Prophecy of the Sisters

by Michelle Zink

  A knock at the door forces Aunt Virginia’s eyes to slide toward Ivy, standing near the washstand over a bowl of steaming water. Ivy makes her way to the door, opening it a crack before closing it and crossing to Aunt Virginia.

  When she leans in to whisper in Aunt Virginia’s ear, I know they think me so close to madness that they fear sending me around the bend completely when, in fact, I feel nothing at all.

  “I shall be right back, Lia.” Aunt Virginia smoothes the hair at the top of my head before leaning in to kiss my forehead. Her lips are cool on my hot skin.

  I steal a glance at the doorway out of the corner of my eye, registering a roughly dressed gentleman standing with his hat in his hands in the hallway. It takes only a second to lower my eyes back to the safety and predictability of the coverlet.

  It is impossible to say how long Aunt Virginia is gone, for time seems to have no measure in the warmth and security of my room. I am half disappointed when she returns to sit gently on the side of my bed. I should like to stay in the quiet of my room without anyone speaking to me for a very long time.

  “Lia.” Her voice is at first gentle, but when I do not answer it becomes only slightly more insistent. “Lia. I must speak to you. About Henry. Will you look at me?”

  But I cannot. I cannot break the spell of the quiet room. This room where I have lain since Alice and I were moved from the nursery so long ago. This room where I have wrapped gifts for Henry at Christmastime. This room where I have dreamed of James’s lips on mine. Surely nothing too terrible will happen here.

  “Lia.” Her voice cracks, and the sadness there is so unbearable that I almost obey. I almost meet her eyes.

  But I cannot. I turn my face to the wall, lifting my chin in a stubborn refusal to hear the thing I know she will say. The thing that will make it impossible to go on.

  32

  I listen for a moment before closing the door quietly behind me and stepping out into the cold night. I want to hear the silence of my home, the only home I have ever known, before I commit this last treacherous act. I have been wise enough to put my boots on before leaving. They look odd, visible in the light of the full moon and peeking out from the bottom of my delicate white nightgown.

  My senses are heightened as I climb the hill to the cliff overlooking the lake. The air is crisp and clean, the smell of winter’s imminence obvious to me in a way that it was not even a few days ago.

  I try not to think. I do not want to think of my mother. I do not want to think of Alice, of the terrible combination of greed and love at the bank of the river.

  Most of all I do not want to think of Henry.

  I have to stop to catch my breath when I reach the top of the hill. My legs are still weak from my time spent in the river. When I am finally able to breathe without the spread of searing pain through my chest, I continue to the edge of the cliff. Even now, it is hard not to marvel at the lake’s beauty. Who can deny the lovely shimmer of its water? It is not such an awful place to die, and in a morbid moment of clarity I have some small understanding of why my mother chose it.

  I shuffle slowly to the edge — closer, closer — until my toes are nearly hanging over the rocky face. The wind whips my hair back from my face and rustles the leaves in the trees behind me. I feel my mother here more than anywhere, I think. I wonder if she stood in the same place I am standing now, if she saw the same ripples on the same water. For the first time in my life, I know with certainty that I am connected to her, that she and I are one, with each other and all the other sisters.

  But I have failed those sisters. My father spent over a decade compiling the list that would set us free, and even with such help, more help than was offered any sister before me, I have failed. The list is gone, and with it any hope of finding the keys, of ending the prophecy. Starting again would take years — years in which Sonia’s and Luisa’s lives would be in danger. Years in which I would be subject to the constant torment of the Souls. Years in which I would not even be permitted to fall into the peace of sleep without fear of letting in the Beast that would destroy the world.

  And then there is Henry. If I were born with the desire to fulfill my role in the prophecy, Alice would not have trapped Henry at the river to gain possession of the list. In another life, another world, perhaps Alice and I could have shared the prophecy with one purpose. Instead, Henry was made a pawn in its cruel game.

