She turns her face from the lake, looking down and avoiding my eyes as she removes the glove covering her left hand.
She lays the glove across her lap, pulling the sleeve of her gown up over her wrist.
“It’s because of this, is it not? Because of the mark?”
It is there. The unmistakable circle, the slithering snake.
Just like mine. Just like the one on the medallion.
Every cell in my body, every thought in my mind, the very blood in my veins, seems to go still. When everything begins moving again, it is in a great rush of shock.
“It cannot be. It… May I?” I reach a hand toward her.
She hesitates before nodding, and I take her small hand in mine. I turn it over, knowing without looking a second longer that the mark is the same. No, not quite the same. Her mark is not red, but one shade lighter than the rest of her skin. It is raised, just as mine is, as if it is an old scar.
But that is not all. That is not the only difference.
The circle is there, and the winding snake, but that is the end of Sonia’s mark. The C does not appear on her wrist, though it is otherwise an exact replica of mine and the one on the medallion.
I return her hand carefully, as a gift. “What is it?”
She chews her lip, before tipping her head toward my hand. “First let me see.”
I thrust my wrist toward her. She takes it, tracing with her finger the outline of the C in the middle of my circle. “Yours is different.”
My face burns with shame, though I’ve no idea why. “Yes, a little, though we might just as well say yours is different. How long have you had it?”
“Forever. Since I was born, I’ve been told.”
“But what does it mean?”
She breathes deeply, fixing her gaze into the trees. “I don’t know. Not really. The only mention of the mark, the only one I know of, comes from a little-known legend told in the circles of spiritualists and others interested in the Watchers. And in the lesser known pieces of their story.”
“The Watchers?”
“Yes, from the Bible?” She says this as if I should know, as if I should have an intimate understanding of the Bible when our religious upbringing has been haphazard at best. “They were angels, you see, before they fell.”
A tale about angels or… demons, I think.
Cast from the heavens…
She continues, unaware of the recognition firing through my mind. “The most accepted version is that they were cast from heaven when they married and had children with the women of Earth. But that isn’t the only version.” She hesitates, bending to pick up a stone and rubbing it clean with the hem of her skirt before returning her eyes to me. “There is another. One far less told.”
I fold my hands in my lap, trying to calm the rising unease thrumming through my mind. “Go on.”
“It is said the Watchers were tricked into their defiance by Maari.”
I shake my head. “Who?”
“One of the sisters. One of the twins.”
The sisters. The twins.
“I have never heard of a twin by that name in the Bible. Of course, I’m no scholar, but even so…”
Sonia worries the stone, round and flat, between her fingers. “That is because it isn’t found in the Bible. It’s a legend, a myth, told and passed down through the generations. I am not saying it’s true. I’m only telling the story as you asked.”
“All right, then. Tell me the rest. Tell me about the sisters.”
She settles farther back on the rock. “It is said that Maari began the betrayal by seducing Samael, God’s most trusted angel. Samael promised Maari that if she gave birth to an angel-human, she would receive all the knowledge denied to her as a human. And he was right.
“Once the fallen angels, or Watchers, took the humans as wives, they imparted all manner of sorcery to their new partners. In fact, some of the more… enthusiastic members of our society believe that is where the gifts of the spiritualists originate.”
“So then what? What happened after the Watchers took their human wives and shared their knowledge?”
Sonia shrugs. “They were banished, forced to wander the eight Otherworlds for all eternity until the Doom of Gods, or as Christians call it, the Apocalypse. Oh yes, and after that they were not called the Watchers.”
“What were they called?”
“The Lost Souls.” Her voice drops, as if she is afraid to be heard uttering the words aloud. “It is said there is a way for them to return to the physical world. Through the sisters, one the Guardian and one the Gate.”
My head snaps up. “What did you say?”
She shakes her head. “Just that there is a way —”
“No. After that. About the sisters.”
But I know. Of course I do.
A small line forms on the bridge of her nose as she remembers. “Well, the way I’ve heard it told, sisters of a certain line continue the struggle, even today. One remains the Guardian of peace in the physical world, and the other the Gate through which the Souls can pass. If the Souls ever make their way to our world, the Doom of Gods will begin. And the Souls will fight the battle with as many lost souls as they can bring back from the Otherworlds. Only… I’ve heard there is a catch of sorts.”
“What sort of catch?”
Her brow furrows. “Well, it is said the Souls’ Army cannot commence the battle without Samael, their leader. And Samael can only make his way through the Gate if he is summoned by the sister destined to call him forth. It is said the Army accumulates, passing into our world in great numbers through the Gates, waiting…”
“Waiting for what?”
“For Samael. For the Beast, known to some as Satan himself.”
She says it simply, and I realize I am not even surprised.
8
The world goes still. There is no room in my mind for the wind in the trees or the lake lapping the shore below. No room for anything, really, except the tendrils of the prophecy twisting itself into something that is only a seed of reason.
But Sonia isn’t privy to my thoughts, and she continues as if my world is not, at this very moment, turning in on itself. “The only reason I’m telling you the story at all is because of the mark. It is said, you see, that the Souls are symbolized by the Jorgumand.”
