July 14, 2022

In the kitchen, the tea kettle struck up a high-pitched wail. Mary set down her book and stood, though slowly, from the comfy chair where she had been reading the afternoon away. Running her hands absently over her hips, she shuffled toward the source of the tinny scream, not so much to pour herself a "cuppa" as to simply quell the sound, and restore that tomb-like silence to which she had grown so accustomed. Felicity, her little tortoiseshell cat, stood from place lying in the afternoon sun and followed.

It suited the big house, silence did, in the same way piety suited a priest and probing questions suited the press. It was a weighty silence, full of meaning and memories, as though the walls themselves had absorbed his laughter, his tears, and of course, his song, and continued to echo them inaudibly- but not so inaudibly not be felt.

While this quiet might have unnerved most, Mary felt right at home in it. She had grown up with silence, after all, being raised by deaf parents, and so had become a soft-spoken, keen-eyed watcher by consequence; what was more, from 1970 to 1991, Mary had been surrounded by more noise and more madness than most anyone would ever have to contend with in three lifetimes. She relished the privacy of the high garden walls, and protected this hallowed silence almost to the degree of being reclusive.

At the same time, she never quite seemed to be alone. Although Mary had dwelt within Garden Lodge's twenty-eight rooms for many years, ever since her two boys had grown up and gone on to live their own lives, she still could feel a presence there- as though he had never truly left.

With a sigh, Mary took the kettle off the hot eye, smiling when she heard Felicity's meow behind her. Placing the tea bag into the steaming hot cup, she took to feeding the little feline. Just another Thursday afternoon- and a lovely one at that. The garden had been looking especially breathtaking this summer; she would take her tea outside, breath in the beauty around her, savor a new, more natural silence only slightly marred by muffled sounds of the city.

As she moved out of the kitchen with her tea, Mary paused a moment and glanced at the screens. Recently she had had a rather complicated surveillance system installed on the grounds of the mansion. Nine square screens provided around-the-clock vision of the estate's every conceivable vulnerability, with a special focus on the wall and the infamous dark green door. It was inevitable she would see at least one person standing outside the wall, to set flowers down near the base or to voice through rivers of tears how much they missed a man they could not have been alive to see in the first place.

Despite having removed the vandalism and debris of the so-called shrine that fans left upon it throughout the years -in the form of messages, drawings, and other things that did not do anything beneficial to the paint job or the brick- they kept on coming, even upon risk of being reported to the authorities. And she had indeed had to make the occasional call to the police- what she said, or threatened, she meant- but by no means did she enjoy it, nor did she appreciate the reputation it had earned her among half the Queen fanbase as an "uncaring, untrustworthy, unapologetic, undeserving bitch."

But it was indeed Mary's house now. Had been for thirty years, left to her fair and square by her greatest friend, her eternal torment, and love of her life, Freddie Mercury. It was no sin to wish to protect it in every way she knew how. She at least owed him that much.

She was just about to shrug and keep walking when she stopped dead in her tracks again. Why was beyond her, but she did. Once more, Mary peered into the upper left hand screen, which provided a close-up view of the door.

There was a woman. A young woman, Mary guessed, judging by her long brown hair and reasonably youthful attire- but she stood too far back for Mary to get a good look at her face. she held the hand of a small child- a boy, maybe three or four years old judging by his size. The woman kept pointing at the door and speaking insistently to the boy. Occasionally the child would speak back, and she would smile and nod, getting down on his level so he could hear her better. The boy took a few steps closer, patted the glass, then turned and spoke to the woman again, who only shrugged.

Mary's eyes widened as she realized this was not the first time she had seen these two. Last July, she remembered driving home one day- perhaps even the same day, the fourteenth. As was her custom, she had ridden past the garden door to see a similar couple - a young woman and a little dark-haired boy in her arms- just standing there, gazing upon it in solemn reverence. Not leaving marks, or flowers, or pithy messages- just standing and staring, before eventually turning and walking away.

For reasons unknown to Mary, that stuck with her. Of all the thousands of nameless mourners who came to stand before the entrance, these two made an impact. She sipped her tea, thinking to herself, I wonder, is this some kind of tradition of theirs? Every July, come and pay tribute to the fallen idol?

