by S E Holmes
dumb to appreciate the beautiful girl he’s with!”
I’d never seen Smithy so indignant. My face slackened from glare to stare.
“I want you to want it to be with me. And it’ll be my first time not drunk-out-of-my-mind and thankful not to remember in the morning. My first time with someone I actually want to be with.” He squared his shoulders, gathering courage as though preparing to dive from a tall cliff. “My first time with the only girl I’ve ever loved!”
Smith gulped, watching me keenly, while hope blossomed on his divine face. It was not difficult to let the last two sentences wipe out everything I’d endured since arriving home. The joy overwhelmed and I took a deep breath, ready to share how elated I felt.
“Winsome, please! Time is of the essence.”
Bea sounded desperate, her voice a distant echo from somewhere in the warehouse below. Alarmed, Smithy jumped from the bed, hurrying towards the door. “We’ll talk later. I’ll meet you in the corridor as soon as I’m dressed.” He smiled over his shoulder. “You’d better get dressed too, or I won’t be able to concentrate on anything other than you. I have a feeling what comes next is very important.”
I sighed once he’d jogged from my room. I had that same feeling too and the understanding brought on black despair because once the facts were out, I could not deny the horror of what was coming anymore.
Avoiding shards of broken glass from my shattered wardrobe mirror, I skirted to my drawers on the opposite side of my room to rummage my hidden stash of clothes banned by Fortescue. I’d had to rescue my favourite lucky t-shirt from the bin on several occasions, its motto: ‘Get Funked’. I really needed all the luck I could get. Hugo’s abandoned cot ran along the wall, forlorn without its owner. It was weird I had so quickly accepted his presence, after my initial complaint. I wished again that he was here.
Donning a daggy pair of drawstring shorts, I dawdled on the edge of my bed slowly lacing moth-eaten Converse sneakers. Their original red suede was now scuffed and faded. Picking my way over crunching glass, I shunned my reflection in the bathroom mirror and cleaned my teeth. I pulled my hair back in a messy bun. I’d never had to dress up for Smith and wasn’t about to start. Now there was even less point, given that he could sweep in on me via psychic CCTV at any opportunity.
Then I wasted more time opening the window shades. A bleak grey sky emerged to signal an imminent downpour, the weather matching my mood. With no further excuse for delay, I eventually made my way to the top of the stairs, where Smithy loitered in boardies and a singlet, the embodiment of beach-bronzed Aussie male splendour. He inspected my t-shirt approvingly, his eyes lingering to read its message. I sucked in my tummy.
“Maybe later!” He winked and captured my hand in his.
We descended the steps into the collection hall in silence, my palm sweaty in his, neither of us brave enough to speculate on what came next. Smithy grimaced as we skirted a collection of thumbscrews in a lit display case, heading for Mike in the central space. Up ahead, partially obscured by the slab of granite forming our angel’s plinth, Mrs Paget and Fortescue could be glimpsed lurking by two golden Doric caducei framed in a cross on the landing wall, just inside the entrance.
These were the staffs carried by ancient ambassadors, the entwined snakes and wings of Hermes now a symbol for medicine. Double full-sized onyx statues of Isis, Egyptian goddess of children, and her husband-brother Osiris, god of the afterlife, guarded either side of the door. Ritual chalices were shelved in upright display cabinets, which made a parade heading up to the steps.
“As Brigadier General for the Royal Regiment, Fifth Battalion, I exercise my right to carry a bayonet.” Fortescue’s voice floated our way.
Mrs Paget grunted permissively. “In that case, I’m bringing my slingshot.”
Bea appeared from a side corridor, sliding a bullet cartridge into the gun she carried and chambering a round, before tucking it away in a holster strapped to her waist. Smith and I gave each other incredulous sideways looks as we approached. The cats paced up and down at the door.
“Please do not start, Jerome. A bayonet is rather conspicuous on modern city streets. And if you insist on dragging out one of those moth-eaten uniforms, I really shall follow through on my threat to burn them. I feel a slingshot is redundant, Grace, given the revolver belted beneath your vest.”
Fortescue sniffed. “It is alright when you wish to gallivant about with a crossbow, Beatrice.”
“Oh, for goodness sakes! This, from someone with a collection of axes. Besides, that was two hundred years ago in Lithuania. Crossbows were considered a fashion accessory back then.”
