So … I have a sister.
In my defence, I said I have no close family, which – to be fair – I’ve done my level best to ensure remains true. It’s not my fault that Art has spent the last decade tracking me down like a hunting dog. She was the part of my story I ripped out, and I tried as hard as I could to make sure she stayed missing.
It’s less of a lie, really, and more of a retelling.
‘Artemis,’ I say, my jaw clenched. ‘What the actual fuck?’
‘Cassandra,’ Artemis says in what seems to be genuine amazement, pastry poised. ‘Umm. That’s an incredibly broad question. There’s a lot of time to cover. Could you maybe ballpark it for me?’
It’s been ten years and my sister has stayed almost exactly the same, as if she is, actually, immortal. She must be twenty-nine now, her cropped brown hair suits her – I will never tell her this – and there are a few lines around her mouth, but she still has the nimble, grey-eyed prettiness that led everyone to say our parents named her perfectly. Artemis Helen Dankworth. Artemis, goddess of the hunt; Helen, so beautiful she kicked off the Trojan War. Somehow I got a murdered prophetic priestess and an abandoned wife with a passion for embroidery – cheated on, somewhat ironically – and my sister got two of the most beautiful and powerful women in Greek mythology.
Artemis is also goddess of chastity, but clearly that didn’t pan out.
‘Stop being so obtuse.’ I gesture in frustration at the café window. ‘What are you playing at this time, Artemis? Is this some kind of new strategy? Sending smelly letters and stalking me across London didn’t work out, so you’ve upgraded to casually destroying my entire life?’
‘So you did get the letters!’ Art beams, chocolate between her teeth. ‘I wasn’t sure. Pomegranates! Which, if you remember from Mum, are fruit of the—’
‘—dead,’ I finish for her. ‘Yes. I got it last time. Answer the question.’
‘I would answer it.’ Artemis frowns. ‘I’m ready and raring to answer whatever you want me to answer, Cass. But I’m not entirely sure how to, given that I haven’t seen you for a decade. You look wonderful, by the way. I know that’s not relevant, because you’re clearly still super angry with me, but I feel I should bring it up anyway. You’ve gotten so stylish. Time suits you.’
I open my mouth to yell at her, then shut it again. I’ve seen Artemis a lot over the last few weeks; I suppose it isn’t her fault that she doesn’t remember any of it.
‘Tell you what.’ Art plops herself down on the kerb, like a dismantled frog. ‘We have quite a lot to talk about, don’t you think? So why don’t you sit down and we can have this all out, finally.’
I should have realised this would be her next move; it is so very Artemis. Once, when we were little, Art followed me around the house all day, begging me to play with her, and when I wouldn’t she went into my bedroom and smashed my favourite ceramic owl as punishment. Artemis will get my attention, one way or another – even if it means making a mess – and now she’s done it again.
The story is starting to make sense, but pieces are still missing.
By my calculations, I undid seeing Artemis at the exhibition, but I didn’t undo the phone call where Sophie told her exactly where I’d be. So Artemis went anyway, hit it off with Will – who was feeling rejected by me – and I didn’t show up to prevent it. Which answers some questions, but not all of them. What happened in the original timeline? I didn’t go to the exhibition then either. Did they meet the first time too? I was in the office the whole evening that time, so why didn’t I get her phone call?
The Greek version of Artemis is famous for her aggressive nature – turning people into bears and deer, just so they get ripped apart in front of her – but stealing your estranged sister’s boyfriend seems mean, even for her.
‘Sit down, stalker,’ Artemis says, tugging on my trouser leg. ‘Come on, Cass. I think this has gone on long enough now, don’t you? Ten years is enough. I don’t know about you, but I’m bloody exhausted.’
I stare at her, then realise she’s right: I’m exhausted too.
I’m also going to need answers to all my questions, and frankly, I don’t think it’s possible for me to leave without them any more. Finally defeated, I put the banana muffin box carefully on the pavement, then take off my jacket and place it neatly next to it so my emerald jumpsuit doesn’t get covered in floor grime.
Then I lower myself slowly onto it like an old lady at a picnic.
‘How am I the stalker?’
‘You tell me.’ Art grins. ‘Only one of us followed the other one to a first date, Sandy-pants, and it wasn’t me.’
I narrow my eyes at her, ready to start snarling again – my pants haven’t been sandy in a very long time – then stop. There’s a strong colour radiating out of my sister (golden, like a buttercup under the chin), but it doesn’t fit the colour I was expecting. There’s guilt, definitely, but it’s the wrong shade. The wrong intensity. She’s hiding something, but it isn’t anywhere near the colour it should be. With Artemis I could normally tell what she was thinking and feeling immediately, but – after a ten-year gap – I’m extremely out of practice.
