They crossed the foyer, devoid of students gone on holiday, and rounded the corner toward Athens Chapel. Michael shrugged. “We’ve all of us parts to play. And you hardly sent a messiah to His death. Are you still grieving over choosing Miss Linden as Prophecy over Percy? Haven’t we moved on?”
Rebecca looked sharply at him. “The part of the betrayer was never a part I wanted.”
“I daresay Judas wasn’t fond of it either, but it was necessary.” He wagged a finger at her. “But don’t go equating yourself to scripture, Headmistress; our dramas are not played on so grand a stage. And remember: that same gift went on to save Percy’s life.”
Rebecca sighed. “I suspect you’ll be taking my ongoing confessions for some time. The past months weigh upon me so.”
“It will be my pleasure,” he replied.
She offered him a slight smile and looked away. He wanted so desperately to touch her, but the chasm between their bodies seemed impossible to cross.
The chapel of Athens Academy was white and modest, with a plain table draped in white linen for an altar and windows with golden stained-glass angels lining the walls beside unornamented pews. A painted dove of peace floated on the back wall.
“So strange, to come here and not have it open to our sacred space, eh?” Michael asked. “Strange, to have this simply be a chapel. So strange to be normal.”
There were two alcoves in the back, like those that would house baptismal fonts but less elaborate; this was built a Quaker institution and thus there was no great pomp in the style. The founder of Athens had his tomb here and had left space for another. Rebecca had long ago abdicated her natural claim to it, not wishing to live floors above her imminent grave. None of The Guard had ever dreamed it would eventually be the resting place of their dear friend Jane, but it gave them some small comfort to know that she was close, that her mortal coil was interred here in this space that had been the doorway to so many incredible things, so near the raw power that had once driven their lives together.
Michael and Rebecca approached the tomb bedecked in fresh bouquets: other Guard had paid their respects. Rebecca stared at the flowers, her hand to her lips.
“They’re all those yellow favourites of hers . . .”
“For as self-involved as our group has been, we listened to small yet important details,” Michael said with quiet pride. He offered his bouquet for Rebecca to do the honours.
Her blush had returned. “And some remain oblivious . . .”
Michael was unsure what exactly she meant.
“Pray over her, Vicar. Please,” Rebecca insisted, closing her eyes.
Michael searched his mind for appropriate Scripture and found it in Corinthians, an adulation suitable to the Grand Work that in recognizing separate gifts had created their family for life: “‘Some people God has designated in the church to be, first, apostles; second, prophets; third, teachers; then, mighty deeds; then, gifts of healing, assistance, administration and varieties of tongues.’ We miss you, Jane, you and your gift. All of our designated gifts left with you. We hope to somehow honour your name as we live on without you. We . . . we wish to see you again, but not if that would cost you your peace. Be our angel, Jane. You always were.” Michael looked up. “Oh, Heavenly Father, I hope you recognize what gold you’ve collected unto your bosom.”
He felt a cold draft and glanced around in anticipation. But . . . there was nothing. Perhaps he’d imagined it. Surely Jane was at peace; gone to the arms of a long-lost love. He could not begrudge her that. What more could they wish for her than love and peace? It was selfish, wanting to see her again. He forced back tears.
Rebecca’s face was unreadable. She moved to a pew and sat. Michael joined her, keeping a decorous distance though he yearned to slide close and put his arm around her. Just for support, for commiseration, for contact. He yearned for simple contact. How could it be too much to ask?
The silence continued. Perhaps it was the sanctity of the church setting that was keeping them quiet, but Michael felt a riptide roiling deep within him, struggling and churning. Please. Say something. I don’t know how to begin, Rebecca. You know how I feel; I’ve already confessed. Your silence makes me believe it was all in vain. I admitted my love, but what are you going to do with it? Insist you still that you were the one God should have taken? Can you possibly know how that pains me?
