[English] PROPHECY OF THE SISTERS (Lời Tiên Tri)

Author : Michelle Zink

Perhaps because it seems so appropriate, I don’t notice the rain. It falls in sheets, a blanket of silvery thread rushing to the hard almost-winter ground. Still, I stand without moving at the side of the coffin.
I am on Alice’s right. I am always on Alice’s right, and I often wonder if it was that way even in our mother’s womb, before we were pushed screaming into the world one right after the other. My brother, Henry, sits near Edmund, our driver, and Aunt Virginia, for sit is all Henry can do without the use of his legs. It was only with some effort that Henry and his chair were carried to the graveyard on the hill so that he could see our father laid to rest.
Aunt Virginia leans in to speak to us over the drumming rain. “Children, we must be going.”
The reverend has long since left. I cannot say how long we have been standing at the mound of dirt where my father’s body lay, for I have been under the shelter of James’s umbrella, a quiet world of protection providing the smallest of buffers between me and the truth.
Alice motions for us to leave. “Come, Lia, Henry. We’ll return when the sun is shining and lay fresh flowers on Father’s grave.” I was born first, though only by minutes, but it has always been clear that Alice is in charge.
Aunt Virginia nods to Edmund. He gathers Henry into his arms, turning to begin the walk back to the house. Henry’s gaze meets mine over Edmund’s shoulder. Henry is only ten, though far wiser than most boys of his age. I see the loss of Father in the dark circles under my brother’s eyes. A stab of pain finds its way through my numbness, settling somewhere over my heart. Alice may be in charge, but I am the one who has always felt responsible for Henry.
My feet will not move, will not take me...

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1

Perhaps because it seems so appropriate, I don’t notice the rain. It falls in sheets, a blanket of silvery thread rushing to the hard almost-winter ground. Still, I stand without moving at the side of the coffin.

I am on Alice’s right. I am always on Alice’s right, and I often wonder if it was that way even in our mother’s womb, before we were pushed screaming into the world one right after the other. My brother, Henry, sits near Edmund, our driver, and Aunt Virginia, for sit is all Henry can do without the use of his legs. It was only with some effort that Henry and his chair were carried to the graveyard on the hill so that he could see our father laid to rest.

Aunt Virginia leans in to speak to us over the drumming rain. “Children, we must be going.”

The reverend has long since left. I cannot say how long we have been standing at the mound of dirt where my father’s body lay, for I have been under the shelter of James’s umbrella, a quiet world of protection providing the smallest of buffers between me and the truth.

Alice motions for us to leave. “Come, Lia, Henry. We’ll return when the sun is shining and lay fresh flowers on Father’s grave.” I was born first, though only by minutes, but it has always been clear that Alice is in charge.

Aunt Virginia nods to Edmund. He gathers Henry into his arms, turning to begin the walk back to the house. Henry’s gaze meets mine over Edmund’s shoulder. Henry is only ten, though far wiser than most boys of his age. I see the loss of Father in the dark circles under my brother’s eyes. A stab of pain finds its way through my numbness, settling somewhere over my heart. Alice may be in charge, but I am the one who has always felt responsible for Henry.

My feet will not move, will not take me away from my father, cold and dead in the ground. Alice looks back. Her eyes find mine through the rain.

“I’ll be along in a moment.” I have to shout to be heard, and she nods slowly, turning and continuing along the path toward Birchwood Manor.

James takes my gloved hand in his, and I feel a wave of relief as his strong fingers close over mine. He moves closer to be heard over the rain.

“I’ll stay with you as long as you want, Lia.”

I can only nod, watching the rain leak tears down Father’s gravestone as I read the words etched into the granite.

Thomas Edward Milthorpe

Beloved Father

June 23, 1846–November 1, 1890

There are no flowers. Despite my father’s wealth, it is difficult to find flowers so near to winter in our town in northern New York, and none of us have had the energy or will to send for them in time for the modest service. I am ashamed, suddenly, at this lack of forethought, and I glance around the family cemetery, looking for something, anything, that I might leave.

But there is nothing. Only a few small stones lying in the rain that pools on the dirt and grass. I bend down, reaching for a few of the dirt-covered stones, holding my palm open to the rain until the rocks are washed clean.

I am not surprised that James knows what I mean to do, though I don’t say it aloud. We have shared a lifetime of friendship and, recently, something much, much more. He moves forward with the umbrella, offering me shelter as I step toward the grave and open my hand, dropping the rocks along the base of Father’s headstone.

My sleeve pulls with the motion, revealing a sliver of the strange mark, the peculiar, jagged circle that bloomed on my wrist in the hours after Father’s death. I steal a glance at James to see if he has noticed. He hasn’t, and I pull my arm further inside my sleeve, lining the rocks up in a careful row. I push the mark from my mind. There is no room there for both grief and worry. And grief will not wait.

I stand back, looking at the stones. They are not as pretty or bright as the flowers I will bring in the spring, but they are all I have to give. I reach for James’s arm and turn to leave, relying on him to guide me home.

It is not the warmth of the parlor’s fire that keeps me downstairs long after the rest of the household retires. My room has a firebox, as do most of the rooms at Birchwood Manor. No, I sit in the darkened parlor, lit only by the glow of the dying fire, because I do not have the courage to make my way upstairs.

Though Father has been dead for three days, I have kept myself well occupied. It has been necessary to console Henry, and though Aunt Virginia would have made the arrangements for Father’s burial, it seemed only right that I should help take matters in hand. This is what I have been telling myself. But now, in the empty parlor with only the ticking mantel clock for company, I realize that I have been avoiding this moment when I shall have to make my way up the stairs and past Father’s empty chambers. This moment when I shall have to admit he is really gone.

