So this was it. Paris was the last time I saw Rashid.

Well, not the very last time. You know that.

On Sunday after our night at Moulin Arc-en-Ciel, Rashid comes with me to Charles de Gaulle Airport, where I board my plane back to New Orleans, before he returns to the city to catch the Eurostar to London. Our goodbye is strained. Subdued. I don’t want to be over-dramatic, so I try to keep it together until I’m out of Rashid’s sight. When I sit down at the gate, I crumble and the tears start falling. I pull my hood over my head, listen to some music with my earphones in and curl up in my seat.

When I arrive in New Orleans, Mal waits for me at arrivals, giving me a lift home. I’m glad he takes me straight back to my place without a detour to Leonidas. As much as I want to see my sister and the kids again, I’m also wiped. I couldn’t sleep on the plane (without Rashid as my personal pillow) and didn’t get much shut-eye the previous nights either. Mal, very uncharacteristically, chats happily away in the car, updating me on everyone and everything that’s happened in the single week I’ve been away. Josie is doing fine; she still feels nauseous sometimes, and she suddenly can’t stand the smell of coffee. I gasp out loud at that. I can’t even begin to imagine not wanting coffee! I sent a silent prayer of thanks to my lucky stars that I can’t get pregnant. Nine months without coffee? Inconceivable!

I missed the twins’ first birthday last week, but Rashid and I sent a video from Paris with Pont Neuf and the famous Notre Dame cathedral behind us. Mal says they only had his parents over for a barbecue; it was a lovely day, and the twins are too small to remember who was there anyway. I promise to come over and visit as soon as I can. Mal has already made a stop at Tough Cookie’s house, who cat-sat Bruno for me again. I’m so happy to see my little snuggle buddy again, who glowers at me from his pet carrier on the backseat of the car. Mal helps me haul everything, including some groceries, upstairs to my studio before he leaves to get back to his family, and I can finally collapse on my bed. Bruno is still a little upset with me for leaving him alone – again! – ignores his full bowls and trots outside onto my terrace. It only registers vaguely with me; I’m out cold in seconds after hitting the mattress.

When I – quite predictably – wake up in the middle of the night, Bruno is curled up at the foot of my bed, and my phone blinks at me, alerting me to missed calls and texts.

RC: Back in London. Miss you already. Did you get home OK?

DM: Call me.

I type a quick text to Rashid assuring him I’ve returned safe and sound. Then I call Daniel Molloy. It turns out he was approached by a non-profit organisation here in New Orleans who are looking for contributors to a fundraiser. Daniel wants to write a book about New Orleans and have the proceedings go to the non-profit. We spend the next few hours brainstorming, and when the sun starts lurking behind the horizon, we’ve come up with the groundwork of ‘Lanterns on the River’, a book that will contain stories about life in New Orleans. Not the ones you’d expect – nothing about vampires, ghosts and witches, but about the people in my quirky little town. Stories about life, love, friendship and neighbourhood. Old recipes that transcended from generation to generation. Old photos from days past. I think it sounds absolutely fantastic, and when Daniel asks me to put my project about Jack Delaney on hold for this, I don’t hesitate. I’m so on board. Daniel needs me to interview people about their stories, and I have so many ideas. I also hope it’ll keep me occupied during the next months without Rashid.

It works. For a while.

I split up my time between my duties as a custodian, finding people to interview for ‘Lanterns on the River’ and supporting Josie. As her pregnancy progresses, she tires really easily. Soso is a rather self-sufficient 7-year-old, so she mostly takes care of herself. Growing up with a single mom struggling to make ends meet and an uncle who preferred to live on the streets to staying with his family probably has that effect on a kid. I want to do better with the twins, who are a handful. Mal is busy at his store, and I’m happy to help. I stay overnight at least once a week to avoid going back and forth between Leonidas and my own apartment all the time.

I guess I should have seen it coming. The signs were there. In retrospect I feel like the Titanic. Warnings about icebergs left and right, but I just kept ignoring them, ploughing on until I got hit by a blue-white giant square in the chest. After that the spiral, the plummet to the ocean floor, was inevitable. Maybe not one of my best metaphors, but it’s accurate. The way I clung to Rashid, the way I obsessively counted the days until his next return, the way I only seemed to be alive when he was here. The zombie existence I endured in between. The way it got worse and worse every time we were apart. Josie saw it. I didn’t. I didn’t want to see it. Finally, it got so bad, that even when we were together, I was walking on eggshells. Afraid to say something or do something that would displease him, ‘ruin the mood’. I didn’t want to let him see how much I was hurting.