The quiet continued. Michael felt himself drowning in it. They were too old. They were too broken. It was too late for them. Any relationship they could cobble together would be a joke. He was second best and always would be. Knowing what they knew about the afterlife, even death wouldn’t change that. He felt a heretofore uncharted depth of melancholy, and speaking his love aloud now seemed its own death sentence.
The room grew frigid, and a harrowing wind burst through, though there were no open windows or doors. A darkness came over Michael. He and Rebecca cried out in unison, and then there was a new silence; deathly empty.
“Oh, no, the spirits,” Michael murmured. He thought he had time, that the ghosts would come at night, that he might prepare her. “I should have warned you! Rebecca, can you hear me?”
On his feet, he reached out his hands but found nothing; no pews, no Rebecca, only darkness. He’d failed. His cowardice had doomed them both to what surely would be a harrowing, ghostly course. Would she be ready for it? Or would it at last break her?
What in the Whisper-world were they in for?
Chapter Five
Percy was startled by Billy bursting through the wall, his torn clothes flapping about him where he floated in the air of the Rychman estate parlour. “It’s begun, Miss Percy! They’re at the academy. Are you comin’ to be the guardian angel for the headmistress, then, like Miss Constance said?”
Percy rose to her feet. “Oh, yes, Billy, but I wasn’t expecting it so soon.”
The ghostly urchin shrugged. “It’s one.”
One in the afternoon. Perhaps it was a ghostly joke. This wasn’t Dickens’s story, this was their reality, so either way Percy could not expect it to play out in the grand tradition of famous literature.
“Do be careful, Percy. It’s a danger, bringin’ the Liminal threshold down on the living. Might trap us all if we’re not careful. We’ll need that light of yours to keep us from turnin’ Whisper forever . . .”
Percy nodded. The spirits had explained the Liminal to her, and she knew she could not control it like she did other portals to the Whisper-world. But she was undeterred, despite her aversion to the Whisper-world and its contents.
The bell of the grand clock down the hall tolled, and she rushed into her husband’s study. “Alexi, it has begun. I must go to Athens. What horse shall I take?”
He rose and closed the distance between them. “You think to go alone, that I’ll not be by your side? Danger may come in an instant. The headmistress is my friend, too, you know. My best friend. I wish to help. I’ll be on hand,” he declared in a tone that clearly brooked no argument.
“Darling,” Percy said in a soft murmur, her hands on his shoulders. “Don’t you see you may do more harm than good? All I ask is that you leave me to my task.”
Alexi’s stern brow furrowed in confusion.
Percy explained what she felt was obvious. “If the headmistress were to see you during this vulnerable time . . . well, it wouldn’t be without its complications, considering her feelings for you, it would likely set the task back. Come with me if you must, but please remain in your office. I’ll run to you the moment the spirits are done. Though I’ve every faith in the couple of the hour, it’s just best . . .” Her eyes glittered with sudden tears. “Oh, my dear, don’t you see? I cannot imagine how difficult it would be to fall out of love with you. Thank God I don’t have to,” she murmured, cupping his chin and kissing him.
Alexi’s cheeks coloured slightly, and Percy found it the greatest treasure in the world that she could make such a man blush. Fate be damned, true love was the only power she craved—and it
was her own. She hoped the spirits would help grant it now to her friends.
“Come,” she said excitedly. “While I keep watch, you must send Withersby and Josephine to the property, and you must plant the letter—”
“It will all be done according to plan, my dear,” Alexi stated, and went out to ready the carriage.
Despite the delay in their trip, he seemed to have taken to the plan they’d discussed and to leading part of the charge. She didn’t doubt for a minute that he wished his friends the very best and would do whatever he could to assure it. Percy had not mentioned the specific dangers the spirits discussed, lest Alexi worry maddeningly over her in ways that would not be helpful. But where the Whisper-world was concerned, one could never be entirely sure.
