Isabella's Heiress

by N. P. Griffiths

  “Lisa, are you alright?” Emma’s eyes were wild with fear as she searched her sister’s face for some kind of response.

  Lisa tried to answer but instead had to gulp down tears. “I’m alright, honestly.” Lisa watched as Emma’s face went from deathly white to a deep red as she turned to face Victoria, who by now was looking like she could kill someone. That look changed rapidly as she saw the rage in Emma’s face.

  “You bitch!” Emma threw herself at Victoria, who by now was looking like she wanted to be anywhere else but there, but didn’t get any further than the barman who was now barring her way.

  “Right that’s it. Emma, I think it’s time you and your friends left.”

  Emma snarled as she looked at him. “But she threw the glass!”

  “And she’ll be dealt with, the police have already been called but I think you’re better off out of it.”

  The barman’s comments did nothing to assuage Emma’s anger but the muffled cries from behind his back as Victoria heard the comment about the police did.

  “Well there goes your university place, bitch! I hope you like serving hamburgers for a living!”

  “That’s it, Emma. Leave, now. Taryn, take her out.”

  The barman had been careful not to lay a hand on Emma, so when she felt someone guide her away from the scene, she knew it was only going to be Taryn.

  “Em, c’mon. Pete and the others left before we got here, they’re already at the Lounge.”

  Taryn had always been able to calm Emma down when she lost her temper. It had been something that she had done since they were young and tonight was no different. Emma backed off but made sure she didn’t turn her back to Victoria until they were nearly out the door, by which time Taryn had collected Lisa as well.

  “Emma, are you alright?” Lisa wanted to say how proud she was of how she had put Victoria in her place but couldn’t find the words.

  “Just don’t say a fucking word!” Was Emma’s only response and Lisa felt the hot welt of tears again as the words cut through her. All she wanted to do now was go home but as the tires squealed in protest as Emma pulled away from the curb she knew there was more of this night to endure.

  Chapter Twelve

  Home

  The following morning Emma found herself standing on platform fourteen with Taryn. They had missed the rush hour and Emma was silently grateful for the lull in the constant tide of commuters that allowed her to sit on a bench and collect her thoughts. She had relayed the previous night’s events to Taryn as they had walked through the plane. It was only as they crossed over on London Bridge and the carts and driven cattle had given way to the more predictable ebb and flow of modern traffic that she had finished. Taryn had not said a word, choosing instead to walk ahead, keeping her thoughts to herself.

  Taryn sat next to her in the same silent mood. The train had long since pulled in and discharged its half empty load of schoolchildren and sightseers. Now a man at the far end of the platform was raising a flag before lifting a whistle to his mouth.

  “We’d better get on or we’ll miss it.” Emma stood up and Taryn followed her without saying anything.

  As they sat down, Taryn looked at Emma, her eyes betraying the confusion she felt. “He just let it happen?”

  “Yes.”

  Taryn sat back, trying to take in what she was hearing, “And he’s supposed to be one of the good guys?”

  “Yeah, but you know the funny thing about it?”

  “No. What’s that?”

  “I think I understand. I think I can see why he didn’t do anything.”

  Taryn gave Emma a disbelieving look, “Sister Ignacia would have dealt with him.”

  “No she wouldn’t. She would have done the same thing and she would have hated it just as much as he did.” There was a hint of defiance in Emma’s voice as she defended Father Eamon. She hadn’t said anything to Taryn but she had been awake for most of the night thinking about what had happened and to her own surprise, she had started to grudgingly accept that he’d had a point when he explained to her why he couldn’t intervene.

  “Of course she would have stepped in!” The very notion that Sister Ignacia would stand by and let something like this happen stung Taryn.

  “No she wouldn’t. She would have let him make his own decisions and then let the consequences play out for both of them. It’s not nice but it’s what’s been agreed.”

  The train gave a slight jolt as it pulled away from the platform and they both retreated back into their own thoughts. Emma chose to look out of the window at the passing scenery unable to tell Taryn about her father for fear of letting slip about her trial.

  The journey passed in silence with both of them lost in their fears and reflections and it took Emma by surprise as the train pulled into East Dulwich and Taryn stood up.

  “This is my stop. I’ll see you later.”

  Emma watched as Taryn got off the train and headed towards the exit without looking back. She couldn’t be sure but it seemed to her that there was a hint of resignation in her voice. In everything that had happened, Emma had got so caught up in her own problems that it hadn’t occurred to her that Taryn was going through the same thing, let alone that she had been going through it for a year and a half longer. Now she looked back as the train pulled out, hoping to get a final glimpse of her as she climbed the stairs towards the ticket office but the moment had passed. Instead she sat and waited for her inevitable arrival at North Dulwich.

  Emma rose and walked to the doors as the train pulled in to the next stop. She placed her hand against a pane of glass that ran from the floor to the ceiling. At first touch it felt normal but as Emma applied a bit more pressure, her hand went straight through as the glass gave way like wet tissue paper. Her hand tingled as she watched small, crystal tendrils creep out from where her arm was now part of the glass partition. Looking around to the other side, Emma could see her hand and forearm were completely untouched. She wiggled her fingers before drawing her arm back and watching as the glass sealed behind it. She pushed through at another point only to see the same thing happen, only this time she moved her arm up and down and watched as the glass seemed to melt then reform around her extended appendage. It felt like being a child again as she re-learnt the world around her.

