by Horn, J. D.
Everyone was indeed out of sorts, but the only ones who seemed to have suffered any real ill effect had been the former anchors themselves. Their magic had been cut from them, as cleanly as if the line itself had wielded the scalpel. Both the united and the rebel families had been affected. Even the great Gudrun had not escaped the fate. She had sent a distress cry to the other anchors to save her in the moments before the dimension to which she had been exiled folded in on itself and disappeared for what might well be forever.
“I don’t know if I like the sound of that.” Ellen poured a glass of lemonade and offered it to her sister. “Sounds a bit too much like what the rebel families wanted. You know, consolidate the power among the strong, crush the weak.”
“Good heavens, Ellie,” Iris said, taking the sweating plastic glass. “There is plenty of room between absolute magical communism and offering the world up as tribute to the rapacity of the old ones. I’m not saying I have any answers. I just think we witches have let the radicals do most of our thinking and all of the talking for us for far too long.” Ellen poured herself a glass of lemonade. Her expression told Iris her sister was not convinced. “Now the volume has been turned down on the extremists, maybe those of us with common sense can begin to carry on a conversation. We may get nowhere, but it’s been too long since we’ve tried talking. Maybe the young ones from the rebel families don’t want their home destroyed any more than we do.”
“Why,” Ellen asked, “do you think witches’ connection to the line ended with Ginny?”
“I don’t know.” Iris fanned her imagined bug away once more. “Maybe the line thought she was somehow special. I fear in my heart of hearts we misjudged the woman.”
“Tomorrow, I’ll make up a nice bouquet, and we’ll head over to Greenwich to visit her.”
“Yes,” Iris concurred. “Let’s do that.”
Ellen drew her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. Iris had to smile as something about the pose stripped decades away, leaving Ellen looking once again like a young girl. Still, Ellen’s face clouded over with concern. “A lot of folk are frightened that even though the old ones remain banished, many lesser evils may filter through.”
“Don’t worry, sweetie. Even if it’s true, I’m sure it’s nothing we witches can’t handle.”
“But we aren’t exactly accustomed to managing these infestations on our own.”
“Then we will simply have to learn. I think for far too long we have forgotten the line is a security net, not a hammock. We are all going to have to toss in and do some work if we want to preserve our way of life.” Iris noticed movement in her peripheral vision and ducked just in time to miss being hit by a football.
Ellen stood and placed one hand on her hip. “Paul Edwin Weber, you and Martell be careful with that darned thing.”
“Sorry, Aunt Iris. Sorry, Mom,” Paul called and waved at them.
“Really, Ellen, you still speak to Paul as if he were a little boy. He’s getting married in two months.”
“Ugh. Please, do not remind me of that.”
“Ellen,” Iris said, her tone a warning. “She’s a lovely girl.”
“That she may be, but—”
“Sorry, Mrs. Weber,” Martell said, running over and scooping up the ball.
“Any news from Jessamine?” Iris asked.
“No, ma’am. She told me she was picking up the family at the airport at noon, and they are supposed to be here by twelve thirty. That’s the last I’ve heard from her.”
“By the way, how is your summer job with the police going?” Ellen asked. Iris knew her sister really did care about Martell, but she was sure the timing of the question had a lot more to do with avoiding the topic of Paul’s impending nuptials.
“Really well, thank you. I even got to go on a ride-along with Adam. I mean Detective Cook.”
“You are family, Martell,” Ellen said. “It’s okay for you to call him Adam.”
“But not to his face,” Iris said, rising from her chair. “Speak of the devil.”
Adam trudged along, struggling under the weight of an enormous wicker basket. “Heads up,” Martell called to Paul and threw him the football. He chased off toward Adam. “Here, let me help you with that,” he said and relieved Adam of his burden. The older man regarded the younger with a mixture of gratitude and hurt pride.
Iris jumped in to save Martell from the consequences of his good intentions. “Martell was telling us how much he enjoyed going out with you on a ride-along.”
