Prophecy of the Sisters (21 page)

And remote it must be, for we travel so long our excitement dwindles to nothing but tired sighs and long glances out the carriage
windows. I am grateful for the silence. My mind is full of hope that Mr. Wigan might help us find the keys.

Edmund turns off the main road, entering a wooded pathway that causes the carriage to grow dark with the shelter of trees
above and around us. We sigh aloud when, all at once, everything lightens, and Edmund stops the horses.

“Thank goodness!” Luisa says, holding a hand to her forehead. “I thought I was going to be sick!”

She flings open the door, stumbling from the carriage without waiting for Edmund. I fervently hope that she will not, in fact,
be sick. I don’t know how happy Mr. Wigan will be to see three girls appear on his doorstep, but I imagine it will be immeasurably
less so if one of them is losing her breakfast in his shrubbery.

But Luisa composes herself, wiping her brow with a handkerchief, and we step toward the door of the ramshackle cottage situated
in the center of the small clearing. There is a small garden off to the side and a goat surveying us lazily from the yard.
A few chickens peck their way through some stray seed, but other than these few animals, Lerwick Farm is a rather big name
for such an unassuming place.

Edmund stands behind us as I knock on the door, peeling white paint drifting to the ground under the small pressure of my
fist. No one comes, and we stand in the silence of the clucking chickens, wondering what to do next. Luisa is raising her
hand with authority when we hear a voice behind us.

“Well, hello, there! You must be the young ladies Sylvia told me about!”

We turn as one to face a small man in tweed trousers and a half-unbuttoned shirt, his bald head gleaming in the sun. I cannot
place the brogue in his voice, but I think it must be the remnant of a Scots or Irish accent long since dulled by blunt American
speech.

“What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue, eh?” He comes toward us. “Alastair Wigan, at your service. Sylvia said ye’d be coming.”
He seems happy to see us, as if we are long-lost friends, and it takes me a moment to realize that I don’t have the faintest
idea to whom he is referring.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Wigan. I’m Lia Milthorpe, and these are my friends Sonia Sorrensen and Luisa Torelli, and our driver
Edmund.” There is hand-shaking all around and a muttering of greetings. “But I’m afraid we don’t know a Sylvia.…”

His face lifts in a smile, his eyes growing devilish. “Why, sure you do! Sylvia Berrier, that luscious lovely from town.”

His language makes Sonia blush. I fight a smile as Luisa coughs, a runaway giggle escaping her throat.

“Well, now I’m even sorrier that I didn’t get to meet the Madame myself,” Luisa says with a grin. “She sounds quite fascinating!”

“Fascinating, indeed!” Mr. Wigan nods knowingly, his eyes taking on a far-off expression. He claps suddenly, as if remembering
us. “Well! I can’t have you standing on the stoop like strangers! Not when you’re friends of Sylvia Berrier!”

He moves slowly toward the porch. “Come along, then. I’ll make us some tea. I’ve been experimenting with a new brew from the
garden, you see, and it isn’t often I have the chance to try it out on anyone other then Algernon.”

I look around. “Algernon?”

Mr. Wigan waves toward the yard. “Yes, yes.” He holds open the door as we pass through it, one by one.

I take one last look at the yard on my way into the house. There is no one there, only chickens and a goat. Oh my.

“Is… is Algernon the goat, then?” I ask.

“Why, yes, of course!” Mr. Wigan is heading toward another room, his voice growing fainter as he traverses the small house.

Luisa meets my gaze, humor lighting her eyes. It is clear she finds the situation entrancing. My eyes adjust to the dim light
of the tiny house. I am quite awestruck by the oddities lying on every surface.

Bits of stone and feather dot the bookshelves, dusty and stuffed to the brim. Relics carved in wood sit beside eerie dolls
while any number of strange skeletons stare at us, some with firelight flickering from behind sightless eyes. I think I recognize
the tiny, walnut-sized head of a squirrel and perhaps even a cracked human skull resting as a bookend on the mantel. I shiver
though the room is quite warm.

Edmund leans against the wall near the door. He takes in the room methodically, as if storing it away for future reference.
The stubborn set of his jaw tells me that he has no intention of leaving us alone in the strange house, and in truth, his
presence is a reassurance I need. It is undoubtedly selfish, but I am most glad he is here.

“Here we are, then!” Mr. Wigan returns bearing a tin tray. He looks around the cluttered room for a spot on which to set it.
“Oh dear.”

