In most aspects of his life, Charles was fairly neat. He kept his ties pressed, the banisters dust free, and he swapped the linens on his bed every other week. However, the desk in his study was an absolute mess.

No matter how much he tidied it, it always seemed to rebel against his efforts. It was piled high with papers and ledgers, clumps of spare coins that clattered to the floor as he worked, broken fountain pens leaking ink, cracked vials that he didn't know how to dispose of, a box with an enchanted dress that he didn't quite know what to do with, a dead plant that had initially been perky and alive, and, of course, his large scrying bowl where he did most of his work.

He liked to joke with his younger brother James that the clutter was by no fault of his own. Perhaps an evil faerie thousands of years ago had cursed the precise coordinates of the earth where his desk happened to lie? Or perhaps the memories he worked with were now fighting back, cursing him to a forever dirty desk?

Despite his jokes, he didn't mind having a bit of clutter around him as he worked. The chaos was calming. It mimicked the chaos in his mind as he sorted through memories and made the precise edits that would make each one even more valuable than the original.

As he was peering into the scrying bowl that evening, a knock startled him from his work. He glanced over his shoulder and saw his brother lingering in the doorway, holding a bowl of steaming something.

Charles inched upwards in his chair, craning his neck as he tried to catch a glimpse of the liquid in the bowl. "Is that a soup or a potion that will help me edit this thing faster? Because honestly, right now I'd prefer the latter."

James shook his mess of blond curls. "'Fraid it's just soup. But I reckon that's just as good for you. You can't edit on an empty stomach."

Charles rolled his eyes, but he knew his brother was right. "Bring it in."

James grinned widely as he walked into the study and sat down on a worn velvet armchair. "It's a mix of spring vegetables with a few herbs sprinkled here and there."

Charles inhaled the steam as he took the bowl. "Smells lovely." He meant that as a goodbye to get his brother out of the room, but instead James leaned over and stared down at the scrying bowl. Churning in its depths was a pale pink memory the color of clouds at sunset.

"What'chya editing?" he asked.

Charles pulled the scrying bowl away. "Stop looking at it."

"Why? Because you were at Madame's again and you think I won't like what I see?"

"No. Because it'll give you a pounding headache," Charles said wearily.

James gave a short laugh. "Oh, come on. It's not like I haven't dealt with that before."

Unlike Charles, James had not been born a mage, which meant that if he attempted to read a spell book or peer into a scrying bowl, he'd develop a horrific migraine. This he knew from experience. James had been a stubborn child, and when it was obvious his older brother had a gift, he too had tried to dabble in the magical arts.

While James had never managed to cast any spells, he did uncover a few potion manuals in the library. They were written in the ancient script, one that non-magical folks could hardly read, but he had gotten it into his head that if the text was translated into English, he too could brew potions. So he had spent hours transcribing the recipes, chewing willow bark all the while to ease his pounding headaches.

All his work paid off. Without a single magical bone in his body, James had learned how to brew a mean potion, better than many of the gifted in town.

And his soups weren't half bad either.

"Sorry if I'm being snippy," Charles apologized, peering back into the scrying bowl. "I'm just trying to get my work done, and you're hovering over here as if I'm forgetting to wish you a happy birthday."

At this, James cracked a mischievous smile. "Well, the thing is, dear brother, you may not have forgotten my birthday, but you have forgotten something else."

Charles paused, cocking his head. "What is that?"

"Your dessert plans. With Cecilia."

Charles' stomach flipped and he jerked his head towards the clock. "Shit!" he cursed, jumping out of his seat. His fingers flew over his desk as he tried to tidy up, but within seconds he realized it was an impossible task. Instead, he settled for tilting his scrying bowl into an empty vial, putting the memory away for safekeeping. Editing would have to wait.

"I swear," James said, "I don't know how Cecilia puts up with you."

Charles blushed, as he often did when the topic of his fiancée came up. "Stop it. She knows my work schedule is demanding." Still, he did always feel guilty when he was running late for one of their dates. Mostly because she was always so kind to him. She never guilted him for working late or forgetting an appointment. She was always gracious, always kind, always patient...

And far too good for the likes of me, Charles thought, not only now, but as he had on several occasions.

He slapped a cork on the memory, then placed it on a shelf with his other works-in-progress. These other memories glinted from their displays, giving off a rainbow of hues. Despite being in a rush, Charles made sure that his newest memory was not only set upon the shelf, but was strapped into place with a thin piece of leather and small metal buckle. Memories were tricky things and often liked to wander if not held down...

