"What was I thinking just now?" The woman wrinkled her forehead. In her mid-thirties, not tall, and trim, she wandered in the semi-darkness, immersed in herself. "I was definitely thinking about something." She strained her memory even more. But no: there was neither general idea, nor separate image, nor random detail to cling to - a dark abyss spread out before her mind's eye. Like a dream standing in front of your eyes while they are still closed, so clear, despite the fact that the brain has already woken up and knows that this is just a dream, no matter how real everything in it may seem, and instantly and completely dissolves into sunlight as soon as the eyes open, so the thought drowned in that abyss the scale of which she had not yet comprehended, gone forever because her eyes were already open. "Where am I?" The woman raised her head and looked around: a dimly lit, not very large square, similar to one of many of european old towns, covered with cobblestones, with a stella or fountain in the center, and surrounded by low, except for one, which stands out from the general array by a narrow tower, stone houses stuck to each other. Night. Although, most likely, it's late in the evening, since the square is quite crowded. "Where am I? How did I get here? What for? From where?" She turned around and stared into the dark alley she had come out of, trying to reach the past with her eyes, to remember herself five, ten, fifteen minutes ago. To no avail.
"Miss? Miss?" came an insistent voice. "Do you need help?" There were two men standing behind her. 'Help?' On the one hand, she could hardly imagine how strangers could help her - she wasn't going to ask them for the name of the city, unless where the police station was located - on the other, she only had to look at them once to understand that she wouldn't want to get involved with such characters in any case. It's because of the look. Yes. Impertinent and predatory. And the same grin.
"No, I'm fine. Thank you."
"Are you sure? That you're not lost?"
"I do. It's all good. It's just that I'm waiting for a friend, and he's late. That's all." And she half turned to them and looked away, hinting that the conversation was over.
"What's your name?"
The woman wanted to be outraged by this gentleman's familiarity, but when her eyes met his, she froze in shock. Fear rose in her throat. She couldn't remember herself a year, five or ten years ago. She didn't just not know where she was, didn't remember where she was from or where she was going. She didn't know who she was!
"Show me your papers, please."
Her hands automatically darted to her left hip, where her bag usually hangs, however, it wasn't there, - "Why on earth should I show them my documents? They're not cops, they don't have uniforms or badges... No, there's something similar to a sheriff star. Can't make out what it says in the dark." - searched the back pockets, patted the jacket. "I think I left them at home."
"Really. How inconsiderate. And where do you live?" The woman looked at him with a confused look. "Who are you? A witch? Then present the wand. You couldn't have forgotten it either. Not a witch? And who? Vampire, werewolf, squib..."
The man continued to list the names of creatures, the essence of which she had no idea, but it was no longer important. She realised it was a joke, they were mocking her. Now she was nervously looking around, hoping to find someone who could scare them away. The longer she stared into the gloom, the more and more she was surprised by what she saw. Everything was strange: the lights in the lanterns were trembling ("whether they are gas?"); myriads of stars were burning in the sky ("there is no big city or big highway nearby"); there was not a single car in the square, instead of the hum of the engine, the hearing began to distinguish the clicking of canes and umbrellas; people wrapped themselves in long capes, not in coats or parkas, and on their heads they wore bowlers, top hats, bonnets, but not caps; they stopped, took something shiny out of their bosoms and glanced at the top of the tower ("checking the time by the clock at the town hall, my God, when am I?!"). No, it wasn't everything around her that was weird, she was weird in her skinny jeans and wide hoodie. Maybe leather boots and jacket would have saved the situation a little, because these two also wore leather, albeit in an unimaginable combination with plaid wool trousers tapering to the bottom and bright-colored wool vests, like overripe punk rockers. But then why would they laugh at her, they're not children? The woman thought that declaring herself a witch at any time was fraught, and, still examining the clothes of one of the interrogators, she began hesitantly: "I'm not..." Suddenly, her eyes saw a rather interesting detail of his outfit - the interlacing straps on his torso. And from one of the loops, on the side, protruded a thin elegant stick. "What the..." Their eyes met again. The fright was already clearly visible on her face. He was baring his teeth maliciously. She looked around again. Light was gradually coming on in one of the windows of a nearby house - an old lady was lighting candles one by one in a massive candelabrum, touching them with a long splinter, however, without fire. A bell rang somewhere and an exclamation followed, "Mister, you forgot your parcel!" - the 'mister' waved his hand and a large box slowly floated through the air from the open doorway towards him. An unharnessed gig creaked past. "I'm..." A pop. A man appeared out of nowhere and walked into the store as if nothing had happened. A young man touched his palm with a... wand? and a flaming heart flew on pigeon wings into the hands of his beloved. A shower of sparks jumped out from under the lad's shortened cape and hit the pavement stone under the foot of another guy from the same company - he stumbled.
