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

Prophecy of the Sisters
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And I have to do it before my sister.

9

Alice does not mention Sonia on our way to Wycliffe the next day. I have spent the time since Sonia’s visit avoiding my sister, hoping to put off her inquiry. I imagine my reprieve over and brace myself for Alice’s questions, but she remains silent. It is as if she already knows everything. And the knowledge she has she intends to hold dark and close.

Our return to school is far from celebrated. Whether because Victoria blames Alice for the forbidden outing to Sonia’s or resents us for not having *****bmit to a more severe punishment, she and her closely guarded circle of friends greet us with icy stares. Only Luisa seems happy to see us, me in particular.

She leans toward me during breakfast, having taken the seat next to me as if she has been sitting there all along. “Are you all right?”

I nod. “Oh, but I am sorry, Luisa! Did you get in a lot of trouble?”

She smiles. “Some, but it only made things more interesting. I don’t regret a thing!”

After breakfast we are led through our paces in music, literature, and language. The day passes in a haze of whispered innuendo and mean-spirited laughter. By the time we file outdoors for the last lesson of the day, Landscape in Art, I cannot help noticing the stillness of Alice’s expression or the way she holds her head too high, her back too straight. She avoids my eyes. For Alice, isolation is preferable to pity.

The easels are set up in the courtyard, facing the modest garden that is all but dead with the coming winter. Though the sun shines, the air is frigid with cold, and I realize this will likely be one of our last outdoor lessons of the year.

“Lia! Over here!” Luisa calls, her breath a puff of smoke, waving to me from an easel near the brick wall.

Making my way to Luisa, I am grateful and surprised all over again at her clear offer of friendship.

“I saved you an easel.” She waves to the empty easel on her right, smiling up at me from her stool, paintbrush already in hand.

“Thank you. What object shall I torture today?” I am not well known for my artistic ability.

Luisa laughs. Not the polite giggle I am accustomed to from the girls at Wycliffe, but a full-fledged, joyous laugh. “I don’t know. Perhaps you should choose something that’s already dying.” Her eyes drift to Mr. Bell, our art teacher, as he stands before us on the stone walkway that winds through the gardens.

Mr. Bell is not dapper, exactly, his face slightly too long and narrow and his hair carefully combed to hide the emerging bald spots, but he is otherwise quite normal. It is not his looks but his status as bachelor that is much discussed and wondered about among the girls at Wycliffe. Wycliffe’s students, particularly those who live there, are carefully sheltered from the attention of men. Any man of marriageable age who is, in fact, not married is worthy of speculation, thinning hair or no.

“Ladies, as you know, autumn will soon be behind us. Today you will choose an artist from those we have studied, and using that artist as a guide, you may paint any scene from the garden that you wish. Given the cold, we will only have a few days to finish, so please work quickly and with focus. That is all.”

Luisa is already absorbed in her painting, the beginnings of color taking shape on her canvas. I scan the dying garden for something worthy of my almost certainly doomed efforts. Dismissing anything too vibrant or complicated, my eyes light on a pointed purple flower, dark as a plum. It is a simple arrangement, one even I may be able to replicate. Good enough, I think.

I am determined to do my utmost when something catches my eye. It is Luisa, her hand poised over the canvas, the tip of her brush stroking an area of barren purity.

But not just Luisa. Her hand, her wrist, peeking out from her red velvet cloak and the silver bracelet loosely covering the white of her skin.

And the Mark. Sonia’s Mark. Mine.

It is only a sliver, only the smallest of outlines, but I would recognize it anywhere.

“Whatever is the matter? Lia? What is it?” Luisa’s brush drips emerald paint, her eyes full of concern.

“Your… The… Where did you get that?” I cannot take my eyes from her slender wrist.

She follows my gaze, looking down at her hand, eyes wide with panic. Her brush clatters to the ground as she pulls the sleeve of her cloak down over her wrist.

“It’s nothing. Only a scar.” She bends to pick up her brush from beneath the easel, her face white.

“I don’t…” But I am unable to finish. Mr. Bell has suddenly appeared behind us.

“Miss Milthorpe, Luisa. What seems to be the problem?” He surveys our canvases with a critical eye, avoiding our faces entirely. Even with the questions beating through my brain, I am angry that he has addressed Luisa by her first name, saving the more respectful “Miss” for me.

“No problem at all, Mr. Bell. I’m quite clumsy today, that’s all. I dropped my brush, but I have it now.” Luisa waves it in front of him, as if to prove that she does, indeed, have the brush.

“Yes, everything is splendid, Mr. Bell. Miss Torelli and I are working with as much focus as we can muster.”

“I see.” He rocks on his heels, likely trying to decide how to handle my subtle breach of respectful conduct given that Father was a well-known benefactor of the school. “Carry on, then.”

We exhale in unison when he is out of earshot.

I pick up my brush, leaning toward Luisa while I make shapeless strokes on the canvas. “Where did you get it, Luisa? You must tell me!”

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She stiffens next to me, dipping her brush back into the green paint. “I don’t know why you should care. It’s nothing. Really!”

I sigh, taking only a moment to think. We do not have much time. Mr. Bell is leaning toward the girls at the far end of the row, engrossed in the canvas of one of the more artistic students. Setting my brush into the wooden recess of the easel, I hold my hand in the folds of my skirt and begin rolling up my sleeve as I speak, my voice just above a whisper.

“There is a very good reason why I should care, Luisa.” When my wrist is exposed just enough for the medallion to show, I push it aside, turning my palm up so she can see. “You see, I have one as well. And it is almost exactly like yours.”

She stares at my wrist for a long time, her brush still in her hand. I don’t know how long we sit that way, but Landscape in Art is soon over and there is no privacy to be had as we put away the paint and carry our canvases to the art room amid the bustle of the other girls. Luisa’s eyes follow me as I put away my materials, but I need time to think, to figure out what it all means, and this makes me grateful for our forced silence.

