From the Journal of Atticus Holden
"Evidence is most dangerous when it agrees with you. Contradictions make us cautious. Confirmation makes us careless. The voice beneath Bell Street knew about the peppermints. I wanted that to mean it was my father. Wanting was the first mistake."
"Left pocket," the voice whispered.
"Always."
Atticus stared at the hatch.
The bells had stopped ringing.
The shop had gone so quiet that he could hear rain tapping against the front windows.
Elias had carried peppermints in his left coat pocket.
Atticus knew it.
Dewey knew it.
Mara had known it.
Perhaps a handful of investigators who had worked closely with Elias might have noticed.
But the voice beneath the floor had answered correctly.
"Atticus."
Lyra stood beside him.
Her sword remained drawn.
He did not look at her.
"My father carried peppermint sweets."
"I gathered that."
"In his left pocket."
"Yes."
"He claimed they helped him think."
"Atticus."
"They didn't."
Lyra stepped in front of him.
That made him look at her.
"You're doing it again."
"Doing what?"
"Talking around the thing you want to do."
Tulbe raised one hand.
"He does do that."
Atticus frowned at him.
Tulbe lowered his hand.
"Supportively."
Lyra pointed toward the hatch.
"You want to open it."
"Yes."
"Then say that."
Atticus looked at the iron ring.
"I want to open it."
"No."
He blinked.
"You told me to say it."
"I didn't say I would agree."
Tulbe nodded appreciatively.
"Very efficient."
Cora remained near the counter.
Her face had gone pale.
"Please."
Atticus turned.
"Don't open it."
The voice beneath them did not speak again.
Atticus crouched beside the hatch.
He examined the mud.
The partial boot print.
The worn iron ring.
Then the hinges.
"Someone opened it recently."
"We established that," Lyra said.
"No."
Atticus pointed.
"The hinges are clean."
Tulbe crouched beside him.
"Oil."
"Fresh?"
Tulbe touched one gloved finger to the hinge and smelled it.
Lyra stared.
"Do alchemists taste evidence too?"
Tulbe looked offended.
"Only irresponsible ones."
He paused.
"Usually."
Atticus waited.
"Three days," Tulbe said. "Possibly four."
Cora shook her head.
"I didn't oil it."
"Who has access to the shop?"
"No one."
"Employees?"
"Just me."
"Family?"
Cora hesitated.
Atticus noticed.
"Cora."
"My daughter."
Lyra looked toward her.
"Where is she?"
Cora did not answer.
The silence changed.
Atticus stood.
"Where is your daughter?"
"Gone."
"For how long?"
"Four days."
Tulbe slowly looked at the oiled hinge.
Atticus asked, "Her name?"
Cora closed her eyes.
"Lena."
"How old?"
"Twenty-six."
"Did she hear the song?"
Cora's eyes opened.
"Yes."
Atticus removed his notebook.
"When?"
"Three weeks ago."
"Why didn't you report it?"
Cora looked toward the bells.
"Because I knew what the Grand Hall would do."
"What?"
"Ask questions."
Atticus stared at her.
Tulbe coughed.
Lyra looked away.
Atticus closed his notebook slightly.
"That is generally the purpose of an investigation."
"Your father asked questions too."
The words landed harder than Cora intended.
She saw it.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be."
Atticus opened the notebook again.
"What happened to Lena?"
"She woke me in the middle of the night."
"Exact time?"
"I don't know."
"Were the clocks working?"
Cora looked at him.
"No."
Atticus wrote.
"What did she say?"
"She asked who Elara was."
Tulbe stopped fidgeting.
Lyra's expression hardened.
Atticus continued.
"Had you told her about your mother?"
"Never."
"Why?"
"Because I spent forty-three years trying to forget her voice."
Atticus understood.
"And then?"
"Lena started remembering things."
"What things?"
"My childhood."
The room became still.
Cora pressed both hands against the counter.
"She remembered the blue dress my father bought me when I turned eight."
Her voice trembled.
"She remembered breaking a kitchen window with a wooden horse."
Tulbe asked quietly, "Could you have told her those stories?"
"No."
"How can you be certain?"
"Because I had forgotten them."
Tulbe said nothing.
Cora looked at Atticus.
"Until Lena told me."
Atticus felt the pieces rearrange.
Elara's memory had entered Cora.
Now Cora's memories were appearing in Lena.
Not random.
A line.
Mother.
Daughter.
Granddaughter.
"The memory is moving," he whispered.
This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.
Tulbe nodded slowly.
