It was lonely in the apartment by herself. Kirika lay back in her customary place on the bed, hands folded behind her dark, tousled head as she stared up at the ceiling. Realistically, she knew it was foolish to feel lonely at this point. She'd been in the apartment by herself before, sometimes for hours, when Mirelle went out to do things on her own. It wasn't as if she were helpless. She knew how to cook and order delivery food, she had money available for anything she wanted to get or do, and if it came down to it, she was more than capable of defending herself against anything that might come after her. With nothing pressing to do and no job that required her attention, she was free to do whatever she wanted. For most ordinary people, she was fairly certain this would be paradise. Besides, Mirelle hadn't even been gone for more than two hours. But realism had nothing to do with the faint ache in her chest, the odd feeling curled in the pit of her stomach like a small, shivering animal. This time was different than any time before, and though she might be able to fool her mind, her body knew the truth. Mirelle wouldn't just be gone for a few hours, to come striding through the door with a smile and that softening hint of warmth in her eyes. She would be gone for three or four days, away in a place that Kirika couldn't follow and couldn't protect her. The time stretching before the Japanese assassin was like an endless nothing, an empty space of worry where she would be forced to exist until her partner returned and life resumed. With a sigh, the young woman rolled over on her side, rust-red gaze falling on a small, simply potted plant perched atop a stand near the dresser. Yellow and blue blooms peeked in patches through the leafy green foliage, and Kirika smiled slightly. These flowers were only some of several that now spread tastefully throughout the apartment, a soft riot of complimentary colors tucked in niches and settled on windowsills. Mirelle had ordered them on the internet while Kirika was recuperating, having them delivered downstairs to make sure she didn't have to leave her wounded partner's side for more than a few minutes. The Japanese assassin could vividly remember waking from one of her worst days, sick and aching, only to see a multitude of new blossoms and green shoots arranged at the foot of the bed on a fold-out table. Mirelle had been standing behind them, a hint of shyness in the wry smile that curved her lips. "I figured – maybe we could use another orchid." Her eyes had danced, the light in them somewhere between playful and amused. "A few of them. And some bluebells, and some of these little violet ones. What do you think?" They had spent the next several hours happily deciding which plant went where, with Mirelle patiently shifting the pots while Kirika sat on the couch, propped up on pillows so her weakened stomach muscles wouldn't have to work as hard to keep her upright. In the present, Kirika's eyes brightened, remembering her partner's silvery laughter. "We'll have a mini-forest in this window if we add a single new bush . . . what about this sill instead? Maybe we should put the blue-and-white ones on this ledge, and then we can move the yellow over here. What do you think, Kirika? Or do you like the purple ones here instead?" The remembered voice echoing in her head was enough to sooth her pained loneliness, if only for a moment. Kirika sat up, pleating the edge of the bed sheets absently between her fingers as she stared out the window with unseeing eyes. She knew, in part, why Mirelle had gone on this job alone, even though the target and the circumstances repulsed her. Things between the two of them were . . . strange, to say the least. After the horror of blood and death that marked their return from the Manor, Kirika had still been slightly afraid that Mirelle wouldn't want her around. That even after begging her to live, pulling her from the fiery abyss and oblivion of death, the blonde would want her to go her own way now that the trials were ended and their pasts revealed. When the Corsican beauty had soberly admitted she couldn't imagine living without her, Kirika's heart had nearly pounded from her chest in joy. The only person she cared for, the one she wanted to stay beside always, wanted the very same thing, felt the same thing! It was the most perfect ending she could imagine, a faerie tale she would never have dreamed she could have for herself. Of course, it hadn't worked out quite as wonderfully as a true faerie tale. Pulling a pillow to her chest, Kirika sighed, delicate pointed chin resting atop the thick softness. In some ways, their relationship was almost the same as before – the comfortable silences, anticipating each other's moods, the two of them reacting to each other with liquid perfection on a hit. And the tea they drank, preparing dinner together, even the teasing glances and gently mocking eyes Mirelle seemed to turn