13 Mink Street

“Yes. Yesterday, my husband went out especially to visit a friend, but they weren’t home. That must have been you, right?”

“Yes, madam. You can call me Karon.”

“Please, come in.” Linda opened the gate to let Karon inside the courtyard. He handed over the elegantly packaged box of macarons. Being the most expensive set from the bakery, it had cost five hundred rupi for the box. The shop assistant had included some little cakes as well, which Karon passed along to the driver. He didn’t care if it was really the man’s birthday or not; he simply had no taste for such sweet things. Five hundred rupi for a box of pastries was a steep price, but Linda’s family could afford it. The gift needed to be suitable. Karon couldn’t very well show up at their door with a cheap box filled with a fifty-rupi sponge cake. After all, they had already paid him twenty thousand rupi as a consultation fee.

“You’re much too polite,” Linda said. “You really didn’t need to bring a gift.”

“It’s only proper.”

“Mr. Karon, did you and my husband meet while fishing? Are you fishing friends?”

I met your husband while he was cremating you.

“Yes, your husband taught me a lot about fishing.”

“I see.”

Linda led Karon to the living room. “Would you like coffee or tea?”

“Coffee,” Karon said after a pause. “Make it sweet, please.”

“All right, just a moment.”

She quickly returned with coffee and a tray of pastries. Karon took a sip, the bitterness pulling at his brow. He wondered if she’d remembered to add the sugar. He had never cared much for coffee. In his old life, he had used the stimulant during frantic workdays. Later, when things improved, he tried higher-end brews, but never got used to them. Tea was no different. He preferred strong, coarse pots. Seeking refinement simply didn’t suit him.

“Should I prepare something for your two pets?” Linda asked.

“You’re very kind, but there’s no need.”

“My husband is napping right now. I’ll go upstairs and wake him so you two can talk. I’m sorry, but it might take a little while.”

“All right, madam.”

Linda left the room, going upstairs. Karon stood and wandered the living room. Above the fireplace hung a large oil painting of Linda and Piaget together. On the coffee table, he saw framed photographs from their travels. Judging by the backgrounds, they’d been to many countries. The two really did look alike, well matched, cut from the same cloth. The Adams family’s wealth was obvious. Their villa likely cost twice as much as the Immers house. This part of Roja City was truly the territory of the rich.

“Linda? Linda?” A voice called from outside, sounding oddly familiar. Karon left the living room and saw Mrs. Seymour standing at the courtyard gate.

“Oh, heavens!” When Mrs. Seymour caught sight of Karon, her face went red and she covered her mouth. Yesterday, she had acted on impulse, losing all composure. She wasn’t thinking about the expensive funeral package or the luxury goods on display in the hearse. She lived simply, despite her family’s wealth being real. Her husband’s death left her as the sole heir. What truly mortified her was how, as she had laid in bed last night, she had remembered that she had actually invited a young man into bed with her. Was she losing her mind?

Shame and regret had kept her awake until dawn. In her dreams, she really had done the deed, and when she awoke, she slapped herself twice, only to then burst out laughing at the absurdity of it all. She had never imagined she’d run into that same young man at the neighbors’ today.

“Hello, Mrs. Seymour,” Karon called out.

“Mr. Karon, I didn’t expect to see you here. Oh, right, last night you said you’re friends with Mr. Adams.”

“Yes. I’ve come to visit him today.”

“I just stopped by to see Linda and talk about how to deal with my late husband’s things. I would like to donate his clothes and shoes to charity.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

“Well, since you’re the guest, I’ll leave it for now.” When guests are present, it is the hostess’s duty to attend to them. “Oh, that reminds me; Mr. Karon, could you come by my house later?”

There was no hesitation in Karon. To turn down a lady—or rather, a woman—in such a setting would be both unnecessary and unkind. He also knew that Mrs. Seymour, now fully sober, would avoid any further recklessness. That was not even to mention the fact that she was one of his most important clients. “Of course,” he replied, “I’d be glad to stop by.”

Mrs. Seymour smiled. “My husband had a watch I think would suit you. I’d like you to have it; I noticed you don’t wear one.”

The truth was that Mrs. Hughes had only recently given Karon a watch, but some habits persisted from his previous life. He disliked wearing one, and also rarely went out these days. “I’d be happy to take a look.”

“Very well.” Mrs. Seymour left, still smiling.

Karon returned to the living room just as Piaget, rumpled and bleary-eyed, was making his way down the stairs. “Ah, Karon! It’s an honor to see you,” Piaget said, embracing him warmly. Noticing the coffee on the table, he added, flustered, “Sorry, you arrived and had to make your own coffee.”

“Your wife made it,” Karon explained.

