by Luanne Rice
“Yeah, but wait! She took care of the books, convinced the state to run train tracks all the way to the mill so they could ship lumber all over the country. But one day Eddie-boy was down by the river, overseeing a wagon filled with logs from Canada, and he just disappeared.”
“He died?”
“Everyone assumed so. He was never seen again. And since no one else knew how to run the mill, Sarah took over and wound up owning the place the year she turned twenty-five. Cosmic, right?”
“Completely. I wonder what happened to him.”
“The official word is that he slipped into the river, and the current washed him out to sea. But I’ve always thought maybe …”
“What?” I asked, my spine tingling.
“Well, that Sarah …”
“Fought back,” I said.
“Exactly.”
“Do you think he attacked her or something?” I asked.
Carole was silent for a moment. “My mother says there are different ways of attacking. If you take away a person’s freedom and choices, that’s a type of violence. When that happens to you, you’re not going to stay docile forever. There’s always an uprising.”
“But Sarah was just one woman.”
“You think a woman can’t rise up?” Carole asked.
Those words, that one question, filled me with fire.
I thought of Sarah Royston—had Edward Sheffield driven her to a point where she couldn’t take it anymore? Had she waited for her chance and pushed him into the river? What would it take for a person to turn violent? I tried to imagine myself reaching that point. What would I do to protect myself, to win back my own freedom? I could never hurt someone; I was sure of it.
But there were other ways of fighting back.
As I contemplated that question, I saw Carole pack a snowball and whip it toward a row of winterberry bushes. A second later, one came whizzing back. I craned my neck, hoping it was Casey. But Chloe’s head poked up over the hedge, pelting us as we returned fire.
“No fair, two against one!” Chloe said.
“You started it,” Carole called.
“If you have a fort, you have to expect invaders. You’re soooo easy to spy on!” Chloe shouted, lobbing another snowball.
I jumped the fort’s wall and ran toward her. We met halfway, tackling each other, into the snow, laughing so hard it reminded me, just for a minute, of how it felt to have a sister.
All three of us were freezing cold. The sky turned deep lavender, the color just before dark when the first planets appear in the west and Orion rises above the eastern horizon. We trudged back to the house, feeling good-exhausted. It was such a relief to forget about everything for a minute.
When Carole texted her mom, she raised her eyebrow at me because she had fine cell reception right here in the spot where I never did, and thirty minutes later, her mom arrived to drive her home.
* * *
After dinner, I went down into the dungeon, and that’s when something remarkable happened. I almost wondered if I’d imagined or dreamt it, if the spirit of Sarah Royston had somehow cast a spell over me, had entered my life just when I needed her most.
I lay down on my bed, arms folded behind my head, looking up at the ceiling. There was the fan with big white blades, the same one that had hung over Lizzie’s bed in her room in Black Hall. The steeple clock chimed seven. I noticed the bell sounded deadened, as if the striker had caught on something.
Standing up, I went over to investigate. The clock was about fifteen inches tall with two sharp spires on either side of a pointed roof. A glass door with a small brass knob covered the clock’s face; clear on top, the glass was etched with a colorful wreath of holly on the bottom. The door could only be opened with a key.
As if I knew exactly where to find it, I turned the clock around and there, taped to the back, was a tiny skeleton key. It fit into the lock perfectly. I had never thought to look in here before, but this was the first time I’d heard the clock ring in such a dull, muffled way.
When I turned the key, the glass door opened.
I heard myself gasp.
Here were Mame’s photos and letters, jammed into the small space. The corner of one envelope had slipped between the chime block and rod. My hands shook as I pulled the letters and photos out. I scattered them onto the floor, looking for the cell phone, but it wasn’t there. Still, I felt I’d been given a gift, treasures from Mame—a woman I’d loved, who’d cared about me as if I were her own granddaughter.
I spread the photos and mail out on the bed. There were pictures of Mame with Hubert in France, in Gaillac in Languedoc, the hometown of my patron saint Emily de Vialar. There were photos of Lizzie and me when we were little, on day trips with Mame to the carousel in Watch Hill, the ferry to Orient Point, Newport’s Cliff Walk.