We are washing our brushes in a basin of water when she finally speaks. “I don’t understand, Lia. How can this be?”

I keep my eyes on the water, murky with rinsed color. “I’m not sure. Something is happening, but I don’t understand it any more than you. Not yet.”

She shakes her head, loose tendrils of dark hair curling around the sweep of her neck. “Why would we both have them?” she whispers. “We have hardly spoken before this week, and yet I’ve had this mark for all my life.”

I meet her eyes over the smell of turpentine and paint. “I don’t know, Luisa, all right? Just… Please. Give me time to sort through everything I know.”

“Oh, how I wish it weren’t Thursday! Now I’ll have to spend a long weekend waiting and wondering!” She is jumping out of her skin with anxiety, coiled so tightly I can nearly see the sinew of her muscles under her pale skin like one of the skeletons in Father’s medical books.

I shake my brushes, placing them in a tin cup by the sink to dry before I turn to her once again. “Wait for my word. I shall get to you somehow.”

Alice maintains her regal posture until Edmund closes the carriage door. But once we are alone in the semi-darkness of the gathering winter afternoon, she crumples, her shoulders sagging, her face a mask of resignation.

I put a hand on hers. “Are you all right?”

She nods, pulling her hand from mine in one quick motion without meeting my eyes. In the moment before she tucks the hand into her lap, my gaze is pulled to the smooth skin of her wrist. It is just as I suspected. The skin there is as unblemished as that of her cheek. I am the only marked sister.

She turns away from me to stare sullenly out the window, and I am grateful for her silence. I haven’t the energy or inclination to soothe her.

I sigh deeply, falling back into the comfort of the padded seat. When I lean my head back and close my eyes, all I can see is the mark on Luisa. On Sonia. On me.

It is beyond imagining that all three of us should have the mark, nearly identical and all in the same town. And yet nothing this careful, this sinister, can be so random. The belief that it must make sense is the only way to make sense of it at all.

Alice and I pass the ride home without speaking, coming to a stop in the front courtyard as darkness settles its hand across the sky. Edmund is not even at the door to the carriage when Alice exits like a caged animal set free, turning away from the house and toward the path leading to the lake. I don’t try to stop her. After all that has happened, all that is happening even now, I still feel the pain of her humiliation at the hands of Wycliffe’s self-proclaimed royalty. It is like seeing one of Father’s beautiful thoroughbreds trained. It is all well and good that the horse can be ridden and contained, but I can never shake my sadness that such spirit should be broken.

I am halfway up the stairs when Aunt Virginia’s voice comes to me from the foyer.

“Lia?”

I turn to face her. “Yes?” She stands at the foot of the stairs, looking up at me with a strained expression.

“Is something wrong?” Small wrinkles form at the corners of her eyes as she studies my face.

I hesitate, wondering to what she is referring. “No. Of course not. Why do you ask?”

She shrugs her slim shoulders. “You seem as if you have something on your mind. And Alice seems distraught as well.”

I smile to ease her worry. “Girls of our age — bored, wealthy girls — are not always kind, you know.”

Her own smile is small and sad. “Yes. I believe I remember that.”

“Alice will be fine. She’s simply tired and still grieving, as we all are.”

She nods. I believe I’ve made my escape when she stops me again.

“Lia? Will you come to me if there is anything you need? Anything I can do to help you?”

I am quite sure there is something there, some trace of a message I haven’t the knowledge to decode. For one half-mad moment I contemplate telling her everything. I contemplate asking her how I am to maintain my role as Guardian, how someone as confused as I should manage to protect the world from something I don’t even understand.

But in the end, I say none of this, for if I am the Guardian and Alice the Gate, who is Aunt Virginia? Which role did she play in the prophecy’s past?

I smile in answer to her question. “Yes. Thank you, Aunt Virginia.”

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I make my way up the stairs before she can say anything more.

Once in my room, the fire stoked and roaring, I sit at the writing table and consider my options. I stare down at the book. The book with no origin, no markings, no birthplace.

A book as old as time.

James’s notes peek out from behind the thin page of the prophecy. All that is left of The Book of Chaos. I want to solve its riddle alone, without involving anyone else, but I have come to a dead end in my understanding of its words.

Sometimes one must ask for help, however much one may not want to do so.

I take out a quill and bottle of ink from the drawer. Pulling two sheets of thick writing paper toward me, I begin to write.

Dear Miss Sorrensen,

Miss Lia Milthorpe requests the honor of your presence for tea.…

With my invitations to Sonia and Luisa written and a reckless desire to ignore the book for just a while, I entice Henry into an evening of games. His eyes are still shaded with sadness, and truth be told, I could use the distraction from the many questions waiting for answers. They will still be waiting, whatever I do to pass the time.

On the way to the parlor, I pass the glass doors of the conservatory, a figure within catching my eye. It is Alice, sitting with Ari on her lap in a large wicker chair by the window. Though I stand in the warmth of the hall, it is plain to see that the conservatory is frigid with cold. Starbursts of frost dot the glass, but Alice stares out the window into the darkness with only a blanket wrapped around her shoulders as if she is in a room no draftier than the fire-lit parlor. She pets the cat in a rhythmic motion not unlike the one she used to brush my hair. Even from my vantage point, I can see the vacant expression in her eyes.

I am preparing to announce myself, to open the glass doors and step onto the tiled floor of the conservatory, when something stops me cold. It is Ari, moaning and trying to rise off Alice’s lap. The cat is partially blocked by the wicker chair, and I tip my head to get a clearer view. When I do, when I find a position that allows me to see more fully what Alice is doing, my skin crawls with disgust and dismay.

It is Alice, holding down the cat. Not petting his fur. Not stroking him as she was only moments ago. No. She holds a small tuft of his hair, twisting it, twisting it until the cat hisses in pain and scrambles to escape her grip. But it is her face that frightens me most. It remains impassive, the dazed expression still written there as if she is contemplating the weather. Her grip on the cat must be ironclad. He cannot escape no matter how he arches and turns.

