Circle of Fire (Prophecy of the Sisters, Book 3)

by Michelle Zink

  I blink for a moment, rooted to the floor as I try to take in yet another surprise.

  “Mr. Wigan?” My voice rises shrilly, and I think I must sound a fool, for, of course, it is Mr. Wigan.

  His laughter is welcome music in the silence of the room. “It is me, indeed! Come across the sea with my dear Sylvia, I have!”

  He continues to the sofa, settling himself comfortably next to Madame Berrier as she hands him a cup of steaming tea.

  Dimitri and Edmund stand stiffly and politely by, but shock has stolen my manners. I move toward Mr. Wigan and Madame Berrier, dropping without pretense into a chair across from the sofa.

  “I am afraid we’ve caught her off guard, darling.” There is humor in Madame Berrier’s voice. “And here I thought we were being indiscreet while in New York.”

  “Indiscreet?” I repeat. “Darling?”

  She takes a sip of her tea before answering and becomes distracted by something in its brew. “Alistair, dear, what is it I taste today?”

  A smile breaks out across his broad face. “ ‘It’s almonds, my love. And a wee bit of chocolate.”

  Madame Berrier nods approvingly. “Most delicious.” She meets my eyes and continues. “I’ve never liked tea. But Alistair is simply magnificent at brewing it. We have been… together for some time now. It was one of the many reasons I was shunned by the people in that narrow-minded little town in New York. And one of the many reasons I was in need of a change.”

  She looks up at Edmund and Dimitri in surprise, as if she has half-forgotten they are there. “Do sit down. I should think it obvious that we do not stand on ceremony.”

  They sit on command, and I turn to Dimitri, gesturing to the little man sipping tea contentedly across the table. “This is Mr. Wigan. From New York. He helped us figure out that Luisa and Sonia were two of the keys.” I look at Mr. Wigan. “And this is Dimitri Markov, Mr. Wigan. He is a… friend.”

  Madame Berrier gazes at Mr. Wigan mischievously. “I daresay they are ‘friends’ much as we are, darling!”

  My cheeks flush hot with embarrassment and I avoid Edmund’s eyes, though surely he understands the nature of my relationship with Dimitri better than anyone after traveling all the way to Altus in our company.

  “I am happy to see you both,” I say, seeking to change the subject. “But I don’t understand why Arthur sent us here.”

  Madame Berrier places a cup of tea in front of me, handing some to Dimitri and Edmund as well. I remain silent as she busies herself passing them cream and sugar, having no doubt that she will continue when she is ready.

  But it is Mr. Wigan who speaks first. “I wouldn’t like to sound excitable, but I might be just the person to help you. That is, I do lay claim to knowledge not held by every man.”

  Hearing the indignation in his voice, I realize that I have wounded his pride. I set my tea down and smile. “Why, of course you do, Mr. Wigan. In fact, had I known you were in London, you would have been the very first person I would have called upon for answers.”

  He hangs his head modestly. “Not that I know everything, mind. But this particular question, well, you might say it falls into my area of expertise.”

  “It certainly does,” I say. “How much has Arthur told you, then? And how did he come upon you?”

  “He found me through an old associate.” Mr. Wigan bites into a cookie, turning to Madame Berrier. “These are quite good, my luscious. Quite good.”

  Edmund shifts uncomfortably next to me.

  “Mr. Wigan?” I ask.

  He looks up, his eyes far away. “Yes?”

  “Arthur? And how much he told you about our quest?”

  “Oh, yes. Yes! Most certainly!” He polishes off the cookie in one bite, chewing and swallowing before continuing. “I didn’t speak with Mr. Frobisher. Not directly. He made inquiries, you see, discreetly to hear it told, about the matter at hand. But no one was able to help him. Each person passed the question on to someone else until it finally made its way to me. When I heard the nature of the information being sought, I knew right away that you must be behind the matter, what with all that business in New York.”

  Madame Berrier leans toward him. “What you mean to say, my dear man, is that we knew right away.”

  Mr. Wigan nods vigorously. “Quite right, my ravishing rosebud. Quite right.”

