I am well aware of the impropriety of a woman carrying a weapon, but desperation reveals many truths about one’s self that often remain unknown save for moments like these. My truth? I did not care one whit for the uselessness known as propriety.
The moment Celia and her daughters left the house, I raced to Father’s study. In it, he’d kept swords, daggers, knives. I’d assumed these for decoration, as souvenirs of his travels, but the moment I crossed the threshold to his office, I saw his private place of work in a new light.
His desk still remained in the center of the room, sturdy as a foundation, but the shelves which lined the walls … to the unaware, the items upon them appeared as a haphazard jumble of trinkets and curios. To my new sight? Purposeful displacement, to confound one who may suspect … what?
No matter. I would think on that later.
For now, two crossed swords—one very large and one very small—were mounted on the wall behind his desk. Perhaps that would do? I raced to them and chose the smaller.
I gasped as the smaller sword’s hilt seemed to warm to my touch. I wanted desperately in that moment to take it, hold it, understand its meaning …
But no, I could not.
Even a smaller sword, the length of my arm from elbow to fingertips, would be quite conspicuous inside a crowded ballroom. As for understanding? Such a thing would have to wait.
I pawed through the assortment of items on his shelves with growing alarm: an obsidian blade with jade-carved handle; a thin, ivory ring, carved in the shape of teeth; a shelf full of texts by Origen of Alexandria, Erasmus of Rotterdam, and several priestly prayer books used for Mass.
Vials of powders and liquids, labeled with whimsical phrases like “unicorn dust” or “fairy tears” appeared far more sinister than they had only weeks before—what did they truly contain?
On a shelf to my left, I found a small, sheathed dagger, and two shelves below that, a strap which—after some manoeuvring—wound around my leg. Cumbersome, but it would do in a pinch. I slipped the sheathed dagger into the strap, where it sat snugly against my skin. I would only have to bend and lift my gown just above the ankle to reach it.
And though I continued my search, looking for anything else that might assist my cause, it was not until I reached the lowest shelf in the room that I found a plain leather satchel in its furthest depths—it could not be seen unless one crouched upon the ground and strained to see into the shadowed ledge.
I opened it, for I am a fount of curiosity.
Inside the satchel? A pile of polished, white bones.
My breath caught and I dug further inside the bag, drawing forth a cord of thin rope, a wound ball of string, a stick of charcoal no wider than my smallest finger, and—if that had not been enough to affirm the meaning behind this discovery—a palm-sized leather pouch that contained nothing other than a handful of powdery, gray ash.
The world grew still and quiet.
These things.
I had suspected, but I had not known.
Even Gretel had known something, hinted more than once, and yet …
“Why? Why, why, why?” I shouted at nothing, pounding a fist against the floor. My scabbed wounds of the previous night, broken open by my fury, sent sparks of pain shooting through my wrist. “Why, Father? What have you done … ?”
In that moment, I realized two things.
My father had called spirits, as did I.
And Celia thought him returned, somehow—and a threat to her own plans.
Nothing about this made sense, and I could not see when he had done this, or how, or why I should have found the book, or why he had not shared such a thing with Edward or myself.
Had Mother known?
I had little time for answers, sore little, if I wanted to reach the ball in time to do any good. I closed the pouch of ash and returned it to the satchel, along with the rope, string, charcoal, and bone. But as I drew out my hand to pull the drawstring and close the bag, my fingers brushed against an item which crinkled under my thumb.
A slip of paper?
It had been folded over itself many times, creased with age, and the ink smudged in small circles across the sheet as though someone had … as though someone had read this—written this?—with tears in their eyes.
I read the name at the top and the name at the bottom, and these names caused the world to collapse and bury me beneath it.
My Beloved Josef,
May this letter find you safe and unharmed, and may the Lord have seen fit to grant us one day more. Beyond that, I cannot say.
I remain unwell, my love, and I say this not to put within you a fear or desperation, but to spur on your resolve—our resolve—to the cause of peace, justice, and God’s glory. We must use our time remaining wisely, for what little time there is, may we use it to build a future that is safe and whole for our children.
They are so innocent, Josef. They weep at my bedside and I try to be strong, but some days this is beyond my control. On those days, I do not resent my condition, for I know it means you do good works.
Accomplish the task which is set before us, my love. Push back the shadows so that our children may live in the light. Know that I am with you even now, though my body fails me and my spirit often feels weak.
Gretel has been kind enough to compose this from my speech, so any strangeness of form in this message is my own. We are blessed if we find true friends where it is least expected.
Carry out your calling, my love, but do it quickly so that we may have one more day together. One hour, even, would be enough that I might see our Lord with happiness in my heart.
Remember that I have accepted this fate willingly, for the sake of our children, our children’s children, and for all creatures who may receive His grace.
The children send their love. Would that I might explain to them the sacrifice we make, but I fear that Ella will not understand. In time, perhaps she will come to know the truth.
