“We must take the long view,” says Boswick. “Think of the medieval craftspeople who built the Gothic cathedrals over hundreds of years. They died with the walls half up, knowing it would be their children or even their grandchildren who would see it to completion.”
“It’s difficult to feel any sense of urgency when we don’t even know if we’ll get to see the prophecy enacted.”
“But there is great urgency all of a sudden!” says Raven. “Miles somehow returned from the dead or never died . . . and swords were unearthed at the property!”
“And there is urgency in making sure the family there doesn’t blunder and ruin everything we’ve built up and sustained,” adds Boswick. “If they find the dragon fighter before we do, they will desecrate the site. It must be done correctly, by the correct persons. I believe we are very close to finding mirth and—”
“Yes,” Raven interrupts.
Mirth and what? Whatever does laughter have to do with any of this? Seems to me that not one of these folks has had a smile grace their visage on a consistent schedule.
More troubling is the idea that we could muddle things by not doing it correctly. How are we supposed to fulfill the prophecy when we don’t even understand it?
CHAPTER EIGHT
A tiny girl arrived today. All the servants sick about it. We are complicit.
—From the diary of Eleanor Darrow
The next day, I return to my chamber hidden behind the shelves in the library of the Arnaud Manor, the space where I hid from the guilt and terror of the household. Moonlight sits behind the glass where I engraved in the window poor little babes so many years ago.
I was so young then, etching into the glass and almost wishing it would break, that some release would come from a shard impaling my wrist. I was full of pity but didn’t have enough fire to take action to change things for those children. . . and then when I did take action I failed.
I look the same now. My body is still fit and strong and my hair dark, but my mind is ancient. I look around the small room. How much has changed, and yet how little has. Why am I still around?
I wish I had been able to drink the Sangreçu blood, too. Why was Phoebe so selfish? She robbed me of the only chance to feel my own skin again. I sink onto the bed, as if I’m really on it, my head in my hands. The inky vapor of despair washes over me and tangles in my hair. I give up. I’m one of the poor little babes, too.
Slowly, voices down below drift into my consciousness. There are two men in the library. I intention back out onto the balcony and look down. It’s Steven and a man I don’t recognize.
“I’m eager to get the library inventoried,” says Steven, “and to attach a dollar amount to its worth.”
“Indeed,” says the man. “And perhaps you’ll find another astonishing volume, like the Louis XIV diary.”
Steven smiles. “That was extraordinary, and probably not to be topped.”
“Show me where that book came from,” says the man, and Steven obligingly brings him over to the area.
“On this shelf here,” says Steven.
“Amazing,” the man says. “Do you think I could bring in a camera crew to film where the book was located? Might be a fun sort of things for the bookish to watch.”
“I don’t think so,” says Steven. “We need to keep things quiet around here.”
“And why would that be?”
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
Steven sighs and rubs his forehead with one hand. “Two area children have disappeared. I had even thought about canceling our appointment. I was glad you had contacted me, though, and you did sound so busy, I thought it best to keep it.”
“Well, well,” says the man. “Swords, books, so many wonderful things previously lost to the world have shown up here. Perhaps the children will, too.”
Steven’s head swiftly comes up, and he stares at the man with intensity.
“What the hell do you mean by that?”
“It’s just curious that teens have disappeared, just as you and your family have appeared.”
“Get out,” says Steven in a rough voice. He walks to the door, but the man doesn’t follow.
“Did you know those kids?” the man asks.
“I don’t know them,” says Steven. “Get out.”
“Relieved to hear you use the present tense. They’re yet alive, we all hope. Perhaps kept somewhere on the property? This is a very large manor.”
Steven takes a swing at him, and he ducks. “Pressing your buttons, am I?” the man asks.
“Get the hell out of my home.”
“What’d those kids ever do to you?” the man asks. “You lured them here, and then what’d you do with them?”
Steven grabs a handful of the man’s shirt, pulling him forward, and is about to clock him when something black and sinuous falls out of the man’s inside coat pocket. It’s a wire.
“You’re wiretapped,” says Steven in a marveling voice. “You’re not a book appraiser. You’re a police plant.”
Although I have no idea what the black cord means and haven’t heard the term wiretapped before, I do know the word police. Steven’s in deep trouble.
They think he’s responsible for those teens, to the degree that they sent a fake book appraiser into the house. I immediately intention back to Miles and Phoebe. They need to know.
* * *
I find Miles and Phoebe talking with Dee. They both turn around when I appear, looking aggravated. It seems I interrupted something; maybe they were making progress with her, getting her to talk about what happened in the woods.
“Things are getting worse by the moment,” I blurt, by way of explanation. “Phoebe, a policeman is in the library talking to Steven. He pretended to be interested in the book collection.”
“See?” says Phoebe to Dee, with more than a tinge of anger in her voice. “They think my dad killed you. You have to help us. I know it’s awful to think about it, but you’ve got to help us. An innocent man is being blamed.”
“Dee,” says Miles in a softer voice. “We want to help you. You’ll feel so much better when you can get out of here. You know what I mean?”
“I never should have come here,” says Dee, and her voice cracks on the last word.