  “So, can you give us the information we need?” Dimitri’s voice surprises me. I almost forgot he was in the room, so focused was I on the exchange between Mr. Wigan and Madame Berrier.

  Mr. Wigan shakes his head. “Oh, no. I’m afraid not.”

  “I don’t understand.” I try to recall the conversation in which Arthur said he had found someone who might have the answer to my question. “I’m quite sure Arthur said you could help us.”

  Madame Berrier nods. “But of course we can.”

  “Then I don’t… I don’t understand.” I feel helplessly lost, as if I have landed in a strange country in which everyone speaks a foreign tongue and looks at me as if I should know perfectly well what they are saying.

  Mr. Wigan leans forward. His tone is conspiratorial, as if he’s afraid someone will overhear. “I didn’t say I couldn’t help you. Only that I don’t have the answer myself.”

  Madame Berrier rises, smoothing the skirts of her gown. “Seeking answers elsewhere has served us quite well in the past, has it not?”

  I look up at her, wondering what she means to do. “I suppose so.”

  “Come, then. I presume you have use of a carriage?”

  6

  The house is imposing and at least as large as Birchwood Manor.

  “What a lovely home,” Madame Berrier exclaims, gazing up at the stone facade covered in deep green ivy.

  We have traveled beyond the city, according to the instructions given to Edmund by Mr. Wigan, who has remained secretive about our journey. Dimitri’s growing frustration with Mr. Wigan’s refusal to name the person with whom we’ll be meeting is evident, and he starts for the stone steps leading to the door without comment.

  “Well, then,” Mr. Wigan says. “It seems your young man is an anxious one.”

  I look up at him as I follow Dimitri. “We are all anxious, Mr. Wigan. There is much at stake, and much that has already been sacrificed.”

  His nod is slow. “Aye. I was sorry to hear of your brother. I don’t like to contemplate the loss of one so young.”

  I feel Edmund stiffen beside me at the mention of Henry.

  I nod at Mr. Wigan. “Thank you. It was very difficult.”

  Even now the words come with effort.

  Madame Berrier touches my arm as we climb the steps after Dimitri. “Your brother is not gone, my dear. He is simply transformed and waiting for you in a better place.”

  I nod again, forcing away the grief that is already permeating my soul at the mention of Henry. He is in a better place. A place that will become better still when he crosses into the final world with my parents. It is not his fate I fear, nor my own death. Nothing as simple as that.

  No.

  My greatest fear is that I will be caught by the Souls on the Plane. That I will be imprisoned in their icy Void, never to see my brother again. That I will be denied death, forced instead to watch the skies of the Otherworlds for eternity, trapped in a hell of the Souls’ making.

  But of course I say none of this. What would be the point?

  Instead, I smile into Madame Berrier’s eyes. “Thank you.”

  It is all there is to say in the face of her sympathy.

  We reach the top of the steps and Dimitri turns to Mr. Wigan. “I’d like to knock, but since I have no idea whom we have come to call upon, I think it best that you do the honors.”

  The sarcasm in his voice seems evident only to me.

  Mr. Wigan steps forward. “Right you are, my boy. Right you are.”

  Mr. Wigan lifts his hand to the carved door, taking the enormous brass knocker in one hand and bringing it down on the plate until we hear
the clatter echo through the halls of the house on the other side of the door.

  Standing in the silence left by the absent knocking, we glance around, taking in the sleeping gardens and leafless trees. I imagine it must be beautiful in summer, but now it is empty, and slightly frightening.

  The door creaks the smallest bit as the wood shifts and I realize that someone is on the other side. I think myself alone in the realization until Mr. Wigan speaks, rather loudly, to the wooden door.

  “Victor? It’s Alistair. Alistair Wigan. I’ve traveled across the sea to your doorstep, my old friend. Open the door, now.”

  I wonder at the coaxing tone in his voice, for he sounds as if he is speaking to a stubborn child. But it does no good, in any case. The door remains firmly closed.

  “It’s me, Victor, and a couple,” he looks around at our group, “a few people who would like to make your acquaintance for a matter of great importance.”