I rise quickly, before I lose my nerve, focusing on putting one slippered foot in front of the other as I make my way up the winding staircase and down the hall of the East Wing. As I pass Alice’s room, and then Henry’s, my eyes are drawn to the door at the end of the hall. The room that was once my mother’s private chamber.

The Dark Room.

As little girls, Alice and I spoke of the room in whispers, though I cannot say how we came to call it the Dark Room. Perhaps it is because in the tall-ceilinged rooms where fires blaze nonstop nine months out of the year, it is only the un-inhabited rooms that are completely dark. Yet even when my mother was alive, the room seemed dark, for it was in this room that she retreated in the months before her death. It was in this room that she seemed to drift further and further away from us.

I continue to my room, where I undress and pull on a nightgown. I am sitting on the bed, brushing my hair to a shine, when a knock stops me midstroke.

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“Yes?”

Alice’s voice finds me from the other side of the door. “It’s me. May I come in?”

“Of course.”

The door creaks open, and with it comes a burst of cooler air from the unheated hallway. Alice closes it quickly, crossing to the bed and sitting next to me as she did when we were children. Our nightdresses, like us, are nearly identical. Nearly but not quite. Alice’s are made with fine silk at her request while I prefer comfort over fashion and wear flannel in every season but summer.

She reaches out a hand for the brush. “Let me.”

I hand her the brush, trying not to show my surprise as I turn away to give her access to the back of my head. We are not the kind of sisters who engage in nightly hair brushing or confided secrets.

She moves the brush in long strokes, starting at the crown of my head and traveling all the way down to the ends. Watching our reflection in the looking glass atop the bureau, it is hard to believe anyone can tell us apart. From this distance and in the glow of the firelight, we look exactly the same. Our hair shimmers the same chestnut in the dim light. Our cheekbones angle at the same slant. I know, though, that it is the subtle differences that are unmistakable to those who know us at all. It is the slight fullness in my face that stands in contrast to the sharper contours of my sister’s and the somber introspection in my eyes that opposes the sly gleam in her own. It is Alice who shimmers like a jewel under the light, while I brood, think, and wonder.

The fire crackles in the firebox, and I close my eyes, allowing my shoulders to loosen as I fall into the soothing rhythm of the brush in my hair, Alice’s hand smoothing the top of my head as she goes.

“Do you remember her?”

My eyelids flutter open. It is an uncommon question, and for a moment, I’m unsure how to answer. We were only girls of six when our mother died in an inexplicable fall from the cliff near the lake. Henry had been born just a few months before. The doctors had already made it clear that my father’s long-desired son would never have the use of his legs. Aunt Virginia always said that Mother was never the same after Henry’s birth, and the questions surrounding her death still linger. We don’t speak of it or the inquiry that followed.

I can only offer her the truth. “Yes, but only a little. Do you?”

She hesitates before answering, the brush still moving. “I believe so. But only in flashes. Little moments, I suppose. I often wonder why I can remember her green dress, but not the way her voice sounded when she read aloud. Why I can clearly see the book of poems she kept on the table in the parlor but not remember the way she smelled.”

“It was jasmine and… oranges, I think.”

“Is that it? The way she smelled?” Her voice is a murmur behind me. “I didn’t know.”

“Here. My turn.” I twist around, reaching for the brush.

She turns as compliant as a child. “Lia?”

“Yes?”

“If you knew something, about Mother… If you remembered something, something important, would you tell me?” Her voice is quiet, more unsure than I’ve ever heard it.

My breath catches in my throat with the strange question. “Yes, of course, Alice. Would you?”

She hesitates, the only sound in the room the soft pull of the brush through silken hair. “I suppose so.”

I move the brush through her hair, remembering. Not my mother. Not now. But Alice. Us. The twins. I remember the time before Henry’s birth, before Mother took refuge alone in the Dark Room. The time before Alice became secretive and strange.

It would be easy to look back on our childhood and assume that Alice and I were close. In the fondness of memory, I recall her soft breath in the dark of night, her voice mumbling into the blackness of our shared nursery. I try to remember our proximity as comfort, to ignore the voice that reminds me of our differences even then. But it doesn’t work. If I am honest, I will admit we have always eyed each other warily. Still, it was once her soft hand I grasped before falling into sleep, her curls I brushed from my shoulder when she slept too close.

“Thank you, Lia.” Alice turns around, looking me in the eyes. “I miss you, you know.”

My cheeks are warm under the scrutiny of her stare, the closeness of her face to mine. I shrug. “I’m right here, Alice, as I’ve always been.”

She smiles, but in it is something sad and knowing. Leaning in, she wraps her thin arms around me as she did when we were children.

“And I as well, Lia. As I’ve always been.”

She stands, leaving without another word. I sit on the edge of the bed in the dim light of the lamp, trying to place her uncommon sadness. It is unlike Alice to be reflective, though with Father’s death I suppose we are all feeling vulnerable.

Thoughts of Alice allow me to avoid the moment when I will have to look at my wrist. I feel a coward as I try to find the courage to pull back the sleeve of my nightdress. To look again at the mark that appeared after Father’s body was found in the Dark Room.

When I finally pull back my sleeve, telling myself that whatever is there is there just the same, whether or not I look, I have to press my lips together to keep from crying out. It isn’t the mark on the soft underside of my wrist that is a surprise, but how much darker it is now than it was even this morning. How much clearer the circle, though I still cannot decipher the ridges that thicken it, making the edges seem uneven.