I look at Phoebe. It seems as if it’s all she can do not to shake Dee. I’ve observed over our short acquaintance that she is not a very patient person.
“Just start from the beginning,” says Miles. “You were at home, and you heard about the swords, so you wanted to come.”
Dee nods, rubbing the outer corner of her eyes. She’s not crying yet; it’s like a preemptive gesture. “Everyone’s always curious about the manor house,” she says. “And when I heard they found swords, it just sounded so exciting. Like the Indiana Jones movies.”
“So you set out on foot.”
“I rode my bike, actually, and then ditched it. There were too many roots in the path once I got into the woods. I propped it up against a tree and just kept going.”
“Okay, good. So you walked for a while,” says Phoebe. “Then what?”
“I . . . I . . .”
“You . . . ?” says Phoebe.
I reach over and tug at her shirt. She doesn’t need to be sarcastic to this poor girl. “My father’s going to be arrested. Can you help us out?”
“I’m trying. So . . . I just felt this force or something that was luring me, that wanted me to come a certain way. I left the path and walked through the trees. It seemed like it was getting darker, and suddenly I got worried about whether I would get lost.”
“You had your phone with you?” says Miles.
“I did but I forgot to charge it. I knew I was on the last bit of the battery. So then I thought, I better go back and find my bike and get out of here. And that’s when . . . I don’t know. It got dark.”
I sneak a look at Miles. Dark?
“It felt like there were dozens of hands all over me, scratching. Pulling me ev
ery which way, like they were fighting over me.”
“Who were they?” I ask.
“I couldn’t see, it was all happening so fast, and like I said the forest got really dark. Like a cloud had covered the sun. And they were moving me around . . . so . . . so hard. I was upside down sometimes, rolling around in their hands like in the surf when a wave knocks you over.”
Phoebe steps forward and hugs her. Miles puts a hand on her shoulder. I do nothing, still held back by my centuries of training.
“I’m so sorry,” says Phoebe.
“It was terrifying, and I knew it was the end,” says Dee. “And then my skin was frigid cold and I saw weird, glowing. . . I don’t know how to describe them. Signs or symbols or something.”
“Can you describe them better?” asks Miles.
“Almost like . . . ancient letters or something.”
“Runes!” says Phoebe instantly, with a hint of exult in her voice. “The tree! The tree under the pond.”
“Time to pay a visit,” says Miles.
“I’m not going,” says Dee. “No way.”
“But . . .” says Miles helplessly. It’s difficult for him to say, We’ll find your body there and you’ll be released to whatever Heaven or Hell awaits you.
“We’ll go,” says Phoebe firmly. “You stay here. Don’t move.”
She throws me a look and I know she means to say that after we figure out what’s going on with the tree, we’ll provide a firm-armed escort there for Dee.
“I won’t,” says Dee. Her eyes are wide, and I feel sympathy for her state. She made a mistake and paid for it with her life.
We intention to the pond. There’s the long wooden dock with a hole toward the end of it. It brings back a flood of feelings. I was so terrified that day . . . and when it was over, I thought everything was over. Yet, we still haunt the manor, in some ways as feeble as Dee.
Last time we were here, we let Phoebe do the hard work. Miles and I had stayed above water, anxious. This time I wasn’t going to let that happen. If we were all three equal, we needed to share the danger equally.
“Are we ready?” I ask.
Miles slips his hand into mine, and I watch him do the same with Phoebe. “No one let go,” he says.
We go to the edge of the pond and walk in. It’s such a strange sensation to know I should be feeling wet. I look over at Phoebe. She’s experiencing the pond differently from me and Miles. Her pants do show the water line increasing as we walk farther in. I remember that she had been soaking wet last time, but then had instantly dried off.
“Is it cold for you, Phoebe?” I ask.
“A bit,” she says.
We walk until the water level is at my face and then we are under. Instantly I see the shattering glow that makes me close my eyes.
“My God,” says Miles. Through the tug on my hand, I feel him stop.
“Just close your eyes,” I say.
We continue forward. I feel the light so strongly on my face, a sort of diluted heat. We must be very close to the tree now.
We halt.
“You two are going to have to look,” says Phoebe.
“All right,” says Miles.
I mentally count to three and open my eyes. It’s ghastly, horrifying, a stark upended network of black against the amber glow . . . and threaded through the twigs and drowned branches are three bodies.
They’re extended as if the tree had taken pleasure in stretching them. Almost as if they had been caught in a spider’s web: one hand here, an arm folded behind here, legs splayed or in the motion of running, hair fanned out, fingers spread, mouths open, eyes open, everything open.
It’s Dee and Alexander and the third shape, black and witchy, thankfully her face turned from ours.
Still the glaring blaze from the tree, its runes seemingly on fire, broadcasting through the dark water to create an amber glow. They ripple as if with energy. They hurt my eyes.
What could they mean, these strange shapes etched on the tree and alive with fire? They are the symbols some ancient peoples used to communicate. They are throbbing, fiercely aching to tell their tale here, but the glow is buried underwater. Only we see it.
“Well, mission accomplished,” says Miles. “Let’s go back up.”