The letters from Hubert: the love letters that had sustained Mame during his illness and death, when she’d missed him so terribly. Each was written on fine white onion skin stationery, the envelopes emblazoned with his monogram and the French tricolor flag.
But there was one envelope that had Lizzie’s handwriting. It shocked me to see my best friend’s writing, so clear and plain, as if she had written to her grandmother just days ago, as if she was still alive. I turned it over in my hand, raised it to my face hoping for her scent. It smelled only like paper.
I had a sudden lightning-bolt feeling these letters and photos had not been here before today, that Lizzie had left them for me.
Very carefully, I pulled the letter from the envelope. Dearest Mame, I read Lizzie’s sharp, perfect script. I researched, just as you told me, and found out everything there is to know about Sarah Royston …
“What are you doing?”
I looked up quickly, straight into the eyes of Mrs. Porter. I fumbled the letter, and it would have fallen to the floor if she hadn’t snatched it from my hand.
“Where did you find those?” she asked.
“In the clock,” I said.
Without a word, she gathered the letters and photos up and left the room. She closed the door behind her. I could still feel the letter from Lizzie in my hand. I knew it was real; I’d seen the name Sarah Royston. And I was certain, absolutely positive, that Mrs. Porter hadn’t known the papers had been in the clock. That realization gave me a triumphant thrill, a feeling of surprise and totally unexpected victory over her.
But who had put the letters there? And when?
And how had Lizzie known about Sarah Royston at least a year before her family had moved to this town?
Maybe it was a lucky double day after all.
Standing at the bus stop Monday morning, I pulled my jacket collar up over my face, and the zipper metal was so cold it stuck to my lips. I had to take off my mitten and warm the spot with my palm to thaw the zipper off. I had thought Decembers in Connecticut were frigid, but they were nothing compared to Maine. I figured the temperature out here was close to zero, and it hadn’t been much warmer at the breakfast table, Mrs. Porter’s ice-cold eyes silently accusing me of finding the letters.
Chloe and I stood in the shelter of the snow fort Carole and I had built. Chloe was fiddling with one of the icicle ornaments that had frozen straight down the smallest cutout window. We stamped our feet to keep the blood from freezing. I watched her out of the corner of my eye, holding the question inside, but I couldn’t wait any longer.
“Have you ever felt Lizzie here?” I asked.
“Here? In Maine?” Chloe asked.
“Yes. In the house.”
“That’s a sick question.” A huge gust of white breath came from her mouth and she looked wounded, as if I’d slapped her.
“Last night I felt as if she was here,” I said.
“Was that before you upset Mom or after?” she asked.
“Both,” I said, remembering Mrs. Porter’s furious force, grabbing the letter. “I think it’s why your mother got so mad. Because Lizzie came to me, not her.”
“Way to b
e losing your mind, Em,” Chloe said. “You’re hallucinating.”
“Who wouldn’t, being forced to sleep in her dead friend’s bed?”
Chloe’s lips thinned.
“I really did feel her there,” I said steadily.
“Good for you.”
I wondered why she wasn’t more curious, but maybe she was too busy being hurt/angry. “How would Lizzie know about Sarah Royston?” I asked.
“School Sarah?”
“Yeah. And Town Sarah. Considering you moved here after …”
“Did you ever stop to think about why we moved here?” Chloe snapped. “Why of all the places in the world my parents could have chosen to bring Lizzie back to life—through you, and you’re doing a rotten job of it, by the way—they picked here?”
Actually, I hadn’t. I’d just figured Royston was so far and so different from Black Hall, all rocky angles and spiky trees, compared to home’s soft marshes and gentle estuary light, that it would take them away from the sharpest, daily-est memories of Lizzie. Or maybe they had just thought it was the perfect middle-of-nowhere location to hide a kidnapped girl.
“Why did they come here?” I asked.