"Not a witch," the patrolman said affirmatively.
"I couldn't go outside without a wand," the woman recalled his words, and she began to tremble. "Who was he listing there? I'm..." she seemed to have already decided on the answer, but the moon that came out from behind the clouds attracted everyone's attention with a bright light - it was full. "Damn it!"
"Not a werewolf as well," stated the second.
"Who are you then?"
"Who am I?!" The woman bit her lip. "Umm... you see, I have memory problems. This is a serious disease. A really scary one. I don't remember who I am. I don't know where I live or how I got here. I..."
"Evelyn?"
"Thank God! Finally, a familiar face!" The feeling of relief left the woman almost immediately and she held her body leaning forward - a box hovered in the air next to the man who addressed her by name, the same one that flew out of the door of the post office. "Or it seemed... no, I know this man for sure. But how? Don't remember. As I don't remember anything else! At least he knows my name, unlike me. Although... I responded to it..." For a while, a familiar stranger carefully studied her eyes.
"What are you doing here? How did you get here? I was sure that you were waiting for me at home, as we agreed." The intonation with which he spoke was not patronising, it contained concern and respect. It inspired trust and reassurance. "Gentlemen," he said to the patrolmen, and only a very sensitive ear could hear the contempt in his voice. "This is Miss Greenwood, an old acquaintance of mine. She suffers from a memory-related illness and is currently in an acute period. The moon is known to affect more than just werewolves. Miss turned to me for help and has been staying at my house for a while."
The woman stared at her potential savior with wide-open eyes. "I know that voice. That cold, authoritative voice. How?"
"Miss doesn't seem to recognise you very much," one of the patrolmen commented.
"In my opinion, this is quite logical, considering what I just said," the man with the box retorted, and this time the contempt was absolutely not hidden.
"If he had looked at me like that, I would have sunk into the ground with shame," the woman thought, and immediately felt like a student answering a lesson in front of a large audience, closing in, however, on one single person. "But he's not old enough to be my university professor." Nevertheless, he was not young, nor was he handsome, nor was he particularly well-groomed, nor was he well-dressed; under an unbuttoned mantle, black clothes could be seen, the long tails of which were stained with wet road mud. "Did he come from home?" In these clothes and with long black hair, he looked like a hermit monk. But his manner and his way of speaking, this self-respect, restrained one, which only confirmed its merits, immediately put him head and shoulders above the rest in the eyes of others. She felt flattered to be such an acquaintance that such a person wanted to take care of, or, if he was lying, to be worthy of such a lie for some reason. He kept talking and there was no doubt that the patrolmen knew him and were even afraid of him. And as he spoke, he gradually moved closer and closer to the woman. Finally, he stood right next to her and brought his hand to her back at shoulder blade level. He wasn't touching her, but his open palm seemed to radiate energy, which she felt was directed at protecting her. Now, in the future, in the past, always. And she only felt that, too, because it was an unthinkable act to understand that.
