Chapter Two - Heather Lukas

For as long as she could remember, Heather had known things she shouldn't. When she was small, she would sneak into her father's library at night, and read until near dawn. She did this nearly every night for three years, reading two or three books in their entirety over the course of the week. Heather had a tremendous capacity for storing knowledge, and could still recite the majority of these books by heart. She knew the story of the curse as well. Of course, all the children of the town knew of The Curse, but only three knew the story behind it, and of these three, two knew it solely because it had been told to them by Heather. And then, there was her Perception. She never really knew how to describe it, but people always commented that she was very perceptive, and so this was the name she gave it. In actuality, Heather never really knew, or at least never really noticed it until she lost her sight. Until then she merely thought of it as others did; that she was simply intelligent and understood things quickly, and that she had keener instincts than most. After her blinding, she realised that she knew and understood and sensed things that she simply shouldn't. She knew that the tree in the church yard had been blown down one night, without being told, and without overhearing someone else being told. She knew, before anyone else, what had happened at the doctor's house on the night that had haunted Dr... Bachmann ever since. And she knew that one day quite soon, herself and Atticus would be in danger of the creatures, although she did not realise this just yet. Currently, she was too intoxicated by this strange young man's presence to notice. Heather had always been very talkative, and at this moment was talking to her best friend, Violet Rose Glass.

'He must be a very brave man, to be in the forest alone,' Heather hypothesised "very brave indeed.'

'He certainly must.' Violet Rose said this in such a manner that was so unquestioning that it somehow seemed she must have doubted it.

'Maybe he was looking for someone...'

'It must have been someone very important if he was. Maybe a sweetheart of some sort...' Violet Rose knew Heather hadn't fallen for this, but reassured her anyway 'I'm only teasing.'

'I know.' Heather stated this confidently 'You know I never fall for such jokes.'

Violet Rose blushed violently. She always blushed violently because, like Heather, she naturally had a very pale complexion. She was, as her name may suggest, very small and beautiful, and fragile. She had truly black hair, and eyes that weren't much lighter. Her dresses were always the finest in town, which was because her parents were Mr.. and Mrs.. Glass, the tailor and the dressmaker. Violet Rose herself was learning the family business, specifically the manufacture of dresses. She decided to change the subject for a while.

'I made you an eye mask for the dress mother is making you.'

Violet Rose always made eye masks to go with Heather's dresses. She could see neither, but Heather always appreciated this. She liked the idea that she was as well dressed as her friend.

'What colour is it? Does it have a pattern?' Heather always asked, because she knew that special care was taken to ensure her dresses suited her. It seemed polite to ask, even though she knew any dress they made her would be a fine garment.

'Deep, dark red, with black pinstripes.'

'I wonder if Atticus likes red..?'

'Maybe you could introduce me to him, and I could ask if he likes red. Red dresses... red hair and such?' Violet Rose, like everyone else in town, spoke politely, but there was something in the sweetness of her tone and the lady like manner she adopted that made much of what she said sound suggestive, even if it wasn't intended to be.

'Don't you think that would be a little forward, and unladylike? Besides, you just want to be nosy.' Heather said this last part in a humorously stern manner, but it was at least partly true. Heather and Violet Rose shared an inquisitiveness that occasionally spilled over into nosiness.

'Anyway,' Heather continued 'father doesn't want too many visitors disturbing him. I don't think you'd be able to until he is out of bed.'

'But you don't even know what he looks like.'

'I know enough. Anyway, I have to take him lunch now. Will you come later for dinner?'

Violet Rose nodded as Heather got up to leave, and before she could correct herself and answer verbally, Heather replied.

'Come at seven then'

Heather entered the house through the front door, and put her cane on a coat rack. She didn't need it indoors. She knew her way around the house too well. In the front door, five steps, turn left. Ten more steps, a left turn, and she was at the stairs. Fourteen stairs to the upper hall. She turned left at the top, ten more steps, and she was at the door to Atticus' room. She had made the journey so many times that she didn't actually need to count, she just knew where she was, when it was time to turn, when she was at the stairs. She reached forward and put her hand on the door frame, then moved a single finger to check if the door was open or closed. This was her usual technique, as she found it to be the most discreet. When she was younger, Heather checked doors by simply reaching out her hand, but found it to be most embarrassing if the door was open. This door, as she expected, was shut. She opened it quietly and went through. There was a very soft creaking sound.

'I'm sorry, were you asleep?'

'No, I was just laying back.' Atticus' answer at first sounded surprised, but this faded as he went on. Heather supposed he was becoming more used to her alertness, but explained anyway.

'I heard the bed creak. I'm sorry I didn't knock, but I didn't wish to wake you if you were asleep.' She added the apology
as an afterthought, having never realised the impoliteness before. 'Would you like something to eat?'

'I would indeed.' He sounded hungry and eager.

'Well then, I shall be back in just a moment with some thing for you, and then we can talk.' She smiled before leaving. She wanted to hear his stories. After all, any man brave enough to be in the forest alone was bound to have tales to tell.

After Atticus had eaten the bread and soup Heather had brought, she decided to start asking. She thought it would be more polite to ask in a discreet and delicate way, but on the other hand, she was excited and eager to find out if he had any stories as exciting as the she had imagined.

'May I ask,' Heather ventured 'would you tell me some of your adventures?'

'What makes you think I've had any adventures?' Atticus' voice suggested he was trying to usher Heather away from the subject, rather than imply that he hadn't. Heather decided to be less direct.

'You must be very brave to have been in the forest alone,' she began 'but why would you? Why risk such a journey?'