“We have to try to release their bodies,” says Phoebe. “How else are they going to be found? No one’s going to dive into the pond.”
I look uneasily at Phoebe. I’m scared to go closer to that tree—perhaps it will ensnare me as well.
“But we have no corporeality,” says Miles. “How can we release them?”
“Sometimes I can touch things,” says Phoebe. “I have to try. Dee and Alexander will haunt us until their bodies are discovered.”
“Don’t get too close to her,” says Miles, indicating the darker shape with a lifting of his chin.
Phoebe walks to Dee, impossibly entangled, and tries to free her hand from the tree. Dee’s hair wafts in the small current, her eyes open and vacant. Phoebe can’t help her. Her hands go right through Dee’s body.
She tries at her waist, her other arm, her head, all to no avail. She works on Alexander’s body next. I see the scratches that deepen his cheeks. Was it people who scratched him . . . or the tree? What on earth happened to him and Dee?
“Frustrating,” says Phoebe. “All right, let’s go back up.”
Back on the banks of the pond, we look at one another. “We’ll have to somehow tell your parents,” I say.
But Phoebe shakes her head. “That would make it worse for Steven, if he knows where the bodies are. The police would ask him why he knows, how he knows.”
She’s right. It’s a horrible situation. We want the bodies to be found so Dee and Alexander can be released, so they can “graduate” on to whatever the next realm of existence is for them . . . but we don’t want Steven blamed for their deaths.
“Did the tree kill them?” Miles asks.
We stare at the dark oval of the pond. Were the teens attacked and then thrown into the water? Who did that to them, so young and innocent and harmless?
“We have to keep a really close eye on Tabby,” says Phoebe. “Whatever happened to these guys, it cannot happen to her.”
CHAPTER NINE
It’s something I’m dying to know, what a sword blow feels like. Like, instant, incapacitating pain? Because it’s not just sharp but it’s got all this momentum coming off it since it’s freaking long and someone’s whole arm is engaged in swinging it down. I’m not recommending anyone go out and, uh, find out empirically LOL. I’m just talking. You lot keep your skin on your bones, okay?
—Online forum Knights in Dirty Armor
We intention back to the manor, where Tabby is again building a tower out of blocks. They are crookedly persisting. Steven is reading through a thick, ancient book, while Phoebe’s mother is getting dinner ready.
Phoebe sinks down next to her sister with a sigh. “This is getting pretty old,” she says, “watching over my sister as if she’s going to get attacked at any minute.”
I study my friend’s beauty. I haven’t known her long, but her face now feels more familiar than my own, unglimpsed in a mirror these many centuries. I find her lovely and unsettling. Her auburn hair had floated around her face when we were underwater, as if she floated in a bathtub, her eyes keen, her mouth always about to saying something she’d regret. She has power over Miles . . . but more so over me.
I hate her impetuous impulses, her taking Miles as her own before I even knew what was happening. I’ll own that there is much good to her—her fierceness around her sister, her intelligence—but lodged in her beautiful half-open lips are enchanting words that will spell my destruction. How I love her . . . and how I despise her with every aching part of my mind and body.
“If I could drink the Sangreçu blood,” I say, musing aloud, “I could save your father from suspicion. With corporeality, I could confess to the murders, bring the police to Dee and Alexander’s bodies.”
<
br /> She looks at me, and I see no expected gratefulness. Instead she is wary, loath even to nod to this idea. She is the reason there is no more Sangreçu blood for me to drink.
“They would imprison me and the parents would get their chance to spit at me in my jail cell,” I continue. “And then when the effect wore off, as it did for you and Miles, I’d be myself again”—how I cringe to think I have just characterized my dead and powerless state as “myself ”—“. . . and I would slip away.”
She smiles briefly. A pang to my heart, if I can admit to it now. Even as I know she is perilous to my fate, I want to run my fingers down the side of her face.
“I would be the murderess who somehow escaped from her holding cell and confounded all their expectations,” I say.
“I’d love to be a fly on the wall when they review the surveillance tape from your cell and see that you simply disappear,” says Miles.
Phoebe nods. “We could be,” she says. “The dead are the flies on the wall.”
“It’s a brilliant idea, Eleanor,” says Miles. “Except we have no idea where the vials are.”
I look at Phoebe, and she has the grace to look down.
“There must be some here at the manor,” I say. “Madame Arnaud cleared out the cache when she left France, and brought them with her.”
“There isn’t an inch of this manor house we haven’t explored,” says Miles.
“Then we have to think about where they could be hidden.”
“Go for it,” says Phoebe flatly.
Miles casts a sympathetic look at me. It’s all we’ve been thinking about for the last number of months, where the cache could be. Just wanting a thing doesn’t bring it to your hands, alas.
“I’ll be back later,” I mutter, casting a glance at Tabby’s tower in the second before it crashes to the ground. I hear her wail, cut off as if by treason, as I intention to the older part of the manor.
* * *
I’m in the main entry, on the grand, sweeping staircase. Light is muddled here, plodding in through thick, mullioned windows. I’m staring up at the stained glass window on the landing, the two knights battling each other. It’s a clue somehow. Perhaps the weapons the men wield are the very same ones the bulldozer dug up.
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