Good Spirits by B.K. Borison - 6

H er hand is warm. Soft. Small in my tight grip.

It’s all I can think about as time starts to spin around us. I told her traveling to the past was like falling into a dream, but it’s more like being tossed into a storm. A tide that comes in far too quickly. It whips at your hair and pulls at you like it’s trying to figure out where, exactly, you belong. I’ve done this more than a hundred times, and I’m still not used to it.

But it feels fucking terrible isn’t exactly a ringing endorsement, so I bent the truth. I don’t know what happens if I don’t pass Harriet on to her next ghost, and I don’t intend to find out. I’ve spent enough time waiting. I need to finish this assignment. I need to move on.

Harriet’s hand tightens around mine on a particularly rough tug and I squeeze, holding her steady. Not much longer now.

The pressure lessens, flashes of colors settling as we skid to a stop in the middle of what looks like a fancy lobby. Time deposits us with the same lack of grace it gathered us up in, Harriet stumbling into my side. I grip her elbow as she finds her footing.

“Oh my god,” she breathes. “Oh my god . You weren’t kidding.”

“About what?”

“About what ? About time travel. About—about the magic .” She makes a complicated, fluttery gesture with her hands. “You used magic , Nolan.”

“I’m aware.” My hand slips from her elbow to her forearm. I resist the urge to shout I told you so like a petulant child. “And technically it’s not time travel.”

“Whatever.” Harriet shakes off my grip and bends at the waist, her hands on her knees. “What the hell did you mean, it’s like stepping into a dream ? What sort of dreams do you have ?”

“I haven’t had a dream in over a hundred years,” I answer, distracted. This place feels cold, and it’s not just the marble. There are massive, ornate columns anchored on either side of the room, a wreath the size of a small aircraft hanging between them. An elevator bank is on one side, a desk with no one behind it on the other. “I needed you to agree,” I add.

“Yeah, well, now my stomach feels like it’s trying to climb out of my eyeballs, so thanks for that.” Harriet squints at me. Her hair, if possible, is even more wild than it was at her little antiques shop. Blond corkscrew curls fly every which way, half of them in her face. She pushes them back with her palm, straightening slowly. “You don’t have dreams?”

“Another ghostly side effect, I’m afraid,” I offer. I sleep, but I don’t dream. I eat, but I don’t taste. Everything comes in vague imprints. Like breathing against cold glass, tracing a picture, then watching it fade away.

“That’s sad,” she says with a frown.

I shrug. “No harm, no foul.”

It used to bother me, back in the beginning. Existing without living. Going through the motions without the satisfaction. Spending my time watching the very worst of humanity with no redemption whatsoever.

But I’ve had time to adjust. I know what to expect now.

Harriet looks like she wants to say more, but her face pales and she doubles over. She makes a sound like a foghorn.

“Oh my god ,” she whispers, her voice thick. “I think I’m going to throw up.”

I pat her back awkwardly while she deep breathes through the worst of it. Her back heaves and I spread my fingers wide, slowing my touch. She releases a shuddering breath. “I can’t believe you used magic,” she whispers to herself.

I finally give in to the urge. “I told you.”

“Yeah, but—” She dry heaves. “I didn’t believe you.”

I rub another path across her back.

“You’ll be grand. Just give it a moment, yeah?”

She’s wearing a thick green sweater that’s just as soft as it looks. My hand continues its circuit without my explicit consent. Up and down. Across and back. Between her shoulder blades and down to the small of her back. On the third pass, my thumb brushes the top of her spine at the delicate, hidden spot beneath all that hair. I linger there, tracing over soft, warm skin.

I haven’t touched anyone in reassurance for decades. No one has touched me for even longer. I’ve had only sharp edges and curt words. I’ve forgotten what softness feels like.

Her breath hitches and I pull my hand away, embarrassed.

I shouldn’t be touching Harriet. I shouldn’t be comforting her.

I should be paying attention to my surroundings. I should be trying to uncover her secrets. Harriet could be an especially earnest con woman, for all I know. I need to crack her open, reveal the skeletons in her closet, and send her on her way.

I need to keep to the plan. I need to move on .

I shove both of my hands in my pockets, looking around the room.

The memories I typically land in aren’t usually so … empty.