“That’s for me to know and you to find out.”
“Who put her letter …” I started to say.
Usually it was just Chloe and me at the bus stop, but I heard feet crunching through the snow’s crust. I looked out the snow fort’s window, and there was Casey coming down his driveway.
“Whoa,” Chloe said in a low voice. “He never takes the bus. His dad doesn’t like him walking along the road, it’s too narrow and traffic goes too fast. So he always drives him or gets someone else to.”
“Why is he taking it today?” I asked.
“No idea,” Chloe said.
“Hi, Chloe, Lizzie,” Casey said when he reached us.
“Hi,” I said.
“Cool fort,” he said. “Did you guys build it?”
“Carole and I did,” I said.
“It’s not that great,” Chloe said. “It was super easy to spy on them and attack them with snowballs.”
I stared at her and remembered how she’d hid behind the holly bushes. So she’d heard me and Carole talking about Casey and his mother, and Sarah Royston. And then the letter had appeared. I gave Chloe my best I know you did it squint. She held my stare for a few seconds, then turned her back on me.
The bus was a few minutes late. I stood close to Casey, and when it arrived, we got on and sat together. He faced me, and I knew he was seeing only my shadow, the Emily part of me, and it made me feel settled, the way I had at his house, but also awkward, because being around him had started churning me up inside.
“I was thinking, I should get a guitar, so I can practice,” I said to fill the silence.
“You can use mine,” he said. “Come over anytime.”
“That would be great,” I said, now trying to sound casual.
“After school I’m heading over to Mark’s, to the Christmas tree farm,” Casey said. “We’re going tobogganing. You should come.”
He was asking me to do something. My heart smashed into my ribs like a car wreck. There was no way Mrs. Porter would let me. Even if she wanted me to act as much like a normal kid as possible, there was last night and the letters, and her frozen-river eyes this morning. Visiting Casey’s house was different—he lived right next door, and she could keep an eye on me. But somewhere else? Forget it.
“Sounds good, I’ll try,” I said.
“You have to come,” he said. “I mean, you really have to.”
I glanced at Chloe, sitting across the aisle. I knew she’d been listening, and I saw her shake her head hard, just once, letting me know the answer would be no. As if I didn’t know already.
I watched the snowy woods go by, feeling Casey’s arm jostle mine every time the bus went over a bump. I had a brief, glimmering fantasy of high-velocity flying down snow-covered hills with him on a toboggan, his arms around me from behind, the north wind in our faces.
“This is the first time I’ve seen you take the bus,” I heard myself say.
“Yeah,” he said.
Why? I felt like asking, as I’d asked Chloe. But by the way Casey was leaning into me, the way his breath was shallow and my heart was pounding, the truth was, I knew. He’d wanted to see me.
“You are coming to Mark’s,” he said.
“Yeah, I am,” I said, hating the lie.
When we got off the bus, we stood there, on the sidewalk outside the school, for a whole minute. Icy snow fell on my face, tiny pricks of cold, as Casey leaned so close to me—even closer than in the room filled with shelves of honey—I could feel his breath on my forehead. Then the bell rang to signal the start of classes, and I walked away fast, because all I wanted was for him to kiss me right there, that exact moment. I couldn’t believe how crazy it felt to have these feelings for a boy in the midst of everything that was happening to me.
As soon as I got to homeroom, I got a message that Mrs. Morton wanted to see me. Any blip in my routine filled me with both hope and dread. I walked down to the principal’s office, through the dark hall with stained glass ruby light sparkling the floor. Sarah Royston had lived here, and then girls without homes, and somehow they were all connected to both Casey and Lizzie.
I entered Mrs. Morton’s office, stood before her desk.
“Lizzie, your teachers have been telling me you’ve caught right up with your class, even after missing the first part of the semester,” Mrs. Morton said.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Remember I mentioned how great it would be if you could tell the school about your travels? Well, what would you think about doing that tomorrow afternoon?” she asked. “I know it’s not much notice, but Ms. LeBlanc has to go to a teachers’ conference and it seems everyone on my entire list of substitutes has the flu. Would you consider filling the class time and regaling us with tales of Europe?”
