by Amber Kizer
“The lore says the bright colors attract mischievous evil spirits and then trap them within the sphere. Other stories say the colors and light refraction are repellent to the darkness, and evil can’t enter an establishment with these hanging as protection. Either way, they’re good to have around. Those who could afford them brought them when they came to the New World, or went on any significant journey.”
“Okay.” I nodded.
“But the fascinating part in Ma’s box happened when I started to find these bits of other traditions that said these balls weren’t about evil spirits at all, but signals to angels, and their kindred, that they were welcome to rest and find solace within the walls. My family’s writings said the Witch Balls attracted the angels of ‘Good Death’; they signaled to the light that darkness was repelled there. That the window between life and death was always open. And served as a warning of Bad Death by darkening before the demons arrived.”
He leapt and picked up a ball, and brought it over to me. He held it out, but I was almost afraid to touch it. Tens took it.
“See the bare winter tree in there?” Rumi traced the pattern along the outside of another ball.
“Sure,” Tens grunted. I nodded.
“That design is the Tree of Life. It’s an important differential. This is what gives it the power to signal.” He paused, staring into the ball. “I think. I’m making that part up, but it’s my best hypothesis. And mayhap something to do with the intent, the incantation said while creating the Stone.”
“Like calling Batman?” I snorted.
“Maybe. You tell me?” His expression was reverent.
I hated to disappoint him, but I said, “I don’t think so.”
His expression went from excited to crestfallen. “Well, I started trying it. Figuring out how to get exactly that design in each one. They don’t all take. And people love them. More so than any plain, ordinary glass ball I’ve ever made. Take fishing floats—I thought people liked those until I started blowing these. They gravitate to them. But you, you reflect the light, refract and radiate it; you glow. These balls luster in your presence.”
“It’s warm,” Tens whispered to me.
I reached out and cradled the ball in my palms. “Like a heartbeat.”
Tens nodded.
“Did you notice? It was like strings of Christmas lights being plugged in when you arrived outside the shop,” Rumi added.
“Is that how you knew?” I asked.
“Like an early warning system. That’s the first time. But I’ve been collecting anecdotes from other artists. There are multitudes of bits and pieces going back to Rome, China, and further, to the beginning of the art form itself. So are you?”
“Are we what?”
“A Window Light? An angel? Good Death? And a Guardsman?”
As she grows inside me, I wonder if I’ll see her grown to adulthood. Can we hide here indefinitely? Am I far enough away to be safe? Or will they come?
—R.
CHAPTER 5
Juliet
My favorite bedroom at DG faced east, so it filled each dawn with early-morning sunlight. The walls, swathed in a pale green wallpaper, reminded me of a cross between photographs of the Caribbean Sea and mint chocolate chip ice cream. We called it the Green Room. All the rooms had names.
When I first arrived, before I knew any better, I thought the Green Room would be my bedroom. Then I learned the truth. Kids slept in the old servants’ quarters in the attic, under the eaves. It was all very Grimm.
The bedroom furniture was slick glossy white, distressed shabby chic at first glance, simply shabby upon further inspection. Yellowing lace curtains hung on the floor-to-ceiling windows, and faded Degas ballerina prints, their edges curling, adorned the walls. The bed was a lovely double with four posts curved like balustrades. I slept in that bed for three nights years ago; Mr. Draper slept there for the moment. At least until he died.
A little desk for schoolwork and an enormous antique dollhouse were both pushed into a back corner. I dusted them, but no one played or did homework there. It was all for show.
My clothes were not stored in the armoire, nor folded in any of the bureau drawers. My stuff lived in the secondhand suitcase I arrived with.
The Train Room was decorated for little boys, with a twelve-car train that used to run around the ceiling, but now languished, gathering dust. The Horse Room’s wall mural of hilly pastures and colts frolicking with their mothers seemed particularly cruel to all of us without parents. The Blue Room was decked out in enchanted undersea decor. And the Woods Room was done up like a rain forest of flora and fauna.
