Page 23 of Memories of the Lost

“We didn’t go to the UK at all, or France, or Spain. It was a deliberate choice—those are the ones you’d visit anyway, right?”

“Fair enough.”

“Now that we’re sitting here, in a pub, I do wonder when I’ll visit.” She inclined her head and pointed above them, to where music came out of speakers. “I’m a fan of this kind of music, for one thing. Classic folk. I listen to this woman a lot when I paint. She sings the classics like this—” The song was a version of the story of Tam Lin. “But she also writes a lot of original songs that are in this realm, very dark fairy stories.”

“Paula Davies,” he said, leaning forward. “She lives in the town where my mum grew up.”

“No way,” Tillie said. Again. “She’s my favorite.”

For a long moment, he was quiet, only looking at her face. A sense of fate and fear mingled in his body, and he wondered if perhaps he should leave this connection alone, let it be. “I’ve never met anyone who knows her music.”

“Me, either.”

He stretched a hand across the table, palm up. “Give me your hand.”

“Don’t tell me anything scary,” she said.

“No.”

She reached over and placed her hand in his. Instead of reading her palm, he laced their fingers together, gauging the fit, finding it natural. Solid. “I think we were fated to meet, Tillie.”

“I don’t believe in fate.”

“Don’t you?” He held her gaze. A flicker moved there, a ghost.

She ran her thumb over the shape of his knuckles. “Would you like to come back to my apartment?”

“I believe I would.”

CHAPTER TEN

The night was fresh and crisp. Tillie said, “Let’s just take the train.”

“Glad to.”

The foot traffic was light. She peered shamelessly into the apartment windows facing the street, hearing snippets of conversation, televisions, clatters of dishes. She was deeply aware of Liam next to her, his loose-limbed walk, his curious air of calm. “How did you become a meditation leader?” she asked as they passed a yoga studio.

“The short version is that I found trouble young, and then ...” He looked at her. “I found the opposite at a Buddhist monastery.”

Something about this simple, clear story pierced her. “I’ve never found calm anywhere,” she said. “I always feel like I’m looking for something that’s right out of the corner of my eye.” She thought of the cat suddenly, all the wild painting, the time she lost. “Can I tell you something?”

“Yes,” he says, turning his clear eyes toward her.

“When I painted those cats today?” Suddenly, she lost her nerve. “I just ... got kind of lost in them. Like, lost time, kind of.”

“Like flow?”

She paused, crossing her arms. “No. Like, I—” She took a breath. “Never mind. It’s too weird.”

“You can tell me. I won’t judge you.”

“It was like a fugue state or something. I don’t remember anything about the time I painted. Like I became someone else. Like ... a split personality? Is that even a thing?”

He nodded, waiting to see if she would add anything. “I’m sure it’s still a thing, but do you think you might have a memory hole from childhood, something you don’t remember?”

“Oh, I know I have one. The head injury when I was four.” She pointed to the white streak at her temple.

“You fell?”