“No,” the prismatic goddess countered, speaking softly to Alexandra, her colorful hands lovingly stroking the young woman’s head. “Your brother is an angel. A prophesied angel. But his work has its dangers, and he loves you so much that he needs you safe. Removed. Because he doesn’t want you to be frightened of him. He doesn’t want anyone to be frightened of him.”
Her sparkling gaze pierced him to the core. Alexi choked and turned away, overcome.
“Yes, brother, of course. Do what you must,” Alexandra said quietly, as if in a dream. “Just come visit, please.”
Alexi’s throat worked, painfully dry, and he stared at his one true friend in the world, the only remaining member of his family. “Of course, sister, of course.”
Then he could bear no more. He left the room, nearly running.
* * *
Persephone bent, kissed the top of Alexandra’s head, then brushed a hand over her wide eyes, closing them. The young woman fell asleep in her chair in the next breath. Holding her breath, the goddess silently exited the room, closing the doors behind her. She wasn’t sure where Alexi had gone but was determined to find him.
In the hallway, she loosed the cough she’d been holding in, catching pulp and blood in a cupped hand. Her heart faltered. Even helping humans with simple tricks of grace and peace taxed her like never before. How much had she left to give? She might fall apart before all the doors were knit together.
Moving into the garden, she placed her sullied hand over a white rose and turned it red. Her hand was now clean.
His voice startled her. “I’m supposed to trust you because Prophecy is going to make all this better?” He was standing on the veranda, leaning against the bricks of the back wall, his dark coat, vest, and shirt all open and disheveled, as was the mop of black hair that Persephone’s fingers itched to caress.
She cleared her throat and smiled, hoping her teeth were not stained with blood. “Yes. I’m going to make it better. I’m going to make it all up to you, Alexi, I promise. Though I will say this isn’t my fault any more than it is yours.”
“Then whose?”
“Whose fault is it when buildings topple, when quakes rattle the earth or storms fell trees? Is it the hand of the heavens or is it just the way of things? With as much as you’ve now seen that you cannot explain, and with the knowledge that I am a divinity without absolute power, what answer would you give?”
“I didn’t choose—”
“No, you didn’t. But you were noticed. When someone gains notice for greatness, sometimes that gives them choices. Sometimes it takes choices away.”
He stared at her stonily. She glided up the walk and he followed; she gestured that they sit on a bench, and when he refused, she shrugged and took a seat, tucking her legs up and shifting so that she sat facing him. Her glowing robes gathered in layers, looking like the absurd poufs and skirts so fashionable in his century.
“I was noticed once,” she said. “It got me stolen away to a place where I rot year after year. I didn’t choose. So often we don’t. Your Grand Work has its blessings and curses—”
“There are no blessings.”
“No? What about those lives you’ve already saved? The glory that you feel in the Power and the Light? The true knowledge, in your very veins, that you work for heavenly good?” Persephone watched as Alexi’s face twisted, a wordless admission that she was right.
“I’ll come back,” she promised after a long silent moment, rising. He allowed her to place a kiss on his cheek as she passed. She could see his pleasure, watched his teeth clench as he struggled not to reach out and take her in his arms. Pausing, she placed a sorcerous finger on his lips to prevent him from letting this encounter trouble him.
Slipping the crimson strip of fabric from her neck, she said, “Take this. A spot of passionate color in what must feel like a life of utter darkness.”
She wound the cloth dyed by her blood around his neck like a cravat. She finished the knot with a soft kiss that made Alexi gasp.
“That’s enough,” the voice of Phoenix warned in her ear. “You’ve done enough to this young man; leave him be, don’t torture him with dalliances. Where you have riled him up, I must settle him down. Don’t undo my Balance with games. What you’re doing isn’t fair.”
She drew back, chastened; a wash of blue fire passed over both her and Alexi’s face and Persephone walked away with a quiet, sincere apology to them both.
