The last day of Phineas Fleming’s life began like any other, so much so that he had no idea his hourglass had run out. He strode down the street, newspaper tucked in his armpit, briefcase swinging at his side. His lips pursed as he whistled a jolly tune, some old hit about being young and in love. Alas, for poor Phineas, those lovely days with a pretty woman were behind him. His shoulders had begun to droop over the burdensome years and, despite his stocky build, jostling passerby knocked him off course more than he would like to admit.

Still, he forced his way through, whistling the whole time. The further he walked, the thinner the crowd became until it quite resembled his hairline, receding to wisps of pedestrians which gave way to the wide expanse of the river. He paused, dumbstruck. A pretty girl waved to him, her smile wide. Had he known this would be his last day, perhaps he would have gone to reminisce on their time together. Perhaps he would have gone looking for answers.

Phineas walked on, dismissing her appearance as a trick of the light. She had been dead for thirty years, after all, and he had long since given up on finding answers.

He continued on his way, blinking back a few tears. A faint meow drew his attention to his feet, where a little black street cat trotted across his path. Other people, like his lost love, would have likely gasped and run home for fear of bad luck. To her chagrin, he loved to dance under ladders. The old mirror in his house sported many cracks, and that was how he liked it.

So, like those with no fear of fate, he bent down and patted the cat on its head. The cat, no doubt used to being kicked by work boots, followed this new friend. As they stepped over the curb, steam billowed up from a vent, engulfing Phineas and the cat in the haze. In this new, gray-tinged world, Phineas began a different tune. Forlorn, love-lost music reverberated from his tired lips.

The steam melted away, leaving the two unlikely companions stranded in a lovely forest. Phineas kept walking, his eyes closed as he savored the music. The cat froze, its head cocked at the strange change of scenery. Ten paces later, Phineas opened his eyes and nearly fainted.

This was not the busy street he had expected. Instead, birds flitted overhead, singing the refrain of his now-ceased song. He tried to whistle along, but his mouth was stuck in a gaping yawn.

“It was rather impolite of you to bring me along,” a drawling voice said.

Phineas whirled, his eyes locking on the cat as it rolled about in the pea-green sprigs of grass. He tried to speak once more, but the morning’s events were just too much for his poor human brain to comprehend.

The cat sprung to its feet and stretched out its paws. “I had no intention of returning home until winter, but you patted my head. So, I had to follow.” It flicked its tail and ran off into the gloom of the tall pine trees. “I suggest you keep up.”

Phineas gulped and hurried after the creature, no longer certain it was a cat. As he ducked under a low branch, he cleared his throat and croaked out some words. “One, two, three. My name is Phineas Fleming.” He paused. “And a cat is speaking to me.”

“Don’t feel special. I do this too often.” The cat appeared before him, somehow shooting him a glare. “Only, most people ask if I will help them, instead of summoning me without even saying a word.”

“Look,” Phineas said, struggling to feel sane, “I had no intention of coming here, wherever here is. And I certainly didn’t mean to bring a talking cat with me.” He looked around, his eyes catching on a deer path that whispered words of purpose and destiny. “In fact, I’ll be on my way back to work now.”

Before he could set foot on the little worn pathway, the cat put a paw on his shoe. He found his foot to be stuck, impossibly so. The little creature couldn’t have weighed more than ten pounds and that was being generous.

Green eyes fixed on him, insistent and unrelenting. “You have a choice, Phineas. Take that path and fade into mist, or--”

“Mist? Fade? What does that mean?”

“You’re dead,” the cat said rather bluntly, licking its paw. “Now will you let me finish?”

Phineas blinked, thinking back on the steam cloud he had walked through. Was that the veil spoken of by some philosopher or other? Was the afterlife just a forest?

Unbeknownst to him, the cat began to speak again. Phineas kept staring off, his mind on other things until the cat uttered a name. ”--Sophia.” With that one word, the cat held Phineas’ attention in its clawed paw.

“How do you know her name? Is she here?” A surge of joy flooded over Phineas. It made perfect sense that she would be here, waiting for him. He couldn’t bear to stand around for another moment, so he hurtled off through the undergrowth. His legs pumped as though he were twenty years old again. Each breath filled up his newly young lungs and his heart lacked the bothersome arrhythmia he was accustomed to.

Suddenly, a dark tail shot out, tangling his legs like a creeping vine. His shoulder drove into the ground. The cat placed its paw on his wrist, pinning him to the ground. “You have a choice, now listen carefully. She chose to become part of the mist of souls.”

“Sophia is gone?” Phineas whispered. Tears rolled from his eyes, watering the grass.

The cat sighed. “Gone, yes. Although, she can be brought back,” it said, rekindling Phineas’ hope. “But it comes at a cost.”

“Any price is worth seeing her again,” Phineas said, without hesitation. For decades, his thoughts had been filled with her. Her, holding his hand. Her, lying dead on the ground. “Please, where is she?”

