Returning to Alexi’s bedroom, she gazed one last time upon him, trying to store his image in her memory, hoping her colorless form would know him when she saw him. As she stared, blue fire began to pour out of him, and Phoenix amassed himself before her.
“I’m scared to die, my love,” she whispered.
The voice of Phoenix was choked. “Oh, love, I’m as scared and devastated as you. I lose this you. I’ll never see you like this again.” His fire raced over her, trying to seize her in the form he had first and always loved.
“When I return to him,” the fire continued, “I will give over to him and fade to his background. I will defer to him, have no control. Without you to command me, I’m only the fire he wields, nothing more. Now we must trust two mortals full of Power and Light to find each other. Like you and I once did.”
“I know that they must be left to it,” she said, fear in her voice. “They are so beautiful, he and she.”
“We are so beautiful, you and I,” Phoenix declared.
For an endless time they stood, murmuring their love as a mantra to strengthen their resolve. Eternity awaited, perhaps Peace like they’d never known. Their aching good-bye would birth a new dawn.
A bright light suffused the room as the Liminal drew Persephone away. Knowing she was nearing the end, she nonetheless went willingly.
Phoenix sank back into Alexi and was erased until he and his beloved met again; when they would be called to be gods once more.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-NINE
Persephone’s light woke Beatrice, who had slumped against the stone wall. It was still dark. Iris Parker slept peacefully.
The goddess knelt and took Beatrice’s hand, captured her gaze with those prismatic eyes and spoke with quiet urgency: “I pray that when all is said and done there may be no more need for a Guard, that the difficult questions of the Grand Work will never again plague mortals. In the meantime, remember its goodness, its beauty. Remember this in the future, when the most harrowing things are asked of you.”
Beatrice shuddered, wondering what ominous things were yet to come. Persephone kissed her hands before releasing them. A complex torrent of emotions passed over the goddess’s face, amplified by her youthful divinity.
“Remember blood and fire,” she continued. “When you are called again, I hope you will choose to come and help. Our fates are tied, Leader.” Her tears streamed so steadily she might have made many divine talismans had she caught them, but she let them roll away like tiny gems.
The goddess took a deep breath, wiped the silver from her eyes and straightened her shoulders. “I can’t wait any longer else I’m truly a coward. To the undiscovered country!”
So, it came down to this instant, where things would change forever. Beatrice held her breath. Persephone moved toward Iris Parker, her colors shifting less rapidly.
“Let it, at last, in ending, begin,” she breathed.
The room blazed with crackling threads of light that Beatrice recognized from the Liminal threshold. The air was filled with the music of heaven, a celestial chorus. The light grew ever brighter until Beatrice had to close her eyes and look away.
“Oh! It will be beautiful,” Persephone cried joyously. Then all was darkness and silence.
Beatrice opened her eyes. The room had filled with ghosts who gazed at Iris in awe, in seeming confirmation that she was now a new mother-to-be. The space grew chill from their presence, though they seemed harmless enough.
In any case, Beatrice thought, there was nothing she could do to deter them. Wide-eyed, she kept watch and pondered what she had witnessed until sleep eventually took her.
At dawn she awoke. The ghosts still surrounded Iris’s bed; as Beatrice pulled a chair to the bedside, she batted her hands at them, to no effect. They remained enraptured by the lovely young woman who now carried within her an instrument of peace. Beatrice wondered at the fate of the child, who might not have any concept of who she was: the mortal child made from an immortal being.
Iris woke with a start. Beatrice placed her hand on the young woman’s forehead. “Do not be afraid,” she said.
“For you bring great tidings?”
Beatrice’s lips thinned at the recited scripture. “Something like that. My name is Beatrice.”
“You were one of the angels that saved me!”
Beatrice offered a partial smile and thought it best not to argue this.
After a long moment, Iris began to look around in amazement. Beatrice wondered what she saw, but the young woman’s next words confirmed her suspicions. “Spirits! Like in the magazines! I’ve had stories read to me whenever anyone might humor me. I’ve always wanted to see a ghost, like in those tales.”