I should like to say that I stop her at once, but I am so shocked that I have no idea how many seconds pass before I am spurred to action. When I finally fling open the door, she releases her grip on Ari without the slightest change in expression. He scrambles from her lap, shaking his body and running from the room with a speed I’ve not seen him display since he was a kitten.

“Oh. Lia. What are you doing here?” She turns as I enter the room, but she does not look ashamed or in the least bit concerned.

“I was coming to see if you want to play cribbage with Henry and me in the parlor.” My voice is hoarse, and I have to clear my throat to continue. “What were you doing?”

“Hmmm?” She is back to staring out the window.

I make my voice stronger. “A moment ago. With Ari.”

She gives a small, distant shake of her head. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

I contemplate pressing her, forcing her to confess, but what would be the purpose in it? I saw her. I know what she was doing, whatever she might say.

And though the moment may seem small, it is the knowledge behind it that fills me with dread. Because while I have never denied that Alice can be careless… self-centered… even spiteful, it has never occurred to me before today that she might actually be cruel.

10

Henry and I play game after game of cribbage and even manage to entice Cook into making popcorn and chocolate, two of Henry’s favorite indulgences. As the hours pass, we move into chess. Henry beats me time and time again, having spent years as a student of Father’s able strategy. We both laugh, but it is not the easy laughter of times past. Now, there is an undercurrent of sorrow coupled with a fear that is all my own. I try to lose myself in the simplicity of the hours with my younger brother, but it is Alice’s blank face I see when I stare into the fire while waiting for Henry to make his move.

“Lia?” Henry’s voice breaks into my thoughts.

I look up from the chess board. “Yes?”

“You should be careful.”

The words send a chill up my spine, but I force a laugh. “Whatever do you mean, Henry?”

He looks away, gazing into the fire a moment before turning back to meet my eyes. “Father told me oftentimes things are not what they seem.”

“Henry.” I favor his seriousness with a gentle smile. I do not want to patronize him when he seems so intent on passing along his cryptic message. “To what are you referring?”

“Just…” He takes a deep breath as if summoning his courage, but in the end, he lets it out in a resigned sigh. “I don’t know what I mean to say, Lia.” He smiles, but it is a shadow of his normal grin. “Just promise you’ll be careful, will you?”

I nod slowly, still trying to puzzle out the meaning in his words. “Of course.”

We spend another twenty minutes playing chess, but our movements are half-hearted. Henry is yawning when we finally put the game pieces away and Aunt Virginia comes to help him to bed.

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As Henry says good night, his eyes are dark with worry and something I cannot help but think resembles fear. “Thank you, Lia. Ever so much.”

“Of course. I shall be happy to beat you anytime,” I tease, trying to lighten his mood. I lean over and drop a kiss on his smooth cheek. “Good night. Sleep well.”

“Sleep well, Lia.”

Aunt Virginia wheels him around, turning to me as she passes. She smiles in silent thanks.

“Good night, Aunt Virginia.”

I stand in the quiet room after they leave. Moving to the large window in the parlor, I stare at the black night as Alice did, wondering what she saw in the emptiness beyond the conservatory windows. I look and look, the crackle of the fire the only sound in the room behind me. But I do not see a thing. Not the beautiful sky of my night dreams nor the answers I need.

Only darkness.

Later, as I ascend the stairs to bed, I hear something coming from the library. It is the sound of shuffling, of things being moved to and fro, and I turn on the carpeted steps and make my way toward the noise.

When I reach the library door, I see Alice, bent over and pulling books from the shelves. I watch for a minute, wondering why I feel alarmed when the books in the library belong as much to Alice as to me. I suppose it is because she has never been interested in Father’s collection, and he long ago gave up trying to share his passion for books with Alice.

She must feel me standing there, because she turns before I say a word. Bright spots of color rise to her cheeks. I cannot remember the last time I’ve seen Alice blush.

“Oh! Lia! What are you doing here?” She straightens, smoothing her skirt and tucking a loose tendril of hair behind her ear.

“I saw the door open. What are you looking for?”

A blanket of calm drops over her features. “Something to read before bed.” She waves at the shelves as if dismissing them. “I’ve not been sleeping well of late.”

“Yes, I know what you mean.” I tip a head to the shelves. “You need only ask if you’d like a recommendation.”

She looks at me, her face turning to stone. “I shall do that. If I cannot find something on my own, that is.”

We stand there, staring at each other. It is clear she doesn’t mean to leave, and I have no jurisdiction over the room.

“Good night, Alice.” It is not easy to turn, but I do it nonetheless, leaving her in the sanctity of the room I shared so often with my father.

I make my way back to the stairs, a mixture of fear and anger coursing through my veins. I don’t know why I should want to keep the book from Alice, but I am suddenly very, very glad it is hidden in the wardrobe in my chamber.

11

It is two days later when I watch from the large window in the parlor as the carriage rounds the bend in the drive. Despite the unusual reason for my tea with Luisa and Sonia, I am excited at the prospect of their company. The child in me wants to run down the stone steps and fling open the door of the carriage. Instead, I force myself to stand slowly, straightening the folds in my skirt and walking with decorum to the foyer. Aunt Virginia looks up from her sewing by the fire and puts aside her needle to join me as I make my way down the stone steps.

I have never had anyone to tea. Aunt Virginia was understandably surprised when I told her about my plans to host my two peers, but she did not object. Birchwood is, after all, my home. I have not made a point of divulging my plans to Alice, though it is difficult to believe she doesn’t know about them given the added activity in the house. Still, she has made herself scarce, something for which I am grateful whether due to avoidance or ignorance.

Aunt Virginia and I gather in front of the walkway where the carriage stops with a crunch on the gravel. Edmund opens the door, reaching in to provide assistance to its occupants. A gloved hand emerges first, and I know that it is Sonia’s. A hand so childlike can only be hers. She steps from the carriage, her face full of uncertainty.

