The Unselected Journals of Emma M. Lion: Vol. 5

by Beth Brower

“Settle your mind; you’re jolting from here to there,” Hawkes said, as if it were completely normal to assume what anyone was thinking. I complied, taking a deep breath until my shoulders released their tension. “Think about the months and years ahead. See yourself in them. Going about your day. Whatever brings you a smile, whatever it is you want to find there. What do you see?” I drew my eyebrows together, focusing my thoughts on some future that— “Don’t try and force it with your reason,” Hawkes said, interrupting my efforts. Pulling my mouth to the side, I let out a breath, and with whatever tricks my mind was trying to conjure, I simply leaned forward into the future I wanted to find. I was sitting at a table near a window, two or three books at my elbow. I’d a stack of letters ready to post. A cat was curled up on the chair across the room. It wasn’t Tybalt. Early spring, and the window open, but a small fire warming the shadows of the room. No one was with me. I was alone, and happy to be so. But there was a sense of company having been often in the place. I didn’t seem to be living in extravagance. I didn’t seem to be living with worry. I was happy, and home. There were daffodils in a vase. And just when I thought the edges were fading, that I had seen what I’d needed to see, I heard it. Clear as day. Footsteps on the stairs. There were footsteps on the stairs. And I knew they did not belong to Agnes. Nor anyone in my employ. They sounded like someone as at home as...