In scientia, p.1
In Scientia, page 1
Copyright © 2024 by L. J. Baines
All rights reserved.
First e-book edition, February 2024
Published by Not From Here Entertainment LLC, 9000 Sunset Blvd, West Hollywood, CA 90069, USA.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.
The Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file with the Library of Congress.
Cover art by Colton Giles, jacket design by Christian Storm, symbol and titles by L. J. Baines.
ISBN: 979-8-9897862-2-0
www.inscientianovel.com | www.lukebaines.com
To all my exes,
may you realize what you lost.
To the dreamers + lonely hearts:
may this fill you with hope
to make it through another day.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Graveyard Girl
Chapter 2
You Only Get What You Give
Chapter 3
Sweet Home Alabama
Chapter 4
Lovefool
Chapter 5
Just Like Heaven
Chapter 6
Lover, You Should've Come Over
Chapter 7
If It Makes You Happy
Chapter 8
In a Sentimental Mood
Chapter 9
Kissing You
Chapter 10
I Belong in Your Arms
Chapter 11
Pretty Piece of Flesh
Chapter 12
Ugly Heart
Chapter 13
Damaged
Chapter 14
London Calling
Chapter 15
Untitled
Chapter 16
We Are Stars
Chapter 17
I Wanna Be Adored
Chapter 18
String Quartet No. 14 in D Minor
Chapter 19
Uprising
Chapter 20
Skin
Chapter 21
Where the Light Gets in
Chapter 22
Luna Caprese
Chapter 23
Happier Than Ever
Chapter 24
Colorblind
Chapter 25
Bells in Santa Fe
Chapter 26
As Time Goes By
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Prologue
L’homme et l’enfant
Moonlight bathed the stairs of the Sorbonne in Paris. I was waiting with my mother. For what, I didn’t know.
“Is it Dad?”
“What did I say about asking questions?”
“That not asking them was a stipulation of me being allowed to come,” I groaned.
Her face broke into a smirk, instantly putting me at ease. She’d been cold since she picked me up from school in Manhattan and sped us to the private airport.
“What do you know about stipulations?” she asked.
“I’m ten. I’m not stupid.”
She laughed. “No, my dear, no one could ever accuse you of that.”
I desperately wanted to know more, but I knew better than to push it. For once I was being allowed along, instead of spying through cracked doors or pretending-to-be-asleep eyes.
Before the wheels of the arriving town car had finished their final rotation, my father emerged from the back seat and was rushing towards us.
“Dad!” I accidentally shouted, as he scooped me up in his arms, my voice bouncing off the centuries-old university behind us. “I barely asked any questions,” I lied.
Mom walked to his side and kissed him on the cheek. “We have to hurry,” she said. “They know we left.”
He lowered my feet to the ground. “You ready for an adventure?”
I nodded, trying not to burst with anticipation.
He took my hand and led us to a side door, where an elderly custodian was waiting. Before I knew it, the man was ushering us through a damp-smelling library, behind bookcases and false walls to reveal a labyrinth of limestone tunnels. After walking for what felt like hours, we arrived at a monolithic arch and ornately crafted bronze door: the entrance to Lutetia, a subterranean Roman city that resides beneath Paris.
My father turned to our guide who was trying to catch his breath. “Thank you. We wouldn’t have found it without you.”
“It was an honor,” he said, taking a handkerchief out of his pocket to blot his forehead. “I pray it’s in there.”
“You’re absolutely sure they’ll connect you to this?” my mother asked.
“They already have,” assured the man. “I’ve made the appropriate arrangements.”
My father nodded, then focused his attention on me. “Turn around,” he demanded.
Before I could argue, he doubled down. “I mean it. Now. There isn’t time to explain.”
I did as he said, my mother appearing at my side. I couldn’t tell whether it was supposed to reassure me, or encourage compliance.
Behind me, my father began speaking in a tone I’d never heard him use. “Your chest is constricting,” he purred, his voice pitched far lower than normal.
Hissing filled the cavern, as if air were escaping a ruptured tire.
“You cannot feel pain. You cannot breathe,” continued my father.
I turned around in time to see the old man fall to the ground, the horror of the moment blanketing my body in shock.
I ran to help him, but it was too late. His lungs had given up.
I looked to my mother, then to my father, the ones who had taught me right from wrong.
“You… killed him,” I uttered, the gravity hitting me as the words fell out of my mouth.
“Him, and many more,” bellowed a stranger’s voice from the partial cover of darkness. He was wearing a hooded robe with a crucifix around his neck, emerging from a barely standing temple. “The time for contrition has finally come.”
My parents moved in front of me, like chess pieces blocking an attack.
“My son’s innocent. You cannot—” My father’s desperation echoed around us, as more men dressed the same stepped out from the shadows; seven in total surrounded us.