She bit her lip. So much of her life had been throwing herself toward things she did not entirely understand or trust, events where she was fearfully unsure of the outcome. She shuddered and offered a prayer that it would not come to what the spirits had warned her about, the grim possibility of an extraction. The Whisper-world fed on melancholy, provender of which the headmistress was keen; it might not wish to let her go. Percy might have to step in. Perhaps literally. And there was no conceivable place she wanted to revisit less.
She ran to her room and opened a jewelry box, plucking out a beautiful pearl rosary that had been a gift from the convent where she was raised. Before their recent battle, Michael had blessed these beads with the additional power of his gift. They were resonant with peace and love, and when Percy squeezed them in her hand, her heart was fortified, her own gift at the ready.
“Come now, Vicar, Headmistress . . . Let there be light.”
Chapter Six
Michael was alone in the foyer of Athens Academy. He whirled. “Rebecca?”
“She’ll be all right. You’re on separate journeys. Parallel, but separate. Billy, the boy from the chandelier, has asked me to help.”
Michael looked down to behold the small voice’s owner. The ghost of a little girl reached up and tried to take his hand, but her own passed through. She stared for a moment, then up at him. “Hello, Father.”
Michael blinked, processing this new development. “I can hear you.”
“For now,” she said.
“This is what was foretold to me?” he clarified.
She nodded.
Michael recognized the girl. He’d just seen her at Charlie’s bedside, at the orphanage, whispering and murmuring about him. Little Mary, he recalled. She’d been in the orphanage all her life, quite ill for most of it. He’d always regretted that he wasn’t there when she died. He’d been out saving another little girl from malevolent spectral possession. Would that doctors had such skills to cast out influenza.
Little Mary, in her drab orphanage dress, smiled. “It’s all right, Father, you always blame yourself. It isn’t your fault when we die. I knew you were with me, in spirit.” She grinned at her little joke.
Michael reached out to touch her cheek but met only cold mist. The girl was right: he did always feel responsible, wishing there was some part of the Grand Work that extended to healing sick children. He’d assuaged his need by offering Jane the key to the orphanage, and every now and then she’d worked a few healing wonders inconspicuous enough to avoid arousing suspicion. It also kept the children believing in angels, which he felt was an invaluable service to the church. He believed in angels, though he couldn’t recall ever meeting one. He didn’t figure Percy counted, being flesh and blood and all.
“Come,” the little girl said. “We must have you take a look at things.”
There was a crushing darkness as all light was expunged from the chapel. There was a fierce wind and strange noises, whispering, so much whispering. But then everything went silent, slowly brightened, and Rebecca again found herself in the dim afternoon haze of the chapel.
But Michael was gone.
“Michael?” she gasped, whirling to find herself alone with a ghost. A young woman floated before her, in slightly dated fashion and ringlet curls about her lovely, hollowed face.
“Hello, Headmistress,” the haunt said with an eager expression.
Rebecca blinked. They weren’t supposed to hear spirits! Only Percy had been able to do that. Was she going mad?
The ghost anticipated her. “You’ve spent your life in service to this world and the next. Your entire group has earned a good rest, though I daresay none of you are prepared to enjoy it. Now it’s our turn. Your powers have retired. Now we have power over you.”
Rebecca’s blood ran cold. “Where’s Michael?”
“Safe.”
“But where have you taken him?” Rebecca insisted. “If you—”
The ghost held up a hand. “Only the good of our kind have power over you at present, so do not fear. But you’ve separate journeys this night, ere you again stand side by side. And, be careful of the bent of your heart, for shadows are close at hand.”
Rebecca shuddered, unsure what the woman meant.
The spirit smiled. “Your safety shall be monitored.”
It was a small comfort. Rebecca pursed her lips. “I know you, don’t I?”
“Indeed. Constance Peterson, haunt of the science library, at your service, Headmistress.” The ghost bobbed a curtsey.
“And . . . why is it that you’re going to help me?”
“Because I was called upon to help you. Because I understand.”
