Trefoil by Em Petrova

“Looks like it, though.” They stood silently contemplating whether someone had glued his lunch to a canvas. Suddenly, he turned to her.
    “I’m Will. Will Cochran.”
    She extended a hand. He clasped her hand in gentle fingers and surprised her by raising it to his lips. “I’m Lillian.”
    One auburn eyebrow elevated. “Just Lillian?” He boldly grabbed her left hand, checking for a ring. “Okay, Just Lillian. Shall we move on to the next piece?”
    Together they drifted to the next artwork. He stood very close to her, but she wasn’t uncomfortable. For the first time since John had walked away, she felt her tension ebb.
    She studied Will from the corner of her eye. He was mid-height, lean and wiry, but with the broader shoulders of a professional athlete. Auburn hair flopped into his liquid eyes. He stood slouching with hands jammed into the front of his ragged jeans.
    “Are you an artist?” she asked, shocking herself a little. She rarely spoke with strangers.
    He grinned again. “No. But I know many artists.” He seemed to understand what she meant and shrugged. “I guess they wore off on me.”
    “What kind of artists do you know?”
    “All kinds—mostly painters in New York. I’m from Vermont, so it’s nothing for me to shoot down to the city for an opening. I also know one sculptor.”
    Lillian’s eyes flew to his. “I recently acquired a small sculpture in San Luis Obispo,” she heard herself say, unclipping her handbag. She reached inside and retrieved the rose sculpture.
    “Ah.” It was a soft groan. He rocked back on his heels. “That’s Nathan’s.”
    The stone pulsed on her palm. “N. . . Nathan’s?”
    Will’s hand lashed out to steady her when she swayed, his eyebrows drawing together in concern. Gripping her by the upper arm, he led her a short distance away to a stone bench. His footfalls wiped clean the slate of her mind.  A group of Boy Scouts moved into the area, and their voices were high and biting. Where was John?
    As she sat, her breath came in little squeaking gasps and knew she was really losing it. She leaned forward, dizzily dipping her head into her hands. Blackness was moving toward her in a great cloud like a swarm of locusts on a crop.
    Will gently rested a hand on her spine, and she flinched as the electrical shock ripped through her. He jerked back. “An immortal,” she heard him murmur and laughed low in her throat. Seventy years of never crossing the path of another immortal, and now Lillian knew two in the span of a week.
    “I felt that, Lillian,” he whispered. “That shock we both felt—that’s what happens when another immortal touches your immortal tattoo.”
    She laughed with true mirth. “I know, Will Cochran.”
    He studied her a long time, judging her sanity, she thought. “Have you ever met another immortal before?”
    “Yes.” She clasped his hand and thrust the rose into it. “What do you know about this?” she asked, willing him to spill it, and fast. Her pores were slowly opening like buds to the sun. John was coming for her.
    Will shook himself at her subject change. “Nathan Halbrook is the sculptor.”
    “And you know him?”
    He examined her closely. “Yes, Lillian. He’s the sculptor friend of mine. He lives in Vermont, not far from me. We have mutual friends. “ Abruptly, he stood and dragged her in his wake, his voice insistent at her ear. “What’s going on? I’ve never run across another immortal in my wanderings.”
    “Maybe it’s destiny,” she said.
    “What link do you have to Nathan?”
    She was shaking her head, but Will stopped her. “Don’t give me that. I see his mark on you.” His words fell like knives, pointed and cutting, dropping one at a time. I see his mark on you.
    The blood rushed in her ears again. Will shook her by the shoulders. “Lillian. God, you look as though you’re about to faint, but that’s impossible. You need to answer me. Are you Nathan’s?”
    She wrenched from his hold