And then, from some dark recess, I find the clarity to turn away. I turn my back to the table and will myself to sleep.
My dreams are constant. I am both in them and above them, watching them unfold. There are moments when I am conscious of the feeling of flying, as if I am on one of my travels. But there are others where I know, even in the absent state of sleep, that it is a dream.
There are flashes — soundless flashes of my mother’s grave, the blackness seeping from the Earth near her marker. Flashes of the cliff from which she fell, of my father and his tortured, terrified expression when we found him in the Dark Room. In my dream, the enormous winged demons chase me, but this time the army is led by something even more frightening. Its heart beats in time to my own, blocking out all rational thought as it approaches in the thunder of a thousand hooves.
Louder, louder, louder.
And then I am falling, falling through a dark and endless emptiness. At first I believe it is the hissing of the dark thing in my dream that causes me to sit up so suddenly in my bed, my breath coming fast and heavy, my heart beating ferociously in my chest. But a quick glance to the end of my bed reveals Ari, hissing at me in fear or anger. He eyes me warily, back arched and teeth bared.
And then he does the strangest thing of all.
He turns, jumping down from the bed and padding purposefully to the corner where he turns his back to me, sitting on his haunches and staring at the wall as if refusing to acknowledge my existence. I cannot take my eyes off his shadow, an ominous smudge in the corner of the room, though he is nothing but the cat I have loved for many years.
There is no light coming from the windows, and for a minute, I think perhaps it is still night. But then I hear the sounds of the servants. I remember that it is almost winter and is quite dark even when we wake.
It all moves through me in seconds — the darkness, Ari’s unusual behavior, the sounds of the house slowly waking. What comes to me a moment later is the weight around my wrist. It is too dark for me to see, so I use my other hand to feel for it, just to be sure. Even that is not enough to bring belief, and I fumble for a match, lighting the bedside lamp clumsily until light bursts forth, illuminating the medallion on my wrist.
13
It takes me half the morning to escape the house unseen with the medallion.
Alice seems more watchful than usual as we eat breakfast and read, though I tell myself she cannot possibly know what I mean to do. Still, I don’t take my leave until she retires to her room to work on an overdue French lesson for Wycliffe.
The wind is so cold it takes my breath away, but it does not deter me. I am already committed to the task at hand. Forcing aside my discomfort, I make my way around the house and toward the river. I will my feet forward as fast as my skirts will allow, the drawstring bag swinging from one hand as I pick up the pace. I no longer feel the cold. In fact, I don’t feel or hear a thing. Everything is quiet and still as I put one boot in front of the other, as if the world itself knows what I mean to do.
When I come to the river’s edge, I reach into my bag, feeling around for the medallion. I half-expect it to be gone, to have disappeared in an unreasonable bid for safety, as if it has desires all its own. But it is only a thing, after all, and it lies in the bag right where I placed it before breakfast.
All I want is to be rid of it.
I raise my arm in the air, hesitating only a second before letting go and flinging it into the river with force. A small puff of steam rises off the water where it lands. I walk as close to the river’s edge as I can manage without risking a fall.
It is there, spinning downstream in the angry current, the black velvet coiling like a snake around the gold disc, glinting from the water though there is not a speck of sun in the sky.
I stay by the river awhile to gather my thoughts. I do not know how the medallion works with the prophecy, but I feel certain that it has something to do with the Souls and their pathway back. Now it is somewhere in the cold, wild waters of the river. It will sink to the bottom and lie among the rocks. I pray to a God I rarely acknowledge that no one will ever see it again.
I sit atop the dry leaves on the bank, my back against the large boulder where I pass the time with James. The thought of him brings an uneasy turn of my stomach. It is clear that if he believes in the prophecy at all, it is only as legend. Certainly, my newly revealed role as Gate would be difficult for even the most imaginative person to accept, let alone one as reasoned as James.
I attempt to envision his reaction, assuming I can summon the courage to tell him. I remind myself that we are more than promised. We are best friends. But in the confidence of his love I also feel a deep disquiet. A small voice that whispers, What if he doesn’t want you?What if he does not wish to marry such a strange person with such a strange role in such a strange tale? He will say his love is true, but he will never look at you with the same love and trust again. I shake my head, denying it to no one but myself.
“Why do you shake your head, though you are all alone?” James’s voice startles me, and I hold a hand to the front of my cloak.
“Goodness! What are you doing here? It’s Sunday!” He has appeared, leaning against a tree across from the rock, as suddenly as if I had conjured him by thought alone.
He tilts his head, a teasing smile playing at his lips. “Can’t I come to call, just for the pleasure of it?”
I am torn between my desire to see him and the increasing difficulty of keeping so many secrets. “Well… yes. Yes, of course. I simply didn’t expect you.”
He walks over, his boots crunching across the forest floor. “Father didn’t need the carriage, and I couldn’t wait until tomorrow to see you. I hoped I might find you here.” He reaches a hand down toward me, and I take it, allowing him to pull me up and against him. When he speaks again his voice is low and rough. “Good morning.”
I am embarrassed by the scrutiny of his eyes on my face, though surely he has looked at me in this manner a thousand times before. “Good morning.” I dip my head, avoiding his eyes and stepping away from the warmth of his body. “And how is your father?”
