by Jess Webster
And so it was, on the morning after Blythe Pritchard and Domenic Mancini checked into their hotel[73], that Blythe idly picked up an old Gideon’s Bible and flicked it open to a random page, saying, “What has God got to say to me today?”. She was expecting to see endless genealogies, or disconnected sentences that meant nothing, taken out of context, and was both surprised and perturbed to find this verse under her finger:
Such is the end of all who go after ill-gotten gain;
it takes away the lives of those who get it[74] .
She snapped the Bible shut and thrust it into the drawer. She didn’t believe in God, anyway. Besides, one apt verse did not count as a lightning bolt.
Whether by some outburst of curiosity or masochism, Blythe did not get up just then. Instead she gingerly reached into the drawer a second time, withdrawing the Bible as she would a mouse from the jaws of a sleeping lion. She opened the covers and let the pages fall randomly. Her breath caught in her chest a second time when she saw the following:
Do not be deceived: God cannot be mocked. A man reaps what he sows[75] .
“Oh!” She put the Bible back into the drawer with some measure of respect now, feeling the beginnings of guilt and distress creep into the corners of her consciousness.
She glanced at the creamy Grecian wedding gown that hung upon a mannequin in the corner of their suite. In any case, there was nothing she could do today. Today was the day she resigned the surname ‘Pritchard’, and gained ‘Mancini’ instead. Atop the bedside table she caught sight of a complimentary postcard. Well, it certainly couldn’t hurt to scribble a small note of apology, she thought. At least it would make her feel a little bit better. She took up a pen and the postcard, beginning with: Dear James and Esther…
A few minutes later a knock at the door signalled that it was time for her hair to be done. She smiled lightly as she signed the postcard ‘from Blythe and Domenic Mancini’. True, they weren’t married yet, but they would be in about two hours.
In the corner of the Barbados landscape on the front of the postcard, Blythe wrote, ‘To the Secret Stealer’, and after placing the postcard on the flat of her upraised palm, she walked out onto the suite’s balcony, which overlooked a balmy, azure ocean. She took a small breath and released it upon the postcard, then watched as it became as light as the warm air about her. As she returned inside to answer the door, the little rectangle was caught up in a soft current of wind that would take it directly through the window of the infirmary at Westcott School for Boys and Girls, and to those to whom it was addressed.
It was late evening when James and Esther both returned to the infirmary to discuss James’ options. The skeletal tree beyond the window was behaving itself nicely (no creepy scraping on the windows), and a mild breeze freshened the air of the large room, which had been shut up during Esther’s absence.
“So, James,” Esther said, flicking through some documentation on the medical history of the new student, Lilith Palmer. “Any progress?”
“Well, not just yet,” James said, forcibly prying his eyes away from any confidential information about Lilith Palmer. He contented himself with knowing just her name, which he accidentally saw alongside a small photograph near the top of the page.
“No? Your class is just full of children waiting to be taught a lesson.”
“I’ve been feeling…” James could not articulate exactly what he wanted to say.
“My guess is you’ve been feeling rotten all day long?” Esther looked over her glasses at the forlorn-looking little boy, who was floating before her desk in a sitting position, about a metre above the floor.
James shrugged, frowning. That seemed to summarise it accurately enough. The truth was, now that he thought about it, when he wasn’t thinking about Lilith Palmer, her golden hair and pretty eyes, he felt terrible.
“James, just how many secrets did you steal, when you were in The Book?” Esther asked.
“Well, there was one secret for almost every kid in the school, except Andrew and a couple other boys,” James replied. Seeing Miss Mason-Smith’s attention piqued, he explained, “They weren’t asleep when Mr Mancini was doing his business. They were smoking in the tower.”
“Of course they were.” Esther rolled her eyes and asked, “And you took all of Westcott’s secrets?”
James nodded.
Esther shook her head in disbelief. “So you have approximately 200 secrets floating around somewhere inside you.”
“One hundred and ninety-three.”
“James, do you realise how heavy secrets can be? One secret can be bad enough – but 193! No wonder you’ve been feeling awful.”
James frowned. “I suppose I didn’t think of it like that.”
“Your task for tonight, James, is to return all the secrets that you don’t need.”
“But how do I do that?”
“How should I know? You’re the Secret Stealer, Mr Winchester.” Seeing James looking slightly distressed, she checked her sarcasm and added, “Look, I imagine you can just give it back to them as they sleep. Just make sure you keep a few. For your practice.”
“Then will I feel better?”
Esther sighed. “I’m in unchartered territory, James. I’ve never worked with the Secret Stealer before. I don’t know if it will make you feel better. All I can say is that I think it will.”
“Well, I trust you,” James said, smiling. If Miss Mason-Smith said so, it would be fine. Oh, he was starting to feel better already!
There was a sudden and strange whooshing noise, and Miss Mason-Smith’s fingers closed on something before her face; something thin and white, which had rushed in through the open window at an incredible speed.
She flicked it over and observed a picture, scowling. “The nerve of those two! Sending us a postcard from Barbados! They’re staying at… the Sandpiper, how nice.” She spoke in an almost-growl. “One of these days I am just going to just – oh!” The nurse flexed her fingers in what looked like strangling motions. “She is so selfish!”
