The more time Jemma spent in Feytham, the more she grew to hate the world she actually lived in. She never thought the docks to be particularly dark, but with no sun in sight, her world was noir, devoid of color. It was ugly. Feytham was beautiful. Which is why she had to find the key as soon as possible. Two more days she had there until it was shut off from her the way every opportunity was. It was like life didn’t want her to have anything good. It would be a dream, a fantasy of tulip castles growing smaller the way distance does to an island on the horizon. It would slip through her mind’s fingers.

She spat the hair out of her mouth that she was chewing on and turned away from the window.

Mr. Moore stood at the kitchen counter, cooking the fish he had caught during the day in a boiling pot. It smelled rancid compared to Feytham’s natural perfume. But was it fair to compare scales to petals? How unfair of Nature, she thought. I’d hide in the murky ocean as well if I knew Mother Nature had a favorite. 

Jemma looked down at the fish as Mr. Moore skinned him. She felt tense standing next to him. This was the man who plunged Feytham into darkness per Xathier. Why would he do such a thing? It seemed there was more to this man than she thought. And now she knew why he never let her use the fireplace. But she wanted to know more. What happened during his days in Feytham?

“What is it?” She asked, poking the small silver fish.

“It’s a bogue,” said Mr. Moore.

Jemma scrunched her nose. “It’s stinky.” 

“This is your dinner for tonight.” He picked it up by the head and wiggled it at her face. She swatted it away and it slipped out of his fingers, flopping to the ground.

“I’m sorry,” she said, bending down. 

Mr. Moore stuck a hand out, “No, don’t worry about it. It’s all right.” She watched him bend down and grunt. He creaked so much that Jemma thought he’d snap. She knelt before him and picked it up for him.

“Oh.” He lifted his head slightly, “Thank you.”

She grabbed him by the arm and stared. A small understanding passed between them. He leaned on her as he stood back up, as far as he could. He smiled at her. Thank you. She tore away and wiped her hands on the back of his shirt. “Stinky and slimy,” she muttered.

He nodded and returned to his cutting board, his back to her.

Jemma studied his silhouette a moment, the curve like a shrimp. Was this man capable of burning bridges? She shook her head. I’m not scared of you, old man. There were ridges underneath his shirt, a telling of how thin his clothing was. When was the last time he got a new one? Maybe before I go back to Feytham for good, I’ll bring back a shirt. I’m sure Xathier wouldn’t mind giving one last goodbye to the man. Of course, she’d need the key. 

She started to open a drawer close to her idly. “Mr. Moore, how did you come to be on the Island?”

“Why I’ve been here since I was born,” He replied.

“That’s quite a long time,” she said, opening another drawer full of utensils and wooden labels. Nothing there. “You never…moved around or anything? Never left the Island?”

“No need. I have everything I need here.”

You mean you wanted to make sure no one lit the fireplace? But then, why not just destroy it? Or fill it with cement? None of this was making sense. She hummed, rummaging through a box full of tackle. Could it be one of these? In disguise perhaps? And then she asked her next question. “Why is your back like that?” Honestly, she would have asked it first if she’d found the easiest way to bring it up, but she realized there was no right way to bring it about.

He stopped chopping. “What do you mean?”

She shrugged. “If I start reading a lot, does that mean I’m going to end up looking like a shrimp like you?”

At first, he didn’t move or say anything, and she started to think (maybe) she might have crossed a line, but he finally said, “Yes. If you have bad posture.” He turned around, spotting her hand in the tackle box. “Thinking of fishing?”

She shoved her hands into the pockets of her coat. He grabbed the cutting board and put the chopped pieces into the pot. Jemma bit her cheek. “Dinner will be ready in half an hour. Do you—“
“I’m going to my room.” She cut him off, shutting down whatever offer he was planning to say. And she turned on her heel before she could see the look on his face. She sat on her bed and pulled out the tackle she stole. It was one big green leaf and two small ones on a single ring. She didn’t know what she stole it. The idle ticking of a clock grew loud in her brain. Thirty minutes. Thirty minutes until dinner and then Feytham. 

This is how she spent them.

She spent five minutes in her room. Twenty-three in the library. Three minutes realizing one common truth: She didn’t think there were any keys in this place at all.