It is a silly question. Of course Mr. Douglas is fine, otherwise James would not be here with me. Still, it gives me a chance to wander away from him while trying not to seem as if I want to put distance between us.
But James knows me too well. He ignores my question, making his way to me in two long strides. “What is it? What’s wrong?” He takes my hand, and I feel his eyes on my face as I stare at the swirling water. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”
This is it. This is where you tell him. Tell him everything. Trust in his love. It is a persistent wind that whistles through my heart but one I ignore, though reason calls me a fool.
“Of course I am.” I smile, digging deeply to make it as bright and carefree as possible. “I’m… I’m simply not feeling myself today, that’s all. Perhaps I should retire to my chamber for the afternoon.”
He is disappointed. Disappointed that I shall not spend the day with him when he has come all this way. “All right, then. I’ll walk you back to the house and fetch the carriage from Edmund.” He covers the wounded look in his eyes with a smile anyone would believe, if only they did not know James as well as I.
James and I part in the courtyard after making our way back from the river amid strained conversation. He holds my hand as he begins to walk away, as if trying to keep me from slipping further from his grasp. I watch his carriage disappear around the bend in the drive before turning toward the house.
The small voice comes from behind me as I climb the stone steps on my way to the front door. “Miss? You’ve dropped something, Miss.”
It is the young girl from town, the one who gave me my comb with the bracelet. She wears the same sky blue pinafore, her flaxen ringlets springing around her shoulders.
I look around, struck silent by the unlikelihood of the child turning up here, so far from town. There is no sign of an adult, no carriage
or horse. I descend the stairs toward her, narrowing my eyes in suspicion. It was she, after all, who gave me the medallion in the first place, never mind the innocence of her face.
“I’ve not dropped anything. What is your name? How did you get here?”
She ignores the question, thrusting her small hand toward me, her fingers closed into a fist. “I’m quite certain it’s yours, Miss. And I’ve come all this way.” Her hand comes toward me so quickly that it is a reflex, really, opening my palm and taking the thing from her. She turns and skips down the tree-lined drive, humming the same tune that drifted after her in town.
It is only then that I feel the water. Water that leaks from my fingers in a torrent. My hand shakes violently when I open it to see what the girl has delivered.
It cannot be.
The medallion lies in my palm, black velvet coils made all the blacker by the water that soaks them, pouring through my fingers and onto the stone stairs. The bracelet is more than damp. It is dripping with water, soaked through as if it was lifted from the river only a moment before.
I have to stop the girl.
The girl, the girl, the girl.
Running down the stairs, the hateful thing I do not want clutched in my hand, I enter the darkening pathway leading to the road. I run until I am deep within the path, the trees forming a shadowy canopy that rises on either side. I stand there far longer than makes sense, staring off in the direction I saw her skip, the wind an eerie whisper in the trees overhead. But it is no use. She is gone, as I somehow knew she would be.
“Is it very cold out?” Henry asks as I come into the entry, rubbing my hands together. He and Aunt Virginia are playing cards, the fire crackling in the firebox.
“Quite. I should think none of us will be spending much time by the river until spring.” I hang my cloak, turning to them with a smile that I hope hides my unease. “Who’s winning?”
Henry grins, triumphant. “I am, of course!”
“Of course? Oh, you little beast!” Aunt Virginia teases. She looks over at me. “Care to join us, Lia?”
“Not just now. I’m freezing. I think I’ll change into warm clothes. After dinner, perhaps?”
Aunt Virginia nods absentmindedly.
I look around the parlor. “Where is Alice?”
“She said she was going to her chambers to rest,” Aunt Virginia murmurs, studying her cards with great concentration.
I head to my room to look for a blanket, a deep disquiet settling into my chest. When I come to my room and see the figure, hunched and digging through the top drawer of my dresser, I understand.
“May I help you find something?” The coldness in my voice feels unfamiliar in my throat.
Alice whirls around. She stares at me, her face an impassive mask, weighing her words before speaking as she strolls casually toward me. “No, thank you. I was looking for the brooch I lent you last summer.” She stops in front of me, unable to leave the room as I stand in the doorway.
“I gave it back to you, Alice. Before school resumed in the fall.”
Her smile is small and hard. “That’s right. I’d forgotten.” She tips her head to the door. “Excuse me.”
I wait a moment, relishing her discomfort, the way she squirms under my gaze for once. Finally, I step aside, allowing her to pass without another word.
A half hour later, I am sitting at the writing table in my room. I have wrapped a blanket around my shoulders to stave off the chill as I brood over Alice’s intentions.
The book was still in the wardrobe where I last hid it. It was not hidden so carefully that Alice couldn’t have found it with a thorough search. I can only assume that she either hadn’t time to search the wardrobe or that she found the book but has no use for it.
The medallion was with me all along, though I tried mightily to get rid of it. In any case, it is clear now that it will not release its hold on me so easily. With all that Alice seems to know, it is difficult to believe she doesn’t realize this, if she is aware of its existence at all.
But if she was not looking for the book, and she was not looking for the medallion, what else is there?
