Things had changed more than Peter liked, and though he hadn’t wanted to adapt -- he’d wanted to crawl right back into the ash and wreckage of the cabin and try to make things work -- he had adapted. Deep down he’d known that Jersey was right, and that she shouldn’t have had to convince him. They couldn’t stay at the cabin. There was no cabin left to stay in.
While the cabin was being rebuilt, so too were their lives. The dogs had all been found, the cats too. Now they all lived in an apartment in the city -- a big apartment which could hold them all, but still an apartment. The dogs needed to be taken out quite a lot to go to the bathroom, and to exercise. And, despite their misgivings, Peter started to rely quite a lot on not-Peter. They couldn’t keep calling him ‘not-Peter’ so Peter called him Arthur instead. Why? It seemed easiest, as if he could somehow project himself onto this walking, talking mirror image. His past self, come to life. Though his past self had never been such a dick.
Further experimentation assured Peter that his doppelganger wasn’t a complete wild card. He could have disappeared the night that Peter and Jersey had banished him, but he kept coming back around as if he didn’t want to keep too much distance between himself and his maker, for lack of a better word. Arthur had to do what he was told. If Peter gave him an instruction, Arthur had to follow through. The first instruction was to quit hitting on Jersey, which Arthur didn’t like. But henceforth was friendly to Jersey in ways that didn’t border on crude.
The Animal rescue was still fine, though Peter’s other businesses had taken a hit. HR Loans and Aid and the Historical Journal were better off, as most their data was kept in a cloud and could be accessed from other computers. Incunabula Epeolatry, however, was hit the worst. All his tools, all the current commissions, they all went up in flames. Peter wept for his books, for everything that was lost. He consoled himself by recalling that he’d lost everything once before, but he’d bounced back. Here was Jersey, and the pets. This apartment was home, of sorts. He hadn’t lost absolutely everything.
He’d had to hire more staff. Though they were slowly trying to ease Peter back into … well, leaving the house every now and again, Peter was resisting. With Arthur on board and hiring more people, Peter could delegate from home. Peter had spoken to Sergei on the phone and via email, and sometimes skype, and only face to face when the tomes were being dropped off. The young man had proved himself to be both curious and capable, and respectful of the antique tomes he was sometimes sent to collect. He was a better face for this business than Arthur, though they were sometimes both required.
There were two different locations tonight on projects that were both urgent and, though Peter had thought he’d sent one to Sergei and one to Arthur, somehow they’d both ended up with the same address; a Harper Rock museum. One of their researchers had been donated a library of antique books dating back to the 1600s, and they needed someone to restore the books without damaging them more than time already had. Peter remained fully unaware of his mistake, who sat at home in his makeshift office, content to wait for the product to arrive.
While the cabin was being rebuilt, so too were their lives. The dogs had all been found, the cats too. Now they all lived in an apartment in the city -- a big apartment which could hold them all, but still an apartment. The dogs needed to be taken out quite a lot to go to the bathroom, and to exercise. And, despite their misgivings, Peter started to rely quite a lot on not-Peter. They couldn’t keep calling him ‘not-Peter’ so Peter called him Arthur instead. Why? It seemed easiest, as if he could somehow project himself onto this walking, talking mirror image. His past self, come to life. Though his past self had never been such a dick.
Further experimentation assured Peter that his doppelganger wasn’t a complete wild card. He could have disappeared the night that Peter and Jersey had banished him, but he kept coming back around as if he didn’t want to keep too much distance between himself and his maker, for lack of a better word. Arthur had to do what he was told. If Peter gave him an instruction, Arthur had to follow through. The first instruction was to quit hitting on Jersey, which Arthur didn’t like. But henceforth was friendly to Jersey in ways that didn’t border on crude.
The Animal rescue was still fine, though Peter’s other businesses had taken a hit. HR Loans and Aid and the Historical Journal were better off, as most their data was kept in a cloud and could be accessed from other computers. Incunabula Epeolatry, however, was hit the worst. All his tools, all the current commissions, they all went up in flames. Peter wept for his books, for everything that was lost. He consoled himself by recalling that he’d lost everything once before, but he’d bounced back. Here was Jersey, and the pets. This apartment was home, of sorts. He hadn’t lost absolutely everything.
He’d had to hire more staff. Though they were slowly trying to ease Peter back into … well, leaving the house every now and again, Peter was resisting. With Arthur on board and hiring more people, Peter could delegate from home. Peter had spoken to Sergei on the phone and via email, and sometimes skype, and only face to face when the tomes were being dropped off. The young man had proved himself to be both curious and capable, and respectful of the antique tomes he was sometimes sent to collect. He was a better face for this business than Arthur, though they were sometimes both required.
There were two different locations tonight on projects that were both urgent and, though Peter had thought he’d sent one to Sergei and one to Arthur, somehow they’d both ended up with the same address; a Harper Rock museum. One of their researchers had been donated a library of antique books dating back to the 1600s, and they needed someone to restore the books without damaging them more than time already had. Peter remained fully unaware of his mistake, who sat at home in his makeshift office, content to wait for the product to arrive.