"I hope I have answered all your questions. In any case, you know my address." The woman did not have time to really return from her thoughts, as the fingers of her intercessor's hand closed on her shoulder with an iron grip and, with ease, as if she were just a feather, dragged her into a whirlwind, the center of which was her savior.
"Damn it! We still haven't found out which nature she is."
"She is a witch, without a doubt. She was surprised, of course, but not as scared as if she had seen magic for the first time in her life. She was more scared by the memory lapse. At worst, a squib, but that's not a crime yet. If you feel like it, we can visit his house. But are you sure you want to mess with him?"
Shocked by what was happening, the woman clutched at hands covered with the cloak, and looked at the 'monk's' face - it seemed completely detached. Then she noticed the box circling around them, but very soon watching it made her feel sick. With a groan of remorse, she buried her forehead into the man's chest. Approaching the center of rotation leveled up the vestibular apparatus, and she felt a little better. Nevertheless, when the whirlwind stopped and there was a solid surface under her feet, the disease returned: bent over and gasping for air, the woman backed away, trying to find some kind of support and suppress vomiting.
"Here, drink this, you'll feel better right away," cold hands caught her one, which was tossing in the air, and placed a small smooth object in it. She immediately emptied the vial without hesitation. The disease was gone. The woman tensed, straightened up and looked around.
"What was that? All that. Magic?" The 'monk' did not answer. He was in the same confusion and studied her with the same excitement and disbelief that she studied him in the square. "Who are you?"
"Haven't we met before?"
"I don't know." Her forehead smoothed, her voice and gaze softened; she realised that they were both experiencing the same feelings. Almost. "So you lied to the patrolmen."
"I wouldn't be that definite. Besides, you're in my house now, and I strongly recommend that you don't leave it until you remember who you are."
"Well, then, I think I should commend you?"
"Accepted. The servant is not here right now, so I will leave for a while to prepare a guest bedroom for you..."
"I can do it myself if..."
"Rest, come to your senses," the host was about to leave, but turned back, "make yourself at home."
Has left. And when he returned, his heart ached. How many times had he seen this scene: she was half-turned towards him, an ancient, weighty book in her hands, her interested gaze slowly gliding over the text, delight on her face amazingly able to save freshness. How many times. "But when?" Even as he was looking out of the window of the post office waiting for his parcel, he noticed a familiar profile and a familiar expression on the face: tense, agitated, but not panicking. "How?"
"Do you read Latin?"
"Yes." He sank back into silent thought. Then having realised that it sounded rude he continued. "It's part of my life... work," he pointed to the bookshelves she was standing next to, "I'm... I think the best analogy for you would be the term 'pharmacist'."
"Pharmacist," she raised her eyebrows skeptically, "it looks like they're all on alchemy. Are you trying to cure a body by perfecting a soul?"
"Do you know about alchemy?"
"No more than about magic," she waved off, "only from movies and fiction. But tell me, is it possible to perfect someone's soul other than your own?"
The man smiled good-naturedly. "We will definitely talk about this topic, but now it's too late, and I would venture to imagine how tired you are of everything that happened today. Follow me, I'll show you your room. And no objections. From now on, I will be your attending doctor." The woman made a face like a scowling child, then shrugged, shoved the book back into place and went after the owner of the house into the hallway and then up the stairs.
The room was very small and very modestly furnished - the visitor's gaze almost immediately rested on the window. Most of it was occupied by a bed; behind it, by the window, there was a desk with drawers, its surface was completely free of any things; behind the door was a wardrobe with a mirror on its door, a passage to the bathroom and a bedside table with a lamp, a carafe of water and the key to the room. There was a set of towels, toiletries, a hair brush, and even pajamas (as it turned out later, of her size) on the bed. The 'patient' looked around; it did not hide from her that, while keeping his face completely impenetrable, her 'doctor' held his breath.
"Great," she smiled, "it looks like I have everything I might need here. Thank you."