All six of the “kid” bedrooms were technically assigned to an inmate, but we weren’t allowed to settle into any of them. The decoration was purely for the sake of appearances: a stranger might think we were very well cared for and DG met all the requirements of the law. At night, though, the kids piled on top of each other, in sleeping bags in the attic. In the winters, we used smuggled-in electric blankets and space heaters that broke house rule number four. Mistress never came up here, and freezing to death was appealing only to some of us. We’d learned long ago, and often the hard way, that appearances deceived.
When our social worker, Ms. Asura, came, we were not allowed to tell her about the rooms or much of anything. If we mentioned the sleeping situation, Mistress wove elaborate tales about an overflow of elderly patients, not lasting more than a day or so. Ms. Asura never asked to see the attic or the bedrooms. She might pull out an official-looking form and caution us to be certain we wanted to file a complaint. If anyone ever did, I didn’t know. Fear was stagnating, paralyzing, and we were trapped here.
Sometimes, when I sat by the bedside of the elderly, I wondered if any of the guests thought they were back in their childhood bedrooms, staring up at trains and stuffed animals and trappings of innocence. Most of the elderly who came here weren’t conscious; thanks to Mistress’s prevalent use of medication most spent their final days in a drugged stupor.
Of the kids currently at DG, I was the eldest. Nicole was closest to my age, a few years younger, and she’d arrived over a year ago. Her heart-shaped face had a clear, porcelain complexion, a strong chin, straight brows, and peach-blushed cheeks. Her eyes were caramel and matched her hair perfectly. She was tiny and much shorter than me, with a delicate, fragile-looking bone structure. She could lift twice my body weight and worked harder than anyone to make my life as easy as possible. I counted my blessings every day she was still here, that she’d been assigned to DG.
Bodie had arrived on Halloween; at barely seven, he was the youngest. He tugged at my emotions as if he were my little brother, if not by blood, then by heart. I did my best not to let my feeling show; Mistress would punish both of us for any visible attachment.
Sema behaved like a shadow of a girl. She rarely spoke, wrapped herself in the curtains, and stared out the windows with her cheeks mashed against the glass. She wore the same outfit every day, a tunic with Disney princesses on it and leggings; I snuck it out to wash it as often as I could. Nicole promised to find a replacement in a larger size because Sema’s milk chocolate belly was beginning to ooze around the waistband. She was plump and sturdy and hated bathing. Just to get her wet daily, I’d finally taught her to swim in the creek last summer, which she actually enjoyed.
January usually brought a deluge of new kids and elderly. This year had been different, with a total of only ten inmates starting the New Year together. Mistress liked having all the beds full, all of the time, and the attic crammed with slave labor, so I wouldn’t be surprised to see our numbers swell three to four times the current occupancy by Valentine’s Day.
Kids might come for only a day or a week, maybe a few months, but if Mistress decided we were a good fit, then we stayed until our sixteenth birthday. Her decisions appeared arbitrary and illogical, designed to inflict the most upset and pain. She divided siblings and friends.
No one stayed until a legal age of eig
hteen. I couldn’t see a pattern, a rhyme or reason, to why some kids qualified for the misery here while others were adopted out by unseen but wholly perfect families. Ms. Asura reassured me the few times I’d asked about placement elsewhere that this was exactly where I should be. She hinted that my history made me unworthy of finding refuge. She refused to give me too many details about the other kids because it might upset me. When I asked about Kirian, a boy I’d loved with all my soul, she told me I’d see him again soon.
“Come on, Juliet, another story. Please!” Bodie rubbed at his eyes, fighting sleep, while the other littlies dropped off one at a time into slumber.
I told happy tales. I weaved golden threads of harmony and love and warmth. No evil. No darkness. The good guys always won. The endings always told of wonderful new beginnings, and a real family usually played a central role. My neck stiff and aching, I arched my back to try to relieve the pain. I felt like bits of me were breaking off and dying each day; I had to find a way to ease up. “Okay, one more, but then lights out.” I racked my brain for more creativity, more imagination. I felt like I ran out of it too often, maybe because I had so little experience with the good and the happy.
