Prophecy of the Sisters (15 page)

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.

“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 to such 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.”

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.

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 tradition 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 stupidity. 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.