Beatrice herself wished she couldn’t. Not when she could not do anything about them.
“You must stay here, Miss Parker, and rest. I must fetch us some things in London, as our fates are now entwined. I’ll return to you soon.” The room grew increasingly cold as more spirits appeared, floating peacefully, watching. Due to their deep reverence, Beatrice did not worry they would do harm to Iris while she was gone.
At the door, she turned. “If the spirits frighten you, hold to that pendant of yours. It is your guardian angel, the only power we have left.”
“But we’ve all the power of heaven,” Iris replied, beaming.
“Hold tight to that certainty, my dear.” Beatrice wished she were as confident.
CHAPTER
THIRTY
“There you are!” Belle cried in relief as Beatrice entered La Belle et La Bête, closing the wide umbrella that had only partially shielded her against the insistent rain. Embracing her, she hurried Beatrice inside, took her accoutrements, and immediately fussed over some tea.
“I was very worried about you! I went to Athens, and you were nowhere to be found. It’s been a week! What was I to think? Where were you?”
“The goddess whisked me away to the Whisper-world,” Beatrice replied, adjusting the folds of her traveling skirt as she sat at the polished wooden bar. “When the Whisper-world spat me back out again, I was all the way in the north country.”
Belle gaped. “What? The Whisper-world? Isn’t that forbidden? Isn’t that supposed to drive you mad, going in there as a mortal?”
“There is a Whisper-world threshold few mortals see, a terrible, awesome place. But the goddess protected me,” Beatrice said. “I cannot stay here, but I wanted to gather my belongings and tell you and George what’s gone on. A packed trunk sits in a waiting carriage, and I have a duty in the north, caring for a mother-to-be. Much is yet needed of me,” Beatrice said into her cup of tea, which warmed her comfortingly. “No rest for the wicked.”
“You’re hardly wicked. What was it like there?”
“At the edge of the Whisper-world? It was like a proscenium arch, and I sensed that from it or through it all things may be possible—with sacrifice. That’s the way of life we have come to understand, isn’t it? Strange, awesome beauty; painful sacrifice. I saw visions of the future, watched as our Lady realized she won’t come again to this Earth as herself. Her powers will pass on in some form, but she, no. Not as herself. It was … difficult. And now she’s gone.”
“What?” Belle murmured.
“The goddess is gone. A young woman will bear a mortal child—what’s left of the goddess we knew. I must see that she ends up in York, and then I must leave her to her fate.”
Belle blinked. “The goddess is gone? She made mention of turning a new leaf, of a new dawn, but…” Tears appeared in her eyes. “Is there anything I can do?”
“No. The seeds of Prophecy are already put into place. After this, even my role is limited. But first I must return to Iris Parker.” Beatrice sighed. “Her mortal coil will also be sacrificed to the Grand Work. A Work that gives and takes life so freely…”
Belle shook her head, dismayed. “Would you like me to go with you?”
Beatrice smiled wanly. “You’re a dear, Belle. But no,
I need to be on my own. This is my cross to bear, and I am unfit for company. But I did want to tell you. I wanted someone to know…”
“Has Ibrahim—”
Something about saying his name, the expression on Beatrice’s face must have told Belle all she needed to know.
Belle clutched her hand. “Being Leader is an oft lonely fate.”
Beatrice did not argue.
“Poor Iris,” Beatrice murmured, changing the subject away from the pain of unrequited love. “Full of loving faith. Such a joyous soul for such a hard life, she shames me with her fortitude, her bright kindness, her blind trust. I believe she knows she’s going to die. Ghosts flocked to her immediately, knowing she holds something special. The spirits aren’t malevolent, which is good, as I’ve no power to guard her. Nothing but a talisman the goddess left before she passed on. In. Passed in, rather. Into mortality.”
Beatrice spoke as if to herself, in a reverie, but her glazed eyes eventually focused back on her friend. “So pray for me. For us. I don’t know if I can trust in prayer, but I need some help as I take her to York. It’s supposed to be far enough from London so that the child won’t be caught up in the Grand Work but close enough for her to come here when she’s a woman, ready to love and ready to take charge.