Days and nights of deaths made it unusually hard for me to concentrate. I reached deep and spun a tale of candy lands and tooth fairies.
Sema had lost a baby molar yesterday; when she woke this morning, magic had made it into a quarter. If my name is magic, then magic did it. I didn’t believe in the stuff of fairy tales. Not anymore. But I wanted these kids to have faith in the invisible good as long as possible. So I played tooth fairy, Easter bunny, Santa Claus, and birthday queen; I did all the things I had so desperately craved for myself years ago. When I was able to, I picked the brains of the elderly for stories of their families and traditions. I learned a lot by listening. I don’t think most people listen well. At least not the kids I’d watched age and leave ahead of me.
Nicole slept in the attic of kids and took over most of the nighttime mothering duties from me: calming night terrors, changing bedding when wet, administering baths and cleaning teeth. I wouldn’t—couldn’t—manage without her.
The house rules were often handed down with ominous stories. Never call 911. Ever. Once, long ago, an inmate fell and broke his leg badly, with bone sticking through skin. The kids didn’t know what to do, so someone called 911. The injured boy was taken away in an ambulance, along with the kid who called. Neither returned. Whispers in the night told that Mistress went to visit the kids and killed them. The broken boy because he’d been stupid and would need months of care, unable to work, and the caller because she’d dared tell strangers that DG was anything other than a loving environment. Kirian said all the kids had been taken to the funeral, to be present at the gravesides. A warning. He’d been here then, but I hadn’t.
I sighed, flexing my hands because my fingers kept cramping up in spasms. “Good night, little ones. I’ll see you in the morning. Remember …”
“We are loved,” they mumbled against their thumbs or nubs of stuffed animals. I wanted them to grow up hoping, believing, there was a world of good out there. I’d never seen it, except in my vivid dreams, but I knew it had to exist. I tried to create it, make it here. I only had hope to give them. And food, covertly cooked and with shared flavors from all over the world. Flavors that sang of the histories and families of the people who died at DG. I didn’t know if I was talented or obsessed, but I knew techniques and flavor combinations that seemed to belong to the elderly I was in contact with.
Nicole followed me out to the hallway. Her cinnamon-bark eyes and hair reminded me of good fairies, wood sprites. She worked undeniably hard to lighten my load, as if she knew, before I did, what was coming next. “Ingredients?”
“Lemongrass, Thai basil, coconut milk.” I reeled off a list, already tasting the dish, but not sure which form it might ultimately take.
“Curry? Yummy.” She smiled.
“Maybe.” I wasn’t sure. Yet.
I slunk off to find Mistress in her apartments for my nighttime deriding.
Mistress’s bulk seemed to expand with each day. I wondered if a sharp corner might pop her like a balloon. She squinted a glare in my direction. “About time. Why can’t you finish earlier? Do you think I have nothing better to do than wait on you?”
“No, ma’am.” I bit my tongue as I watched her apply bleaching cream to her mustache and the beard along her third chin.
“Why didn’t you leave Mrs. Mahoney to die in peace, and finish your jobs? Do you think she noticed or cared that you were there? How much of today’s work will you have to do tomorrow?”
I kept my mouth shut; she went right on without noticing. Mistress was a mishmash of features and shapes that made her weight the least of her appearance problems. I had nothing against fat. I loved food, and one tended to go hand in hand with the other. But the sadistic streak that melted Mistress’s humanity into a boiling blob of acid was strikingly visible in her ugly outsides. If she were thin our lives would have been even more hellish because she might move faster or with more agility.
“Have you written all of this down? Do you understand how much I have to do? I can’t help but think you’re not taking your position here seriously. Do I need to ask Ms. Asura to find you a new place? Do I? Do I? I hear they just busted a child-trafficking ring in the city. Perhaps you’d like me to inquire into finding you a home that way? There must be upset buyers out there without girls. And your birthday so soon?” She paused to let me think about her threat. “Face it, Juliet, your mother didn’t want you. No one wants you because you’re useless and stupid and aggravating.”
