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

Prophecy of the Sisters
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It all moves through me in seconds — the darkness, Ari’s unusual behavior, the sounds of the house slowly waking. What comes to me a moment later is the weight around my wrist. It is too dark for me to see, so I use my other hand to feel for it, just to be sure. Even that is not enough to bring belief, and I fumble for a match, lighting the bedside lamp clumsily until light bursts forth, illuminating the medallion on my wrist.

13

It takes me half the morning to escape the house unseen with the medallion.

Alice seems more watchful than usual as we eat breakfast and read, though I tell myself she cannot possibly know what I mean to do. Still, I don’t take my leave until she retires to her room to work on an overdue French lesson for Wycliffe.

The wind is so cold it takes my breath away, but it does not deter me. I am already committed to the task at hand. Forcing aside my discomfort, I make my way around the house and toward the river. I will my feet forward as fast as my skirts will allow, the drawstring bag swinging from one hand as I pick up the pace. I no longer feel the cold. In fact, I don’t feel or hear a thing. Everything is quiet and still as I put one boot in front of the other, as if the world itself knows what I mean to do.

When I come to the river’s edge, I reach into my bag, feeling around for the medallion. I half-expect it to be gone, to have disappeared in an unreasonable bid for safety, as if it has desires all its own. But it is only a thing, after all, and it lies in the bag right where I placed it before breakfast.

All I want is to be rid of it.

I raise my arm in the air, hesitating only a second before letting go and flinging it into the river with force. A small puff of steam rises off the water where it lands. I walk as close to the river’s edge as I can manage without risking a fall.

It is there, spinning downstream in the angry current, the black velvet coiling like a snake around the gold disc, glinting from the water though there is not a speck of sun in the sky.

I stay by the river awhile to gather my thoughts. I do not know how the medallion works with the prophecy, but I feel certain that it has something to do with the Souls and their pathway back. Now it is somewhere in the cold, wild waters of the river. It will sink to the bottom and lie among the rocks. I pray to a God I rarely acknowledge that no one will ever see it again.

I sit atop the dry leaves on the bank, my back against the large boulder where I pass the time with James. The thought of him brings an uneasy turn of my stomach. It is clear that if he believes in the prophecy at all, it is only as legend. Certainly, my newly revealed role as Gate would be difficult for even the most imaginative person to accept, let alone one as reasoned as James.

I attempt to envision his reaction, assuming I can summon the courage to tell him. I remind myself that we are more than promised. We are best friends. But in the confidence of his love I also feel a deep disquiet. A small voice that whispers, What if he doesn’t want you?What if he does not wish to marry such a strange person with such a strange role in such a strange tale? He will say his love is true, but he will never look at you with the same love and trust again. I shake my head, denying it to no one but myself.

“Why do you shake your head, though you are all alone?” James’s voice startles me, and I hold a hand to the front of my cloak.

“Goodness! What are you doing here? It’s Sunday!” He has appeared, leaning against a tree across from the rock, as suddenly as if I had conjured him by thought alone.

He tilts his head, a teasing smile playing at his lips. “Can’t I come to call, just for the pleasure of it?”

I am torn between my desire to see him and the increasing difficulty of keeping so many secrets. “Well… yes. Yes, of course. I simply didn’t expect you.”

He walks over, his boots crunching across the forest floor. “Father didn’t need the carriage, and I couldn’t wait until tomorrow to see you. I hoped I might find you here.” He reaches a hand down toward me, and I take it, allowing him to pull me up and against him. When he speaks again his voice is low and rough. “Good morning.”

I am embarrassed by the scrutiny of his eyes on my face, though surely he has looked at me in this manner a thousand times before. “Good morning.” I dip my head, avoiding his eyes and stepping away from the warmth of his body. “And how is your father?”

It is a silly question. Of course Mr. Douglas is fine, otherwise James would not be here with me. Still, it gives me a chance to wander away from him while trying not to seem as if I want to put distance between us.

But James knows me too well. He ignores my question, making his way to me in two long strides. “What is it? What’s wrong?” He takes my hand, and I feel his eyes on my face as I stare at the swirling water. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”

This is it. This is where you tell him. Tell him everything. Trust in his love. It is a persistent wind that whistles through my heart but one I ignore, though reason calls me a fool.

“Of course I am.” I smile, digging deeply to make it as bright and carefree as possible. “I’m… I’m simply not feeling myself today, that’s all. Perhaps I should retire to my chamber for the afternoon.”

He is disappointed. Disappointed that I shall not spend the day with him when he has come all this way. “All right, then. I’ll walk you back to the house and fetch the carriage from Edmund.” He covers the wounded look in his eyes with a smile anyone would believe, if only they did not know James as well as I.

James and I part in the courtyard after making our way back from the river amid strained conversation. He holds my hand as he begins to walk away, as if trying to keep me from slipping further from his grasp. I watch his carriage disappear around the bend in the drive before turning toward the house.

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The small voice comes from behind me as I climb the stone steps on my way to the front door. “Miss? You’ve dropped something, Miss.”

It is the young girl from town, the one who gave me my comb with the bracelet. She wears the same sky blue pinafore, her flaxen ringlets springing around her shoulders.

I look around, struck silent by the unlikelihood of the child turning up here, so far from town. There is no sign of an adult, no carriage or horse. I descend the stairs toward her, narrowing my eyes in suspicion. It was she, after all, who gave me the medallion in the first place, never mind the innocence of her face.

“I’ve not dropped anything. What is your name? How did you get here?”

She ignores the question, thrusting her small hand toward me, her fingers closed into a fist. “I’m quite certain it’s yours, Miss. And I’ve come all this way.” Her hand comes toward me so quickly that it is a reflex, really, opening my palm and taking the thing from her. She turns and skips down the tree-lined drive, humming the same tune that drifted after her in town.

It is only then that I feel the water. Water that leaks from my fingers in a torrent. My hand shakes violently when I open it to see what the girl has delivered.