I fight a surge of rising panic. It seems there should be some recourse, something I should do, someone I should tell, but whom might I tell such a thing? Once, I would go to Alice, for whom else might I trust with such a secret? Even still, I cannot ignore the ever-growing distance between us. It has made me wary of my sister.

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I tell myself the mark will go away, that there is no need to tell someone such a strange thing when surely it will be gone in a few days. Instinctively, I think this a lie but convince myself I have a right to believe it on a day such as this.

On the day I have buried my father.

2

The thin November light is spreading its fingers across the room when Ivy pads in carrying a kettle of hot water.

“Good morning, Miss.” She pours the water into the basin on the washstand. “Shall I help you dress?”

I lift myself up on my elbows. “No, thank you. I’ll be fine.”

“Very well.” She leaves the room, empty kettle in hand.

I throw back the covers and make my way to the washstand, swirling a hand in the basin to cool the water before I wash. When I am finished, I dry my cheeks and forehead, peering into the glass. My green eyes are bottomless, empty, and I wonder if it is possible to change from the inside out, if sadness can radiate outward, through the veins and organs and skin for all to see. I shake my head at the morbid notion, watching my auburn hair, unbound, brush my shoulders in the looking glass.

I take off my nightdress and pull a petticoat and stockings from the bureau, beginning to dress. I am smoothing the second stocking up my thigh when Alice sweeps in without knocking.

“Good morning.” She drops heavily onto the bed, looking up at me with the breathless charm that is uniquely Alice.

It surprises me still, her effortless swing from barely concealed bitterness to sorrow to carefree calm. It should not, for Alice’s moods have always been mercurial. But her face bears no trace of sadness, no trace of last night’s melancholy. In truth, other than her simple gown and lack of jewelry, she looks no different than she ever has. Perhaps I am the only one to change from the inside out after all.

“Good morning.” I hurry and fasten the stocking, feeling guilty that I’ve lazed in my room for so long when my sister is already up and about. I move to the cupboard, both to find a gown and to avoid the eyes that always seem to look too deeply into mine.

“You should see the house, Lia. The entire staff is in mourning clothes, on Aunt Virginia’s orders.”

I turn to look at her, noticing the flush on her cheeks and something like excitement in her eyes. I push down my annoyance. “Many households observe the mourning period, Alice. Everyone loved Father. I’m sure they don’t mind paying their respects.”

“Yes, well, now we shall be stuck inside for an interminable time, and it is so very dull here. Do you suppose Aunt Virginia will allow us to attend classes next week?” She continues without waiting for an answer. “Of course, you don’t even care! You would be perfectly happy to never see Wycliffe again.”

I do not bother arguing. It is well-known that Alice yearns for the more civilized life of the girls at Wycliffe, the school where we attend classes twice a week, while I always feel like an exotic animal under glass. I steal glimpses of her at school, glittering under the niceties of polite society, and imagine her like our mother. It must be true, for it is I who finds pleasure in the stillness of Father’s library and Alice alone who can conjure the gleam of our mother’s eyes.

We spend the day in the almost-silence of the crackling fire. We are accustomed to the isolation of Birchwood and have learned to occupy ourselves within its somber walls. It is like any other rainy day save for the lack of Father’s big voice booming from the library or the smell of his pipe. We don’t speak of him or his strange death.

I avoid looking at the clock, fearing the slow passing of time that will only seem slower if I watch its progress. It works, in a manner of speaking. The day passes more quickly than I expect, the small interruptions for lunch and dinner easing me toward the time when I can escape to the nothingness of sleep.

This time I don’t look at my wrist before climbing into bed. I don’t want to know if the mark is still there. If it has changed.

If it is deeper or darker. I slip into bed, sinking toward darkness without further thought.

I am in the in-between place, the place we drift through before the world falls away into sleep, when I hear the whispering. At first, it is only the call of my name, beckoning from some far-off place. But the whisper builds, becoming many voices, all murmuring frantically, so quickly that I can only make out an occasional word. It grows and grows, demanding my attention until I cannot ignore it a second longer. Until I sit straight up in bed, the last whispered words echoing through the ****rns of my mind.

The Dark Room.

It is not entirely surprising. The Dark Room has been at the forefront of my mind since Father’s death. He should not have been there. Not in the one room that would invoke the memory of my mother, his beloved dead wife, more than any other.

And yet, in those last moments, as life slipped from his body like a wraith, he was.

I slide my feet into slippers and make my way to the door, listening a moment before opening it and looking down the hall. The house is dark and silent. The footsteps of the servants cannot be heard in the rooms above our own or in the kitchen below. It must be quite late.

All this registers in seconds, leaving only the faintest of impressions. The thing that gets my attention, the thing that makes the small hairs rise on my arms and the back of my neck, is the door, open just a crack, at the end of the hallway.

The door to the Dark Room.

It is strange enough that the door to this, of all rooms, should be open, but stranger still that there is a faint glow leaking from the small gap between the frame and the door.

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I look down at the mark. It shadows my wrist even in the darkness of the hallway. It is this I’ve been wondering, is it not? I think. Whether or not the Dark Room holds the key to Father’s death or the reason for my mark? Now it is as if I’ve been summoned to that very place, called to the answers I have sought all along.

I creep down the hallway, careful to lift my feet so the bottoms of my slippers don’t scuff along the wood floor. When I reach the door of the Dark Room, I hesitate.

Someone is inside.