“My wife? Who?” Piaget looked genuinely puzzled. “Linda is gone. You know that, Karon. You handed me her ashes yourself.”

It was a line Karon felt should have come from his own mouth. “Then you think I opened the door on my own and simply let myself in?”

“Why not?” Piaget smiled. “I never lock my door. This neighborhood is safe—the police chief lives just across the street. You’re my friend, even if we’ve only met once. I already consider you a friend, and it’s perfectly normal for friends to help themselves to coffee. You’d only do that if you saw me as a true friend too, wouldn’t you? There’s no need for formality.”

“Piaget.”

“Hm?”

“I need to tell you, Linda really did open the door and make the coffee just now. She went upstairs to wake you from your nap.”

“Are you all right?” Piaget studied Karon’s eyes carefully and asked with concern, “Have you experienced something recently that might have affected your mental state?”

“I have, though mostly due to your situation.”

“We should talk.” Piaget sat and picked up a pastry, taking a measured bite.

Karon sat down as well, his gaze drifting to Pu’er, stretched along the sofa, and the golden retriever, gamboling after butterflies in the yard. He silently resolved never to bring the foolish dog along again.

“Your wife is gone,” Karon said.

“I know.”

“Yet Mrs. Seymour claims she received an apple pie from your wife’s own hands just yesterday morning.”

“How could that be?”

“It happened. And I really did see Linda just now.”

“You’re all mad. Linda is gone. I cradled her ashes myself and buried them.” Piaget pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Karon, who accepted. Piaget lit both. The smoke curled between them. Abruptly, Piaget raked his hands through his hair and gave a short laugh. “Honestly, sometimes I feel mad myself. Lately, I keep thinking Linda never left, that she’s still here, taking care of me. Maybe I’m simply used to it. Maybe I want to believe it.”

“Would you mind if I looked around upstairs?” Karon asked.

“Not at all. Let me show you.” Piaget led the way to the stairs.

Real wealth was rarely measured by the value of the house alone. More often, it was evident in the details. Karon took in the finely carved wooden balusters and the ornate hardware along the walls and ceiling. The renovations, he suspected, had likely cost more than the house itself.

“The second floor has my bedroom, my study, and my wife’s art studio,” Piaget explained. “She’s a painter. She even held a solo exhibition in Roja City. Here’s my study.”

Karon stepped inside, taking in the restrained elegance of the space. The worth of the one room alone far surpassed anything at Tiz’s. After a slow circuit, Karon moved on.

“This is my wife’s studio.”

Within, almost every painting was shrouded. “May I see some of your wife’s work?”

“Of course. Go ahead.”

Karon lifted a covering from one painting. Its composition was split: below, a naked man lay among bones and ruins, staring skyward. Above, green grass spread out, men and women dancing around a bonfire, their faces bright with smiles. At the sight, Karon’s breath caught. “Berai Church?”

“Yes, Karon. You’re familiar with matters of faith?” Piaget asked, a faint smile on his lips. “My wife had a passion for religious painting. This piece is a replica of the one hanging in the Berai Church, and is called The God’s Veil. The true god Berai remains eternally exiled, alone in darkness, so that his faithful can enjoy freedom and joy in paradise.”

Karon nodded, then uncovered the next painting. It was divided into two compositions, side-by-side.

On the left, a man stood in heaven, chanting. On the right, an identical man howled atop a mountain of skulls in hell. Between them ran a black river that stretched across the painting, its waters lapping at the feet of both figures.

“The Church of Abyss,” Karon stated.

“Yes,” Piaget replied. “The God of Abyss split his own body in two; one half entered heaven, the other fell into hell. Between heaven and hell, the Abyss was formed. In Swillen, very few people are even aware that this faith exists.”

Two now, two that match. Karon hesitated at the third painting, his hand pausing just before touching the fabric. This could not be chalked up to coincidence. A prickle of premonition passed through him—this third painting would reveal the coming victim, another echo in art. Before Karon could move, Piaget obligingly removed the covering.

Within the frame, a woman tumbled into the yawning maw of a beast, her body breaking apart as she fell. The joints were shown separated in excruciating detail, each line of tearing rendered with precise care.

“What is this?” Karon asked quietly. “Which church does this belong to?”

“The Church of Order,” Piaget replied. You usually know these things. It’s rare to find one you don’t.“

“Order?”

“Yes. The Church of Order is quite widespread. Its followers worship the God of Order, who teaches that everything must adhere to the laws of structure and sequence. They see themselves as guardians of Order. The woman here is the god’s daughter, Ankara. According to legend, after the god established the world’s laws, his own daughter was the first to defy them. To uphold justice, the god showed no mercy. He condemned her, casting her into the maw of a monstrous beast, obliterating her body and soul. Her destruction became the dawn of Order, a lesson that law must stand above both humanity and feeling.”