Rashid didn’t realise this was happening. He never gave me the impression that I couldn’t be myself around him. He never meant for me to sugarcoat my words or police my behaviour out of fear that I’d lose him. Somewhere along the way, though, I convinced myself that if our relationship was going to work, it was my job to make him happy – and only him. It wasn’t a conscious decision. It’s not like I sat down one day and decided to ignore my own feelings and shape myself around Rashid’s happiness. That’s not how it happened, and not what it was. It started as a snowflake, turned into a snowball, and then an avalanche on its way downhill. I’m spending way too much time with Eli Barnes and his goddamn metaphors. His are better, though.

Of course, we also had happy moments. The weeks I spent with Rashid in London and Paris were the best I ever had. Being in a new place, untainted with awful memories of pain, loss and abuse, made falling for this man, his tenderness and kindness, even easier.

That first year with Rashid was a fucking rollercoaster. The highs kept rising, the lows dropping away beneath me, until I lost my balance entirely. Maybe Rashid would have noticed something sooner if he hadn’t been so caught up with his own issues at the time. Would things have ended up differently between us if he had confided in me sooner? Who knows? I know he tried, and I shut him down. I didn’t confide in him either, so this is on the both of us.

Paris was the first time Rashid and I had “proper” sex. Penetrative sex. Anal, if you want to get clinical about it. When we finally had our big talk about intimacy early on, it was awkward as hell. I was so inexperienced when it came to relationships, and I didn’t want to disappoint Rashid. I assumed we’d just do ‘it’, and I was ready to follow his lead, go along with whatever he enjoyed. But the calm, rational way he talked about sex helped. He genuinely wanted to know what I liked, what I’d be comfortable with, what I might want to try. He wanted to understand my limits—and which lines not to cross. None of it was set in stone. Either of us could change our minds at any time.

I know if you read my story up until this point, you probably got the impression that Rashid and I indulged in a very healthy, happy sex life, and for a good part we did. I just don’t like to dwell on the times when we didn’t. When I’d get into my head, memories of my former clients making me freeze, when I forgot it was Rashid touching me and not someone paying me for it. It was a learning curve for the both of us figuring out how to deal with it. Rashid tried to find a pattern behind my ‘episodes’. Was it something he said? Or did? Other circumstances that triggered it? It’s how his mind works. Observe, study, analyse, react. But there was no pattern. They occurred at random. There was also no predicting what I needed when it happened. Sometimes it was better for Rashid to give me space; sometimes it helped when he held me, his embrace reassuring me and bringing me back to the present.

So, when it came to the question of doing anal, I asked, stuttering nervously, if we could hold it off for now. We waited eight months. Which in itself isn’t a big deal. I know if I had told Rashid it’s not on the cards at all, it wouldn’t have been a dealbreaker. It’s mostly stupid romance novels and the media that make you believe anal sex is the ultimate experience for every sexually active queer man, and the only question is who’s a top or a bottom. Studies actually suggest there’s a really large number of us that are ‘sides’, meaning they prefer ‘handsies’ and ‘blowies’ to ‘going all the way’. So Rashid and I doing exactly that for our first eight months? No issue at all.

Rashid thought I was afraid it would remind me too much of the sex I had with my clients. But in truth? That wasn’t it. My clients used my mouth as much as my ass, and I love – love! – going down on Rashid. The reason was the stupid tiny voice in my stupid broken brain. The stupid tiny voice that whispered to me: “Remy died less than 24 hours after you did it.” The stupid tiny voice that taunted me: “T-Jay died… everyone dies.”

My clients obviously don’t count since I never had sex with them voluntarily. T-Jay and I fooled around when we were desperate to feel close to another human being. For the illusion of an emotional connection with someone who cared. But I can’t remember how far we actually went. He died months later. So maybe he doesn’t count either, but my broken brain still brings up his face. Remy counts. Remy and I shared something truly special that day. And then he died. So whenever I thought about sharing this unique experience with Rashid, the stupid tiny voice crept in, warning me: “Do you want that to happen to Rashid? Do you want him to die? You’re a lethal hazard to everyone you love.”