A voice, soft but urgent, comes from within the room. It is not the same frantic murmur that called me here. Not the disjointed voices of many. No. It is the voice of one. A solitary person whispering inside.

I don’t dare push open the door for fear it will creak. Instead, I lean toward it, peering through the opening into the room beyond. It is difficult to get my bearings through such a small crack. At first everything is only shapes and shadows. But soon I make out the looming white sheets of the covered furniture, the dark mass I know is the wardrobe in the corner, and the figure sitting on the floor, surrounded by candles.

Alice.

My sister sits on the floor of the Dark Room, the glow of many candles casting her body in soft yellow light. She is muttering, whispering as if to someone very near, though from my vantage I see not a soul. She sits on folded knees, her eyes closed, arms at her sides.

I scan the room, careful not to touch the door lest it should spring to life and glide open even farther. But there is no one else there. No one but Alice, murmuring to herself in a strange sort of ceremony. And even this, this dark rite that sends tendrils of fear racing through my body, is not the strangest thing of all.

No, it is that my sister sits with the rug pulled back, a large well-worn rug that has been in the room as long as I can remember. She sits, as naturally as if she has done it countless times before, within a circle carved into the floor. The angles of her face are nearly unrecognizable, almost harsh, in the candlelight.

The cold from the unheated hallway seeps through the thin fabric of my nightdress. I step back, my heart beating so loudly in my chest that I fear Alice will hear it from within the Dark Room.

When I turn to make my way down the hall, I have to resist the urge to run. Instead, I walk calmly and step into my room, closing the door behind me and climbing into the safety and comfort of my bed. I lay awake for a long time, trying to force from my mind the image of Alice within the circle, the sound of her murmuring to someone who wasn’t there at all.

The next morning, I stand in the clear light streaming through the window, sliding the sleeve of my nightdress up and over my wrist. The mark has become darker still, the circle thicker and more prominent.

And there is something else.

In the stark light of day, it seems quite obvious what it is — the thing that encircles the circle itself, making the edges less clear. I trail a finger across the surface of the mark, raised as a scar, following the lines of the snake that coils itself around the edges of the circle until its mouth is eating its own tail.

The Jorgumand.

Few girls of sixteen would know it, but I recognize the symbol from Father’s books on mythology. It is at once familiar and frightening, for why should such a symbol rise from my skin?

I only briefly consider telling Aunt Virginia. She has had her share of grief and worry over Father’s death. Our well-being is now left to her, our only living relative. I’ll not add another worry to the ones she already has.

I chew my lower lip. It is impossible to think of my sister without remembering her posture on the floor of the Dark Room. I resolve to ask her what she was doing. And then I will show her the mark.

After dressing, I step into the hall, preparing to search for Alice. I hope she is not walking the grounds as she has since she was a child. Locating her as she takes sun in her favorite spot on the patio will be considerably easier than searching the fields and forests surrounding Birchwood. As I turn away from my chamber, my eyes slide to the closed door of the Dark Room. From here, it looks as it always has. It is almost possible to imagine that Father is still alive in the library and that my sister has never knelt on the floor of the forbidden room in the mystery of night. And yet she has.

My mind is made up before I fully realize it. I make my way swiftly down the hall. I don’t hesitate on the threshold of the room. Instead, I open the door and step through it in seconds.

The room is just as I remember it, the curtains drawn against the daylight, the rug back in place over the wood floor. A strange energy pulses through the air, a vibration that seems to hum through my veins. I shake my head, and the sound almost disappears.

I move to the bureau and open the top drawer. I should not be surprised to find my mother’s things there, but somehow I am. Most of my life, she has been no more than an idea. Somehow, the fine silk and lace of her petticoats and stockings make her seem very real. I can see her suddenly, a flesh-and-blood woman, dressing for the day.

I force myself to lift her underthings, looking for anything that might explain Father’s presence in the room at the time of his death — a journal, an old letter, anything at all. When I find nothing, I do the same with the other drawers, lifting and searching to the very back. But there is nothing there. Nothing but the paper drawer liner that long ago lost its scent.

I lean lightly against the dresser, surveying the room for other possible hiding places. Crossing to the bed, I kneel and lift the ghostly coverlet, peering beneath the bed. It is spotless, doubtless cleared of dust and cobwebs only during the maid’s latest round of cleaning.

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My eyes settle on the rug. The image of Alice within the circle is etched in my mind. I know what I saw, but I cannot keep myself from looking. From being sure.

I move toward the rug and am at its edge when my head begins to buzz, the vibration closing in on my thoughts, my vision, until I think I might faint. The tips of my fingers become numb, a prickly tingling beginning at my feet and radiating upward until I fear that my legs will give out altogether.

And then the whispering begins. It is the same whispering I heard last night before coming to the Dark Room. But this time it is threatening, as if warning me off, telling me to go back. A cold sweat breaks out on my brow, and I begin to tremble. No, not tremble. Shake. I shake so violently my teeth clatter together before I sink to the floor in front of the rug. A small voice of self-preservation shouts at me to leave, to forget the Dark Room altogether.

But I must see for myself. I must.

My hand weaves and shakes in front of my eyes, reaching for the edge of the rug. The whispering grows louder and louder until the great buzz of many voices becomes a shout within my head. I will myself not to stop, grasping the corner of the rug with fingers that can hardly close around the fine weave of the carpet.

I pull it back, and the whispering stops.

The circle is there, just as it was last night. And although the whispers are silent, my body’s reaction to the circle only becomes more violent. I think I may be sick. Without the cover of darkness, I see that the gouges are fresh where the wood has been dug away to form the circle. This is no remnant from my mother’s time in the Dark Room but an ad***ion much more recent.