She moved once again into the house, leaving her love and his vessel staring out at the darkening garden, settled by Phoenix’s safeguarding power.
In the study, the goddess glanced once more at Alfred Rychman’s letter and grimaced, saddened.
Her head suddenly swam. A vision formed, a vision of this house. The ghostly girl, the woman, the mortal Persephone must become, sat at a harpsichord. Alexi stood at her side. The pair was striking and filled with love, but older than when she had first seen them.
As the woman’s impossibly white hands played a tune, folded paper dropped from somewhere within the keyboard, landing on her boots. She plucked it up and opened it with a frown.
The goddess recognized the first page immediately; it was the note from Alexi’s father. The second and third sheets were a missive in an even more familiar hand: Persephone’s own.
The vision faded.
“Well, then…”
Persephone never argued with her visions. She plucked two blank sheets of paper from atop the blotter, took a fountain pen and ink, and sought an empty room in which to write. She would leave the letters to be found at the appropriate time. Words of hope, of praise, of thanksgiving.
She would, as promised, also record and include Ahmed’s warnings of the war in the ground, to not close every door, to allow room for the dead. Whatever that meant. There were times when it was best to offer warnings. When mortals were cautioned, they kept better Guard.
Finishing the note and hiding it where her vision bid, she nearly ran into the portal she opened. There was nothing else she could do here, as Alexi’s presence was too tempting for her to leave well enough alone.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
Alexi walked slowly toward Athens Academy and his Guard meeting, his mind hazy and numb. He remembered that his sister had taken the news of their parents’ departure surprisingly well. However, it felt as though part of his day had gone missing, and he couldn’t determine why. Perhaps he had gotten so adept at blocking his feelings that his life simply happened? That certainly left a void, but emptiness was better than the alternative. How many years would it take before humanity escaped him altogether?
He also wondered when he’d taken to wearing a scarlet cravat. But he liked the look of it. As he wondered at this, the fire within him offered a reassurance that he was a good man, and all would eventually be well.
Coming upon a weeping Jane at the Athens portico, he realized he retained some human compassion. She looked up at him and blushed, then wept harder as he drew near and placed a firm hand upon her shoulder.
She fell into a stammering torrent of words, her accent heightened by anxiety. “I’m sorry, Alexi, to be seen like this, but I’m beside m’self. I’ve nowhere to go. Mum said I’m useless if I won’t marry or take a job—but I can’t marry!” She blushed more. “And the factories, ye can’t just walk off the line if the Grand Work calls, so I’ve been kicked out. I know Elijah’s magic was supposed to have taken hold and made us invisible, but Mum’s stubborn, and I don’t go unnoticed. I think it’s my light. Too bright. I don’t know what to—”
“Jane,” Alexi interrupted with gentle firmness, “you and I will walk through Aldgate tomorrow and we shall find you a flat. Rebecca and I were just discussing how that area gets spiritually fitful, so having a Guard resident there would be a great asset. Would you mind Aldgate?”
Her red, tearstained face showed excitement for a moment before falling again into terror. “But I’ve no money.”
“You leave money
matters to Withersby and me, and I don’t want to hear one more word about it,” he commanded, proffering her his breast-pocket handkerchief. “Ever. You are provided for, Miss Connor, and that is all there is to say.”
Her eyes had gone wide, and she was leaning on him a bit. He tried to exude the strength he felt was appropriate to his commission.
“Thank you, Alexi,” she breathed. “I … knew you could help me.”
“Of course,” he said proudly. “Such is my job.”
He offered Jane an arm as they ascended the steps to Athens. As he heaved open the great front door, he deigned to admit, “I’ve been similarly abandoned.” The Irish girl turned in alarm, her warm heart ever ready to offer sympathy and mutual aid, so he quickly added, “Though not without recourse. Worry not a whit for me, Jane. But trust me. I have learned today that we, the Guard, are the only family we can rely on.”
“Oh, aye, Alexi,” Jane said. “That much seems true.”