Once satisfied with its security, Charles darted down the front fall, slipped on a pair of shoes, and donned his hat and jacket. "Thank you for dinner!" he called out to his brother.

"You didn't eat any of it!" James whined, but his words were cut off as Charles bolted out into the night.

The sun was barely peering over the horizon, leaving the sky a deep blue. The dim lighting made it difficult for Charles to see the city he loved so much, the city he and his brother had started anew in almost ten years ago. And yet he knew each nook and cranny like the back of his hand.

They lived on a nicer street, in a skinny townhouse that cost way more than it looked to be worth from the outside. But Charles and James had turned it into their perfect home: warm and bright, filled with soft chairs, commissioned artwork, and a few plants overgrowing their pots (courtesy of James' green thumb).

But of course, there was more to the city than just his small street. There were roads that led to large estates with lush green lawns and carriages parked in winding driveways. And there were also avenues crammed with apartment complexes, pubs, and brothels, with skinny alleys hiding the homeless.

Cecilia's home was one of the former. The Monroe family was well-known in town, with a storied history, a famous father, and all the money to match. Charles remembered looking up at the grand Monroe estate as a child when he and James had first stumbled their way into town. He had no idea back then that one day he'd be engaged to the heiress of that fortune, that somehow his luck would turn around dramatically.

And I'm ruining my luck with her by being perpetually late to our engagements, he thought, glancing down at his pocket watch. He watched the hands tick the seconds away, contemplating whether he should pick up the pace—would Cecilia prefer he arrive sooner at the expense of some sweat? But when he looked up from his watch, he saw that he wasn't alone anymore.

Standing in the middle of the street about twenty feet ahead, as if she had simply materialized from the shadows, was a girl. Her skin was as black as night but seemed to shine in the glare of the gaslights. She was dressed plainly in a ragged dress with a threadbare shawl draped over her head. And her dark eyes were locked directly with his.

He stepped to his right, hoping to pass her, but as he drew closer, she turned to face him. "Mister Abbot," she said.

Shit, he thought. She knows who I am. It wasn't uncommon for him to be recognized, but now was not the time. "I really must be on my way," he said, trying not to look at her.

But she was persistent and moved closer until she was walking alongside him. "Please, sir, I have a memory for you."

Charles felt a twinge of guilt. He had been homeless once, back when his mother had recently died and his father's drinking had worsened, transforming him into more of a monster than a man. He and James had only lived on the streets for about two months, but it was enough time for Charles to develop a certain amount of compassion towards the homeless.

Still, the memories of a homeless girl would not fetch anything, and the extraction process would take up too much of his precious little time—time he should be spending with his fiancée.

"Here," he said, pulling a gold coin out of his pocket and pressing it into her palm. A generous donation. "Now I really should be on my way."

But the girl pushed the coin back into his hand, almost roughly. "I don't want that. I want to pay you. To take a memory away from me."

She reached into the pocket of her dress and pulled out a coin purse. There was not much in it, and yet she pressed it into his hand with a fervent eagerness that finally made Charles take a look at her. Her face was skinny, and her cheeks were smudged with dirt. But it was her eyes that captivated him. They were large and brown and slowly filling with tears.

"I've been on the streets for a while, living with my mother," she said. "And last year my mother... I wanted to do something nice for her, so I saved up for this beautiful cashmere scarf, just so she could own one nice thing... and these men saw her, and they thought she must have some extra money around... They pulled her away from me. I screamed, but they didn't stop. They beat her, they beat her so badly. And her head cracked on the pavement and I... I..." Suddenly those tears were falling down her face, pulling the dirt into muddy puddles. She grasped his hand, fiercely. "I just want the memory gone. Please, I can't live like this! Every night, I awake screaming from the nightmares. I'll give you everything I have. Just take it away."

Charles' breath caught in his throat. The intensity of the sadness in the girl's eyes was overwhelming. But he had never been asked to take a memory away. "I... I've never tried that before. I usually take only copies of memories. I don't know if I can just... take one completely away."

"Please," the girl said, and now she was sobbing, her chest rising and falling with the intensity of her tears. "Please, just try."

Charles' heart was burning. He couldn't bear to see this girl like this. Cecilia will understand if I'm a few minutes late.

"Keep your money," Charles said, "and come with me. I'll try my best to help you."

The girl's eyes lit up and suddenly she was kissing his hand. "Sir, you are kind. You are so very kind. Thank you! Thank you so much!"