House of Stone

by T. K. Thorne

  The morning is a beautiful spring one with purple redbuds and white dogwoods blossoming in the yards of the Southside neighborhood. Redbuds come out before the dogwoods. They are not red, but purple, which is confusing. The colors make me think of the April day last year when Becca visited in her yellow hat and matching purse. That was the same day I discovered how to reach into the earth, moving around the barriers of iron and stone to find seams of coal and pull on the living-green. I draw on it now, just to feel the comfort of golden warmth spreading through me.

  The rocking chair is damp with dew, but I came armed with a dishtowel and dry it off before sitting in it to wait for Tracey. A small lizard with a startling blue tail emerges from a crevice in the rock half-wall of the porch. I watch Angel watching it with twitching tail as the lizard checks out the clutter of fallen Japanese maple blooms and debris deposited from the last rainstorm. Life goes on, no matter what dramas tornado through our lives. I briefly entertain the thought of sweeping off the porch while I wait, but that seems stupid. The wind will only blow more stuff onto the porch.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  During the day, I stop by the police department’s Youth Services Unit and get an idea of what I need to do to try and get Daniel back. I don’t have the courage to call Alice until after work.

  She reports no change with Becca. My chest aches.

  “Do you mind if I skip dinner and go to the Y?” I ask, feeling like a heel for not going home and supporting her, but I am too restless to be of any use.

  “No dear, of course not. There’s nothing you can do here, I’m afraid.”

  It’s Tuesday, martial arts classes are Monday and Thursday, but I feel the need for physical exertion. My gym bag is in the trunk. The Academy gym is not far away, but it doesn’t have a swimming pool. I head to the Y.

  Inside, I check in and head to the women’s locker room on the second floor. Then I climb the stairs to the fourth floor and the track, glad that there’s no thumping basketball game going on in the gym below. The quiet suits me better. Only one man shares the track, walking on the inner circle, so I take the outer one. Running clears the cobwebs from my brain. Despite the fact that it’s a mindless one-foot-in-front-of-the-other, or maybe because it is, everything else is driven out. I can’t think about anything other than breathing in time to my feet, and that’s a good thing when there’s chaos inside.

  Two miles later, I drop down to the second floor and hit the weights. Not a hard workout, one circuit, enough to let my muscles know they haven’t been forgotten. Then a quick change in the locker room and down to the pool, my reward. It’s an Olympic-sized pool in an isolated section of the gym and, as usual at this time, it’s deserted.

  I plunge in for a couple of leisurely laps. This water is smooth and still, friendly compared to the brutal sea. I feel cocooned, buffered from the world, and wonder if part of that feeling is being cut off from magic. I’ve never thought of it that way, but it’s just the silk brush of the water against my skin. The last lap I do underwater. When I emerge at the deep end’s edge, I encounter a pair of shoes at eye level.

  The shoes are shiny black leather and occupied. Legs in black suit pants yield to a crisp white dress shirt, the top opened two buttons down to disclose a dark chest with curly black hair. I blink the chlorine water from my eyes and look up at a tawny face I recognize, this time closely shaved.

  “Angola. What are you doing here?”

  Jason’s chauffeur takes a step back from the edge, and I hoist myself out with arms shaky from my workout. “Why are you here?”

  “Mr. Blackwell would like to see you tomorrow night.”

  I wipe my face with the towel I left in a nearby chair and wrap it around my waist. “How did you know where I was?”

  A slight shrug. “It is not important.”

  “It is to me. I don’t like being followed around.”

  “I will relay your message,” he says coolly. “But for the moment, I would like to relay mine.”

  “What is it?”

  “Mr. Blackwell has important information for you and requests that you meet him to discuss it.”

  “Right. I already told him—no. We had a deal. If I went on the boat ride, he would leave me alone.”

  “He said you might have such a reaction. He instructed me to tell you it is about a possible way to help Becca, your friend.”

  The next day, I roll my only dress into my gym bag with a pair of heels. It’s a black number Becca picked out before the Ordeal when we were supposed to be shopping for detective clothes. I stop at a fast food restaurant to change, not wanting to have to answer questions from Alice. I’ll change back before I go home. The last time I had an invite to dinner from Jason Blackwell, it was at The Club, a private club on the top of Red Mountain. This time it’s at Highlands Bar and Grill, a restaurant on a narrow street in Five Points South with an unassuming stone and stucco exterior, a dark green door, and matching awning. The owner-chef has won multiple national awards for his unique mix of French and Southern cuisine. Even I, Hamburger Queen, know this.

  But right now I’m not in any mood for pride or fancy food. I’m angry at Jason for blackmailing me into having dinner with him. I can’t decide if I’m angrier at having to wear heels or at having to endure sweating and panting at his presence. Not for a minute do I believe he has information about how to help Becca. But on the slim chance he might, I’m here.

  I’m thankful it’s not the weekend, but I wonder how Jason got a reservation so quickly. I have called Highlands before—curious to try the renowned restaurant—and couldn’t get a reservation even a month out.