“Sonia! I’m so glad you could come!” I reach out to take her hand.

She smiles, looking from me to Aunt Virginia. “Thank you for inviting me.” Her face is unreadable, but I see the careful way she chooses her words and realize she fears making a poor impression.

I look to Aunt Virginia and make the introduction. She smiles warmly. “I’m most pleased to see you again, Miss Sorrensen.”

Luisa ignores Edmund’s hand, bounding from the carriage in one swift motion, her smile casting a glow over us all. “Oh, thank you ever so much for inviting me, Lia!” She wraps me in a quick embrace, her cheeks glowing like ripe apricots against her dark skin. “I’ve never been invited to tea. Not once since I’ve been at Wycliffe! You should have seen the other girls’ faces when the invitation arrived!”

She hardly stops to breathe, and I place a hand on her arm, if only to find a place to make introductions. “Aunt Virginia, Luisa Torelli. Luisa, Virginia Spencer.”

“I’m most pleased to meet you, Miss Torelli.” Aunt Virginia’s green eyes sparkle.

“Oh yes! Most pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss… er… Mrs. Spencer.” I stifle a smile as Luisa fumbles over my Aunt’s marital status.

“You were quite right the first time, Miss Torelli. I’ve never married.”

“Oh, that is most bold of you, Miss Spencer,” Luisa breathes. “I do so admire the independent women of today!”

I know I must stop her or we shall still be standing on the gravel at suppertime, Luisa prattling away as if no time has passed at all. “Shall we go in, then? The fire is warm, and the table is set.”

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I loop one arm in Luisa’s and the other in Sonia’s. We will enjoy our tea. And then we will try to find the dark thread that binds us together.

“I don’t believe it.” Luisa is nearly speechless. Nearly, but not quite. “And to think that all this time I thought I was the only one.”

“So did I.” Sonia’s words are a whisper. “Well, and then Lia, after I found her.” She cannot take her eyes off our wrists, thrust forward over the bales of hay on which we sit. The marks, all three of them, are proof that whatever is at work is at work in us all.

I have brought them to the stables in search of privacy from the prying eyes and big ears of the house. It is late enough that the stable boys have all gone home, and our only company is the soft nickering of the horses and the sweet smell of hay.

I relax my arm, pulling it back toward me. “We cannot deny it. Not now. Whatever it means, we shall have to figure it out together.”

Sonia shakes her head. “But how? I’ve told you all I know, Lia. There isn’t a thing I’ve left out.”

“What? What do you know?” Luisa narrows her eyes at us.

I sigh, making my way to a soft leather bag hanging from a peg on the stable wall. Dipping my hand into the bag, I pull out a fistful of dry, crumbly oats and make my way to the first stall.

“Sonia told me about a story, a legend really, involving twin sisters and angels who —”

Luisa makes her way to the feedbag. “The story of Maari and Katla? Of the Watchers?” She asks the question as if it is the most obvious in the world.

In my surprise, I ignore the black horse in front of me. He nudges my shoulder with his nose, and I open my palm absently. “You’ve heard it?”

She shrugs. “My grandmother used to tell it to me when I was small. But what does it have to do with us? With the mark?” She walks to the stall ahead of me, sticking her hand through the opening without hesitation.

I brush my hands against my skirt, reaching into the drawstring bag and pulling the book from it as Luisa watches with interest. Sonia has made no move toward the horses, remaining on the bale of hay as if there is no question of her feeding the large, shuffling animals. I sit next to her, placing the book in my lap and folding my arms over it. It is not yet time. First we must begin from the same place.

I turn to Luisa. “Tell us what you know about the sisters.”

Her eyes meet mine with unspoken questions. And then she speaks. At first, her words are halting, but she warms to the details as she recalls the story from the soft, blurred edges of childhood. When she is finished, we are silent.

I run my fingers along the cover of the book, Luisa’s words still sounding in my ears. Words that are the same as Sonia’s on the hill over the lake. The same as those translated by James from the book.

Sonia shakes her head. “I thought it was only people like me — spiritualists and gypsies and such — who knew of the prophecy.”

Luisa shrugs, giving us a rueful smile as she brushes her gloved hands together to dust off the remaining oats. “My mother was English. There were rumors that she came from a long line of heathens. All nonsense, I’m sure, but I suppose Grandmother’s story comes from them.”

Sonia eyes the book with hunger. “Are you going to tell us what that is, Lia?”

“My father was a collector of sorts. A collector of rare books.” I hold the book out toward them. “After his death, this was found hidden behind a secret panel in the library.”

Luisa closes the distance between us in a few quick steps, taking the book and dropping next to us on the hay. She opens it, turning the pages carefully but quickly before closing it with a snap. “I cannot read a thing, Lia. It’s in Latin! I can barely speak my native tongue of Italian after all these years! How do we know this has anything to do with the mark if we cannot even read it?”

Sonia takes the book before I can answer. She gives it a more thorough inspection, but her time inside it is short as well, and she closes it much as Luisa did, shrugging and looking at me over the cover.

“I’m afraid I don’t read Latin, either, Lia.”

I pull James’s folded notes from the silken fabric of my bag. “My grasp of it is no better, but I happen to be acquainted with someone who knows it quite well.”

I pass them the translation, giving them a moment to read, to pass it to one another, to ponder the words written in James’s careful handwriting.

When she is finished reading, Sonia lowers the paper to her lap, her expression blank. Luisa chews her full lower lip before pulling a piece of straw from the bale. She stands and paces the floor, her footsteps ringing through the empty stable as she begins to speak.

“All right, then. Let’s think this through, shall we? If the legend is true and if the mark has something to do with it and if you and Alice are the sisters —”

“That is a lot of ifs, Luisa.” I don’t mean to contradict her. She doesn’t say anything I have not thought myself. Still, it seems important to give voice to reason even as it spins out of my reach.