It didn't surprise her if this was indeed the case. A once a year pilgrimage certainly wouldn't have set them apart; there were people, she knew, who stopped by as frequently as once a week- maybe a few, even more often than that. But there was something about the woman that set her mind rolling back- something she recognized, somehow.

Smiling, the woman pointed at the door where the painted letters read "Garden Lodge," and seemed to ask him something, perhaps whether he could read the words to her. The boy squinted, shook his head a little. So the woman scooped the boy up, hoisted him over onto her hip to get closer. The boy kept squinting, but not as hard, and proceeded to sound out the syllables the woman was gesturing toward. Now Mary could see her face.

And her blood froze in her veins, flesh crawling at the sudden chill in the room.

Something about the woman's eyes had sparked a memory.

Of course it was years ago, ancient history- 1977, to be exact. Still, the woman's big hazel eyes had reminded her of another, nearly identical pair, in the face of that one girl- that strange young American with whom Freddie had that brief little tryst during the late seventies.

She switched on the audio feed (as mentioned before, this was a very sophisticated security system), allowing her to listen in on every word.

"Good job!" the woman was praising the boy in a confusing dialect; it was too casual to be British, but too round and clipped to be American. "Now, can you read the second one?"

"Uh..." The boy tried sounding out the letters of the word. "Luh- Awd- Gee. Lawd-gee." He looked at the woman for affirmation.

But she shook her head. "No, sweetie, not quite. See, when the 'd' and the 'g' are together like that, it makes a 'juh' sound."

"Okay," he nodded.

"Try again?"

"Law-jee," he beamed.

She corrected him once more, very gently, "And also the 'e' there, that's silent. You don't say it."

"Why not?"

The woman shrugged. "I don't know. Blame the phonics gods. But it is silent."

In spite of herself, Mary's mouth twitched into a near-smile while she watched the boy frown, thinking it over. "Lodge. Garr- den... Lodge. Garden Lodge?"

"That's right!" she grinned, kissing his cheek. "Very good, little phantom."

The boy smiled, very pleased with himself. "Can we go see the other place now?"

The woman lifted her chin and said in a silly, Eastern European accent, "Vat do you say, babushka?"

"Please."

"Zank you," she nodded. "Ve go now to other place."

"With the blue door?"

"With the blue door."

"Yay," he cooed. "Can we go in?"

"I... highly doubt they'll let us, sweetie..."

But by this point, Mary had stopped listening. Now she was thinking about the playful Russian accent the woman had used. Her thoughts rocketed another eight years forward in Time. It was likely a pure coincidence, that at Freddie's thirty-ninth birthday celebration, a couple quite similar to the one that stood here- nearly identical, in fact, except that woman was dressed up like a black cat, and the boy was older and bore just the faintest passing resemblance to Harry Potter- should have materialized so spontaneously. She remembered thinking to herself how poor that woman's judgment had been, to bring a young child into that environment.

Come to think of it, both the Russian and the American (she could not recall the name of the latter; it had been forty-five years after all, and from the day she left, Freddie did not speak of her again) looked quite similar indeed. She remembered thinking as much when she asked for directions to the exit that night. And once Mary obliged, Catwoman disappeared, taking her boy with her. It was almost as though she had never been there at all- as though they were figments of Mary's imagination from the start.

Except they weren't.

Because Freddie saw her too. A bit later that night, he came around, looking rather crestfallen, and asked her if she had seen such a woman, dressed in a black catsuit with ears and a mask.

And just as clearly, she remembered her answer. She remembered, because she was not proud of it. Wasn't it just her luck, to be reminded of that one moment of dishonesty by this mother and child-

Mary set her teacup down. A mad thought had just struck her. It was impossible. She knew that. Even at seventy-one, the woman still had a good reasonable head on her shoulders, but- but wasn't it peculiar? Wasn't it funny, the coincidences here? All three of these women seemed to bear some kind of connection to Freddie; they all looked alike; and no matter at what point in time, they all seemed to be around the same age.

Perhaps they were related?

