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WHEN LENORE OPENS THE DOOR, THE BOY ON THE other side looks infinitely worse than he had sounded on the phone, which she had not thought to be possible since he had sounded quite terrible.
His fist is raised, poised to knock, but Lenore had beat him to it having sensed his arrival moments before his notably fancy car had pulled up outside their notably unfancy home. The boy's hair is a shocking mop of blond, a shade only attainable through a generous amount of bleach and a generous disregard for the damage said amount of bleach does to one's hair. His skin is pale enough to compete, and his eyes bear the telling shadows of the sleepless. He looks rather ghostly under the pale porch light, Lenore thinks, and distantly familiar like she might have seen him in a newspaper, or someone else's dream.
She takes one look at his rumpled collared shirt and Italian-looking watch and discerns that he must be a student at Iverson Collage. Admittedly, the mustang is also a bit of a giveaway, but Lenore finds a sly, inexplicable joy in mapping out a person before they've even opened their mouth.
"Does your chauffeur want to join us?" Lenore says pleasantly, nodding to the idling car parked behind the boy. "We have tea."
Somewhat icily, he replies "He's just a friend, and he doesn't believe in psychics. I told him you were a psychiatrist."
"Well, I am a qualified psychologist. All the psychic business is just an added bonus, really."
He frowns in a way that betrays his confusion more than any feelings of hostility. His dark brows knit together sceptically. "I have no reason to believe you're either of those things."
Lenore smiles knowingly as she says, "You're here now though, aren't you? And I can prove one of them, at least, if that'll make you feel any better."
The boy shifts, stuffing his hands in his pockets.
"Why don't you come inside?"
Though technically it was a question, Lenore makes it clear that the suggestion is fairly non-negotiable. Sensing this, the boy glances quickly at his car—his last chance of escape—but he stands his ground, squaring his shoulders and schooling his features into an expression so painfully indifferent that anyone else would have probably been offended by it. Lenore finds herself pitying him.
Building up a mask like that takes years of practice—years of refused tears and swallowed laughter and anger in bottles. It's a mask he's used to wearing it, she thinks.
They go inside.
- ✧ -
Lenore studies the boy as he appraised the interior of 43 Haven Close and it's clear to her that he's not entirely accustomed to entering living rooms that have been so clearly lived in.
The furniture of this particular living room is mismatched and there are few surfaces that haven't been adorned with decorative pillows and throws bought from markets or handmade; some arranged nicely, others tossed carelessly. There are art projects and framed photographs from Milo and Valerie's youth, and mugs decorated with cats or snarky quips. Some of the walls have been painted a loud yellow, a fact that most people expect to be repulsed by, only to find that the colour is strangely becoming in such a place.
It's a house built on memories, the material lives of its inhabitants—a house made for living in. Lenore notices a slight tension in the boy's shoulders, as though he's a puppet with his strings pulled too tightly. His expression remains adamantly indecipherable.
She guides him to the kitchen, although for Lenore 'kitchen' has never felt like quite the right word to describe the room. Above the island counter hangs not pans and utensils, but several potted plants and three glass prisms spinning slowly. The cupboards are the same ambitious shade of aqua as the fridge, which hangs slightly ajar, and there's at least one bowl on every surface, each in varying states of use. While Valerie had once used the phrase 'dumpster fire' to describe the state of the room (she had been only mildly sarcastic), Lenore personally prefers the description 'organised mess.' The last time the kitchen had been conventionally 'tidy', it had been the doing of Arthur Piers. He had always had an affinity for cleaning entire rooms and didn't believe in spot cleaning in the same way that he didn't believe in intentionally mismatching socks, or reading a series of books out of order.
Lenore motions for the boy to take a seat on one of the white vinyl bar stools lined up along the island counter—the only things that seem to match in the otherwise discordant house—and he does.
"Chamomile or English Breakfast?" she asks, closing the fridge door with her foot as she begins to rummage for clean mugs in a high up cupboard.
"I don't drink tea."
Lenore turns to raise an eyebrow at him. "I didn't ask if you wanted any, I asked what flavour."
"Chamomile then." And a hint of hostility finally makes its way into his tone as he asks, "Nora, right?"
"Lenore," she corrects, retrieving two mugs from the cupboard and placing one before him. It has a faded stock image of a golden retriever on it. "Dylan, right?"
Of course, she knows his name having received it barely ten minutes ago over the phone, but he corrects her humourlessly. "Cas."
"Is that short for something? Casper? Casey?"
Evidently uninterested in small talk, he begins to swirl the tip of his finger aimlessly around the rim of his mug. It's not until Lenore begins to fill the kettle that he says dismissively, "Cassiel."
"Like the angel."
"Archangel," Cas corrects.
Lenore puts the kettle down, suddenly overcome by the thought that the longer she talks to this boy, the less she seems to know him.
And then, quite suddenly, the familiarity of him hits her. Here, sitting at her kitchen table with hair and skin the colour of ash—a ghost with flesh and a beating heart—is the boy from Milo's reading. He's the one who had laid beside him, blood pooling from his lifeless form like spilled ink.
Fate is a real piece of work, Lenore thinks crossly, feeling a little lightheaded by the revelation. She picks up the kettle once more and fills their mugs, concentrating hard on keeping a steady hand.
Cas, seemingly oblivious to Lenore's sudden unease and clearly losing what little patience he has asks, "Can you actually help me or is this a setup? Because I'm sure as hell not here to have tea with a scam artist."
Before Lenore can dignify this with a response, the sound of the door to the garage creaking open turns both of their heads. Lenore, hoping it would be Valerie checking up on Milo, feels her heart sink when standing in the frame of the door is Milo himself, a portrait of fatigue and misery.
"Milo," Lenore says slowly, treading carefully with her words as though they were glass. "How are you feeling?"
Milo blinks, looking as though he's just woken from a dream—it's possible he has. He looks at Cas. Recognition flickers across his expression before darting away again.
The radio crackles, though no one had turned it on. A breeze tangles through the open kitchen window, carrying with it the scent of pine and wet grass.
"Do I know you?" Milo asks, his voice is distant and thick with uncertainty.
With his attention directed towards Milo, Lenore can only guess at Cas's expression, but his tone is glacial when he responds, "We met in purgatory."
