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Half or more of the clients who came to Joel seeking his graphological expertise were there to ask about their soulmarks. Some of them kept it simple: what kind of person would their soulmate be? Others wanted him to be far more specific than he possibly could be, asking him where their soulmate lived, what they looked like, what their name was, how to find them. If he could locate people’s soulmates for them, would he be living in a rathole of a flat? They still weren’t the worst clients, though. The worst clients would bring him a sample of someone’s handwriting, reveal their soulmark, and ask him whether the handwriting matched.
It was pitiful every time.
The client already knew, of course, whether the writer was their soulmate. All one had to do to identify their soulmate was touch them, skin to skin: the feeling was unmistakable. (Or so Joel had heard. He’d yet to meet his own soulmate, so he was not an authority.) But these clients wanted him to contradict what they knew. They wanted him to say, “Yes, that handwriting matches up perfectly,” so they could delude themselves that their lover really was their soulmate, even if neither of them felt it. Or they wanted him to say, “Sorry, but there are some small differences—that can’t possibly be your soulmate”, even though they already knew the writer was their soulmate, to their great unhappiness.
He charged a pound an hour, with half an hour the minimum length of a session. He didn’t turn down any client, no matter how pitiful their request. But he wouldn’t lie to them either, and a lot of his soulmark-related clientele went away in a huff.
Thankfully, Barbara Wilson was not one of these clients. She presented Joel with a letter, not her marked arm, and only asked him for a read on the writer’s personality.
“Careless, self-centered. Probably rich,” Joel diagnosed. “Also—” He looked at Barbara. The immediate impression that had jumped out at him was indecent, and his client was a woman, but she looked like she could handle it, and he promised an honest reading, not a censored one. “Very satisfied, sexually. Smug. As if he’d just rolled out of bed with someone. But he feels like he’s getting away with something. I would say this is a dishonest man, and more than that, unreliable. I don’t know who he is to you, but…”
“My fiancé,” Barbara said.
She looked furious. Joel said, “Well, that’s the read I get from his handwriting.” He was not going to apologize for telling her the truth.
“I knew something was off,” Barbara said. “I knew it. So he’s sleeping with another woman.” She shook her head. “It just figures.”
“I’m very sorry,” Joel said diplomatically. He didn’t know for sure that the man was cheating—it was a graphological analysis he gave, not an eyewitness statement—but also, the man was definitely cheating and he couldn’t really pretend otherwise. “I hope he wasn’t your soulmate?” The letter somehow had lacked a sense of commitment or attachment to it, in both the handwriting and the way it was phrased. Bad enough in a fiancé, but for a soulmate to write that way would be surprising.
Barbara’s mouth thinned. “My soulmate is a woman. A very good friend, but hardly a marriage prospect.”
“Of course,” Joel said. Platonic soulmates were very common. On the other hand, Barbara looked a bit too defensive to him. But oh well, she’d paid him. What business was it of his?
When she left, he found himself looking at his own soulmark again. Just two words on his arm, Joel Wildsmith. He’d only really discovered his talent for graphology a couple years ago, but he’d had a feeling about his soulmate’s personality ever since he first learned how to read. Now that he’d developed his graphological skill further, he had an even stronger feel for it. Fiercely repressed and self-disciplined, absolutely rigid and honest and determined. Not exactly the personality many might want in their soulmate. Not a simple person. But exactly the kind of man Joel could be really, really into; a man who would bang like a barn door in the wind, but also have the kind of depths you could plumb for the rest of your life.
And yes, it was definitely a man. And no, Joel couldn’t imagine they would be anything like platonic.
He bloody hoped not.
Mr. Thurloe made an appointment by letter and refused to explain why it was he needed a graphological expert. Joel rather assumed it was another soulmark issue. That was the most typical reason people came to him acting all embarrassed.
Mr. Thurloe had yet to bare his arm, though, so Joel couldn’t say for sure. He had been given three samples of handwriting to analyze, and unless Mr. Thurloe bared his arm to compare to one of them, it might well be something else. Though the rigid, tense way the man was sitting definitely spoke to some kind of profound awkwardness.
Joel looked at the first paper and tried to decide whether this might, perhaps, be Mr. Thurloe’s soulmate. If so, he was in luck. “This is a very decent man. I assume man, the hand looks extremely—”
“Man, yes.”
Would Mr. Thurloe have a male soulmate? Joel couldn’t help but glance at him out of the corner of his eye. Dark hair, tanned skin, and a very solid body. A part of him hoped that he would; another part of him rather hoped this wasn’t a soulmark-related enquiry after all, for personal reasons. Rather hoped that Mr. Thurloe had yet to find his soulmate and was in no particular hurry to do so.
He went on, describing the handwriting of the first paper. Stolid. Reliable. Unimaginative. He stole a few more sideways glances at Mr. Thurloe as he spoke, trying to read his reaction. He still seemed stiff and highly wary. If this was his soulmate, he should have looked more pleased to hear someone praising him, so Joel decided it was not, and found his praise of the paper’s handwriting slightly increasing as if in relief.
When he handed the paper back, Mr. Thurloe almost yanked it away. So quick and brusque that their hands almost touched, but not quite.
Joel unfolded the second paper with interest. Hopefully it would be another nice, decent person like the first. Whatever Mr. Thurloe’s reasons for being here, Joel liked when he could say good things about a person’s handwriting. Though it might be fun to throw a little more criticism in this time, see if he could get Mr. Thurloe riled up—not wise to provoke a client but damn it, the man was asking for it, sitting with his shoulders so stiff you could just imagine the cracking sound they’d make if he shifted position—it really made you want to—
Then Joel saw the handwriting on the second paper, and all idle thoughts vanished from his mind.