Or was something else afoot; something much more confusing, or perhaps even, supernatural?

Supernatural? She scoffed. Listen to yourself. You really think that woman's ghost or whatever is haunting you? Isn't enough Freddie won't leave you alone, do you really need a lover of his to do the same?

Mary of course, didn't really believe in ghosts, or much of anything else, for that matter. Life was life, and when it ended, it ended. She was referring to the stigma, her curse, more than anything else- and the strong reminders that surrounded her here and everywhere. Neither in life, nor in death, had she been able to slip out of Freddie's grasp. Not that she ever really attempted to let go, of course- but it did indeed work both ways.

But still- of all the lovers dead and gone to (hypothetically) haunt this house, why her? Why the American girl? Were it a man, someone like Jim even, Mary could understand. She could name numerous intended one-night stands that ended up being long-term friendships for Freddie. His women, few and far-between though they were, didn't have that kind of staying power. (What about Barbara Valentin, you might ask? No, indeed. That woman was positively mad; she didn't count.)

After all, the girl and Freddie were together for barely two weeks. That wasn't enough time for the two to become inseparable, certainly not when one remembered she was, after all, a girl. Nonetheless, even in that short interval, Mary remembered how fast and hard he had fallen for her. She recalled quite well, how terrified she herself became of losing Freddie altogether- and she would have lost him, too, had the girl not left. That was the uncomfortable truth of the matter, one she preferred not to ever think about.

Of course, all this pondering was assuming that she was indeed some kind of shadow from his past, which wouldn't have made sense anyway. Both times, in 1985 and now, there was a child with her lookalike- and the American didn't have any children when she was with Freddie. That proved it right there, this was a clear and simple case of coincidence. Unless, of course-

Mary's heart skipped a beat.

Unless the child came after.

The next thing she knew, Mary was making straight for her car. It was forty-five years ago, that girl came into and walked out of his life. The connection was purely coincidental, she knew. No one could look the same as they did forty-five years ago- and anyway, memory did play such tricks on the aging, and Mary was not as young as she used to be. This very likely would turn out to be a wild goose chase, a potentially humiliating mistake that she would instantly regret. Yet, deep down, Mary also knew that if she did not find out for herself right this moment, she would surely go mad with wondering.

You're already mad! she raged against herself as she grabbed the car keys. It's just lookalikes, you fool. Stop it right now!

She walked out the door. You're making much ado about absolutely nothing.

She slid into the driver's seat, slammed it shut. This is my final warning: let it go, get out of the car, go back in the house, and finish your tea. It's not worth it.

With only a slight hesitation, she started up her Mini, and circled around from its parking spot near the Mews, heading for the garden door.

All right, fine! You go right ahead and confront this unsuspecting stranger, go on, embarrass yourself, make yourself out to be the mad old lady at 1 Logan Place, Mad Mary of Kensington. Give the fans something else to jeer at you about. Don't say I didn't warn you!

In seconds she slid by the glass-covered wall- only to see there was no one there. She looked both ways down the street- but there was no sign of them anywhere. It was as though they had evaporated. Like ghosts.

They must have had a cab waiting, she said to herself, still trying to think practically. I've missed them. It's probably just as w- Wait a tic.

"The other place," the child said. "With the blue door."

Still thinking in the context of Freddie, Mary searched her thoughts for a blue door and came up with one obvious choice and several lesser, more obscure ideas. She remembered quite well, the dark blue door that served as the entrance to that old flat of Freddie's. Even now, she drove past it occasionally, never failing to look for it as she maneuvered her car down Stafford Terrace.

Ah, yes. 12 Stafford Terrace. The place where she let herself in one early July morning, and bumped into a wet-haired, towel-clad American girl- a girl, no less- whom Freddie called his "pretty little slave."

He never called me his pretty little slave, she mused to herself a bit enviously. "Old Faithful." That's what I got. Very well. At least I had his trust- and his love.

Mary forced herself to snap out of the reverie before she could sink in too deep. For she had a choice to carry on this investigation, or abandon it while she still had her pride.