“I’m never listening to you again,” Harriet grinds out, slowly reclaiming her upright position.

“We’ll see. Bound to you, remember?” I tip my head back to study the ornate ceiling. There’s gold filigree up there. A giant glass dome that’s shaded and dark. Rich people.

“Do you recognize this place?” I ask.

“Vaguely,” she answers, her attention catching on the train garden set up around the base of the large reception desk. A sleek black engine chugs around, pulling six or so colorful cars behind it. Harriet steps closer.

“That train,” she says. “There’s something about that train that I recognize.” She pauses. “I think.”

Good. If she recognizes the place, then she’ll be able to recognize whatever it is that brought us here. Maybe this will be a short assignment after all, despite my initial misgivings.

I wander through the possibilities while Harriet studies the train. Perhaps this is the start of an elaborate bank heist. Perhaps she has taken a lover and we’ll watch as she’s discovered by his wife. I’ve seen all sorts of transgressions. The very worst of people. I doubt much can surprise me.

Harriet takes another shuffling step closer to the empty desk, her face set in concentration. “I remember the sound,” she says. “The whistle.”

On cue, the train lets out a high-pitched whistle, picking up speed on the turn. From the other side of the lobby, a bell chimes at the elevator bank. Anticipation pinches between my shoulders.

But the shiny gold doors don’t reveal a spurned lover, or a disguise, or anything remotely interesting. Two small children spill out from the elevator, laughter bouncing between them.

“Be careful, girls!” a woman’s voice drifts from behind. Small shoes clap against the marble, and two figures dash around us. “Mind the floors!

“Harriet!” the woman calls again. “Don’t run!”

A little girl with tight, blond curls giggles madly, reaching for the girl struggling to keep up with her. They’re wobbly reflections of each other. A stone thrown into still waters, their similarities rippling until they become differences instead.

Next to me, Harriet makes a soft sound.

“My sister,” she says, her voice hushed. Like we’re in a church or a museum. Someplace worthy of reverence. “That’s my—that’s my sister. We’re children.”

Her eyes find mine, shiny and wide. “I think I believe you now.”

“Finally,” I say, but she pays me no mind. Her attention is elsewhere, watching the little girls bound their way across the lobby. “C’mon, Sammy,” the miniature version of Harriet calls, a slight lisp in her voice. “Let’s look!”

“I’m coming.” The other girl laughs. “But slow down, okay? I’m not as fast as you.”

“Not true! You’re faster and stronger and smarter and way, way prettier.” Next to me Harriet huffs a watery laugh. The little girl with the curls spins on her heel, arms splayed wide. “You’re the best big sister in the whole world!”

They collapse to their knees at the edge of the train set, their hands clasped tight between them. Two adults follow slowly behind, heads bent close in conversation. The woman’s face pinches. Whatever they’re discussing, they’re not happy about it.

“It was Matilda, of course,” the woman says with a sneer. “She always has something to say.”

“Just jealousy,” the man replies, looking bored. Looking like he’d rather be anywhere else, actually. “Simple as that. Ignore her.”

“It’s not as simple as that,” she snaps back. “You wouldn’t understand.”

They continue arguing, drifting across the lobby after the girls.

“Your parents?” I ask.

Harriet nods, her eyes flicking up to her mother briefly before drifting back to the two little girls whispering in front of the train. The engine zips around again, and little Harriet claps her small hands together in delight.

Their mother approaches. I can see the similarities in the hair coloring, a dark blond that looks more like spun gold in the artificial light. But that’s where the similarities end, their mother’s expression carved into something severe and unforgiving, even as she watches her girls delight in the trains. She presses her palms over the skirt of her red velvet dress. It’s a match to the outfits the girls are dressed in, yet she somehow manages to make it look austere rather than festive. A crystal glass swan, set on the highest shelf.

I’ve observed enough questionable people with loose morals to recognize a bad apple when I see one.

“Harriet,” she snaps again, and I don’t miss the way adult Harriet straightens her spine next to me. I watch her carefully, cataloging the details of her response. There will be clues in her reaction, perhaps something for me to use later. My job is to be observant and convincing, and I do both things well.

“You’re too old to be playing with trains,” she says. “It’s not appropriate.”