  I’m grateful for the valet parking. I can’t walk far on these damn heels. They are just two inches high, but I might as well be walking a tightrope. Becca, in her right mind, would have been horrified that I am carrying my brown leather work purse with a black dress, but she is not in her right mind, which is why I’m suffering and mad.

  The truth is I’m using anger to get me through this.

  I reach for the door, but it opens before I can touch it, held from the inside by Angola.

  “Have you got a tracker on me or something?” I snap.

  His head gives a slight bow, his gaze sliding from mine, ignoring my question, but once I step over the threshold, I stop dead at the quiet inside the popular restaurant. There is only one man seated at a table, his face lit by candlelight. It’s a familiar and beautiful face.

  Jason Blackwell stands with gentlemanly grace to greet me.

  I had planned to lash him with my anger over him breaking our agreement. Instead, I look around, confused.

  “Where is everyone?”

  He smiles. “Don’t worry, the chef and wait staff are all here. We are the only diners tonight.”

  “You . . . you bought the entire restaurant?”

  “Only for tonight.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Isit across from Jason at the table for two in the corner of the empty white table restaurant, trying to re-marshal my anger.

  “You look amazing,” he says.

  Not the kind of comment that feeds a girl’s ire. And I did dress for this, I admit to myself. Apparently, I don’t know my own mind. Saying yes to him might be saying yes to saving an entire race of people. A hero’s move, right? I take a deep breath to steady myself.

  A waiter appears, almost as magically as Angola seems to, to take our wine order.

  “May I order a bottle for us?” Jason asks.

  “Sure. Why not?”

  He nods at the waiter, who does not ask what he wants. Prearranged.

  “I took the liberty of choosing what I thought you might enjoy,” he says, noting my raised eyebrow.

  “Are you surveiling my drinking preferences as well as my whereabouts?”

  He smiles. “No. You are welcome to choose whatever you like from t
he menu.”

  “No, I trust you—for ordering food, anyway.”

  “Your trust does not come easily, Rose.”

  “That’s what happens when your family tries to kill my family.”

  He raises a hand palm out in a “stop” gesture. “I thought we were beyond that.”

  “Hardly.”

  The waiter brings us chilled white wine, opens it and pours a sample for Jason, who sips and nods. Then he pours a glass for me. It’s crisp and clean on my tongue. I’m not a wine connoisseur, but this is good stuff. Expensive, I’m sure. Good, I mean to cost him a pretty penny for making me meet him.

  “Tell me what you think you know that might help Becca.” I take another swallow, hoping the wine will help calm my elevated heart rate and provide an excuse for the flush in my cheeks. He makes me feel like a high school girl with a crush.

  “Before the appetizer?” he asks.

  “You know that is the only reason I met you.”

  “I do know and it breaks my heart.”

  “Please.”

  “I wish I knew how to convince you of my sincerity. I truly care about you, Rose.”

  “I’m going to be angry if this was a ruse,” I say, trying to ignore the jump of my pulse at his words.

  He sets his glass down and fixes me intently with his impossibly ice-blue eyes. “I would not do that. I know you think I am entirely self-serving. Perhaps I deserve that, but I do feel very badly about what happened to Becca. It occurred under my nose, so to speak, and I could not stop it.”

  “Couldn’t or didn’t?”

  “What I reply does not matter. What do you truly think?”

  “I . . . don’t know.” There is a lot I don’t know. Too much.

  The silent waiter slips two plates before us. Each contains a round construction of avocado, lump crabmeat, and red peppers topped with delicate raw tuna. A garnish of crab claws and greens pinwheel around it.

  “Tuna Tartare Tower,” the waiter announces proudly.

  “Lovely,” I smile at him. No point in taking out resentment at my forced attendance on the waiter. And, my mouth decides, no point in not eating either.

  The dish is extraordinary, and I say so.

  “It is,” Jason agrees. “The view from The Club on top of Red Mountain is unmatched, but the food here is quite special. I travel a good bit, and this city has restaurants I would put up against any in the world.” He uses his knife to cut into the tower, spearing his food with the fork, tines down in his left hand and holding on to the knife in his right. Very continental.

  I know the quality of restaurants is not why House of Iron is in Birmingham. Alice says House of Rose came here first from England, but the other Houses followed, feeding their magic off the ores here.

  When we finish the Tuna Tartare Towers, I put down the tiny fork across my plate. “Tell me what you meant about helping Becca.”

  Jason also places his fork on the appetizer plate but with the tines facing down. “Since we met in the grocery store, I have had an old friend doing research in England. The Family has a residence there and an extensive library. He’s been searching for references to what happened to Becca and learned there is a name for it.”

  My belly tightens. Is that all he has to offer—a name?

  “It is called a tabula rasa or a rasa state.”

  “Tabula rasa,” I repeat, trying to remember my meager Latin. “A blank slate?”

  “Exactly. It was originally a scraped tablet that could be written on again, but in this case, it means a mind wiped clean.”