The cat raked its claws against a tree. “You’ll cause her unspeakable agony, terrible suffering, yada, yada, yada.”

Phineas stopped, running a hand through his thinning hair. Arthritis crept back into his brittle bones, the old ache of loss now final. He should never see his beloved again. His knees slowly collapsed, drawing him to rest on the velvet carpet of moss.

The cat let out a low hiss. “I bet you aren’t even listening again. All of you make this same decision, your desperate need for life after death clouding your judgement.” It sprung to its feet, raking its claws through the soft ferns. “I have to let you do it too. Just command me to do it so I can leave this wretched place.”

So, with his lips trembling, Phineas did.

“I underestimated you,” said the cat with a curt nod. With a flick of its tail, it began muttering deep, shadowy words. Shades lept and flickered from his mouth, borne upon wings of darkness. Then, it turned to Phineas, opened glowing green eyes wide, and yowled. Sickly green light enveloped the forest as Phineas cried out, covering his face. The light burned through his fingers until he swore there was nothing but the green light, that he was the green light.

After a minute, he chanced a look at the cat. Only, there was no cat. In its place sat a man, hunched over and moaning. Long, brown hair fell into his face, scraggly and unkempt. It didn’t matter. Phineas knew who it was immediately. No matter how many years had passed, this face refused to leave him.

“Why did you bring me back?” the man sobbed. “I was finally at peace.” He writhed on the ground, tearing at his hair. Phineas rose, standing over him. An inkling of pity wormed its way through his tired mind. He could leave this man be and go to join his Sophia. There was nothing stopping him.

Nothing, except the thirty-year-old question. “Why?” Phineas whispered. He curled his fingers into a fist, waiting.

The man lay flat on his back, every muscle in his body rippling. His mouth creaked open in a mechanical maw. “You’ll have to be more specific than that. He’s been mist for twenty years. He isn’t the person you remember anymore.”

Phineas nodded and the cat relinquished control once more to Harvey Kellings, the man who killed his wife. He waited for the murderous glint to return, for Harvey to show his true colors. But, when he steeled himself to stare into the grey eyes of a killer, all he saw were tears.

The deer path seemed to tug at him, overpowering the urge to scream obscenities at this agonized man. Leave him, the leaves whispered. You have nothing to gain from this.

“I’m sorry,” Phineas said, sitting down beside Harvey. “Would you like to go back to the mist now?” He laid an arm on the man’s back and gripped his shoulder tight. How strange it was, hugging a murderer. How strange compassion felt, warm and gentle.

“Yes,” Harvey gasped between body-wracking sobs. “I can’t stop thinking about what I did, especially to that poor woman. And her poor husband.”

Phineas patted him once, rather awkwardly, and stood. “They’re at peace now. Don’t worry.” Forgiveness felt right, even though the Phineas of thirty years ago would be screaming for blood. Now, he knew there was no triumph in beating this shade of a man. No. Even this was cruelty. “You can go back to the mist now if you’d like.”

Harvey stared up at him, wiping tear-stricken cheeks. “The others who called me back, those others who I hurt, they didn’t let me go so easy. And I deserved everything they threw at me.” He let out a sigh, and the pain rushed from his eyes like polluted water flooding through a filter. “Thank you.”

Soft, green light suffused from his form like fresh sprigs of grass after a long winter. Phineas watched as the shadow of the cat reformed in the glow until it finally took corporeal form. It arched its back, yawned, and gave Phineas something resembling a smile. “You made the right choice, letting him go.”

Phineas patted the cat on the head. “You did help.” He too stretched, his limbs pulsating with energy. “It feels good to let go of thirty years of rage. I should have forgiven him a long time ago.”

“So you don’t want to know why he did it?”

With a sigh, Phineas set off down the deer path, a familiar voice calling him home. “I think I’ve known for a while. It was just an accident, one he’s paid dearly for.”

“Farewell,” the cat said, trotting off in the opposite direction. Phineas waved, never looking back as the mist reached out a slender arm to him. He took the Sophia's hand and ran with her satin figure like he had never run before. The scent of fresh pine needles filled his nose, then he faded into mist as all pure souls do.

Phineas Fleming was dead, but he was also at peace.

Sept. 9, 1941

8:12 am.

Breakfast took an hour to make and, in Kitty’s high-pitched voice, was proclaimed inedible. Bethany scraped burnt eggs from a pan, trying to ignore the complaints, but that was near impossible with Kitty’s screeching right behind her in the little galley kitchen.

It wasn’t her fault that Rebecca had always been the one to cook breakfast. She had moved out a week ago, finally having found a house close enough to her husband, Ken’s, work. Honestly, Bethany was relieved her too-pregnant older sister was unable to waddle around the house grumbling about tiny rooms and crowded halls, but her presence had always been a relief at mealtimes.

