Constantine Capers: The Pennington Perplexity Natalie Brianne (best summer reads of all time .txt) 📖

than London, but it still bustled with activity. She could see steamships being loaded from a lower dock like the ones in London. A train sped by on a path back to London. It was nice to be in a different setting.

“Shall we get something to eat?” Byron stopped walking. A small teahouse stood in front of them. Mira nodded. She got the sense that he was trying to apologize for the morning. While they waited for their breakfast and tea, Mira decided to take a chance.

“Byron, you know we never actually talk about you.”

“Hmm?” He looked back to her from the window, struck from his reverie.

“You’ve asked all about me, and I’ve told you, but you’ve never told me about yourself. Just that you were a detective working with Scotland Yard.”

“I haven’t? Well, I suppose it never was important.”

“Do you have any family?”

“Everyone has family, Mira.” He chuckled a little. “I have four siblings. A sister and three brothers. I don’t really talk to them much. They’re all older than me.”

He looked at her, an expression Mira didn’t recognize crossing his face. He seemed hesitant to tell her something. He looked away again and continued.

“My father died a few years before my memory loss started. My mother lives in Hertfordshire, and I try to visit her often. If I remember, that is.” A sadness came to his eyes. Mira paused, not certain if she should keep questioning.

The waiter brought out two trays of food. Byron nodded in thanks. They ate in silence for a few minutes.

“Have I really never talked to you about my past?” He looked up at her for a moment then back at his omelet.

“No. I suppose I’ve never asked, either.” She nibbled at a piece of toast.

“You can ask any question you’d like. Just know there are some questions I won’t answer.”

She hesitated again. “Well, I was wondering about something. Yesterday you mentioned that it was an accident that caused your memory loss.”

“Yes. It was.”

“Were you very young when it happened?”

“I was twenty-three. So, based on the dates in my journal, over four years ago.”

“Were you already working with Scotland Yard then?”

“Hmm? Well, yes. I suppose. Puzzles had always been a hobby of mine all throughout school. When I came to London, I happened to come across a few police reports, and I sent in a few anonymous tips. Fred Wensley helped with a few, before he was an officer of course.” He stopped. “You do know about Fred, don’t you?” When she nodded in the affirmative, he continued. “I started coming in and talking to Thatcher. He wanted me to go to police school. I thought that was rubbish. I was eighteen when I solved my first full case. And of course, my family wasn’t necessarily supportive of my becoming a detective. I suppose the chief inspector is the closest thing I’ve got to family at this point.”

“And he doesn’t know what happened to you either?”

“That’s the one mystery neither of us have ever solved. Maybe one day I’ll figure it out, but I just can’t retrace my steps if I don’t remember them.”

After breakfast, they walked back to the airship. The scaffolding differed from the Mooreland docks in London. She clearly saw the side of the ship. There were all sorts of seams and rivets holding different pieces of metal together, almost like dozens of doors along the side, although they likely couldn’t be opened. They went up the ramp and back onto the observation deck. Mira sat down in an armchair and Byron sat across from her.

“Have you ever had a secretary before?” She broke the silence again.

“No. I never thought I really needed one. I suppose it came on a whim one day, but I don’t remember how it happened.”

“Do you think I’ve helped?”

He paused for a moment. “My journal seems to dictate that.” He went silent and looked out the window. She bit her lip and looked down.

Soon enough they were touching down in London. The airship finished its journey, alighting gracefully at the dock like a bird perching on a branch. Byron escorted Mira down the ramp to the dock. He was quiet and contemplative as they walked, while her own thoughts preoccupied her. Eventually they came to the cafe, where Byron stopped, looking up.

“This is where we met,” he said in a matter of fact sort of way.

“Yes, it is.” She searched his expression for meaning but found none. Suddenly he turned towards her and grabbed her arms, pulling her closer. Her eyes widened, looking up at him.

“Mira. Every day I forget you. Every day you watch me in my forgetfulness.”

“Well, yes.” She tensed. What was he getting at? He released her arms and stepped back.

“Am I ever a different person?” He looked away.

“A different person?”

“Every day, am I different? I’m sure I respond differently, years of my life I don’t remember…” He trailed off.

“Well, I suppose, you are a little different each day. But ultimately you are Byron, Byron.”

“Is it hard?”

“Is what?”

“Watching me forget. Not remember you.”

“Um…well…I…” She bit her lip. He turned away from her. That was enough of an answer for him. He hesitated for a moment then lowered his head. He started walking away from her and the cafe.

“I think it’s best if we continued on Monday,” he called back. “Same time as always, whatever that may be.”

“Byron—”

“Good day, Mira,” he said firmly. “Enjoy your Sunday.”

She stood there in the street for a moment as he ran off once more. It was hard. On one hand it was incredibly wondrous to wake up every morning and not know what awaited her at Byron’s. But on the other it tortured her to only have the memories to herself. Then again, how was it for Byron? It hadn’t even occurred to her how hard it would be for him. She wanted to know what he was thinking. How he was feeling. But he was unreadable and stoic. She watched until he turned the corner out of