“What’s it say?” James asked eagerly.
Esther scanned her sister’s note. “Blythe and Domenic are on holiday in the Barbados – oh look, they’ve gotten married, how sweet. So it’s a honeymoon.” (James was very confused, as Miss Mason-Smith did not look at all like she thought it was sweet.) “She says she feels very badly about how things had to be, and if there is anything (‘anything’, in big capitals, you see here) they can do to help, they’ll do it. Yeah right. Oh, they’re just perfect for each other, aren’t they, a Deceiver and a former Secret Stealer.”
James smiled. “That’s nice for them.”
“James, you do realise these are the two people who tricked you into taking on a curse that, in all likelihood, you won’t be able to get rid of for 200 years?”
“Well they didn’t make me steal all those secrets. I did that all myself. I knew it was wrong, and I did it anyway. So I still think it’s nice for them. Besides, without them, I’d never’ve known the truth about…” He fell silent.
Miss Mason-Smith guessed, by his faraway and slightly angry look, that James was thinking of Yvette and Walter Winchester. She burned with curiosity, but still would not pry, for fear of making James dwell too much on a topic that was, evidently, so painful.
“Anyway,” James continued with a shrug, “I’ve forgiven your sister and Mr Mancini. I’ve seen what really bad is, and they’re… not it. They just didn’t know what else to do, I think.”
There was a moment of silence in which Esther wished she had something useful to say. But she felt too much – anger at her sister, at the Winchesters – to be able to order her thoughts and say something rational and comforting.
Eventually she decided that activity was the best solution for James at present. “Well, go on then,” she ordered. “You’ve got work to do.”
“Yes, miss!” James grinned at her and vanished through the nearest wall with an amusing bow.
There were still old vesti
ges of grievance – of arguments and discord – that pressed upon Esther’s memory, but hearing James speak so of her sister, Esther softened somewhat. In truth, she realised, Blythe was guilty of no more than selfishness. And wasn’t everybody guilty of that, to some extent? She could only hope that James’ faith in them was not misplaced, and that Blythe would eventually come to see, as they say, the error of her ways.
It was everything she’d imagined. Not that she’d spent hours and hours daydreaming about what it might be like to get married – not at all. Blythe was not very sentimental, when you got right down to it. But she was very particular, and when she got an idea into her head she went after it. And this wedding, though organised in mere hours, was exactly what Blythe Pritchard had had in mind.
Torches lined her path down to a white-sand beach, where the early morning sun[76], Domenic and a celebrant awaited her, as well as a couple they’d met in the hotel lobby the previous day. (Well, someone needed to witness the event.)
Domenic wore a new suit – coat with tails and a top hat, as always – and Blythe found herself struggling to picture him in everyday clothing. A sudden mental image of Domenic holding a VB and wearing King Gee shorts and a wife-beater almost made her laugh out loud. After taking a moment or two to compose herself, she banished the picture from her mind and continued her aisle-walk.
She held a bouquet of frangipani and cream roses, bordered with large, spade-shaped leaves. She was barefooted, and savoured the gritty crunch of the sand underfoot, thinking that that sensation would always remind her of this moment, this sunrise, and Domenic, smiling at her from the end of the aisle.
It truly was everything she’d imagined – right up until the point where an unbelievably giant batch of bird excrement fell onto her shoulder, sending flecks of the foul white stuff onto the right side of her face and carefully sculpted hair.
Blythe Pritchard screamed as she had never screamed before.
Domenic Mancini collapsed into a fit of laughter.
The celebrant bit his lips together and stood, mute and wide-eyed. Here, he suspected, was one bride you did not want to irritate. He tried to settle the foolish Mr Mancini, feeling almost certain that the groom’s lapse into laughter would be used against him as blackmail, or a guilt-trip, or the first in a long list of wrongs to be dredged up at some later date.
Domenic controlled his laughter after a few moments and ran to meet Blythe halfway down the aisle. He took her hand and shepherded her to the end.
“No, no, no,” she cried, tears streaming down her face, mingling with the uric acid paste on the right side. “We can’t do it today, it’s all ruined!”
“It’s not ruined, Blythe,” Domenic soothed. “You might have bird… poo… all over you, but you’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Can’t we just get married?”
“No!” Blythe screeched. “I refuse to get married with heron poo all over me!”
“But-”
“No, Dom! It’s not supposed to happen like this! The ideal aesthetic of a wedding does not include a bride covered in crap!”
“Well, we’ll try again tomorrow, if you like,” Domenic offered. He took the handkerchief from his breast pocket and attempted to clear away some of the offensive substance. “Look, let’s just get you cleaned up, and go have some morning tea. We’ll continue tonight as if we weren’t even supposed to get married today. And tomorrow, we’ll try again.” Under his breath he added, “And with your… skills… you may want to remove all herons from the area tomorrow.”
Blythe threw him a dark look. “I’ll do more than remove them.” And she began to stalk back down the aisle.
“Now, Blythe, remember what we discussed last year about ecosystems and delicate balances?” Domenic called after her, frowning. When she did not respond, he called a little louder, “Remember? When you got mad at that kangaroo because you stepped in its–”
“Oh shush,” Blythe snapped back at him.
