One last time

The doctor rubbed him down, ordered him to change and drink some tea. Ran him through all the usual procedures, then sent him back to his room. Cut him off from coffee. Thomas didn’t argue — his mind was elsewhere. On an angel woven of blinding light… and his own hand, reaching out to them. When night fell over the mansion, he couldn’t sleep. Strange — until this night, insomnia had not troubled him. Nor had nightmares. In this mansion, he had likely spent the calmest nights he could still remember — quiet and dark and dreamless. To blink in the dark and blink again into daylight — that alone had been the only thing to bring him any real pleasure until now. Something so small. So simple. But even that peace, it seemed, had come to an end. For a few moments more, Thomas stared blankly at the peeling ceiling. Then he sat up abruptly, dropping his feet onto the carpet. He dragged a hand through his silver hair. Ran it down his face, twisted into a pained grimace. Forced the tears back. Drew a deep breath. Stood. Pulled himself to the door — and out of the room, where a bottomless dark waited for him. In his bedroom, moonlight and the cold shimmer of snow cast a bluish veil over everything. He could see the shadows of bare branches dragging themselves across the wallpaper. In the corridor, it made no difference whether you were blind or sighted. “Tommy.” He flinched, glancing around, squinting as if that might somehow summon light into the dark. But he didn’t need light to recognize that voice. “Ada?..” So clear — as if she stood right beside him. How long had it been since he’d seen her… Suddenly, ahead, there came a clatter and muttered curses. Tommy flinched again. These sounds were not as clear as his sister’s voice. Carefully, he moved forward and turned the corner. A little further on, a parchment-yellow light spilled onto the floor. Ignoring the way his heart skipped, Tommy headed toward it. Only to find James Holloway rummaging through the wall cabinets, his pale face set in a fussy, critical expression. His bruises had been treated — gently, even, Tom might have said. The swelling had been kept down, the plasters neat and firm over the cuts. “Can’t sleep?” James greeted him without turning. A dull grey saucepan lay discarded near his slippers. “Me neither, apparently.” “Jim,” Thomas replied instead, letting his gaze sweep over the albino. Without the coat, he looked even stranger. A washed-out grey shirt that seemed to have surrendered all hope of ever being white again. An old, faded tie. And yet — a vivid violet waistcoat of decent quality. His hairstyle was more an attempt at following men’s fashion than achieving it. One long white strand was tucked behind a pinkish ear. The white frames of his glasses were speckled with black dots, almost decorative. Odd body proportions. Or perhaps just odd tailoring. “Your medicine must’ve worn off,” Jim offered, voicing his theory on Tommy’s insomnia. “You should tell the doctor.” He pulled out a pale glass bowl of biscuits and set it lightly on the counter. With deft fingers, he plucked two. “Want some?” He held one out to Tom, already popping the other into his mouth. His fingers were long, flexible — very flexible. Quick, precise. Tommy noticed. Those movements weren’t casual—they were practiced. Carefully so. The bowl landed without a single crumb spilled; Jim needed only two fingers to pluck his biscuit — the other hand already taking one while the first offered the other. “They’re not stale, I swear,” James added when Thomas didn’t react. He set the spare biscuit down on the counter, leaving the choice open. “Sabotaging the revolver, eh? Clever.” Thomas leaned back against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, watching the lad with an unreadable expression. He meant the bloodshed earlier — the explosion that had set off all deaths like falling dominoes. “Risky,” he added. The first man could have pressed that sabotaged gun straight to Jim’s forehead and it wouldn’t have been just fingers flying. “Would you believe me if I said that was far from my original plan?” Jim gave a humourless smile. “Bloody Plan «C». Not my finest work.” Plan «C».

“…I don’t want to close my eyes. I’ll see darkness soon enough — I want to look at the light.”