  Becca staring into space with no idea how to eat or relieve herself, no words to speak, no idea of the concept of speaking.

  “She was like that for weeks in the beginning,” I say, shaking my head. “Then she began to speak a little and learn things again—an object, that it had a name. She was, and still is, like a child, as if the core of who she was is gone, and she had to start over.” I don’t mention the trauma of seeing Nora in a pool of blood has sent her back into a catatonic state.

  “That is a very good way of describing a tabula rasa,” Jason says. “The personality is wiped, and the entire brain suffers trauma, but then begins to reorganize itself.”

  “But how does knowing that help anything?”

  “Be patient.”

  “I’m not good at that.”

  “I know.” His lips twitch.

  “This is not funny.”

  His smile fades, and he leans toward me, igniting a skip in my heartbeat. “I know that, too. And I know you care deeply about her. I do as well because, at the risk of repeating myself, I do care about you.”

  I lean back. “I’d like to believe that, but we are back to the ‘trust’ thing.”

  “It seems all roads lead to Rome or, at least, a roadblock. But let me continue. Once my friend had a name for the condition, his research began to yield information. This ability to create a tabula rasa is not something that just anyone in House of Iron can do.”

  “Your uncle did it.”

  “Theophalus was very powerful and experienced. He was apparently also able to manipulate your partner—Paul Nix.”

  I nod.

  “Over a long period of time. That requires arranging to touch him on a regular basis, to keep the influence from fading. He was extraordinarily skillful—masterful, in fact.”

  A definite note of admiration has crept into his tone.

  “What are you saying?”

  “That normally, if one wishes to, say, change someone’s mind or prompt them to do something, it has a temporary effect. Eventually, even when told to forget, they may remember that they weren’t going to do something they were prompted to do or vice versa. They might even remember who was there when they decided differently. Wielding Iron’s power is not a science. It’s an art and a skill, and it is not infallible.”

  “I get that.”

  “There is also a very important difference between a tabula rasa and a rasa.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “A tabula rasa is what my uncle did to Becca, a delicate procedure and theoretically reversible. A rasa, on the other hand, is the complete destruction of the personality, permanently. Any fool with enough power can do it.”

  My breath quickens and this time not from his presence. “Are you sure which one Theophalus did to Becca?”

  “Since she has recovered somewhat, I believe it must be the former.” He considers me for a long moment. “Strange to speak to a woman about House matters.”

  “You have women in House of Iron. I’ve met them.”

  “Of course, but they have no . . . abilities, and we do not discuss magic with them.”

  “I never imagined sitting at a restaurant with a man talking about magic of any kind.”

  He smiles. “I suppose not. I must keep reminding myself that you were not brought up in the Families.”

  Families. That’s what my mother called the Houses.

  Our waiter sets a beautifully presented plate of red snapper before me and lamb chops for Jason.

  “Satisfactory?” Jason asks. “We can exchange if you prefer the chops.”

  “No, I’m fine.” I wait until the waiter is out of earshot. “Why didn’t you know this already?”

  He frowns. “It is not common knowledge in the House. I imagine because it is so dangerous to perform. If one gets it wrong or uses too much power, an intended tabula rasa can become a rasa and you might as well have killed someone. So we are not taught that such a thing is even possible, although a few, including my uncle, apparently knew of it.”

  “How does any of this help Becca?”

  Cutting into the lamb, Jason says, “It is thought that the way a tabula rasa works is to inhibit access to the brain’s frontoparietal network, the area that compiles the elements o
f our personality.”

  I swallow. “Are you saying that somewhere in Becca, her personality might still be intact?”

  “I do not want to give you false hope, but I think it is possible. I think Theophalus might have done it to prove, if even to himself, that he could. He had a massive ego. And, by the way, how did you manage to kill him?”

  I haven’t revealed to Jason that I have the blood of Iron, although he might suspect it. There were, no doubt, rumors in House of Iron as well as House of Rose about my grandmother’s liaison. Let him continue to be curious. I ignore the question.

  “Then what Becca is doing, the improvements she was making, were not really Becca coming back, but her brain trying to work around the blocks.”

  “Yes, and that is good evidence that it may be a tabula rasa and not simply a rasa. All the instances I could find of the latter imply there is no recovery of any degree.”

  What happened to Becca is a dark, cloying shadow that hovers over me every day, forcing itself into my nostrils and throat so I can never take a clean breath of air. I’m afraid to ask the next question, afraid the shadow will never dissipate. But I have been living with that. If there is a hope, I need to know.

  “Did you find a way to fix it?” I ask, my voice a hoarse whisper.

  Jason hesitates. “Again, theoretically.”

  “How?” My hand has a death grip on the fork.

  “It could make things worse as well. There are reports of both occurring.”

  “How?” I repeat.

  “It involves a similar procedure to what caused the tabula rasa.”

  I gasp. “You mean subjecting her to Iron’s touch again?”

  “Yes, it would require that.”

  “No,” I say, crumpling my napkin and slapping it beside my plate. I stand to leave. “That is not going to happen again, ever.”