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I PARKED the Estrel-Flyer near the western end of the woods, the nearest distance from the workshop where I could hide out. For my plan to work, everything needed to be exactly the same as it was when Edgar let me stay with him—everything except the letter that Edgar was about to read and the reaction I was hoping to get. I peeked out of the woods and found my past self sitting under a tree with a cup of tea, frowning bitterly at a basket of mint cakes. Good, I thought, suppressing a shiver. Edgar had already gone back into the workshop. I remembered that after finishing my tea that day, I’d tramped through the southern area of the woods until dark.
I carefully tiptoed around the side of the workshop, outside the range of view of my past self, and peeked into the window above Edgar’s lab sink. Edgar sat at the lab table, muttering to himself over a sketchbook of faded brown ink pressed onto yellowed pages. Nearby glass bottles filled with liquids of varying viscosities bubbled evenly over open tongues of flame. I waited, hoping that something would prompt Edgar to leave the laboratory so that I could deliver my letter.
As I waited, I tried to measure the amount of time that passed by slowly counting numbers. I felt the weight of the passing seconds increase as Edgar persisted in his work. He was so old, yet he worked so tirelessly. I reached the number 4478, nearly one hour and fifteen minutes’ worth of seconds, before movement from within the workshop caught my attention.
Edgar, in an exhalation of disgust, threw up his hands and hobbled into the washroom. I took advantage of this opportunity, not knowing how long it would last or when I would have another chance. I snuck into the workshop and placed the letter face up on top of the sketchbook. I took a deep breath when I made it back outside, exhaling slowly as I closed the door. I watched from the window as Edgar returned.
Edgar was slightly startled to see a piece of paper blocking the drawings he’d been analyzing. He adjusted his glasses and looked around warily before stooping over to read, muttering some of the words aloud as he tried to process them. I bit my nails as I watched Edgar read my letter. It was filled with lies, believable lies that would test just how much he ever really meant to help me. Suddenly I wished that I could take the letter back, that I’d never written it. The lies were unfair and I had no right to put him through this. But I stayed planted where I was and let it happen because I didn’t know of any other way to help him.
Edgar’s reaction was worse that I’d expected. First he clutched at his chest several times and gasped miserably. I worried that he was going to withdraw and stare into space like he did whenever I asked about his family. But he didn’t. Instead, he openly mourned. The words that escaped his lips flowed out like arrows, piercing the deepest corners of my heart.
“She went to him upon my recommendation,” he cried, pulling at wisps of thinning white hair. “This is my entire fault—the travel glasses and now this! It all should have ended with my own wife and daughter. And now the life of an innocent young girl...” He shook his head. “I cannot bear this.”
Edgar clutched at his chest again and teetered. He steadied himself on the lab table, his knuckles turning white with his efforts to remain upright. I wanted so badly to end his pain, to tell him that the letter was all a lie, that I was right here and that I was just fine. After looking around again, Edgar opened the workshop door and looked out toward the cypress tree where he’d last seen my past self. Tears fell down his cheeks when he saw that I was no longer there. I sniffled and wiped away the tears filling my own eyes. I’d meant something to him.
“The blasted elixir!” wailed Edgar. “I should have abandoned the vile life-sapping substance long ago. But I can’t give it up—it’s all I’ve got left. It is all that is left of me. It is my life...”
A strange look settled on Edgar’s face. His droopy eyes were sunken in and full of fear, but his jaw and lips were firmly set. “But I am an old man—a very foolish and thoughtless old man. A man who gave up his family, gave up his home, gave up his life for a life that was longer and less fulfilling. Calla’s life has just begun. Whatever purpose Valcas may have with the elixir is no business of mine. If revealing the recipe will save her—if it will preserve her young life—then I must do it.”
Edgar decidedly closed the door and hurried into the washroom where I couldn’t see him. I heard a noisy performance of clanging, falling objects and slamming drawers before he returned to the table with his arms full of round bowls, vials and cork stoppers. I watched him measure assorted powders and carefully pour them into vials. He left the workshop momentarily to dip one of the bowls in the brook and to collect orange-red clusters that had fallen from the cypress tree.
After he’d gathered all of the ingredients, he placed them together in a wooden box and sat back down at the lab table. For a long moment, I watched as he held his head in his hands. A shaky deep breath later, Edgar tore an empty sheet of paper from the back of the sketchbook and wrote a list of instructions. He rolled the paper into a tube which he then tenderly added to the box. I sighed as Edgar rose from his chair. With labored breath he carried the box full of ingredients outside and set them down next to the brook. It took all the resolve I had left in me not to jump out of my hiding place and help him carry that box. Then, hunched over, he slowly walked back to the workshop. His eyes were tired and his face was gaunt. He’d revealed his best-kept secret, and for whatever reason, he’d done that for me. I felt absolutely horrible for having lied to him.
I watched Edgar as he retreated into the living room. Satisfied that he wasn’t going to leave the workshop again, I picked up the box of ingredients next to the brook and walked over to where I’d parked the Estrel-Flyer. After briefly checking in with Enta with the travel glasses, I focused my attention on Enta’s homestead and the presently existing Edgar, whom Enta said was still in really bad shape. I held the box full of Edgar’s life’s work on my lap as I jerked the Estrel-Flyer upward.