A great deal of time it was, before Atticus Fletcher at last came to a decision. Ash set him up in her motel, his room just down the hall from Tiffany’s, and he stayed there for a good long while. Frequently, the three of them rode the train into the city to visit Bridger and give the two Valley folk time to explore. Over time Atticus grew more accustomed to the motion of the train; though the journey still made him queasy, he made far fewer trips to the bathroom.

I will not describe to you every moment of Atticus’s stay in the motel, nor will I disclose to you every detail of his city adventures. That would fill far too many pages that, frankly, would be of little interest to you.

I will instead fill those pages with a summary. An overview, if you will. All main points covered. This chapter will mark a turning point in Atticus Fletcher’s story, and this is how it starts:

It begins with a bowl of cereal.

Tiffany poured it for him one morning, just a few days into his stay, and slid it across the table into his hands. Her hair pulled up into a sleep-tousled bun, her pajamas oversized, her feet clothed in soft slippers, she looked less like a woman of the Valley than ever before. And somehow, that felt more right to him than Princess Tiffany ever had.

When the cool porcelain hit his fingers, Atticus looked up in surprise.

“Cereal,” Tiffany said, as if the unfamiliar word explained everything. Evidently seeing the confusion beneath his stony facade, she waved a dismissive hand to cancel her simple statement. “Never mind. Just give it a try. I think you’re going to like it.” She shoved a silver spoon in his direction. It collided with the bowl, producing a sharp clink, before Atticus took it into his hand and tentatively dipped it into the milk, capturing several small bits of grainy food material.

He hesitated, looking down. “What’s in it?”

Tiffany opened her mouth to respond, then paused, seeming to rethink whatever it was she had been about to say. Then she shrugged. “No idea. But it’s good.”

Still, he found himself reluctant. The spoon hovered just in front of his chin, stopping mere inches short of his mouth.

“For goodness’ sake, Atticus, I’m not trying to poison you. I’m only trying to give you breakfast. Go on then, what’s it going to hurt?”

He cleaned the spoon.

Then blinked.

Then dipped it into the bowl, and cleaned it again.

Tiffany smirked at him. “Like it, do you?”

And he let her pour a bowl for him every day after that.

Weeks passed. Atticus did not go back to the Valley.

It was a difficult situation in which he found himself, to be sure. He couldn’t very well go back without the princess, but while the princess was entirely willing to return with him, he knew she did not intend to stay. No, she intended to leave the Valley again—and this time, she would take its inhabitants with her. As many as were willing to go along. He wasn’t entirely certain he wanted that to happen.

Was Atticus Fletcher attached to the Valley? No, of course not. Atticus Fletcher wouldn’t dream of becoming attached to anything. But was there a certain… discomfort at the thought of such a substantial change to the place?

Perhaps.

And here, my friends, is the great irony of Atticus Fletcher’s life. So far above the rest of the Valley, so far removed from all its other occupants—yet fixed, absolutely, as a part of it. What you must understand is that Atticus’s confidence had long been fueled by superiority. An unhealthy source, yes, I know—but I am merely stating the fact of the matter. And the fact of the matter is that by nearly every metric, Atticus was the best in the Valley.

Key words: in the Valley.

He was no longer in the Valley. Thus, he was no longer ‘the best.’ I am sure you can guess what effect that might have on the confidence of one such as him. Fueled by his superiority as he was, when the superiority disappeared, he would be left with nothing. In a place such as this, where no one knew his name and no one thought twice about bumping into him on the sidewalk, his memories of the Valley were all he had left to cling to.

Take the Valley away, and Atticus Fletcher would be no more.

His greatest enemy would see to that.

(Ah, there we are. Finally remembered me, have you? Yes, yes, I’m still here. And don’t worry—you’ll get my name soon. The finale of our little tale is fast approaching.

At the end of it all, you will have your answer.)

Looking back upon this period of time, I cannot decide whether the month Atticus Fletcher spent in the motel was a beautiful one, or the beginning of a tragedy. I eagerly await the day I will finally know the answer, though I do not know when it will come.

Anyway. I don’t mean to prattle on.

There is a strange phenomenon that often occurs when two people—even two who have rarely interacted before—are forced to spend an inordinate amount of time together. This phenomenon goes by many different euphemisms, but I believe the technical term for it is simply: ‘love.’

Now please, refrain from getting too excited. Yes, as you have probably guessed, the two people to whom I am referring are indeed Atticus and Tiffany. But in their case, I do not think ‘love’ is the correct word.

It was more of an understanding.

Every morning, Tiffany slid a bowl of cereal across the tabletop. Every morning, Atticus caught the bowl in his hands and ate. And as the mornings came and went, he started to realize something.

He did not know the woman on the other side of the table.

His princess, his betrothed—yes, she was both of those. And yet… he had never talked to her. He had never even sat beside her at a dinner table. And he had never seen her smile. He decided he liked it when she smiled.

But all good things must come to an end, as the saying goes, and on one particular morning, Atticus sat down at the table only to be met with silence. There was no clinking of porcelain, no clatter of spoons. No bright, melodic voice to greet him.

He frowned, suddenly uneasy. Something wasn’t right.

Atticus stood up, his motions careful and controlled. His hand closed around the first thing he found within his reach—a salt shaker, newly filled, perhaps not the best weapon but workable in a pinch. Salt shaker in hand, he approached Tiffany’s door and knocked, fist rattling the thick oak wood.

Nothing. Not even a sound from inside the room.

Atticus’s pulse quickened. He wandered the motel, heart beating faster and faster, fingers closing tighter and tighter around the salt shaker. A faint footstep from farther down the hall alerted him to another presence; he sped his pace, approaching the source of the noise, turning the corner—

“Golly, Fletcher!” Ash yelped, blinking in surprise as he leapt into her field of vision. Then she looked down. “You’re getting salt on the floor.”

He was. He realized only then that he had been holding the shaker upside down. A trail of fine white grains charted his path back around the corner and down the hall. With a small sigh he turned it over to stop the spill.

“Where is Tiffany?” he asked, and Ash gave him a small, sad smile.

“So she didn’t tell you, then. I thought she might—but then, I suppose she wouldn’t have wanted to bother you.”

“Bother me with what?”

Ash shook her head. “She’s gone, Fletcher. She left not an hour ago. Took a backpack full of supplies and started walking.”

“What?”

“She’s going back to the Valley—”

“Alone?”

“Look, I’m sure she’s gonna be fine.”

Atticus knew she was right, but there was something rising up within him that he couldn’t quite put a name to. Partly adrenaline, partly indecision… partly fear. And he knew what he had to do.

“Do you have another backpack?” he asked.



Back to Episode 8


Forward to Episode 10

Tune in next Friday, November 15 for episode ten…