It wasn’t Rebecca’s fault that the breakfast was burnt either; she had just found a way out of the home. No, it was Warner’s fault breakfast was burnt. At least when Rebecca was here he would have put bread in the toaster or flipped the eggs. Now that his (most likely) favorite sister was out of the house, he didn’t wake up until long after breakfast was made, grabbing some left-over toast before he ran out the door for work.

Not today, if Bethany had anything to say about it. And she certainly did. Tuning out the annoying cries of the babies, she stalked out of the kitchen and down the dark hall to Warner’s room. She pounded her fist squarely onto his door, the hand carved sign proclaiming the room ‘Warner’s’ contributing to the din with its own knocking.

Confident that would do it, she pulled away her fist and crossed her hands at her waist like a prim and proper lady. Rustles and groans emitted from under the door and Bethany smiled. Sloth was a sin, and so was not helping your sister as she slaved away at her duties, duties you get to avoid because you have a job and she isn’t allowed one.

The door swings inward with a woosh of air. “The Hell was that supposed to do?” Warner stands in the doorway, brown hair spiked in sleepy peaks. “I could have slept for another half hour!” He gripped the doorway so hard his knuckles turned white, and Bethany was reminded of his mercurial, oft warlike nature. But she was his sister and impervious to such behavior.

“So why do I have to be up so early?” Bethany retorted, her lady’s pose abandoned in favor of a jealous sister’s crossed arms.

Warner sighed and pushed past her. They’d had this argument before and it never ended well. Bethany frowned and followed after him, refusing to give in this time.

“Mother left you in charge, it’s a great honor, blah blah blah,” Warner said as he yanked a plate out of the cupboard. The old oak door slammed shut with a crack and Bethany scowled. His response was a bland remark Father has said the other day, a simple repetition to sooth her hysteria. When Warner said it, the words came out cheap, like dollar candy meant to pacify a baby.

Bethany grabbed the plate of toast before he could take a slice and held it behind her back. “You’re not Father. Don’t try to be him.”

Warner stopped dead, plate gripped in his hands like a shield. “Give me the toast.”

“You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

“Try me.” Warner took a step closer, reminding Bethany of the two inches he had on her, two inches that put his eyes a bit over hers.

A chair squealed, but neither sibling looked over. “Come on, Ernest,” Kitty said. “They’re fighting again.” The screen door slammed shut behind the two children as Kitty tugged Ernest outside.

“Fine, I will,” Bethany said, pausing a little too long. There was a difference between yelling at Warner and fighting him. They hadn’t wrestled since they were the babies’ age and Warner had had the upper hand more often than not.

Warner snatched for the plate, but Bethany ducked to the right, putting the table between them. “Give it, I’m hungry.”

“Should have thought of that earlier,” Bethany said, dumping the toast in the trash. Warner stared at her, anger written in his furrowed brow. “Maybe when I was making breakfast, but no, you slept in.”’

Warner frowned, watching Bethany scoop up her own plate and the babies’. She stacked them nicely, burnt breakfast remains caked on like grease. With a smile, she dumped the plates in the sink with a loud clatter.

“I paid for that toast.”

“I made it.”

The screen door creaked open and Ernest’s brown curls poked into view. “Can we come in now?” His little voice was pitched high with the fear of his beloved siblings fighting, but Bethany just waved a hand at him. She wasn’t cross at him, just at Warner; she would have to explain that to him later.

Kitty’s blonde ponytail popped in too. “They’re still fighting, come on, Ernest.” Ernest didn’t budge.

Warner grumbled something under his breath and walked to the cupboard by the refrigerator. Opening it, he shoved aside cans of beans and soup, hands scrabbling in near desperation.

Bethany turned her back to him, glancing over her shoulder every other moment as she scraped burnt egg off a pan with a Brillo pad. “Looking for something?” The words were a bit of a low blow, she knew exactly what he was looking for, and he was not going to find it.

“Yes, don’t be an idiot.” He slammed the door shut and Bethany jumped. She froze, hoping he didn’t notice the momentary lapse in bravado, but it was too late. Warner grinned, his once brotherly face now dark, like it was after every football game, like he had done what he had to do and was proud.

“We used the last of the bread, Mother went grocery shopping before you woke up. But, you had no way of knowing that, of course.” Bethany slammed on the faucet, filling the basin with steam as hot water pumped from the tap. Sleepy brother Warner, never at fault, always in the right. Not this time.

“Real mature. Do you want me to starve?” Warner clenched his fists and took a step towards her. It thundered in the little kitchen and it took all of Bethany’s willpower not to run. “You didn’t think about that did you? I have a job and a life but you don’t care. Have you ever thought that’s why Mother left you with the babies?”