Trust me, rationally I knew this was nonsense. There is, and there never was, a connection between my love (including sex) and Remy’s death. But my broken brain doesn’t always follow rational rules. In Paris I decided it was time to overcome my idiotic fears. If I wanted to move forward with my relationship with Rashid – and I did, I desperately did – then I had to stop keeping him at arm’s length to ‘protect’ him. Especially because he had no idea why. I still needed a barrier between us, and then, according to my broken brain, things would be alright. Using condoms was about keeping him safe. It wasn’t about STDs. Unless you count me as one. Sexually Transferred Disaster.

Spelling it out like that makes it sound really dumb, but it’s how my brain worked. Stupid and broken.

And at first, that part of my genius plan seemed to work as well.

Rashid didn’t show any signs of dropping dead in the weeks following Paris.

Everything seemed normal. We went back to our usual long distance thing of texting and occasional video chats. I tried to keep myself occupied as best as I could. It made time go by faster. Soon I’d know when I could see Rashid again. He’d come back, and I’d stop feeling fractured and alone. For a little while at least. He said he’d be busy with work, so I didn’t think twice at first when he didn’t reply to a text immediately. When he didn’t even read it for hours. When we had days without a video call. Then the gaps seemed to become more regular, the void in between growing bigger and bigger.

And then they came. Other voices curling around my thoughts.

‘What if he lost interest? What if he got what he wanted and now he’s moving on? What if sex with a former prostitute was just a kink, an itch to scratch or some kind of twisted item on a bucket list?’

One voice sounds suspiciously like my father: ‘You’re a worthless piece of shit, boy. Ain’t nobody ever gonna want you; don’t be foolin’ yourself.’

I try to push the voices away. ‘It’s not true. Rashid loves me. Rashid chose me. He wants to be with me.’ But as the days go by, without a text or call, the louder I hear my dad’s cackling: ‘You ain’t built for anyone to stay. You hear me? Ain’t nobody gonna want you.’

It happened before. It actually happens every time Rashid is gone. Usually I manage to keep the voices at bay. I need to remind myself that Rashid’s love is real: I look at his last text, or the last picture he sent me, and it quiets my mind. What we have is real. The voices are not. But now? I don’t hear from him in days.

When the texts stop, I try to make sense of it. I’m worried. I don’t understand what’s going on. For the first time I think I realise what Josie must have been going through when I ran away from home. Not knowing what happened to me, with no way of reaching me or anyone who knows me, who could shed light on the situation. Totally isolated from the world of the person you love.

I never met any of Rashid’s friends or family. I don’t even know if he still has living family in the UK. He mentioned his parents and his nanu, but they passed away a long time ago. Are there aunts, uncles, cousins? He has friends. He mentioned Charlie. His childhood friend in Yorkshire, who he spends the holidays with every year. I never met Charlie. I don’t even know Charlie’s last name.

I introduced Rashid to my sister and her family. We went on a double date with my friend Rafa and his fiancée Elodie. I know Josie and Rashid exchanged phone numbers. In case something happened to me, if I dropped off the surface of the Earth, Rashid could contact Josie and ask about me. I have no one. Why did he never introduce me to anyone? Why does he hide me?

My thoughts travel back to our last night together at Moulin Arc-en-Ciel. When I danced with Karim. That didn’t seem to bother Rashid at all. Was he really so indifferent? Does he care so little about me?

I try to work even more. I have the idea of transforming part of the backyard of our apartment building into a little vegetable garden. Bas Mutters gives me the all clear, but it’s not the time for planting. The July sun is brutal and unforgiving, but I start preparing. I’m building raised beds, adding compost to the soil and deciding what I want to grow. Keeping my hands busy doesn’t shut up my brain, but it exhausts me and gives me a few hours of sleep. Nightmares are nothing new but they’re intense and seem to start as soon as I close my eyes. I spend the rest of my nights transcribing my interviews, going over my notes and talking to Daniel Molloy about the progress.

Usually working with Daniel Molloy means I don’t have a clear deadline. I can invest as much or as little time as I want. ‘Lanterns on the River’ feels different. It’s for charity, and they need the money. And I need distraction. So I throw everything I have into it. Daniel Molloy and I are on the phone almost every night until he comes to New Orleans in mid-July and I can show him the material I collected so far. When Daniel finally meets me at my apartment, I’m not nervous about it anymore. Daniel doesn’t feel like a stranger anymore. Or my employer. We’ve become friends. As unlikely as that might sound. A twenty-something human and a powerful vampire in the body of a man who’s technically seventy. Not that it matters – Daniel Molloy is the youngest, sassiest “old man” I’ve ever met.