  Watch out for Henry, Lia. My mother’s words bounce off the walls of my mind until tears track down my face, slowly at first and then fast enough to wet the collar of my nightdress. I sob into the wind, wanting to let go, to open my arms and fall. But then she speaks to me again.

  There are no mistakes, Lia.

  I cry harder. “I don’t want it to be me,” I scream at the water below. “Why does it have to be me?”

  The water does not answer, but the wind does. It kicks up in a forceful burst, sending me reeling backward from the cliff until I scramble the ground some distance from the edge.

  The wind dies, not a little at a time, but all at once. The leaves in the trees fall quiet, the only sound the gasp of my own labored breathing. I sit there for a time, not feeling the cold, though my breath makes white smoke each time I exhale.

  There will be no quick and easy end to my part in the prophecy set in motion so many ages ago. Wiping the tears from my face, I stand and turn from the lake without a backward glance.

  I will not look over that precipice again.

  The blue sky mocks me, a cruel joke played by God on this of all days.

  Henry’s funeral is not the wet, gray occasion of Father’s burial. Instead the sun is warm on our shoulders, and the birds sing as if they, at least, are happy Henry is with Mother and Father. And I have no doubt that is where he is. No doubt at all that he walks with them, laughing under that velvet sky. But it does not make it easier to bear.

  I feel Alice’s stare from across Henry’s grave as the minister recites the Twenty-Third Psalm, but I do not meet her eyes. I have not met her eyes since the moment after she pulled me from the river. In fact, I do not think I have looked at anyone since, though Luisa and Sonia and, of course, James have all come to call several times. I feel badly about sending them away, but I can hardly stand my own pain at the loss of Henry. I could not bear seeing it reflected and multiplied in the eyes of those around me.

  “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” the reverend says.

  Aunt Virginia steps forward, opening her fist over the hole in the ground and letting the dirt fall from it onto Henry’s grave. Her face is drawn and pale. If there is one person who knows my pain, it is Aunt Virginia.

  I have begun several times to tell her about those last moments at the river with Alice and Henry, but something prevents me from saying the words aloud. It is reason, in part, for without proof or witness the story would be told differently by Alice and me, of that there can be no doubt. But it is something else, as well; the vacant expression in Aunt Virginia’s eyes. The realization that even she can bear only so much. And if I am completely honest, even with only myself, it is a fierce and violent fury burning me up from the inside out. A fury that desires retribution in my own time.

  My own way.

  I look away as Alice walks toward the grave, lifting her hand and letting the dirt fall onto Henry’s small coffin with a dull thud.

  Aunt Virginia looks at me but I shake my head. I will not be responsible for one particle of the dirt that covers Henry in the ground next to Mother and Father. I already bear my share of the blame.

  That is more than enough.

  My aunt nods, looking to the reverend in a silent gesture he seems to understand. He closes his Bible and says a few words to her before nodding and muttering something unintelligible to Alice and me. I can hardly stand his black-suited presence, so full of death and despair. I nod and turn my head, grateful when he moves quickly along.

  “Come, Lia. Let us go back to the house.” Aunt Virginia is at my shoulder, her hand on my arm.
I feel her worry but cannot bring myself to look at her.

  A shake of my head is all I can offer.

  “You cannot stay here all day, Lia.”

  I have to swallow hard in order to use the voice I have not used in so long. “I’ll be along in a bit.”

  She hesitates before nodding beside me. “All right, then. But not too long, Lia.”

  She moves away, Alice trailing behind. It is only Edmund and I now. Edmund stands silently by, his hat in hand, tears streaking down his rough, lined face as if he is no more than a child. I find comfort in his presence and feel no need to speak.

  I stare into the emptiness where my brother’s body will spend eternity. It frightens and saddens me, his boyish smile and bright eyes being left in this ground. This ground that will grow colder and harder as winter progresses before bursting forth with the wildflowers I will not be here to see.

  I try to imagine it, to fix a vision of Henry’s grave covered in violet flowers. To commit it to memory so that I can call it up when I am far away. And then I say goodbye.