“Timid, though,” Beatrice added with a shudder. “She looked too timid in the vision. I pray that once she comes into the Guard’s care that she is bolstered, that those eerie eyes blaze with confident power. I’d hate to think that the fate of every Guard rests in trembling, ghost-pale hands. But nothing’s certain. We can plant seeds but the rains still have to come. Prophecy must have room to grow.”
“I cannot presume to understand a word of this,” Belle said, “but I can most certainly pray for a joyous result after all our sacrifices. Though I’ll be the first to say that my fate has been a blessing.” Her smile indicated she thought of George. “But tell me of your heart before you go. How are you?”
“I’m fine,” Beatrice replied.
Belle just looked at her. She refilled Beatrice’s tea. She kept looking.
“I’m fine,” Beatrice repeated. “Ibrahim is gone from my life. He wrote saying he would not be returning for me nor should I look for him in Cairo. What more is there to say?”
Belle leaned in across the bar. “Your countryman Dickens claims that ‘life is full of meetings and partings.’ Even the new Leader says so.”
“And?”
“He leaves out reunions.”
“Ibrahim is not coming back,” Beatrice said sharply.
“Beatrice, you two are suited. Like it or not, you are. Elegant, stubborn, strong, and true. If he doesn’t come back, you must go to Cairo, I don’t care what he said.”
“I’m not about to chase him! He clearly doesn’t care for me, and I don’t want to hear another word about it.” Beatrice turned. “It’s good to see you, Belle. I’ll return once the child is born and poor Iris Parker’s body is in the ground…” At this, Beatrice choked. She kissed Belle softly on the head, snatched her umbrella, and fled back out into the rain.
* * *
An onlooker would surmise Ibrahim was a young man in control of his destiny, a savvy traveler and son of the world. Inside, he was filled with fear and regrets that were eating him alive. He had two choices: Ignore the past year or embrace it as his defining hour and risk whatever was to come. Declare himself to a magnificent woman, despite his vision, and see what she would say.
He had an inkling that she cared. Surely he couldn’t have imagined it. But likely she cared no longer, not the way he did. She was an Englishwoman, he an Egyptian, and they’d damnably never spoken about this sort of thing, so what did he truly know? To love or not to love. That was the question. Hamlet-like, perhaps. How English.
Ahmed and Verena’s company was ever pleasant, but watching them grow joyfully closer was its own agony. They never made him feel unwelcome, but there were moments of awkward sadness. Verena once dared ask about Beatrice. When Ibrahim made no reply, neither Verena nor Ahmed spoke of her again. But the Leader was there, silently, in their hearts, as were Belle and George. Their beloved circle was broken but still part of them.
Ibrahim was there to celebrate when, beneath a particularly incredible moon, Verena agreed to be Ahmed’s wife. When Ibrahim asked how they’d manage their different faiths, Ahmed pointedly reminded him that the Prophet said a man might marry any chaste woman “of the book”—and that the Abrahamic faiths included Jews and Christians. Abraham. Ibrahim. Perhaps his namesake was trying to tell him something.
“Besides,” Ahmed exclaimed, “the Grand Work brings strangers together to weave new understandings. We each have personal truths: our loves, our respective faiths. But we also have the truth of our mutual love, born within the Power and the Light. It would be a shame and its own sin to deny that, would it not?”
Ibrahim couldn’t help but agree, though he was uncomfortable with the way Ahmed eyed him. Ahmed didn’t need a Muse to be powerful; he was naturally adept at penetrating the human heart. The man’s own heart was twice the size of any regular mortal. They all were, in their way, still more.
Time passed, Ibrahim became numb; he did not allow himself to think of Beatrice. He was only jarred back into focus one evening when he and Ahmed stood on the balcony ledge of Ibrahim’s rented rooms.
“Your vision,” Ahmed said. “What you assume was Beatrice’s death. We are not gods able to know the circumstances. You share little of your heart with me, but I read your eyes, the corners of your mouth, the tone of your voice … You’re a different man without her. You grow increasingly like the ghosts we once fought—insubstantial yet bitter.”