It cannot be.

The medallion lies in my palm, black velvet coils made all the blacker by the water that soaks them, pouring through my fingers and onto the stone stairs. The bracelet is more than damp. It is dripping with water, soaked through as if it was lifted from the river only a moment before.

I have to stop the girl.

The girl, the girl, the girl.

Running down the stairs, the hateful thing I do not want clutched in my hand, I enter the darkening pathway leading to the road. I run until I am deep within the path, the trees forming a shadowy canopy that rises on either side. I stand there far longer than makes sense, staring off in the direction I saw her skip, the wind an eerie whisper in the trees overhead. But it is no use. She is gone, as I somehow knew she would be.

“Is it very cold out?” Henry asks as I come into the entry, rubbing my hands together. He and Aunt Virginia are playing cards, the fire crackling in the firebox.

“Quite. I should think none of us will be spending much time by the river until spring.” I hang my cloak, turning to them with a smile that I hope hides my unease. “Who’s winning?”

Henry grins, triumphant. “I am, of course!”

“Of course? Oh, you little beast!” Aunt Virginia teases. She looks over at me. “Care to join us, Lia?”

“Not just now. I’m freezing. I think I’ll change into warm clothes. After dinner, perhaps?”

Aunt Virginia nods absentmindedly.

I look around the parlor. “Where is Alice?”

“She said she was going to her chambers to rest,” Aunt Virginia murmurs, studying her cards with great concentration.

I head to my room to look for a blanket, a deep disquiet settling into my chest. When I come to my room and see the figure, hunched and digging through the top drawer of my dresser, I understand.

“May I help you find something?” The coldness in my voice feels unfamiliar in my throat.

Alice whirls around. She stares at me, her face an impassive mask, weighing her words before speaking as she strolls casually toward me. “No, thank you. I was looking for the brooch I lent you last summer.” She stops in front of me, unable to leave the room as I stand in the doorway.

“I gave it back to you, Alice. Before school resumed in the fall.”

Her smile is small and hard. “That’s right. I’d forgotten.” She tips her head to the door. “Excuse me.”

I wait a moment, relishing her discomfort, the way she squirms under my gaze for once. Finally, I step aside, allowing her to pass without another word.

A half hour later, I am sitting at the writing table in my room. I have wrapped a blanket around my shoulders to stave off the chill as I brood over Alice’s intentions.

The book was still in the wardrobe where I last hid it. It was not hidden so carefully that Alice couldn’t have found it with a thorough search. I can only assume that she either hadn’t time to search the wardrobe or that she found the book but has no use for it.

The medallion was with me all along, though I tried mightily to get rid of it. In any case, it is clear now that it will not release its hold on me so easily. With all that Alice seems to know, it is difficult to believe she doesn’t realize this, if she is aware of its existence at all.

But if she was not looking for the book, and she was not looking for the medallion, what else is there?

I lower my eyes to the book, open on the table in front of me. The prophecy is so familiar that I could recite it from memory, and yet I wonder if reading it again might bring me to the thing I’m missing. I hear Father’s voice, as clearly as if he is sitting beside me, saying something he so often said.

Sometimes you cannot see the forest for the trees.

Such a silly saying — a cliché, really. But I try to open my mind, to reread the prophecy as if reading it for the very first time.

At first, it is just as I remember. It is only when I come to the mention of the keys that the spark of discovery causes my breath to catch in my throat.

The keys. Alice thinks I have the keys.

The knowledge that she is searching for the keys brings me an odd kind of comfort, for it can only mean that she has not yet found them. That there is still time for me to find them first.

The door eases open with a creak, shaking me from my thoughts. I turn to find Ivy carrying a tray toward me.

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“There you are, Miss. Nothing like a hot cup of tea to warm you on a cold day such as this.” She places the tea on the writing table, standing awkwardly by my elbow.

For a moment, I don’t understand why she has brought tea to my room unbidden or why she is standing near my chair as if expecting something more. But then I see the small piece of paper peeking from beneath the cup and saucer.

“What is this?” I turn to look at her.

She shifts from foot to foot, twisting her apron and avoiding my eyes. “It… It’s a message, Miss. From town.”

My surprise is such that I don’t do the obvious thing, the simplest thing, which is simply to pick up the piece of paper and see what kind of message it holds. Instead, I ask. “A message? From whom?”

She leans in, looking around as if someone might be listening. I see from the shine in her eyes that she quite likes the bit of mystery. “From a friend of mine. A maid in the house of that girl. The strange one.”

Aunt Virginia is meeting with Cook and Margaret to plan next week’s Thanksgiving dinner while Henry takes an afternoon rest. It is as good a time as any to make my escape in response to Sonia’s message.

Edmund is in the carriage house, watching a young boy as he polishes one of the carriages. The boy doesn’t notice me, but Edmund looks up as I enter.

“Miss Amalia! Is something the matter?” I have not been to the carriage house since Alice and I were small and used it as a hiding place for hide-and-seek.

I come closer, turning my back to the boy. “I need to be taken into town, Edmund. Alone. I would not ask, except it is… it is important.”

His gaze holds mine, and for one terrible moment I think he will refuse. For one terrible moment I think I will have to remind him that Aunt Virginia is only a guardian, that it is Alice and Henry and I who are masters of Birchwood. Thankfully, he spares me the humiliation of resorting *****ch a spectacle.

“All right, then. We’ll take the other carriage. It’s behind the stables.” He turns around and heads out the door, mumbling as he goes. “Your Aunt Virginia will have my head on a platter.”

14

I look at the piece of paper Ivy passed to me with my tea. I don’t know what Sonia has in store, but I shall have to return the favor of trust that she has shown me. Her writing is as neat and straight as a child’s.

Dearest Lia,

I have located someone who might help us in our journey. Please trust me, and come to 778 York Street at one o’clock in the afternoon.

S.S.

