Mr. Heavensley left my house around ten, staying later than even Chantham dared. Speaking of whom, I had texted Chant feverishly, keeping him updated on our end of any strange comings. But nothing happened near Walnut Grove or Melbourne Way and so we all decided it was best put out of our minds until tomorrow.

Like Crispen, whatever it was hadn't presented themselves as malicious and so until they did, it was best to try and carry on as normal. Though nothing had been normal for me these past two days. How odd! Two days and it felt like an eternity was carried in each. I was fed information beyond the sciences and hadn't a moment to digest any of it.

I sat in my room, by my bay window, picking at the constellation socks my father had gotten me as a gift for my fourth birthday. They hadn't fit then and I had been disappointed in my father but they fit now, and it seemed appropriate. Maybe my father had meant for me to wear them in my later years.

The stars in the night sky were clouded over, not a one peeking its head through the grey veil. Whatever had come to town, had nature scared of it. I took another sip of the Chamomile tea I had warming my hands through the porcelain of my brown mug and looked to the coin.

Ever since the grey rolled in, it had been acting as though it was a normal coin. No tremors, or warmths. No night skies with ever changing constellations. Just quiet. Like the tight lipped Mr. Heavensley. I had come to be in the know about so many things and yet left out all the same. I sighed. A hint of the lavender infused honey I had sweetened my tea with, filled my nostrils. I had hoped for calm but hadn't found one.

"Maybe Stormholden would calm me," I mused, heading over to my bed. I felt bad, having not furthered the captain's adventure in two days, and so I hesitated to open the book. It wasn't like me to be so absorbed in the present. But so much had happened, perhaps I was living in my own fantastical tale of oddities and magics.

I shook my head at this thought, at the sheer absurdity of it all, and opened my notebook.

"Nothing," I whispered, my eyes wide, my mind unwilling to grasp what had happened to all my words. I flipped through more pages. More nothing.

Where had been the captain's origins? His childhood with Matilda that blossomed into romance in their teenage years? Stormholden's coping with his wife's sickness? Her death? The ship, the seas, the rum soaked adventures? All my work, the sums of four years and one relatively hot summer, gone. Where was my captain?

I stared at my notebook in disbelief. Had I dipped my pen in the same disappearing ink my mother used to write off people she disliked? Was this some sort of cruel magic? Take everything from me before my stories. They were my heart, my lifeblood.

Tears started pricking the corners of my eyes. And wouldn't you cry too, if your works of passion faded from your possession one day? It was heartbreaking. I never thought to backup a story on paper. What would have been the point?

My day had gone from aggravating, to pleasant, and back to the worst day of my young life. Would Crispen know what happened? Would he even care to tell me if he knew? This last question lingered. I wasn't sure of its answer anymore.

And then as if my thoughts had summoned the boy into the flesh, Crispen appeared, opening a portal to my room, slipping in without a second thought to a girl's decency. I couldn't help but chuck one of my larger pillows at his face; intrusions were most rude.

As I groped for another one of my pillows, I saw the look of urgency that wore upon his face. His hair was disheveled and wet, caked in sand or dust, his face splotchy with similar markings of sand or dust, and his clothes were in complete disarray. His shirt was worn inside out; the tag sticking up and away from his neck.

"Genesis is--"

"The captain's--"

"Gone," we finished, our eyes filled with equal amounts surprise and horror.

I stared at him dumbfounded and found my eyes wondering to the black striped pillow Genesis had made his home while he indulged me with his tale most personal. And then I couldn't help but to think of his face, his gold eyes, and the words of warning he parted with.

He had cared immensely about the boy in black; there was no way he would leave the 'perch most grand' on his own.

"Genesis would never-" I started, though I quickly pursed my lips close. Sleep deprivation was breeding stupidity again. Crispen knew Genesis better than I ever could. Of course he'd know his winged companion would never leave him.

"Let me see your notebook," Crispen said, his hands outstretched. I handed him my treasure. He stared at it with eyes filled with anger maybe, until his gaze settled on a page.

"Dammit," he spat, the first word of true anger I ever heard him mutter, coming from his lips. "The same magic's in your notebook that's all over Mire Hill."

Crispen threw the book back at me.

"Careful," I chided, catching the book awkwardly, looking it over for any scratch or tear. Blank pages or not, it was, and would always be, my treasure.

But then again, Genesis had probably been Crispen's treasure. We were two people in the same boat, sailing the same tragedy. I reached into one of my drawers and produced a mauve towel. I threw it towards Crispen.

"You should dry yourself off. Don't want you reuniting with Genesis with a fever," I said, forcing a smile to my face. Crispen looked toward me apathetically. He wasn't smiling- I don't think he could- but I could see appreciation housed in his eyes.