Luisa nods. “Perhaps. But if we put together the book and the legend and you and Alice and the mark… Well, the most important similarity between the prophecy and the three of us is you and Alice, Lia. You are twins. That cannot be sheer coincidence.” She stops walking and shrugs. “Well, it could, but let us assume for the moment that it isn’t, all right? Let’s see where that train of thought takes us.”

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I nod, relieved that someone else is willing to shoulder the burden of the prophecy for the moment.

“All right, then.” She resumes pacing. “You are the Guardian, your sister the Gate. It makes sense. Your mark is different, and you’ve already said that Alice doesn’t have one at all. Besides, let us be honest, it is difficult to imagine her as guardian of anything save her own best interests.” She flashes me a rueful smile. “No offense.”

Once, I would have taken offense. I would have sided with my sister. But I cannot refute Luisa’s perception of Alice, and deciphering the prophecy and my place in it is suddenly more important than loyalty to a sister I am becoming more and more certain I hardly know.

I shake my head. “No offense taken.”

Luisa smiles kindly. “Good. So it must be you, then. You must be the Guardian. And if you are the Guardian, then Alice is the Gate.”

I nod, surprised and grateful that it is that simple to her. That Luisa believes so easily the thing logic has tried to deny me time and again. “Yes. At least, I believe so. But how are we to figure the rest of it?”

“‘Cast from the heavens, the Souls were lost until the Gates

summon forth their return or the Angel brings the keys to the abyss.’” Sonia’s voice drifts across the darkening stable. “That’s the next piece of the prophecy. The piece after the sisters. Maybe that is our next clue.”

Luisa leans back on the wall, arms folded in front of her. “I think you’re right, Sonia. We must identify the Angel and find the keys. Perhaps they will lead us to an understanding of the rest.”

“Yes, only…” Sonia’s voice trails off as she bites her lip.

“Only what?” Luisa asks.

Sonia’s eyes flicker to the shadowed corners of the stable. “What if Alice finds them first? Assuming they unlock the riddle of the prophecy, won’t she be looking for them as fervently as us?”

Sonia’s mention of Alice makes my breath feel tight in my chest. I cannot say aloud the thing I feel — that Alice’s strange behavior has made me fear my own sister. That I fear not only her finding the keys before we do, but the things she might do in the meantime.

I push the thoughts aside. “I have the book. Without it, Alice may not know the breadth of the prophecy. She may well be as confused in her role as I am in mine. If I can keep the book from her, perhaps it will buy us enough time to find the keys and figure out how to use them.”

Sonia nods thoughtfully. “Perhaps…”

The heavy silence of shared secrets fills the stable. I think about the endless questions before us, the seeming impossibility of finding their answers, and it brings me to a thought entirely new.

“Luisa?”

She is leaning against the stable wall, chewing the end of the straw she has been twisting in her fingers. “Hmmm?”

“Do you travel as well? At night, I mean? Do you have the strange traveling dreams?”

She hesitates, shifting nervously on her feet before answering. “Well, everyone has dreams, Lia.…”

Sonia rises, idly inspecting the saddles and bridles that line the walls. “There is no need to be afraid, Luisa. I’ve been traveling for years. Lia has only just begun. It would be expected that you would have the gift as well, given that we all share the mark.”

Luisa shakes her head. “But they are only dreams! Only strange dreams in which I can fly. Surely many people fly in their dreams!” The words come out in a tumble, as if she has wanted to say them for a very long time.

Sonia smiles. I already recognize it as the soft smile Sonia wears when she must say something not easily understood or accepted. “Actually, it is possible for the soul to travel without the body, and it is not so very difficult to explain, nor difficult to become accustomed to once you understand it.”

Luisa leans against one of the stalls as if for support, her face a pale sheet of shock. She is well past the protestations and denial, for Sonia has too carefully and thoroughly described the sensations of travel. Travel we have all experienced and must now accept as a part of the prophecy and its mark.

Luisa stands up straighter, her face flushed with fright. “I don’t want to travel any longer! Surely it must be dangerous — flying about without one’s body! Suppose someone should happen upon us while we travel? We would be thought dead!”

Sonia’s eyes meet mine across the darkening stable, and I know she is thinking of our conversation on the hill. Of the Void. The shake of her head is almost imperceptible, but I see it and know that she means to keep any mention of the Void from Luisa. She is terrified enough as it is.

Sonia smiles gently at her. “That would be unlikely, for the soul and the body to which it belongs share a powerful connection. There is no reason to believe you are in any danger, Luisa.”

I hear the words Sonia has left unspoken: It is Lia they are after.

Luisa rubs her arms as if just feeling the cold that has seeped into the darkening building. The motion seems to wake her from some form of reverie, and she suddenly stands straighter. “Goodness! It’s getting dark! It must be quite late! Miss Gray will be angry!”

I move toward the doors. “Aunt Virginia will write a note of apology, insisting that it was we who kept you so late. Even Miss Gray cannot be angry with Aunt Virginia, you’ll see.”

Closing the stable doors behind us, I fold my arms across my chest in a vain attempt to stay warm as we make our way back toward the house. It was easy to lose track of the time in the quiet of the stables, but now I see that it is almost entirely dark. The lamps in the house are already on, blazing a welcome to us across the cold, shadowy grounds.

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We stop walking as we near the patio off the conservatory. It has not been said aloud, but we are likely thinking the same thing; whatever else is spoken between us must be said before we re-enter the house.

“What shall we do, Lia?” Despair creeps into Sonia’s voice. “We must find the keys, and we are no closer to understanding the passage in the book than we were before.”

I touch their arms. “I shall find a way to meet you both again. In the meantime, we mustn’t tell anyone about the book, the prophecy, the mark… any of it. Though there is no clear reason why we should keep it a secret, I feel sure we must.”

Luisa gives a snort. “Why, surely there is a reason! Anyone would think us half-mad, would they not?”

I cannot help laughing, and I pull her into a quick embrace, followed by one for Sonia. “Oh, do take care. I wish I didn’t have to bring you into this dreadful thing.”