It's not like I have anything else to do, she sighed lethargically. Might as well. I'm already in the car after all, and it's not even outside the borough...

It turned out, Mary's instincts rang true. She had barely rounded the corner, when she saw that same woman shut the door of the black cab, the boy in her arms. Ghosts didn't take cabs, obviously; clearly this was no supernatural happening. That assuaged some of her misgivings, but not all of them.

This time, however, the cabbie didn't wait up; having apparently been paid, he pulled away from the curb and back into traffic, leaving a perfect parking spot for Mary. She scooted forward and took advantage, but neither of the two took any notice whatsoever. Moving quietly and cautiously, she opened the door and stepped out of the Mini.

I feel absurd, Mary said to herself. Why am I doing this. Why do I care.

"Do you like this place better, sweetie?" Mary heard the woman ask the boy as she set him down.

"Uh-huh," he answered.

"Why?"

"It's not creepy."

The woman began to laugh, though a bit sadly- while Mary felt quite taken aback. Creepy? Garden Lodge?

"Why was it creepy to you?" she asked.

The boy shivered. "It feels like ghosts. Brr."

Mary had to concede on that, Ah, well. Perhaps he has a point.

"I thought you liked ghosts, and spooky things!" she teased him.

"Real ghosts are scary," the boy replied. "Are there ghosts at that place, Mommy?"

The woman shrugged. "I don't know, never been inside that house."

"Have you been in there?" He pointed at the dark blue, almost black, door before them.

And to Mary's utter shock, she nodded and said, "I have."

"Yeah?" His high little voice rose with interest.

"I have indeed. Long time ago, but I have."

"Before me?"

"Long before. Years and years ago."

"Like... ten years?" Ten was a huge number for a four year old.

"Even more than that," she said solemnly.

The boy's dark eyes grew big, and his jaw dropped. "Whoaaaa...."

Again, Mary was charmed by the child; without thinking, she chuckled- then immediately put her hand up to quell the sound. But it wasn't enough.

The boy turned around and saw her standing behind them. Immediately he fastened himself against his mother's hip, making himself as near to invisible as he could while still watching Mary closely.

His mother hadn't noticed. "But I have been in there, and it was very nice-"

"Mommy?" he cut in. "Mommy, look."

"Danny, what have I told you about waiting until I'm finished talki-"

"But look!" He pointed behind her. "There's a lady!"

"Huh?" She looked around. "Where?"

"Behind you!"

"Wha-" The woman turned- and, quite literally, screamed before reining in her voice, "OH MY gosh. Oh- oh, wow. Oh, geez. Oh- God."

All the color drained from her cheeks, and her eyes grew even bigger than the boy's. She placed a hand over her heart as if to slow its pounding, but it didn't seem to do much good. She swallowed, licked her lips, while the boy just stood there and stared back at the older woman. Clearly it was up to Mary to make the first move; she had followed them, it was in order that she should at least explain herself.

"Good afternoon," she blurted quietly after an uncomfortably long silence.

The mother blinked. "Uh- hi, Mary. I mean, uh-"

Mary's brows rose. "You know my name?"

"Of course I do," she explained a bit hesitantly, but the words started coming much more smoothly as she continued. "You're Ms. Austin, I'd recognize you anywhere."

Oh, you do? That could go in one of two very differing directions. Now nervous, Mary took a cautious step back.

"No, no, no, it's all right," the woman smiled gently. "Uh- don't be afraid. I'm Team Mary."

"Team Mary?"

"Yes- as opposed to Team Jim."

"Oh. Oh!" At that Mary let herself relax a bit, allowing her face a small smile. "Is that what they call it?"

"No, that's just what I call it," she shrugged.

"Well, it's been many years since that all, um- happened, and I wish people would move on-"

"Absolutely, as do I; I just wanted you to know I'm not a hostile," she explained.

"Fine," Mary nodded gratefully. "What's your name?"

"I'm Julia," she said, then added, gesturing to her boy, "And this is my son, Danny."

Mary waved a little at the boy, who was still hiding behind his mother's legs. Julia, eh? she repeated to herself. Mary tried to see if that name registered in relation to the American of old, but nothing sparked familiarity.