He’s also a great storyteller – d’uh, writer – and I love listening to him. It’s not always about business. He tells me a lot about his life. Mostly his mortal life before Armand turned him. Daniel met his first vampire – Louis, same as I – at a gay bar in San Francisco when Daniel was only 20 years old. At the time Daniel was an addict – for drugs and a good story – and happy to trade both for sex. Louis offered him all three. Daniel was excited to go with him. When he says meeting Louis almost cost him his life but also changed it forever, I snort. I can so relate. Our circumstances were vastly different, but I can’t help but see the parallels.

Sex work was my way of surviving on the streets. Different reasons, different circumstances, but similar results. I was 18 when I chanced upon Louis, and he accidentally almost drained me. With Daniel it wasn’t quite an accident, but again: similar result. Daniel says meeting Louis and Armand ultimately shaped him into the man he became and the career he accomplished. Well, that is the Hallmark version of what went on between the three of them, but you probably know that.

Daniel also talks to me about Armand, and I don’t miss the subtle change in his voice when his lover and maker comes up in conversation. As crazy as it sounds to have things in common with a 500-plus-year-old vampire, apparently I do. According to Daniel, some of Armand’s earliest memories are of living in a brothel and the things he had to endure there. Maybe it’s misguided, but my heart bleeds a little for Armand, especially when Daniel says that Armand was younger than me when it started. Sure, the Renaissance was a different time – and it blows my mind that I know someone who was alive at the same time as Leonardo da Vinci – but Armand was still a child when he was sold into slavery and prostitution.

Sleep soons becomes optional as the weeks go on. Between doing my duties as a custodian, doing research and interviews for Daniel, helping out my sister and trying to stay in touch with my boyfriend, I’m wearing myself thin. I know that. I just can’t stop myself. It’s better than the alternative, which is sitting back and wondering why Rashid hasn’t replied to my last text in days and why our last video chat was last week. It’s not all on Rashid, of course. It’s just difficult to find a time when we’re both awake and not busy with other things.

My lack of sleep eventually leads to other things: I feel nauseous and can relate to Josie, who still battles morning sickness. If I didn’t know better (shout out to my Sex Ed teacher Ms Blish!), I’d think I was pregnant, too. Then the headaches start. And I’m talking skull-splitting migraines most nights.

One evening I find a text message from Daniel, asking me to come around to 1132 Royal Street, Louis and Lestat’s townhouse, which is where he and Armand are staying. Louis and Lestat are on Night Island again, and since it is late, Mari is already gone by the time I arrive. She must’ve known I was summoned, though, because I find a number of food containers on the dining room table, neatly labelled: tamales, hot sauce, bread pudding, custard. She added drawings of little green leaves, which makes me smile. As if I’d suspect Mari to put anything in front of me that isn’t at least plant-based if not vegan.

The smell of food actually makes me feel queasy these days – damn fake pregnancy – but I can’t ignore Mari’s gift; I know she’ll be upset if I don’t accept it. I stuff everything in my backpack and leave it by the door before joining Daniel in the parlour. Armand is with him, the two of them embracing in a rare display of affection. I belatedly realise that Daniel isn’t just burying his face in Armand’s neck; he’s feeding from him. I quickly turn around to give them some privacy, and the movement turns today’s dull throb at the back of my head into a sharp pain that jolts through my brain. I wince slightly and rub my temples. After a moment, I can hear footsteps and catch Armand gliding out of the room, shooting me a look. In all the time since we first met, he’s never spoken a word to me, but I can’t shake the feeling he doesn’t like me very much.

Daniel chuckles softly behind me: “That’s because Armand doesn’t like anyone very much.”

I realise that he read my mind, and I remember to put my guard up, although at this point, it’s probably more like crumbled walls; my mind is so frazzled. Daniel and I sit down to go over what I’ve worked on lately. I was referred to a few ladies from a knitting circle, who shared their stories and some old family recipes with me. I remember to ask Mari for some of her own recipes, too. Not everyone in her family was born in this country, but they’re all very much a part of New Orleans now and shape this city as much as everyone else does. They should be a part of ‘Lanterns on the River’.