  The wooden door creaks yet again but still does not open. Edmund and Dimitri glance at each other, some silent communication passing between them.

  Mr. Wigan sighs, turning to me. “He has a bit of a worry, you see. He doesn’t like to go outside, or even to open the door.” He leans in close to my ear. “He’s afraid.”

  “I am not afraid!” I jump a little as the voice startles me from the other side of the door. “I simply was not expecting you.”

  Madame Berrier presses her lips together before looking at Mr. Wigan. “Alistair, my darling, perhaps I should try. A woman’s touch might do wonders.”

  Mr. Wigan seems to be considering the idea when the voice probes from the other side of the door.

  “A woman? Do you mean to say there is a woman with you, Alistair? A proper lady?” The voice is incredulous, as if Mr. Wigan has announced that he has brought a rare beast to call.

  Mr. Wigan leans toward the door. “Better,” he says. “There are two of them.”

  “Now see here,” Edmund begins. “It isn’t proper to use the ladies as a—”

  But he does not have time to finish, for the door swings open and, all at once, we are staring into the blinking eyes of a small, rather delicate man.

  “You might have said you had women in your company. I would not have been so rude.”

  “It would have been a right bit easier to mention if you’d only opened the door,” Mr. Wigan grumbles.

  The man named Victor ignores him, bowing his head slightly toward Madame Berrier, and then to me. “My apologies, dear ladies. Please, join me for tea. If Alistair has brought you to my door, it can only be that the matter at hand is urgent indeed.”

  “You must forgive me. Most of the servants have gone, but I do manage a simple tea quite well.”

  I watch as Victor pours tea. He is slight and fair-haired, with an unusually soft manner. He hands each of us a delicate porcelain teacup, and we gaze around the richly appointed library as he passes tea to the men.

  He gestures to the tray. “Please, do take some refreshment. I remember the journey from London as long, tiring, and, if I am to be honest, rather boring!”

  I find myself laughing at his candor. It is a relief, and I realize I do not remember the last time I laughed in the company of anyone but Dimitri. Reaching toward the tray, I take a delicate biscuit.

  “Thank you for the tea.” I smile at him, thinking it has been a very long time since I have liked someone so immediately.

  He waves my thanks away. “It is my pleasure, young lady. And the least I can do after my atrocious behavior at the door. I do apologize.”

  I swallow the bite of cookie I am chewing. “Don’t you care for company?”

  Victor sighs, his smile full of sorrow. “On the contrary; I like it very much.”

  “Then why didn’t you open the door?” Dimitri’s voice is surprisingly gentle.

  “Well, it is rather complicated. You see, I have trouble with… I cannot…” He takes a deep breath, starting again. “It’s difficult—”

  “It seems you’re afraid.” Edmund’s declaration is simple and holds no malice.

  Victor nods. “It seems I am.”

  “Afraid of what, if you don’t mind my asking?” I don’t wish to be intrusive, but I’ve never met someone who was afraid to leave his home.

  He shrugs. “Illness, criminals, carriage accidents, skittish horses. Everything, I suppose.”

  “But how do you obtain the things you require?” Madame Berrier asks, gazing around the lavish room.

  He turns his palms to the sky, as if everything he needs will fall into them from the library ceiling. “The servants see that I have food and firewood. My tailor comes to the house to fit my clothing. I have everything I need, I suppose.” But his is not the voice of one who has everything he needs.

  Madame Berrier sets her teacup back on the saucer. “Except for company,” she says kindly.

  His smile is grateful. “Except for company.”

  Madame Berrier takes Mr. Wigan’s hand in hers. “Then we shall endeavor to visit quite often—if you don’t think you will mind the intrusion, of course.”

  Victor nods, genuine pleasure in his eyes. “I won’t mind it a bit.” He leans forward toward her. “Although I do hope you’ll be patient if it takes me a few extra moments to open the door.”

  She laughs, her head tipped back, and I see the young woman she must have been. Certainly she was beautiful and wild. I think we would have gotten along famously, even then.

  “Of course,” she says.

  “Now.” Victor sets his own teacup on the saucer. “You have brought me great enjoyment with your visit and have been kind enough to overlook my peculiarity. What can I do for you?”