I pull the rug back over the carving, rising on wobbling legs. I will not let it drive me from the room. My mother’s room. I force myself to the wardrobe as I had planned, though I must step around the rug, for my feet cannot, will not, allow me too close.

Flinging open the wardrobe doors, I perform a quick search, knowing it is not as thorough as it could be and knowing just as well that I no longer care. That I really must leave the room.

In any case, there is nothing of note in the wardrobe. Some old gowns, a cape, four corsets. Whatever drew Father to this room is as inexplicable as the reason for Alice’s presence here last night and the thing that draws me to it now.

I step around the rug, making my way to the door as swiftly as possible without actually running. The more distance I put between myself and the rug, between myself and the circle, the better I feel, though still not well.

I close the door behind me more loudly than I should, leaning against the wall and forcing down the bile that has risen in my throat. I don’t know how long I stand there, catching my breath, forcing my physical symptoms in*****bmission, but all the while my mind is full of fierce and frightful things.

3

The day is like a diamond, all beautiful warmth on the outside but without any heat to accompany it. Henry is sitting in his chair by the river with Edmund. It is one of Henry’s favorite places, and though I was young, I remember well the construction of the smooth stone pathway that winds almost to the water’s edge. Father had it built when Henry was but a babe who loved the sound of stones thrown into the water. Edmund and Henry can often be found near the terrace on the banks of the rushing water, skipping stones and placing the small secretive wagers that are forbidden but overlooked by Aunt Virginia.

I circle the house and am relieved when Alice comes into view on the patio outside the sunroom. Next to the wide open spaces surrounding the house on every side, the glass-enclosed conservatory is her favorite, but it is closed off from November to March due to the cold. During those months, she can often be found on the patio, wrapped in a blanket and sitting on one of the outdoor chairs even on days that I find uncomfortably cold.

Her legs are stretched out in front of her, the stockings at her ankles showing enough to be considered inappropriate anywhere but within the confines of Birchwood Manor. Her face, soft and round again in contrast to the harsh angles of night, is tipped to the sun, her eyes closed. The shadow of a smile toys with her lips, and they curve upward in an expression that might be either sly or peaceful.

“Why do you stand there staring, Lia?”

I am startled by her voice and the way her face doesn’t change at all. I have not made a sound, having stopped in the grass before stepping onto the stone that would announce my arrival. And still she knows I’m here.

“I was not staring, Alice. I was only watching you. You look so happy.” The heels of my boots click on the patio as I walk toward her, and I try to hide the note of accusation that has crept into my voice.

“And why wouldn’t I be happy?”

“I wonder why you would be, Alice. How could you be happy at a time such as this?” My face burns with anger, and I’m suddenly glad her eyes remain closed.

As if reading my mind, she opens her eyes, focusing on my face. “Father is no longer in the material world, Lia. He is in heaven with Mother. Isn’t that where he’d like to be?”

Something in her face puzzles me, some shade of peacefulness and happiness that seems altogether wrong so soon after Father’s death.

“I… I don’t know. We have already lost Mother. I should think Father would have liked to stay and watch over us.” It sounds childish now that I’ve said it aloud, and I once again think Alice the stronger twin.

She tips her head at me. “I’m certain he watches over us still, Lia. And besides, what is there from which we need protection?”

I feel the things she has left unsaid. I don’t know what they are, but they pluck at something dark, and all at once I am scared. All at once, I know I will not ask Alice what she was doing in the Dark Room, nor will I show her the mark, though I cannot put words to a singular reason.

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“I’m not afraid, Alice. I only miss him, that’s all.”

She doesn’t answer, her eyes closed once again to the sun, the look of calm restored to her pale face. There is nothing more to say, nothing more to do but turn and leave.

When I return to the house, I follow the sound of voices in the library. I cannot make out the words, but they are the voices of men, and I listen for a minute, enjoying their baritone vibration before opening the door. James looks up as I enter the room.

“Good morning, Lia. We’ve not been too noisy, have we?” There is a thread of urgency under his greeting, and I know immediately there is something he wishes to tell me in private.

I shake my head. “Not at all. It’s nice to hear noise coming from Father’s study again.” Mr. Douglas is peering with a magnifying glass at the cover of a thick brown volume. “Good morning, Mr. Douglas.”

He looks up, blinking as if to clear his vision before nodding kindly. “Good morning, Amalia. How are you feeling today?”

“I’m quite all right, Mr. Douglas. Thank you for asking, and thank you for continuing the catalogue of Father’s collection. He wanted so to see it done. It would make him happy to know that the work continues.”

He nods again without smiling, and the room falls still with the shared grief of friends. I am relieved when Mr. Douglas becomes preoccupied, looking away and shuffling around for something he seems to have misplaced.

“Now… where is that blasted ledger?” He pushes papers aside at an increasingly frenzied pace. “Ah! I think I’ve left it in the carriage. I’ll return in a moment, James. Carry on.” He turns and marches from the room.

James and I stand in the sudden quiet left by his father’s departure. I have long suspected that the never-ending job of cataloging the library had as much to do with Father’s desire to see James and me together as it did his constant acquisitions to the collection. As with his views on women and intellect, my father was not a conformist with regards to class. Our bond with the Douglas men was based on true affection and a shared love of old books. Though there are undoubtedly those in town who think the friendship improper, Father never let the opinions of others form his own.

James reaches out, taking my hand and gently pulling me toward him. “How are you, Lia? Is there anything I can do?”