Sonia smiles. “Whatever brought us into the prophecy did so long ago, Lia. You are no more responsible than we are. Whatever comes, we will face it together.”

Taking off my gown and changing into the soft folds of my nightdress is like shedding an old skin, and I sigh aloud as I unpin my hair and sit at the desk. I start at the beginning and reread the prophecy, sticking again after the part about the Guardian and the Gate, the part I already know and understand.

I read it again and again, but it does me no good. I cannot make sense of it, no matter how hard I try. James’s notes are fanned across the desk, mixed up now with all my shuffling. I line them up neatly, if only to give my hands something to do, and rest my head on the tips of my fingers. I have a bizarre desire to run into the fields and scream, to let loose my frustration and anger at the thing I don’t understand.

I reach for the back cover of the book, ready to close it for the night, to fall without struggle into whatever dreams are waiting, when I feel the smooth lip of endpaper peeling in the corner. I smooth it down, the old habits as much a part of me as Father himself. I shall have to have the endpaper glued into place so the book doesn’t further deteriorate.

But the corner does not want to smooth. The more I press it, the more it comes loose farther down, as if something is pressing against it, determined to force its way up from one place or another. Something is not right.

Smoothing my palm across the inside back cover, it is obvious that something is there. Something that doesn’t belong. I don’t stop to think, though tearing the endpaper off a book of this age would be reason for banishment from the library were my father still alive. Still, I pull as gently as I can and am surprised at how easily the endpaper separates from the back cover of the book. I am even more surprised, however, by what has been waiting, folded very thinly inside the book, all this time.

I pull a square of paper from the book, carefully unfolding the small package. This is no ordinary paper. Not the thick, luxurious stationery used for coveted invitations and pretentious social notices. This is as thin as onion skin, as the pages of a Bible. When the tiny bundle is at last laid flat, the drawings there take my breath away.

The first picture is a serpent eating its own tail. Underneath it is the word Jorgumand.

Behind it is a drawing labeled The Lost Souls, an army of demons riding astride white horses, blood-drenched swords raised high above their heads. This one frightens me, but not as much as the one that come next: a snake forming a circle and eating its own tail, a C at its center.

I pull it slowly from the pile, its entirety revealed an inch at a time as it emerges from the other pages of feathery drawings. When at last it is laid bare, I can only stare, my heart thudding wildly in my chest.

There is no mistaking the medallion. It is as familiar to me now as the mark on my wrist. The gold disc hangs in the center, the ribbon coiling around it. Seeing it in such vibrant detail floods me not with the fear I would expect but with a longing that is far more terrifying.

But it is the words underneath the picture that make the tiny hairs on my arms stand on end.

Medallion of Chaos, Mark of the One True Gate.

12

I shake my head at the empty room, looking down at my wrist, at the medallion lying next to the book. It is the same.

The same. The same. The same.

Medallion of Chaos, Mark of the One True Gate.

It cannot be. Logic refuses it entrance. Alice is the Gate. I know it. She must be.

But there is something primal and even welcoming that tells me it isn’t true. The strange longing beating within me, answering the silent call of the medallion, of the Souls perched on the forbidding horses. It is both comforting and horrifying.

Yet it is undeniably present.

The medallion is the mark of the Gate. The One True Gate, though I don’t know what that means. It fits my wrist perfectly.

It was given to me. It matches my mark, the mark that is different from all the others. And so, it can only be that I have been wrong all this time.

I am weary of the book and its secrets. The time has come to go to the other sister.

I wait until the house is silent, until the footsteps of the servants cease their movement across the floors. Then I wait awhile longer. When I am certain no one is about, I open the door and pad down the hall on bare feet. Even slippers make noise when the house is so quiet.

I knock softly on Aunt Virginia’s door. For a moment, nothing happens. The house continues on its silent journey into morning. I lift my hand, ready to knock again, and the door opens, Aunt Virginia standing expectantly in its frame as if she knew it would be me all along.

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“Come in, Lia.” Her voice is an urgent whisper. “Quickly.” She reaches out and tugs my arm, pulling me into the warmth of the room and closing the door.

“I’m sorry. I… I didn’t think you were expecting me.”

Her back is to me as she crosses the room, taking a chair by the fire and gesturing for me to take the one opposite. “On the contrary, Lia. I’ve been expecting you for quite some time.”

I lower myself into the high-backed chair, sneaking a curious glance at my aunt. She looks different, her hair long and loose over her nightdress instead of pulled into the severe knot at the back of her neck. Now that I’m here, I am suddenly unsure how to begin. I’m grateful when Aunt Virginia saves me the trouble.

“Have you found the book, then?”

I nod, studying my hands to avoid her eyes.

She smiles sadly. “Good. He wanted you to find it, you know.”

I look up from my hands. “Father?”

“Yes, of course. You don’t think it was an accident that it was found, do you? That the Douglases are here cataloging the books?”

“I suppose… I suppose I don’t know what to think anymore.”

“Well, let us begin at the beginning then, shall we?” Her voice is sorrowful, and I know she does not want to begin at the beginning any more than I.

But we must. We must begin somewhere. After all, one cannot reach the end of something without the beginning.

“Yes. Let us start there.”

She looks at me with silent expectation. Clearly, I am meant to divulge my secrets first. And what else is there to do? The prophecy and my place in it swirl in a cloud of confusion. Without assistance, it will be impossible to go further.

So I tell her what I know, what I believe I know, repeating my conversations with Sonia, my interpretations of the book. When I am finished, she speaks.

“Miss Sorrensen is quite right. The prophecy has continued for all this time, all these years, all these lifetimes. We are but one more link in the chain,” Aunt Virginia says.

“I thought…” My throat closes around the words, and I have to clear it to continue. “I thought I was the Guardian, at first.”

She looks away, into the fire. “Yes,” she murmurs. “I can see why you might.”