I try to keep my face impassive. If I let my resistance fall, if I let her see the depth of my panic, the little reason I have left will surely desert me. “All right, then. We both have the mark. I still don’t understand what part we could play in such a bizarre tale.”
She sighs in resignation, standing and pacing in front of me. “I don’t, either. But I’m tired of fearing it alone. I don’t have a sister. I hoped…” Her voice softens as she stops to look at me. “Well, I suppose I hoped I was right; I hoped that you did have the mark and that we might find the answer together.”
“All right.” I tip my head, challenging her with my eyes. “Then let’s go back to last night. You can start by telling me what I was doing falling through the sky.”
She closes the small distance between us, stopping and grasping my hand with something like a smile. “You were only traveling the Plane, Lia. Wandering. Have you really never done it before?”
I shake my head. “Not that I remember. And whatever is the Plane?”
“It is an amazing place,” she breathes. “A sort of… gateway to the Otherworlds. A place where anything is possible.”
I remember my exhilaration as the earth passed beneath me, the sky as deep and endless as the sea. And then I remember something else. “But what of the… the thing? The dark thing.”
She grows serious, the light leaving her eyes. “The walls are thin between the physical world and the Otherworlds, Lia. It is the very thing that makes it possible to do such wondrous things and the very thing that makes it so dangerous. What was following you last night… Its strength was like nothing I’ve ever encountered, and I have chanced upon many beings in my
travels, both good and evil.”
“Do you think it has something to do with the mark? With the prophecy?”
She chews her lip again. “I don’t know, but the ways of the Otherworlds are complicated. You must learn its nature to safely explore its terrain.”
My anger resurfaces. “And how am I to do that? How am I to learn such an odd thing? Surely Miss Gray and the instructors at Wycliffe would think me mad were I to ask!”
She giggles behind the glove of her hand. “No, it would be ill advised to seek such instruction at Wycliffe. But your strength will grow as you become accustomed to travel, and you already have some form of authority, whether or not you realize it.”
“What do you mean?”
“That… thing. That… being. I think it wanted your soul.”
I cover my alarm with a brittle laugh. “My soul?”
But she isn’t laughing. “Listen, Lia. There is something you should know about traveling the Plane. The soul can be free of the body for only so long before the astral cord, the thread connecting body and soul, is severed. Once that happens, the soul can never return.”
“Do you… do you mean that one’s body would be left empty, as if it were dead?” My voice is shrill as a rising tide of hysteria fills my throat.
She holds up a hand, trying to calm me. “It doesn’t happen often, all right? There are not many in the Otherworlds with strength enough to separate a soul from its living body. But it can happen.” She swallows, and though she tries to hide it, I see her fear. “I… I have heard of a place, an awful place, called the Void. A place where displaced souls are banished. A place between life and death. I think that is where the dark thing meant to take you. To the Void.”
“Do you mean to say that one’s soul would be stranded there forever?” My voice is a squeak.
“Those who are banished to the Void are lost for eternity.” Her eyes are haunted. “Listen, Lia. I don’t know all the ways of the Otherworlds, all right? But the dark thing wanted you, and I have never seen something so powerful fall short of its mark. Yet…
“For some reason, it couldn’t reach you. I’ve no idea what it was that protected you from the full measure of its force, but it would be wise to avoid travel until we find out — or until you can be certain you will have the same protection next time.”
We walk back to the house in silence. When Birchwood comes into view, Sonia puts a hand on my arm, looking upward. I follow her gaze to see Alice watching us from an upstairs window.
“Do be careful, Lia,” Sonia says. “Be careful until we find some understanding.”
My sister is too far away for me to see her expression, but even still, I feel the cold fingers of fear at the sight of her shadowy figure in the window.
Sonia and I continue to the courtyard, and I watch as she leaves in her hired carriage. I wait for it to disappear down the tree-lined path before turning away from the house. I don’t wish to speak to Alice about Sonia. Not yet.
I hear the rush of water before I come to the riverbank. Last week’s rain has filled the river to the brim, causing it to race over the rocky bottom at a furious pace. Stepping off the stone terrace, I head into the sheltered copse of evergreens, maples, and oaks. It is almost lunchtime, and I wonder if James will be waiting.
“James?” My voice would be quiet in any other setting, but here it resonates among the serenity of the riverbank. “Are you here, James?”
Strong arms grab me from behind, lifting me off my feet. A squeal escapes my throat, and I kick my feet in blind instinct to free myself from the steely grip. As I lift my fists, preparing to pummel my unseen assailant, I am turned around to face my captor. Warm lips close on mine, his hands loosening their grip on my shoulders and finding their way into my hair instead.
I lose myself in the kiss, feeling as if the river rushes through me, all the way from the hair on my head to the soles of my feet.
Then I shove and step away.
“Ugh! Goodness, James! You gave me such a fright!” I favor him with a childish and ineffective punch to the shoulder. “Someone might have come upon us!”