Frowning, I lean a little closer so I can double-check.
‘Are you still doing that?’ Artemis laughs. ‘Sniffing people’s colours, or whatever it is? How very unsubtle of you, Cassandra.’
But I got close enough, and – as I glance back at the café window – I realise what it is: Artemis doesn’t feel guilty about Will. She’s nervous about seeing me – faking nonchalance so I’m not frightened away – but there isn’t a trace of betrayal. My sister may be unpredictable, thoughtless, irresponsible, but she isn’t evil. I know that. Which means she has no idea about the relationship between me and Will, and – by extension – Will doesn’t know that she’s related to me.
They are both completely oblivious to my connection to them.
My rage abruptly evaporates.
Logically, there’s no point being angry when there’s nobody left to be angry with: it’s a waste of time and effort, and I’ve done plenty of that over the last few weeks.
Sighing, I open the box lid and survey my twelve beautifully organised banana muffins. I was planning to take them home and freeze them – stock up for future emergencies – but I think I might just eat them all right now. Nothing requires comfort quite like discovering you’ve travelled through time and space only to set your boyfriend up with your little sister.
I ram one in my mouth and wait for heartbreak to hit.
It could be any time: the really big and life-changing emotions tend to have extremely large delays, as if they’re being sent via traditional mail, at Christmas, without the right postage.
‘What?’ I suddenly realise my sister is watching me eat. ‘What do you want from me now, Artemis? You’re not having one.’
‘You still love nuffins,’ she smiles. ‘Such a creature of habit.’
When I was a child, I refused to speak – everyone thought I couldn’t, but I just didn’t see the point until I could do it properly – but I did regularly demand nana-nuffins. Over time, that truncated to na-nuffin and finally nuffin. Obviously, I don’t call them nuffins any more: I call them banana muffins because I am thirty-one years old and can enunciate properly.
‘People always say that as if it’s a bad thing,’ I snap, taking another giant bite. ‘A character flaw. Nobody says, hey, look at that squirrel, climbing trees and burying nuts, what a creature of habit. They say, hey, look. There’s a squirrel. Being a squirrel. I’m Cassandra. I do Cassandra things. Stop pointing them all out.’
‘It wasn’t a criticism.’ Artemis shuffles towards me. ‘I’ve just really missed it, that’s all.’
A soft wave of warmth passes through me, pale lilac, and then I hear her again.
I hate you.
You’re a monster.
Why can’t you just be normal?
‘Sure.’ I jump up. ‘And whose fault is that?’
There’s nothing to be angry about any more, but there’s also nothing to stay here for. The man I love has decided he’d rather be with my closest blood relation – the person who has hurt me most – and there isn’t a single thing I can do about it.
Except … where am I supposed to go now?
I could go back to work, but I don’t know how long the Emotions are going to take to rock up: it could be hours, it could be weeks. I can’t risk having them all turn up at once in the middle of a brainstorm, or the kitchen, or at the water cooler. After all that effort, I’m not losing my job because of a meltdown in the office. I could go home, but Sal and Derek will almost definitely be there and I’m not ready to pick that thread back up just yet. I could go to the museum, but if I implode there that’ll be one more place I can’t return to.
Obviously I could time travel – hop back and undo it all, prevent Artemis and Will from meeting – but that just seems petty. Anyway, I’m not touching time inappropriately again. My horological abilities were a gift from the gods and I should have realised that they come at a price: they always have done.
Also, Will has now dumped me in three different timelines; at some point, you’ve just got to let yourself stay dumped.
‘You’re not leaving?’ Art jumps up after me. ‘We’ve barely talked at all.’
‘Exactly.’ I frown. ‘Artemis, how do you know where I work? Obviously you know where I live, hence the letters and doorstepping, but work? My name isn’t on the Fawcett PR website. I made sure of it.’
‘I went to your house and your flatmate told me everything.’
‘Which one?’
‘The handsome one that looks a bit like Apollo except his dick is right on his forehead instead of the floor.’
I laugh loudly and immediately resent her for it. ‘Derek.’
‘Yeah. That’s the one.’ Artemis looks chuffed at my laughter, which is extremely annoying. ‘Honestly, he seems like an asshole, Cass. He was hitting on me pretty much continuously. Speaking as your sister, albeit one you haven’t spoken to in a decade, I hope you’re not hooking up with him, because he’s the human equivalent of the spit dregs at the bottom of a pint.’