The worry in his voice, the gruff concern, brings the prick of tears to my eyes. I am at once flooded with both sadness and relief. In the safety of James’s company, I realize the strain of my constant caution around Alice.

I shake my head, clearing my throat a little before trusting myself to speak. “No. It will simply take time, I think, to become used to Father’s absence.” I try to sound strong, but the tears spill onto my cheeks. I cover my face with my hands.

“Lia. Lia.” He moves my hands and grasps them in his. “I know how much your father meant to you. It’s not the same, I know, but I’m here for anything you need. Anything at all.”

His eyes burn into mine, and the tweed of his waistcoat brushes against my gown. A familiar rush of heat works its way outward from my stomach to the far reaches of my body and to all the secret places that are only a distant promise.

He reluctantly steps back, straightening and clearing his throat. “I should think there might be one day when Father would remember to bring the ledger in from the carriage, but it’s a stroke of luck for us. Come! Let me show you what I’ve found.”

James pulls me along, and I find myself smiling in spite of the circumstances, in spite of his fingers nearly touching the mark. “Wait! What is it?”

He drops my hand when he reaches the bookshelf near the window, reaching behind a stack of books waiting to be catalogued. “I discovered something interesting this morning. A book I didn’t realize your father had acquired.”

“What…” My eyes light on the black volume as it comes into view. “… book?”

“This one.” He holds it toward me. “I found it a couple of days ago, after…” Unsure how to make reference to my Father’s death, he smiles sadly and continues. “Anyway, I put it behind the others so I could show it to you before it’s catalogued. It was in a hidden panel at the back of one of the shelves. Father, as ever, was looking for his spectacles and didn’t see it at all. Your father… Well, it’s obvious your father didn’t want anyone to know it was there, though I’m not sure why. I thought you might like to see it.”

When I drop my gaze to the book, recognition ripples through me, though I am certain I have never seen it before in my life.

“May I?” I reach out to take it from him.

“Of course. It belongs to you, Lia. Or… It belonged to your father and I assume it belongs to you. And to Alice and Henry, of course.”

But this is an afterthought. He is giving the book to me.

The leather is cool and dry in my hands, the cover decorated with a design I can only feel through the raised figures under my fingers. It is very old, that much is clear.

I find my voice but am too enthralled with the book to look up at James. “What is it?”

“That’s just it. I’m not sure. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

The cover sighs and creaks as I open it, little particles of leather sprinkling the air beneath the book like pieces of dust in sunlight. Oddly, there is only one page, covered in words I vaguely recognize as Latin. I am suddenly sorry I’ve not paid more attention to our language studies at Wycliffe.

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“What does it say?”

He leans in, brushing my shoulder as he looks at the page. “It says, ‘Librum Maleficii et Disordinae.’ ” He looks into my eyes. “Approximately? The Book of Chaos.”

“The Book of Chaos?” I shake my head. “Father never made mention of it, and I know his collection as well as he knew it himself.”

“I know. And I don’t believe he ever mentioned it to my father, either. Certainly not to me.”

“What sort of book is it?”

“Well, I remembered you have trouble with Latin, so I took it home and made a translation. I knew you’d want to know more.” His eyes twinkle with these last words, and I recognize it as a small jibe toward my endless curiosity.

I roll my eyes, smiling if only to feign exasperation with James. “Never mind, what does it say?”

He looks back to the book, clearing his throat before beginning. “It starts out, ‘Through fire and harmony mankind endured until the sending of the Guards, who took as wives and lovers the woman of man, engendering His wrath.’ ”

I shake my head. “Is it a story?”

He pauses. “I think so, though not one I’ve ever heard.”

I turn the single page. I don’t know what I’m looking for when clearly there is nothing else there.

“It goes on from there,” he adds before I can begin asking questions, “to say ‘two sisters, formed in the same swaying ocean, one the Guardian, one the Gate. One keeper of peace, the other bartering sorcery for devotion.’ ”

“Two sisters, formed in the same swaying ocean… I don’t understand.”

“I believe it’s a metaphor. For the birth fluid. I think it alludes to twins. Like you and Alice.”

His words echo in my mind. Like you and Alice.

And like my mother and Aunt Virginia, and their mother and aunt before them, I think. “But what of ‘the Guardian and the Gate’? What does that mean?”

He shrugs a little as his eyes meet mine. “I’m sorry, Lia. I don’t know about that part.”

Mr. Douglas’s voice drifts down the hall and we glance at the library door. I look back at James as his father’s voice gets louder and nearer the library door.

“Have you translated the whole page?”

“Yes. I… Well, I wrote it down for you, actually.” He reaches into his pocket as Mr. Douglas’s voice sounds from just outside of the door, giving us fair warning of his arrival.

“Very good, Virginia. Tea would be most lovely!”

I put a hand on James’s arm. “Can you bring it to the river later?” The river is our usual meeting place, though not normally for something as staid as a book.

“Well… Yes. When we stop for lunch? Can you meet me then?”

I nod, handing the book back to him as his father comes through the door.

“Ah, here it is! You see, James, it’s just as I said — I am losing my wits in my old age!” Mr. Douglas waves a leather-bound ledger in the air.

James’s smile is brilliant. “Nonsense, Father. You’re simply too busy, that’s all.”

I only half-listen to their banter. Why would the book be hidden in the library? It was unlike my father to keep to himself so rare and interesting a find, but I can only assume he had a reason for doing so.

And I have reasons of my own for wanting to know more.