"Thanks," he said, staring out the window. He looked as if he was resisting the urge to take flight and search for Genesis more than he probably already had.

"So you think whoever came to town on the grey-"

"Stole your captain and my Genesis? Yes," he finished, his impatience clear with my owl-like nature.

"What should we do?" I asked.

He knew this question was inevitable, though in all the time he had to think of the answer, he couldn't muster one to fruition. He stood there mouth agape, eyes settling on the distance, his left hand twitching with anxiety.

"Help me look for Genesis? Please? Then we'll search for your captain."

He looked at me with eyes of a soft black velvet. Would I even be able to help with Genesis? And what of Potter Oaks? Whatever had stolen our precious dears could steal others. Was that okay?

"Four eyes are better than two," he replied, staring at me with a such a vulnerable look.

"I know Genesis is your gift from the sky-"

"He told you," Crispen sighed, his hand groping for his cigarettes. The pack was brand new and empty.

Suddenly, I heard Mr. Heavensley break out into laughter. It was an odd reaction, sure, but what made me unsettled was how it grew, short bouts of laughter to large gut wrenching hysterics. I stood in my room the boy-in-black laughing like the mad, not knowing what was expected of me.

Before I could address him, I saw a crack appear on his face. Crispen stopped laughing and reached a hand up to it. It was sharp and jagged, like those cracks that start on your car's windshield, and as he ran his fingers along it, it grew and splintered out filling his face.

"Oh no," he sighed.

And then before I knew it, Crispen's face shattered, pieces of it littering my beige carpeting, like the shards of a broken mirror. His body turned to fog and then mixed in with the air. His ill-fitting clothes crumpled to my floor, adding their mess to my own. I was left alone in my room with the pieces of the boy of Mire Hill, scattered around me.

"What do I do now?" I sighed.

Did I vacuum them up and wait for him to reassemble? Should I try to piece him back together- an odd puzzle of flesh and blood?

Come on Crispen, you always respond to my thoughts. Tell me what to do now.

But all I got was silence. Mr. Heavensley was truly distraught by Genesis' disappearance. I was scared to reach for Crispen's pieces but soon, curiosity beat out my hesitation, and I grabbed for a shard closest to me.

Ever wonder what a person feels like when they shatter? It's not pleasant, I'll tell you that. The shard felt like glass, but with softer edges. Blood speckled the glass that used to be Crispen Heavensley, and fear gripped at me. What if he wouldn't recover?

Inside I saw shapes take to the glass and as they became crisp, I saw it was Genesis. It must have been Crispen's memories, playing out before me. I saw the bird flapping around against a sunny backdrop. I saw him gobbling up unwarranted amounts of breadcrumbs. I even saw the bird sharing a canteloupe with Crispen during the early spring rains.

I saw the bird sleeping and saw, with warmth, a hand reach out to pet the bird's sleeping head. Genesis had stirred slightly, cooed, and gone back to sleep. As I ran my fingers across the glass, I smelled lilac and cinnamon. Was this the scent of Crispen's memories with Genesis? One of sweet perfume?

Another memory was starting to take shape, one of black- Genesis' feathers perhaps- but then the shape grew small and tight and round.

"Ah!" I screamed, throwing the shard into the air, watching it fall onto my bed. There had been an eye in that shard. And it had looked at me.

"Stop screaming," the eye shard said, bouncing off my bed and toward me. I reflexively reached for something-anything- near me, and found my beloved Rosey Rocstarr bear. I chucked the toy at the shard.

"Would you stop overreacting," the shard said, sounding exasperated. As I calmed my nerve, I knew I recognized that voice.

"Crispen?" I asked, barely audible. I was readying a second attack. This time Timothy Tartley- a stuffed turtle I'd gotten when I was three- was clasped in my hands, waiting to be launched at the talking shard.

"Who else," the shard sighed, moving toward the others that lay strewn about my room. A white light glowed around each of the shards and they started moving together, forming Crispen's face, two dimensional and jagged. I was now holding conversation with a mirror. I sighed.

"Sorry," the reflection said. "I fell apart."

"Duh," I spat, watching Crispen's face change in the mirror; the pieces poorly held together and not quite fitting- his face distorted.

"If only the girls in class could see you now. They'd be less likely to swoon."

"Everyone breaks," the mirror spat, his eyebrows knitting together. The creases around his eyes tensing. "I've never been good at handling-"

"Your emotions?" I finished, the mirror floating toward me. "No one ever is."

"I'll come together again soon," he said, my hand reaching out to touch his image. He moved the pieces jerkily away from my hand. "Hopefully," he added underneath his breath.

I felt I could see a little bit of peach coloring his cheeks. Just a bit. Perhaps his vulnerability bred embarrassment. Who would have thought I'd discover another side of Crispen Heavensley while he formed a one sided mirror?