Domenic stopped to look after his bride-to-be, moving away from him with all the rage of a volcano, and smiled. She really did look nice, even with heron poo all over one shoulder.
Miss Mason-Smith’s presumption turned out to be correct. It was growing late, and the majority of Westcott’s residents were asleep. James soon found that he only had to think of a name in order to call up that particular child’s secret, and to return it he simply had to push it back through their closed eyes. With each secret he lost James felt lighter and lighter. He fairly spun through the corridors, from room to room.
After returning Una Whitman’s deepest secret, she even seemed to smile. She hugged her teddy bear tighter and snuggled deeper into her sheets. Moving on to the next room, James found its resident still awake and at her desk.
With some surprise he realised it was Lilith Palmer. She was writing in what James presumed was her diary, her legs swinging underneath her chair. When he moved closer he noticed that she was crying. His first instinct was to leave her alone, to stay away, as he did not want to be tempted to read her diary[77]. But temptation got the better of him, and James lay in the air above Lilith’s head, reading as she turned to a new page and wrote:
… and after all that nastiness with the lizards and that Ew-Boy, some of the girls were very mean to me at recess. I was just lying down under a nice tree minding my own bisness and they ask me, acting all nice and freindly, if I wanted a go on the spinny thingy in the playground and they’d spin it for me. It’s a platform with four metal bars to hold on to and it spins and I dont know what its called. So I got on and they spun me. I was having a very nice time until they started throwing bark chips at me. I was in the middle of the circle so I was a sitting duck and I couldnt get off cos they wouldnt stop spinning it. I asked and asked them to stop but it went on for AGES.
Lilith’s lower lip protruded a little and began to quiver. She took a deep, trembling breath and continued.
And then they said theyd let me off and it did slow down but as i stepped off one of the girls jerked it about so I lost my footing and fell flat on my face in the bark chips. I got lots of splinters in my hands cos i put them out in front of me to brake my fall. I wish i was back at the orphanige. At least those kids were nice to me, cos they didnt have parents eather. Nadine, Madison, Ofelia, Lucy. They were the four that were mean to me. Someday Ill get them. Ill get them good.
Lilith looked at her reddened palms, which she’d spent a good portion of that afternoon prodding at with a sewing needle.
She should’ve gone to see Miss Mason-Smith, James thought to himself. Maybe she doesn’t know yet that there’s a school nurse. Then it struck him. In one instant, James had his ‘practice’ all planned out – he hadn’t yet returned the secrets of those four girls. He didn’t know what made him say it out loud, as no one could hear him, but it made him feel better to say it. “Don’t worry, Lilith Palmer,” he said, “I’ll make them pay.”
“Who’s there? Where are you?” Lilith whirled in her chair, eyes wild.
Suddenly and inexplicably terrified, James gave a very un-manly squeal and shot backwards through Lilith’s bedroom wall and, unfortunately, into the room of a little girl who was still in the process of changing into her pyjamas. This caused him to squeal yet again and repel himself sideways in a desperate attempt to get outside. Fortunately for James, Lilith was young, and her senses were not yet fully developed. So James’ girlish squeal had sounded (to Lilith) more like a sigh to submerged ears.
James realised then that he had found a certain comfort in being invisible and inaudible. It seemed to him to be his natural state. He had never run about shouting gibberish (though he had once or twice felt like doing it, just for something different) because he had dreaded the looks he would receive. But recently, being as a ghost, James had felt such freedom! Now here was this little girl, with eyes like a glacier and hair like the sun, who could hear him.
How? And why? And what did it mean? Was she a Potential? No, it must be something else, as she
did not seem to be able to see him. In any case, James’ questions would just have to wait until tomorrow. He wouldn’t have dreamt of waking Miss Mason-Smith at present. Even though he could not see specific secrets in Miss Mason-Smith, James could perceive certain impressions, or tiny snippets of them. And right now, as she slept, Miss Mason-Smith was dreaming of Byron Gables.
Lesson Twelve: One should NEVER be mean to orphans…
or the Ghost of Westcott will get you.
Esther Mason-Smith awoke to a sensation of extreme discomfort.
She frowned and glowered, but could not think why she frowned or glowered.
“Did you sleep well?”
Esther started and grabbed at her sheets. “Oh, James,” she sighed, seeing the pyjama-clad boy floating, upside down, in the corner of her roof. “It’s you. You scared me.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to. Why do you look so angry, miss?”
“Angry?” Esther scrunched up her nose in confusion. “I don’t know.”
“I would’ve thought you’d be happy.” James was staring at the floor below him, seeming to fight off a grin.
“And why is that?”
“Oh, no reason in particular,” James replied unconvincingly.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked, getting out of bed.
“Well, it’s just that people are a little weaker when they’re asleep, like Mr Mancini said,” the boy replied vaguely.
“James Winchester! You haven’t been prying into my subconscious, I hope?”
“What’s a sub-consh-us?”
“My mind, my thoughts, James.” Esther gave him her best teacher-ish look and added, “Point being, they are mine.”