One of the knitting ladies suggested contacting Father O’Connel of St Apollonia parish. I was a little hesitant. Catholic priests are not exactly known for accepting the queer community, but I remind myself I can’t let my own identity get in the way of my job. I might not be a professional writer like Daniel, but I can act like one. So, I gave myself a push and called Father O’Connel earlier that week, and he had time to meet me today. He turned out to be a really nice guy, still quite young, too, maybe only a few years older than me. The parish’s archives house a collection of historic photographs of the area and New Orleans in general. He said we could use any of them for our charity project, and together we spent a couple of hours going through the albums and selecting items. I quickly took some photos with my phone; I’ll get them scanned properly later. Father O’Connel also showed me around the churchyard. I could tell he was proud of his little sanctuary. He hasn’t been here long and greeted everyone we encountered with a big smile. He was so warm and engaging. I like him, and he promised to ask around if any of his flock would like to contribute to ‘Lanterns on the River’. When I said my goodbyes, a strange sense of déjà vu came over me. It felt like I’d been here before, but I’m very sure I have never set foot in this place.

When I’m at 1132 Royal Street, Daniel explains to me the process of choosing the right pictures. Find a theme, something that connects the images, that tells a story. We transfer my finds to Daniel’s laptop so we can both look at them on a slightly bigger screen than on my phone. I scroll through them when one of the faces stands out to me and I freeze. It’s impossible. It can’t be. I remember the album said early 2000s…

I scroll back to take a closer look. I stare at the young man in the picture. Not yet a man, still a teenager. His hair is different, longer, shaggier, but the dark curls are unmistakable. An impeccable, chiselled jawline. His smile. Wide and open. It lights up the entire picture. The quality isn’t good enough to see his eye colour, but I bet they are brown, fading to green around the edges. It can’t be him…

My ears start ringing. It’s impossible… It’s been eight years since I’ve seen this face, and I remember every detail as if it was just yesterday. How I loved this face… my chest tightens, and I have to avert my gaze. I have to look somewhere else. My eyes fall on the young woman standing next to him. She’s tall, as tall as he is. Light brown hair pulled tight into a bun, but her smile matches his. My temples pulse painfully. I have never seen her in my life. But she looks so familiar. And yet so eerily out of place. My eyes flit between the man and the woman; suddenly I’m blinded by a flash of light.

A scream.

Is it my voice or someone else’s?

Remy smiles at me.

Sticky. Sticky. My hands are sticky.

Sunlight warm on my face.

Feet slapping the pavement.

Remy turning around. He’s so beautiful.

Hands grabbing me, pulling me away.

The heavy body in my arms. Too heavy.

Remy walking towards me.

Brambles scratching my arms, my lungs burning.

My face. Sticky. Wet.

Screams.

A voice, soothing: “Rest now.”

The world goes black.

Warmth reaches me before memory. A blessing. Dull light filters through my eyelids. Air flows in and out of my lungs. It smells wrong. Tobacco and old leather. Something solid underneath my body. Something soft draped over me. I’m not at home. I can’t remember lying down. My eyes fly open. I gasp.

“Easy now… easy.” A low baritone voice says gently. “Welcome back.”

The voice belongs to a man. He sits on the opposite settee. I’ve never seen him before. He’s in his 50s. Maybe. His skin darker than mine. His bald head gleams faintly in the dim light. His jaw is covered in a short beard. He smiles at me as if he’s happy to see me. His eyes twinkle.

“Who are you?” My voice sounds raw and croaky. The man hands me a glass of water. I sit up slowly. All my movements feel sluggish somehow, like all my limbs are weighed down with lead. I take a cautious sip. My stomach feels like rejecting anything solid. Some water seems to be okay.

“My name’s Eli Barnes.”

I don’t understand. The man – Eli – continues.

“Louis asked me to come around. He was worried about you.”

I frown. “Louis isn’t even here.”

“No, that’s right, he isn’t.” Eli leans back a little, seemingly unfazed. “One of the vampires currently residing here called him, and he called me.”

Vampires? He knows about vampires? He looks human. It seems to be daytime, but the curtains are drawn. Only a few smaller lamps in the corner of the room illuminate the space. I’m still at 1132 Royal Street. In the parlour. I don’t have to ask about Daniel and Armand. They’re in their coffins asleep and dead to the world.