It cannot be chance alone that Father was found dead on the floor of the Dark Room, or that shortly thereafter I discovered the mark, observed my sister in her eerie ritual, and was given this strange, lost book. I cannot be sure what it all means or how these events work in concert, but I’m certain they do.

And I intend to find out how.

4

Henry and Edmund are no longer at the river. Edmund has always been protective of Henry, and he will doubtless be more so now that Father has passed. There is a chill in the air, a portent of the coming winter, and worrying over Henry is a habit for us all.

I follow the pathway to the terrace at its end, stepping into the woods and making my way to the boulder that sits in the shelter of a giant oak. Serenity creeps over me as I settle onto the rock that James and I call ours. It seems that nothing bad or frightening could happen here, and by the time I hear James approaching, I have almost convinced myself that everything is just as it should be.

I smile at him as he draws near, peering up at him in the sunlight when he stops in front of me. He takes my hand and pulls me to my feet with a smile. “I’m sorry. We were finishing the Religious History collection. Father wanted to complete it before stopping for lunch. Have you been waiting long?”

He pulls me toward him, but it is with newfound gentleness, as if the loss of my father has made me somehow more fragile. And I suppose it has, though I should not like to admit it to anyone. It is only James who knows me well enough, who loves me well enough, that he sees my grief though I look just the same on the outside.

I shake my head. “Not long at all. In any case, waiting for you is made easy in this place. A place that reminds me of you while I wait.”

He tips his head, taking a finger and tracing my face from the loose curls at my temple, down the angular jut of my cheekbone, across the curve of my jaw. “Everything reminds me of you.”

He lowers his lips to mine. The kiss is gentle, yet I don’t need the hard press of his lips to feel the urgency in his body’s call to mine. He pulls away, trying to protect me, trying not to push me in these days after Father’s death. There is no ladylike way to tell him to push all he wants, that his mouth and body on mine are the only things keeping me from losing my hold on a reality I never questioned until these past days.

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“Yes, well…” He stands up straighter. “Come. I’ve brought my notes on the book.”

He lowers himself to the boulder, and I make myself comfortable next to him, the skirt of my gown crinkling as it rubs against the rough fabric of his trousers. He pulls the book from his jacket together with a folded piece of paper. Smoothing it across his thigh, he bends his golden head to the slanted handwriting covering the page top to bottom.

“The story is an ancient one, if the book is to be believed.”

“What sort of story?”

“A tale about angels or… demons, I think. Here, you can read it just as easily.” He lowers himself to the rock once again, thrusting the book and his notes toward me.

For one brief moment, I don’t want to read it. I wonder if there is a way to ignore it. To simply go on as I always have, pretending none of it exists. But it doesn’t last long. Even now I feel the wheels of a great invisible machine turning all around. They will continue turning whatever I do. This I somehow know.

I bow my head to the comfort of James’s handwriting, strangely matched with the terror of words that are not his.

Through fire and harmony mankind endured

Until the sending of the Guards

Who took as wives and lovers the woman of man,

Engendering His wrath.

Two sisters, formed in the same swaying ocean,

One the Guardian, One the Gate.

One keeper of peace,

The other bartering sorcery for devotion.

Cast from the heavens, the Souls were Lost

As the Sisters continue the battle

Until the Gates summon forth their return,

Or the Angel brings the Keys to the Abyss.

The Army, marching forth through the Gates.

Samael, the Beast, through the Angel.

The Angel, guarded only by the gossamer veil of protection.

Four Marks, Four Keys, Circle of Fire

Birthed in the first breath of Samhain

In the shadow of the Mystic Stone Serpent of Aubur.

Let the Angel’s Gate swing without the Keys

Followed by the Seven Plagues and No Return.

Death

Famine

Blood

Fire

Darkness

Drought

Ruin

Open your arms, Mistress of Chaos, that the havoc of the Beast will flow like a river

For all is lost when the Seven Plagues begin.

My attention is drawn again to the od***y of a one-page book. I don’t know as much about books as James, but even I realize that it is unusual for someone to have a book bound and printed for only one page.

“Shouldn’t there be more? There’s nothing here. Nothing at all after the story. It seems that there should be more. Something that tells what happens next…”

“I thought the same thing. Here, let me show you.”

He brings the book closer so that it is between us, half on his legs and half on mine, and turns the single page. “Look, here.” He points to the space where the pages meet the binding.

“I don’t see anything.”

He takes a loop from his pocket, handing it to me and pulling the pages taut. “Look closely, Lia. It’s difficult to see at first.”

I hold the lens of the loop over the area marked by his finger, moving my face to within inches of the page. And then I see the tear marks, so clean as to not be tear marks at all. It is as if someone has taken a razor, slicing cleanly from the book the pages that were once there.

I look up. “There were pages here.”

He nods.

“But why would someone remove them from such an old book? Surely it’s quite valuable if nothing else.”

“I don’t know. I’ve seen many strange and damaging things done to books, but cutting pages from one such as this is a sacrilege.”

I feel the loss of pages I have never seen. “There must be another copy somewhere.” Closing the book, I turn it to the cover and then to the binding for clues about the publisher. “Even if this is the only printing, the publisher will have a copy, will they not?”

He presses his lips together before answering. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple, Lia.”

“What do you mean? Why not?”

His eyes drift to the book, still in my hand, before skittering away. “I’ve not… I’ve not told you the strangest thing by far. About the book.”

“Do you mean to say there is something stranger than the story itself?”

He nods. “Far stranger. Listen, you know from your father, from me, that books are full of clues. The typeface, the ink, even the leather used and the manner of the bindery tell us from where a book comes and how old it is. Virtually anything one needs to know about a book can be discovered with enough study of the book itself.”