I have already given Edmund the address, and gather from his subsequent snort that we are not traveling to a part of town he deems appropriate. Nevertheless, he does not question me further, and I want to kiss him for his steadfast loyalty.

The carriage rumbles toward town in a series of harsh bounces and jolts across the hard-packed road. We have not had a good rain since the day following Father’s funeral nine days before. I think it befitting, as if God has used all his tears on the just cause of my father’s death. Even still, the lack of rain has been much discussed among the servants. They cluck their tongues and shake their heads, arguing about whether it means an especially cold winter or one especially warm.

We pass through the familiar part of town in a blink. Past Wycliffe, the bookstore, the fashionable inns and restaurants, the sweet shop, Sonia’s house. It is not long before Edmund turns the horses down a quiet lane hidden behind the clean and bustling streets.

The lane is dark, shaded on all sides by the tenement buildings that house the less fortunate. Through the window of the carriage, I see laundry swinging on clotheslines strung above the litter-strewn lane. The ride becomes bumpier, the ground further parched, as if even the water does not want to stay long here. I am beginning to feel green about the edges when Edmund finally pulls the horses to a stop with a soft, “Whoa, boys.”

Looking out the window, I cannot fathom a reason why Sonia should ask me to meet her at such a place, but Edmund is at the door, opening it wide before I can think further about the wisdom in coming.

“Are you certain you’d like to stop here, Miss?”

I step from the carriage, determined to see my journey through. Ours is not a quest for cowards. “Yes. Most certain, Edmund.”

Edmund holds his hat while we wait for Sonia. Two small boys kick a large rock down the lane. They make a racket, but their playful laugh is a welcome distraction from the silence of the deserted street.

“Which one is it?” I ask Edmund.

He nods toward a narrow doorway a few feet from the carriage. “That one there.”

I am beginning to wonder if I’ve made a mistake when Sonia rushes around the corner, breathless and pink at the cheeks. “Oh goodness! I’m sorry to be late! It’s ever so hard to escape Mrs. Millburn’s eye! She books me for so many sittings, I barely have time to breathe!”

“It’s quite all right, Sonia, but… whatever are we doing here?”

She stands for a moment, her hand on her chest as she attempts to catch her breath. “I asked around, carefully, mind you, and found someone who might have some answers to…” She eyes Edmund cautiously. “Well, to the things we’ve been discussing.”

Edmund does not look amused.

I nod. “All right.”

Sonia takes my hand, leading me to the dark doorway ahead. “I’ve thought and thought about the prophecy, but it makes no more sense to me now than it did when you first showed me the book. I thought we could do with some help.

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It was not easy to find such a person. But if anyone will assist us in finding answers, it will be Madame Berrier.”

The name itself is mysterious, but I follow Sonia to a nondescript door. She raises her hand and knocks, and the door is opened a moment later by a svelte, fashionable woman.

“Good afternoon. Please do come in.” The woman is obviously French but with the hint of a more exotic accent that I cannot quite place. She ushers us into a cramped foyer. Her eyes focus on something over my shoulder, and it is only when I follow her gaze that I realize Edmund has not stayed at the carriage. She looks at him appraisingly, her eyes flickering with interest over his strong face.

I turn to him. “Edmund, would you mind waiting here while we speak in private?”

He considers this thoughtfully, rubbing the coarse stubble along his jaw.

“We shall be right here in this very apartment.”

His nod is small, but he folds his large frame onto a small bench set against one wall.

“Follow me.” Madame Berrier leads us down a narrow hallway with doors on either side.

“Thank you, Madame, for seeing us on such short notice. I know how very busy you are.” Sonia’s voice echoes through the shadows of the dimly lit hallway. She turns to me as we walk. “Madame Berrier is one of the most sought-after spiritualists in New York. Some of her customers come from hundreds of miles to get a reading.”

I smile as if I have always had a friend who is a spiritualist, as if I am accustomed to meeting in the back lanes of town those with dark and questionable powers.

Madame Berrier’s voice is muted as she speaks ahead of us. “You are most welcome. You have powerful gifts of your own, my dear. It is only right that we should help one another, yes? Besides, it is not often I have the opportunity to speak of the Prophecy of the Sisters.”

“The Prophecy of the Sisters?” I mouth the words back to Sonia as Madame Berrier ushers us through an elegant apartment that belies its decrepit-looking exterior.

Sonia shrugs, following the older woman into a well-appointed parlor.

“Please sit down.” Madame Berrier waves us toward a red velvet settee as she sits in a carved chair opposite. Between us is a small wooden table that glows with the warmth of a well-polished apple. It is set with a silver pot, delicate porcelain cups and saucers, and a small plate of cookies. “Would you like some coffee? Or do you take tea in the tra***ion of the British?”

“Coffee, please.” My voice emerges firmer than I expect under the circumstances.

She nods, reaching for the pot on the table with a smile something like approval. “And for you?” she asks Sonia.

“Oh no. Nothing for me, thank you. It sometimes interferes with my sittings.”

Madame Berrier nods, placing the pot back on the silver tray. “Yes, the coffee and tea did the same for me when I was younger and more sensitive to external stimuli. I would wager these things will bother you less and less as you grow more sure in your powers, dear.”

Sonia nods, and I see her struggling against the words she wants to say.

Madame Berrier saves her the trouble. “Sonia tells me that you find yourself in an… unusual situation, Miss Milthorpe.”

I don’t answer right away, feeling unsure confessing to a stranger the things I have worked so mightily to keep secret. But in the end, I nod, for what purpose is there in trying to find answers if I’ll not speak to those who might give them?

“May I see your hand?” She holds her own across the table with such authority that hesitating does not seem an option.

I proffer my hand over the coffee and sugar.

Pulling up the sleeve of my gown, she eyes the mark coolly before releasing my hand. “Hmmm… Quite interesting. Quite interesting indeed. I have seen it before, of course. In the tales of the prophecy, and on the chosen few who play a part. But never one quite like this. It is most unusual.” She nods. “But of course, it is to be expected.”