  Despite my exhaustion, it is impossible to sleep the night of Henry’s funeral. But it is not my grief that keeps me awake. It is something else, something on the very tip of conscious thought. I know it is important, though I know not how or why.

  It is the story from childhood I hear in my mind. The story Father used as proof of his identity when speaking to Sonia before the Beast began speaking instead. I remember it. I remember Henry, trying to be brave but unable to hide the tears that leaked from his eyes as his small boat pitched jauntily down the river. I remember Alice, not wanting me to build the ill-fated raft, not even wanting to help me try. And I remember myself, sweaty with perspiration and cumbersome in my pinafore, sloppily nailing together the mismatched boards because we surely could not just stand there, could not just watch Henry cry as his most cherished toy bobbed farther out of reach.

  It is the memory of Henry that takes me to his chamber. His eyes, his face, his brilliant smile. Perhaps I need only to be near him one last time before I leave.

  His room is quiet, his things just as he left them. I close the door behind me, wanting to take as mine alone this final moment near my brother. I sit on the edge of his bed and pick up his pillow. It still smells of him. Of books, the house that was his refuge and prison, and the faintly sweet scent of sticky little boy fingers. My chest tightens with such force that I fear I shall not be able to breathe.

  I put the pillow back on his bed, turning it over and smoothing the surface as I did when he was small and I would tuck him in or read him a story before bed. I make my way over to the bookshelf, for Henry was so like Father and me in his love of a good story. The books go on and on, every beloved tome I read as a child and more. My eye is drawn to the spine of Treasure Island as I remember his bright-eyed enthusiasm for the tale we sometimes read together. I pull it from the shelf, enjoying the weight of it in my hand, the feel of old leather.

  The book is as I remember, complete with engravings depicting various scenes from the story. In one of them men work on the beach, digging for buried treasure, and it is this that sparks my memory.

  Father told me to hide it. He told me to keep it safe. For you, Lia.

  My mind wants to deny the possibility, but my heart has already skipped ahead, wondering if the aimless drift of thought is perhaps not so aimless after all.

  I scan the bookshelf, knowing it has been here since Henry lost his boat down the river. At first I do not see it. It has been pushed to the back of the shelf between a bookend and the interior of the shelf. But when my eyes light on that particularly vibrant shade of red, still so vivid after all these years, I know I have found it.

  Standing on tiptoe to reach the glass case, I remember the hours Father worked with Henry to build the replica. Father, with no real interest in using his hands beyond holding his beloved books, spent days and days with his head bent to Henry’s, carefully nailing together the tiny pieces of wood. Carefully painting them the exact colors of Henry’s original boat and then taking it to the glassmaker to have it sealed so Henry would always have a reminder of the beloved toy.

  The glass is cold and smooth in my hand, and I try to separate it from the base on which the boat rests. It is tightly sealed, and though some small part of me feels ashamed to take apart Henry’s model, another more powerful part feels that I was led here for just this reason.

  Turning the case over in my hand I realize that there are a limited number of places in which to look, and I turn my attention to the wooden base. It is square and finished with a dark lacquer. I give it a stronger tug, but it still does not budge from the glass enclosure. It is the depth of the base that gives me pause. At least three inches high, it looks out of place at the base of such a small boat. Of course, it could have been built that way simply as a way to give Henry’s boat a place of honor, my father’s tribute to his only son.

  Or it could be hiding something.

  Holding the glass top securely in my hand, I inspect the bottom of the base for a ledge, a lip, anything that might give me a place to pull. When that does not work I try twisting, but I quickly realize how utterly ridiculous it is to twist something square. Its perfect angles, the clean angular lines, suggest something even simpler, even more elementary, and when I place both thumbs along the very bottom and push, the thin piece of wood at the bottom slides effortlessly away, as if all this time it has been waiting only for me.

  The folded paper inside the small cavity makes me suck in my breath, and chills rise along my arms and neck. My hands shake so dangerously that I cross back to the bed, removing the paper and setting the glass case on the coverlet.