The man nodded briefly in response. "The servant will be back tomorrow and will be able to get you everything else. Get some rest. Don't think about anything today."
And he took his leave. Going down to the living room and the library at the same time, he sank into an armchair located by a small fireplace, reclined on the high back, closed his eyes and thought. He thought about the strangeness that happened to him in the presence of this woman: that every time she got close to him, his always steady heartbeat began to falter and accelerate (he even almost lost his course when she touched him with her head); that every time this woman looked into his eyes, he wanted to go up to her, take her in his arms and kiss her; that, as long as he could remember, he had never had such desires. Not true. He had. There was one woman. Not his. And she died. A long time ago. It was not her. Then why?
The next day, he got up even earlier than usual so that he could give special instructions about breakfast. When the man entered the kitchen, the housey was already bustling there - she had returned from the market and was putting products in cupboards, shelves, cooling and freezing chests. When she saw her master, the elf snapped her fingers and, not paying attention to how the objects hanging in the air at that moment all rushed to their proper places at once, hurried to report him that everything had gone off without a hitch yesterday, that she had conveyed word for word what the master had said and that everything had turned out that way.
"Good. That's good." Since the master didn't budge, the elf stood and waited while he mentally went to that place and that time. Then he came back. "Today, make breakfast for two, the one that can wait. We have a guest and she may sleep for long. I'll have breakfast at the usual time. Any questions?"
"No, sir, no!" The maid shook off the expression of lively interest from her face - guests staying overnight in this house were rare, and a female was probably an unprecedented case. On the other hand, with a masterly character and lifestyle, there was nothing to hope for.
"Great. I'll be in the library." A scroll of newspapers flew into his hand, which was pointing towards the front door, and, turning abruptly, the master left with wide, inaudible steps. He always took his meals in the library, without looking up from a newspaper, book, manuscript; reading, translating, making notes, for which there was a high-legged desk; without appetite, without wasting time; the maid served where it was closest to the master. But when it came to practice, he didn't tolerate anything superfluous around him, nothing and no one. The housey silently placed the breakfast tray on the coffee table next to the armchair and turned to leave. "Tinker?"
"Yes, master?"
"I hope you don't need to be reminded that everything that happens in this house is not meant for other people's ears?"
"No, no, master." She waited for a while, but her master's face did not show from behind the newspaper, so she tried to leave again.
"Tinker?" The elf's ears pricked up - something in the master's voice had changed. "This guest... this woman... She's a good person. That's why I'm asking you to keep your mouth shut."
The sun, rising from the horizon and from behind the roofs of the houses of a low-rise town, shone brightly through the bedroom window on the second floor. On this side, to the east, the house was adjacent to a vacant lot, which allowed the sun to stay in the room all the first half of the day and create excellent conditions for larks, like the owner of the house, but not for owls, like his guest. She had to get up. "Maybe it's for the best. Overall, I slept well. And I'm starving. Mmm, and it smells delicious from below.... And I'm still in this house. And I still don't remember anything.... Okay, relax, the only thing you can do now is go with the flow and look around." The woman washed (she always took a shower at bedtime), got dressed and went downstairs, trying to do it as loudly as possible so as not to surprise anyone - for some reason, she was sure that she was the last to get up - but, as if to spite, not a single step of the wooden stairs creaked, and the thud of her boots seemed to be being absorbed by the thin carpet covering it. She looked through the open door of the living room: the man was already standing behind an open book mounted on the desk, running his fingers over the thin lines that tightly covered its huge yellowish pages, and making notes in a notebook. He didn't see her right away, and when he did, then made no move and didn't break the silence, because he also noticed that she was trying to remember something as she stared at him.
"You remind me of a painting," she said, still lost in thought, and then, waving it away, she smiled, "probably by old masters."
"I was expecting you later," the man explained his occupation, "did something wake you up?"