Her last words take me by surprise. “Why… Why is it to be expected?”

She places her cup back into the saucer with a clink. “Because the prophecy dictates it, my dear! The prophecy promises it!”

I shake my head, feeling dimmer than ever. “I’m most sorry, Madame. I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

She tilts her head, as if trying to gauge my ignorance as crafty deception or the more simple variety of stupi***y. At last she leans in, speaking in a low and urgent voice. “The Souls are helpless without Samael. They have been amassing an army for centuries, but the prophecy dictates that they can do nothing to bring about the Doom of Gods without the leadership of Samael, the Beast. And there is only one who can summon him. Only one who will carry the singular mark of that authority.” She pauses, meeting my eyes with both reverence and perhaps the smallest slice of fear. “Clearly that one is you. You, my dear, are the Angel. The Angel of Chaos.”

Through the haze of shock, the realization is a primordial chant, a drumbeat that begins as a flutter in my bones before spreading its wings through my body. I cannot speak around it, around the dawning apprehension. It has been difficult enough to accept my role as Gate. What can this new assignation mean for my place in the prophecy?

“But… I thought Lia was the Guardian? She is, is she not?” Sonia’s voice comes as if through a tunnel, and I remember that there has not been time to tell her of my discovery that I am the Gate.

Surprise shades Madame Berrier’s eyes. “Mais, non! There is no other with this mark, not one such as this! It names your friend as the Gate, and not just any Gate, but the Angel, the one Gate with the power *****mmon Samael. The one Gate with the choice to bring him forth or destroy him forever.”

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“But… Lia?” Sonia turns to me, pleading for a truth that I wish I did not have to give her. “Is this true?”

I inspect my hands in my lap as if they somehow hold the answer to Sonia’s question. But only I hold the answer she must hear, and I raise my eyes to hers, nodding.

“Yes.” It is a whisper. “I haven’t had the time to tell you. I just found out last night, and I didn’t know I was the Angel until this very moment.”

Madame Berrier is aghast, and when she turns her eyes to me I see that they are so black as to be nearly without color. “You did not realize your place? Your mother does not teach you the ways of the prophecy, of your place in it? Did she not once hold a role of her own?”

Sonia murmurs next to me as if thinking aloud, her voice soft and without emotion. “Her mother passed, Madame, when she was but a child. And her father, too, more recently.”

The older woman’s eyes widen, her gaze not without pity. “Ah, that would explain it, then, for it is left to the older and wiser sisters of the prophecy to ensure their daughters’ education in its ways. And your father passed recently as well?” Her voice is a low purr, the question asked more to herself than to me. “Well. There you are, then. You have lost your protection. You have lost the veil.”

The words in the book come back to me, twisting softly through my memory like smoke. Guarded only by the gossamer veil of protection.

“The veil?” My voice cracks with the words.

She finally loses her patience, throwing her hands into the air as if in surrender. “Do you face the prophecy with no knowledge at all? How are you to do battle if you do not know your enemy? If you do not know the weapons at your disposal?” She sighs deeply. “It is foretold that the Angel will be given a protector. An earthly protector, but a protector nonetheless. Otherwise, the Angel would be helpless, and Samael would find his way through her before she was old enough to harness her power. Before she was old enough to make a choice. And everyone has a choice, my dear, as was dictated at the beginning of time. It is through the protection of the veil that the Gate may grow old enough to make her choice. As long as that protector is alive, the Beast cannot come for you. When did your father pass, dear girl?”

“A-About two weeks ago.”

“And were the circumstances of his death… unusual?”

“Yes.” It is a whisper.

She dabs at the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “I am most sorry. The prophecy is a burden for the most educated and prepared in the Sisterhood. For one so adrift as you… for one with your role… well, it must be quite overwhelming. I shall fill in as much as possible. Let us begin with your father. With his death.”

My throat closes at the mention of my father. “What does that have to do with the prophecy?”

“Everything,” she says simply. “The Souls have been waiting for centuries to return to our world. You are their Angel, the one with the power to make it so or banish them forever. Make no mistake, they will stop at nothing to get to you.”

I want to laugh at the absur***y of the implication. But then I think of Father’s face in death. The open eyes. The unfamiliar grimace on a face that was too horrified to be his. I think of these things and am filled with an all-consuming sadness that grows to something more like anger and a disbelief that is not altogether disbelieving.

When I look up at Madame Berrier, my words are no longer a question, but a truth. “He was killed by the Souls. He was killed because of me.”

She shakes her head sadly. “You needn’t feel responsible for your father’s death, Miss Milthorpe. No protector acts as the veil unwillingly. To accept such a role, he must have loved you very much, dear. He, too, made choices.” Madame Berrier’s voice is as soothing as a mother’s. “It is a wonder they did not take him sooner. To resist them for so long… well, he must have been a very strong man and quite determined to protect you.”

I shake my head, trying to get my mind around the truth of my father’s death. “But he didn’t travel the Plane. He never spoke of it to me, and he would have, if he had known.”

Madame Berrier considers this for a moment, nodding curtly. “Perhaps. But the Souls are crafty, child, and Samael immeasurably more so. It is possible that the Souls enticed him just that once with something of great significance. Something he dearly loved.”

With those words, the Dark Room flashes in my mind.

And now I know. I know how they enticed him to travel.

“My mother.”

15

When she speaks, her voice holds no surprise, the questions not really questions at all.

“Would he not have succumbed to the call of seeing her face, to the possibility of hearing her voice? Especially if he were worried about his daughter, about her role in the prophecy of which few men have heard and even fewer believe?”

I see the door of the Dark Room the day of my father’s death, cold air leaking from the abandoned chambers in the thin light of morning.

The Dark Room. My mother’s room.

I remember my effortless travels, how easily I slipped into them, unaware that they were something more than simple dreams.

