The Great Ellini (Book One of The Powder Trail)

Chapter Forty Eight: The First Meeting of Old Friends

Ellini lay on her side on the roof of the Turl Street Music Rooms, while her heartbeat slowed, and her breathing gradually quietened.

She knew she shouldn't have come here. She knew she should have been back at the Faculty, taking advantage of these few, precious moments before dawn to get some sleep. She knew the piano music which came from this building at night was dangerous, because it had the same effect on her as Jack's touch. It reminded her that she was alive. It made hunger and exhaustion, and all the things she had been resolutely ignoring, rush back in on her and clamour for attention. You will pay these bills, they said. You can't go on like this forever.

As such, she should have been avoiding the music as carefully as she avoided Jack's hands. But somehow, she couldn't. It was beguiling—even if it was full of pain—to be a living, breathing creature for a few seconds.

She had slipped Jack's coat around her shoulders again. She'd taken it off for all the running—because a piece of clothing that trailed behind you was a piece of clothing that could be grabbed and used to pull you back. But her body temperature and her spirits dropped so much after these night-time chases that she had thought it prudent to stash the coat behind a chimney on a rooftop in Broad Street, so she could warm herself up when the business of the night was over.

It smelled of him—not in a bad way, although there was a lot of alcohol and cigarette smoke mixed up with the familiar scent of his skin—but just enough to comfort her, and tug at her heartstrings in time with the piano keys.

She wondered if he was still him. How much of your memory could you lose and still remain the same person? He seemed exactly the same—just as cheerful, restless, friendly, curious and charming as he'd always been. She couldn't help smiling whenever she saw him drumming out a rhythm on his knees, or tracing patterns in a puddle of spilled whisky on the tabletop.

But there was something strange about him, and it wasn't just the fact that he didn't want her anymore.

Was she really doing him a favour by keeping him from remembering her? Wasn't it better to be yourself—to be free to make your own choices—even if it cost you a lot of pain? But he had made his choice. He really had. The spell couldn't have worked unless he'd consented to forget her. She had just hurt him too much, that was all—enough to turn even those happy memories sour.

The thought of this made her turn over on the slates, in the wild, stupid hope that the heartbreak in her chest would somehow bleed into the roof and stay there. Not forever—she wouldn't wish this kind of pain on anything, not even a building—but just until the twenty-six days were up, and she could safely earth her feelings in the cold ground with the rest of her.

The tiredness was the worst part. She could flee pain—both physical and mental—until it dwindled into a small, bruise-coloured heap on the horizon. But somehow, exhaustion was the enemy of escapism. It clung to your skirts and pulled you back when you tried to run. Then it climbed up your spine and into your brain and turned all your beautiful, golden dreams to lead.

The piano music died down for a moment, and instead of endless thoughts about Jack, somebody else's voice rushed in to fill the silence in Ellini's head.

"It's an odd time of the morning for concertos, don't you think?"

Without thinking, Ellini's muscles jerked into life. She rolled up into a crouching position, ready to spring under any outstretched claws and off the rooftop in one motion.

But the person who had spoken seemed to be definitely human. She was a woman in black, with voluminous hair, and a black veil which was sucked inwards every time she took a breath. She had freckles on her bare arms.