“Stef?” I slipped around the chairs and sofa, with faded, patched upholstery and blankets thrown across the backs. She had more rooms on the first floor than Sam, most of them filled with inventions in various stages of completion. The stairs were hidden away in a corner, leading to the equally packed second story.
Floorboards creaked under my weight. I listened for any noises other than my own—nothing—and crept around the house, finding a library, a washroom, and a bedroom. Like Sam, she was usually male, but she didn’t keep separate bedrooms for male and female incarnations. She just tossed her extra things in trunks for a lifetime, so now her bedroom was filled with dresses.
I started to leave, but a familiar photograph caught my attention. Hating myself for the intrusion, I looked closer. The photo I’d recognized was of two men, their arms slung around each other’s shoulders, both smiling. That was Sam and Stef in their previous lifetimes. Other photos on the shelf were new to me, but I recognized some of Sam’s previous incarnations. Sometimes he was alone, but most of the time he was with another person. Stef, I assumed.
Next to the photos rested a stack of papers: letters in Sam’s handwriting, written while he was on trips and saved up until he returned to Heart to deliver them. I skimmed only a couple of them, loathing myself as I did because they were private, but they only talked about places he was going and things he saw that she might like.
There were a lot of them.
The last photograph was of the Sam I knew, sly smile and dark, messy hair. I recognized the shirt, too; I’d helped him choose it during a summer market day. For a moment, I thought she must have taken it while I was trapped inside the temple. Surprising that he let her, because he hated being photographed. But his head was turned and one arm was outstretched. He held a smaller hand in his. Mine. My hand was the only part of me in the picture.
I stepped away.
Half of me expected Stef to appear in the hallway and demand to know what I was doing, but the house remained quiet. Feeling confused and betrayed and jealous, I left the room.
I’d known they had history. I’d even seen photos from previous lifetimes where he was kissing someone. It bothered me, but sometimes I could imagine those Sams weren’t my Sam. Those had been older, occasionally female, sometimes overweight or too skinny. I could find pieces of my Sam in all of them, but I could trick myself when it hurt.
She loved him. I couldn’t imagine why anyone wouldn’t. It was the intensity of her feelings I hadn’t anticipated.
“How hurt does someone need to be to do something desperate?” I whispered, then felt sick. Stef would never hurt Sam like that. She might antagonize him, try to convince him that our relationship was improper. But she would never destroy what Sam loved most. Never.
“I’m sorry,” I said, even though she wasn’t here to hear it. It had been a petty, jealous thought, and I scrubbed my hands over my face as though I could wipe it away.
Time to go home. I went outside, finding sunlight had dimmed as gray clouds covered the sky, ready to drop more snow.
I shivered with winter chill by the time I opened the door to Sam’s house again. The parlor was still a wreck, and the upstairs was quiet. Hopefully he was sleeping.
Fending off tears, I found a large bin and continued throwing away unsalvageable pieces of Sam’s instruments. Any time the bin got heavy, I carried it outside and dumped it out with the rest.
When I couldn’t stand any more, I climbed upstairs to shower and change into something not covered in sweat and dirt and splintered memories of a hundred broken instruments. Outside, snow fell heavy and white and wet.
It was almost night by the time I called Stef’s SED. No answer. Nothing from Cris, either. Where could they be? Worry gnawed deeper; I tried Sarit.
“Hey, Ana.”
“Thank goodness.” I slumped to the sofa, relief like a waterfall through me. “You’re there.”
“Yeah, freezing my tail off. Cris didn’t answer his door yesterday morning, and there weren’t enough blue roses in the greenhouse. I’m on my way to Purple Rose to see if I can salvage any from there. You owe me. A hundred concerts, at least. Write a song for me while you’re at it, cricket.”
I shook my head, even though she couldn’t see me. “With this snow, they’re probably already gone. Just come home.” She might have been my best friend, but she was also crazy.
“No way. I’m getting those roses for you. I’ll keep them alive with my sunny personality.”
“You’re insane.” I stared around the wreck of a parlor and tried to breathe right. “I’m glad I can get hold of you, though. Stef and Cris aren’t answering. They’re not at home.”
“Cris still isn’t there?” Worry crept into her words.
“His garden is collecting snow. And when Sam and I came back—” My voice caught. I tried again. “Sarit, someone destroyed the instruments. All of them.”
“Oh.” Her voice softened, deepened. “Oh, Ana. Your flute too?”
“No.” I took a shaky breath. “It was in the workroom. Lorin accidentally popped a wire out, and Sam was going to show me how to fix it.”