“He didn’t know.” I murmur. “He didn’t know he was traveling. He didn’t know that he would be vulnerable to the spirits in the Otherworlds.”

She nods. “It is easy enough to answer the call of the spirits under guise of a pleasant dream, and the Souls had every reason to detain your Father’s soul, to set him adrift in the Otherworlds.”

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The tide of anguish that rises on my next thought threatens to push me under. “Are you… are you saying his soul is in the Void?”

She lifts her chin, studying the ceiling as if the words she needs can be found on the plaster overhead. “Miss Sorrensen mentioned receiving a message from your father at one of her sittings.”

The memory of that first mystifying altercation with Sonia makes me shift uncomfortably in the settee. “Yes. That is, I think so,” I tell her. “I didn’t hear it, actually. It was passed to me by Sonia.”

Madame Berrier smiles her encouragement. “Miss Sorrensen has a formidable gift. If she says the message was from him, it likely was. And if it was, it means that he somehow managed to escape the Void.” She shrugs. “It is possible. There are those in the Otherworlds with power enough to aid one in escaping the Void, though they would put themselves in danger to do so. Your mother perhaps?”

Something Aunt Virginia said drifts like smoke into my mind. “My aunt said my mother was a… a Spellcaster?”

Madame Berrier nods. “Ah. Then she may well have intervened on his behalf. There are very few true Spellcasters. A Spellcaster would almost certainly be powerful enough to stage an intervention. His soul would still be stranded in the Otherworlds, but he would be free to wander there or cross if he chose.”

As painful as it is to imagine my father’s soul adrift in the Otherworlds, I am grateful for any intervention that allowed him to escape the Void, especially if it reunited him with my mother.

It is Sonia, looking at Madame Berrier with a small measure of hope, who asks the question I should have been asking all along. “You said there is a choice, Madame, that Lia has a choice.”

“But of course. Miss Milthorpe has choices to make just as the rest of us do, though they are undoubtedly quite a bit more complicated and dangerous. She may choose to open the Gate to the Beast or she may choose to close it forever, as is her right as the Angel.” She leans closer, her smile hidden behind a trace of irony. “I, for one, sincerely hope she chooses the latter.”

I shake my head. It is difficult to imagine that anyone would choose to allow entry to the Beast. “Well, there is no question at all! I choose to close it, of course! But I know nothing of the prophecy save what we have read.”

Sonia clears her throat. “It is for this reason we have come, Madame. We have heard there is a way to end the prophecy. A way to close the Gate forever. There is a reference to keys, you see. We think they may be the way to an end, but we aren’t sure where to find them or even where to begin looking.”

Madame Berrier considers Sonia’s words. “Well, there is rumor of a way for the Angel to close the Gate forever, but I’ve never been privy to the prophecy itself. Very few have ever laid eyes on the ancient text, and those that have are most assuredly connected to it in some way.”

Sonia raises her eyebrows. “Well, we have, Madame. And in it is the mention of keys, together with something else, something that rings familiar but which I cannot place. Something called Samhain.”

Madame Berrier purses her lips. I can see the wheels turning in her mind, and when she speaks it is not with an answer but a question. “In what context is Samhain mentioned in relation to the keys?”

Sonia licks her lips, trying to remember. “Something about the first breath… the —”

“ ‘Formed in the first breath of Samhain.’ ” I meet Madame Berrier’s gaze. “That is what it says. ‘Four marks, Four keys, Circle of Fire, Formed in the first breath of Samhain.’ ”

She taps her fingers on the table, considering her words. “Let us take a stroll, hmm? I believe I know where to find some of the answer you seek.”

The streets are crowded, bustling with people. Horses clop past, the carriages they pull rattling on the dusty road. Edmund, ever vigilant, follows us without a word.

We walk for some time, and I wonder at Madame Berrier’s strange authority that we follow her so willingly, without a single question about our destination. She is so sure-footed, so purposeful in her stride that it seems almost insulting to inquire, and so we follow along, trotting to keep up with her swift pace.

It is only after we have passed the tailor, the milliner, the sweet shop, and a number of taverns that Madame Berrier turns a corner, leading us down a quieter back lane. Narrow houses stand on either side of the street like somber watchmen. They are not as grand as the homes on Main Street but simple and well-kept, much like Madame Berrier herself. We approach a house that looks like all the others, but I see from a plaque on its front that it is the town library.

“The word you mentioned rings familiar, my dear,” Madame Berrier says, looking over at Sonia. “But with so many translations and pronunciations, it is best to be sure, especially with something so important, is it not?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, but continues her steady march up the front steps, opening the door with a flourish.

Stepping into the ****rnous main hall, I find the library is more than quiet, it is deserted. Indeed, I don’t see a single person as we make our way across the scuffed marble floor. Its emptiness is more than the lack of living, breathing beings. It is the unread pages of the many books that reside on the shelves throughout the room. I should not have thought one could tell when books have gone unread, but after the company of Birchwood’s well-loved library it is as if I can hear these books whispering, their pages grasping and reaching for an audience.

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Madame Berrier stops at a large desk in the center of the main room, casting a meaningful glance at Edmund before turning to me, eyebrows raised in question.

I breathe deeply. “Edmund, would you mind looking around or waiting here, or… something?”

I feel badly asking him to occupy himself yet again, but it is clear from Madame Berrier’s demeanor that she means our visit to the library to be a private one. Edmund does not seem to mind. He nods, wandering to one of the many tall shelves and disappearing around its corner.

We scan the library for any sign of life. There are smaller rooms visible on both sides of the main hall and a narrow staircase that winds to the floor above.

“Perhaps we should —” I am interrupted by the heavy click of shoes approaching from one of the rooms at the back.

The woman who approaches carries a smile of welcome. But only for a moment. The minute her eyes light on Madame Berrier, her round face tightens, her mouth setting into a grim line.

Madame Berrier’s smile is dazzling. “Bonjour, Mrs. Harding! And how are you this fine afternoon?”