"No, nothing. I just got enough sleep. I followed your advice not to think about anything."
"Excuse me, will Miss be having breakfast in the kitchen or..." the squeak of a high voice stopped as soon as 'Miss' turned around. "Young mistress? Miss Evelyn?!" The woman didn't know what she should have been more surprised at: the little creature she saw in front of her, the way it called her and joyfully rushed to hug her, or the echo of 'Evelyn??' coming from behind her.
"You called me that yesterday! You said my name is Evelyn Greenwood."
"I... yes, I told the patrolmen that, but it happened spontaneously. I didn't know that..."
"How do you know me?" She turned to the elf who was stuck to her feet. "I don't remember meeting you at all."
"Of course you don't remember, you've had your memory erased. Oy!"
"What have I had??"
"Oy, oy, oy. I shouldn't have said that, it's not right, it's not good, you shouldn't know about it, it's bad for you, for your psyche, for..."
"Why?! By whom?!" The woman shot a stern look at the host again.
"But maybe I won't get into trouble," chattered the maid, "it didn't happen here, it happened in another space..."
"Where?! Tinker, what are you talking about? Are you out of your mind?"
"O-o-o-o... No, please don't ask me anything, I can't talk about it, I can't. I'm definitely going to get in trouble from the department... oh, shut up! Please don't ask, please." The creature pleadingly tugged at Evelyn's clothes and looked at her with its big round eyes full of such trust, such confidence that her 'young mistress' would never wish her harm, would always stand up for her, would always understand and forgive that the woman guessed - there was a reason for that. She got down to the floor and gently took its nervously clenching and unclenching fingers in her hands.
"At least explain what you've already said."
Looking around and at her master, she began: "We, house elves, are able to circumvent spatial constraints imposed not only by magic, but also by personal choice. It is probably correct to even talk only about the second, the first follows from it. We exist in all spaces at the same time... You are not from this space, you are from a reality shaped by other choices. I do not know how you got here."
"But you know what space I came from. Can you take me back there?"
"I'm afraid not," the elf's huge ears drooped guiltily.
"Why?"
"Somehow, you've managed to overcome time as well. And time is not a subject to us."
"Time..."
"Time... Time!" The woman jumped up, put her hand in her pocket and took out a golden object on a long chain, resembling a combination of an hourglass and discs of an ancient calendar. ... "Professor?!"
A few moments later, the professor's eyes were already hovering over those of his potentially former student, astonished and only slightly scared, and his hands were firmly gripping her shoulders. Just a moment more, he pressed his lips to hers. He tried to do it as passionately as possible, but they didn't respond; at the same time, the woman didn't try to pull away. Soon, he could taste the salt.
"Am I disgusting to you?"
"No."
"But you don't feel anything for me."
"I do, and it only makes everything worse."
"Why?!"
"Because I'm married." The man released her left shoulder to grab the same hand.
"The other one," she said calmly.
He let go of the other shoulder and this time he gently ran his palm over the hand holding the fragile object. "Divorced? A widow?" he asked with hope.
"No."
"In another world, in another time."
"It doesn't matter. I have to go back there."
His fingers stiffened. "Don't go back. Stay here. Am I not the teacher you knew everything about and worried about? Am I not your mentor, whom you trusted your thoughts, even your dreams? ("Professor?... Just in case, people are not responsible for their dreams." - "We'll make you someone who will.") Am I not the portrait that was always in its place, never sleeping to provide help, support, to give advice at any moment... or to hold it? Am I not the friend relying on which you descended into the dungeons? Am I a completely different person here?"
"How did you know about the portrait? In relation to these days, this is the distant future."
"I've just read it in your thoughts."
"Then you know how you ended up on it. Look for me in the world where we both decided to live."
"But I'm too old for you there."
"Then also in the one where it doesn't matter to me."
"Does such a world exist?"
She gently ran her palm over his cheek and smiled. "Don't hesitate."