Sonia jumps to attention. “Shall I clear the books from this table here?” She gestures to a towering stack of volumes under
which I suppose is a table, though I cannot see a bit of it from where I stand.

“Oh yes. Yes, indeed!” Mr. Wigan says.

I move to help Sonia and together we set the books on the floor amid a cloud of dust that makes us both cough. I try to ignore
the dirty table when we are finished, for Mr. Wigan seems not to notice and places the tea tray there without any thought
to cleaning it.

“There, now! Sylvia tells me ye have a bit of a mystery on yer hands.” He pours tea into mismatched cups, handing them to
each of us in turn, including Edmund, who steps forward with surprise, nodding gratefully. “She told me all about the prophecy,
though I’d heard it myself, you know, from my wicked heathen mother.” His eyes twinkle merrily, making it clear he thinks
no such thing of his mother. “Quite wondrous to hear talk of it here of all places.”

“What do you… ? Oh!” The tea on my tongue is a surprise. It tastes of orange and, I think, perhaps licorice. “This is quite
good!”

Mr. Wigan leans forward, pleasure further creasing his already wrinkled face. “Do you think so? Not too strong, is it?”

I shake my head. “Not at all! It’s wonderful!” I take another sip before setting the cup down. “Why are you surprised to hear
talk of the prophecy
here
of… of all places?”

“Why, because it’s a Celtic myth, really. Oh, sure it is the Watchers are in the Bible, but the myth of the sisters came from
the Celts, from Brittany, I believe.”

I nod. “I see. Well, I’m not sure I understand why Madame Berrier, er, Sylvia, thought you might be of help —”

“I know well enough. I’m a bit of an expert you see, on things of the past. Not regular things. Not the things other people
know. Sure enough, not anything most people think
worthy
of knowing. But nevertheless,” he sighs. “I do know quite a bit about Celtic myth, biblical myth, the Druids.…” He waves
a sun-spotted hand in the air. “ ’Tis all the same, whatever you might call it.”

“I see. Well, then perhaps you
will
be able to help, Mr. Wigan.” I pull the translated notes from my bag, handing them to him. “There is one piece of the prophecy
we still cannot solve. Madame Berrier told us about Samhain, but she couldn’t place the reference to the stone serpent. She
thought the word
Aubur
sounded like something within your, er, area of expertise.”

He nods, pursing his lips. “Mighty interesting, this is. Mighty interesting, indeed.” He lowers the paper to his lap, taking
a drink of tea and looking for all the world like he does not intend to speak again.

I clear my throat, “Yes, well —”

“What we need to know, Mr. Wigan,” Luisa breaks, “is whether or not you can place the reference.”

He looks surprised, as if it were never in question. Rising, he moves to one of the staggering bookcases, eyeing the volumes
shelved there as if he knows each and every one, despite their rather haphazard organization. It takes him less than ten seconds
to pull a fabric-bound book from the shelf. He turns back to us, reclaiming his seat by the fire and sipping his tea as he
turns pages in the book.

Luisa leans so far forward that I fear she will fall off her seat altogether. Her mouth is set in a tight line, and I can
only imagine the determination she must be exercising to keep from grabbing the book from Mr. Wigan and searching through
it herself. But Mr. Wigan doesn’t mutter or speak. He simply turns the pages slowly and carefully before stopping, finally,
near the end.

He hands the book to me as he explains. “’Tisn’t known as Aubur anymore, you see. That’s probably why Sylvia had some trouble.
Aubur is its old name. Now we call it
Avebury.
”

I lower my eyes to the book. In it is an artist’s drawing of small landmarks forming a circle with a line running through
it. It doesn’t mean a thing to me.

“I don’t understand. What is it?” I pass the book to Luisa for fear she shall have a fit if she is not given something to
do besides wait and listen to Mr. Wigan.

“Why, ’tis a stone circle! A lesser known one, but a stone circle nonetheless.”

His description jars something loose in my memory. “A stone circle? You mean like the large one in England? Stonehenge?”

He nods knowingly. “Ah yes. Stonehenge. ’Tis the one everyone seems to know, but there are many others, scattered throughout
the British Isles mostly.”

Sonia has the book in her lap. She looks up at Mr. Wigan. “And this… Avebury is one of them? One of the stone circles?”

“Aye. ’Tis.” He does not seem to have any more to say on the subject.