Adam stopped and flashed her a look that said he knew what she was up to. “Yeah,” he said, patting Martell on his back. “He’s going to make a fine officer after he finishes his degree in criminal justice.”
“All right, all right, I get the message loud and clear,” Martell said and smiled at Adam. Martell idolized the detective. His expression gave that much away.
“Martell,” Paul called and held the ball aloft. Martell ran off in Paul’s direction, catching the ball as it came his way.
“So where is that handsome brother of ours?” Ellen asked. She was not about to discuss Paul’s wedding plans today; that was pretty clear.
“Dear Lord, do not get me started. I feel like I am living in the Twilight Zone.” He snorted. “Ponder this if you will. My soon-to-be husband is going to arrive late today as he and my ex-wife are busy planning a party for Jordan.”
“That’s right,” Iris said, grabbing Adam’s hand and shaking his arm. “He finishes his internship soon!”
Adam smiled proudly. “My son, the doctor.” His eyes narrowed and gleamed with mischief. “How about you, Ellen? Are we to have the pleasure of Tucker Perry’s company today?”
“Why yes, we just might. He’s got some deal cooking that he insisted couldn’t wait, but he promised he’d try to make it.” Ellen suddenly seemed to take offense. “Listen, I know you all don’t like Tucker—”
“We all like Tucker fine,” Iris said, “but you’d better warn him that if he lives up to his reputation and breaks your heart, I will turn him into a toad.”
Ellen looked at her sister with a deadpan face. “If Tucker breaks my heart, I will turn him into a toad without your help, thank you.”
“Note to self,” Adam said. “Never piss off a Taylor.”
“That is good counsel to keep, Detective,” Iris said, feeling happy. No, she didn’t have a special man in her life. Not even a scalawag like Tucker. But she wasn’t alone, and she was a very happy woman. She said a silent prayer of thanks for the day she found the strength to send Connor packing. She’d heard he’d remarried. For the fourth time. This time a witch who lived outside Tulsa. Iris wished Connor all the happiness he deserved.
All thoughts of Connor vanished as she caught sight of a certain redheaded toddler stumbling along, one hand holding on to his mother, the other balled up and stuffed in his mouth. “Colin,” Iris said and held her arms open. Maisie released him, and the boy carried on with faltering yet functional steps until he collapsed in his great-aunt’s loving embrace. Peter followed behind, weighted down like a pack mule with his son’s accoutrements. “Happy Fourth,” he said, unburdening himself first of a highchair, then of a diaper bag.
“Happy Fourth, sweetie,” Ellen said, then went up on her toes to place a kiss on his cheek.
“Mom and Dad will be here in a bit. They told me to warn you they can’t stay long.”
“We understand,” Iris said and scooped little Colin up in her arms. “After Saint Paddy’s and Christmas, this is the bar’s biggest day.”
“Listen, I hate to bring this up,” Peter said as he and Maisie exchanged a nervous glance, “but will Emmet be here today?”
“We did invite him. We felt a duty to,” Iris said, realizing the Great Shift did perhaps claim one last victim: the golem that had been created to attend the drawing of the lots that would determine Ginny’
s replacement. Something had occurred during the change that left him a living being. A man in his own right.
“Listen,” Peter said. “I don’t know why. Heck, I don’t think Mom even knows for sure herself, but she just plain does not like that guy. If he does show up . . .”
“We’ll make sure to keep them separated.”
“I don’t think we have anything to worry about,” Ellen said, her attention suddenly becoming the sole possession of Colin. “No we don’t. No we don’t,” she cooed at the boy, whose face lit up at her attention. “The last several weeks, Emmet’s taken to spending most of his time at Bonaventure. I don’t know what it is about the place that attracts him so, but I’ve followed him there a couple of times.”
“Is he visiting the graves, or what?” Maisie asked.