'I was going about my job.' Although this may have been indented to move her away from the subject, it instead gave her a means to question him further.

'So what is your occupation?'

'I find people. If someone is missing, their family or friends can employ me to find them. And if someone should find someone is hiding from them, then I may be employed to find them." The emphasis he put on the word may intrigued her. He seemed to recognise this, as he continued "But then, if I don't think they should be found then I may not.'

Heather couldn't decide if he was clumsily trying to divert her from this line of conversation, or if he was trying to intrigue her. Either way, the effect of this may was to the latter.

'Who were you there to find?'

'You..?' Atticus said this so quietly even Heather struggled to hear, and wasn't sure if she did or not.

'I beg your pardon?'

'Can't remember who...' He sounded afraid and confused as he said this, and seemed as though he was going to continue, but didn't. Heather's instincts told her to change the subject now. Her previous conversation with Violet Rose came to mind. Now she decided to be subtle.

'What is your favourite colour?'

'My favourite colour?' he laughed as he answered 'Green.' Heather presumed she had been far too subtle, until he continued.

'I like red too, though.' This would have seemed like an innocent enough addition, but something in the way he said it suggested, however improbable, that he was referring to Violet Rose's comment from earlier. Impossible, she thought, just impossible. Then, she felt the way he was looking at her. She have sworn he was looking admiringly at her. She smiled, she blushed and she prayed she was right.

A few hours later, Heather was sitting at the kitchen table, while her father was preparing dinner for the Lukas and Glass families. Heather was in an excitable mood. She was attempting to hide why she was so excitable, but it was a losing battle, and she wasn't attempting very hard anyway. She had been talking to her father for some time, and had decided to give his ears a rest. She sat with her hands folded in her lap, rocking slowly back and forth, biting her lower lip. She could only maintain this for a few more seconds, and then...

'He's very brave, you know, Atticus.' The words burst out, and Heather did not try very hard to stop them.

'Do you think so?' Dante said this in a manner that didn't question her as much as it did invite her to continue.

'Oh yes! He was in the forest alone. He must be brave.'

'What about your papa then, eh? He's goes through the forest every now and then.' Dante smiled. Heather walked over to him, and put her arms around him as she answered.

'Of course you're very brave. No one in town is more brave than you.'

Dante smiled and laughed, and ruffled her hair a little. She went back to her chair, unruffling as she did.

'So why did he place himself in such mortal danger? I've not yet asked him myself.'

'He was doing his job.' Heather was determined to divulge these details in a manner as understatedly heroic as she thought Atticus had.

'And that job is?'

'He finds people who are missing, or sometimes who are hiding.'

'So who is he looking for, my pixie? Maybe we can assist him in his endeavour.'

'He cannot remember...' Heather's voice trailed off similarly to Atticus'. It would have taken a particularly insensitive person not to notice the concern in her tone, and her father was not such a person.

'Well, we must hope he can soon, it may be a matter with a degree of urgency. And until he does we must extend him every courtesy and our utmost hospitality.' This went without saying, and Heather could tell he did so only to please his daughter. It pleased her even more when he continued 'And I presume you will be willing and able to attend him during his stay?' Heather's smile answered him fully.

Neither he nor Heather spoke for a second or two, until Dante walked over to his daughter and placed his hand on her shoulder.

'You're quite taken with him, aren't you?' he said, in an understanding manner that suggested it was both obvious and understandable.

'Oh, what a positively scandalous thing to say, father!' Heather said, feining shcok and indignation. It was, however, a perfectly accurate observation.

During dinner, in the middle of a perfectly amusing anecdote, something odd forced it's way to the front of Heather's mind. It was a like a picture in a book. This was not uncommon for Heather, but whereas usually they were clear and distinct for the brief fraction of a moment that they remained there, this one was different. Usually they were detailed and colourful, like the books her father taught her to read from when she was little (but not the books she covertly read in his library). This time, it was rough with jagged edges, and devoid of colour, made up only of outlines. She later realised that this time it was like the sketches Garrison drew before painting, but it's meaning would remain a mystery for too long...

A thin character on the left, and two smaller, huddled figures crouching on the right...

If she had concentrated, Heather may have seen more, or the picture may have developed somewhat and filled in some of the many gaps, but then Jonathan Glass made her laugh and the picture was gone.

After dinner, Heather took some upstairs to Atticus. This was mainly to sit and talk with him, but she was also determined to show the hospitality and courtesy her father had mentioned, and if it provided an excuse be around the unusual guest, then that was fine with her. Again, as she came through the door, she heard the very softest of creaking noises.

'Are you going to sit up like that every time I come in?'

'Sorry.' She really didn't know what he was apologising for.

'No, I should have knocked. Were you sleeping?'

'No, I was just laying down. It, er, it hurts after a while sitting up.'
'I think it's better if you don't sleep too much during the day, now that you're getting better.'

'Why's that?' Atticus enquired. He seemed to be more than a little puzzled. Heather assumed that he just hadn't paid attention earlier. She would have to make sure she and her father impressed the importance of it all.

'It's important that you are asleep by midnight.' She hoped that he would sense the concern in her voice.

'But why?' Heather could tell that, unfortunately, Atticus had a similar inquisitiveness to her. She could not put her finger quite on why, but Heather had a distinct fear that she may cry, and she struggled to mask it.

'Please, will you promise me that you'll sleep between midnight and dawn?' Heather's voice trembled a little as she spoke.

Atticus put her hand very gently on hers. For the first time, Heather didn't start or jump at this. His voice was gentle, and quieter than before, and resolute as he spoke.

'On my word, I will not stir until dawn.'