“They set us up!” proclaimed my mother, her icy façade strengthening.
“Harm him and the treaty will be over! You know that! This will mean war!” My father was pleading now.
“Crux sacra sit mihi lux!” the men chanted.
He spun around to face me, crouching down to my level. “Find my parents,” he demanded.
My mother joined him, pulling my face toward hers. “This isn’t what it seems. Nothing ever is. Trust in what you know of us, trust in what you know of you!”
“Exorcizamus te, omnis immunde spiritus!”
Bright, white embers of light began rising from the palms of the men in robes, their eyes reflective in its glare. It was as if they were seeing into another time and place.
“We’ll never stop loving you,” said my father, his eyes welling up. “One day you’ll understand.”
“Wait,” I exclaimed. “Why are you saying goodbye?” I could feel my clammy hands clutching onto their arms, but nothing felt real. They looked to one another, an unspoken exchange only they understood.
“Daddy, I’m scared! Stay with me!”
“You are stronger than you know, my boy,” my mother urged, tears dulling the sparkle of her eyes.
“No, I’m not! I’m not strong like you.” The words would barely come out.
“Listen to me, you are our miracle,” my father said. “One day you’ll find your own miracle and the world will no longer be a scary place.”
“Vade retro Satana!”
The men moved in closer, as my father’s voice purred once more.
“Run. Find my parents. Do not look back. Do not stop until you are safe.”
As soon as the words left his mouth, I felt them infect my body. I tried to stop myself. To overpower my mind. To coerce my body into submission, but it was no use. I’d lost all control.
Against my will, I turned away from the people who’d brought me into the world as they stood to face an impossible tidal wave of light.
The last image I have of them is of their backs, fighting for their lives as my legs forced me away — out through the tunnels and catacombs, and into the car still was waiting outside.
It would be almost a decade before I’d meet the men in robes again. This time, however, they’d come for me.
One
Graveyard Girl
I stared at the faded-yellow glow in the dark stars on my ceiling, willing them to give me the energy to get out of bed. My grandma had surprised me with them when I was four, after a particularly bad round of night terrors. She’d told me they were magic, a sign that my dead parents were watching over me. Classic.
Now, thirteen years later, I looked at them like the phosphorescent powder they actually were. A chemical compound of alkaline Earth metals—strontium, magnesium and calcium. Not magic, but an illusion. Basic chemistry masquerading as a lie.
“Eva, are you up?” my grandma called out from downstairs. She said it like a question, but her tone gave her away. “We have to be gone by six at the very latest!”
“Coming!” I lied, before banging my hands on the ground to mimic footsteps. I needed another minute to stress myself out about the enormity of the day that lay ahead.
As usual, the weather in Spring City, Pennsylvania was doing the opposite of what it was supposed to do. Late-summer rain pelted against my window, as an insidious wind tried to break through. I couldn’t help but root for the weather as I watched the leaves of our maple tree struggle to remain tethered to their stems. That is, until I pictured my granddad having to rake them off the lawn by himself in the weeks to follow. He was entering his early-80s, and while he was still able to do everything he’d always done, I knew that wouldn’t be the case for much longer. Had I not been awarded a scholarship to complete my senior year of high school at one of New York’s best boarding schools, the guilt that was dancing in my chest might have shackled me in place forever.
I sat up on the edge of my bed and took a deep breath, if only to prove to myself that I could. I hadn’t had a panic attack since elementary school, but the soul crushing fear that oxygen wouldn’t be there when I needed it still rang true in my head. And in my body.
I threw on the outfit I’d laid out the night before: black jeans, boots and a white tank top. As I looked for the bomber I’d pre-selected—black with cherry embroidery that read, “kindness is an act of rebellion”—a rhythmic knock sounded on my door that could only be my gramps. I opened it to find him standing there, smile on his face, proudly presenting my freshly ironed jacket.
“First impressions are everything,” he said, grinning. “We don’t want people to think you don’t take pride in your appearance.”
“Solid point, Gramps,” I said, choosing to ignore the fact that he’d made the material shiny from ironing it on a setting that was too hot. “I’d be crushed if someone made a judgement about me based on the wrinkles in my clothing.”
“Come down and eat some breakfast. Your grandma’s making those meatless sausages you pretend are food.”
“I can’t,” I blurted out, when what I really wanted to say was stop being nice to me or I may never leave. He must have sensed it. “I’m okay, honestly.”
“I know you are, but do you?” he asked, to which I rolled my eyes. “You’re going to do great, Eva,” he said. “We’re so proud of you.”
Talk about twisting the knife. Ray and Annie Nelson are the kind of people who are impossible to hate, which isn’t to say I didn’t give it my best shot. They’d raised me since birth, and in spite of the pain from the death of their son and daughter-in-law, they loved me in a way that left no doubt. Even when their grief had a way of lingering behind. We may not have had the most money, or the most in common—their ideal night out is the Senior Special at the Royersford Grille (any entree and one canned vegetable for $9.99. Kill me)—but they did everything they could to make up for the gaping hole left by my parents.