Her tears vanished. Her relief and gratitude made him realize that friends were indeed a blessing, and that helping them made his heart less heavy. He smiled—or gave the best approximation he could muster, and felt better than he had since the work began.
“While being Leader is my job, helping a friend is a pleasure. Tomorrow, at the tower gates at eleven, we’ll find you a home. Tonight, stay at Athens. There’s room in the ladies’ dormitory for now. But only until Rebecca takes over; then she’ll have this place crawling with as many girls as families will allow.”
Inside they were met by their fellows. Spectral matters were discussed, and they were renewed by the Power and the Light. It was an uneventful meeting, but the rejuvenation was necessary. He felt that the meditative ritual in the sacred space was going to be necessary every week, to recall them to their purpose, to remind them what was good in spite of all their youthful sacrifice. It filled him with great hope and alleviated the darkness within, much like the spot of crimson against his black attire.
Later, after a silent dinner with his uncomplaining sister and the small house staff, Alexi realized there was still something missing from his life, something unrealized. He was as empty as his vast estate, and he didn’t know how to find peace. If he couldn’t have peace, he grasped somewhere deep within for a bit of hope.
* * *
Beatrice waited out the Peninsular steamer’s journey in anxious delirium, reliving Ibrahim’s kiss upon her hand, the look in his eyes, the hand on his heart. Frequenting Café La Belle et La Bête, she found the friendship of Belle and George did her heart good, as did the knowledge that George continued to paint. His work was as beautiful as ever. For all the Grand Work had required in sacrifice, it had also brought her a treasure. Such friendship as the Cairo Guard shared was priceless.
“Have you heard from Ibrahim?” Belle asked casually, as she did every time they met.
“Belle, he can’t send a letter from the ship. He has to dock before the mail can set sail again in return. Patience,” Beatrice replied, as if their relationship was still all business. She wondered if Belle knew how her heart pounded at the sound of his name. If so, her friend never let on.
“George and I shall retire to the coast,” the French girl announced. “Won’t that be nice? We’ve been discussing it for some time. We’re thinking Grimsby. But not yet. I’ve this odd feeling we’re meant to stay here for a bit, to do something with this building. We feel it the same way we felt we were supposed to buy the place. What does the goddess have in store for you?”
“I’ve no idea,” Beatrice said. “She means to take a mortal body, but she’d best stop dallying with her precious new Leader and do it already. If we’re all headed for Darkness’s dread prison, we’d better get her war well underway.”
Maybe then they’d be free to live their lives—and afterlives—in peace.
* * *
When a letter from Ibrahim finally arrived, printed in the delicate script of the man who, in the murmurs of her midnight hours, she achingly called beloved, Beatrice felt like a giddy, anxious schoolgirl. She rushed to her room to drink in the message, but from the first lines, she knew it would not lead her to happiness.
Miss Smith,
I truly apologize for the delay in my missive. The words I must write are not easy to pen and I have waited to see if my mind might change. But I am resolute. You and I were thrust into a most unlikely partnership, and I maintain my respect for how you have handled yourself. I have valued your presence in my life more than I dare say.
Growing up with the knowledge I was left on a doorstep has made me care for people cautiously. Losing the father I so luckily gained made my fear of growing attached all the more ingrained. I hope you can understand this, and I hope you can therefore forgive the times I made our interactions difficult. I hope you can also comprehend that being abandoned by you strikes me with great terror. I feel now, in writing this, as though I am already a ghost, restless, gray and sad.
I saw my greatest nightmare with my own eyes. I lost you. There is no other way to say it. As we came upon Cairo, so a vision came upon me. I trust it, for Ahmed and Verena have both confirmed that we have all retained echoes of our powers. In my vision you took a fatal turn, and I somehow was involved. It was when you took my hand that you died.
I cannot again go against what remains of my Intuition and cast you unwittingly into harm’s way; you are too valuable. As much as I at first wished the fate of the Grand Work were otherwise, I now wish this vision were untrue and that you might join me in Cairo. But I’ll not risk your life upon it. I cannot. We must not be together. It seems the only way to keep you safe.