“Not graves, just one particular one. He spends hours sitting next to the statue of Corinne Lawton. As far as I can tell, he goes there every day and . . .” Ellen hesitated, as if she were wondering if she should go on.
“And what?” Adam asked, his ears pricking up at the mention of an unsolved mystery.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I mean, it felt wrong for me to be there. Spying on him. I should never have said anything.”
“But now you have,” Iris prompted, “so spit it out.”
Ellen shifted Colin to her hip and began to bounce him. “Emmet sits there talking to someone.”
“That’s kind of crazy,” Peter said.
“No, what’s crazy is I could have sworn I heard someone answer him.” The group fell silent, each looking from one to the other until all eyes fell again on Ellen. “I don’t know,” she said again and shrugged.
Colin suddenly warbled out some very happy if indiscernible sounds. His face lit up, and he pointed at the climbing tree. “What are you looking at, little man?” Ellen took the hand he had pointed with in her own, giving it several rapid-fire kisses. He laughed. In the next instant, Colin’s attention was captured by the sound of a bicycle’s bell.
THIRTY-SIX
Next to the statue of Corinne Lawton is an empty seat, expressing her family’s sentiment that Corinne’s fate in the afterlife would depend on a conversation between her and God. Corinne had been born into one of Savannah’s leading families, and spent many years as a patron of the arts. Long after the point when most women of her age had already married, Corinne fled to Italy, where she finally found her true love, an Italian painter. Upon learning of the impending nuptials, her family followed Corinne to Italy and forced her to return to Savannah. They found a “suitable” husband for her, and so her wedding was planned.
On the morning she was to marry the man her family had chosen, Corinne’s body was found floating in the Savannah River, her wedding gown billowing up around her.
Her memorial is replete with imagery, not expressing her family’s grief and regret as one might expect, but instead seeking to demonstrate how Corinne’s death had been her own fault; they had done all they could to bring her back to a respectable life.
The rejected headdress she was to wear in her wedding lies at her feet, and her back is toward the cross and the archway that, for them, symbolized the gate of paradise. The outrageous audacity many people can demonstrate, believing themselves to be the arbiters of the will of the ineffable’s secret heart.
I doubted if Emmet knew the significance of where he sat, or he might not have become so accustomed to plopping down there. Then again, knowing Emmet, he might have taken great delight in keeping God’s seat warm. “So tell me,” Emmet said as he joined Corinne, “what lies did you tell about this lovely lady?”
Truth was Corinne counted among the few of Savannah’s historical figures whom I had not maligned in one way or another during my years leading the Liar’s Tour. I had felt a kinship for the fallen bride, no, more than that, a sisterhood, that prevented me from making Corinne a target. Emmet reached up and placed his palm against the cool marble, caressing Corrine’s cheek, then folded his hands in his lap and waited for me to answer.
“Corinne’s story is sad enough as it is without tossing lies on top of it.”
“I’d say that is true of the lives of most people.” His face lost all animation, taking on its own stone-like and inscrutable expression. “Your family is having their annual picnic today, you know. The one you told me you enjoyed so.”
Yes, I had loved the feel of the hot sun, the smell of the grass, the shade from the live oaks, the sips of champagne Oliver always sneaked me when Iris pretended not to be watching.
The enjoyment of these things was no longer possible for me, as even though Mercy Taylor’s memories lived on in me, I was not Mercy Taylor. I was the line. Of course I had known the Taylors would gather today in Forsyth. The only Fourth the family had ever missed was the one following Ginny’s death.
My desire to see the family had been so intense, it overwhelmed my better sense. I rationalized I deserved one last look, a chance to see them together and happy one last time. That Colin saw me and seemed to recognize me told me this was indeed the last time I’d dare give in to the temptation.
“I too have been invited.” Emmet looked at Corinne. “Perhaps if you would consider being my date? No?” Emmet’s lips tried to curve up into a smile, but the effort faded the second he turned back to me. “The others haven’t picked up on the little tweaks you’ve made to the flow of time, but they have noticed you’ve shifted the boundaries of the line further out.”