Luisa looks anxiously toward me before continuing. “What of the stone serpent? Why does the prophecy call Avebury such a strange
thing?”

“Well, that is the odd thing. Not many people know of the connection between Avebury and the serpent, but if one were to trace
the lines of it, one would find that it is laid in the shape of a snake, ye see. A snake that passes through a circle.”

The look of alarm on Sonia’s and Luisa’s faces must be a mirror to my own, for the snake passing through a circle is very
close to the snake winding
around
the circle on the medallion and on the marks we all bear.

“But what does a stone circle all the way in England have to do with us? With the prophecy?” Luisa asks.

I pick up the prophecy translation from the table, reading aloud.
“‘Birthed in the first breath of Samhain near the Mystic Stone Serpent of Aubur.’”
I shake my head, looking at Mr. Wigan. “The keys. Something about the keys being shaped near Avebury… What of the towns nearby?
Perhaps there is a town near Avebury, a town where the keys might be hidden or were made? A town known for smith work perhaps?”

Mr. Wigan scratches his head, his forehead wrinkled in thought. “Well, most of the stone circles are in out-of-the-way places,
it seems.… But I might have something that will be of help.”

He rises from the chair, crossing to a large desk pushed against one wall and covered with all manner of papers and books.
Opening the deep lower drawer, he digs around before emerging with a roll of paper. He waves it in the air.

“Here. Come and take a look.”

He does not bother clearing the desk, but lays the roll of paper on top of the mess, unrolling it bit by bit until it becomes
clear that it is a map. Luisa places a rock, two books, and glass jar on the corners to keep the map from snapping back as
we read.

Mr. Wigan puts his glasses on, and we lean over the map, Edmund included. I meet his eyes, seeing something there that makes
me trust his knowledge of our secret. He was my Father’s oldest employee. His oldest friend. If I cannot trust him, whom shall
I trust?

“All right, then. Avebury. Here.” Mr. Wigan points a gnarled finger at a place near the center of the map.

I can only faintly make out the letters
A-U-B
in the shadowed room.

“Yes, but I don’t suppose the keys will be there, exactly,” Luisa breaks in, studying the map as she chews her thumbnail.
“The prophecy says
near
the stone serpent, does it not?”

“Aye.” Mr. Wigan nods. “I see what you’re gettin’ at. Let’s see, then.…” He slides his fingers outward from the center of
the map. “We have the village of Newbury. Here.” He taps the map not far from the place where he marked Avebury. I cannot
see any words identifying it as Newbury, but he seems to know his way around the map, so I listen as he continues. “And then
we have the village of Swindon, here.” His tap sends another small thump into the room. “From there we have the village of
Bath, very well known. Very well known, indeed. Perhaps —”

But Sonia breaks in before he can continue. “Bath? Bath, England? But…”

Luisa looks up, her eyes shining in the light of the fire. “What?”

Sonia meets Luisa’s eyes before turning to mine. “First the date, and now…”

“And now what?” My stomach has curled into a knot. I don’t know what she will say, but I feel the turn of destiny’s wheel.

“And now Bath,” she says. “It’s where I was born. That is what Mrs. Millburn told me when I asked — that I was born in Bath.”

Something clicks into place with her words. I look at Luisa. “You were not born in Italy, were you, Luisa?”

Her words are a fearful whisper into the room. “No.”

“But you said you were born in Italy.” Beads of panic seem to spill from Sonia’s voice, shattering like glass.

Luisa shakes her head. “No. I didn’t. I said I was
from
Italy. And I am. But my mother was English. I was born in England and taken to Italy when I was a babe.”

I look at Mr. Wigan. “What are the other towns, Mr. Wigan? The other towns near the stone serpent of Avebury?”

Even he looks flustered as he lowers his eyes back to the map, sliding his finger to and fro over the paper until he finds
his place. “Let’s see… we had Newbury, Swindon, Bath.” He looks up briefly at Sonia before giving the map his attention once
again. “Following that line in a circle, more or less, we have Stroud, Trowbridge, Salisbury, and… Andover. Any of these ring
a bell, my dear?” He looks at Luisa expectantly.

At first I think I am wrong. I think I
must
have it wrong, for Luisa stands stock still as if nothing Mr. Wigan has said has made any sort of impression on her. He sighs
heavily, gazing back at the map as if preparing to look for other towns, other villages, when Luisa finally breaks the silence.