Prophecy of the Sisters (2 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On the day I have buried my father.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Dark Room.

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

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

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

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

The door to the Dark Room.

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

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

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

Someone is inside.

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

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

Alice.

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

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

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

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

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

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