“I see,” Karon said, his chest constricting. He could almost envision the murderer selecting their next victim, the knife rising and falling, ribs splitting apart. The wet violence rang in his ears as a wave of nausea rose.

Piaget’s brow creased in concern. “Are you all right?” He reached out to steady Karon.

Karon pulled away. “Don’t touch me.”

He sucked in great gulps of air, struggling for composure. After a long moment of silence, he managed to speak again. “Sorry. My heart has always been a little weak. It acts up sometimes.”

“That’s a serious matter. Linda had trouble with her heart, too; it played a part in her passing. You really should get checked by a good hospital, Karon. Or go to Veyn. The hospitals there are excellent.”

“I will. Thank you.” Karon made his way out of the studio, Piaget following at his side, the worry plain on his face.

As they neared the bedroom, Piaget offered, “Would you like to lie down for a while, rest here?”

“No, thank you.” Karon declined, glancing around the room.

Something caught his eye. “What’s that?”

“Where?”

“Under the bed. That pink item.”

Piaget walked across the room, bent down, and reached beneath the bed, pulling out a piece of pink clothing. He searched again, and retrieved shoes, socks.

“This... these are Linda’s,” Piaget whispered, disbelief in his voice. “How did they end up here? How...”

“Piaget, were you the one who made my coffee earlier?” Karon asked.

“I... I made your coffee?” Piaget stared, almost in shock, pointing at himself.

“You, dressed as your wife,” Karon pressed.

“I dressed as my wife?” Piaget’s body shook. For a moment Karon feared he might collapse. Then Piaget sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. “Karon, something is wrong with me. There are gaps in my memory. But this clothing, it’s still warm. I think my mind has split. When I sleep, Linda wakes, and when I wake, Linda sleeps.”

“Your makeup was perfect,” Karon said sincerely. He truly had not suspected Piaget had disguised himself as Linda. The resemblance between the two made the deception almost effortless.

“I did ballet. We always did our own makeup in college performances,” Piaget said, managing a brittle smile.

“I see,” Karon replied.

“I’m sorry I startled you.”

“Not at all.”

Piaget tilted his head up, gaze drifting toward the chandelier. He placed a hand on his chest. “It was I who invited Linda into my heart. And it was you, Karon, who helped me make up my mind to try splitting a second self from within. Thank you, Karon.”

“You don’t blame me?”

“No... you’re welcome.”

Good. If you didn’t, I’d have to carry it. I already feel guilty enough.

Piaget raked a hand through his already disheveled hair. “I’m sorry, Karon, but I’d like to be alone for a while. There’s a wine cellar in the basement; help yourself if you want.”

“No, maybe another time. I’m sorry for intruding.”

“You haven’t. I’m truly glad you came.”

“So am I.”

Perhaps because both men understood the workings of the mind, there was no need for tangled words or defenses. Honesty came quietly, and was simply received.

Meow...

At some point, Pu’er had padded up to the second floor and sat at Karon’s feet. Green eyes locked on the bedroom wall down the hall in silent fascination. Karon gave Piaget one last look, gathered Pu’er into his arms, and made his way downstairs. The golden retriever happily fell in behind, trotting after them as they left the courtyard. Karon closed the gate, then glanced up at the second floor, at the studio window above.

He did it himself. A second self of his own making. He exhaled, then proceeded on to Mrs. Seymour’s house next door. He hadn’t even reached the bell before she appeared at the threshold, waiting with familiar energy. “Mr. Adams and Linda, are they both well?”

“He’s fine.”

***

Upstairs, in the bedroom.

Piaget closed his eyes. Tears silently slipped from the corners.

Linda.

My Linda.

I don’t want to lose you. I won’t lose you! Whatever it takes, I will keep you by my side. For you, I am willing to deceive even myself.

Across the room, the drawer of the dressing table slid open, slow and soundless. From within, a heap of flesh-colored fabric began to rise. It straightened, little by little, unfurling from the darkness and then drifting toward the bedside. It paused, then lifted itself upright.

It was impossibly thin, almost transparent. Fine folds ran across it like creases in delicate paper, flesh-colored paper, pale and fragile, as though it existed only partially in this world.

She reached out, resting her palm gently against his forehead.

Then she leaned closer, or perhaps started to dissolve. Her outline blurred, merging into him like milk poured into coffee, swirling softly until the boundaries vanished and something new took shape.

Slowly, Piaget’s face changed, and Linda’s features emerged.

After a long while, Linda opened her eyes. She wrapped her arms around herself and whispered, “My love, I will never leave you either.”