Julia rolled her eyes and drew Danny closer to the front. "Oh, come on, don't be bashful, sweetie." She looked up at Mary apologetically. "He's a little shy sometimes, I'm sorry. Come on, dear, say hello to Ms. Austin."

"Hi," he peeped quietly, staying close to his mum.

She urged him to step closer. "Go on, shake her hand like a gentleman." So at Julia's prompting, the boy shuffled toward Mary, took her hand and shook it, but kept his eyes on his shoes. Mary couldn't help smiling; the boy's behavior reminded her so much of Freddie somehow.

"Were we, uh-" Julia began, "Were we in your way or something? Because we were just leaving, I'm sorry-"

"No, no- really I should be the one apologizing," Mary replied. "You see, I saw you two at the door of Garden Lodge- you come once a year, don't you? Same time?"

"Same day, same month," Julia nodded. "Ever since I came here four years ago, when I was pregnant with this one." She ruffled Danny's hair, which made the boy growl in annoyance.

"I thought as much," she nodded. "I don't know, just something about you- I felt compelled to introduce myself."

"It's an honor to meet you in person," Julia smiled- and Mary blushed.

"Who is she, Mommy?" Danny asked, confused. "Is she important?"

Julia smiled, and chose her words with care that was obvious to even Mary. "Danny, this is the lady who lives at that beautiful place with the wall, Garden Lodge."

"Oh!" Danny's eyes widened. "The creepy house?"

Julia's face blanched again, then reddened fiercely. "Danny!"

He scarcely noticed. All of a sudden, he forgot to be shy. Now he had questions to ask. "Are there ghosts in your house?" he asked Mary.

"Not really, no," she smiled. "Just me and my cat."

"Did there used to be ghosts?"

"Danny, sweetheart, think about what you're asking," Julia cut in- but this time, much more nervously. "Ghosts don't pack up and move like the rest of us. They stay."

"Oh," Danny nodded. "Sorta like Daddy moved out of that place?"

The expression on Julia's face made no secret of how badly she wanted to get going. "Danny, we can continue this conversation later-"

"Wait a moment," Mary interrupted. She got down on Danny's level. "What did you say, dear boy?"

Danny blinked. "What?"

"Something about your father."

"He used to live there."

"Live where?"

"That place." Danny pointed at 12 Stafford Terrace.

Mary frowned. "That flat there?"

"Uh-huh,' he nodded with a big proud smile. "Your place, too."

Danny's mother tried to interject, "He's getting his places mixed up, he doesn't really mean-"

But Mary wasn't listening. "What did you say, Danny? What about my place?"

"Yeah. Your place. My daddy used to live there, and then he moved."

Julia had had enough by this point. Just as Danny began to ask a very pale-faced Mary, "Also, why's there glass all over the wall?" she scooped the child up in her arms and rattled off an excuse, "Ms. Austin, I'm terribly sorry, but Danny's godparents are expecting us for tea and we're already pretty late, so we must be going, bye-bye, so long, farewell, and all that jazz, okay."

With that Julia hustled uneasily down the sidewalk past Mary's Mini, going as fast as she could with a thirty-pound kid in her arms.

And Mary just stood there, unsure of what she had just witnessed in the past few minutes. It was real, all right; the boy's little hand in hers had felt soft and warm, nothing imaginary there. And his little voice had been no trick of the mind, when he told her quite loud and proud, "My daddy used to live there."

Used to live at Garden Lodge, he meant, before Mary was granted the reins of ownership.

As many people as lived behind the walls of the great mansion in the late 1980s, it didn't take her any time to narrow down the ranks. Phoebe had no children; Jim had no children; Joe had no children. Secret offspring? No. Even sexual orientation aside, Danny could not qualify, being born as late as he was. Jim and Joe had died many years ago- and even though Phoebe was still kicking, still amusing himself with the occasional blog post and speaking tour, he was also gay, like the others, and so it was very, very improbable.

As for Freddie... well, Mary knew exactly what had happened to him. She was there. Danny couldn't have been Freddie's.

