Prophecy of the Sisters (33 page)

Despite my exhaustion, it is impossible to sleep the night of Henry’s funeral. But it is not my grief that keeps me awake.
It is something else, something on the very tip of conscious thought. I know it is important, though I know not how or why.

It is the story from childhood I hear in my mind. The story Father used as proof of his identity when speaking to Sonia before
the Beast began speaking instead. I remember it. I remember Henry, trying to be brave but unable to hide the tears that leaked
from his eyes as his small boat pitched jauntily down the river. I remember Alice, not wanting me to build the ill-fated raft,
not even wanting to help me
try.
And I remember myself, sweaty with perspiration and cumbersome in my pinafore, sloppily nailing together the mismatched boards
because we surely could not just stand there, could not just watch Henry cry as his most cherished toy bobbed farther out
of reach.

It is the memory of Henry that takes me to his chamber. His eyes, his face, his brilliant smile. Perhaps I need only to be
near him one last time before I leave.

His room is quiet, his things just as he left them. I close the door behind me, wanting to take as mine alone this final moment
near my brother. I sit on the edge of his bed and pick up his pillow. It still smells of him. Of books, the house that was
his refuge and prison, and the faintly sweet scent of sticky little boy fingers. My chest tightens with such force that I
fear I shall not be able to breathe.

I put the pillow back on his bed, turning it over and smoothing the surface as I did when he was small and I would tuck him
in or read him a story before bed. I make my way over to the bookshelf, for Henry was so like Father and me in his love of
a good story. The books go on and on, every beloved tome I read as a child and more. My eye is drawn to the spine of
Treasure Island
as I remember his bright-eyed enthusiasm for the tale we sometimes read together. I pull it from the shelf, enjoying the
weight of it in my hand, the feel of old leather.

The book is as I remember, complete with engravings depicting various scenes from the story. In one of them men work on the
beach, digging for buried treasure, and it is this that sparks my memory.

Father told me to hide it. He told me to keep it safe. For you, Lia.

My mind wants to deny the possibility, but my heart has already skipped ahead, wondering if the aimless drift of thought is
perhaps not so aimless after all.

I scan the bookshelf, knowing it has been here since Henry lost his boat down the river. At first I do not see it. It has
been pushed to the back of the shelf between a bookend and the interior of the shelf. But when my eyes light on that particularly
vibrant shade of red, still so vivid after all these years, I know I have found it.

Standing on tiptoe to reach the glass case, I remember the hours Father worked with Henry to build the replica. Father, with
no real interest in using his hands beyond holding his beloved books, spent days and days with his head bent to Henry’s, carefully
nailing together the tiny pieces of wood. Carefully painting them the exact colors of Henry’s original boat and then taking
it to the glassmaker to have it sealed so Henry would always have a reminder of the beloved toy.

The glass is cold and smooth in my hand, and I try to separate it from the base on which the boat rests. It is tightly sealed,
and though some small part of me feels ashamed to take apart Henry’s model, another more powerful part feels that I was led
here for just this reason.

Turning the case over in my hand I realize that there are a limited number of places in which to look, and I turn my attention
to the wooden base. It is square and finished with a dark lacquer. I give it a stronger tug, but it still does not budge from
the glass enclosure. It is the depth of the base that gives me pause. At least three inches high, it looks out of place at
the base of such a small boat. Of course, it could have been built that way simply as a way to give Henry’s boat a place of
honor, my father’s tribute to his only son.

Or it could be hiding something.

Holding the glass top securely in my hand, I inspect the bottom of the base for a ledge, a lip, anything that might give me
a place to pull. When that does not work I try twisting, but I quickly realize how utterly ridiculous it is to twist something
square. Its perfect angles, the clean angular lines, suggest something even simpler, even more elementary, and when I place
both thumbs along the very bottom and push, the thin piece of wood at the bottom slides effortlessly away, as if all this
time it has been waiting only for me.

The folded paper inside the small cavity makes me suck in my breath, and chills rise along my arms and neck. My hands shake
so dangerously that I cross back to the bed, removing the paper and setting the glass case on the coverlet.

However much I thought I might be right, I cannot help but be in awe of my small brother when I see the names. They travel
like a line of ants down the page, one after the other.

I fall onto the bed, shaking my head. He never had it at all. The crumpled paper in his hand was only that — a piece of paper,
likely blank or full of fake names. Perhaps he meant to throw it in the river so Alice would not continue searching. Perhaps
he meant to give her a false list in order to waylay her on a journey without end. Whatever his motive, his gift will allow
me to follow the prophecy, to seek its end, without delay. I wonder if the name at the bottom of the list is the person whom
my father entrusted with finding the keys. It will be easy enough to find out.

And now I know. Only three of the keys were identified before my father’s death.

Three, not four.

Even still, it is a start.

As I lift my hand to knock, I cannot help remembering the last time I stood on this threshold. Then, the prophecy and my part
in it were still a mystery.