The voice in my head spoke in unison with her pronouncements. They never changed. Useless. Stupid. Aggravating. I must have blinked because I caught her attention.
“How many times do I have to tell you to use your words? Will I see you working an hour earlier in the morning to make this up to me?” She huffed out of the room without waiting to hear any answers. It was never about the answers I gave, just the impenetrable questions and judgments that she yelled.
At least she hadn’t hit me tonight. I usually knew to be up and toiling by five. Tomorrow, four. As if she’d really get up that early and make sure I was working. But I couldn’t risk her punishing the other kids to make an example for me.
I glanced at the clock. Eleven p.m. Crap. Another day almost over.
I made my last rounds to check on all the guests, the kids too. There was a night nurse who never asked questions, never really spoke to any of us. The face changed, but for the past few years the “no see, no hear, no speak” attitude had been the same. One time, seven years ago, right before Fourth of July, the night nurse reported our sleeping arrangements to the state. She tried to get me to tell her what really happened here, but even at age eight I knew better than to answer truthfully. No one came to investigate.
There was no use in hoping for rescue. In real life, no one ever swooped in. In my life, no one ever noticed the need.
Finally, dragging every exhausted cell, I opened my little door under the main stairs. I had hidden a blow-up mattress behind the cleaning supplies and paper towels in the storage crawl space. A square foot or two all my own was a slice of paradise. It was quite comfortable, all things considered. My only complaint—I was rarely there and was never awake long enough to relish my few moments of solitude.
I snuck in and maneuvered between the stacks of toilet paper to the far corner.
Mini was already there, waiting for me, purring. I collapsed onto the deflating air mattress, making a mental note to check it for leaks. A few hours of compression and it was flat on the ground. Tonight, too tired to care, I rolled onto my side. Mini watched me with her steady blink. Her tail flicked like a metronome feather duster. When I finished squirming, trying to find a comfortable position for my throbbing joints, she minced her way over to me.
Mini appeared not only for the deaths. Each night for over a year she showed up to c
uddle against my sleeping self. If I believed in magic she would be evidence to support its existence. The rest of the time I assumed she hunted in the fields and forests around DG. But when someone neared death, or I dragged myself to bed, it seemed as if she was summoned by an unseen force to my side.
At night, she wrapped herself in my arms as naturally as my own skin clung to the muscles beneath. Her heartbeat mirrored mine, as steady as a water drip. Her head tucked neatly under my chin and she draped her upper body along my inner arm.
On my side, I folded my legs up under her tail and laid my hand between her forelegs, my fingers curled right beneath her chin. I held on to her like a teddy bear.
I slept easier with her next to me. My dreams became softer, fuzzier, lighter than they were before she arrived. This was the only time when my fingers and toes didn’t ache with piercing cold. By nightfall my knuckles were usually so swollen and stiff I didn’t want to use my hands, but petting Mini helped the swelling decrease.
Sighing, I poured my breath, my aching loneliness into her multihued fur. I inhaled the mushroomy earth and pine sap of the outdoors, the warm sunlight and the silvery moonlight, the licorice darkness and the sugary light that clung to her.
Once again, I fell toward sleep wondering what I’d done to deserve this life.
Karma? Was I a serial ax murderer or slave owner in a previous life? Did I drown my children and thus have to live a lifetime as one of those unwanted children? When does life even out injustice and bring fairness?
At twelve, I’d opened DG’s front door to missionaries who told me to know God loved me and thought me perfect. Did I believe in God? Where was he? How did he let this happen? How could he not intervene? Mistress beat me until I’d bled for opening the door to those people. She made me repeat, over and over again, There is no God. No prayers. No Santa Claus or Easter bunny. No rest for the wicked or stupid.
I’d tried to hope, for so long I’d held out for a sign to believe. In something, someone who looked down and knew how my story ended and why it was written this way.
