Disclaimer: I don't own ASOUE or anything relating to it.

This was written for Gretchen, aka Skeleton Key, from 667 Dark Avenue. Her actual comment was "As for independence, one of them could run away as a child, or think about it."

The narrator isn't meant to be anyone specific. Call her Julia.

Behind The Eyes

We never thought anything of it. Well, that isn't true, of course we thought about it, but what we were thinking was I hope I can do that some day. It was what we were here to learn. Lemony was just naturally talented. Didn't they tell us that on our first night, to comfort us, distract us as the needle plunged into our skin? You have been chosen because you display certain skills, certain abilities, of great value in this confusing and treacherous world. We want to nurture those talents. Such things are all too rare.

The disguise tutors showered him with praise, except Ms T., and even she would flash her thin smile when she reached his name on the register. He never took their acclamation for granted, by the way. Indeed, it almost seemed to startle him. He would flush and turn away, withdraw into his clothing, glancing from left to right as though trying to find whomever the words were really meant for. And even in that token gesture of hiding you could see it. Talent, oh yes. He could almost fade before your eyes.

So we simply assumed he liked to practice. What else would we think?

He was, in every other respect, ordinary. Within context – as I told you, as they told us, we were all somewhat extraordinary. Our situation was extraordinary, though I confess it never seemed so at the time. Amazing, what people will accept without question, what human minds can be trained to overlook, given the story this is the way things have always been, this is the way things are. What fades into the background. But I digress.

He was, shall we say, one of us. He fit in. He was never what one would call an outsider. Solitary, yes, and quiet, but many of us were. And he was intelligent, pleasant, somewhat charming, softly spoken but with a streak of dark wit that flashed when you weren't expecting it. He was well liked – not universally liked, but name me one person who is – and he simply had an odd habit of disappearing for hours on end sometimes. A quirk, an idiosyncrasy.

Everyone, even the tutors, knew there was rarely any point in trying to find him when he vanished. If you needed to speak with him, you'd wait until he showed up again, or give someone else the message to pass on, or leave a note lying in a conspicuous place.

And we never thought anything of it. We never suspected what would become of him. Perhaps there was nothing to suspect back then. My colleagues are of the opinion that the business with Beatrice was where it started, and perhaps they are right. Certainly he would not be what he is if she had lived, if they had married, or failing that if they had never even met. Losing her shattered him.

Perhaps it was the only thing that did.

Perhaps…

But I remember one afternoon. We had some free time for once, and as it was a bright day most of my classmates were out on the lawns devising some intricate ball game. Having little interest in such pursuits, I was browsing in the library, not looking for anything in particular but with the vague idea of finding a book on origami, a subject that had captured my interest lately.

I found such a volume, although I no longer remember the title and in any case it has little further importance to this story. Like many bibliophiles I have the habit of beginning to read a book before I have quite sat down, and I was engrossed in the instructions for folding a paper crane as I lowered myself into one of the library's many comfortable armchairs, only to be interrupted by a muffled cry from beneath me.

"Oh!" I jumped to my feet again. "I'm terribly sorry."

Lemony (for of course it was he) was rubbing his elbow, looking resigned. I suppose such a thing must have happened to him before. "It's all right," he said. "I'm not hurt or anything."

"It's just that I didn't see you," I explained. He nodded, in the manner of one who has been given the right answer to a simple question. "Everyone else is outside," I continued, "but I don't like feeling obliged to run around outside when it's hot."

"Oh, I know what you mean." He smiled, and I felt a rush of pride at our mutual understanding. Even in those days he was the sort of person who rarely smiled fully, but when he did you could be certain it was genuine, not done out of politeness or for show. "I can appreciate that it's nice weather without having to get all tired and sticky. And sitting on the grass is uncomfortable. That's something I really love about this library," he added, thoughtfully. "The chairs."

"They are comfortable, aren't they?" I found a chair of my own, and pulled it closer to his so that we could keep talking unimpeded.

"They're at the perfect angle," he explained, "so you don't have to lean forward or have your arms ache from holding your book up. You can sit and read for hours, and there's nothing to get in the way. You just – lose yourself." He sighed.

"I think we can all take your word on that subject," I said. "Though I shouldn't think you need a book in order to manage it."

He blinked. "I'm sorry?"

I raised my eyebrows. "You know what I mean. There's no need to be modest. Elusiveness is a difficult and valuable skill. I wish I knew your secret."

"My – my secret?" He glanced rapidly around at the windows, as if someone might be peering in from outside. "I don't have a secret. No more than anyone else."

"That's not what I meant," I said, slowly. He relaxed a little, but his eyes were fixed on mine, narrowed in suspicion. "It was just an expression. I meant, I wish I knew how to do what you can do."

He looked at me for a moment longer, then nodded, lowering his eyes. "I understand," he said.

There was a long silence after that. I was just about to speak again when he leaned towards me, over the arm of his chair. He spoke in a low murmur, scarcely moving his mouth, which at the time was something I couldn't make head or tail of. Thinking about it later, though, I came to the conclusion that he hoped to evade lip readers, not as irrational a concern as it might seem. "When you say you wish you knew…" he said. "Does that mean – do you ever feel you want to – well, disappear?"

I started to get up, but he held a hand out, stopping me. "Not completely," he said, hastily, shaking his head. "Just… " He lowered his voice again, and I had to lean forward myself to hear him. "There are cameras, you know. Hidden in the walls. They monitor us."

"So?" I said, frowning. We had never been told in so many words about the cameras, but everyone knew they existed. Just another part of life, another blur in the background. "Of course they watch out for us. They're our guardians."

His hands had gone pale, gripping the upholstery. "I know that," he said. "I realise they have to take care of us, like our parents, like our siblings, but it isn't – it's different when…" He closed his eyes, turned his head away. "Sometimes I don't want to be seen."

I reached out, hesitant, meaning to touch him on the shoulder, then drew back again. "What do you mean?" I asked him, softly.

He raised his head, eyes scanning my face as if searching for something. I waited, frozen. Then, without warning, he let go of the chair arm and sat back, limbs relaxing, looking as though we'd been discussing the weather all along. "Just that sometimes I like to have a bit of privacy," he said. "That's all."

"That's all," I echoed.

"Hmm." His eyes darkened again for a brief moment, then he pushed back his chair and stood up, stretching. "I'm sorry, but I just remembered I have to be somewhere. It was good to see you. I hope you don't mind my running out on you like this."

He turned to me. I mentioned that he rarely smiled, but when he did it was always genuine, unforced. This was the first time I'd ever seen him smile with his mouth and not his eyes. There was something strange in those eyes, something wrong, and now I think something pleading, but I didn't know what it was or what to do about it. I was naïve in those days, trusting, young. Still, some instinct made me say, with a shrug of the shoulders as though I were joking, "Just as long as you're not planning to run out for good."

"Why would I want to do that?" he said, gesturing round him at the library. "Anywhere else I'd be a ten year old child. Here, I'm a member of a noble enterprise. This is the kind of place people run away to."

He didn't meet my eyes when he said all that, and his voice was distracted, distant. I saw all that. But I didn't know what to do about it, and I let him go.

Now I think I understand. I think I see what was wrong. I know what he was searching for in my face, and I know that he did not find it. Now that it is far too late, for him, for me, for the whole organisation we once belonged to and loved, I know what it was that he was hiding from.

But I still do not know what I could have done.