Bethany flinched. Of course he’d call her a baby, that’s what villains do. Who do villains antagonize? Heroes, like her, like the United States. She could hit back, hard, blame him for the toast. If she were working, not Warner, she could make twice as much money as him, she’d love work if only she were allowed to leave the house and the babies behind.

“Warner, stop!” Ernest cried, running past Kitty’s outstretched arm to Bethany. She tugged him into her arms, and buried him in her skirt. He twisted the rough white apron in his fists, hiding from his bigger, stronger brother even as he tried to protect Bethany.

That was enough for Bethany to break. Get Ernest involved, or even Kitty, and she’d fight. They’re family; Warner is a bully who wouldn’t hesitate to go after Ernest next, call him a baby and an idiot.

“Ernest, go outside,” Warner said, his voice steel wool, ready to scrape away at the little boy’s naïvety and replace it with war-lust. Everything about Warner screamed battle, from his clenched fists to his broad shoulders tensed with anger. Ernest was everything he wasn’t, a tender boy with dreams beyond war, dreams full of steam-pumping trains and striped-overall conductors.

“Leave him alone,” Bethany said, pushing Ernest behind her and taking a step towards Warner. Ernest clung tighter to her skirt, whimpering. A smile replaced the frown on Warner’s face, and he cracked his knuckles as if enjoying a show.

“You do fight. Little pacifist Bethany has a breaking point.” Warner‘s smile broadened and he jabbed a finger at her with another step forward. “Like a girl, that point is a baby.”

“Our brother. I’m protecting our brother.” Bethany shooed Ernest out the door and slammed the screen door after his fleeing behind. She whirled around and advanced on Warner, poking her own finger at him until it connected with his chest. “Such a shame I have to protect him from his own brother.”

He barked a laugh and stepped back, dodging her finger. “I wouldn’t hurt him, you know that. This wouldn’t even be an issue if you hadn’t thrown away the toast.” With another laugh, he grabbed his hat off the table and headed for the door.

“Why don’t you just eat some Corn Flakes? Ever heard of them?” Bethany turned off the faucet, satisfied with the scoured pan. She started wiping the dishes and laying them on the counter, hoping she had gotten the last word.

Warner didn’t go down so easy.

He came clomping back into the kitchen, boots half-laced and swinging with each step like whips. It’s alright, Bethany told herself, he’s a bully, not a brother evil enough to hurt his sister. It’s alright, she told herself as he came close enough to strangle her.

“Why don’t you just accept that cowards stay behind while the brave go out to provide? I do my duty, do yours,” Warner said with his smirk.

Bethany’s mouth dropped open and she smacked him across his cheek. Warner’s head snapped to the side. “I’m many things, but I’m not a coward.”

He rubbed his cheek and raised a hand. Bethany held her breath, bravado gone.

With a breath, he put his hand down. “Real men don’t hit babies.” He took a step back, then turned and left Bethany standing in the kitchen, staring after him.

I signed the papers yesterday.

My hand shakes as I trace the valley in my cheek.

I am a liar

He said he hadn't hit me, angry at my lie.

I am a liar.

He made sure everyone would know it, cutting a scarlet letter on my face.

I am a liar.

I said, "I deserve it," as knotted, criss-cross scars deepen on my knuckles.

Now no one will believe me.

I married him yesterday.

"Alright, everyone shut up for a second, Jesse's gonna do his party trick," my friend yells from atop the bar. For some reason, everyone stares at me and I get a little nervous. Isn't there like some superpower rule where you aren't supposed to tell the audience how you did the trick?

Shit, no, that's the magician's code. I'm supposed to have some costume and superhero name, something better than the hoodie I have on now and Jesse. But Zach made it plain that I've got a trick to do, so I'd better do it.

"It's not that special," I mutter.

"Speak up!" someone shouts, and I pick him out from the waiting faces; the bright red Hitler-stache made it pretty obvious who spoke.

Just to see his awe, I make blatant eye contact as I pick up my beer bottle, down the last two gulps, and make a big show of spinning it around like a magician. Shit, I'm a superhero; I keep forgetting.

"Jesse, you're losing them." I elbow Zach and give the crowd a smile.

"My friend made the mistake of calling my superpower a 'party trick'. If you all wouldn't mind, observe this." I hold up the bottle and stick my finger in the neck. It fits perfectly, the molecules of my finger contracting to fit inside.

The man laughs, his face burning bright red. "I can do the same thing, idiot." He proceeds to shove his finger into his own bottle, and everyone roars with laughter.

"That's a different brand, the neck is a bit bigger," I protest, face face growing red.

The man waves his hand in the air, waving the bottle with it. "And my fingers are a 'bit bigger', asshole. Unless you can fit your whole hand in there, you're just another boring idiot."

"It doesn't work like that." I take my finger out of the bottle, glaring at Zach. He knows my powers extend only to my index finger. I can only shrink it by a couple millimeters anyways.

"Come on, Jesse. Let's just leave them."