“I’m just looking, Mother,” the little girl says, glancing sheepishly over her shoulder. Her cheeks are pink, her hands buried in the tulle of her skirt. “It’s so pretty, and they move so fast, and look! They added a harbor this year with little boats—”

Her mother turns away. The little girl chatters on, pointing out various objects, oblivious to her mother’s disinterest. Next to me, Harriet steps closer, nodding along like the child-version of her can feel her enthusiasm.

But the little girl eventually notices the absence of her mother and grows quiet, her small voice trailing off.

“Why are we here?” Harriet asks, her attention fixed on the children. The younger Harriet has her head against her sister’s shoulder as the train goes around and around, their arms looped together. Somewhere behind us, her parents are arguing about familial responsibilities, the name Matilda cropping up again and again. Harriet knits her fingers together, pressing them under her chin. “Why did you choose this memory?”

“I don’t choose the memories. My magic guides us. We see what we need to see,” I answer solemnly. I don’t control this part. I’m just a chaperone. I accompany my assignments to their past and guide them through the worst of their decisions. I hold up a mirror to their actions and let them see the damage their poor choices wrought.

But none of this seems like a poor choice. She’s just a little girl, watching a train.

“Harriet! Samantha!” It’s their father this time, bellowing at the insistence of the woman next to him. She’s tapping one heeled foot against the marble, staring out the front windows, exasperation and impatience rolling off her in waves.

Samantha dutifully begins to retreat from the train set but Harriet stays close, examining the tiny village and the fleet of wooden boats beneath a bridge constructed out of Popsicle sticks. She touches one of the boats lightly, delighted when it bobs up and down in a sea made of bubble wrap.

“C’mon, Harry,” the other little girl implores, shooting nervous glances between her parents and her sister. She tugs lightly on the back of her dress.

Harriet twists away. “I just want to watch the train one more time.”

Samantha inches closer. “But they’re getting mad.”

Harriet reaches her hand across the set again, small fingers stretching for the tops of the trees. “They’re already mad,” she says in a voice that sounds far too old for such a young girl.

“They’re getting more mad, though,” Samatha whispers, urgent. Behind her, her mother is striding across the floor, heels clicking with purpose. Next to me, Harriet releases a breath that sounds like a laugh.

I turn halfway. She’s watching her mother stomp her way across the lobby, a wry smile twisting her lips.

“I remember this part,” she says.

Her mother pulls at little Harriet’s arm, guiding her up and away from the train set with insistence. The little girl tries to turn back, but two perfectly manicured hands hold on to her shoulders, twisting her in the direction of the exit.

“Why must you make things so difficult for me?” her mother snaps.

“I don’t mean to,” little Harriet says, in stereo with the older version at my side. Harriet offers me a tight smile and I get that twisting feeling again. That scratch of recognition, at the very back of my mind.

“You embarrassed me at the party,” her mother continues, marching little Harriet across the lobby. She stumbles, and her mother sighs like that’s an inconvenience, too. “Is it truly so hard for you to behave for one evening? Look at your sister.”

Harriet turns in her mother’s grasp and gazes at her sister. Samantha angles her face away, pretending to be interested in her shoes instead.

“Samantha,” her mom says, “ always makes the right decision.” Harriet wilts. “I’m sorry,” she says, subdued. “I’ll make good decisions. Just like Samantha, I promise.”

Her mother arches an eyebrow. “I sincerely doubt that.”

I do, too. Because as soon as Harriet’s mother moves around her to the door, I see a small wooden boat clutched in Harriet’s hand. She tucks it quickly in the large bow at her back and fixes her face in a demure, apologetic frown.

I laugh. A tiny little con artist in a velvet dress.

“In my defense,” Harriet says, “I probably wouldn’t have stolen it if she just let me look.”

I snort. “A right little beastie, you were.”

The family disappears through the front door. Next to me, Harriet collects all of her wild hair, twisting it back in a loose knot. “I don’t even remember that boat.” She stares at the train garden. “I feel bad. Someone worked hard on that display.”

I hum and rock back on my heels. Harriet shoots me a dark look. “What? You think I wanted to destroy the Christmas display?”

“I said nothing.”

“Your face says enough. The boat didn’t even go to a good cause.

My mother probably found it and destroyed it.”

“She didn’t let you keep your treasures?”

“What do you think?”