“Who called upon you?”
“A friend. And . . .” Constance pointed upward with a sheepish smile.
Rebecca was silent. Perhaps her secret Christmas prayer was being answered? Perhaps this was divine intervention after all. Though, she’d never thought it would come like this. This was much too dramatic, the stuff of Gothic fiction, suitable for Alexi and Percy. Not her.
“We’re all worthy of an opportunity like this, Headmistress.” The ghost’s eyes sparkled knowingly. “Even if few of us are so fortunate. You’ve never lived a normal life, Headmistress. You should not expect one.”
Rebecca stared at her, ever trying to see sense in the fantastical. “You. How did you . . . ‘see the light’? Did you see errors in your mortal ways and thusly have evolved? For a spirit, I trust you are well and fully at peaceable understanding to be able to lead me now?”
The ghost nodded. “I am indeed at peace, enlightened, free to do what I will, after help from Miss Persephone Parker. She found what I’d been looking for, just as she’s now found her own heart’s desire and taken his name. We’re all looking for something, you know.”
Rebecca nodded, her jaw clenching involuntarily. She felt an icy cold weight press down upon her.
The ghost scowled. “I can feel that, Headmistress; melancholy’s dread march. You must stop. You must not hear the girl’s name and cringe.”
Rebecca looked away so that Constance would not see her shame. “It is a curse,” she admitted. “My heart is cursed, and I want to remove it.”
“That, Headmistress,” said the ghost, “is our task. To cure the accursed. Come. We’ve much to do and I dare not tax you. While you’ve a most stalwart mind for a mortal, too much talk with spirits threatens sanity.”
The young woman held up a hand, closed her eyes and murmured, invoking power. “Liminal; the journey, I pray.”
In response, the air rippled like thin fabric and their surroundings melted away. In an instant they were back in time, in the science library of the academy, when it was fresh and new and all the chandeliers still sparkled like diamonds, before dust settled permanently into their crystalline grooves.
“Before you point out that it is indulgent of me to show you my past,” Constance spoke up, “let me remind you that we recognize problems in others before we recognize them in ourselves. I humbly offer myself as an example.”
The ghost pointed to a table, to herself. She had been quite beautiful while alive, full of health and vigour if the countenance she wore appeared hard, unrelenting, annoyed. She sat poring over a stack o
f books adjusted quite pointedly to block her from the view of a young man who sat unobtrusively studying different work at an angle opposite. The young man’s face was gentle and kind. He slid a book between them.
The ghost gestured Rebecca closer. The memory did not come without pain for her, Rebecca saw, and she felt humbled Constance should torture herself for the sake of helping her.
The living Constance was staring at the biological reference book that had been shifted toward her; not at the scientific content, but at the scribblings in the margin.
Constant is my care for you, sweet girl, my Constancy.
All I ask is that you, for one blissful moment, put aside your obsession long enough to look into my eyes.
—P.
The young Constance scowled and slid the book back across the table, moving it around the fortress of tomes she’d stacked to buffer herself against his simple request. She was careful that their fingertips did not connect as he received the book. Rebecca noted this with a bit of pride; even under her own rule, students were not allowed to touch members of the opposite sex.
And yet, if the girl had taken this boy’s hand, she couldn’t have said she would mind. She’d likely not punish them; this seemed innocent enough. In fact, she found herself wishing Constance would brush his hand, for it would clearly mean so much to him.
Undeterred by her rejection, the young man turned pages and found a new illustration, one that spoke to him, and he began to write. Rebecca opened her mouth to admonish him for defacing school property when she read what he’d scripted so carefully next to a diagram of the human heart:
Can science explain everything, my Constancy, when my heart beats only for you?
Constance returned the book, writing on the opposite margin a shaky reply:
Dear P., though you share my library table, I cannot commit any part of my heart, for I fear I do not have one to divide. The course of my blood flows toward science alone.—C.
A Midwinter Fantasy Page 5