"You have to believe me!" I grab a hot sauce bottle, spin off the cap and squeeze my finger in it. "See! Bet Ham-hands can't do this!"

That gets their interest; everyone turns away from the grinning man and crowds around me. "Does it hurt?"

"It's a superpower so of course not." Content with the asshat's humiliation, I start to tug my finger out and leave. It doesn't budge. I yank again, wincing.

"Ha, stuck, are you? Thought you had a superpower," the man says, striding over with his hands on his hips. "Guess even ol' beer bottle finger here has his limits. Maybe hot sauce is his kryptonite."

Everyone crowds back around him, leaving me to struggle with the bottle. Finally, I give up, leave a five on the counter to buy the bar a new bottle and head outside. With a sigh, I set my hand down on the curb and beckon for Zach.

"You sure?" He pulls out the designated bottle breaking rock from his coat and holds it above the bottle.

"Yeah. Maybe next time you won't have to do this." I look away. "I told you not to tell others about my power."

Zach exhales and smashes the bottle. "Or you could measure the bottle before showing off. It's not my fault your one finger only shrinks down three ring sizes."

"3.7 millimeters. I've told you that before."

"Whatever, Green Ring," Zach scoffs, pointing to the glass still stuck on my finger. I guess I got my name and costume after all, at least, until I got out the coconut oil and smacked Zach upside the head with that stupid rock.

I flip him the bird and walk home alone. It's too bad my power isn't something useful like a middle finger that grows big enough to be seen from the tallest skyscraper. I'd love to flip off this entire city.

What once took a spark now takes a fire. Flint and steel cannot hold back the night, no, the night yields only to a blazing inferno.

Those words were carved into the cave’s walls, and not a day went by that Issabelle didn’t read them and shiver. As she swept unknown powders from her workbench, she thought back to when those words might have been carved. All apothecaries before her had read the same words, her mentor Arryn, his mentor Valor, and on beyond memory. Of course, such a time before the apothecary had been established could not have been long ago, but certain forces sped time and forced even recent events from collective memory.

But it did her no good to ponder the meaning of the words, nor to wonder where time slipped away to or why. With the latest tincture brewed and sealed, it was time to deliver the life-giving sustenance.

"Come, Prudence. Let's not keep the lady waiting," Issabelle said, beckoning her apprentice forward. With an eager nod of brown hair not yet dusted with silver, the younger apothecary brushed off her skirts and hurried towards Issabelle.

Issabelle grimaced her apprentice's dirt-grimed toes treading on the cave's floor, reminding herself to get Prudence a new pair of shoes, if only to delay the inevitable. Powerless against time and death, she gripped the crude glass bottle tightly and ignored the clouds of powder kicked up by Prudence's feet.

"Hurry, we wasted enough time as it is. No need to let laziness deal our lady’s fate." Casting a sharp look at the girl's sheepish face, Issabelle turned and strode to the exit of the cave and the sunlight that surely burned the faces of the commonfolk.

With a yank of a handle, Issabelle threw open a door to reveal humanity's haven, a paltry village of wood-boned mud huts roofed in skeletal straw. Her emergence from the mountainside captured the attention and rapture of the few workers out in the, as she had assumed, blistering heat. Those few dropped to their knees and said a quick thanks to the apothecary and all they do for humanity.

Brusquely, Issabelle hurried Prudence past the groveling men. "Rise," Issabelle cried, "for we are no more than servants to the Lords and Ladies who govern us all."

Prudence turned a shade of red at these words, her self-important smile crumpling into sour acceptance of the truth. Her expression reminded Issabelle that Prudence often forgot to wear her humble status as a cloak to mask her hubris. In all fairness, it didn’t matter whether she was a self-abasing servant or not, she would grow to fill Issabelle's withering shoes.

Withering, not a word most would use to describe themselves, but as surely as Issabelle’s hair grew out gray and straw-like, she was wasting away. Prudence would protest, claim that wasting away is a sorry turn of phrase to describe Issabelle’s necessary task, but Issabelle would never tell her these thoughts, these words she defined herself by. It would be treason.

“Issabelle? Are you alright?” Prudence’s voice reached out to her, pulling her back. Blinking back stars that hung on the edges of her view, Issabelle realized she had frozen amidst the matchstick trees, her atrophying thoughts having locked her feet.

“Yes, sudden worry gripped me about the lady’s condition.” Issabelle tugged up her cloak and continued down the forest path towards the manor. It rose in the distance, a towering structure of pure white columns and unnaturally bright yellow mortar. In front of the building, tiny figures knelt, praying the apothecaries could deliver one final saving dose of the concoction meant to save the heir to the Haven.

“Your worry would have made you run, not falter,” Prudence said, trying to keep pace with Issabelle. “Is your mind going?”