“I need to leave…” I declare, but I can’t get my body to move.

“I’d advise strongly against leaving just now.”

“Why?”

Eli leans forward again, towards me. “There’s a mild sedative currently in your bloodstream, and I’d hate for you to be on your own until it has worn off a little.”

His words slosh around my brain like molasses in winter. “Who the fuck gave you the right to drug me?” I hiss at him when I realise their meaning.

He shrugs. “You did. Well, at least I decided to interpret your grunt as a form of consent when I suggested giving you something mild to settle your nerves.” As I still stare at him in wild disbelief, he adds. “I’m a doctor, Wendell. I’m licensed.”

I huff out a breath. I’m not sure he isn’t lying. Nothing I can do about it. I shove the wool blanket off of me and try to stand up. It takes me a couple of attempts, the world spinning out of control, and I keep falling back. Eli doesn’t offer to help me or move in any way. Just watches me struggle. Once I’m on my feet, I start swaying towards the dining room and kitchen. I don’t know why I’m headed this way. Maybe Mari is here. Maybe she can help me. With what, I don’t know.

I stand in front of the large dining table. Its smooth surface immaculate except for a series of scratch marks towards one end. Why am I here? What am I doing?

“Would you like a cup of tea? My assistant, Tahmoh, swears by the power of herbal tea. I’m sure I can find some in Ms Bernal’s well stocked kitchen.” Eli’s voice startles me. He stands right beside me.

“Where is Mari?” I ask, a strange panic clawing at my chest. She’s always here. Where is she?

“I believe Ms Bernal was given a day off and enjoys it with a Pornstar in her hand by the pool.”

I shoot him a look and he clears his throat. “It’s a rather tasty cocktail: vanilla vodka, passionfruit puree and liqueur, lime juice, with a shot of prosecco on the side.”

I glower at him. What the hell is he talking about?

“Tea?” He asks, unperturbed.

I nod and shake my head at the same time. Eli seems to interpret it as consent – again – and heads towards the kitchen, where I can hear him rummaging around the cabinets. There’s a triumphant “ah ha!” and he appears several minutes later balancing two steaming mugs of tea and a plate with small cakes. He gestures to me to sit down and pushes one of the mugs towards me. It smells like hay in hot water. Steam rises in slow, spiralling ribbons, melting into shapes, like liquid ghosts, bending through the air.

“Have you ever had a Madeleine, Wendell?” I flinch at Eli’s voice. I forgot he’s here. He’s playing with one of the little treats on the plate, occasionally breaking off a piece and inspecting it like a fascinating specimen under a microscope before shoving it into his mouth. He smacks his lips and hums appreciatively.

I stare at him. “I’m gay, doc. I don’t have women.” My emphasis hopefully makes it clear I mean it in a sexual way. I’ve never had intercourse with a woman. No plans to change that either. I’m a man’s man.

He looks puzzled at me for a second, then barks out a laugh. He holds up the remnants of his delicate gem.

“This tasty treat is called a Madeleine. They’re really good. You should have one.” He shoves the plate closer, but I wag my head slowly. I’m not hungry. Eli shrugs and finishes the rest in one go.

“My mom’s name was Madeleine.” I don’t know why I’m offering him this information. He’s a stranger; he doesn’t need to know about my family.

He lifts an eyebrow and devours another pastry. “Mhmm… interesting.”

I wonder what’s so interesting. Are we still talking cake or my mom? The silence stretches between us.

“Do you think about your mother often? You used past tense, so I assume she’s no longer with us?” Eli asks, his voice quiet.

I look down at my lap, where my palms rub up and down my thighs. “She died when I was six.”

He nods solemnly. He doesn’t seem to mind that I didn’t answer his question.

“Did she have a favourite scent? A perfume, maybe? Something she liked to cook? Some aroma that reminds you of her?”

“Suntan lotion,” I answer without hesitation.

“Ah.” He nods again. “Why is that?”

“When I was little, my parents took me and my sister to the park for a picnic. My mom rubbed suntan lotion all over me, and I hated it. My skin felt so… ” Sticky. Sticky. I gulp as an ice-cold shiver runs down my spine.”But she did it to protect me and her hands on my skin…” They felt like love. My eyes are stinging. “Anyway, it’s one of the last happy memories I have of her, and whenever I smell suntan lotion now, I’m reminded of her.” I shake my head trying to dissuade the memory.