No, I don’t think Harriet’s mother let her hold on to much of anything at all. Maybe that’s why she has her antiques shop now, the shelves crowded with so many trinkets you can hardly find your way through. Maybe that’s why her house is an explosion of color. A dragon hoarding her gold.

“What?” she asks. “What’s that look about?”

“Nothing.” I school my features back into a neutral mask and hold my hand out, palm up. “Ready to go?”

“That’s it?” Harriet frowns, glancing around. “I expected something more … substantial.”

I don’t know how to tell her that I did, too. That a little girl stealing a boat doesn’t exactly fall in line with the transgressions I usually bear witness to. But I don’t know how much of what she’s showing me is an act and how much is true. The past will eventually reveal her secrets, even if it takes the long way around.

I can be patient.

“Is that why you’re here?” she asks. “Because I stole a toy boat?”

“I’m here for a reason,” I reply evenly. “Perhaps this is the precursor to a lifetime of larceny.”

“Larceny?” She laughs.

“It’s possible. You’re a stranger to me, Harriet. You could be hiding all sorts of secrets.”

Her smile fractures and her eyes drop from mine. I frown. There’s something out of place, but I can’t figure out what it is.

“Maybe you’re right,” she says. She gazes out the doors where her family disappeared. “Maybe I messed it all up.”

I hesitate. My job isn’t to make her feel better, but I don’t like the look on her face or the way she’s holding herself. Hands at her elbows, shoulders hunched forward. She looks smaller here, in the past. Diminished.

“For the record,” I admit slowly, “I don’t believe stealing boats from train garden displays makes you a bad person.”

Her eyes slant toward mine, suspicious. “You don’t?”

I shake my head. “No.”

A timid smile breaks across her face and the itchy feeling rattling around my rib cage is replaced with a firm pressure. Something heavy and uncomfortable, like I’ve been pushed.

If I’m a ghost, maybe she’s a witch. Stranger things have happened. “See?” She flicks my chest. “Was that so hard?”

“What?”

“Being nice . You catch more flies with honey, you know.”

I roll my eyes. “Are you the fly in this scenario, or the honey?”

“Well, that lasted all of thirty seconds.” The smile wilts off her face. “You’re sort of a jerk, do you know that?”

“And your true colors will reveal themselves shortly. They always do.” I thrust my hand between us. “Time to go.”

I couldn’t get her to grab on in the present, and now she’s waffling in the past, too. I’m starting to think Harriet York’s true purpose is to be a giant pain in my ass.

Maybe this is my karmic reckoning. Not hers.

She ignores my hand between us and rolls out her shoulders instead. She stretches one arm across her chest and then the other.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m preparing myself for the tornado of time, or whatever the hell that magic swirly thing is. And you’re being bossy.” She lowers her voice. “Let’s go, Harriet. You can’t avoid your fate, Harriet. What are you—”

“I’m trying to do my job,” I defend sullenly.

She raises her voice, talking over me. “What are you hiding, Harriet? What’s your secret, Harriet?”

“What are you hiding, Harriet?”

“I’m just saying,” she continues, ignoring my question, “it wouldn’t kill you to be a little nicer.”

It wouldn’t kill me. “You do realize I’m already dead, right? It wouldn’t kill me because I’m— Harriet. I’m dead.”

A small grin quirks at the corners of her mouth. “Then you can afford to be kind.”

I huff. Her fledgling smile broadens to a grin. Done with her warm-up routine, she taps one foot against the marble floor, pretending to glance at an imaginary watch. I wish I didn’t find it as charming as I do.

“Harriet,” I try, softening my voice. I place my hand palm up between us. I’m always reaching for this woman. “Would you please grab my hand so we can leave this place and return to the present?” I add a sarcastic half bow. “If you don’t mind terribly.”

“It needs work,” she says. “But it’ll do for now.”

She takes one last look around the lobby, her gaze lingering on the train. It’s still chugging merrily around the reception desk, the bridge rocking slightly as it powers over it.

“Harriet.”

“Yes,” she says, dragging her eyes away. “We can go.”

“Wonderful.”

She snickers. Her hand reaches for mine.

“Hold on,” I tell her.

The last thing I see is her smile, subdued but still shining through, like the last slice of sunshine before it melts into the horizon. A flash of light and then—

And then nothing.