Issabelle shot her a sharp look, warning her not to speak of the mind’s weakness. Such lapses in judgement would speed Prudence’s ascension to apothecary, a role she wouldn’t be ready for until she could keep her thoughts about dwindling health to her own mind. Aging can be accepted. Dying cannot.

Without another glance to her willful apprentice, Issabelle continued down the path, wondering when a runner would cross their path to deliver the tincture. Through her thick-soled shoes, Issabelle felt the pebbled road become smooth and perfect. They had crossed into Upper Echelon, where the Lords and Ladies discussed how best to reclaim the Earth for all faithful Havenites.

But the wailing that rose up as Issabelle neared didn’t bode well for the Lady. Guardians walked among the kneeling peasants, supervising the display of woe. That the apothecaries had even walked to the road of Upper Echelon was an ill omen, but this display worried Issabelle.

Prudence hurried to Issabelle’s side, confused as well. Upper Echelon wasn’t meant to be tread by apothecaries, even in the most dire circumstances. She reached for Issabelle’s shoulder, trying to whisper something to her that the screaming drowned out.

“Follow me, stay silent,” Issabelle hissed, smacking away the insolent girl’s hand. She gripped the bottle in her hand tighter, wondering what the inside of the Manor would look like, what had happened. Their faces shrouded with apothecary hoods, Issabelle and Prudence bowed their heads and hurried past the sprawled peasants.

“Up the stairs and to the left,” one Guardian called. “And hurry.” Behind his goggles, Issabelle imagined redshot eyes from eye-puffing tears or blood-vessel popping rage. Hurrying would be a good idea, to keep her station for as long as possible. It could always be painted that Prudence had hurried Issabelle along, that Issabelle was the slow and lackluster apothecary.

Barely nodding in acknowledgement of her thoughts and the Guardian, Issabelle strode up the steps, then pulled open the massive white doors that shielded the inside from the dirt streaked outside. Beyond the doors, a wide entryway beckoned them in, awestruck by the crystalline light hanging above them. A sun indoors, it glowed bright white, illuminating a grand staircase made of carved deep brown wood.

Sobs echoed from someplace above the stairs, to the left, likely, as the Guardian had said. The choked mewlings shattered Issabelle’s composure and she threw herself onto the stairs, barely keeping from smashing the precious bottle on the stone steps. Panting with the effort of running so unnaturally, she cringed as the screams grew.

“Issabelle,” Prudence hissed, “this isn’t proper.” Halfway up the steps, Issabelle turned to see Prudence mounting the steps with dignity and restraint, completely oblivious to the life at stake. With that final act, Issabelle was completely certain she had made a mistake in choosing her successor. Issabelle’s death would mark the death of Haven, or at least those who relied on the apothecaries.

“Stay there, this is no place for an apprentice.”

Prudence choked back a gasp and resigned herself to dismounting the stairs with the grace of a Lady. Anger burned in Issabelle’s stomach, but she pushed onwards, not letting Prudence slow her down anymore than she already had. Her leather shoes slammed on the white stone of the stairs and onto the smooth wood of the floor above.

Various Lords and Ladies huddled around a bed, crying and bawling and sobbing, hiding the Lady Woodsworth. The tincture Issabelle had concocted was a mere swelling reducer intended to keep the Lady’s brain from further damage, but if the mourners were to be believed, the seizures had taken the Lady already.

“Apothecary,” Lord Gulliman said, turning, “I fear you’re too late.” Sharp eyes pierced her weak heart and accused her of the very thing she had feared. This was to be blamed on her as a way to move the more socially shrewd Prudence into place.

Or was her paranoia reaching a peak, could the pained faces of the Lords and Ladies merely be at the death of their dear mother?

“Let me speak for myself,” a wavering voice said. Gulliman stepped aside, letting Issabelle walk closer to the bedside of the still alive Lady Woodsworth. Though her well-padded face shone with sweat, her eyes shone with fire. Or was it fever?

Regardless, the Mother of Haven, the sole survivor of the original Lords and Ladies, was most definitely not dead, and Issabelle was not too late. Issabelle stepped closer, bowing her head in reverence. Though many apothecaries had served in the Lady’s lifetime, all apothecaries knew her as the even-keeled head in a circle of socialite elites, and for that reason, her sudden seizures were suspicious.

Issabelle held out the flask to the Lady, sunlight from a window illuminating the amber liquid. “Close that,” Issabelle snapped. “She’s burning up as it is!”

“How dare you address us like that? We are your rulers, Apothecary!” snapped Gulliman as the other Lords and Ladies tittered and whispered. Issabelle didn’t move, hoping she hadn’t sealed her fate prematurely. Cringing under the fury of the assembled, she peeked an eye open at the sound of a frail voice.

Despite the fierce illness taking over her body, Lady Woodsworth displayed her famous ferocity and sat straight up in bed. “Out, all of you. The apothecary was right, and you all are too dour for this. I need to want to live, not perish and your drivel is killing me.”