on her partner whenever she found the opportunity. In some ways, it was even better. Mirelle asked about most jobs now, wanting her opinions instead of simply choosing for them; she had taken a deep interest in making sure Kirika knew about a normal life, even if they couldn't really have one of their own, and she seemed to love encouraging the small hobbies the Japanese young woman had shyly developed. She didn't seem to have a problem in touching Kirika now, either. But in some ways, everything was even more uncertain than before. Setting aside the pillow again, the dark-haired girl slipped off the bed, padding bare-footed down the small set of steps to the apartment proper. Before she'd gone to the Manor, her sometimes strange reactions to Mirelle weren't important. She hadn't understood them, but at the time, it hadn't mattered; after all, the blonde Corsican had planned and promised to kill her once they uncovered the secrets of their shared past. Now that it was all behind them, though, every random stomach flutter, every small shock of heat and jolt of muscle weakness seemed new, exciting and confusing. Even worse were the emotions that invaded her heart and mind, even when they were on a job. The absolute elation that filled her when Mirelle voiced one of her rare compliments, the shy flaming blush at each gentle tease, the crushing worry that stuffed her heart in her throat if she thought Mirelle was in danger – she had no idea what they might mean, or even if they were normal for someone in their situation. As if there was a normal for their situation. Mind elsewhere, Kirika picked up the teapot and filled it at the sink, hands moving absently in the same familiar routines they had followed more than a million times before. Although she had tried to explain her tangled feelings in the letter she'd left Mirelle, she was sure she'd failed miserably in that area. The blonde hadn't said a word about any of it since they returned, other than admitting she'd found the paper, and Kirika knew from the steely look in those sapphire eyes that bringing it up would be a very bad idea. Though who did that leave for her to ask? It was ironic, the Japanese assassin reflected as she pulled open one of the cupboard doors, that she knew so much about obscure and specialized things, yet so little about common, ordinary life. She could turn any item into a deadly weapon and kill with her bare hands, and she was an accomplished field surgeon, tracker, hunter and spy. Her memory was nearly perfect, she spoke more than a dozen different languages fluently, and she knew her intelligence was quite above average, especially for her age. But still, the most basic, integral parts of society seemed bent on eluding her grasp. So where did a once amnesiac-assassin go to get information she couldn't ask her partner? With a sigh, young woman tossed the wrappings of her tea bags in the trash. She supposed there was a bright side to the enforced separation. Without her reactions or any jobs to distract her, perhaps she could finally get to the bottom of their mystery. She knew how to get to the bibliothèque publique – between the books and computers there, she was fairly sure she'd be able to find something that matched the physical symptoms, if not the emotional ones. She would get a handle on this, and everything would be fine – Turning back to her finished concoction, Kirika stopped dead, one hand still frozen in mid-motion. Settled on the smooth countertop in their usual places, two full teacups glinted mockingly in the overhead lights, their reddish-brown depths topped with small, swirling white plumes of steam. The younger woman's stomach clenched, tight and painful. Even without checking, she knew one had two sugar cubes and just a dash of cream, the other a single cube and more cream. The second was hers – the first, Mirelle's. Lips pressed hard together, Kirika spun sharply and stalked out of the kitchen, pausing only long enough to gather socks, shoes, jacket and a small backpack from their customary places. A few moments later, the front door not-quite-slammed shut, leaving the small, aching glimmer of normality behind. These next few days were going to be hell. -------------------------------------------------------- "I'm still not sure – is there a difference between – well what about this brush size?" Random, disconnected snippets of conversation flowed around the Japanese young woman as she slipped smoothly through the wide, spacious aisle of the new art store, her small, well-dressed frame mostly unnoticed by the various patrons. A pale brown coat of soft leather, its inside lined with wool, went down to about mid-thigh; a pair of fitting, light blue jeans, deep green T-shirt, and brown leather hightops in a slightly darker shade completed her outfit. Kirika wasn't quite sure how to feel about her clothes. She knew they made her look nice, as Mirelle had helped her pick them out. Partly, that