Her easy acceptance of my declaration sits so heavily on my chest I have trouble breathing. “Then it’s true.” It is not so easy for me, though I came to the realization myself the moment I saw the drawing of the medallion.

Her nod is almost imperceptible, as if by making her acknowledgment slight it might somehow be less true, less painful.

I am surprised at the anger that fills me in the wake of Aunt Virginia’s confirmation. It pushes me to my feet, forcing me to pace the length of the room for fear I will jump out of my own skin if I remain still. “But why? Why does it have to be me?”

She sighs, a world of sadness in the soft breath that leaves her body. “Because you are the oldest, Lia. It is always the oldest.”

I stop moving, stunned. That is it? The reason for my enslavement to the prophecy is something as simple, as random, as the order in which I emerged from my mother’s womb?

“But I didn’t ask for it. I don’t want it. How can it be me if I don’t want it?”

She presses her lips with the tips of her fingers. “It is a mistake, I think.”

“What… what do you mean?” I sink back into the chair at Virginia’s side.

She leans forward, looking into my eyes. “Your mother had a very difficult confinement with you and Alice. She was forced to her bed for most of it, and in the end…” She looks back to the fire, her eyes taking on a far-off look.

“In the end, what?”

“In the end, Alice was to be born first. Her head was down, ready to be born, while your feet were down instead, your head pointed upward. It isn’t uncommon in twins, or so the doctor said. And any other time I suppose it would not have mattered. But your mother… she could not birth Alice. Her labors went on and on, Lia, until I thought it would kill her.”

“But it didn’t.”

She shakes her head. “No, though I imagine not so very long ago the mother would have died in a birth such as yours. But your father was a very rich man who insisted on the very best for his wife and unborn children. The doctor who saw your mother, who delivered you and Alice, was trained in techniques that were, are, considered dangerous, including cesarean birth.”

“What is that?”

Her eyes meet mine. “He cut her, Lia. He put her to sleep and he cut her. It was the only way to save her life, and perhaps the lives of you and your sister. When he opened her, instead of pulling Alice out first, he grabbed you. Alice was nearer to birth the other way, but as it turns out, you were nearer the incision made by the doctor. I don’t think it was supposed to be you.”

“But how do you know? How do you know any of this?”

She shakes her head. “I didn’t. We didn’t. When your mother awoke, we said a prayer of gratitude for her survival and for the survival of you and Alice, and we never spoke of it again. It was only after I began *****spect that you might be the Gate, that I thought there might be consequences to the doctor’s intervention in your birth.”

“But even so… how do you know it isn’t exactly the way it was supposed to be all along?”

“Because I see the look in Alice’s eyes, Lia. And when she looks at you, I’m afraid.” She looks around, as if someone might have crept in on silent feet while we were sitting right there. “I see her anger, her desire, and her need. And in you…”

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“In me what?”

She shrugs simply. “In you I see something else, something… true that has been present ever since you were a small child.”

The fire has burned low, its missing warmth making the room seem more than cold, making it seem hollow, dead. It is only after a time that Aunt Virginia’s gaze drifts to my hand.

“May I see it?” she asks carefully, as if she is asking to see something far more private than my wrist.

I nod, holding it out for her. Her hands are warm and dry on the tender skin of my arm as she pushes up the sleeve of my nightdress.

“Oh!” Her voice is full of surprise. “It is… it is different.”

I look down at the mark. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve never seen one like this.” She traces it gently with her finger. “The Gates… well, they always have the mark of the Jorgumand. But I’ve never seen one with this C.”

Her mention of the mark makes me realize that I have not yet told her about Sonia and Luisa. “There is one other thing.…”

“What is it?”

“Sonia and Luisa have a mark as well, only it is exactly like the one you describe. Theirs does not bear the C as mine does. What do you think it means?”

She looks into my eyes. “I don’t know, but I wonder if it has something to do with the others.…”

Her words cause me to sit up straighter. “What others?”

“The other children with the mark. The ones your father was searching for. The ones he brought to New York.”

I feel as if her words stop my heart, a ripple of intuition rippling up my spine. “I think you’d better tell me what you mean.”

She nods. “It began after your mother’s death. Your father began spending hours and hours in the library.” Her eyes are bright as she remembers. “He had always loved the library, of course, but then… well, then it became his refuge. We rarely saw him, and soon he began getting strange letters, taking long trips.”

“What does this have to do with the others?”

“He was working from a list. A list of names and places.”

I shake my head. “I don’t understand. What use could he have for such a list?”

“I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell me. But he brought two of them here.”

“Who? Who did he bring here?”

“The girls. Two of them. One from England, one from Italy. But he would never tell me why.”

There is a promise of understanding in her words, but one I am not yet ready to share. Aunt Virginia rises, trying to rekindle the dying fire as I stare at the glowing ashes, attempting to make sense of everything that has been said. Even with all I’ve learned, the mystery has only deepened.

But there is one puzzle that can be solved here and now.

“May I see, Aunt Virginia?”

She turns from the fire. In her eyes, I see that she knows just what I mean. She returns to the chair, sitting in it and holding out her hand without a word. When I pull aside the cuff of her nightdress I see nothing but the smooth, pale skin of her slight wrist. She bears no trace of the mark.

I nod. “I thought so.” My voice is wooden in the quiet room. It is a voice that doesn’t sound like mine at all.

“Lia. I’m sorry. I never wanted you to know.”

She is sorry. I can see it in the worry lines around her eyes, the tense set of her mouth. I try to smile for her, but it doesn’t feel right on my face. “It’s all right, Aunt Virginia. I knew, I think. I knew it all along.”

And now, at least, I need not fear my aunt. I cannot bring myself to think the other thing. The thing about my mother and her role as Gate. Instead, I focus on the things I can still change. “Where are the keys, Aunt Virginia?”

“What keys?”

I study her face, but there is no guile there. No secrets. “The keys mentioned in the prophecy. In the book. The keys to ending the prophecy.”