  The train pulled in and Emma made her way to the exit, to be met by overcast clouds that stretched as far as she could see. She turned left and headed down the road towards her parents’ house. Emma started to understand the look on Taryn’s face as she had left the train. She didn’t want to be there and found herself finding reasons to detour down side streets before inevitably finding her way back to the main road. She rounded the turn in to Gilkes Crescent and slowly headed towards the house that had been home for most of her life.

  Emma saw that the car was not in the driveway. She looked over the fence in to the next garden and watched as their cat, oblivious to her presence, sniffed at the grass. Before darting between patches of green looking for something hidden there. Emma smiled, remembering when she had petted it as a kitten. A solitary kind of pain overtook her as she found herself tantalisingly close to the world she yearned for whilst knowing that this was as near as she would ever get. Turning her attention back to the house, Emma slowed her breath and concentrated on the front door, watching as it melted away to reveal a watery view of the hallway. She stepped through and found herself in the dark entrance, the only light coming from a kitchen window at the far end of the corridor. To her left, on a small table, the pictures frames and figurines that had once had a warm familiarity to them now seemed to take on a new meaning. They formed a bond between this world and Emma. She wanted to touch them but couldn’t bear the thought of not feeling the cool porcelain of the two little children that she had bought her mother for Christmas nearly ten years ago. A mirror on the opposite wall stayed perfectly clear as she walked by.

  She climbed the stairs, looking at the portraits on the wall showing this and previous gene
rations of the Elliott’s and wondered if they were watching her now. Emma looked up to the whitewashed ceiling and stopped for a second, did they all go through this? Were her family cursed through the generations to die prematurely? Mum had never mentioned it and she was sure she had never heard nana say anything and besides, she died at 89.

  Emma put these thoughts to the back of her head and carried on up to the landing, stopping before a closed door. On the other side was her old bedroom where she had seen her dad crying. She steadied herself and thought for a second as to how she wanted to do this. She decided to try to walk through the door. Placing her right hand against the grain of the wood, Emma gently pushed until she felt it tingle and slip through. She hesitated for a second as she looked at the spectacle of her arm, now buried up to its elbow, disappearing in to the door. Emma felt her arm start to tingle. She thought for a second about pulling back and leaving but taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and stepped forward. Emma was rewarded with a shiver that passed through her body until she opened her eyes to see her old bed.

  It was pristine, except for a slight disturbance in the quilt where her father had been sitting when she was last here. Memories started to seep from the walls and furniture, fighting for space in Emma’s head. She fought to keep her focus but gave way to the feeling of nostalgia and just stood there; taking in the smell of the lavender pack that hung off the dressing table mirror mum must have changed it Emma thought. Emma saw the crooked picture on the wall and felt the overwhelming urge to straighten it but knew that even if she could it wouldn’t do much good. It had always sat unevenly and no matter how many times she had tried to correct it, it just went back to its awkward angle until she had given up, not willing to take the time to adjust the nail it sat on.

  The dressing table to her left reminded her of the reason she was here. Two sheaves of faded paper sat in a white envelope in the top left hand drawer. She looked at the table top filled with little round tubs of make-up and the jewellery box she had chosen to leave here. The mirror, sitting on top of the table, reflected a room empty of life and joy back at her and Emma found herself starting to fall in to a well of self-pity.

  Emma rested her hands on the dressing table, tracing the swirls in the grain with her fingers like she had done as a child, fascinated by the concentric circles they formed and smiling as she remembered how her mum had told her that wood elves had created them in the forest before the tree was sent away to become a table. As she reached the edge, her hands worked their way over the gently knurled finish, careful not to put too much pressure on the surface, lest she slip through.

  Every touch was a new memory, every smell a connection to the past. Visions of her as a girl sitting in front of the mirror, playing with her mothers make up when she was twelve, came to mind along with the breathless anticipation she had felt checking her hair whilst waiting to be picked up on her first date.

  Emma drew back and looked around the darkened room. The wardrobe filled the recess in the wall and as the clouds outside became thicker, so the shadows grew longer. She looked at the light hanging above the bed in the middle of the room and concentrated on it as Father Eamon had taught her. At first nothing happened but then, slowly, it flickered before coming to life. It wasn’t as bright as she had hoped but Emma allowed herself a smile as she turned back to the dressing table. No sooner had she done that, than the room fell back into darkness. Emma turned back to the light willing it to come back on and once again it flared up only to die as she returned to the dressing table. Emma groaned, she turned back to the light and watched as it came back. She slowly turned away and hoped it wouldn’t notice as she moved to her other task but it started to dim. And so it went on, with Emma unable to keep the light on without looking at it. After a while she sat on the edge of the bed, exhausted, all thoughts of opening the dressing table drawer gone from her mind.

