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It had taken Layton maybe three months to stop thinking of what had happened at the Azran temple every five or ten minutes. Three more months, he was down to being reminded of it maybe once a week. By then, Emmy Altava had long since left his service and it was Luke who assisted him. The boy was young and kind-hearted. The incident had barely changed him. However, the two had somehow managed to form a quiet pact to never speak of what happened without ever breathing a word to one another. Perhaps it was best. Having Luke around, having at least one person know what they’d endured together . . . that was enough to help Layton get through most days. Eventually, he was able to stop thinking of what had happened altogether. But every now and then, he thought he could feel a particular pair of maroon eyes staring him down. For it wasn’t his or Luke’s demise he found himself thinking of some stormy nights, but the demise of one masked individual: a masked individual who had not made it out of the temple. He’d died as he’d lived, or so it seemed.
It took three years for thoughts of that particular masked man to stop crippling him. Three years of dealing with Don Paolo, taking in Flora Reinhold and helping her get accustomed to normal life, and actually being able to teach without much interruption. Sometimes thoughts of Descole snuck in, but he was mostly a benevolent ghost in the back of Layton’s mind now. It had taken him longer to get over other losses. Much longer. He’d thought himself through with grief. He’d thought himself through with grief.
That is, until he’d received the invitation to witness the unveiling of that time machine. Until he’d helped put a stop to a man driven mad by the unfairness of society. Until he’d had to say goodbye to Claire a second time. Until he’d watched Luke board a ship and leave him behind. Losing Claire again was enough to shatter him, but losing Luke . . . Luke had sustained him for so long. He’d made sure Layton was taken care of. He’d helped Flora more often than Layton himself. He’d kept that silent pact with Layton. He alone had stayed while everyone else had gone.
Layton was not alone. He had Flora. But Flora was not aware of all the things he and Luke had seen. He could not hurt her with such memories. She was a young woman barely aware of how to communicate with people without dropping a snarky remark. Yes, she’d grown saucy under his and Luke’s care. But she was no replacement. He would never ask her to be one either. That would be cruel and unusual punishment for someone who deserved finer things.
Luke’s promise to write was warm and welcome. However . . . something inside Layton shriveled the day he left. Some part of him that had lit up during Luke’s prolonged stay with him was snuffed out. Yes, Professor Hershel Layton was once again alone with his thoughts. He wasn’t proud of how much he’d cried in recent weeks, but every now and again he had the passing notion that those tears had been healthier than this.
For now, he felt nothing. Absolutely nothing. And he couldn’t bring himself to fear this numbness.
“Master, you’re injured!”
“I’m fine.”
“You most certainly are not. You need a doctor.”
“You will do.”
“No, I will not. This is far beyond my—”
“Make something up, will you!”
“Master, you are in grave danger! Staying here would be the end of you.”
“We’ve done this several times! How can it be the end now?! Just do something!”
“Wait here. Just . . . let me figure something out.”
“. . . Fine.”
“Keep pressure on it. Whatever you do, don’t remove pressure. I’ll see what I can discover.”
Flora noticed the changes in Layton. She doubled her efforts at getting better at . . . well, everything really. She would be the first to admit to herself, she was awful at cleaning. She didn’t even discuss her cooking. The professor and Luke had tried to encourage her attempts at cooking, but she knew she’d failed more often than succeeded. Even her strongest successes couldn’t bring a smile to the man’s face, though. Yes, he noticed. Yes, he complimented her. But she couldn’t make him feel anything, it seemed. His gaze stayed empty and his words stayed hollow.
She spent more time alone now than she ever did when Luke was there. If it weren’t for Paul and his frequent visits, she would have gone stir crazy by now. Paul had grown more social since the incident with the underground London, taking her on outings at least once a week. She’d grown so comfortable with him that she didn’t feel the need to accompany Layton to university anymore. She credited him for noticing her lack of attendance, but he still lacked that enthusiasm she’d so enjoyed.
It was hard to tell if Paul noticed the change in Layton. Paul spent little time talking about him. That was probably a good thing. Flora wouldn’t want their rivalry to spark up again, because honestly she was no longer sure of who she would side with.
So much had changed. While the people in her village had been curious to say the least, they’d at least been able to feign something that resembled human life. The professor couldn’t even do that anymore. She’d never thought she’d prefer the company of robots to men before, but she was finding the prospect more and more appealing every day. No revelation could have saddened her more.