Interrupting his attempt to hug me, I grabbed the jacket from him and stuffed my arms into the sleeves as quickly as I could. Sincerity makes me monumentally uncomfortable. Especially before coffee.
“I’m gonna say bye to Paul and Edie—”
“You don’t have time, dear. You’ll miss your train and your gran—”
“Then I’ll get on the next one. Cover for me. She’ll have a fit,” I said, kissing him on the cheek and running out the door, so he didn’t have a chance to stop me.
As I rode my rusted bicycle down Main Street, turning onto Bridge, I said a silent goodbye to a town I was sure wouldn’t miss me. In seventeen years, I couldn’t think of a single interaction that wasn’t marred by either pity or disdain. “Eva-Annie,” as certain people liked to refer to me, was a regular feature on the revolving marketplace of gossip, where opinions were traded like stocks. It’s always fun to learn new things about yourself, especially from people whose names you can’t remember.
The rain had eased as I pulled into the grounds of the cemetery, a gentle fog disappearing before my eyes. Had I not been there every week of my entire life, the gloomy scene that lay before me might have turned me back around. Instead, I was distracted by more emotion than I’d anticipated as I approached my parents’ graves. After all, it was goodbye. At least for a little while.
“Hey guys… so… today’s the day,” I said, my voice threatening to break. “I’m finally getting out of here… I’m really gonna miss…” Before tears could escape from my eyes and betray me, I tried my best to laugh it off. Nope. This is stupid. I am not crying over inanimate objects.
I picked a couple of wildflowers off the wet grass and placed them on their shared headstone.
“My train leaves for Manhattan in an hour. Sixty minutes more of this hell hole. Weird, huh?” I said as I fiddled with my mother’s necklace. It was the only thing of hers I had: a dark red, raw crystal on a thin gold chain. “Gotta be honest, I’m scared to death, no pun intended. What if it’s not everything I’ve made it out to be, you know? Like, what if I’m the small fish in the big pond, and that little voice inside me that says I’m destined for something great turns out to just be a very elaborate delusion?” I let that hang in the air, the stillness making me uneasy.
“This would be a great time for you to do that parental thing, where you fill me with false confidence and tell me I’m being stupid and that everything’s gonna work out…” I half joked.
“Okay, well great chat guys… as always.”
Before I stood up, a laminated section of newspaper I’d stuck there years earlier caught my eye. The three-line article that described my parents’ deaths was the first piece of news I’d ever read, and probably the reason I hoped to be a journalist someday. I could never work out if it were the laziness of the piece, or the lack of information surrounding the crash itself, but being raised without answers caused an insatiable thirst for them. Some kids want dolls; I wanted a subscription to The New York Times.
“I promise I’m gonna do better than this,” I said, peeling it off the stone and sliding it inside my jacket pocket. “If I ever get the chance.”
A car horn sounded that I immediately recognized it. Fearing I’d miss the train, my grandparents had driven up to the cemetery to collect me. Knowing how hard it was for them to be there, I quickly kissed my hand before touching it to my parents’ headstone. “Love you, Mom. I love you, Dad,” I said, with an accidental heavy heart.
As I turned, a dragonfly swooped by my face and landed on their grave. The realist in me knew it was most likely hunting the mosquitoes that had started to appear after the rain. But the little girl, who believed in the stars on her ceiling, wanted it to be a sign that her parents were wishing her well. Funny how logic rarely prevails.
Placing my bike into the back of my grandpa’s pickup truck, I felt like I was being watched. The local chaplain, Father Michael, had appeared at the entrance to the church that presided over the graveyard. He surveyed me with a judgmental gaze, not even trying to hide his disdain. I couldn’t be sure if it were my outspokenness over the years (faith through guilt doesn’t do it for me), or my frequent visits to see my parents and infrequent visits to his services, but he’d made it clear I was no longer welcome. An unspoken arrangement I was more than happy to oblige.
My grandma barely spoke during the forty-minute car ride into Philadelphia. She only occasionally broke her vow of silence to ask me if I’d remembered various items that I had, indeed, packed. I chose to believe she was trying to be strong, but it felt like she was angry that I was abandoning them after everything they’d done for me. My grandpa, on the other hand, didn’t shut up, regaling me with stories he’d already told a million times.
“I can’t remember the name, but it was a little movie theatre in Greenwich Village. Your dad had just gotten back from deployment in the Arabian Sea after 9/11, and your mom had moved to New York from England days before. She couldn’t believe that in one of the most vibrant cities in the world, a serviceman was using his time off to see a revival of Casablanca.”