Surely Madame Berrier can see the distaste with which the town librarian views her, but there is nothing in her manner to acknowledge such a truth. Instead, she greets the other woman as if they are long-lost friends.

The woman called Mrs. Harding nods her head in a minute gesture of acknowledgment. “How may I help you?” She asks as if she has never seen Madame Berrier before this day, though it is clear they have had some dealings in the past.

“Now, Mrs. Harding,” Madame Berrier teases, leaning her head to one side, a playful smile touching her painted lips as she holds out an open palm, “I’m quite certain you know why I have come.”

Mrs. Harding’s face sets even further. She reaches into her pocket, withdrawing something from it and dropping it into Madame Berrier’s hand. The Madame’s fingers close quickly around it, but not before I see a glint of silver and realize it is a key.

“Merci, Mrs. Harding. I shall return it when I am finished, as always!” Madame Berrier calls over her shoulder, already making her way to the back of the library.

Sonia and I are spurred from our reverie by a scowl from the librarian directed, this time, at us. We rush forward to catch up to Madame Berrier, already halfway down the hall leading toward the back of the building. When we finally reach her, she has opened the back door of the library and is standing outside on a small porch.

Sonia shakes her head in confusion. “Where are we going?”

Madame Berrier waves to the well-groomed garden behind the library. “The answer you seek, my dear, lies not in the carefully catalogued books within the library but in those cast aside, hidden in shame behind it.”

There is no time for further questions. Madame Berrier steps off the porch, and we scramble to follow as she leads us through the manicured garden, beautiful even with the approaching winter. I think we have come to the end of the property when we step around a potting shed that, for all its diminutive size, is still better kept than the decrepit building to which Madame Berrier crosses.

She takes the key given her by Mrs. Harding and inserts it into the lock hanging from the door. It catches with a click, and Madame Berrier pulls open the doors with a great heave and creak. We follow her in, our eyes drawn upward.

“Oh! It is… it is unbelievable!” I cannot keep the amazement from my voice, but there is sadness, too. Father would have wept to see the books piled high in every direction with so little thought to their care. “What is this place?”

The ceiling soars three stories above us. Even from the ground, I see small holes in the roof. It is clear from the damp smell permeating the building that no one minds the rain leaking onto the books within these walls.

Madame Berrier’s neck is stretched, taut and white as a swan, as she surveys the room with equal awe, as if, even knowing what it holds, she cannot help but be impressed. “It is an old carriage house. It was used when the library was still a home.”

“Yes, but… all these books! Why aren’t they catalogued and kept with the others?” It is a question my father would have asked, though with a good deal more anger, I’m sure.

She smiles sadly at us. “These are the books the town does not want sitting in full view beside the more… tra***ional offerings. They cannot destroy them altogether, you see. That would not be good for appearances. But they can, and as you see, do, keep them separate from the others.”

Sonia’s eyes shine in the dim light of the carriage house. “But why?”

Madame Berrier sighs. “Because these are the books about things people do not understand, things you and I know are as real as the world in which we stand this very minute. Books on the spirit world, on witchcraft and the history of it, sorcery… anything that does not fit into a neat and tidy box, I should say.” She walks farther into the room, startling a bird that rises toward the ceiling, disappearing in a flutter of wings somewhere above us.

The sudden movement shakes loose my awe. “I don’t understand what this place has to do with the keys, Madame, though I must confess to being quite astonished at the sight. My father would have had a conniption!”

She meets my eyes, smiling. “Then I’m quite sure I would have been very fond of your father, dear girl.” She gestures for us to follow. “As to your question, I think there may be a reference to Samhain in an old Druid text I have seen lying about. As far as I know, I am the only one who comes here. I’m quite sure it will be just where I remember it.”

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Sonia and I follow her farther into the building, past stacks of books streaked with bird droppings and mildew. We step carefully over anything we cannot identify and almost bump into Madame Berrier when she stops at one of the warped and leaning bookcases.

“Let me see… I think it was near here. This may be it.…

No. Not that one. Perhaps it was over here.” She mutters to herself as if we are not present, crossing to different shelves several times as we look helplessly on. “Ah! Here it is. Let me have a look.”

Balancing the book in one hand, she turns the pages with the other. It is an incongruous site — the elegant Madame looking entirely at home surrounded by such filth and disrepair. I flash Sonia a nervous smile, afraid to interrupt whatever thought process seems to go along with the Madame’s muttering.

“Ah! Yes, yes! I knew it! Here it is! Come closer, girls, and we shall see if this might be of help.” We shuffle closer, stopping as she begins to read. “Since twenty-three hundred B.C. the Beltain Fires have signified the beginning of Light, that joyful season when the days shall be full of plenty and the nights full of passion and new life. The Season of Light, or Beltain, begins on May first and lasts for six months until Samhain, the Season of Darkness. Following the harvest and Celebration of Light comes a time of Darkness, that sorrowful season when night reigns and darkness rules the land, and when the veil between the physical world and the Otherworld is thinnest and most transparent. Samhain and the time of Darkness begin each November first.” Her words echo through the carriage house. They inspire a kind of reverence, and we stand silently for a moment, side by side, before Madame Berrier lifts her eyes from the book and speaks. “Does it mean anything to you? Could it be a clue to the keys you seek?”

I shake my head. “I don’t think so. It means nothing to me. Nothing at all. I —”

“It’s my birthday.” Sonia’s voice is a whisper. “At least, that is what Mrs. Millburn tells me.”

Her words do nothing to clarify my thinking. “What do you mean? Your birthday is November first?”

She nods. “November first, eighteen seventy-four.”

Madame Berrier looks as puzzled as I feel. “Might it be a coincidence?”

Chewing my lip, I wonder if she is right. I drop onto a bedraggled stool, ignoring the plume of dust that rises from its seat as I try to push down a tide of anguish. All of this and we have found next to nothing.