I lower my eyes to the book, open on the table in front of me. The prophecy is so familiar that I could recite it from memory, and yet I wonder if reading it again might bring me to the thing I’m missing. I hear Father’s voice, as clearly as if he is sitting beside me, saying something he so often said.
Sometimes you cannot see the forest for the trees.
Such a silly saying — a cliché, really. But I try to open my mind, to reread the prophecy as if reading it for the very first time.
At first, it is just as I remember. It is only when I come to the mention of the keys that the spark of discovery causes my breath to catch in my throat.
The keys. Alice thinks I have the keys.
The knowledge that she is searching for the keys brings me an odd kind of comfort, for it can only mean that she has not yet found them. That there is still time for me to find them first.
The door eases open with a creak, shaking me from my thoughts. I turn to find Ivy carrying a tray toward me.
“There you are, Miss. Nothing like a hot cup of tea to warm you on a cold day such as this.” She places the tea on the writing table, standing awkwardly by my elbow.
For a moment, I don’t understand why she has brought tea to my room unbidden or why she is standing near my chair as if expecting something more. But then I see the small piece of paper peeking from beneath the cup and saucer.
“What is this?” I turn to look at her.
She shifts from foot to foot, twisting her apron and avoiding my eyes. “It… It’s a message, Miss. From town.”
My surprise is such that I don’t do the obvious thing, the simplest thing, which is simply to pick up the piece of paper and see what kind of message it holds. Instead, I ask. “A message? From whom?”
She leans in, looking around as if someone might be listening. I see from the shine in her eyes that she quite likes the bit of mystery. “From a friend of mine. A maid in the house of that girl. The strange one.”
Aunt Virginia is meeting with Cook and Margaret to plan next week’s Thanksgiving dinner while Henry takes an afternoon rest. It is as good a time as any to make my escape in response to Sonia’s message.
Edmund is in the carriage house, watching a young boy as he polishes one of the carriages. The boy doesn’t notice me, but Edmund looks up as I enter.
“Miss Amalia! Is something the matter?” I have not been to the carriage house since Alice and I were small and used it as a hiding place for hide-and-seek.
I come closer, turning my back to the boy. “I need to be taken into town, Edmund. Alone. I would not ask, except it is… it is important.”
His gaze holds mine, and for one terrible moment I think he will refuse. For one terrible moment I think I will have to remind him that Aunt Virginia is only a guardian, that it is Alice and Henry and I who are masters of Birchwood. Thankfully, he spares me the humiliation of resorting to such a spectacle.
“All right, then. We’ll take the other carriage. It’s behind the stables.” He turns around and heads out the door, mumbling as he goes. “Your Aunt Virginia will have my head on a platter.”
14
I look at the piece of paper Ivy passed to me with my tea. I don’t know what Sonia has in store, but I shall have to return the favor of trust that she has shown me. Her writing is as neat and straight as a child’s.
Dearest Lia,
I have located someone who might help us in our journey. Please trust me, and come to 778 York Street at one o’clock in the afternoon.
S.S.
I have already given Edmund the address, and gather from his subsequent snort that we are not traveling to a part of town he deems appropriate. Nevertheless, he does not question me further, and I want to kiss him for his steadfast loyalty.
The carriage rumbles toward town in a series of harsh bounces and jolts across the hard-pac
ked road. We have not had a good rain since the day following Father’s funeral nine days before. I think it befitting, as if God has used all his tears on the just cause of my father’s death. Even still, the lack of rain has been much discussed among the servants. They cluck their tongues and shake their heads, arguing about whether it means an especially cold winter or one especially warm.
We pass through the familiar part of town in a blink. Past Wycliffe, the bookstore, the fashionable inns and restaurants, the sweet shop, Sonia’s house. It is not long before Edmund turns the horses down a quiet lane hidden behind the clean and bustling streets.
The lane is dark, shaded on all sides by the tenement buildings that house the less fortunate. Through the window of the carriage, I see laundry swinging on clotheslines strung above the litter-strewn lane. The ride becomes bumpier, the ground further parched, as if even the water does not want to stay long here. I am beginning to feel green about the edges when Edmund finally pulls the horses to a stop with a soft, “Whoa, boys.”
Looking out the window, I cannot fathom a reason why Sonia should ask me to meet her at such a place, but Edmund is at the door, opening it wide before I can think further about the wisdom in coming.
“Are you certain you’d like to stop here, Miss?”
I step from the carriage, determined to see my journey through. Ours is not a quest for cowards. “Yes. Most certain, Edmund.”
Edmund holds his hat while we wait for Sonia. Two small boys kick a large rock down the lane. They make a racket, but their playful laugh is a welcome distraction from the silence of the deserted street.
“Which one is it?” I ask Edmund.
He nods toward a narrow doorway a few feet from the carriage. “That one there.”
I am beginning to wonder if I’ve made a mistake when Sonia rushes around the corner, breathless and pink at the cheeks. “Oh goodness! I’m sorry to be late! It’s ever so hard to escape Mrs. Millburn’s eye! She books me for so many sittings, I barely have time to breathe!”
Prophecy of the Sisters Page 10