Half-lidded eyes, fixed on the death in a barrel. Tommy understood, suddenly. It hadn’t been a distraction. Not theatrics. Jim really had thought it was over. That blown up gun in the enemy’s hands wouldn’t be enough to survive. “You bribed one of them,” Thomas said, clearing the picture further. “The idiot couldn’t make peace with his conscience, apparently” James bared his teeth faintly, sorting through utensils without really looking at them. “He should’ve stepped in sooner.” Tommy watched him closely — he grabbed and dropped things almost unconsciously, like a ritual of habit to keep his hands occupied. A demand of a mind that didn’t know what to do with itself if left still. “Ah, well. To hell with him. He’s dead.” Only now did Jim look at Tom properly – as is he saw him for the first time. “And how are you?.. After waking up?..” “Fine,” Tommy said shortly. His hand instinctively reached for a cigarette case that wasn’t there, curling into a fist instead. “Didn’t know the doctor kept killers.” “You think I’m one of his people?” They narrowed their eyes at each other. Jim — with uncertainty. Tom — with realization. Jim had slipped — he’d answered a question that should’ve been met with silence. Thomas had caught him. And he knew it. So — not the doctor’s man. And yet he moved through this place like he belonged. Talked to Waters with familiarity no one else here did. After a pause, Thomas spoke again: “What happened to the bodies?” “They were taken care of.” No details. But still an answer. “And your accomplice brought you here on purpose, yeah? Closer to allies?” Silence this time. “I think I’ve seen you before,” Tommy continued. “Well, as you’ve noticed — I’m not exactly a stranger here.” “So you’ve seen me.” Their gazes clashed again, like knives in a fight. “I have, of course. You could’ve figured that out already — I recognized you when we met.” Thomas smirked faintly. Seems his success at pulling information has ruffled some feathers. He leaned his head back against the frame, half-lidded gaze fixed on the warm paint of the far wall. “You’re a good liar, Jim. Thought I’d seen the end.” Turned out I’d only seen you. Not an angel. Just a pale, living being. He should have reached for Michael instead. For something truly dead. But perhaps he’d been foolish enough to think he finally deserved heaven. “Tommy.” His eyes lit and snapped toward the voice. There she was. Behind Holloway’s shoulder. Real. Again real. The door had never closed. “Well… I won’t apologize. And I ask you to forgive me for that,” James said awkwardly after a pause. “Otherwise it’d sound false..” He didn’t immediately notice that Thomas was staring past him. "Life is way too strange, marvelous and intricate thing for me to mourn its preservation... in most cases." He stood by the dark window, crumpling a napkin between his fingers. The night’s pale light fell across his shoulders — wrapping Ada behind him. “Listen, alright?” she said softly. Tom parted his lips. No opium. The medicine must’ve worn off.

The door had never closed.

“And look closer.” She glanced at Jim. The lad frowned, trying to understand what’s going on. Silent, studying Tom’s face like some curious fish. He turned, looked straight through Ada at the window, then back again — puzzled. He didn’t see her. Thin fingers hooked lightly into his belt. Strange — he hadn’t even undressed for the night. Hadn’t lain in bed between sleep and wakefulness, fighting his inner clock and thoughts. Hadn’t even taken off the waistcoat. The clothes clung to him like armor. Like protection. From… The skin on his fingers was smooth, veins faintly visible but not raised. Those hands were as if— “Tomboy,” Thomas said thoughtfully, eyes drifting back to the wall. A faint smirk tugged at his lips. “Ironic name.” “Excuse me?” Jim reacted sharper than expected. He clearly knew the word — but Thomas went on anyway: “I met quite a few in France. Later, on Somme.” He watched the subtle changes in the James’ face. “Funny thing. At the start of the war, when everyone was cheerful and sure it’d last a week at most, I didn’t see a single tomboy.” James frown got deeper. He said nothing. “But when it dragged on — turned into a hopeless slaughter in mud and shit — they started appearing more and more. When volunteers stopped coming, and politicians passed laws to force men into war.” Thomas tried not to let the images of torn-up France rise before his eyes. “Women pretending to be men.” He finally turned to Holloway and stepped closer. “In the unit, we just called them tomboys.” Holloway’s expression froze into tense concentration. Like a fox that had spotted a hidden hunter. Silence stretched. Thomas did not go into detail about the Women's Army Auxiliary Corps,did not speculate aloud about the wisdom and reasons why those women chose a bloodier path than their countrywomen, whose work and aid meant no less to the army than the soldiers fighting. “You’re good,” Tommy continued. He wasn’t entirely sure, so he let the silence linger — and in it, decided to push further. “Would’ve figured you out sooner, if not for the voice.” The voice had been convincing. Not artificially low —the way women make it when pretending to be young boys pretending to be grown men. “Well played.” Thomas didn’t react. The Tom-Boy tilted her head with a small approving smile — apparently deciding there was no point in lying. She flicked a quick glance into the darkness behind Tommy — just in case. “Damn, I could’ve fooled you, couldn’t I? If I hadn’t slipped on your “tomboy,” — shit…” She still spoke in that quiet, boyish voice. Ada was no longer there — she had vanished in the blink Tommy couldn’t avoid. But the Tom-Boy stood before him, brows drawn, thinking through what she could’ve done differently to avoid being caught so easily. “You’re interesting, Miss…?” She lifted stormy eyes to him and slid her hands into her pockets. Stepped closer. Now that the truth had settled into his mind like a perfectly smooth apple into a rough palm, everything about this woman with the false name shifted slightly. In Tommy’s eyes, she seemed smaller. More graceful. More delicate — in face and body. Not a boyish fledgling, but a pretty girl with clumsily cut hair. “My name is James Holloway. And that is the only name I will respond to,” she said, her male voice ringing. Her shoulders were tense — so was her gaze and the curve of her full lips. “Walls have ears,” she added. Then she walked past Tom, brushing his shoulder. Her voice changed. Became female. A feminine version of the same tone that had rung through her speech until now. A bit older sounding though. Beautiful. Skin-prickling. Or maybe Tom had just missed women’s company. “Good night,” she shortly said in her real voice before leaving the pantry, leaving the light on. Leaving him alone. Something stirred in his mind. A flicker of life — some kind of excitement that certainly wouldn’t help his insomnia. But he welcomed it. Welcomed that brief knock of life against the cold door of his being, behind which emptiness had gnawed at him for God knows how long since his unwanted awakening. He felt hungry. He grabbed the lone biscuit from the table.