Beatrice, you deserve a life full of light and glory. I’ll not have you turn Whisper-world gray before my eyes. Live well and be well, Miss Smith. There are so many more words I want to say but I dare not. I shall surely see you someday in some Great Beyond.
Sincerely,
Ibrahim Wasil-Tipton
The letter fluttered to the ground, released by her trembling hands.
There it was. A kiss on the hand was all she would ever receive. Love would be denied her. Such was her fate.
Black clouds were rolling in, and with every crack of thunder that broke over London, so too did Beatrice break. The letter had not been entirely cold, but neither could she comfort herself with its passion. Ibrahim was a man of fact. If he had emotions, he buried them deep. His disturbing vision was the last thing they would share.
Her first sob carried with it all the grief she had held back when Jean had fallen to his death before her eyes. That was not the pain of true love but this … Beatrice didn’t remember the last time she’d wailed, if indeed she ever had, collapsing in tears upon the center of her floor, but the recklessness of the storm inspired her own. Her world, which had gone Cairo golden when Ibrahim had kissed her hand, now went Whisper-world black.
She didn’t care if anyone might hear her and was startled when she heard a timid knock. She muffled her cries, but the knock came again, followed by a male voice, slightly familiar.
“Terribly sorry. I know it might seem impertinent, but I was just seeing my dear friend to her new rooms here at Athens and in passing … I just have to ask, miss, if you are all right.”
“Fine,” Beatrice barked. Yet she stood and moved to the door, laying a hand upon the wood.
The man spoke gently. “If I’m not mistaken, that was the cry of a broken heart. You must forgive me, but hearts are my specialty. I just want you to know that you are not alone. No mortal is alone. Even if you can’t see or feel them, there are angels all around.”
The stranger on the other side of the door made her feel as though she were in a confessional, something doubly bizarre for an Anglican. Surprisingly, the intimate anonymity was soothing. Beatrice found herself confessing, “I … found out that someone I love cannot love me in return.”
“Ah, how I understand you, miss” came the sad reply. “And there’s hardly a pill more bitter. But God loves you, always.”
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“Are you a priest? If not, you should be. The church could use an advocate like you.”
“Why, thank you, miss, and indeed I have chosen to serve the church. Michael Carroll, at your service. Should you ever need an ear or a reminder of angels, please think of me. Especially during the worst storms and the darkest nights of your soul. Rest well.”
Beatrice shook her head and listened to his footfalls recede. Michael Carroll? Of course his voice was familiar. He was the new Heart, and well had he been chosen. Though she no longer wielded her powers, and Michael wouldn’t have known her as anything but some resident of the growing academy, she would have connected with him anywhere. The Grand Work refused to be ignored.
The storm rumbled, and she wondered what would follow in its watery wake.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX
Alexi Rychman stared out the window of his home at the raging storm, master of a dark estate. Alexandra had been moved out to her own quarters, where she had a kind young maid who would be ever at her service, so this haunted house, though full of murmurs, strange tricks of the light, and endless shadows, was as empty and echoing as his soul.
The wind howled. He’d never seen weather like this; akin to the wrestling of gods. His mind raced and his heart pounded. Was their intended Prophecy afoot? He felt a moment of foolishness, thinking that inclement weather might have a whit to do with the supernatural. Then he felt the Pull, and the Grand Work dragged him out into the storm.
* * *
She had bled profusely onto several seals without taking time to heal herself in the mortal world, despite the danger to her form. Only two barriers were left, then all would be ready to be kissed by fire when the moment was right—provided no forces from the Whisper-world disturbed them in the meantime.
Persephone’s yearning for the mortal world was stronger than ever, but the end was too close to turn back now. Two more final bursts of her life force and she could finally make the change, become no longer broken or tied to Whisper-world prison.
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