“But, Mother--” one tried to protest.

“No buts. I’ll still be alive after the apothecary is finished, Haven-willing. Now go make yourselves useful,” the Lady said, waving them away with a near limp hand. The Lords and Ladies didn’t notice the slight frailty and hurried out the door, creating quite the comical pile up.

Issabelle had to hold her breath to keep from laughing, but the air hissed from her lungs as she turned back to the Lady Woodsworth. As soon as the door had swung shut, the Lady Woodsworth had collapsed back and lay panting on the downy pillows.

“Lady, quickly. You must take the medicine,” Issabelle said, fiddling with the cork stopper of the flask. The cork popped out of the glass neck, the sound barely noticeable among the labored pants of the Lady.

Lady Woodsworth waved her away as Issabelle tried to hold the bottle to her lips. “No good. I need something stronger.” Her skin paled with the effort of speaking, and Issabelle realized just how weak the Lady had become. Defending Issabelle had taken the last of her strength.

“My-my Lady, we don’t have anything stronger,” Issabelle said her mind flitting through recipe after recipe of simple cold remedies and even the powerful demon-preventers, but none were as useful as the swelling preventer she had made.

“You don’t, but there’s a book in the Library that does,” she said, coughing violently. Her body seemed to shudder with the barking coughs, and Issabelle threw arms across the lady in preparation for a seizure. Forgotten, flask rolled off the bed and exploded with a sharp crash.

“A book?”

“A Guide to Modern Medicine After the Fall,” the lady breathed before the convulsions took over completely and her eyes rolled back into her head. Issabelle was nearly thrown from the bed as the Lady’s arms flailed, but she held on as tight as she could.

“What’s going on?” Lord Gulliman yelled, hurling himself through the door. Issabelle didn’t turn, too focused on keeping the lady stable.

"She started shaking before I could give her the medicine. The flask fell when I tried to stabilize her.” Issabelle felt the lady relax under her, and let go. Gulliman hurried to her side and hovered there, unsure of what to do.

Issabelle watched the fear flash in his eyes; his bristly exterior fading into a son, tired and worn at his mother's illness. Her suspicion faded too, any idea of ill-will gone in that instant.

Her mentor, Arryn, had looked at her the same way on his death bed as he pointed to the carving on the wall. His loss had resonated in Issabelle, not just of her beloved mentor but that those words meant something she couldn't understand.

"Go, you're of no help to her now," Lord Gulliman sneered, his fear evolved into bare rage. He swiped a hand at her as she backed away. "Send up the other one, the nice one."

A thousand thoughts ran through Issabelle's head, but she squashed them all down as she left the room, calling for Prudence. Her words didn't travel far; Prudence stood outside the wood door, hands crossed at the waist and a slight smile on her face. She pushed past Issabelle without a word and bowed her head to Lord Gulliman without a glance at Lady Woodsworth.

Issabelle couldn't care anymore and hurried down the stairs. The Library's doors were wide open, beckoning to her with shelves lined with the knowledge of Haven. Hopeful, she stepped among the shelves and began searching.

Running her finger down the spines of The Encyclopedia Britannica, Webster's Dictionary, and other leather-bound tomes, she finally stopped at A Guide to Modern Medicine After the Fall, by Charles Goodsmith. Arryn had talked of Charlie, the first apothecary who existed in a time before the Upper Echelon, though mention of such a time was treason as well.

Issabelle pulled it from the shelf with care, reverence filling her whole body. Here was a manual written by a master, a man who knew what to do! If he were still here, the Lady's seizures would have been cured when they had started or never have even occurred. Still, she pushed down her frustration and opened the tome, flipping the smooth pages to the index.

Her heart sank. The Lady had been so sure, but the same words were written in the rough parchment pages of her own manual. She let pages slide beneath her fingers, barely holding back the urge to rip the whole thing to shreds. Charlie's genius couldn't help the Lady. She needed something more, something stronger!

Rough paper sliced open her thumb and she shrieked, wrapping it in her apron. It burnt something awful and she realized too late that left-over ingredients from the tincture coated the apron and now, her cut. The end neared faster; she had never been this careless before and almost slammed the book with rage. Issabelle stopped, remembering the rough paper cutting into her skin.

A note lodged between the pages, chicken-scratch handwriting on both front and back. She recognized the writing immediately; the cave's cryptic words were written in the same script. Charlie had written them, Charlie had written these.

Something stronger, for when the Lady can no longer rise from bed.

I have concocted a delicate poison, made from ingredients now extinct in a recipe now forgotten. Do not fret, dear successor, this day was to come despite your undoubted skill or dedication. I knew this day would come and prepared; regardless of the taboo on death, it comes for us all.

