Groundwork

[Raffe]

He had trouble concentrating these days. His thoughts weren’t busy, and it wasn't just distraction vying his attention elsewhere. It was like a fog through which Raffe had forgotten what he was even searching for. On the outside life continued undisturbed. Work signalled the pass of day and night and familiar routines kept him from drifting off. If you didn’t look too deep he seemed himself; he’d always been quieter since the injury to his throat. Meanwhile Nox settled into the old bones of their friendship, as did Raffe, but it was brittle, and he spent less and less time at Kallisti. Raffe himself felt the anchor of that safe space slip and sometimes he wondered if it was he who should leave, move on to somewhere else so that Nox could stay. Transience marked Raffe’s whole life, and he felt like the reason for the cracks now. He didn’t want Nox to leave because of it, but he did nothing to make him stay either.

Sometimes notes slipped under his door. Cryptic, but Raffe was careful to keep his distance. He’d do anything that was asked though, and without hesitation. He’d been truthful about forgiveness. There was no hate in his heart. Problem was there wasn’t much of anything else either. Currently Lily lived on his windowsill. The ring lived in his pocket. He never looked at it.

He continued his follow-ups at Paragon, and there was no sign of the Sickness returning, which fluttered all their doctors with excitement. No one answered his questions about Visha – he didn’t know what happened to her, or if she even really existed. As far as proof of cure went, he didn’t feel ill (truth was he didn’t feel much of anything), but he slept a lot still. They didn’t seem concerned about it. But they were all still waiting for the final test, and for that the only thing they could do was continue to monitor.

He’d been to the cafe before. Rumour suggested the proprietress had all but disappeared, though nothing seemed different inside from what he remembered. Noémi was an old friend, but not one he knew that well. She wasn’t secretive, but she’d always been private in a way Raffe respected. Back then she’d been a dancer; the rare sort that had created a buzz in the clientele, cast a spell right over them. He knew she’d arrived in Moscow young and impressionable. But her path had diverged from the underground world years ago, albeit she’d never turned her back on her roots there, and he still saw her from time to time. She did some sort of government work now, though he began to realise exactly how high she’d climbed now.

Her concern for him was palpable, but she never prodded into places he didn’t want her to go, and there was a set to her melancholy that accepted she did not need to bring light to those dark spaces. It made her comfortable company right now. He knew the name Vasiliev enough to glance at her when she spoke it. Why she asked him when she must have more suitable friends he couldn’t fathom, nor tried; there was a reason, he could see it in her expression, but it wasn’t a mystery he cared to unravel. Of course he’d help, though he didn’t expect he’d be great company, and he had no suitable clothes. Her relief suggested it did not matter. She squeezed his hand in solidarity.