Mrs Paget cleared her throat in warning as we appeared. They were all dressed in dark, comfortable clothing, fit for stealth. I pretended I’d heard and seen nothing. I could not begin to guess what Smithy pretended. We cleared the collection and joined the five of them.
“Ah! The lady of the hour. Show us your Deltas, Winsome.” What the hell was a Delta? Fortescue’s lips pursed when he spotted my t-shirt. “That horrid top seems to be a boomerang. It has a habit of resurfacing, despite the fact I’ve thrown it in the garbage. Several times.”
“I guess it’s magic,” I smirked.
“A sense of humour in times of strife is one of you most redeeming qualities, Winnie.” Aunt Bea smiled at me, her face haggard and deeply etched by new lines. Silver streaked her crimson bob.
I looked in horror from one to the other. This close, they were all visibly withered, lacking flesh to fill out their skin, which suddenly seemed three sizes too big. Old age ravaged their previously spry bodies, Mrs Paget’s spine so crooked that she was forced to peep up from a hunch.
A chill froze my blood. “Oh! What has happened to you? How can we stop it!” Smithy stepped closer, his gentle touch at the small of my back. Tears flooded my eyes. In the scant span of two days they were rushing abnormally quickly towards death.
“Winnie,” Bea said gently. “No one lives forever.” The grief consumed me and I could not speak. “I am sorry for the subterfuge of the past few days. Some things are better learned through experience rather than talking.”
I wanted to call an ambulance, not hang in the foyer speaking in riddles. But whatever affliction wreaked havoc on my guardians’ health did not seem the kind of thing handled by normal doctors. It was an altogether unnatural scourge. Mrs Paget and Fortescue came down the stairs and stood with Bea in an expectant half-circle around Smithy and I, their faces united in compassion – compassion targeting the two of us. That in their suffering they reserved pity for us was alarming. And I could no longer hide behind false ignorance and denial, forced to finally confront my suspicions. Dragging in a breath to still my nerves, I broke the silence.
“Please tell me what this is all about.”
Bea’s gaze did not waver from me when she said, “Grace?” Mrs Paget shuffled forward, reaching out both of her hands, palms to the ceiling. It took only a moment for me to understand what she wanted. I lay my wrists with the tattoos upright in the curve of her frail fingers. Bea continued, “Do you remember who a Keeper is, Winsome? What she does?”
I nodded apprehensively. Smithy peered down over my shoulder, watching Mrs Paget keenly. He radiated the clean smell of floral soap and the ocean, his strong presence the single familiar and reassuring aspect of the drama engulfing my existence. I could not shake a sense of mounting doom. “The Keeper hides the Stone from its owner.”
“Yes,” Bea said. “But a Keeper’s true strength resides in her ability to conceal anything that promises to benefit her enemies.”
Mrs Paget peeked up at me with a loving smile. Slowly, she rotated my wrists together until the tattoos met. As soon as the triangles made contact, she flickered and blinked out. Just like that, she vanished completely.
I yelled unintelligibly and jerked from her hold, lurching rearwards into the iron wall of Smithy. Scuttling to the side, I put some distance between myself and all of them, glaring from one to the other and ba
ttling not to hyperventilate. Mrs Paget had returned to view once I’d pulled from her grasp. Smith stared at me, his mouth agape, which appeared to be the only reaction he could muster.
“It can’t be real!” Gulping, I forced the words out.
“I wish that were so, Winnie.” Bea gazed at me with infinite kindness, which somehow made everything worse.
I pointed at her accusingly, backing farther away. “It’s not real. Please! Tell me it’s not real!”
Hitting a tall gilt chalice on its pillar, the lot rocked perilously before settling. None of my guardians had moved a muscle to catch the priceless cup, which spoke volumes on their priorities right now.
“You cannot deny your birthright, Winsome. No matter how all of us want it to be otherwise, you are the Last Keeper of the Crone’s Stone,” Fortescue spoke softly, his brow puckered.
“And you’re the Sacred Trinity,” I whispered, not sure whether I should laugh hysterically or run screaming into heavy traffic. Which meant Smithy was … But there was only so much one fraught mind could take.
Fortescue cleared his throat. “Beatrice, tempus fugit.”
She nodded at him. “Yes, Winnie. Like you, we are the only ones who remain. And if we do not fix your predecessor’s mistakes with utmost alacrity, I fear disaster will befall us all.”
She beckoned me closer, but I