‘Oh,’ I shake my head. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not.’
The final piece of the puzzle has now slotted into place: in the original timeline, Artemis must have waited on the doorstep for me as she did this time, but I didn’t return home and Derek simply left her sitting there on her own. Which means she never spoke to him, didn’t find out where I work, didn’t call my office, didn’t speak to Sophie, didn’t go to the exhibition and never met Will. It’s such a tiny alteration, barely perceptible, and I will probably never be certain of exactly what caused it. Why did Derek decide to behave differently? Maybe he was arguing with Sal and Artemis was his revenge. Maybe I hadn’t responded to his charm that day the way he hoped I would; maybe he just felt particularly prickish.
Honestly, I can’t believe my fate hinged on a man who regularly uses words from other languages with a full British accent.
I pick up my muffin box and make to leave.
‘Wait.’ Artemis jumps in front of me with her arms out, as if she’s trying to herd me like sheep. ‘That can’t be it. It’s been ten years, Cass. Ten years. Please. I need to apologise properly for everything I said at the funeral. I was thinking maybe we could go to the pub? There’s also some really important stuff I want to talk to you about. Stuff that wasn’t in the letters.’
‘It’s eleven in the morning, Artemis.’
‘Yes, but this is London.’ She gestures around as if this is brand-new information to me. ‘Alcohol seeps from its pores, twenty-four hours a day. Please? I don’t need a very long time. Just, like, an hour.’
‘You being drunk was part of the problem, if I recall accurately.’
Which I do, and that is part of mine.
‘So maybe me being drunk again is the solution?’ Art cocks her head to the side, wrinkles her tiny nose and twinkles at me with her big bird eyes. ‘Just putting it out there. A hypothesis we could test together, if you will.’
I study my sister’s colours carefully. They’re nothing like my colours, and they never have been. They’re quick, fluid, running through her like dye thrown into a river, blooming and leaving again without a stain. With me, it’s more like they’ve all been lobbed into a pond and now they’re just sitting there, turning brown, while I try to work out where they came from, who put them there and what the hell colours they were supposed to be in the first place.
‘I’m not talking about the funeral,’ I say firmly.
‘But—’
‘No. What’s done is done. I don’t want to discuss it. Are we clear?’
Her shade shifts, clouds, then visibly brightens again as the emotion runs away and is replaced with something else.
‘Deal. Just two hours. That’s all I need to make you love me again.’
‘You just said one hour,’ I sigh in frustration.
‘I might need a bit longer than that.’ Art grins, hopping from foot to foot. ‘There’s ten years of hate to erase, somehow. I’m not as cute as I used to be when I was a kid. I need all the time I can get.’
Frustrated, I look at my watch and deliberate.
As we’ve already established, I can’t go back to work quite yet just in case I fall apart. I confess to being curious: I have no idea what Artemis has been doing for the last decade, and now she’s finally worn me down I sort of want to know. Something tells me that – much like her namesake – she won’t stop chasing me, so it feels like an efficient next step to a quiet life. Plus, she’s my sister: if the Big Emotions come while she’s there, I have a lot of experience in just taking them all out on her.
‘Fine,’ I say with a flash of what feels strangely like relief. ‘You have until 1 p.m., and then I’m going back to work. That’s two hours and then we go our separate ways. I’m going to need your promise that once your slot is over you stop sending me letters, stop following me about and the British Museum is mine, do you understand? I got it. In the sister divorce. It’s mine and I want it back.’
Artemis blinks. ‘Hey, I was there the other day.’
‘I know,’ I say tiredly. ‘Don’t ask me how.’
‘OK.’ Art jumps up and down again, clapping her dainty little hands together with a surprising amount of noise: her happiness is like a nuclear explosion. ‘I can agree to these terms and conditions. Three o’clock, Sandy-pants, and if you still hate me you can go and that’ll be that. For ever. I promise.’
‘Stop calling me Sandy-pants and stop adding on hours,’ I sigh as she links her arm through mine. ‘Don’t think I haven’t noticed.’
Then I look down at the point where we touch.
It doesn’t hurt, I can’t feel her like an electric shock, it doesn’t make me flinch and pull away. It feels like my sister is simply part of my own body, an extra limb, my largest organ. And even now, I can’t quite believe that she doesn’t get it. After all this time, Artemis still doesn’t seem to understand that I do not set my life on fire and run away from somebody I hate.
Where would be the logic in that?
Hate is never what the matches are made of.