"Through generations."
Lyra looked toward the hatch.
"The First remembers."
Atticus turned.
"The Second listens."
Tulbe's eyes widened.
"The Third—"
"Opens the door," Cora finished.
Beneath them, Elias's voice laughed.
Softly.
"Very good, Atti."
Atticus drew his wand.
The damaged silver binding burned against his palm.
"That's not my father."
The voice stopped.
Lyra looked at him.
"What changed?"
"Elias hated being interrupted while solving a problem."
Tulbe frowned.
"That seems reasonable."
"He also never congratulated me before I finished."
Atticus approached the hatch.
"He said it encouraged premature confidence."
Tulbe looked thoughtful.
"I may adopt that."
"No," Lyra said.
The voice below whispered:
"Atti."
Atticus raised the wand.
"You know his memories."
Silence.
"You knew the peppermints because Elias knew the peppermints."
The floor beneath them grew warmer.
Atticus continued.
"You know Mara's voice because my father knew Mara."
A bell rang.
Once.
"You called me Atti because Elias heard my mother call me Atti."
The hatch shook.
Cora backed away.
Lyra moved beside Atticus.
Tulbe uncorked an orange vial.
Atticus smiled faintly.
"You made a mistake."
The thing below went silent.
"You wanted me to believe my father was waiting."
Atticus crouched.
"But you showed me only things my father remembered."
The iron ring began to tremble.
Atticus wrapped an evidence cloth around his hand.
Lyra caught his arm.
"I thought we agreed not to open it."
"We didn't agree."
"You said you wanted to."
"You said no."
"Yes."
"That was the entire conversation."
Tulbe nodded.
"He's technically correct."
Lyra glared at him.
"Supportively," Tulbe added.
Atticus looked at Cora.
"Where did Lena go?"
Tears filled her eyes.
"She opened the hatch."
"And?"
"I tried to stop her."
Cora's voice broke.
"She looked at me and called me Elara."
Atticus went still.
"Then she went below."
"When?"
"Four days ago."
The oiled hinges.
The boot print.
The song.
Atticus looked toward the hatch.
"Lena Wren is down there."
Lyra tightened her grip on her sword.
"Maybe."
"No."
Atticus looked at her.
"Cora's mother died."
"Atticus—"
"Cora became Elara."
He pointed toward the hatch.
"Now Lena remembers Cora."
Tulbe understood.
"A chain."
"Exactly."
"Memory passing from one person to another."
"Not passing."
Atticus opened his notebook.
He wrote one word.
COPYING
Tulbe stared.
"Oh."
"Scientific?" Lyra asked.
"No."
Atticus underlined the word.
"If memory were transferred, Cora would lose what Lena gained."
"But she didn't," Tulbe said.
"No."
Atticus looked toward the floor.
"The Threshold isn't moving memories."
The warmth intensified.
"It is collecting them."
A violent blow struck the hatch.
Cora screamed.
Lyra raised her sword.
Tulbe nearly dropped his vial.
Atticus stepped backward.
Another blow.
BOOM.
The wooden boards cracked.
A woman's voice screamed from below.
"Mother!"
Cora rushed forward.
Atticus caught her.
"Lena!"
"Mother!"
The voice was terrified.
Human.
Real.
Atticus listened.
One breath.
Two.
Then—
"Please!"
Cora struggled against him.
"Let me go!"
Atticus held her.
"Lena!" he shouted.
The pounding stopped.
"Who is with you?"
Silence.
Atticus waited.
"Lena?"
Her voice returned.
Small.
Confused.
"Elias."
Atticus's grip loosened.
Cora pulled away.
Tulbe stared at him.
Lyra did not move.
Atticus approached the hatch.
"What did you say?"
"He found me."
The damaged wand grew hot.
Painfully hot.
Atticus almost dropped it.
Below them, Lena began to cry.
"He said you would come."
Atticus knelt.
His face inches from the wood.
"Where is Elias?"
Lena whispered:
"Standing behind you."
Atticus froze.
Cora's eyes widened.
Tulbe stopped breathing.
Lyra turned first.
Her glowing sword rose.
A man stood outside the bell shop window.
Tall.
Rain-soaked.
A dark investigator's coat hanging from narrow shoulders.
One hand rested in his left pocket.
Atticus stared through the glass.
The man removed a peppermint.
Unwrapped it.
And smiled.
The lights went out.
Journal Addendum
"I had imagined seeing my father again many times. In none of those imaginings did I draw a wand. Memory is sentimental that way. Reality is usually armed."