With a sigh, Ahmed continued, “The fact remains, you cannot take her hand in Cairo when she lives in England. And I do believe, no matter what you saw, that you should take her hand.”
Ibrahim opened his mouth to protest, but Ahmed waved him to silence. Behind him, Verena appeared, carrying a tea tray, and the beautiful woman said boldly, “Staring down death made me discard subtlety. Go back for her, you lovely fool.”
“I can’t,” Ibrahim choked out, as if the desert took hold of his throat. A painful, wrenching feeling. “The vision of Beatrice going gray in death … It is too terrible to tempt. I believe she’s safer if I remain far away.”
No more was said on the subject.
Some time later Ibrahim received a letter from Belle and George, sent via Ahmed. Belle began the note and wasted no time in getting to the point.
Mr. Wasil-Tipton,
I understand you wrote to our beloved Miss Smith and severed ties. While I think this cowardly, I trust you have reasons. Despite those, please understand what your prolonged absence has done. Beatrice is a ghost of what she once was. Her pride would never admit it, but as friend to both of you, it’s time someone was honest. She needs her pillar, her second-in-command.
I believe it is proper to tell you this: Beatrice is currently engaged in the Grand Work. The goddess as we knew her is no more. Did you feel the storms in Cairo, or do you shun the traces of our power like you do our Leader?
The goddess will be born mortal. Ghosts swarm around her expectant mother, and Beatrice protects her. I asked if we could help, but she adamantly refused. I do not think she would refuse you.
Despite your vision, it is my instinct and perhaps my too-bold opinion that you do more harm than good by staying away. You could read to these ghosts, just as you did to Verena when our powers had gone. You could still be of service, keeping them civil and passive.
Could you not try to be our Leader’s companion—in any and every way she needs? She will take no other.
Or are you truly as lost to us all as you would seem? We all love you,
Belle
Here the script changed:
This is George. Must I paint you a picture of what is required? Don’t be stupid. Hie thee back to England.
Ibrahim laughed. It felt so very good to laugh, to feel tears rim
ming his eyes in happy release. Was his beloved truly so struck by his absence? Knowing this did not solve his fear of harming her, but he rejoiced in a manner of exquisite pain.
Belle spoke truth; an echo of his previous power remained. Intuition flooded him. Assisting his Leader was the right thing to do. Fear had made him foolishly don a mantle of misery. He could help in Persephone’s transformation, and having seen the danger in advance, perhaps he could keep his treasure safe. He would indeed be a coward not to return, bearing a brimming heart unto a worthy hand.
* * *
One bright morning, Belle opened the door of La Belle et La Bête to an insistent knock. She and George had spent a late night at the theater the night before, then treated themselves to a bottle of wine from the café’s stores. She had not yet opened the café for business that day.
“Ibrahim!” she exclaimed, finding her former comrade on the doorstep. He was well appointed in a new suit coat and vest, looking every bit the Englishman as he’d looked the Egyptian in Cairo. She eyed him warily. “What are you doing here?”
“I was struck by your letter. I … I’ve come back.”
Belle just stared, waiting for him to continue.
“I … am worried for Beatrice.”
“You should be,” Belle exclaimed, her French accent suited to scolding. “You should’ve seen her after your letter!” She gestured that he enter as a teapot began to scream behind the bar. “What are you going to do about it?”
“If her work is as you’ve said, then I agree that it remains my duty to offer assistance. I’ll simply … be very careful.” He added, as if to himself, “I won’t ever take her hand. In my vision, I clutched her hand and she died.”
Belle’s eyes flashed. “You won’t ‘take her hand…’ Metaphorically or literally? Vision or no, to base your future on that one detail is absurd.”
Ibrahim couldn’t hold Belle’s gaze. He nodded. “Ahmed also reminded me that visions may have multiple truths and variable interpretations.” He cleared his throat and admitted, “Truth be told, I am miserable without her.”
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