few uncomfortable minutes of sitting in the kitchen, I'd excused myself and gone back to the garage. Ever since that day, when Gem and I wanted to chat, we sat on the back porch.
Part of my respect for Gem comes from the fact that she's an expert dog trainer. She has a voice that commands attention like a whip crack, but she can also dish out praise, when appropriate, in a voice as pleasurable as a good belly rub. She's been training dogs for Lone Star's K9 patrols for at least ten years— longer than I've lived in Halifax. I'd heard she was involved, for a time, in some of Lone Star's experiments with training hell hounds as guard dogs. But after seeing the burns on her arms, I didn't want to ask her about that experience.
I lived rent-free in Gem's garage in return for helping her with the training. I demonstrated the moves, and the young dogs responded well to the occasional nip or growl from a "dog" so much larger and more powerful than themselves. But as I stood on the porch, waiting for Gem to get the blanket, I felt like a foolish puppy.
When she returned, I nodded a quick thanks and loped back to the garage with the blanket. Only to find Jane curled up, fast asleep, with the dog-haired blanket pulled up to her chin.
Gently, I removed it. Jane stirred only a little as I replaced it with the clean blanket. I thought I heard her murmur something in her sleep: a man's name. For just a moment, I felt a twinge of jealousy. Then I pushed that emotion aside. I squatted beside Jane and nuzzled her hand with my cheek. She looked beautiful when she was sleeping. Relaxed, at peace with herself.
The touch of my cheek on her hand was just enough to wake her up. Her eyes flew open wide, and her gold-flecked eyes bored wildly into mine.
"Please!" she whispered fiercely. "Don't let them take me..."
She blinked. Then she looked around the garage, and back at me, and seemed to realize where she was. As whatever thought had prompted her fearful outburst vanished, her face gradually relaxed.
"Don't worry," I said. "You're safe here."
She nodded, curled back into a ball, and closed her eyes. After a minute or two, her breath was slow and deep.
I stared down at Jane. Where was this urge to protect her coming from? Was this the first stirring of love that humans felt for one another? It seemed too soon, too fast; I'd only known Jane a day. I didn't even know if that was her real name.
Then I laughed at myself. What did "real" names matter? I hadn't had a name when I was born; Romulus was just a tag my first set of foster parents had given me. I still didn't have a "proper" last name. And what was identity, anyhow, to someone like me, someone who shifted between the worlds of animal and human every day?
My curiosity about Jane was growing. I knew the old adage: curiosity was what killed the cat. And cats are stupid creatures, when you get right down to it. So stupid that they're always poking their noses into other people's back yards, and getting chased up a tree for their troubles.
My curiosity wasn't going to get me into any trouble. I just wanted to know more about Jane. But where would I start searching for that first puzzle piece?
I had no idea. Unless...
No, that was ridiculous. It couldn't be true.
But there was only one way to find out.
6
It took me most of the morning to find the information I was looking for. I'd never been to the archives before, and it took a while to find what I wanted. And part way through the morning I had to leave the archives to pay another visit to the Old Burial Grounds so I could double-check the position of the grave, pacing out exactly where it lay.
But the effort paid off. There had been a Matilda buried under the headstone where Jane had left the bouquet last night. Matilda O'Reiley, born in 1798 and laid to rest in 1875 at the age of seventy-seven. The archives even had a record of the inscription placed on the grave, a verse by the poet Byron:
***
I took that hand which lay so
Part of my respect for Gem comes from the fact that she's an expert dog trainer. She has a voice that commands attention like a whip crack, but she can also dish out praise, when appropriate, in a voice as pleasurable as a good belly rub. She's been training dogs for Lone Star's K9 patrols for at least ten years— longer than I've lived in Halifax. I'd heard she was involved, for a time, in some of Lone Star's experiments with training hell hounds as guard dogs. But after seeing the burns on her arms, I didn't want to ask her about that experience.
I lived rent-free in Gem's garage in return for helping her with the training. I demonstrated the moves, and the young dogs responded well to the occasional nip or growl from a "dog" so much larger and more powerful than themselves. But as I stood on the porch, waiting for Gem to get the blanket, I felt like a foolish puppy.
When she returned, I nodded a quick thanks and loped back to the garage with the blanket. Only to find Jane curled up, fast asleep, with the dog-haired blanket pulled up to her chin.
Gently, I removed it. Jane stirred only a little as I replaced it with the clean blanket. I thought I heard her murmur something in her sleep: a man's name. For just a moment, I felt a twinge of jealousy. Then I pushed that emotion aside. I squatted beside Jane and nuzzled her hand with my cheek. She looked beautiful when she was sleeping. Relaxed, at peace with herself.
The touch of my cheek on her hand was just enough to wake her up. Her eyes flew open wide, and her gold-flecked eyes bored wildly into mine.
"Please!" she whispered fiercely. "Don't let them take me..."
She blinked. Then she looked around the garage, and back at me, and seemed to realize where she was. As whatever thought had prompted her fearful outburst vanished, her face gradually relaxed.
"Don't worry," I said. "You're safe here."
She nodded, curled back into a ball, and closed her eyes. After a minute or two, her breath was slow and deep.
I stared down at Jane. Where was this urge to protect her coming from? Was this the first stirring of love that humans felt for one another? It seemed too soon, too fast; I'd only known Jane a day. I didn't even know if that was her real name.
Then I laughed at myself. What did "real" names matter? I hadn't had a name when I was born; Romulus was just a tag my first set of foster parents had given me. I still didn't have a "proper" last name. And what was identity, anyhow, to someone like me, someone who shifted between the worlds of animal and human every day?
My curiosity about Jane was growing. I knew the old adage: curiosity was what killed the cat. And cats are stupid creatures, when you get right down to it. So stupid that they're always poking their noses into other people's back yards, and getting chased up a tree for their troubles.
My curiosity wasn't going to get me into any trouble. I just wanted to know more about Jane. But where would I start searching for that first puzzle piece?
I had no idea. Unless...
No, that was ridiculous. It couldn't be true.
But there was only one way to find out.
6
It took me most of the morning to find the information I was looking for. I'd never been to the archives before, and it took a while to find what I wanted. And part way through the morning I had to leave the archives to pay another visit to the Old Burial Grounds so I could double-check the position of the grave, pacing out exactly where it lay.
But the effort paid off. There had been a Matilda buried under the headstone where Jane had left the bouquet last night. Matilda O'Reiley, born in 1798 and laid to rest in 1875 at the age of seventy-seven. The archives even had a record of the inscription placed on the grave, a verse by the poet Byron:
***
I took that hand which lay so
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