I tell Saoirse that buildings do not have celestial charts. She tells me she knows. I tell her the comparison is ridiculous. She agrees. Then we spend another two hours looking at my drawings. By five, ridiculous is no longer the word I would use. The pattern is not only in the Royal Mile project. It appears in a university library I worked on the year before. A small office conversion in Leith. A gallery extension. Even a pedestrian concept I produced at university and never built. Different clients. Different spaces. Same instinct. Routes coming from separate places, meeting around an open centre.
“I like circulation,” I say.
Saoirse looks at me over the laptop.
“That is your explanation?”
“It’s architecture.”
“It’s a pattern.”
“Architects have those.”
“So do celestial records.”
I lean back. We are in my office now. Everyone else has gone except James, who is somewhere behind a closed door pretending not to listen. Before I can answer, every light in the office flickers. James opens his door.
“Power?”
“No,” I say.
The lights settle. Then Saoirse grips the edge of the table. I stand. Her eyes move toward the glass wall. James is still in the doorway. Beyond him, two people from finance have stopped walking. One touches her temple. The other turns sharply toward James. Then James says, “Someone downstairs is hurt.” Nobody moves.
“What?”
He looks confused by his own words.
“I don’t know.”
Saoirse is already at the door. We take the stairs. On the ground floor, a courier is sitting against the wall near reception, clutching his ankle. He slipped outside. There is no possible way James could have known. Upstairs, the strange feeling lasts less than a minute. Nobody collapses. Nothing dramatic happens. But when it ends, James tells me he could feel the courier’s pain as if it were his own. The woman from finance says she knew James was about to speak before he opened his mouth. I send everyone home. Saoirse sits at my desk while I stand by the window. Edinburgh looks ordinary below us. Cars. Buses. People heading home. My phone rings. Unknown number. I answer.
“Mr Osei-Kaya?”
The voice is female, older.
“Yes.”
“My name is Dr Miriam Vale. I represent the Edinburgh seat of the Scholar Council.”
I look at Saoirse. She hears enough from my face. Dr Vale continues.
“The event at your office has confirmed our concern. A flight has been reserved for you tomorrow evening.”
I almost laugh.
“You reserved a flight?”
“Yes.”
“You should cancel it.”
“Mr Osei-Kaya—”
“I have work.”
“What is happening around you will not remain confined to your work.”
I look at the people leaving the building below. For the first time since Saoirse appeared, I have nothing useful to say. Dr Vale knows it.
“The ticket details are in your email.”
The call ends. Saoirse watches me.
“Lagos?”
I nod. For nineteen years, the Council wanted me to come to them. For nineteen years, I stayed away. Now two buildings I designed have done something nobody can explain. Tomorrow suddenly feels very close.