In the Shadows

by Kiersten White

  wildflowers growing madly up to his chest. Everything hurt.

  Sometimes he could ignore the pain, and sometimes the pain shut

  out the rest of the world.

  He was unsurprised when a woman, tall and beautiful, stopped

  in front of him, a parasol shielding her from the sun.

  “Hello, Charles,” she said, smiling sweetly.

  He squinted up at her. “Constance, I presume?”

  She laughed, a lower sound than he’d expected. “Delighted to

  finally make your acquaintance. How are you?”

  He shrugged. He didn’t feel threatened or scared. In fact, right

  now, he felt nearly invincible. “Dying. You?”

  She settled into the grass next to him, her skirts pooling out

  around her. “Not dying.”

  “I don’t suppose you’re going to be kidnapping me for nefarious

  purposes right now? There are a couple of things I’d like to do

  first, if you don’t mind.”

  “By all means. We’re not ready yet. But you’re a remarkable

  child, aren’t you?” She leaned closer, and Charles could see her face

  clearly. She looked young, face unlined, but there was something

  tired in her eyes. She reminded him of Alden in that way, that

  strange sense that her youth was a lie. “I wonder. I think I could

  offer you the moon and you’d politely turn me down.” She sighed

  again, picking a flower and tucking it into his collar. “If we could

  all find the peace you have, the world would be a better place.”

  “It’s very easy,” Charles said, waving a hand wearily. His arm

  felt as though it weighed a million pounds. “Just realize that, no

  matter what you do, things are out of your control. Voilà! Peace!”

  She took his hand and leaned close, then kissed his cheek. Her

  lips were cold against his skin. “Alas, dear one, I think I prefer

  turmoil and trauma and long life. See you soon.”

  He watched as she walked away, and then he closed his eyes to

  rest for the walk back to the boardinghouse. He had a feeling he

  didn’t have much time left, and there were several very important

  things to do.

  Late May, 1949

  fifteen

  M

  innie sat alone in the kitchen for some time

  after her mother , Thomas, and Charles had

  LEFT. When Charles returned, she had her elbows on

  the table, resting her chin on her fists.

  “Arthur’s family history is the most dramatic story I’ve ever

  heard,” she said, “and it doesn’t delight me one bit. It makes my

  stomach hurt.”

  Charles nodded in sympathy. “Has Thom found him?”

  Minnie shrugged, dropping her hands and slumping in her

  chair. She was having a hard time focusing enough to answer

  Charles’s questions. Her mind was spinning. “I doubt it. Not if

  Arthur doesn’t want to be found. And even if Thomas does cor-

  ner him, Arthur won’t say anything.”

  Arthur. Who is not my brother.

  Minnie couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry now about the

  feelings she’d harbored since the day she’d first met him. She’d

  flirted with everyone, kissed any boy who’d wanted to kiss her, but

  it had never meant more than a warm friendship or a happy

  moment, because there was only ever Arthur in the back, front,

  and center of her mind.

  I’ve hated myself so long for feeling this way. How can it be

  okay now?

  She’d often daydreamed of getting this exact news, and

  how she’d throw herself into Arthur’s arms upon receiving

  it. He’d realize he’d always been in love with her, too. There would

  be a lavish wedding on a dramatic cliff overlooking the ocean, and

  perhaps an epilogue of the sweetly spun decades to follow.

  Loving Arthur was no longer a wicked-but-safe secret that she

  could never, ever tell. If she was allowed to love him, it also meant

  he was allowed to love her. Or not love her. And that second option

  made her feel so hollow and aching she didn’t know what to do

  about it.

  This was not a book, or a story. It was her life, and she knew

  perfectly well from the changes in Cora and the heavy, slow way

  her mother moved since her father died that life was not overly

  fond of delivering happy endings.

  She looked up at Charles, who had gotten paler even in the

  short time they’d been at the boardinghouse. He seemed thin-

  ner as well, his cheekbones and jaw standing out in sharp

  relief. She realized with a start that he had wriggled into a place

  in her heart. None of her other flirtations had managed to get

  that far.

  Perhaps she was merely a coward, but Charles was safe. She

  knew how a love story with him would end, unlike the ever-

  unknowable Arthur. She couldn’t let anything happen to Charles.

  She wouldn’t let anyone hurt him.

  Including me.

  “What are you going to do?” she asked.

  “I’m not worried.” He shrugged, toying with the teaspoon left

  on the table.

  “But Arthur said they’d kill you!”

  Charles leaned forward, giving her a conspiratorial grin.

  “What do I care? I’m already dying.”

  She felt his words like needles in her chest. “Don’t say that.”

  “It’s true. Thom pretends like it isn’t, but I don’t mind. At first

  I was angry, but then I figured, why spend my last few months

  bitter and angry over something I can’t change? Besides, I have no

  regrets about coming here. This is the perfect summer.”

