The Seventh Intervention

The stamp business boomed. The work was easy, but challenging in its own way. Theresa had to use her brain. She was never frightened. Never at risk. She was never confronted with emotions more awful than mild regret when she had to say, “I’m sorry, we haven’t got that in stock.” So she stayed where she was, by the sea.

She didn’t re-visit Paradise Falls. Instead, she volunteered at the local woman’s shelter, because of the nights she spent feeling too lucky. Feeling guilty for who she was and what she had and what she’d done and what she’d failed to do. Even doing paper work helped. Keeping the records. Making lists as she went along: Who made the ghosts fly? Who was ready to kill?

She sang to The Lacemaker, sitting with her as she tatted, and the comfort she felt as she sang about the monsters filled her with resolve.

Sol Evictus was gone, but there were many others. Real monsters. These she would go after. She was not like him. She was different.

She was no monster.