  “The young ones are trying to solve a riddle, you see,” Mr. Wigan begins. “It’s of some importance, and while I have no small knowledge of these things myself, I cannot find mention of it in any of my books.”

  “What is it, exactly? A map? A date? An obscure relic? I have plenty of time.” He laughs, sweeping one arm to encompass the seemingly endless bookshelves lining every wall. “And I spend it here, reading book after book. I am well-read on many subjects, but most notably on alternative history.”

  Edmund’s voice echoes through the room. “ ‘Alternative history’?”

  Dimitri turns to him. “I believe Victor refers to more controversial explanations for historical events, religious happenings…. Things of that nature.”

  Victor nods. “Precisely.”

  “Then you just might be the person to help us.” I look around our small group, wondering that fate would bring such an odd assortment of people together in such an unimaginable circumstance. “We’re trying to find the meaning of two phrases: Nos Galon-Mai and Sliabh na Cailli’.” I shake my head. “I don’t even know if I have the pronunciation right. I’ve only ever seen them written, you see. But I do think they may be locations.”

  Victor nods with authority. “Nos Galon-Mai is the old word for Beltane, of that much I’m certain.”

  I meet Dimitri’s eyes with a smile. To close the Gate, we must convene at Avebury on the eve of May first with Alice, the keys, and the Stone. It makes perfect sense given that the keys were all born at midnight on Samhain, a holiday whose meaning stands in opposition to that of Beltane.

  The prophecy began with Samhain. It will end with Beltane.

  That we should so quickly find one of the answers to the prophecy makes my spirit soar with hope, but any expectation of a quick answer to our remaining question is dashed a moment later when Victor continues.

  “The other word—Sliabh na Cailli’, was it? That one doesn’t ring a bell.” Victor rolls it across his tongue, as if speaking it slowly will help him find its meaning. “You say you’ve seen it written?”

  I nod.

  “Could you write it for me?” he asks.

  “Yes, of course. Do you have a pen and parchment?”

  Victor rises. “Come.”

  I stand to join him and cannot help but be irritated when
both Edmund and Dimitri stand as well.

  A wry smile touches Victor’s lips. “My, my! Aren’t you important, then! Do they ever leave you alone?”

  I roll my eyes. “On occasion.”

  Victor takes my hand, leading me around the tea table. “Gentlemen,” he says to Dimitri and Edmund, “I assure you that I needn’t take Miss Milthorpe to the ends of the earth for a simple writing implement. I have one in the desk near the window, though you’re welcome to join us if you like.”

  They both glance at the writing desk, not ten feet away. I hope they feel at least as ridiculous as I. They settle back into their seats and I follow Victor to the desk. Once there, he pulls the string on a lamp and a pool of softly colored light spills from its stained-glass shade. When he opens the shallow drawer at the front of the desk I catch a glimpse of the perfectly ordered interior, holding identical pens in a neat row, several inkwells, and a stack of parchment. Removing one of each, he sets the parchment on the desk and hands me a pen.

  “Try to get the spelling just right. Sometimes I remember things the way I first saw them, and if they’re off by a letter or two,” he shrugs. “I simply don’t make the connection.”

  I nod. I will never forget a single word of the prophecy. It is a part of me now.

  Victor removes the lid from the ink pot and sets it upon the writing desk. Dipping the nib into the deep blue ink, I bend over the desk and write the words found on the final page of the Book of Chaos. The words that disguise the hiding place of the Stone.

  Sliabh na Cailli’.

  Straightening, I hand Victor the pen. “There you are.”

  He reaches past me, lifting the parchment from the desk and leaning over to hold it nearer the light. His lips move as he mouths the strange words.

  “Was there anything else? Anything surrounding the words that might help me identify them?” he asks.

  I chew my lip, remembering. “It said, ‘released from the temple, Sliabh na Cailli’, portal to the Otherworlds.’ ”

  I speak only those words necessary to discover the answer we seek. It is a habit to protect the prophecy from the eyes and ears of others. And to protect others from the workings of the prophecy.