“Do you have that with anyone else? A scent that you associate with a special person or situation?”

It takes only a moment for my inner eye to summon an image and the fragrant memory that comes with it. I also can’t stop the weak smile that spreads across my face. It’s closely followed by a dull ache in my chest, and it takes my sluggish brain a moment to remember why that is.

“Rashid,” Saying his name is a stab to my heart. It’s been days since I heard from him. “My boyfriend.” I hope that’s what he still is. “He smells like…” I trail off. I sound ridiculous.

“Home?” Eli offers helpfully. When I look up at him, he smiles at me knowingly, and I nod. It’s close enough.

“It’s called involuntary memory,” Eli explains. “Marcel Proust was a French writer, and in one of his novels his protagonist eats a tea-soaked madeleine,” Eli lifts up another tiny cake in demonstration. “a long-forgotten childhood memory comes back to him. That’s why involuntary memory is often also called a madeleine. Proust thought that a madeleine contains the ‘essence of the past’.

I shake my head again. My brain is not capable of processing whatever it is he’s trying to tell me. Only that these mini cakes oddly share a name with my mother.

“I would really like to talk to you about your essence.” Eli goes on. Then he pauses, winces and shudders. “That sounded better in my head. I wasn’t talking about any bodily fluids.”

I snort. “I’m sorry, doc. I don’t think I can afford you. I’m only a meek little custodian.”

He furrows his brows in concentration. “Aren’t you employed by Mr du Lac and Mr Lioncourt?”

I huff. “My contract says my employer is the law firm of Ms Christine Claire.”

Eli waves a hand dismissively. “Same thing…”

I don’t know where he is going with this, so I keep silent.

“I think you will find that Ms Claire is a very generous employer, and working for her comes with several benefits. Including a health plan that easily covers my moderate fees.”

I take a look at Eli’s clothes. He’s dressed casually, just a hoodie, jeans and sneakers, but something tells me there’s nothing ‘moderate’ about his fees. I don’t say that out loud.

“If you want to talk about what happened…” He produces a business card that looks a bit worse for wear from one of his pockets and slides it across the table to me.

“Thanks, doc, but I’ll pass.” I get up, ignoring the card on the table. I can’t sit still any longer. I need to move. Eli’s eyes follow me.

“Take it. It’s not gonna bite you.” He encourages me, “Just remember: don’t expect anyone else to fix you. I’m not going to fix you. The only person who can fix you is you.”

I pick up the card, rolling my eyes. Anything to shut the man up. “You’re not selling yourself well, doc.”

I leave, grabbing my backpack on the way out. Eli doesn’t stop me this time.

I have no intentions of taking Eli up on his offer. I don’t need him. I can deal with it myself. And isn’t that what he said? I need to fix myself.

Daniel Molloy tries to call me the next evening as soon as the sun is gone. I don’t answer. It’s stupid. He’s my employer. He has a right to contact me. I’m just too embarrassed to face him. I don’t understand what happened. One moment I was looking at some pictures, and the next I blacked out? I can’t make sense of it. The images that flooded my brain. I wasn’t there. I didn’t see it. Someone told me about it. On Monday. At school. I wasn’t there. I didn’t see.

It takes a few nights, and then there’s a knock at my door. Before even opening it, I know who it is. Daniel Molloy just stands in front of my door, looking at me, until I wave him inside. I could have told him to go. I could have told him to leave me alone. But what would’ve been the point in that? We both know that he could easily overpower me if he wanted to. And he’s my employer.

We sit down on my sofa. Silently. Then he starts asking questions. I can’t remember what he asked me. I only wonder why he makes the effort. He could just as easily read my mind. I’m too far gone to bother with counting in prime numbers. One question, one name, makes it through the haze of my mind. Dubois. Daniel says I was looking at a picture of Mark and Margaret Dubois when I started groaning and having seizures. Daniel says that he contacted Father O’Connel and asked about them. He doesn’t need to tell me. I know who they are. Remy’s parents.

It explains why the man looked so much like Remy. It doesn’t explain why the woman looked so familiar. Why standing in front of that church felt like I’d been there before. I don’t understand. It’s too much. I sink down on the floor; my body’s shaking, and my vision is blurry. It doesn’t even register with me that I’m crying.

The next moment, strong arms wrap around me. Daniel hugs me and holds me until the sky outside starts to get lighter. He needs to go. He says I need help. Call Eli. Then he’s gone.

