Part 18

          There's just too much for me to process right now.  And even when I try to... I'll confess to being a little sidetracked by the memory of Meres' arm around me, the scent of trumpet flowers, the intensity of his gaze.  (Because obviously, I don't have enough hopeless crushes on rock stars in my life, I need to go adding a married man who was older than me a hundred years ago.)
          So I'm a little extra-grateful that I'm meeting with Sylvia today.  Still nervous, of course, I'm not sure what to expect, and not even sure what I need her to help me with... well, apart from the fact that Azal's ghost occasionally stalks me in the present, and might get nasty if Meres doesn't show up too.  Alright.  So I guess that's a good reason to go check in with another psychic.
          Sylvia's place is on the outskirts of the opposite side of town from my apartment - but I want to enjoy these gorgeous summer days while I still can, so hop on my bike and start out an hour before the appointment.  It's a perfect morning for a ride, the sun shining pale gold as it burns off the last of the morning mists.  Though no matter what time of day I'm going through town, I always feel like it's the prettiest time of day - the way the light falls on the rust-colored brick and ivory pillars on the old homes and town buildings, the giant leafy boughs of old trees hanging over every street, the relaxed charm of the Victorian-era fountains (which, I realize now, were likely there in the Masons' time too) near the white gazebos in the town square.  Much of Main Street still has the original storefronts in good repair, though the cramped (and un-air conditioned) apartments on the upper floors are more likely to be occupied by college students than shopowners now.
          I take my time through town, not wanting to arrive too early for my appointment - but even so, I wind up looping around an extra block or two as I approach Sylvia's place.  Unfortunately, this gives me time to get nervous again, but I steel myself and pull into her driveway about five minutes early.  It's a small house on a street full of ones that look pretty similar to it, probably all built in the 1950s or 1960s.  Though it's not horribly cookie-cutter at least, there's a range of colors and the house layouts are a bit varied, and they've been homes long enough that the yards have had time to grow up and be designed by a generation or two of owners.  It's a very pretty, very quiet little street.  Sylvia's house doesn't stand out from the rest at all, it's mostly beige, with one of the front walls done in brick.  There are some low-maintenance gardens and shrubs in the front yard, lining the front of the house and around a maple tree, with a bird feeder near one of the windows.  So I'm put a little more at ease, it's just a normal house, it'll contain a normal person, who will be easy to talk to - I've come here to talk, it's not like she hasn't dealt with situations like mine before.  (Or has she?  I have no idea what's "normal" in the psychic community.  Which is exactly why I'm here.)
          I've had one earbud in while riding, so I can listen to my music while still hearing the sounds around me for safety.  A laid-back playlist for quiet mornings, lots of instrumentals and things.  I don't recognize this song at first, so tune in to the words - which make me stop my bike on the side of the road as I rewind to hear them again: "...And the walls will fall affirming nothing.  So what's it all about?
Call on a bright star, or play your hand as intellect.  Wounds always speak too loud.
Get along for a while, citizen, you will see how the innocent are bound to the damned.  What is, just is, I know, so we're trapped by answers. Love haunts to the end..."  Innocent bound to the damned.  Yeah, that sounds about right, in about five different directions.  I shiver a little - I refuse to think too hard about the eerie aptness of the things in my music collection.
          But I'm totally stalling.  I realize I've circled around past Sylvia's house twice now, and my thoughts are wandering.  Shaking my head at my own ridiculousness, I pull into her driveway, parking my bike in an out-of-the-way corner before heading up to ring the doorbell.

          Obviously, there was nothing to fret about - while Sylvia is nothing at all like Anna, she's almost easier to talk to, very down-to-earth, like having a chat with your family doctor about the symptoms you're experiencing.  Anna had already told her the basic outlines of my story, though I add in the details of new developments, and flesh out a few further conjectures.
          "No, I agree, it's nothing to do with you having taken the letter, I'm certain of that.  But as to what they want, I can't say I'm any more certain than you are.  The obvious issue in need of resolution is the dying child, Calvin, was it?  But given how much you've jumped around in the timeline, I don't see how they could expect you to do anything about it.  Same goes for the rape situation.  Hmm."
          She leans back in her chair, taking a long sip of the mug of hot tea she cradles in her hands.  She'd offered me one as well, and the morning ride was just chilly enough that I gratefully accepted.  It's a lavender earl grey, and while the strong floral scent threw me at first, it's a nice sophisticated flavor combination.  (If I recall correctly, lavender actually means 'distrust', but I refuse to buy that one.  It's such a fresh and lovely old-fashioned thing, there's no way it should have such a poor connotation.)
          The house doesn't feel all that different from my parents' house - which makes sense, I think Sylvia is about their age.  We're seated in a living room done in neutral tones with warm accents, her in a plush recliner, me on the couch beside a large window looking out onto the tree-lined street.  No sign of any cats yet, which is just as well, I've made enough pets freak out already this summer.
          "I don't... I mean it's not like I mind slipping back in time there - to be honest, I love visiting them, and really do want to learn more about them and all.  And the place is just gorgeous."
          "...and the falling two stories down?" she askes with a teasing grin.
          I laugh.  "Well, alright, not exactly my favorite part."  I shift a little on the couch as I'm reminded of my bruises.  There are some frighteningly large black-and-blue patches on me at the moment.
          "But you're worried about their presence in the present - Anna seemed concerned about it as well."
          I nod.  "Azal, really.  Evelyn - I'm assuming she's one - I think is just curious.  And while Meres is powerful, I haven't seen anything that would make me fear harm from him, unless I'd done something really wrong in his eyes.  But not only is Azal cruel, but there was... it was like a kid throwing a temper tantrum at Anna's, only with a lot more power."
          "Many spirits are unaware of their own strength when their intentions are properly focused.  Most of the time, they meander in and out without much real conscious thought, just the vague sense that there's something left undone.  But in this case, there's clearly something more specific going on."
          "...do you think I have a chance of finding out what it is?  I mean, the time-slips have been so random and disjointed."
          "You're certain you're not causing them in any way?"
          "I've been thinking it over since Meres asked me about it, and I can't think of a thing that's been consistent, other than myself, my bag, and being on their property."
          "Is that the same bag with you now?  There isn't anything in there that would be linked to them, is there?"
          "Ha!  Well, there is now, but there wasn't the first few times."  I spill its contents into my lap: water bottle, camera, sketchbook, pencil, pen, chapstick, wallet, keys.  "My camera and sketchbook are filled with things now - pictures I took, sketches and notes."  I flip open the sketchbook to the pages Evelyn wrote on, and pass it over to Sylvia with a smile.  "This is from the day Evelyn and I were hiding from Azal in the tower."
          She takes the book a little reverently, nodding in approval as her eyes scan the pages.  (Whether she actually believes the words were written in another time, or thinks I did it myself either in careful forgery or in an automatic-writing trance, I've no idea, but let's assume she believes me.)

          We discuss a few other details of the experiences, toss around a few more ideas, but nothing seems to quite fit.  I'm happy to have someone to talk to about all of this - the drawings are a great outlet, but it's lovely to be able to actually hear their names spoken in the open air - but I'm starting to wonder again why I've come.  What solution do I think she can give me, when I still don't even know what the problem actually is?
          "...is there anything you can think of that would help me, I don't know, calm Azal down if he shows up like that again?"
          "Well.  Normally, I'd recommend doing a sage smudging, making sure there are no objects bound in negative energies, that sort of thing, but if they appeared in other places where you were the only constant factor, that's not going to work.  And no, I won't suggest you wear garlic around your neck!" she adds with a laugh.