Page 64 of I Will Always Find You
Thanks to the torturous crawl of traffic choking the roads leading to Heathrow Airport, he arrived too late to experience a physical encounter. The Romani witch attributed this bad luck to the Wheel of Destiny, as he often did with anything that complicated an otherwise straightforward reunion.
Even with his arcane powers allowing him to slip past tedious security protocols and dash toward the departure gate, he was simply not quick enough to reach Marshall before the man boarded the plane.
But the Romani witch believed the goddess Fortuna was still watching over him, and in a small act of defiance against the Wheel, she granted him a sliver of good luck when Marshall turned around for the briefest instant, even though there was absolutely no reason to do so. At that moment, their eyes met, and warm smiles spread across both their faces.
The Romani witch’s heart skipped a beat. And that was when the nameMarshall Collingsworthechoed softly in his mind for the first time.
Unfortunately, as quickly as Marshall’s smile appeared, it vanished as if a gust of wind had extinguished a flickering candle; the British man turned and left for Canada, disappearing from view.
Using a mix of mind-reading and mesmerism on the airport staff and security, the Romani witch discovered Marshall’s destination; he got aboard the next Trans-Canada Air Line flight to Montréal without incident, even without paying. There was no way he had that kind of money for airfare; he was a wanderer, a nomad, without a bank account or even a permanent residence.
His beautiful villa in Tuscany, which he had owned in one family name or another since the sixteenth century, was sadly destroyed in the First World War. The only thing to have survived the bombing was Aeneas’ enchanted dagger, hidden and protected by magic.
Fortunately, being a powerful witch had its advantages, and bypassing customs and boarding an international flight without a ticket was as easy as stealing candy from a baby.
The flight had been a tumultuous journey that the Romani witch hoped never to endure again, or at least anytime soon.
The intermittent shaking of the craft, which the stewardess referred to asturbulenceand assured everyone was perfectly normal, did not sit well with the Romani witch. He told the ever-smiling woman, clad in a military-style navy jacket fastened with brass buttons, a gored skirt, an overseas cap, and white gloves, that he would stick to the ground if this were a normal aircraft experience.
If he thought sea sickness was unsettling, like the kind he experienced the first time he crossed the Celtic Sea, airsickness was double the discomfort.
The Romani witch finally concluded during the flight that this exasperating inability of his to remain uneventfully off the ground in motion, whether via a man-made contraption or an animal, without eventually getting sick, had to be mystical in origin. He reasoned he may never know the reason why; it was a vexing conundrum.
Levitating under his own willpower or by spell was easy and free of motion sickness, but the range and speed were limited, certainly not enough to cross an ocean. He still could not fly like Gian could. And he had no plans to enchant a mortar and pestle through dark magic.
While crossing the vast expanse of the ocean at an altitude of 10,000 meters, thoughts of crashing into a fathomless watery grave had stirred up the Romani witch’s thalassophobia, which he believed he had conquered ages ago. Or at least suppressed deep within his psyche enough never to inconvenience him.
After all, he had travelled to what he now knew as Great Britain and Ireland several times by boat, enduring the discomfort each time. Still, he always avoided the deck and the sight of the ocean until it was time to dock.
Apparently, like his magic, the Romani witch supposed the condition travelled with his spirit into each new body, merely waiting for the right trigger to activate it.
Aided by some miracle—and the whisky that settled his nerves during the six-and-a-half-hour flight—he managed to keep it together. And when the airplane finally touched down with a soft thud on the tarmac in Montréal, the Romani witch, with a determined furrow upon his brow, chose to forgo the connecting flight to Québec City, scheduled to depart in an hour.
Despite the stewardess’ calm reassurance that the flight would last only 45 minutes, the Romani witch nonetheless felt an overwhelming sense of anxiety. Thinking about the hum of the engines as they lifted the craft off the ground, the subsequent rocking and jostling, and the confinement of the cabin only intensified his dread. No, he had had quite enough of airplane travel to last this and several other lifetimes.
He had found an alternative means of getting to Québec City, which essentially involved mesmerizing a cab driver, knowing that Marshall and the rest of the cast and crew of the Hitchcock movie were already there.
His gleaning of information at Heathrow airport when he psychically read the thoughts of the film crew members who boarded after Marshall had revealed that some ofI Confesswould be shot at the iconic Château Frontenac. Trusting his intuition and the pull of Aeneas’ soul, the Romani witch had decided to begin his search for him there.
And now, standing in front of the hotel, this was the true beginning of his inevitable reunion with Aeneas.
Québec City, a captivating fortress, a walled city steeped in over four hundred years of history, enveloped the Romani witch in its rich tapestry of vintage European charm. The cobblestone streets and centuries-old architecture radiated a sense of wistful sentimentality, transporting the traveller to a bygone era frozen in time. The city’s walls, imbued with stories of the past, towered majestically, inviting exploration and discovery at every turn.
However, the only exploration and story the Romani witch wished to engage in featured him and Aeneas alone, preferably in a firm bed, embraced by soft, luxurious sheets.
First, he would head to the vibrant Saint-Roch district, having overheard fellow airplane passengers talking about its fashionable boutiques. He needed new clothes, something more impressive, something that would help him stand out. Afterward, he planned to check into the elegant Château, take a moment to freshen up, and then begin his search for Marshall Collingsworth in earnest.
Marshall sat alone at the sturdy mahogany bar in the main lounge of the Château Frontenac, nursing a beer before noon and lost in thought. He had taken only a small sip of the dark amber drink; he hated beer and had no idea why he ordered it.
He lifted his head once more, his gaze drawn to the lofty ceilings that seemed to stretch to the heavens, adorned with intricate mouldings and breathtaking crystal chandeliers. The opulence of the hotel beguiled him; each detail, from the rich fabrics draping the elegant furniture to the ornately framed oil paintings, amplified the lavish yet welcoming atmosphere. He simply could not get enough of the exquisite grandeur that surrounded him.
As England had no cohesive mythology, only folklore, Marshall thanked the good fairies and witches for getting the day off.Hitchhad taken his lead stars somewhere in the Québec countryside—or perhaps to the other side of the Canadian city. To be honest, Marshall was not entirely sure where they were, nor did he really care.
He wanted to be by himself; he quite enjoyed his own company. Still, he sometimes felt lonely. He was human, afterall. This was why he had come to the bar: to be alone but still surrounded by the energy of others.
The pervasive thought in his mind since the previous day was that something about this shoot felt off to him. As if he were missing something or something was missing. He could not put his finger on it. It felt like something was about to happen.
Generally, he loved travelling across the globe as part of Hitch’s or any director’s film-making crew, enjoying the Hollywood glam and excitement of meeting movie stars, especially devastatingly handsome queers like Montgomery Clift, John Dall, and Farley Granger.