I nodded. It was true. I shifted the edge of protection out to include the realm of the Fae. I couldn’t undo the horrors perpetuated against the Fae by the witches who created the line, but I could make sure that now the Fae enjoyed equal protection. Of course, my actions were not entirely noble. I had done what I did for Mercy’s sake. Now Colin need never face losing his father, even if Peter did again learn of his parentage. There would be no more changelings causing heartbreak on both sides of the divide. There no longer was a divide. The realm of the Fae and of mankind might not be one, but now they were close enough.
I was about to answer Emmet, to explain why I had done as I had, when he threw his hands over his face. “How could you? How could you leave me and not take your memory with you?” Emmet said and began rocking back and forth. “Even Emily you have granted peace through true death.” He looked upon Emily’s demise as a boon. To me it had been the only option. The woman had used her magic to draw the line into human form. A form she nurtured in her own womb in anticipation of the day she could bring about my demise. She had declared war on me and all those I had loved. Had sending her once and for all to her grave been self-defense, a casualty of war, or murderous revenge? Maybe a bit of each. God would be my judge. Emmet shook his fist in the air. “You grant her peace, but me you have deserted, leaving me with nothing but this pain, this sense of loss that will never fade.”
“I haven’t left you. Not really. And your pain will fade. All pain does in time.”
He pulled back his hands from his eyes and looked at me. “You lie.” He stood up and drew closer. He reached out for me, letting his hand pass cleanly through. “Why did you not steal my memory of you? You did it for the others. Why did you leave me the sole person to feel your absence? I am left with nothing but grief, and I cannot even share it with those who loved you.” His fists clenched at his sides. “They don’t even remember loving you. For them, you never existed.”
That he still saw me in Mercy’s form made acceptance harder for him. Over time I would have to change my image so he could find a way to let go. That change would not come easily, for either of us. I had spent millennia simply as the line, but the two decades I’d spent as Mercy Taylor felt more real to me than the thousands of years before Mercy. I had lost a friend; I had lost myself.
Heavy tears fell from his eyes, mixing themselves with the sandy soil at the base of the monument. “For everyone else, you spin pretty lies.” For
the first time, I heard anger in his voice. The lives I’d created for those Mercy loved were not lies, only alternative truths. Were it possible for their reality to be observed from the outside, the observer would perceive the still-healing cuts and grafts I had made. Sooner or later, though, all wounds would heal, and the history I had written for them, this chance for happiness I could afford them, would live on as the only story they had ever known. “For me, you leave nothing. Nothing but this void.” He pounded his chest with his fist.
“Mercy never did exist. Not really.”
“Mercy did exist.” His voice boomed with a desperate rage. “You did exist.” He trembled before me. “I know you existed, because I loved you.”
I reached for him, but stayed my hand, realizing its impalpable touch might bring him even greater distress. His eyes flashed first with anger, then dimmed with an utter lack of hope. He wiped away his tears.
I had forced Emmet to share my sacrifice. I didn’t have a choice. “The line must have its anchor. There wasn’t a single pure heart among my former anchors, and yours was the purest heart I knew.”
“And so”—his voice turned gravelly—“I am to be punished throughout eternity for my ‘pure’ heart.” He kept his eyes averted, focusing on the sandy gray soil at the base of the monument.
I had thought myself past the ability to feel pain. I guess I was wrong. At the end, I trusted Emmet more than anyone else on earth; that was why I had chosen him as the final anchor. He would never age, never die, as long as the line existed. He had wanted eternity with me; this was the closest to that I could give him. I had chosen Emmet as my anchor, for he had more than proven himself as my rock. Anchor might not have been the role he had wanted, but it was the only part I had left for any man to play. Words alone would never allow him to understand, but his heart would someday come to realize that in his own unlucky way, he had gotten the girl.