  However much I thought I might be right, I cannot help but be in awe of my small brother when I see the names. They travel like a line of ants down the page, one after the other.

  Sonia Sorrensen London, England

  Helene Castilla Barcelona, Spain

  Luisa Torelli Rome, Italy

  Philip Randall — Investigator

  428 Highgrove Avenue

  London, England

  I fall onto the bed, shaking my head. He never had it at all. The crumpled paper in his hand was only that — a piece of paper, likely blank or full of fake names. Perhaps he meant to throw it in the river so Alice would not continue searching. Perhaps he meant to give her a false list in order to waylay her on a journey without end. Whatever his motive, his gift will allow me to follow the prophecy, to seek its end, without delay. I wonder if the name at the bottom of the list is the person whom my father entrusted with finding the keys. It will be easy enough to find out.

  And now I know. Only three of the keys were identified before my father’s death.

  Three, not four.

  Even still, it is a start.

  33

  As I lift my hand to knock, I cannot help remembering the last time I stood on this threshold. Then, the prophecy and my part in it were still a mystery.

  This time, Aunt Virginia is decidedly more surprised to see me.

  “Lia!” She reaches for my arm, pulling me into the room and shutting the door behind us. “Are you all right? Is something wrong?”

  I want to tell her that, of course, everything is wrong. That Henry is dead and will never come back and that Alice will stop at nothing to bring forth the Beast. But Aunt Virginia knows this. Repeating it will only waste time we do not have to waste.

  I shake my head. “No. I just…” I look down at my hands. “I must leave, Aunt Virginia.”

  When I look up, she nods simply. “What can I do to help?”

  I take her hands in my mine. They are soft and dry and light as a feather. “Come with me.”

  She looks into my eyes with a small smile before reaching out and embracing me. “Oh Lia. You know I should like nothing better.”

  “Then say you will.”

  She shakes her head. “It isn’t yet time for me to leave.”

  “But Henry is…” I nearly choke on th
e words. I think they will kill me on the way out of my mouth. But I force myself to say them. “Henry is gone, Aunt Virginia. There is nothing left for you here.”

  “There is Alice.”

  I cannot hide my surprise. “Alice?”

  “I know it is difficult to understand, Lia. But I made a promise to your mother. A promise that I would look after all of her children. I cannot help feeling that I have already failed her.”

  Her eyes grow dark. I know she is thinking of Henry, but her guilt and sadness only bring forth my anger. “Alice? You will stay to care for Alice? And will you train her in the ways of the Guardian as well? Will you give away the secrets of the sisters to aid her cause?”

  “Lia.” Her voice is soft. It is not scolding. Not exactly. But I hear the admonishment in it. “I would never do such a thing. Alice is beyond my help. Beyond my intervention. I will not train her in the ways of the Guardian, because she doesn’t wish to fulfill the role, but neither can I simply abandon her.”

  I want to scream, What about me? Shall I be abandoned to make my own way in the prophecy with nothing at all to guide me?

  Aunt Virginia continues as if in answer. “And neither am I abandoning you, my dear. You shall have the support of the keys and the guidance of the sisters, and I will join you when I can. You have my word.”

  I shake my head. “Join me where, Aunt Virginia? I don’t even know where I shall go. I need time. Time to refine my knowledge of the Otherworlds and the gifts I can still scarcely control. I need a place where I can feel safe, if only for awhile.”

  “Not to worry.” Her eyes meet mine. “I know just where you’ll go. There are no guarantees, of course. But it is as safe a place as any.”

  “Edmund.” My voice cracks as I say his name.

  He polishes the carriage in long, slow strokes, his back to the door of the carriage house. He stops when he hears my voice, hand still raised against the gleaming flank of the carriage that appears as if it has been polished every moment of the three days since Henry’s death. When he turns to meet my eyes, I wish he had not, for there is such grief there, such naked anguish, that I almost lose my breath.