The Incrementalists by Steven Brust, Skyler White

just now, if only I could figure out how to tap into it.
    I finally said, “It’s about Celeste. All right, so she meddled with me. But it turns out that’s not all. It seems—”
    “Wait,” she said. “First of all, who is Celeste?”
    I looked up and studied her. No, she wasn’t joking. I looked at her some more. She still wasn’t joking.
    “What?” she said.
    “Are you joking?”
    “About what?”
    She really wasn’t joking.
    “Give me a moment,” I said.
    One plus zero is one. One plus one is two. One plus two is three. Three plus two is five. Five plus three is eight. Eight plus five is thirteen …
    After a while, I said, “Well. And here I thought we had problems.”
    Ren
    I suspected Phil grew his mustache to hide the dimple that lurked just under its outmost edge on his right cheek. It usually did a poor job, but today the inviting little line was fully cloaked. Nothing in his face was giving anything away. Even when he met my eyes, there was nothing I could read in his. But as he sat across the table from me, holding his coffee in both hands and not talking, a bubble of terrible sadness opened up behind my solar plexus.
    “Celeste?” I prompted.
    He just nodded.
    “I’m sorry, I don’t know her,” I said. “Did you get bad news?”
    Worry twitched his eyebrow. “You remember me, right, Ren? And what we’ve been doing the last couple of days? The Incrementalists?”
    I thought about his body against mine, dancing in his little flower-filled house, and about the slow seep of memories getting deeper and deeper in me, of lives I’d lived, some with him. “I remember,” I said. “Is Celeste part of that? Something I haven’t remembered yet?”
    “You used to remember her.”
    “No, I didn’t.”
    Phil lifted his cap and smoothed his wild brown hair back against his scalp, retwisting the elastic that held it at the nape of his neck. I’d seen the same swift twist tie back periwigs and plaits. Behind him, a blond man walking past the café watched the same gesture with something like the same interest.
    I refocused. “Something has happened to Celeste?” I guessed.
    “She died.”
    “Oh, God. Phil, I’m so sorry. She was someone you cared about?”
    “Very much.”
    “Someone you were in love with?” Even asking the question made my stomach twist.
    “I thought so.”
    “Are you still?”
    “Good morning, Ren. Phil.”
    “Irina.” Phil kept his voice carefully scrubbed of emotion, but a scowl hovered just above his eyes. “I’ve got this,” he said.
    “Is that your objective assessment?” Irina held a little clutch purse in both hands. It was an old-fashioned patent leather thing with a giant gold clasp and reminded me of the bag my nana had called her “formal purse,” although I’d always thought of it as her funeral bag, because those were the only occasions I’d ever seen her carry it.
    “Go away, Irina.”
    She ignored him and addressed herself to me. “Has Phil told you about Celeste?”
    “He was just doing that,” I said.
    Irina surveyed the empty half circle of seating between Phil and me.
    “You should eat something,” she said. “Both of you.” It sounded cross, but I knew it was concern. I’d never worried about anyone’s health unless Nana was angry about them.
    “We’ve got people arriving from the airport starting at two. Since—”
    “People?”
    “Salt.”
    “Christ. Can Ray afford it?”
    “Jimmy is covering everyone’s airfare and hotel. I’ve moved to one of the condos in the other tower. Since you’re our native guide, Phil, it would be nice if you would stay here to greet them.”
    “When does Jimmy get in?”
    “Jimmy can take a taxi here like everyone else.”
    “Everyone else can take a cab; I’ll get Jimmy.”
    “In what?” Irina turned an acid smile toward me.
    The blond man watching Phil from the tiki-looking bar across from the café caught me watching him and stood up to leave. I knew I had no right to feel