She shakes her head. “I told you; your father was very secretive. I’m afraid I’ve never seen the book.”

“But how did you maintain your role as Guardian without knowledge of the prophecy?”

“I was trained by my Aunt Abigail, also a Guardian.” She drops her eyes to the hands clasped in her lap, before looking up at me once again. “And now it is my task to train Alice in her role as Guardian. I should already be training her, if the truth be told. But I must confess that I’ve done no such thing.”

I shake my head. “Why?”

“I would like to say I don’t know, but it would be a lie.” She sighs. “I have been hoping I was wrong — that you were the Guardian and Alice the Gate, because I cannot imagine training Alice for such a role any more than I can imagine her fulfilling it.”

“But… if you train her… if you teach her how to be a proper Guardian —”

She does not allow me to finish. “There is something you must understand, Lia; even among those of us who play a role in the prophecy, there are varying degrees of strength. The Guardian’s ability lies both in her willingness to assume the role and in her innate power. Most desire to fulfill the role that is theirs, but some do not. Then again, some are born with extraordinary power and others… others with less. I’m afraid I must count myself one of the latter. Your mother was far stronger. She was a Spellcaster, in fact, while I have little power beyond that required to travel the Plane.”

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I am beginning to understand, though I don’t like where the knowledge leads. “So the Guardian has no guarantee of keeping out the Souls?”

“Alice’s task would be great enough were she eager to assume it, but it will be impossible if she has no desire to play her part. The Guardian is simply an overseer… a sentinel, if you will. It is the Guardian’s duty to keep watch over the sister named as Gate, to use whatever power available to deny the Souls entrance to our world and to entreat the Gate to fight against the role that is hers.

“But it is not foolproof. The Souls have made their way here, hundreds, perhaps thousands, of times over the past centuries. No one can say for certain how many have gathered to wait for Samael, but we do our best to limit their number. If the Doom of Gods does arrive, it is to our advantage to ensure that Samael fights with as few Souls as possible.” She shrugs. “It is all we can do.”

I’m not sure what I expected. But not this. I suppose I hoped there was some sure answer… some information Aunt Virginia possessed that would allow me to fight the Souls and find the keys.

But it will not be so easy. There will be no quick and simple end to the prophecy that steers my life in an ever darker direction.

My room is cold, the fire burned to a soft, orange glow. I have no idea the time; surely late enough that I should be ready for sleep. But I cannot stop thinking, cannot stop the wheels from turning over all I have learned. I let my mind wander through the darkness.

I am not the Guardian, but the Gate. Whether through fate or chance, it is something I must accept if I’m to find a way back from its bleak promise.

If I am the Gate, Alice is the Guardian.

I shake my head into the empty room, for even alone I want to protest, to cry out, It cannot be!

Yet I know it must.

And if I am the Gate, should I not fear finding the keys even more than Alice finding them? Perhaps it is I who might use them for harm instead of good.

I push these thoughts aside. I know my own intentions, and while it is true that I have felt the strange affinity for traveling the Plane, for the medallion that found its way to me, it is also true that I do not seek to do harm. This I know as sure as I breathe.

With this certainty, I also know that Alice does not seek to do good, whatever the prophecy may call us. Whatever names it may assign us.

My thoughts sound desperate, even to me, as if I seek to reassure myself with false truths and empty reassurances. But there are far too many things I do not yet understand. The prophecy is too long, too winding, to begin with those things. I shall continue instead with the ones I do.

My father began searching for something after my mother’s death, compiling a list of children. Bringing them here.

One from England, one from Italy.

Sonia and Luisa.

I do not have proof. I never asked the circumstances of Sonia’s coming to live with Mrs. Millburn. There has not been time. But I will wager that Sonia is from England.

Why would Father bring them here? Why would he bring them to me, for that is what it feels like — as if he brought them all this way for me, though for what purpose I cannot imagine.

At last, the call of sleep arrives. I reach to turn off the lamp, stopping before I turn the key. I feel the medallion in the drawer of my night table. It pulses there like a living thing, sending out a soundless but primeval signal meant only for me. Part of me believes that the medallion belongs to me, belongs on my wrist. But the other part, the thinking part, believes it unwise to wear it until I know what part it plays.

The will required for me to leave it takes me by surprise. I turn out the light and, all at once, my plan to leave it in the drawer is nearly overmatched by my desire, my need, to have it on, to feel its caress on the warm skin of my wrist. For one strange moment, I cannot remember why I should leave it off at all.

And then, from some dark recess, I find the clarity to turn away. I turn my back to the table and will myself to sleep.

My dreams are constant. I am both in them and above them, watching them unfold. There are moments when I am conscious of the feeling of flying, as if I am on one of my travels. But there are others where I know, even in the absent state of sleep, that it is a dream.

There are flashes — soundless flashes of my mother’s grave, the blackness seeping from the Earth near her marker. Flashes of the cliff from which she fell, of my father and his tortured, terrified expression when we found him in the Dark Room. In my dream, the enormous winged demons chase me, but this time the army is led by something even more frightening. Its heart beats in time to my own, blocking out all rational thought as it approaches in the thunder of a thousand hooves.

Louder, louder, louder.

And then I am falling, falling through a dark and endless emptiness. At first I believe it is the hissing of the dark thing in my dream that causes me to sit up so suddenly in my bed, my breath coming fast and heavy, my heart beating ferociously in my chest. But a quick glance to the end of my bed reveals Ari, hissing at me in fear or anger. He eyes me warily, back arched and teeth bared.

And then he does the strangest thing of all.

He turns, jumping down from the bed and padding purposefully to the corner where he turns his back to me, sitting on his haunches and staring at the wall as if refusing to acknowledge my existence. I cannot take my eyes off his shadow, an ominous smudge in the corner of the room, though he is nothing but the cat I have loved for many years.

There is no light coming from the windows, and for a minute, I think perhaps it is still night. But then I hear the sounds of the servants. I remember that it is almost winter and is quite dark even when we wake.