readying themselves for the night when they will have to fight for their lives.
Leo can tell at a glance that Goldie doesn’t remember Everwhere. She has forgotten herself, has no idea who she is, neither how skilled nor how strong. Which, if her ignorance holds, will tip the scales in his favour. Leo smiles. He can almost feel the light of her dissipating spirit surge in his veins—like a shock of electricity bringing him back to life.
11:11 p.m.—Goldie
The astonishing sight of that man—Leo—makes me wonder how I’d describe myself. We have the same hair, I think, though mine curls to my shoulders. It used to curl down my back, but I cut it after Ma died. My skin isn’t so pale, and my eyes are blue not green. I’d like to say they’re half a dozen shades of blue: the colour of delphiniums, larkspur, bluebells, cornflowers, hydrangeas, clematis . . . But I’d be lying, and I try not to lie to myself. The blue of my eyes is a light, watery forget-me-not blue. Common, unremarkable.
It was only coincidence that he looked back at me. Though it certainly felt as if I compelled him. I know I’m being silly, yet I can’t help wondering. Thoughts, questions, and notions circle my mind, multiplying until my head aches.
For distraction, I mist the purple orchid on the mantelpiece, stroking its leaves, whispering Wordsworth into its petals, its stems now so heavy with buds that I search for pencils and twine to tie them up. Before I arrived the mortality rate for flowers was shocking. A dozen would die a month. But I’ve reversed that. I’ve always had green fingers. Afterwards, I stare at the computer. I polish the overpolished counter. I arrange and rearrange the drawers. I even wish for late guests to appear. But I can’t stop thinking of that moment, the moment he turned upon reaching the lift. I’m so used to feeling always on edge—a crouched hare ever ready to dart to its burrow—I didn’t know I could feel any different. But for that moment, I felt strong. As if I could command armies. As if I could topple nations. As if I had magic at my fingertips . . .
11:11 p.m.—Leo
To Leo’s knowledge, he has never dreamed before. He doesn’t need the restoration of REM sleep—indeed, doesn’t need sleep, but sometimes takes pleasure in it—leaving his nights uninterrupted by the intrusion of needless, nonsensical images. So when he drifts off then wakes tonight and the image of Goldie lingers, he’s startled. Perhaps it’s a subliminal warning against complacency, his subconscious cautioning him not to underestimate her as an opponent. He came to the hotel to watch her, but perhaps he should keep a closer eye, assess her strengths, determine her potential. Or perhaps he’s developing an unnatural obsession. Admittedly, seeing her face again is far from disagreeable. Still, the question of why he is suddenly dreaming and whether Goldie might be the cause keeps Leo alert till dawn.
30th September
Thirty-two days . . .
6:33 p.m.—Bea
The first time Bea took off in a glider, she was terrified, though she’d have sooner crashed than admit it. Indeed, it’d irked to admit it to herself. It wasn’t the flying—once airborne she felt joy she’d never known—but the taking off that took some getting used to. The plunge of the roller coaster in reverse: the slow stretch and pull of the ground catapult, the tightening, the almighty snap and fling.
The lift—oh, the lift!—was sublime. After the abrupt snap came the radiant soar. Rising into the air as if entirely weightless, the catapult forgotten, the plane forgotten, everything forgotten—all past experience erased by this single, spectacular moment of absolute presence. A moment that stretched until the glider began to quake and tilt, prompting the pilot to seize the joystick and seek an updraught.
It took half a dozen flights before Bea began to savour the catapult as much as the lift, the climax as much as the release. Now, as the giant elastic band pulls taut, Bea feels a coil of anticipation tighten inside her. She sits in a state of both absolute stillness and ceaseless quivering, as if her entire body were on the brink of laughter. She has no understanding of the physical dynamics or meteorological phenomena that keep the glider in flight without an engine, nor does she wish to. To define terms, to understand concepts, would weigh it down, would make concrete that which must remain celestial.