Page 2 of Magpie

“ A re you sure I can’t convince you to stay on?

” Mr. Mortimer asks me for the third time this afternoon.

I smile, clearing away coffee cups and paper napkins from the last guest to leave after the late-afternoon rush.

I don’t answer Mr. Mortimer as I haul the bus tub with me to the kitchen.

I don’t need to answer him; he knows what I’ll say. But it doesn’t stop him from asking.

My smile turns sad as I busy myself with putting away the dishes and tossing the trash out in the back alley.

Walking back into the sunlit diner, I untie my frilly apron covered in mystery stains from the many waitresses before me.

I’ve added a few of my own to carry on after me, and the sight alone fills me with a sharp longing.

To leave behind a part of me, however little, that will be remembered …

I give myself a shake and stuff the apron into my ratty backpack. It’s going to be hard enough to say goodbye to Mr. Mortimer and Peggy; I don’t need to add to it by becoming attached to an apron.

I glance up at Mr. Mortimer as he opens the small rotating tower that contains the day’s pie selection. “Lemon meringue, if we have any left,” I call. He might know it is useless to ask me to stay, but I know it is useless to refuse him feeding me.

Rounding the corner of the counter, I plop down on one of the stools, the red plastic cushion squeaking underneath me as Mr. Mortimer sets the slice of pie in front of me.

“Lavern outdid herself this time,” I say around a mouthful of pie. Lavern is Mr. Mortimer’s wife, who makes all the pies for the diner. She’s just as sweet as her confections and is the perfect pair to Mr. Mortimer.

He has been nothing but kind to me since the first moment I set foot in his sleepy diner.

I was soaked head-to-toe from a surprising summer thunderstorm and had only meant to step inside to escape the deluge.

But Mr. Mortimer sees what others don’t, having encountered his fair share of wandering souls wafting in and out of his diner.

He saw that I needed so much more than just a place to wait out the storm.

He offered me a slice of pie and a cup of coffee, and when I told him I had no money to pay, he offered me a job.

In the months after I fled the House, I wandered the streets aimlessly.

Begging where I could and stealing when I needed to.

I was numb and empty, a husk left to wither in the sun without the House, and I had been very close to turning back.

I had no form of identification, and no ability to procure one, no way to get any sort of job.

But when I quietly asked Mr. Mortimer if I could be paid in cash, he didn’t bat an eye.

He just smiled and handed me the apron and told me to keep the coffee cups full.

The job doesn’t pay much, but it’s been enough to keep me in the small apartment that Mr. Mortimer found for me.

His friend owns the space and didn’t ask any questions when Mr. Mortimer vouched for me.

It even left me with enough to buy the laptop I spied in the window of a pawn shop.

When Mr. Mortimer hired me, I was firm with him that I would be leaving in October, told his friend the same thing when I moved into the apartment.

It still didn’t stop him from trying to convince me to stay.

He must suspect I am in some kind of trouble, and he can’t help but try to solve the problem for me.

He is always trying to fix anything broken around the old diner, and I’m arguably the most broken thing here.

He sets down a steaming cup of coffee and pushes it toward me as he takes in a deep breath. “Now, Maggie, if the issue is the rent, you know Lavern and I have a spare bedroom—”

“You know I can’t,” I interrupt before shoving another bite of pie in my mouth. I barely taste the sugary, lemony perfection. Swallowing, I take a large drink of coffee, and only when I’m sure my voice won’t break do I look at Mr. Mortimer and say, “But you know I wish I could.”

Mr. Mortimer offered me the first kindness I’d experienced in a very, very long time.

I’m finding it harder and harder to remind myself that come October 1 st , I need to be on the run.

Because I so desperately want to stay, to remain behind like the stains on the apron, adding my story alongside so many others.

“The tips only get better around the holidays,” he says, another one of his tactics to get me to stay. I let out a hollow laugh as I continue to eat.

It will be hard to find another job, even harder to find another Mr. Mortimer.

If money were my only worry, I wouldn’t be leaving.

I’ve prepared for this departure, because I knew it was inevitable.

Stowed away in a hidden spot in my apartment is more than enough cash to keep me afloat for all of October.

I saved every extra penny these last few months to ensure that.

The money isn’t what I’m worried about. It’s the thought of staying in one spot that fills me with dread.

Staying put, where he can easily find me.

“Is he trying to convince you to stay again?” Peggy asks, the bell above the door chiming to announce her entrance.

Peggy has worked at the diner almost as long as it’s been open, and I often wonder if it would crumble to pieces in her absence.

Her raspy voice speaks of years of smoking and hard liquor, and her quick, short sentences let newcomers know she doesn’t put up with nonsense. I liked her the instant I met her.

Smiling at her, I hop off the bar stool. I pull my jacket out of my bag and tug it on, knowing the temperature will drop with the setting sun.

“You have to let the young ones run free, Bob,” Peggy says, slinging an arm around my shoulder and pulling me into a tight hug. I try to fake a laugh, but can’t make the levity reach my eyes. Why is this goodbye proving to be so hard?

A glance out the window shows me the sun beginning its slow descent, casting fiery orange across the cloudy sky.

I pull away from Peggy and toss my backpack over my shoulders.

“I better be going,” I say, forcing a false cheeriness into my voice as I wave goodbye to the two.

Before Mr. Mortimer can launch into another well-rehearsed plea to get me to stay, I hurry outside.

A sharp, cold breeze hits me in the face as soon as I step out, and I tug the hood of my jacket up against the onslaught.

The walk to my apartment from the diner is a brief one, but as September draws to a close, each trip seems to take longer and longer, giving the sun ample time to set before I get there.

Or maybe I’m just ready to be home, to be locked behind doors and away from the moonlight.

I’m sweating by the time I round the corner to my street, even in the cool autumn air.

I get the tingling sensation that I’m being watched, and I find myself walking at a brisker pace, my heart hammering away inside my chest.

“Magpie.”

I spin around, eyes wild, hair sticking to my sweat-drenched forehead.

I must look like a madwoman as I scan the empty streets, my gaze darting around rapidly.

My ragged breathing slows as I study each and every shadow.

He wouldn’t be standing in the street, even with the sun as mild as it is.

It is still daytime, and I’m still safe.

I repeat those words in my mind, turning swiftly around.

I run the rest of the way to my apartment, not stopping until I slam my door shut and lock it.

I study the solid metal door, with all five locks latched firmly in place, as I try to calm my heart.

I can’t shake that sickening feeling of eyes on me.

I scrub my hands over my face, a nervous gesture.

Peeling my hands away, I rush to my mattress and yank the sheets off, locating the small tear in the material.

Leaning forward, I press my hand into the slit, searching.

My fingers roam around the fluff and springs inside the mattress, until I feel it.

Sucking in a breath at the sensation that slides over my skin the moment I make contact with it, I pull out a long, blood-red ribbon.

Hanging from the end is a wrought iron key.

Its gothic design casts a strange shadow, all twisting, ornate curls and jagged edges.

The top of the key is crafted in the outline of a bird in flight.

Black and white, with its long tail and sharp beak, it’s a bird I know too well. A magpie.

Gripping the key tightly in my hand, I turn and walk back to the door, leaning against it and sliding down to the ground.

The sensation of holding the key is overwhelming.

It is near agonizing to ignore the call of it, and I only allow myself to hold it for a few moments a day, if only to remind myself that I still have it.

Gazing out the window in front of me, I keep watch long after the sun sinks below the horizon and plunges the world into darkness.

I sit in the shadows, staring straight ahead, and with an instinctual feeling, I sense the clock ticking over to midnight.

Night has fallen, and I’m no longer safe.