“Everything.”
“Everything?”
“Everything. Everything has been compromised.”
“Our transportation?”
“Our connections. Our safe houses. Every last thing except your identity. It has all been compromised.”
“What about our plans?”
“I’m not sure. But there is no where we can run to. No where they can’t find us. They will send men in every direction. They will search for you without rest or remor—”
“I get the picture.”
“You need treatment, Master.”
“Just patch it up—”
“I can’t possibly fix this. You’ve never received something quite like—”
“And what am I supposed to do? Where am I supposed to go? They know I’m injured, so they’ll check hospitals—”
“I’m aware, Master, but I don’t have the material—”
“—and it’s not like I have anyone besides you to help me, so do what you have to. Get what you have to get!”
“They know of me, sir.”
“. . . I beg your pardon?”
“They know I serve you. They’ll be looking for me as well.”
“. . . I’m—”
“No, sir. Don’t say it. Not now.”
No one had taken Claire’s loss as hard as Hershel Layton. Even Don Paolo himself had to admit that. However, he wasn’t pleased with the man’s neglectfulness. Flora could play up the professor’s condition as much as she wanted, but in all the years Don Paolo had known Layton he’d never seen him this cold. He’d never seen him this disheveled.
Flora tried, but Don Paolo knew it was hard trying to care for someone so unresponsive. Layton had become careless with his hat, which was completely uncharacteristic. He took long pauses to answer questions he should have been able to respond to in a snap. He missed a patch while shaving for heaven’s sake. That day, Don Paolo had almost struck him. He didn’t though. For Flora’s sake. He still felt he would have made a better guardian for Flora, but Layton had been sharp then. He’d been at the top of his game and a worthy yet infuriating opponent. Now? Don Paolo hated to be cliché, but the phrase that came to mind fit entirely too well.
Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
“There is one place, Master.”
“What place?”
“Where you can go, where no one will find you.”
“Where?”
“Take a moment. I doubt you need me to provide the answer for you.”
“. . . No.”
“You must.”
“It is not an option.”
“It is your only option.”
“. . . I made a promise.”
“Did you?”
“. . . Not quite.”
“We’re talking about your life, Master. Please. What’s the worst that could—?”
“I can’t.”
“What choice do you have?”
“I can’t face him, Ray—”
“Now you listen to me, boy. I will not watch you die. I will not sit here and watch you bleed out. Do you understand?”
“. . . But what if—?”
“No buts. No what ifs. Do this for me. Now. We’ve been at this too long, and I’ve asked you for nothing. Take this chance for me.”
“But what about you?”
“I’m old, but I’m not dead. I’ll survive. And so will you.”
“. . . Alright.”
“Careful, Master! You’re losing so much blood—”
“You can’t help me, remember?”
“But your—”
“The rain will cover my tracks. Get to safety. From now on . . . we have to split up.”
“Master—”
“You’ll find me. I won’t try to find you. For your own safety.”
“Are you certain you know where he is?”
“Really, R—?”
“Silly question. Of course you know. You always have.”
“I guess this is fare—”
“. . . Take care of yourself, boy.”
“. . . You too old man.”
The professor was working late that night. Flora ran home in the rain, doing her best to shield the groceries with her body. A loaf of bread began slipping out of the bag as she reached her home. “No no NO!” she commanded the loaf, but it wound up falling on the ground anyway. Scooping it up, a heaping amount of water poured from the roof onto her back and caused her to squeal. Now soaking wet, bags of groceries soggy, and keys missing, she felt the need to curse something. With her free hand, she took advantage of her aloneness and punched the door . . . and watched in horror as it swung open. The door was already open. It . . . it had been forced? No. Nothing on the door seemed damaged. Had it been picked?
That seemed the only option. Dropping the groceries on the front porch, she froze in place. She couldn’t feel the rain anymore. It was barely a dull roar in the backdrop. All she could focus on was the fact that the door was ajar and someone had gotten in. For all she knew, he was still inside. As fear froze her, she lost all touch with her brain and couldn’t for the life of her figure out what to do. In a split second, she found herself galloping away to the neighbor’s house.
She should have called the police. Perhaps she should have called Paul. Yet somehow, she found herself phoning the professor. After all that had changed, he was still the one she ran to for help.