Page 27

Ten

Lyric was buzzing with giddy energy. “I’ll show you around later, but first I need to see my family. You understand.”

“Of course.”

“Don’t forget our first stop.” Madigan pointed to a shop with a moss-covered stone exterior and crudely thatched roof. A thin stream of dark smoke snaked up from a lopsided rock chimney. While many of the other shops and homes had their wooden doors and windows adorned with dried flowers and other festoonery, this shop’s door was warped and faded, and the only embellishment was an ominous, hand-painted sign that read “ALL MUST STOP HERE.” The other shops looked cozy and inviting, but this one looked grim and unpleasant. Lyric’s smile dropped when she saw the place.

“Why do we have to stop there?” I asked. It was a logical question given that the shop was the least likely place any visitor would stop in the entire village, and I hadn’t even seen most of it.

“We’ll need our number anklets,” Madigan said, as if I had any notion what she meant.

“I’m not really a fan of anklets,” I explained lamely. “I had one once. I thought I was very cool and chic until it got caught in my bicycle spokes and nearly broke my ankle.”

“It’s a law,” Madigan said, ignoring my harrowing story, again in a way that implied instinctual understanding on my part. It seemed I wasn’t going to get any clarification, so I followed along, assuming everything would make sense eventually.

The door creaked on its hinges. It was more of a moan than a squeak, like it was in pain. The shop’s interior was even more morose than the sad exterior. Candles lit the space, which contained no more than a few shelves lined with boxes. One of the boxes said “return number anklet here.” A hunched old man with only a few gray hairs combed over his squarish bald head looked up from a book as we stepped inside. He nervously combed his fingers through his nonexistent hair. He wore a leather apron and sat behind a table that was strewn with small tools and metal chains. A pewter teapot sat on a small stand over a lit candle. A pleasant flowery aroma wafted up from the pot. The nice smell seemed entirely incongruous with the surroundings. “Returning?” he asked as he came around his table. He spotted Madigan first. “Madigan, you’ve returned.”

“Elgar, nice to see you,” Madigan said.

His cloudy brown eyes fell on Lyric next. “Your parents will be pleased to see you, Lyric.” Elgar gave me a cursory glance, almost as if he knew who I was, but he wasn’t going to acknowledge it. “So, the three of you will be needing a number?” His shoes looked as if he’d swaddled his feet in animal hide and then tied them neatly off with strands of the same hide.

It felt a bit like a funeral procession as the four of us walked across to the boxes on the shelf. Elgar reached them first. They were crudely made wooden crates, and each one had a number range carved into the wood. He reached for the box labeled 100-200.

Elgar turned and gazed sympathetically at Lyric. “It’s still here. If you want it. Or maybe that would upset your mother.” He shook his head vigorously, dislodging one of the long strands of hair from his shiny scalp. It dropped to the side of this face. He blushed and quickly flipped it back onto his head. “Forget I mentioned⁠—”

“Yes, I want it.” Lyric spoke as if she had a tennis ball stuck in her throat.

Elgar regarded her with a polite smile. “If you’re sure.”

Lyric nodded, as if saying yes would have been painful. I glanced at Madigan hoping she’d shed some light on the confusing, upsetting exchange, but her face was turned down as if the gritty wood planks below our feet had something interesting going on.

“Number 148?” Elgar raised his brow in question as he held up a small silver chain with three silver beads. Each bead had a number carved into it; strung together, they made the number 148.

Lyric smiled weakly. “You have an incredible memory, Elgar.”

The moment had been entirely and inexplicably, at least to me, somber, but Lyric’s compliment made Elgar smile. He tapped his temple. “I never forget numbers.” Then the smile disappeared as if, in the middle of his merriment, he remembered this was not a merry moment. I didn’t know how to feel, except my emotions were tightly connected to Lyric, and because she was profoundly sad about the exchange, my bones and heart felt heavy, too. Elgar returned to the box and pulled out another chain. “Number 174?” he asked Madigan.

She grabbed it without a word, but her usually sharp, athletic posture was droopy. “That’ll do,” she said curtly.

Lyric sniffled as she untied the laces on her boots, curled down the short tops and fastened the chain around her ankle. Madigan did the same, but her taller boots took more time to untie. It may have been the poor candle lighting in the room, but Madigan had lost some of the golden glow on her skin.

Elgar cleared his throat. “And one more.” He reached into the box and pulled out another chain. For the first time, he made eye contact with me, and there was the slightest welcoming sparkle in his cloudy eyes. “192,” he read off the beads. “Remember. Don’t take it off.”

I nodded but I had no idea what I was agreeing to. I figured a small metal anklet wasn’t a big deal. It was obviously some kind of crude data system, possibly like a social security number.

“192,” I repeated. “I will wear it proudly,” I announced with a silly amount of bravado.

All three of them stared at me as if I’d just claimed to have flown here on a spaceship. I looked toward Lyric for a little assistance, but she was still an emotional mess.

Elgar cleared his throat and raked fingers through his nonexistent hair again. “Now then, I’ve got to write the numbers on the ledger. Raphael Willow, correct?” he asked.

My mouth dropped in surprise.

“Yes,” Madigan answered for me.

With our new numerical jewelry attached, the three of us left the shop without having to pay. “I’m going to need an explanation.” I looked back and forth between them. Lyric was still not herself.

“It’s been a long day, a long decade,” Madigan said. “Let’s settle in and then we’ll tell you everything.”