For today and these remaining days to come, I choose to believe that all things work together for good to them that love the Lord, to them who are called according to His purpose.
Come quickly, beloved. I am waiting.
Your Devoted Help Mate,
Aleidis
I do not know how long I knelt on the floor in my father’s office, reading this letter, tears streaming down my face like a tide.
What did it mean? Why would my mother write such a thing?
Sacrifice and calling were not words I had ever thought to associate with my parents, and to learn that Mother had hidden something from me on purpose …
She must have known. She must have known of Father’s Book and these tools, and perhaps that is the calling of which she had spoken. More than ever, I ached for Father’s return.
Where was he? Were he here, he could help. He could tell me what to do next, and he could—
Movement outside the window, at the edge of my vision, interrupted these thoughts. A flash of alarm shot through my senses—it couldn’t be the terrors come calling, for I now felt certain Celia and her brood were somehow responsible for these things … but terrors were not the only dangers to a young woman on a dark night.
Despite better judgment, I stood at the window and squinted into the fading twilight—for it is in the spaces between sunrise and sunset that we see little and find much to fear.
Across the drive, at our gates—someone moved toward the house, a dark, hulking shape obscured by the streaming rays of a disappearing sun, stalking slowly until far enough beyond the light to reveal—
William?
What? My eyes must deceive me, I thought, for he should be nowhere but inside the palace, greeting the guests as they arrive and choosing which among the many women he would take for a wife—not riding atop a horse on my father’s land.
But when presented with another curiosity, I do not shy away. I threw open the window latch to push back the shutters and whisper
into the descending night air.
“William? Is that you?”
There was silence, except for the chirp of crickets and the brush of a gentle breeze amid the trees.
And then he spoke. “Ella?”
Fewer things made sense with every passing moment, and my head ached to bear the burden. “William, why are you sitting on a horse in my yard?”
He dismounted and his footsteps crunched on dirt and stone, coming closer. And I, beyond rational thought, found myself leaning halfway out the window of my father’s study, face-to-face with the kingdom’s Crown Prince. He wore a riding coat similar to the one I’d borrowed on our first meeting, and his medallion shone as always, despite the fading light.
“Ella, I could ask you the same thing.”
“The same thing? I live here. And I’m not on a horse, nor in the yard.”
He laughed gently at that, but I could not share his light spirit.
“I had a meeting outside the palace that ran late,” he said, “and my father is greeting everyone in my stead. The meeting was, shall we say, unavoidable.”
“And this meeting required your presence in my yard?”
He pursed his lips and looked behind, toward the open gate, before speaking in a voice soft and low. “Why aren’t you at the palace? I’ve looked for you at the balls, but I couldn’t find you. The last we met, you had a pumpkin at your hip.”
Oh, how my heart ached. “My brother is very ill. He can’t be left alone.” It was most of the truth, at least.
“I’ll send a doctor,” he said, as soon as I finished speaking. My composure began to slip, and I fumbled for a reply.
“I have nothing to wear. And no time. And there is no horse here, and the others took the carriage.”
“Then come as you are. Please, Ella.” His eyes pleaded, the sincerity causing my chest to ache and my limbs to weaken. How could he be so kind? So caring?
And what had I given him in return? Doubt, anger, and accusations. Ah, but that was Aleidis, mostly.
Still, he’d come for me.
I thought I might climb out of the window into his arms just then, wrap my own about his neck and speak the truth—but there were far greater things at stake here, and only I could accomplish the task.
Perhaps this was the sort of sacrifice my mother spoke of.
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered, hoping he wouldn’t hear the tremor in my voice. “I can’t. Would that I could, but I can’t … you’ve been so very gracious, and I … ” I stopped my words before I spoke aloud something that could not be repealed.
“Go on.” He returned my whisper, and came close enough that no one existed in that moment but the two of us.
But it could not be, and so I shook my head and begged my troublesome heart for release. “I can’t. William, please. You have a ball to attend, duties to perform, women to dance with … ”
I heard the twinge of bitterness in my words, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“I don’t want to dance with other women.”
How could something so intangible hurt so much? “Surely there’s someone? One woman, at least, who has caught your eye?”
William paused and looked away, and I knew then who he thought of. I felt sure of it, but only for a moment. Doubt strikes like a viper at a woman’s heel, and I wished to end this now before the wound could fester.
“Go, William. Go to your ball and your women in their fancy dresses, and leave me alone.”
“You don’t mean that,” he said, confusion marring his beautiful face. “Maybe at first, but not anymore. I like you, Ella, and I don’t care what anyone says. You’re irreverent and honest and clever and you don’t care who or what I am. I’ll bring you to the ball and dance with you if I have to climb in the window myself and draw you out—”
“Beware of a woman in a mauve dress and foxtail stole. I suspect she has designs for the throne, and her touch is both seductive and cruel.” I spit the words forth, for I did not trust myself. I wanted to go with him. Needed to go with him.
But I could not.
