The Polar Region, the snowfields at the boundary line.
Deeper even than the already inhospitable Arctic—there lay the domain of the northern Watcher, Crowley.
When the flock of inky bats swelled together turned to mist and vanished, the figure they’d veiled appeared. A Black woman, Mistletoe, turned back with an impassive face.
“She’s climbed the Tower. It’s been about two days, they say.”
“…At last.”
Closing a thick book, Crowley sighed and took off her glasses.
“The 55th floor, wasn’t it? She’ll have entered the Hub. She’ll have met old ties as well… Time is flowing frighteningly fast. I wonder what she’ll bring back.”
“She won’t remember anything anyway, will she?”
“It’s not that she doesn’t remember because she doesn’t want to. Mistletoe, don’t tell me you’re still holding New York in your heart?”
“No. It’s just that I know very well how painful and lonely it is to be the only one who remembers.”
She knew because she’d always watched right in front of her eyes. Mistletoe fixed her doll-like gaze on Crowley.
Her creator had not been granted the blessing of oblivion.
So unable to forget her dead lover, she had even brought forth…