  His eyes sparked with so much life as he grinned at her that

  she couldn’t, wouldn’t accept that he would ever die. She stood so

  fast her chair clattered to the ground. Rounding the table, she

  kissed him on the cheek and pulled him into a hug. “I won’t let

  you go anywhere. And neither will Thomas.”

  “Well, that’s settled, then.”

  She could hear the teasing laughter in his voice, but she didn’t

  care. If Arthur terrified her now, Charles was the most comforting

  thing in her life, and she loved him for it.

  “I have something for you,” he said.

  Minnie released him, pulling her chair right next to his and

  sitting back down. “If it’s a secret, I think for once I don’t want it.”

  He laughed. “No secret. Here.” He reached into his pocket

  and pulled out a locket. On a gold chain, twisted like a delicate

  rope, the pendant swung and glittered. It was oval, filigreed, the

  pattern accented by stones that Minnie was quite sure were dia-

  monds. She had never seen a more beautiful necklace.

  “It was my mother’s,” Charles said, lifting it over Minnie’s

  head and pulling her hair free of the chain so the cool metal rested

  against her neck.

  Her hand hovered just above it, afraid to touch something so

  beautiful and precious. “I can’t take this.”

  “You aren’t taking it. I’m giving it to you. My mother wanted

  me to be happy, and you make me happy. So I want you to have it.”

  She looked up at her friend, her eyes brimming with tears.

  She wouldn’t let anything happen to him. She couldn’t. And if

 
Arthur wouldn’t help keep Charles safe . . .

  “I have something for you, too,” she whispered.

  “A secret?” he asked, voice still light, as though they were

  playing.

  “Yes. A very big secret. One that’s not mine to give.”

  He frowned, puzzled, just as Thomas burst back into the

  kitchen with a stormy glower. “I can’t find him anywhere.”

  Minnie stood, holding out her hand for Charles. Her heart felt

  heavy with the sadness of hope and betrayal. “I think I know

  where we can get some answers.”

  She led them out the back door, stopping at the small garden-

  ing shed and taking a shovel. “You’ll have to do it,” she said,

  handing it to Thomas.

  He looked at the shovel warily. “Do what?”

  “Dig up Arthur’s secrets.” Her traitorous toes dragging, she led

  them to the trees behind the house, right to the spot where Arthur

  had buried his mysterious case on his first night here.

  He’d always tried not to be seen. She’d always seen him.

  And now, to protect Charles, she’d given up a secret she

  thought she’d forever carry out of love for Arthur. Thomas started

  digging, and Minnie realized whatever was there, she didn’t want

  to know. Not this way.

  She turned and went straight back to the house, passing Cora

  on the way.

  “What are you doing?” Cora asked.

  Minnie waved in the direction of the tree. “Go see for yourself.”

  Without waiting to find out what her sister did, Minnie

  stomped into the house. If she were Arthur and she didn’t want to

  be found . . .

  She took the back stairs, then opened a door in the hall to the

  narrow, hidden set of stairs that led to the attic. Bypassing Arthur’s

  room, the only finished one up there, she turned and crawled

  through a narrow space into the open, empty expanse of the rest of

  the attic.

  Arthur was leaning against the wall next to the window, pro-

  file illuminated.

  Minnie’s heart hurt her so much she didn’t know what to do

  with it, other than pull it straight out and beg him to take it

  from her.

  “You’re not my brother,” she whispered.

  “Hmm?” Arthur looked up at her, his expression troubled and

  distant.

  “Why did you let me think you were my brother?”

  He was silent for so long she thought he wouldn’t answer. She

  thought she caught a moment of hope, of joy in his face, but it

  was quickly replaced with sadness. Then, finally, he said, “It was

  easier.”

  “For who? It wasn’t easier for me! All this time I’ve hated

  myself for how I feel about you! I’ve felt so wicked and so vile, and

  still I loved you! But it wasn’t — it isn’t — we could . . .” She

  trailed off, the air between them desperate and heavy with the

  words she wanted him to say.

  “We can’t.”

  “Is it Cora? Do you love Cora?”

  He stood and walked over to her, so close she couldn’t stand it,

  couldn’t breathe.

  “Of course I love her. Like I love you. And your mother. You

  three are all I have.” His voice was calm, carefully paced and toned.

  “I can’t love you like that.”

  Minnie took a step back, eyes narrowed. “You can’t, or you

  don’t?” The smallest twitch in expression shaped his eyes. It was a

  shift that only she, who had devoted so much time to studying

  him, would have caught.

  “I don’t,” he whispered.

  He was lying, and for some reason that hurt her more than if

  the words had been the truth.