This time, Aunt Virginia is decidedly more surprised to see me.

“Lia!” She reaches for my arm, pulling me into the room and shutting the door behind us. “Are you all right? Is something
wrong?”

I want to tell her that, of course, everything is wrong. That Henry is dead and will never come back and that Alice will stop
at nothing to bring forth the Beast. But Aunt Virginia knows this. Repeating it will only waste time we do not have to waste.

I shake my head. “No. I just…” I look down at my hands. “I must leave, Aunt Virginia.”

When I look up, she nods simply. “What can I do to help?”

I take her hands in my mine. They are soft and dry and light as a feather. “Come with me.”

She looks into my eyes with a small smile before reaching out and embracing me. “Oh Lia. You know I should like nothing better.”

“Then say you will.”

She shakes her head. “It isn’t yet time for me to leave.”

“But Henry is…” I nearly choke on the words. I think they will kill me on the way out of my mouth. But I force myself to say
them. “Henry is gone, Aunt Virginia. There is nothing left for you here.”

“There is Alice.”

I cannot hide my surprise. “Alice?”

“I know it is difficult to understand, Lia. But I made a promise to your mother. A promise that I would look after
all
of her children. I cannot help feeling that I have already failed her.”

Her eyes grow dark. I know she is thinking of Henry, but her guilt and sadness only bring forth my anger. “Alice? You will
stay to care for
Alice
? And will you train her in the ways of the Guardian as well? Will you give away the secrets of the sisters to aid her cause?”

“Lia.” Her voice is soft. It is not scolding. Not exactly. But I hear the admonishment in it. “I would never do such a thing.
Alice is beyond my help. Beyond my intervention. I will not train her in the ways of the Guardian, because she doesn’t wish
to fulfill the role, but neither can I simply abandon her.”

I want to scream,
What about me? Shall I be abandoned to make my own way in the prophecy with nothing at all to guide me?

Aunt Virginia continues as if in answer. “And neither am I abandoning you, my dear. You shall have the support of the keys
and the guidance of the sisters, and I will join you when I can. You have my word.”

I shake my head. “Join me where, Aunt Virginia? I don’t even know where I shall go. I need time. Time to refine my knowledge
of the Otherworlds and the gifts I can still scarcely control. I need a place where I can feel safe, if only for awhile.”

“Not to worry.” Her eyes meet mine. “I know just where you’ll go. There are no guarantees, of course. But it is as safe a
place as any.”

“Edmund.” My voice cracks as I say his name.

He polishes the carriage in long, slow strokes, his back to the door of the carriage house. He stops when he hears my voice,
hand still raised against the gleaming flank of the carriage that appears as if it has been polished every moment of the three
days since Henry’s death. When he turns to meet my eyes, I wish he had not, for there is such grief there, such naked anguish,
that I almost lose my breath.

I move toward him, stopping to place a hand on his shoulder. “I am… I am sorry, Edmund. For your loss.”

The words hang between us, and I wonder for a moment if he is terribly angry. If he shall ever forgive me for losing the boy
he loved so dearly.

But when he looks at me, it is with surprise and a kindness of his own. He nods. “Thank you. And I for yours.”

I hesitate, before asking for the favor I have no right to ask, least of all now. Even still, there is something I must do,
and I cannot do it without Edmund’s help.

“I need a ride to town, Edmund. I… I need to see James. And I need to see him tonight. Will you take me?” The barriers have
fallen between us. I am not asking our servant to transport me to town. I am asking Edmund. The nearest I have left to a father.

He nods without hesitation, reaching behind him for his hat. “I’ll do anything you ask, Miss. Anything at all.” And with that,
he opens the door of the carriage.

The light coming from the bookstore is dim with the coming evening. Edmund stands patiently and without prompting in the open
door to the carriage, as if he knows how difficult the next moments will be and seeks to give me the time I need.

I have tried to practice what I shall say, how I shall explain to James the prophecy, my role in it, and why I must leave,
if only for a while. Even still, nothing I have practiced brings with it the guarantee that James will see fit to love me
still, and so I have decided on nothing at all. I shall have to tell him in whatever way I can, allowing things to unfold
as they will.

Stepping from the carriage, I march quickly to the book-shop, unaware until he speaks that Edmund is right on my heels.

“I’ll wait right here, Miss.” He leans against the building near the door in a way that tells me there will be no argument,
and I smile faintly before stepping into the warmth of the shop.

Breathing in the smell, I stand for a moment trying to commit it to memory. I don’t know when I will return. I have become
used to these small moments of melancholy, these moments when I realize all I will be leaving behind. There is no use fighting
them.

“Lia!” James emerges from the curtain blocking the back room. He crosses to me quickly, the worry evident in his eyes. “What
are you doing here? Are you all right?”

I look down at my skirt for a moment, bracing myself for the difficulty in the words I know I must say. When I finally look
into his eyes, I want to throw myself into his arms, to lose myself in the comfort I know I will find there, to forget the
thing that stands between us.