“I’m not sure anyone really wants to hear me,” I said.
“Oh, believe me, they’ll love it. And so will I. What do you say?”
I hesitated, then nodded. What choice did I have? I had learned to adhere to the rules, the schedules, trying to be the Lizzie everyone expected me to be.
* * *
At noon, right after Carole and I sat down with our lunch trays, Mrs. Morton made an announcement over the loudspeaker that tomorrow afternoon instead of sixth period, Lizzie Porter would be giving a presentation about attending high school in Paris and traveling through Europe.
“Whaaaaat?” Carole asked, her head snapping toward me.
“I know, it wasn’t exactly on my agenda.”
“Wow. This is going to be amazing. Even I don’t know about your fabulous travels, Ms. International Woman of Mystery.”
“Oh, you know, I just don’t want everyone getting jealous of my partying on yachts on the Riviera.”
“Tell all,” she said, leaning close.
“Just joking,” I said.
“I bet. I’m sure you’re saving the juicy stuff. I guess I’ll just have to wait till tomorrow to hear along with everyone else.”
I steeled myself to think of what I was going to say, but it was okay—Lizzie would be giving the talk, not me. If I could split in two, I’d be fine. Emily could sit back, check out, and Lizzie could spin the stories and be the center of attention. Every day since being taken, I’d practiced being two different people.
“Hey, Lizzie,” Angelique said, walking toward our table.
“Hi, Angelique,” I said, surprised she’d talk to me.
“So, giving a talk, that’s dope,” she said. “And I hear you’re quite the budding guitarist. Planning to join the band?”
“I’m just starting to learn,” I said.
“We need more woman power,” she said, plunking her tray across from me and Carole.
“That’s the way,” Carole said. “You should do it, Lizzie. Poor Angelique, all alone onstage with th
e boys.”
“Women for women,” Angelique said.
“Like Sarah Royston,” I said.
“Ah, the mythical Sarah,” Angelique said. “Casey’s ancestor.”
“Lizzie Porter has a connection to her, too,” I said.
“Do you always talk about yourself in the third person?” Angelique asked, and Carole glanced at me quizzically, too.
“Ha-ha, out-of-body experience,” I said quickly. “Anyway, I’m not trying to be in the band. You’re incredible—I’m barely starting.”
Angelique shrugged, trying to be modest, but when you played violin like that and looked like an actual angel, there was no point. She had a salad, and she ate it piece by piece with her fingers. She made eating a salad with pointy fingertips look like the coolest thing in the world. I watched how she took each lettuce leaf, held it above her mouth, then lowered it in.
“You can learn to play well, too,” she said, wiping raspberry vinaigrette from her lips with the back of her hand. I was in awe of her confidence, the way she seemed to be inventing a whole new set of manners that, instead of thinking they were rude, everyone would want to imitate. “In fact, I’ll help you.”
“Well, Casey is,” Carole said. “He’s teaching her.”
Angelique tossed her long, wavy strawberry blond hair and gave me a fake-sweet, secretive, verging-on-devious smile. “Good luck with that, and I totally mean it! But be forewarned, he loses interest the minute he starts something.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry you two broke up,” Carole said, deadpan. Under the table, she banged my knee with hers.
“Love, break up, love again,” Angelique said. “We have our patterns, the dear boy and I. I need my space and I’m not the possessive type. Anyway, he and I traded instruments for a while. I coached him on fiddle; he got me started on mandolin and guitar. Strings are strings, frankly. Anyway, I’d love to help you. Woman power, right. Hey, maybe I should quit Sapphire Moon, and you and I should be the Sarah Roystons!”
“There’s only one Sarah Royston,” Carole said.
“Right, that,” Angelique said. “Later, ladies.” She blew air kisses at Carole and me, left her tray on the table for us to bus, and walked over to where Casey was sitting with Mark and Hideki.