“Do not despair, Lia. We shall figure this out, you’ll see.” Sonia’s voice is calm and reassuring, and I wonder how she can always be optimistic when I should like to throw something at the walls and scream.

I look up at her. “But we still don’t know where to find the keys. The date… Well, that November first is your birthday is interesting, but it doesn’t tell us a single thing about the keys. I had hoped…”

“What, dear girl?” Madame Berrier is still holding the book, looking down at me with sympathy.

“I don’t know. I suppose I had hoped Samhain was a landmark of some kind, a city or town or something. I hoped it would lead us clearly to the keys.”

I am ashamed to feel tears burn the backs of my eyelids.

They are not tears of sadness, but of frustration, and I blink rapidly, inhaling the dusty air and trying to compose myself.

“All right,” Sonia says, “we shall simply file this bit away for now, that’s all. The reference to Samhain clearly refers to a date. Perhaps that will be important later. There’s still the next bit, is there not?”

I nod, pulling James’s notes from my bag and peering at them in the dim light of the old building. “Yes. All right, then. Let me see… here it is: ‘Birthed in the first breath of Samhain, In the shadow of the Mystic Stone Serpent of Aubur.’ ” I look up at Madame Berrier.

She holds out a hand. “May I?”

I hesitate. My shock at realizing first I was the Gate and now the Angel has made me feel that no one is what they seem. Certainly not Alice or I. And not Father, either, working all those years to protect me while I remained ignorant. Even still, Madame Berrier has tried to help us, and it is obvious we must widen our circle if we are to have a chance of finding the keys.

I hand over the notes. “Perhaps it will make sense to you.”

She lowers her head, the proximity with which she holds the paper to her face making me wonder if she is nearsighted. She reads for a moment, eyebrows knitted together in concentration, before handing the notes back to me across the darkness.

“I am most sorry, but… I’m not sure. That is, it sounds rather familiar, but only in the sound of the word itself, not with any sort of recognition.”

Sonia shakes her head. “What do you mean?”

Madame Berrier sighs. “ ‘Aubur’ sounds English, or… perhaps Celtic. But I don’t recognize it as the name of a town or place.” She brings her other hand to her mouth, tapping there as if this will bring to mind the answers we seek. “Let me ponder it a bit.” She moves past us toward the door. “And let us leave this place. We have been thinking too long and hard on the prophecy. I should like to get back into the sunlight, away from the shadows of the past and the things yet to come.”

We stop in front of Madame Berrier’s building before leaving. A biting wind lifts her hat, and she places a hand on top of it to keep it in place, glancing at Edmund a few feet away before speaking.

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“There is one thing I feel I should say.…”

I swallow the apprehension that rises in my throat. “What is it?”

“If what I have heard is true, the simplest thing you can do to protect yourself from the Souls is to guard against wearing the amulet.” Her words are said with such nonchalance that they take me off guard.

“The amulet?”

Madame Berrier gestures with one hand, as if it is obvious to what she is referring. “The amulet. The bracelet. The medallion. The one with the mark.”

My gaze slides to Sonia. I have not made a point of telling her about the medallion because I knew not its place in the prophecy.

“The medallion?” I try not to betray any emotion. “What of it?”

“What of it indeed!” Madame Berrier is aghast. “My dear, it is said that every Gate comes into possession of a medallion, a medallion that matches perfectly the mark on her wrist. The Souls can make their way back only when the mark on the medallion is aligned with the mark on the Gate. But for you… well, for you the medallion is even more dangerous. You are the conduit for Samael himself. The small protection you have is to shun the medallion, avoid wearing it, though even this may not be enough.”

Her words are not the surprise they should be. I knew instinctively that the medallion was in some way connected to the pathway back for Samael. Still, this new proof brings forth a question that has teased the darkest parts of my mind. One I have not dared speak aloud until now.

“There is something I don’t understand, Madame. Even if I were to wear the medallion, how might Samael pass into our world? He is but a spirit thing, is he not? An empty soul. How would he move in our world without a body?”

“That, my dear girl, is rather simple.” Madame Berrier presses her lips into a grim line before continuing. “He will use yours.”

16

I cannot keep the disbelief from my voice… “What you say is mad! What havoc might a thing wreak in the body of a young girl?”

Madame Berrier eyes me solemnly.

“Once here the Beast and his Army may change into any form they desire. It might be a man, a demon, an animal, even a simple shadow. But you… well, once your body has been occupied by the spirit of the Beast, the astral chord will be severed. And your body lost to you forever.”

“I’m sorry, Sonia. I didn’t… I truly didn’t know until just last evening.”

Sonia does not answer as Edmund navigates the street toward her residence. Her silence plants seeds of fear in my belly. Fear that she will no longer be my ally, my friend, for who would align themselves with someone like me?

“If you and Luisa wish to work together, I shall understand.”

She turns to me. “Do you feel yourself the Gate? Do you feel anything… untoward?”

My face feels warm, and I am glad she cannot see me clearly in the darkening carriage lest she should take my blushing cheeks as a sign of guilt. “In truth, I feel like myself most of the time, though a good deal more confused and uncertain.”

But Sonia is trained to listen for the nuances of a thing, and my words are not lost to her ears. “Most of the time?” she prods gently.

“There are times… not many, but some, when I feel the pull of… something. Oh, it’s so difficult to explain! It isn’t that I find myself on the verge of committing some terrible act, it is only… well, it is only that I sometimes feel a connection to the medallion. I sometimes feel the call of it. Of wanting to wear it. Of wanting to fall into sleep and the travel I know it will bring. And then…”

“And then?”

“Then I come to my senses, quickly, and remember that it is my call to fight it.”

“And you remember this even now? Now that you know it is not your call? That you are not the Guardian but the Gate?”

“Now more than ever.” I find comfort in the certainty of my belief.

She nods before turning her face to the window for the rest of the ride.