thought made her chest ache, reminding her all over again that she was alone. But it also made her feel protected, safe, wrapped in these garments the Corsican had specially chosen. Her backpack was cream-colored, with two pockets and a bottom of durable leather, currently half-filled with sketchbooks, painting supplies and colored pencils. It had seen quite a bit of action in the last few weeks, as the young assassin and her partner had searched out new places for her to sketch. Pausing in front of a large display on pastels, Kirika picked up a deep, dark purple and examined it, noting the slight coolness and solidity of the shade. Mirelle had never quite understood that part, the way Kirika would hesitate and ponder over dozens of ‘identical' colors before selecting one that seemed exactly the same as the four next to it. The younger woman couldn't really explain it, either, and after the first few tries, she'd given up. She simply saw something in the different shadings and tints, things that seemed to make a color appear warmer or colder, firmer or more fluid than another. After a few moments of thought, the Japanese girl shook her head and returned the lean, rectangular block to its box. No, it wasn't quite right. She wanted something warmer for the edges of the orchid's shadows, something to capture the soft glow of the afternoon sun that had been streaming through the window when she first sketched the picture. Leaning forward to pick up another color, a sudden flutter of plain white at the corner of her eye caught her attention. Surprised, Kirika turned, eyes tracking the motion automatically. Oddly enough, it was a loose piece of ordinary, computer-printer paper, floating down as though someone had dropped it to the floor while walking. There appeared to be something drawn on the bottom side, with several small lead smudges on the back that looked like finger marks. A thoughtful frown touched the young woman's face as she bent to pick up the sketch. Who had it come from? Flipping the paper over, she stared. It was beautiful. Whoever had done this was obviously an above average artist – even for a pencil sketch, it fairly shouted depth and complexity. The piece seemed to be a still-life of a tree planted outdoors, dappled sunlight glowing through the leafy branches and a wrought-iron fence bordering the trunk. Etched paving stones making up the ground suggested that it had been sketched at some sort of boutique mall, maybe near the canals, if the small grassy area behind it was the bank. The whole sketch seemed to have been done in mechanical pencil. But who could have done this? Kirika straightened, looking around for a likely owner. Two teenage girls – obviously foreigners, judging by the tourist-style berets and over-giggly attitudes – were chattering to each other in English and with one of the employees in stilted, heavily-accented French. She didn't think this gem could belong to one of them. A young boy and his mother were speaking with another store-worker about some kind of school project, the child wriggling with glee as he pointed out this or that type of poster board. Definitely not them, either. An older man stood with his arms folded in front of the paints, glowering at the selection of brushes with an almost stereotypical scowl. Kirika doubted he had the personality to draw something like the gorgeous snippet of art in her hand, even if he'd had the ability. No, it wasn't any of them. But who? Her gaze finally caught a lean, athletic-looking young man, just about Mirelle's age, paused in front of a stand of colored pencils in the next aisle. With his back to her, Kirika could only see his rich, oak brown hair – short, almost a crewcut, with faint golden highlights – and the lightly-tanned skin at his neck and hands. He wore a dark, fashionable sweater and simple blue jeans, a messenger bag slung casually over one shoulder, and a rather battered sketchpad was tucked in the crook of his arm. Several loose papers stuck out at different angles from between the book's cardboard covers, some with the slightly ratted edges from being torn out of another pad, some the plain computer-printer kind like the one in Kirika's hand. Judging from what she could see of the sketches on them, this was definitely the artist she was looking for. Apparently, he hadn't realized this one had fallen out. "Excuse me." "Yes?" The young man turned, smiling slightly, and Kirika automatically noted his square chin, the well-chiseled features and wide, full mouth that seemed to calm a nervousness she hadn't even realized she felt. His eyes were green, a deep wood shade, with just a hint of brown in their depths. Feeling oddly caught for a moment, she blinked and shyly held out the paper. As usual, her French was flawless. "I think you dropped this." Now it was his turn to blink, open gaze shifting from her face to the sketch in her hand with a look of surprised relief. "Oh!" His smile widened