The humans celebrate the beginning of a new year, and I celebrate the real beginning of my work as a Guardian. No more ceremony, no more interruptions—I can at last get to the business of protecting those who deserve protection.
Freya is one of these, of course, and she was glad to “see” me when I returned to her today. I hope that I can continue to raise her spirits as the days go by. There’s little enough news with her, though—work and friendship and her romantic life are all much as they were before I left her. But I have hope now that I can help her find the happiness in the now in which she lives.
I also checked in with the people I helped over the holiday. The first two are perfectly fine, having been unaware of the danger they were in. Taylor Vaughn managed to get the speaker that his girlfriend wanted, and she was delighted with the late gift. Meanwhile Rachel Curley made it safely home and is not the kind of person who goes out often in the middle of the night. The experiences that they avoided the night I was passing are not lasting dangers, so I feel no concern in leaving them to their own devices.
Miranda Spiller is different.
I found her at home, surrounded by packing boxes and bent over a scramble of paperwork on her desk. She is in her late fifties, and just recently she buried her husband. It took me some time to figure this out, because he was no great loss to her, it seems—there was no real affection left between them, and she does not grieve much for him. What she does grieve is the expense of losing him—they already were not well off, and Dean Spiller left more debts than he told his wife. This is why the family is moving, it seems. But from Miranda’s frantic math and the thick black lines slashing through more and more items on her budget, it may not be enough.
I say family partly erroneously, because there is only one person who looks to Miranda now, and they are not related by blood. I had only been there an hour when the front door thudded open and someone called, “I’m home!”
Hurriedly Miranda gathered up the paperwork and stashed it under the pile of today’s mail. She then got up and blotted her eyes with a handkerchief, tested a smile, and went out into the hall. “Hey, Evan,” she said. “How was your day?”
“Not bad.” The boy was eleven or twelve, small for his age, with a taciturn spirit and a deep well of loneliness. He dropped a heavy backpack at the foot of the stairs and said, “Hey, can you write a note to Mr. Gates telling him I can’t do my homework because all my books are packed?”
Miranda narrowed her eyes at Evan. “They aren’t, because I was going to ask you to do that today.”
“Oh, okay, I’ll get started.”
She caught the shoulder of his jacket before he could bolt up the stairs. “And even if they were packed, there’s always the library,” she said, smiling at him. “So you’re not getting out of it that easily.”
Evan groaned. “Come on. I’ve got another paper to write for English and two worksheets for math. Please?”
Miranda folded her arms. “Why don’t you ask Mr. Gates for an extension on the history paper since we’re moving this weekend?”
Evan considered this. “I guess I could. He’s pretty cool. He’d listen to you more, though.” He gave her another pleading glance.
Miranda sighed. “I’ll send him an email,” she relented, though she was thinking of all the other things she had to do.
Evan studied her face, seeing the direction of her thoughts, and his eyes dropped to the floor. “You don’t have to. I know you’re busy.”
Miranda reached for his face, but her hand changed direction and landed on his shoulder. “It’ll only take me a few minutes. I’m glad to do it.” She tapped his chin, making him look up at her. “As long as you get started on that English paper now.”
He bit his lip. “Can I get a snack first?”
“How boys eat so much is beyond me,” Miranda groaned, making him laugh. “Yes, let’s both get a snack.” She put her arm around his shoulders and pulled him into the kitchen.
In this little exchange I saw and heard more than was shown and said. Evan is not Miranda’s son, but both of them want him to be. Bringing a foster child into their home was Dean’s idea, not hers, and he only wanted to do it for the money. But Miranda took one look at mulish, guarded Evan and decided that he was going to find love in her house. Now he looks at her with the sun barely hidden in his eyes, longing for her approval, wanting to help and protect her.
Dean’s death and the subsequent difficulties have halted the process that would make Evan a permanent fixture in Miranda’s life. She is worried that she will bring him into the family only to bring him more suffering.
I would have assured her that love is the most important thing of all, but the terror that rose in her when the telephone rang made me hesitate.
“You finish that,” she told Evan, pushing the pint of ice cream they’d been sharing at him, “and then homework!” And turning her back so that she didn’t have to keep the fear from her face, she picked up the phone. “Hello?”
“Yes, Mrs. Spiller? Just checking in to see if there are any updates.” Cheerful and anonymous, the voice nevertheless had Miranda shivering, and I drew closer to put one wing behind her shoulders.
“I said that I would call you if there were,” she said, managing to keep her calm. She was utterly aware of Evan behind her, digging into the bottom of the carton of ice cream.
“I’m sure you can imagine that many of our clients don’t always follow up the way we would hope. Your husband, for example, was not very reliable.”
“You’re telling me,” Miranda muttered. The voice on the other end laughed, but Miranda had not been trying to be funny.
“I’m sorry for my disrespect, Mrs. Spiller, and I do want to help you. But you have to understand that the due date for the first payment of the debt passed more than a month ago, and we gave your husband more time than we typically do. I’m simply not able to offer you much more.”
Now even I could hear the threat under the gentle, urbane voice on the other end.
Behind Miranda, Evan got up, tossed his spoon into the sink and the carton into the trash, and left the room with a sigh. “Homework,” he muttered as he left.
When he was gone, Miranda exhaled and said in a low voice, “Look, I’ve already told you that I’m selling my house. I may be able to find a few more things that will get a bit of money, enough to make the first payment—”
“I’m sure you’re doing your best. I would simply like to encourage you to work more quickly.”
And the call was terminated. Miranda put the phone back with hands that shook.
I am not familiar with human financial systems, but I do not think that this is the usual way that a loan is managed. Worry, yes, I would expect in the face of a heavy debt, but not fear. Not men crouching the dark wanting to grab a woman to impress the seriousness of the matter on her.
I stopped those men, but how soon before new ones come for her? What if they come after Evan? How is Miranda supposed to do this alone?
I know that I am meant to go where I am told, but I wonder if my seniors would be opposed to my choosing my own charge once again.