Such familiar handwriting. Handwriting he had looked at every day of his life. But he’d only ever seen two words written in it: Joel Wildsmith. So many letters here that he’d never seen in it before: a’s, y’s, r’s, even a z! His hand shook as he ran it down the page.
His soulmate.
“Where did you get this paper?” he asked.
Mr. Thurloe stiffened even further. “Why do you want to know that? Didn’t you say you can do your reading without knowing the writers’ identities?”
Joel wanted to grab the man and shake the information out of him. But it would hardly make a good impression to do that, and if this man knew his soulmate, he didn’t want him to give a bad reference.
Also he was pretty sure trying to shake Mr. Thurloe, who looked to be made of pure muscle and stubbornness, was a lost cause.
He sat up very straight and said, as politely as possible, “This is the same handwriting as my soulmark. I respect you wanted to give them anonymity, but I would very much like to meet them.”
Mr. Thurloe’s face made a grotesquely twisted expression. “Your soulmark.”
“Yes.” Joel crossed his arms. “While I gather that you do not consider my graphology to be very reliable, I would hardly lie about something like this. And it is a matter of courtesy, when one knows a person’s soulmate, to help them find them.” Finding a soulmate was devilishly hard already without people making it harder.
Mr. Thurloe said, “If your soulmark is in this handwriting, I would like to see it.”
Joel hesitated. But when Mr. Thurloe seemed about to roll his eyes and give up on him, he acquiesced.
At least today he wasn’t wearing a prosthetic. It made taking off his jacket and pulling up his sleeve a lot easier. But he still didn’t like it. His soulmark was on his left arm, only a little above the wrist. The doctor had said he was lucky that the amputation could be done very low, and he would be able to keep his soulmark. Some people were not so lucky, and while losing a soulmark did not prevent a person from recognizing their soulmate at first touch, it was still considered a bad omen for the relationship. Like losing an engagement ring, except a hundred times worse.
Objectively, Joel knew that was indeed fortunate. But he did not enjoy having Mr. Thurloe eye his left arm so closely, his stare intent, hawklike, almost hungry. Looking at his greatest wound and his greatest hope at the same time. He cleared his throat and began to roll his sleeve down. “You’ve—”
Mr. Thurloe grabbed his hand.
It felt like something snapped in Joel, or perhaps connected, twisted into place. “Sparks,” he would say later, to those who asked—the typical euphemism for this particular sensation—though in fact it was not a feeling of heat or static, but more a woozy swoop of a feeling. The world reshaping and reorienting itself around him.
“You,” Joel breathed.
“You,” Mr. Thurloe responded. He was speaking through a clenched jaw. His eyes were on fire. “Hell! You’d better not be a crook. Good Lord.”
“I’m not a crook,” Joel said, outraged. The first thing his soulmate said to him after they connected, and it had to that? “What’s wrong with you? Actually, what’s wrong with you? You’ve turned quite red.”
Mr. Thurloe stared.
Joel swallowed. “I’d like to see your soulmark. You’ve seen mine.”
Reluctantly, very reluctantly, Mr. Thurloe released him. He rolled up his own sleeve to reveal a name written in lovely neat handwriting (Joel’s old handwriting, which he hoped he might someday regain): Aaron Fowler.
Joel looked at it blankly. “Weren’t you…”
“My name is actually Aaron Fowler,” Mr. Thurloe said. “Since it seems we’ll be better acquainted in the future, perhaps I should explain a few things about why I’m here.”
Initially Joel was even more outraged by the whole situation. His soulmate was a policeman! Why. His soulmate had lied to him about his identity! Disgraceful behavior. His soulmate thought he was a conman and came here to investigate him! Honestly a little frightening and not at all the way to start a soul-bound relationship. Who did this Aaron Fowler think he was? Joel had been fantasizing his entire life about cutting his soulmate’s fucking corset strings and letting loose some of that repressed energy, showing the man how to have a good time, and to be honest, Aaron Fowler did not deserve it!
After a couple of weeks, a few exchanged letters, and a few (mostly) conciliatory conversations, he had to admit it was a little bit funny.
“Because it’s very hard on Paul, really,” he said to Aaron. “Just think about it. He sends his best policeman cousin after me to avenge the destruction of his relationship—and ends up sending me my soulmate instead!”
Aaron’s mouth twitched. Joel had yet to make him out and out laugh, but he was going to get there. Hopefully soon.
Better yet, he responded, “Should we send a letter thanking him?”
Joel waved a hand. “We should send a letter thanking Barbara Wilson.”
“If you want me to,” Aaron said gravely, “I’ll do it.” His lips were still twitching. Joel was half inclined to make him do it after all.
He wouldn’t, of course. Barbara Wilson was a socialite, and she’d already gossiped about Joel enough. And Aaron didn’t want the fact that they were soulmates to be public knowledge. Not so much because Joel was a disreputable graphologist. More because Joel was a man, and Aaron was…
Well, Aaron could take some work. But Joel had always known that. His job with the police meant a lot to him. He hadn’t figured out yet how to reconcile that with wanting Joel, but he’d told Joel that he’d never wanted or planned to abandon his soulmate, and that as long as Joel would have him, he wanted them to be together. Joel was trying to be patient. With mixed success, but he was trying.
And it was true that common sense said they should not be too loud about being soulmates, at least not until they had things a little more figured out.
He didn’t mind keeping things quiet for a little while. He was happy enough to have found Aaron, and perhaps relieved. After meeting so many people who wanted their soulmates to be someone else, or searched for their soulmate hopelessly and never found them, he had found someone who wanted him, and who he wanted back. Perhaps at least this once, he could be a little lucky.