gratefully, and one hand rose to gently take the paper back. "Thank you so much – I didn't even know I lost it!" Kirika couldn't help but smile back, just slightly. The young man shifted his sketchbook in his arm, lifting the plain cover and tucking the sketch carefully back inside. "I just finished this one, and I hadn't had a chance to add the ink yet. I was thinking about using the new Micron pens from America. Have you ever tried those?" "No." Kirika shook her head, cheeks faintly pink and uncomfortable at the casual conversation. She'd gotten a little better at speaking with people she didn't know since the Manor, but it was still rather unsettling. Glancing up at her face, the artist looked suddenly embarrassed. "I'm sorry – I didn't even introduce myself. My name's Alexander Hollinder, Alex." He held out his free hand, smiling sheepishly. "What's yours?" "Kirika." The Japanese assassin responded without thinking, still slightly rattled at the cheerful openness in the young man. Alex's grin widened, apparently not noticing the girl's discomfort. "Hello, Kirika. Thank you again. I don't know what I'd do if I lost this." Glancing up at her backpack, his eyes danced. "Are you an artist too?" Kirika nodded now, though she made no move toward her own sketches. She didn't catch any suspicious air about this boy, but it never hurt to be cautious, and it could hurt quite a lot if she wasn't. For a moment, the face of Milosh – lost forever to the world of light – flashed through her mind. Alexander didn't seem to mind her reservations, though, his own face bright with pleasure at finding a fellow worshiper of the arts. He gestured toward the display he'd been looking at. "I like to use colored pencils for different highlights sometimes. You know, the softer light shines, that kind of thing." Turning, he picked up a middling green pencil from the racks, eyeing it critically before shaking his head and putting it back. "Of course, I'm a bit picky about the colors. Like this one – it's a nice, solid shade, but too dusty for the leaves and grass. They need something more vibrant, a little warmer." "More like this one." Kirika reached forward and plucked another of the emerald pencils from the display, half-turning to offer it for the artist's inspection before blushing and ducking her head. She hadn't meant to be that forward. Alex, on the other hand, beamed and nodded. "Perfect!" He laughed, self-deprecating. "Usually when I say things like that, people look at me like I'm crazy." Kirika nodded, still flushing a bit, but surprised to find someone who agreed with her. Alex shifted his book again and flipped it back open to the sketch Kirika had seen, glancing to the side with a grin. "What do you think for the sun on this bark here? The ridges are always a problem for me." Hesitating, Kirika wondered if there was any way to politely excuse herself. She knew better than to get into personal conversations with people – in her line of work, it wasn't done. Still – turning back to the display, she trailed her fingers along the browns, finally pausing at a reddish one that seemed to have hints of deep mahogany. "I – I think this one will work. It's a redwood, right?" Alexander nodded, still pleased. "Just the one I wanted." Holding up the pencil next to it, he explained, "I always get ones that're too dark, never realize it until it's too late." He tucked the two pencils they'd chosen into his free hand, plucking a couple more from the stand with quick precision. "This is great." He might have said more, but a movement at the front of the store caught his eye. Looking up, Kirika realized a teenage girl standing there was motioning at him, gray eyes impatient in a porcelain face framed by long, straight blonde hair. Her full mouth was turned down slightly at the corners, a faint but unmistakable frown. Alexander sighed. "Damn." Shaking his head, the young man snagged a few ink pens from a second stand. "I've got to run, Lisa doesn't like to wait." Gently, he grinned over his shoulder. "Thanks again, Kirika. I'll see you later." With a wave, he headed off to the front counter. Kirika watched covertly as he paid for his art supplies, then headed outside, the bag hanging from his wrist. One arm went around the teenager with a happy hug, the blonde girl's irritation fading into a wry smile that reminded Kirika of Mirelle's sarcasm. The two wandered off down the street side by side, and Kirika found herself watching until both were out of sight. With a sigh of her own, she glanced at the display herself. Maybe she'd try a few of them. At least it was something to do with her time. -------------------------------------------------------- Poor Kirika. Sorry if the ending is a little rushed - after Alexander left, there wasn't really much more for her to do. Next chapter: Mirelle comes home, Breffort reappears, erotic dreams, and PIE! Frightening, ne?
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