evan’s face had gone white. He blinked a stray tear down his cheek, forgetting to dab it away with his handkerchief. “How do you know anything about me?”
“She has some latent . . . clairvoyant . . . abilities,” Esther said, grabbing Sloane’s arm. “She’s also kind of an asshole, so sorry—”
“Get out,” Evan said.
“How can you be so—” Sloane started, but Esther was dragging her toward the front door.
Sloane gave in to Esther’s grip, letting herself be wrestled outside and down the steps to the sidewalk. She heard the door slamming, the lock sliding into place. Esther said something to Kyros and Edda, who were still waiting for them by the curb, but Sloane couldn’t make out the words.
She sat on the concrete and tried to breathe. Esther’s hand was on her back, steady and warm. The sun was setting, and with it came the brutal wind coming off the lake, like daggers on her skin.
They all stayed still for a long time, until Sloane’s ears burned from the cold and Esther was shivering.
After a while, Sloane said to Esther, “I wouldn’t read those FOIA documents if I were you. It’s not a Bert you’d want to know.”
“So why did you read them?”
Sloane shrugged and tilted her head back to look at the sky. The moon was rising behind the clouds. “More information is better, right?” She laughed. “Fuck.”
“Fuck,” Esther agreed. “Want to get a drink somewhere?”
“Yeah,” Sloane said, and she let Esther help her to her feet and hook her elbow around Sloane’s. “I know a place.”
Esther laughed, her crisp voice echoing down the empty street. Edda was standing on the corner of the street, her siphon hand raised and shining with ethereal light. Hailing a taxi.
“We’re in an alternate universe!” Esther said. “How do you know a place?”