The flask is in the Lady’s nightstand, beneath a false bottom. Brewing this poison will be my last act, but I know I die with worth. Give the Lady half a flask and discard the rest, though it will be a waste. So much knowledge has been lost to you, to us, to all of Haven, and I hope without bounds that one day our world will right itself. Until then, you are the torch burning life back into Haven. Be well, dear apothecary, the Lady depends on you.

Without pause, Issabelle left the Library, having slid the manual back on the shelf with a loving brush. Charlie didn’t have a cure, but he had created the only thing he could think of. The Lady was lost, and Issabelle could find her. She climbed the stairs, channeling the Lady’s strength as she threw open the door and ordered Prudence and the Lord out.

She slammed the door behind them, pleased Prudence’s manipulative ways ceased as she begged to help; it seems she would make a good apothecary after all, one unafraid of the Lords and Ladies. She simply needed some proper shoes, and Issabelle reminded herself to find some for her, like an echo in her head.

“Issabelle? Did you find it?” Lady Woodsworth stirred, sitting up on her pillows. Issabelle smiled at her frailness, her gray hairs wild and unbound around her head. There was a serenity to her that Issabelle hadn’t noticed before, peace, as though she knew what something stronger meant.

“Yes, Lady.” Issabelle walked to the nightstand and opened it; a journal sat on the false bottom. She set it aside. Just as Charlie had written, a flask sat beneath a panel. Seizing the Lady’s half-finished tea cup, she dosed it and handed it to the Lady. “Drink up, the light grows dim.”

The Lady took it with trembling hands, yet she held the cup steady. “Yes, Charlie. I see it does.” In two drinks, she finished tea she had barely touched over hours.

Issabelle smiled, picking up the journal. “Tell me, Elena, who carved the words into the cave?” She began to write, copying the Lady’s words, as well as writing her own.

“The words? Charlie. You’re not Charlie; I see that now, but he wrote them. Much was lost to us, and those despairing words were his last act.” She drew in a gasping breath. “We were so lost, never seeing what was to come. I wonder what will happen when I’m gone.”

Issabelle took off her leather shoes, tucking the note in them. She sat beside the Lady, reclining on the soft bed. “Don’t worry, Elena. Things will get better.” She took a long draw of the flask; time had no control over her anymore.

“What once took a spark now takes a fire. Flint and steel cannot hold back the night, no, the night yields only to a blazing inferno,” the lady whispered, her breaths slowing.

“Your children are strong enough to blaze a path for Haven.” Issabelle gripped the Lady’s hand. “Elena Woodsworth has been found, and so have I.”

I left the bed be, even though he picked it, even though I never liked it. Something felt off when I thought of throwing it out, but it wasn't that I wanted to resell it or even donate it. Stains marred the once white surface, he was always so messy.

My sister had told me to train him, "They're like dogs," but everyone knows that isn't true. Dogs have this manner about them, this loyal, attentive glare in their eyes, but he had been too smart to depend on me. Most days, I felt like I depended on him for love, affection, comfort.

What we had was rare, growing old together though all others my age were alone, but with a sigh, I realized I was alone too. When I came back from grocery shopping, he wouldn't be there, sitting in his favorite chair, reclined and peaceful. When I woke up in the morning, he wouldn't be beside me, the bed would be empty without him, cold and lonely.

If Margie from bingo had suffered such a loss, she would scoff at his infidelity, lament that she always knew he would leave her; his gaze was always ogling other women, she'd insist. She'd fill the void with a dog, a yappy little one who would never stray from her side, but it defeated the point of companionship! What's the worth in a relationship if your partner is only there out of self-preservation? Whenever I saw him looking out the window at passerby, I knew he considered their worth as only he could. He'd observe their movements, their words, their lives as much as he could, and he had always come to the conclusion that I was worth staying with.

Until now, and I wondered what could he have seen? His health had gotten worse, declining sharper than mine, but I had still loved him as though he were young again. Maybe he had seen someone with a kinder gaze than me, someone who loved him more, and had left with the intention of a better life for himself.

I should be angry, I should be calling my sister to complain, but I just felt, well, calm. I knew he had loved me, enough to know I didn't need him anymore. Life was growing dim, and he had watched me too, seeing that I would never leave him if my bones crumbled and my skin withered. He made the choice for me, and I'll always love him for that. So I left the bed there, smiling at it fondly as the room began to fade and peace overtook me. I knew I would see him again someday.

Runner’s legs, worn yet strong, lay on a table, rendered useless by infection. Beside them lies a State Champion of the 100-meter run, anesthesia in her lungs, but in her mind blazes the thrill of running. In reality lies a long journey of therapy and prosthetics, but she runs free, curves of steel her new winged shoes, the Paralympics her new finish line.

Her coach said, "Legs do not make the runner. Hurdles can be jumped and obstacles avoided but not without determination", and courage fills her dreams. So, as her parents mourn her passion, she runs, breaking the ribbon.