I can. Yesterday he left the house at 7:35. I can still make it. My hair is a mess, but it can’t look much worse than it did the last time he saw me, so it’ll have to suffice.
I grab a gold coin and clutch it in both hands, taking a moment to close my eyes and release my hopes into the universe. Just let this work! You’d think an Earthbound—a literal goddess—would be able to handle something as easy as restoring memories to her eternal partner. But none of my abilities can help with this.
My leg is throbbing as I approach his house, and I can’t stop my heart from racing when Logan bursts out of his front door. He looks around warily—I guess I really got to him—but he doesn’t notice me duck behind the bushes. I follow him from across the street and touch the heavy silver necklace for confidence. The one that brought me back my memories but failed to bring back Logan’s.
The one he made for me two hundred years ago. He just doesn’t know it.
Now.
I jog quietly up behind him before saying, “Logan?”
He whirls around, and I get a glimpse of real fear painted on his face before stubborn anger takes over.
“I have something to show you,” I announce before he can speak.
“Listen, Tavia,” Logan says, rubbing at his neck in what Rebecca-in-my-head instantly recognizes as his nervous twitch. “I don’t really understand why you keep bringing me stuff. It’s … it’s kind of weirding me out.”
“Will you at least look at it?” I beg. I have no pride left. Not anymore. None of my attempts have had any effect whatsoever, and everything I’ve sacrificed—everything others have died for—will mean nothing if I don’t succeed.
Logan studies me for a long time, and I try to keep my face relaxed. “Fine,” Logan finally replies after what feels like ages. “Whatever.”
I hold out my hand and pray—to whom, I don’t know; the God I was raised on, the other Earthbounds, whoever made the Earthbounds; I don’t care anymore—that this will work. The coin falls from my palm into his with a barely audible smacking sound.
He lifts the gold circle close to his face—but not too close—and studies it. Then he sighs and hands it back to me. In a show of what I can only imagine is pity, he curls my fingers around the coin and then his hand around mine. “Tavia, I know someone must have told you this is gold, but you’ve got to stop believing everyone so easily. I—” He hesitates, and my heart sinks. I can sense the impending rejection. “I think you’re a really nice person. And pretty,” he blurts out and then looks like he surprised himself with those words. “But I can’t help you.”
He’s talking again before I can latch onto the word pretty too hard. “I’m just a kid, and I think you seriously need some professional help.”
My hands are so weak from disappointment that I can barely hang on to the coin. It would be my luck that when we split up supplies, I took the bag of gold coins I made as Rebecca, and Benson got the bag that Quinn made. Or maybe I made them all—I’m a little fuzzy on the details.
I swallow hard at the thought of Benson—the boy I thought I was in love with … until he betrayed me—but push it away just as I have innumerable times in the last week. It hurts too much to dwell on. To wonder where the Reduciates are keeping him. If he’s being treated humanely. If … if …
I can’t. Logan. Focus on Logan.
“You don’t understand, Logan.” I can hear the crazy-laced desperation in my voice, but I can’t stop. I don’t know what else to do. If I don’t pull out something impressive I’m going to lose him.
“They’re coming after you,” I whisper, trying to sound so serious—and so sane. “They almost killed me last week and they’re after both of us now and I have got to find some way to make you remember and I’ve tried everything and—” I force myself to stop; I’m just babbling. I plead with my eyes for him to believe me.
“Who’s coming after me?” Logan asks after a second, indulging me as one would a very young child telling an obvious lie.
“The …” I almost tell him everything—that it’s the Reduciata who are on his trail. That they are going to kill him. Probably in a matter of days, if not sooner. Possibly the Curatoria too, considering Mark and Sammi were hiding me from them. But I know that the specifics will only make me sound even more like I have a couple of screws loose.
His face is a rumpled mess of emotions. Despite my failed attempts at subtlety, he obviously thinks I’m out of my mind.
But there’s something else—that pull that made him ask if he knew me the first day we met. That attraction that makes him want to forget all logic and throw himself at something completely unexplainable.
I understand. I felt that way toward him.
We stand there, steeping in the silence, and for just a moment it looks like he’ll believe me. Or at least that he’ll listen. But good sense takes over, and he sets his lips in a hard, straight line. “Tavia, I—”
“I’ll show you,” I interrupt, my hair starting to fall across my eyes in damp strands as sweat rolls down my temples. Even at seven thirty in the morning the heat is so intense I know it can’t be natural. “Watch.” I glance in both directions and then open my hands to reveal a pencil.
I probably should have come up with something more original.
Logan just rolls his eyes and starts to push past me.
“Wait!” I gesture vaguely at the yard to my left and conjure a table and two chairs into existence. Show him what I can do: create something from nothing. He doesn’t know it’ll disappear in five minutes.
It’s not just any dining set. It’s the hand-carved oak set we shared as Quinn and Rebecca two hundred years ago. Maybe … maybe seeing it will do something. Spark some memory. Maybe not enough for a full re-awakening, but enough that he’ll take me seriously.
I turn back. “They’re after us because we’re special,” I say with solid conviction, keeping my voice even. “You can do this too, you just don’t remember. And you have to remember. At least try!” I wave again, and the table fills with “our” dishes. A rug that used to sit in front of the fireplace. His favorite coat draped over the chair. I’m ready to recreate the entire house if I have to.
Each time I make a new item appear, I glance back to check his reaction—to see if I’m stimulating any memories.
But he just looks confused.
Then angry.
Anger does not come naturally to him—never has. I’m not sure who that thought comes from in my tangled web of memories—which one of my predecessors felt compelled to share this tidbit of information—but I know it’s true. Whatever I’ve done—whatever he thinks of me—this has pushed him over the edge.
“Stop!” he hisses very quietly, but with a harshness that swings me around to face him.
“Please,” I whisper, and somehow I know it’s the last word I’m going to get in.
“No,”