He laughs, covering his mouth with a palm as if to compose himself. His face becomes more serious when he sees the expression on my face. “I’m sorry, Lia. Really. But who else would grab you so?”
There is still a trace of amusement in his eyes, and I glare at him in the hopes of removing it.
He comes closer, looking around and pulling me taut against him. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I’m only happy to see you. It takes such effort to see you in the library in front of my father, to see you on the street with Alice, to see you anywhere at all and not do this.”
He pulls me closer for an instant, and I feel the length of his body against mine. It steals my breath, and for a moment there is no prophecy, no book, no mark.
Only James’s warm body against mine.
I am embarrassed at the effect of his touch. I don’t want him to feel my heart striking against the bodice of my gown or to hear my catching breath, so I pull away, eyeing him playfully.
“You’ve grown bold,” I tease.
He laughs then, and the birds in the trees above us take flight, frightened by the exuberance of it. “Me? Bold? That’s quite funny coming from one of Wycliffe’s rogue young ladies!”
My cheeks become hot at the mention of our escape yesterday from Wycliffe. There wasn’t time to tell James of our visit to Sonia Sorrensen’s. Not in the chaos that ensued after our return. And I am grateful for the reprieve, if the truth is told. Sonia’s behavior during the sitting so unnerved me that I hadn’t decided how to explain it to James. He knows only what we told Miss Gray — that we fancied a bit of fresh air and took an impromptu stroll. Now, after my discussion with Sonia over the lake, I am quite certain that it is best for all concerned if that remains the story of record.
“Besides,” James continues, oblivious to my turmoil, “I might say you make me bold, and what of it? Why else do we come to our favorite place, to the shelter of the tree and the comfort of our rock?” He sits on the rock then, as if to demonstrate its comfort, grimacing in play at its hard surface. “All right, then. Perhaps the rock isn’t as comfortable as I remember.… Or perhaps it is only more comfortable when you are near.” He lifts his eyebrows, patting the spot next to him and grinning wickedly.
I smile at his attempt to get me closer, making my way to the rock and dropping next to him. “Actually, there’s something I should like to tell you. Something I think may have to do with the book you found in Father’s library.”
His grin fades. If there is one thing that might take James’s mind off the less virtuous reasons for our meetings by the river, it is discussion of a rare book. “What is it?”
Drawing a deep breath, I take the smallest possible step forward. That is how the telling will have to be done. “I believe I understand the reference to the Guardian and the Gate, however much one can understand such a thing.”
“Really? But it sounds like such gibberish!”
I look down at my skirt, smoothing it across my lap while I begin. “Yes, well… I might have agreed only a couple of days ago, but now… well, now I know there is a story… a story about sisters, actually. Twins, like Alice and me.”
He listens mostly in silence, interrupting once or twice to clarify parts of the story he doesn’t understand. But his questions are those designed to further the scholarly pursuit of knowledge. They are not questions in the true sense, not in the sense that he actually believes the story is real. Instead, he listens as if to a fairy tale. I tell him everything save mention of the mark. When I am finished, silence fills the space around us as full as any words.
He finally speaks, his voice gentle, as if not wanting to hurt my feelings. “But… Why have I never heard this tale, Lia? Certainly, as a bookseller, as one who assists serious buyers in the amassing of their collections, I would have heard of it if it had any merit.”
His doubt raises doubt of my
own. Doubt that the prophecy might be believable to anyone but those of us with the irrefutable proof of the mark.
I shrug. “I don’t know, James. I wish I could answer you, but I cannot.”
This is the point at which I should show him the mark. It is well hidden beneath the long sleeve of my gown, but I can almost feel it burning, a silent reminder that there is one important detail I have omitted from the story.
But I don’t tell him. I would like to say it is because I’m afraid he won’t believe me, or that it is because I want to keep him from becoming involved in something so dark. But the truth is I feel the mark as a scar. It brands me as damaged, unclean.
And I cannot bear for James to know. Not yet.
Going to bed is not as easy as it once was. I lie there, trying to force my mind to the blank page that will allow me to sleep.
But the words of the prophecy, the shadow of my sister in the upstairs window, the mark naming me as a thing I scarcely understand — they all conspire to keep me from rest. I finally rise and cross the room to my writing table.
How is it that the legend Sonia told me by the lake is the same as the one in Father’s ageless book? And how have I come to share virtually the same mark with someone like Sonia? A spiritualist, no less. I feel the questions trying to make sense of themselves, trying to fit together into something solid, something I can hold with both hands and begin to understand.
Opening the book, I remove James’s translation and read the prophecy, trying to make sense of the senseless. A cold chill runs up the fine bone of my back as I read again about the sisters. But it is after the tale of the twins that the prophecy leaves me behind.
If I am the Guardian and Alice the Gate, what part does Sonia play in this strange story? And what of the Angel? If I am unable to decipher the identity of so central a figure as the Angel, how am I to understand how to fulfill my role as Guardian? How might I foil Alice’s role as Gate?
I bend my head back to the book, reading the prophecy again until I come to the mention of the keys.
Prophecy of the Sisters Page 6