  Emma fell back on to the bed and realised with a jolt that instead of feeling the comfortable bounce of a well sprung mattress, she was falling through it. In a panic, she managed to stop herself as the springs passed through her. She rolled to her right and fell through the bed on to the floor, where she stayed for a few seconds, trying to get her bearings.

  Emma got up and looked up at the ceiling, struggling to control her temper.

  “Is this what you want? Is this your idea of justice! This isn’t justice this is a fucking joke!”

  She punched the wall only to watch as her fist went straight through it and sank to the floor clutching her head in her hands, screaming in frustration.

  A muffled rattling broke the silence and there was the faint clicking of metal on metal as a key turned in the front door lock. For a second Emma froze, fearing she might be caught but then remembered that she could be tap dancing in front of her family and they still wouldn’t see her. Slowly she headed towards the bedroom door, all thoughts of the dressing table and the letter gone from her mind. Slipping back onto the landing, Emma heard her mum’s voice in the hallway below her. Her heart thumped as she strained for every word.

  “It’s all right love, one step at a time. Nearly there.”

  Emma felt a sick twisting in her stomach as she heard her mother’s words. She looked over the banister and saw an old grey man being helped in to the house. Her heart shattered in to a thousand pieces as she watched her father struggle to cope with the effort of crossing the threshold of the house he had spent the last thirty years of his life in. It had been maybe six months since she had seen him last but in that time he had aged a lifetime, his skin grey and his thin jaw framed by white stubble.

  Sinking down on to the stairs, tears started streaming down Emma’s cheeks before falling in invisible droplets to the carpet. “Oh, dad, I’m sorry.”

  Emma let the pain fill her until she could take no more and she curled up on the stair, unable to bear the thought of her father suffering like this. Below her she could hear his laboured breath and her mother’s words of encouragement as they headed in to the house.

  Weeping uncontrollably, Emma rose unsteadily and walked downstairs. She turned away from the front door and moved towards the kitchen. Her dad was sitting down at the table taking a handkerchief from inside his tweed jacket to cover his mouth as he doubled over with rasping coughs. Her mum, filling the kettle up at the sink, hurried over to him but he waved her off with an impatient sweep of his hand. The handkerchief momentarily opened to reveal a mixture of mucus and blood and his mum tried but failed to disguise her pain at the slow decline of her husband. She ignored his protestations and pulled a tissue from her skirt waistband before wiping his mouth. Whispered words were spoken and she kissed his cheek as he slumped forward. Emma heard a tired exhalation of breath.

  She turned away, ashamed at having intruded in on such a private scene. The pain sucked her down and Emma felt like she was drowning. She forced her way through the front door and outside she gasped for breath before turning and looking up at her childhood home. It had changed somehow in the time she had been in there and now there were no feelings of warmth. Instead she struggled to hold down a mixture of pain and loss. Emma had had her fill for the day. She headed towards the station, trying to come to terms with her father’s condition. Emma silently prayed that he lasted long enough for her to complete her task and instantly hated herself for it.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Cordoban Council

  Father Eamon closed his eyes and breathed in the fresh air that had been denied to him by the twilight plane he had just left. Laid out in front of his eyes was a vista of spotless marble colonnades, green fields and low hanging clouds. This was a place of stillness and contemplation. It was the domain of his masters, the Cordoban Council.

  Father Eamon entered a covered walkway and headed towards the door at the far end. He had spent the last few hours thinking through the events that had taken place in Crispin Street, running through every scenario in his head as to how the streetlights had exploded. Maybe they hadn’t been the only
ones there. Perhaps, he thought, someone had been watching and had waited for Emma to lose her temper before breaking the lights. He knew this to be implausible and had dismissed it out of hand. Had anybody been in the area observing them? Impossible, he would have known about it a mile away. Perhaps there had been an electrical surge just at that moment. Possible he admitted to himself, but unlikely in the extreme. The only reason he could come up with was that Emma had somehow caused the bulbs to explode in her rage. It wasn’t a thought that gave him a great deal of comfort.

  Clouds drifted past, momentarily obscuring the royal blue sky. They drifted through the columns that lined either side of the passage and hung lazily in the air, before evaporating as Father Eamon walked through them. The door opened and a fresh face appeared round the side.

  “Father Eamon, please come in. He will be with you soon. May I get you anything whilst you wait?”

  “Thank you, no.”

  Walking through the door Father Eamon placed his coat on the rack immediately to his left before being ushered into a large circular room. Around him were bookcases which extended from the floor to the ceiling and a brass handled ladder which was attached to a runner at the top, its polished finish reflecting the light streaming through eight large windows, encased in gold and set into the thick outer wall. They stretched from one side of the room to the other and were it not for the steps leading to an upper floor on his right, would have reached both ends of the bookshelf.

  “He will be along soon. My most sincere apologies, Father, it is most unlike him to be late for anything but your request was such short notice and the urgency in your voice unsettled him.

  “I must say, it isn’t often that he entertains people on a whim.”

  Father Eamon looked over and the man-boy in front of him immediately lowered his eyes to the floor. He was barely out of his teens with olive skin, smooth black hair and dark green eyes.