When we come to the house of Mrs. Millburn, I step out of the carriage and stand next to Sonia on the walk while Edmund anxiously looks on, tapping his foot in a not-so-subtle reference to the passing time. The people streaming past us seem strangely ominous, perhaps even dangerous, and I hear Madame Berrier’s words in my mind; the Beast and his Army may change into any form they desire… a simple man, a demon, an animal, perhaps even a simple shadow. There are likely thousands of Souls already in our world from previous Gates. And they could be anywhere. Everywhere. All waiting for one moment of weakness from me.

Sonia takes my hands in hers. “There is a reason you were chosen to be the Angel, Lia. If the power of the prophecy deems you fit to make such a decision, why shouldn’t I feel the same?” Her smile is small but true. “We shall stick together. It is our best hope of finding the answers we need. Luisa shall have to speak for herself, but I am with you.”

“Thank you, Sonia. I will not disappoint you. I promise.” I reach over and embrace her, overcome with gratitude at the show of her friendship.

She shivers, wrapping her arms around her shoulders as the cold of evening approaches ever faster.

I think about the children, the ones that Father brought from England and Italy and the others not yet found. “Oh, there are so very many things to discuss! And no time! No time at all, with Luisa at Wycliffe and you here with Mrs.

Millburn and me at Birchwood and the coming…” My thought hangs, unfinished, as an idea begins to take shape.

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“The coming what? Goodness, Lia! I shall freeze if we do not say goodbye soon!”

I nod, coming to a decision. “The three of us must have more time together. That is what it comes to, isn’t it? Leave it to me. I shall take care of everything.”

Sonia and I have said our goodbyes, and I am halfway back to the carriage when I feel a hand on my arm. “Oh, pardon me, but do please —” The rest of the words escape me when I turn to shake myself loose and find myself looking straight into James’s face.

“Lia,” he says, his eyes colored with something I have never seen before. Something too close to anger to be called anything else.

“James! What are you… ?” I look around the street, stalling for an explanation for my presence in town. “What are you doing here?”

“I happen to live in town. In fact, it’s quite unusual for a day to pass when I do not have to stroll the streets for one reason or another.” His eyes flash. “You, on the other hand, live some distance.”

His words set a quiet fury boiling in my veins, and I feel anew the pressure of his fingers, still on my wrist. Pulling my arm away takes effort, but I do it. I pull it away and step back, feeling the anger burn hot on my cheeks.

“Shall I stay home like a proper girl, then? Is that what you’d like? Shall I take up the needle and worry over taking too much sun? Oh, you are just… just… Ugh!”

Anger matching my own flashes in his eyes. But it is only a moment before he shakes his head and lowers his eyes to the walk under our feet. “Of course not, Lia. Of course not.”

He is quiet for a moment, and my eyes drift to Edmund. Were my public altercation with anyone other than James, Edmund would have seen me to the carriage long ago. But now when our eyes meet, he drops his to the ground in embarrassment. James’s voice, softer now, pulls my thoughts away from Edmund.

“Can’t you understand my concern? You remain… distant after your father’s death. I know it is a blow, but I cannot help but feel something else lies between us. And now… well, now you are wandering around town, unchaperoned, with people I don’t know, and —”

My mouth falls open in shock. “You’ve been following me? You’ve followed me through the streets of town?”

He shakes his head. “It isn’t like that. I was in the library myself when I saw you leaving. I’ve never seen the woman and girl whom you were with. You’ve mentioned no such new acquaintances to me. I didn’t think, all right? I simply started to follow you, carried along by own curiosity and… well, I suppose my own worry over your strange behavior of late. Can you not understand why I might feel compelled to do so?”

I am stung by his words. I hear the pain in them and cannot refute the things he says. I have held him at bay, kept him outside the prophecy even as I have been pulled deeper and deeper into its depths. Would I not feel the same worry? Would I not want to find out everything possible to explain such behavior on the part of my beloved?

I take a deep breath, and all the anger leaves me. I wish it would not, for I prefer the blood-pounding fury to this new emotion. This hopelessness that only seems to grow in its insistency that I will never find a way to reconcile my place in the prophecy, my duty to it, with my love for James.

I take his hand and look into his eyes. “You’re right, of course. I’m sorry, James.”

He shakes his head in frustration. It is not my apology he seeks. “Why won’t you talk to me? Don’t you still care for me?”

“Of course, James. That will never change. This…” I wave a hand at the street. “This outing has nothing whatsoever to do with you or with my love for you.” I try a smile. It feels strange on my face, as if I am wearing it and it does not quite fit, but it is the best I can do. I make a quick decision to stick as closely to the truth as possible. “I simply snuck out with a friend of mine from Wycliffe, that is all. She is acquainted with a woman well versed in matters of witchcraft, and —”

“Witchcraft?” He raises his eyebrows.

“Oh, it’s nothing!” I dismiss his curiosity with a shake of my head. “Won’t you believe me? I was simply curious and Sonia’s friend offered to show us some books on the matter, that is all.” I look back at Edmund, who flips open his pocket watch while looking pointedly at me. “And now I must go or Aunt Virginia shall discover I’ve been gone and then a short trip to town that was meant to be a bit of fun shall turn into a heap of trouble.”

He stares into my eyes, and I know he is trying to see whether or not there is truth to my story. I hold his gaze until he nods slowly as if in acceptance. But as we say our goodbyes and I make my way to the carriage, I know it is not understanding but defeat that I saw in the blue of his eyes.

I sit in the parlor, reading next to Henry, when Margaret’s voice comes to me from the doorway. “Something has arrived for you, Miss.”

I rise to meet her. “For me?”

She nods, holding out a creamy envelope. “It came by messenger just a moment ago.”

I take it from her, waiting until the sound of her footsteps fade down the hall. “What is it, Lia?” Henry looks up at me from his book.

Shaking my head, I return to my chair by the fire and open the envelope. “I don’t know.”

I withdraw the stiff paper from inside, noting the handwriting, practiced and elegant, that slants across its pristine surface.