Whim Manor And the Boy Who Wasn't.

The Selfie

Whim and I returned to the square just in time for Graham to tell us our shift was over. The sky had grown dark, and we were passing over a small footbridge when the gas lamps began sputtering to life, lining the streets with warm flickering light.

"I would linger," Whim said. "But Ms. Windsor is expecting us."

I sighed, drawing in the vista. "Kitchen duty would almost be worth it."

"Oh, Miss! Miss!" a voice called from behind. I turned around to see the mother from earlier.

She came up to us, dragging her son behind. "I was wondering, could we get a photo? My son's been asking about you all day. He said his favorite part was seeing Lilith."

The boy's tired eyes looked ready for bed, but he perked up when he saw me.

I looked at Whim, and she shrugged back, lifting a brow.

"I guess so..." I said, as a thought found its way into my mind: there would be a photo of me dressed like this floating around out... there. And everyone I knew would find it instantly.

"If you don't want to, that's okay," the mother said.

"No, it's just no one's ever asked me for a picture before." I smiled, forcing my doubts aside. "It's nice."

I squatted down next to him and let the mother take a few shots. He was shy, and sleepy, and as bad at posing for photos as I was, so at least we matched.

"Can I get one with the town in the background?" she asked.

"I can take it if you like." Whim offered, yawning. "Why don't you get in the photo too?"

The mother accepted, and we posed with the boy in front, me crouching next to him, and the mother sitting behind us on the railing.

There was a flash as the photo was taken, and when my vision cleared, Whim's face had gone ghost white. A hard sound like wood reverberating against stone came from below.

I turned and the mother wasn't there.

In the deafening silence, we peered over the railing. Her eyes were open, but she wasn't moving. Small arms clasped around my waist, and I stepped in front of the boy to keep him from seeing.

"Calling for help," Whim yelled as she tore her phone from her dress. She was already down examining the woman by the time Graham arrived.

"She's knocked out," Whim said. "I don't—"

"—don't move her! Help is on the way," Graham yelled with none of his usual gruff.

"I wouldn't. She's bleeding. Her shoulder looks wrong. Maybe dislocated, maybe broken..."

Flashing lights, red and white, weaved their way down narrow streets as a siren approached.

The boy was shaking, frozen, and I had to pick him up to make way for the ambulance, which was nearly as wide as the bridge. Two modern paramedics hopped out and went under the bridge while the driver inched the ambulance across.

Graham cleared the crowd from the adjoining intersection, and the ambulance made a three-point turn, then pulled back across the bridge, facing the opposite direction.

Her chest convulsing as they loaded her on, the mother's shirt was spattered red, her eyes bouncing. The boy didn't call or cry out. He just stared at her, his hand clutching mine, cold as ice.

And then the ambulance sped off, leaving us on an empty bridge, surrounded by gaslight and the chill of night.

"The hospital is eight blocks away, come on," Graham said, his accent completely neutral now.