“And? Where does it come from?”

“That’s just it. The typeface is very old, but one not documented as far as I can tell. The leather is not leather at all, but some other material, something I’ve not seen.” He sighs. “I cannot find a single clue to its origin, Lia. It makes no sense at all.”

James is unaccustomed to mysteries he cannot solve. I see the distress on his face but can do nothing to lessen it. I have no more answers than he.

I return from the river to find Henry sitting alone before the chess board in the parlor. The sight brings a lump to my throat, and I try to compose myself before he sees me. His days will be vacant without time spent playing chess or reading with Father in front of the fire. Neither will my brother have the distraction of school, for Father took Henry’s schooling upon himself, spending hours teaching him far beyond the subjects commonly deemed necessary.

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In this way, Father augmented my and Alice’s education as well, introducing us to all manner of mythology and philosophy. Even our attendance at Wycliffe two days a week was a compromise of sorts between Father, who believed he could do a better job all around of educating us, and Aunt Virginia, who argued that we would benefit from the social aspect of exposure to girls our own age. Of course, Alice and I have had the advantage of Father’s influence for sixteen years. We can advance our education independently of Wycliffe’s curriculum if we wish, but what will happen to Henry?

I swallow my fear for his future and enter the room with as much carefree briskness as I can muster. His eyes light up when I ask him if he’d like company, and we take turns reading aloud from Treasure Island, Ari purring against my leg as if he knows I need the reassurance. The simple pleasure allows me to forget, if only for awhile, the events taking shape around me.

It isn’t late when we finish, but I am tired. I say good night, leaving Henry near the fire with his book. I am halfway up the stairs when I hear Alice’s voice coming from the library. Though it is not off-limits to any, I cannot remember the last time Alice spent time there. My curiosity gets the better of me, and as I make my way there, Alice’s voice is so soft that at first I think she is talking to herself. But it takes me only a moment to realize that she is not alone. Her voice is matched by the deeper timbre of a man’s voice, and when I reach the half-open door of the library, I am surprised to see James sitting in a high-backed chair near the reading table.

It is rare enough to find Alice casually about the library but rarer still to find her conversing privately with James. Certainly, they maintain a comfortable if distant friendship given the closeness of our families and the relationship between James and me, but it has never been anything more. I have never witnessed a flicker of attraction or even playful flirtation between them, yet the feeling that rises in me at the sight of them together comes perilously close to one of alarm.

I stay silent, watching and waiting as Alice walks slowly behind the chair in which James sits. She trails a finger along the high back of the chair, not quite touching the nape of James’s neck.

“I think I should like to take more of an interest in the library now that Father is gone,” she says, her voice a seductive purr.

James sits up straighter, staring ahead as if she is not, at that very moment, the height of impropriety. “Yes, well, it is right here under your very own roof. You can avail yourself to it any time you choose.”

“True. But I wouldn’t know where to begin.” She stands very still behind him, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders, the bodice of her gown just behind his head. “Perhaps you can assist me in choosing material most suited to my… interests.”

James stands suddenly, crossing to a writing table and busying himself by shuffling the papers on its surface. “Actually, I’m quite busy with the catalogue. I’m certain Lia would be willing to help you. She knows the library and its contents better than I.”

James’s back is to Alice. He does not see the expression that flashes across her face, but I do. I see the rage there and it matches my own. What can she be thinking? I’ve had enough, and I step into the room, crossing it briskly. She is surprised to see me, though not ashamed as I would have expected. James lifts his eyes as I come into view.

“Lia,” he says. “I wanted to finish a few things here, but Father had another client. He should be back to retrieve me” — he pulls his watch from his pocket, consulting it before continuing — “any moment now.” He flushes, though surely he has no reason to be embarrassed when it is my sister who behaves so badly.

I steady my voice before speaking. “Perfectly understandable. I’m sure my father would be pleased with your diligence.” Forcing a flinty smile to my face, I turn my attention to my sister. “Really, Alice. James is quite right; if you’ve an interest in the collections, you need only ask. I’d be happy to help you choose something.” I stop short of questioning her behavior, for I do not want to give her the satisfaction of my seeming paranoid and insecure.

She tips her head, looking into my eyes and studying my face for a moment before speaking. “Yes, well, perhaps I shall. Still, it does ease my mind to know that James, in all his expertise, is present should you ever be… unavailable.”

“Not to worry,” I tell her firmly. “I’ve no intention of being unavailable, to you or anyone, anytime soon.”

We stand across from each other, the wing chair between us, for an awkward moment. I see James only in profile and am relieved that he remains quiet.

Finally, Alice gives me a small, tight smile. “Well, I’ve some things to attend to. I shall see you, both of you,” she adds, looking pointedly over my shoulder in James’s direction, “later.”

I watch her leave but do not say anything about the altercation to James. I want to apologize for Alice’s odd demeanor, but my mind is full of questions to which I am not sure I want answers.

5

The next morning, my sister is silent on the way to town. I don’t ask her why, though Alice’s silences are rare. This time her silence is an echo of my own. I sneak a glance at her out of the corner of my eye, noting the curve of her chin and the curls that bounce at the nape of her neck as she leans her head toward the window of the carriage.

The carriage rattles to a stop, and Alice sits up straighter, smoothing her skirt and looking my way. “Must you look so unhappy, Lia? Won’t it be nice to escape the gloom of Birch-wood? Heaven knows the great dreary house will still be waiting for us at the end of the day!”