  Southern Mexico

  Day of the Dead Celebration

  November 2, 1963

  sixteen

  C

  ora peered down at the case now sitting on the

  floor in Thomas and charles's room . It was wrong

  to be doing this, prying into Arthur’s secrets. She would

  have liked nothing more than to ponder her relief at discovering he

  was not her half brother. But for some reason that information

  made him feel even more unknowable.

  She was scared, and she hated that Arthur was part of what she

  was afraid of. There were too many other things to be frightened

  of without adding someone she trusted to the list. He would

  understand. Eventually.

  So she wiped the remaining dirt of the case’s grave on her

  apron and waited while Thomas fiddled with the latches.

  Charles flopped onto his bed and closed his eyes, and for a

  moment Cora was more troubled by being in a room alone with

  the two boys than she was by betraying Arthur.

  “We can leave the door open, if you’d like,” Thomas said. His

  acknowledgment of her discomfort was enough to alleviate it, and

  she knelt next to him, smiling grimly.

  The case popped open and they both looked up, locking

  gazes. Before she realized what she was doing, her fingers rested

  against his cheek. His eyes widened in surprise and she blushed,

  dropping her hand into the case and hastily pulling out the

  first item.

  It was a portrait. The paint was oil, thick and textured, the

  weight of the portrait hinting at age. It had been torn and frayed

  along the edges, as though pulled roughly from a frame. Even

  though the paint was cracked and slightly warped, the image

  was instantly recognizable. Cora narrowed her eyes in disbelief.

  “Is that . . . ?”

  Thomas leaned forward and let out a whispered epithet.

  “Alden,” she said, her stomach clenching as Thomas con-

  firmed it with a nod.

  “I’m really tired of that man,” Charles said from the bed, his

  voice sleepy and unconcerned.

  “Keep going,” Cora said, setting the portrait carefully to the

  side and then wiping her fingers, which felt oily and stained with

  Alden’s image.

  Thomas pulled out a leather-bound notebook filled with loose

  papers. He cracked it open and Cora crawled to sit next to him.

  The writing was odd, sometimes gouged into the paper, some-

  times running together to near illegibility as though the author

  feared he’d run out of time.

  Page after page of it, Thomas flipping through them until he

  stopped on a list of names. “Here now,” he whispered, then pulled

  a piece of paper out of his vest pocket, unfolding and smoothing

  it. “Looks like someone was keeping tabs on just what this Ladon

  Vitae was up to.”

  The names on the two lists frequently matched, but the book

  had far more details. Kidnapping, blackmail, conspiracies . . .

  “Does that say Napoleon?” Thomas asked, squinting in disbe-

  lief at the book.

  “Are they after him, too?” Charles shifted in bed, pulling a

  pillow over his head so his voice was muffled. “Someone ought to

  tell them he’s quite dead.”

  “How do we fight this?” Thomas leaned back, fear and exhaus-

  tion written onto his face.

  It hurt Cora to see him like that, to be unable to fix it. She

  needed to fix it. She looked back at the book, her eyes watering,

  fixed on
the term Blackmail underlined twice next to a name she

  didn’t recognize.

  And then she had an idea.

  Cora handed a stack of parcels to Annie O’Connell, who was

  making the weekly delivery to the post. “Thank you.”

  Annie nodded, turning her head to shrug the thanks off. She

  was pleasant and quiet and did her work well. It made Cora

  sad most of the time, seeing how easily the role she played to help

  her mother was filled by someone else. But right now she had

  plenty of other worries to fill her mind. Annie was welcome to the

  dusting.

  She wanted to watch until Annie reached the end of the lane,

  but it was important not to draw attention to what she was doing

  until it was too late for anyone to stop it. She could work in secret,

  too. So Cora turned and went back inside, toward the sitting room

  where she could hear Thomas’s restless playing.

  She was nearly there when a voice behind her made her freeze.

  “Excuse me,” Alden said.

  Cora turned, her expression carefully neutral. He couldn’t

  know what she knew. “Yes?”

  “I believe someone broke into my room.”

  “Have you spoken with my mother about it? She’ll want to

  know so she can help rectify the situation.”

  He leaned closer, face above hers, and she resisted the urge to

  shrink away. She couldn’t shake the image of the oil painting

  superimposed onto his actual features. She took a large, deter-

  mined step backward, increasing the distance between them.

  His mouth twisted into a smirk. “I haven’t spoken to your

  mother, no. I thought perhaps you’d know something about it. Or

  maybe one of your friends.”

  “I assure you, sir, we hold ourselves to the strictest standards

  here. I can personally vouch for the staff. Perhaps during maid

  service some of your belongings were shifted. Is anything missing?”

  “Nothing irreplaceable. Come with me; I’ll do an inventory

  and you can take note.” He held out his arm.

  “I’ll call for my mother.”

  Before she could move, he closed the distance between them,