Chapter Text
Raffi had been certain this was a bad idea from the outset.
But that goddamn old fool’s face, the expectant smile, the peace offering.
Like any form of peace could ever be brokered.
But Raffi was never one to say no to a free bottle of pinot.
Especially when it came with a bit of ego stroking.
And an advance copy of a special edition Angelou.
As the taxi pulled away from the curb, Raffi shook her head at the approaching man. So frail, so old. So cruel.
‘You can turn around and call that cab to take you right back to where you came from.’ She feels her voice shake with emotions she wasn’t fully prepared to put names to.
Jean-Luc – still JL in her head, even after all this time – holds his hands up in supplication. ‘I just want to talk.’
‘There isn’t anything you could say that I want to hear.’
And yet she finds herself listening. Clutching her cup of wine close to her chest as he explains everything, sitting on the stoop outside her apartment building. How restlessness kept him from retirement and in allowing himself to explore and look out for waifs and strays he found Dahj – and Soji.
‘Dahj was the one with the connections. The one who stayed back home and kept the store running.’
Raffi notes the past tense and winces. ‘And now?’
Jean-Luc smiles sadly. ‘Well, things have changed. Dahj, unfortunately, did not have long for this world when our paths crossed. Which has left dear Soji quite in the lurch. She’s heading back from her field work to figure everything out. Which is where we come in.’
‘You’ll find there’s no we here, JL. Just you and a pipe dream.’
There is a twinkle in his eye that has absolutely no right to be there. ‘No? But think, Raffi. How good was it when it was good? What a team we made.’
‘You have some goddamn nerve.’
‘And charm.’
Raffi snorts. ‘Yeah, you’re spilling over with it. I saw your interview.’ He has the good sense to look embarrassed. ‘Yeah, I saw you, sitting back in your very fine château. Those oak beams, heirloom furniture. Yeah, I’d show you around my estate, but it’s more of a hovel, so that would just be, you know, humiliating.’ She bats a hand towards the doorway behind her, the peeling paint, the bars on the windows. ‘But my entire life for the past 14 years has been one long slide into humiliation. And rage.’
She reaches into her pocket and fiddles with the vape that she knows is there. In this moment, she has the self-control not to pull it out, take the hit, feel the edges of herself grow fuzzier, gentler. But knowing it’s there, knowing she can do that the moment the audacious old shithead takes a hint and gets out of her life for good (again), is reassuring.
‘Might have been nice to hear from you a time or two in there, JL. Not just because you think I have the special set of skills to help you with an off-the-books – so to speak – hare-brained scheme. Just… to say hi. See how I was doing.’
She looks at him, really looks at him, for the first time. She is relieved to see the guilt in his eyes. ‘Because I was not doing good.’
‘Raffi–’
He reaches to touch her arm and she twists away. ‘No, don’t. Just don’t touch me. I will not go down another rabbit hole with you, JL. Never again. Go.’
He nods slowly. ‘All right.’
The next day, there is a package sitting on the stoop. Brown paper, red ribbon. Raffi picks it up before it gets snapped up by any opportunistic passers-by. There are plenty of those in her neighbourhood.
When she unwraps it, she holds a hardback she hasn’t seen before. An elegantly bound volume, leather by the feel and scent. Exceptional attention to detail, no jacket, just a perfectly laid quarter-case, debossed lettering and design. Raffi traces her fingers over the curving black waves, the silver leaf picking out the edges.
It’s a thing of beauty.
She opens it to the half title and sees a note in a familiar script.
‘For Raffaela.
I see Maya, I think of her biggest fan.
Thought you might like this special version before it releases and sells out. I’m hoping we’ll stock it while it’s available.
With constant admiration and appreciation,
JL Picard.’
There’s a business card in there – garish greens and blacks.
‘The Artifact.
Home of The Book Reclamation Project
Clifton Place’
Raffi leans back against her door and groans. ‘Well, fuck.’
And now she’s here, walking up to a green door that’s just not quite the same shade as the green on the card, and that is already setting her off in all kinds of ways. And she could – should – walk away. Leave JL to his own saviour complex. Hop on the train back to her apartment and continue to spiral her way into oblivion. Her days of leaving a beautiful corpse are probably past her, she thinks, but what can you do?
But then he opens the door. ‘Raffi. I knew you’d come.’
‘You knew no such thing,’ she retorts. ‘ I didn’t know if I’d come. I’m still thinking I should walk away right now.’
‘Mr Picard, is that a delivery?’ The voice behind him is young, female, anxious.
‘In a manner of speaking,’ he calls back. He focuses back on Raffi. ‘Well, Raffi? Are you ready to be my right-hand woman again?’
She shakes her head. ‘I am nobody’s right-hand woman. But I’ll… take a look.’
The approving look JL gives her as she crosses the threshold makes her roll her eyes.
She steps in anyway.