Papier-mache elves.
He knew he shouldn’t ask. Technically speaking, anything that kept Shayde busy and not in anyone’s business was a good thing. Anything that kept her out of Sherlock’s notice was wonderful.
Apart from the fact that Sherlock now had her on his permanent watch list, and her alarming habit this time had been buying the cheapest paper and glue available. Which meant she was up to something.
Which meant Rael, once again, had to go, find out, and presumably stop it before it got on anyone else. Or, at the very least, tone it down to the level of minor nuisance.
Which was why he was watching Shayde apply bits of glue-soaked cellulose to a wire frame. The purpose of this was completely beyond him. Obviously, it was a form of art, since art was defined as activity without purpose, sometimes creating objects without purpose in the process.
This? This just looked like a mess.
But he had to ask.
“What are you doing?”
“Makin’ papier mache elves.”
“Elves…” he echoed. One, evidently, had a tail.
“Aye, I couldnae find the ones I was after. Bloody seeker kept sendin’ me tae the Mythos Embassy. When it weren’t sendin’ me tae the Cogniscent Rights office.”
Ah. Of course. ‘Elf’ had changed its meaning in the years she’d been jaunting through other dimensions. There were the Elves of planet Mythos, descendants of gengineered humans with pointy ears, longer lifespans, and tongue-clotting beauty on their side. And then there were ELFs, Engineered Life Forms like himself, the Skitties and, regrettably, his Wave of the Future gene-cousins, the Cleaners.
“So… you’re making… idols?”
“If that makes sense to ye, aye.” She picked up a small, stick-like tool and worked some fine detail into the glue-moistened paper. “I’m tryin’ tae make a home here, ye ken. And it’s not home without some little elves.” A crooked smile that meant that inside, she wasn’t smiling at all. “Me mum had a bitty collection. Elves from around the world. An’ she tole me the story, when I was little, about the cobbler and the little elves… So I’m makin’ the entire set. Celtic, German, French, Swiss, Russian, Tolkein, Pini, Cockrum…” A sick little laugh meant to stave off tears. “Ev'ry elf there ever was. In mem'ry o’ memum…” The laugh failed just as her voice did, and a thick tear fell down her ebon face like a meteor in the night, falling to a planet.
Homesick. It was a word he never understood. He never had any place where he knew he belonged, not even now. And the cure, a visit, was not even plausible. Her home was five hundred years ago, and millions of light years distant.
Rael sat next to her and awkwardly put his hand on her arm. Black and blue. “Tell me?” he asked. “Tell me about the happy times?”
Her hands moved again, placing paper in patterns he couldn’t fathom, let alone help with. Sometimes winding, sometimes patting, sometimes pressing… and she spoke, conjuring a peripatetic childhood, roaming between countries and continents, picking up languages like any other tourist would pick up tchotchkes. Picking up culture and learning, and never staying in one place.
Home, for her, was her family. Her mother, father and brother. And the little elves that her mother carefully packed for each move, and unpacked again when they settled once more.
She could not reach her family. Did not want to confirm that their lives had long since ended. So she was reaching for the next best thing.
An echo of home.
“May I help?” he asked. It wasn’t much comfort, but he was good at making new places to belong. Maybe he could teach her.
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