But God, didn't that kid act like Freddie? Didn't he look like him? Those eyes, that dark hair- that smile? Uncanny. In another time, he probably could have passed for his son. It was just as Julia said, though; the boy had merely misunderstood. That's all there was to it. Lookalikes, coincidences, dumb luck: yes to all of the above. That's just the way it worked sometimes.

And from out of the blue, the name hit her. Just like that, without even really thinking about it, the name of the American leapt from her lips, much louder than she had desired:

"EVE!"

To Mary's wondering eyes, Julia whirled around automatically- and her eyes bugged.

She started to move like she was about to run off again, but it was too late. She had given everything away.

Neither woman spoke a word. Jaws slack, they stared at each other in disbelief.

Very slowly, then, Mary approached her one more time. What she had to ask her would not have been suited to another loud shout. This needed to be uttered in a civilized voice- no matter how mad the answer could end up being. Julia didn't move; Danny looked on, silent but confused.

"Eve," Mary whispered after a long silence.

Julia blinked, cleared her throat. "Ms. Austin my name is-"

"I know what your name is, you told me when I called it a moment ago," Mary cut her off. "Tell me something."

Julia looked her over, could see she was quietly teetering on losing control. "Tell you what?"

"Answer me one question," she breathed out, "and I'll let you hurry on to tea."

The woman blinked. "Very well. What is it?"

Mary looked into young Danny's eyes, which were beautiful, to be honest- dark brown, almond-shaped, and friendly- and then up into those of Julia.

"Is he-?" she began, before her voice cracked and she could say no more.

But Julia understood- or seemed to. For a few seconds, she held back, bit her tongue, fought against the answer. But Mary didn't move, save for a few seconds she spent working her mouth in impatience.

And then, at last Julia answered. Not verbally. The one word itself might have been too much anyway.

Instead, she nodded.

And Mary shook her head, swallowed in her dry throat. Her insides writhed, her head reeling with a deluge of emotions she wasn't in any way prepared for.

"Am I what, Mommy?" Danny asked, breaking the spell.

Julia coughed, pulled herself together. "Nothing, sweetie," she managed. "Ms. Austin, again, I must be going. Take care. See you- or your house, anyway- in another year."

But Julia had only gone a few hasty steps when Mary called her one last time, "How long will you be here in London?"

"Another four days," she called back. "Then we head back to the States."

"Well," Mary stammered, "is there a chance I might have you- and the boy- over for tea and a chat, um- sometime before then?"

Julia turned around, clearly stunned. "What?"

"I'd- like to get to know you two a bit better," Mary managed. "If you'd let me."

The American woman's mouth curved slightly in a half-smile. "That might be nice," she murmured. "I'd like that, actually. Or you can join us now?"

"No, really, I don't want to impose," she said, about to give her the phone number for Garden Lodge- then realized she wasn't at all comfortable just handing out such information to even someone from her own past. (Remember, everyone, this is the same woman who blurred the house's image on Google Earth.)

Julia could see what she was thinking. "We'll just see what we can figure out- and I'll come to you in person and go from there. Is that all right?"

"That's fine."

At last they bid each other an official farewell, walking in opposite directions- Julia to her new cab, Mary to her car- both their minds and hearts aflame.

Mary didn't immediately drive away from the flat, however, just sat there in the parking space for a moment. She stared at the closed blue door, almost like she was waiting for it to open and for Freddie to run out and greet her the way he might have forty-five years ago, when he dwelt there.

Or would he instead run further down the street, embrace the other woman- Eve, Julia, Catwoman, whatever she was called- and then kiss Danny hello, leaving her to watch unhappily from the sidelines yet again, heart breaking behind a stiff upper lip and a long-suffering shrug of the shoulders?

Mary wasn't totally convinced, of course. There had to be more to the story- a story that needed telling and yet one she did not want to hear. Not that an explanation would even help. For it still made absolutely no sense. None of it did.

And yet, there she was. Eve Dubroc in the flesh. And there was the child. He existed. For no reason whatsoever, he existed. It defied all rational explanation.

But then again, so did Freddie.

With a sigh, she started the car, wiped her eyes, and made her way back to the "creepy house."