I meet Eli some time later. I don’t know how much time has passed. I function, I’m fulfilling my duties, and I make small talk with my tenants when I see them. I feed Bruno. I don’t feed myself. I can’t get myself to continue with ‘Lanterns on the River’. I know I’m letting Daniel down, but I just can’t. Occasionally I pass out and fall into an uneasy sleep. I wake up with a start not long after. I see the same pictures over and over again. Remy in front of St Apollonia church. His mother next to him. He turns. He sees me. He smiles. He says something to his mother that I don’t understand. He walks towards me, his face bathed in sunlight. He’s only a few feet away from me. A crack. His smile is gone. His body crumbles. My face is sticky.

Eli and I sit on a bench by the river. I have a paper cup with coffee in my hands. Decaf, Eli says. It’s a crime against humanity, I say. We sit there for an hour, silently. Then I leave. At home I still cradle the full cup in my hands. I meet Eli a few more times. Sometimes by the river, sometimes in a park. Never at his practice. I don’t talk. He just sits with me. Then he speaks. About the weather. About passers-by. About the ugly dog that won’t stop barking. About the child asking his dad for ice cream. He makes up stories about the banker and his briefcase. The two teen girls with too much make-up and not enough confidence.

Then I start talking. Stuttering. Almost inaudible. I’m not even sure it’s my voice. It sounds so strange. Are these my words? What I’m saying makes no sense. I wasn’t there. I didn’t see it. Someone told me. On Monday. In school. Then why do I remember it?

Eli doesn’t reply. He doesn’t have to. I know the answer. For eight years, my mind told me a kinder story. I never questioned why I couldn’t remember who told me about Remy’s death. Or where we were when they told me. When I left school. Why I didn’t have my backpack with me or any of my school things. I just accepted that I lost these memories along the way with so many others of my early days in the streets.

In the following weeks, I receive two phone calls. The first one is from my sister. I know she had a couple of doctor’s appointments, and if I hadn’t been so worked up myself, I would have realised something was off. I put it down to her being stressed, dealing with the pregnancy, handling the twins and Soso, who’s starting to feel neglected because everyone expects her to be the ‘mature’ one at just 7 years old. The weather is also exceptionally hot and humid, which doesn’t help things when you try to grow a tiny human inside of you, with three other small humans demanding your attention. But it’s more than that. The doctors discovered her cervix is shorter than it should be. They caught it early, so that’s good, but it still brings the risk of early labour – especially given my sister’s history – and my little nephew isn’t cooked enough yet to see the world.

The doctors strongly advised her to go on bed rest. I offer to come over, help out more, but when Josie – my big, strong sister – starts crying on the phone, I know things are serious and very wrong. Josie needs rest, quiet and a house with proper air conditioning. Our childhood home in Leonidas can’t give her any of these, so Mal’s parents invited Josie and the kids to stay for as long as they need to.

“It’s only for a couple of weeks,” my sister tells me between sobs, and I nod, stupidly, on the phone where she can’t see it. I know it’s the best solution. The Turner’s house is big with a large garden. Otis and Mabel are retired and can take care of the kids around the clock. Josie won’t have to worry about anything. Of course, telling my sister to relax and do nothing is like asking a pressure cooker not to go off. But if anyone can convince her to do just that, it’s the baby inside her belly. I know she’d do anything to keep the little one safe and healthy. Even if it means she’ll lose her mind from sheer boredom in the process.

Mal is staying in Leonidas. He still has his store to run. He’ll visit her as often as he can, and Josie promises I can catch a ride with him anytime. There are probably buses or something that would get me to Covington, but not even a map app can give me options. Flying to Europe seems easier than using public transport to go to another town in my own home state.

Josie assures me she’s fine – for now – there’s no immediate danger for her or the baby, and we’ll keep in touch, of course. Text, call, video chat. It sounds all too familiar. I’m suddenly in a long-distance relationship with my sister. But it needs to be done.

The second phone call comes almost two weeks later in the middle of the night. You know about that one. It’s from one Sam Barclay – playwright, Talamasca agent, vampire. DJ – claiming to be Rashid’s boyfriend, not his ex – telling me something happened to Rashid on a mission. Hurt, maybe, ‘probably’ not dead. It’s the last straw. I lose my ever-lovin’ mind.