“Goodbye, William.” All at once, I grabbed the shutters and pulled them shut, threw the latch to lock them in place, and drew the curtains closed.
Then I grabbed my father’s satchel and fled from the room, deeper and deeper into the house until I could no longer hear him calling my name outside the window, nor the pounding of his fist against the front door.
I sat, knees to chest in the library passageway, until the pounding faded and I heard his voice no more.
Too much. I bore too much.
I felt I would collapse under the weight of it before night’s end—but at least, William’s bizarre appearance had bought me some time.
For Celia could not have acted without him there.
With my father’s satchel in hand, I began the ritual preparations—this time made easier, faster, with the items from his bag.
How many times had his hand held this rope? Or this bone? These thoughts would only distract from my purpose, so I pushed them aside … and yet, as I bent to write the names of the spirits, I stopped and thought to look through The Book of Conjuring once more.
Just in case.
In case there might be something better. More effective. After all, had my stepsisters not lived? Such things should have brought them so low that they might never rise again. Instead, they lived and thrived, if a monster could be said to live.
They had killed, and they had threatened, and I had every reason to believe they would do so again.
The game had changed.
I found many other spells in the book, conjurings for riches which I did not need, for divinations that I did not want, and for power over life and death that I did not dare read for the fear their first words struck in my heart. But oh, how those shapes, names, and phrases sent tremors down my spine, and built a different kind of longing in my heart. But I would never speak those words, for they called to me as a silver coin to a scavenging crow. They promised a revenge, harsh and severe, and a death beyond the dead.
While I could not speak those words, I would find a way to stop Celia, and as I read, I happened upon a most gratifying recitation that struck me with gladness and delight. Better yet, the book did not specify who among those many spirits might do this for me, and so I acted as before.
I called those known spirits for a third time, Lautrayth, Feremin, and Oliroomim, that they might bring me a horse, a gown woven of illusion to bring me honor, and this time—only this time—that they might carry forth a most particular request.
I knelt in the circle and held the bone aloft, this time the skull of an unfortunate sparrow or robin who’d given its life for Victoria’s vanity.
There would be no more sacrifices on their behalf. After today and the night prior, I didn’t trust them to allow Edward and I even one more breath in this world, should Celia’s plans come to pass.
Tonight, I would alter my course of requests and demand a different arrangement, pushing aside the trepidation that came with those thoughts.
I began as before, with some slight variation to prepare for the enhancement of my requests.
“I conjure you,” I said, “those aforesaid spirits, by He who will come to judge the living and the dead, and the whole earth by fire, and by that Day of Judgment and by the sentence upon your head that day, you must be compelled to come here without delay and fulfill my every command.”
And they came as before, in black smoke and radiant violet fire, extinguishing all hope and devouring the light of the setting sun, so that the parlour appeared as deep and dark as night.
And as before, I obtained what I required from the first two spirits. A horse, and my illusion. The third, the child, waited with folded arms and blood-red lips.
“Oliroomim, my request.” I swallowed, if only to prevent my own bile from spilling forth, for when he smiled, I saw chunks of bleeding flesh still impaled on his tiny, dagger-sha
rp teeth.
He laughed, licked his lips, and swallowed, eyes glowing with pleasure as a child’s when given a new toy. What toy had made him smile so, I prayed I would never know.
“Yes, mistress? Back so soon? I suspect there is more to this night than before, if I judge by the words of power that called us forth.”
But I had other curiosities to discuss first. “My sisters. I asked they not be fatally harmed, and yet the punishments you sent were enough to lay low any mortal being. Why?”
He averted his eyes and pulled a miniature pocketknife from a pouch in his torn, dirtied pants. Were the spirits not allowed unblemished clothes, even in death?
Edward had a knife just like this. A gift from Father, two Christmases ago. He’d taught both of us to whittle that day, and we carved small trees that still are placed upon the mantle each year in memory of that day. Truly, Edward could barely hold the knife that year—and he could not make it work alone—but I still remember his infant hands curved around the handle, and the excitement in his eyes as Father guided his hand to shape the little wooden tree.
The spirit flicked open his own blade and began to draw the knife tip under each fingernail, as though my presence was but a mere annoyance to him.
“They remain unharmed, do they not?”
“Yes, but that isn’t what I asked.” That, I did want to an answer to, but not yet. “Why send a fatal trial against my wishes?” For if I couldn’t control what he might do, how could I be sure that both Edward and William would remain safe as well?
He flicked his gaze to me as though my stupidity begged disbelief. “They did not die. Your orders were followed. Mistress.” He didn’t bother to hide his disdain. “What do you ask this time?”
It still didn’t make sense. “But you couldn’t have known they wouldn’t die. They should be lying abed, taking final breaths at the very least, and yet they left just now for a third night of revelry. How did you know?”
He ignored me.
“Tell me.”
Still nothing. Petulant child.
“By my command, tell me.”
Cinderella Necromancer Page 19
