Prophecy of the Sisters (4 page)

I find my voice but am too enthralled with the book to look up at James. “What is it?”

“That’s just it. I’m not sure. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

The cover sighs and creaks as I open it, little particles of leather sprinkling the air beneath the book like pieces of dust
in sunlight. Oddly, there is only one page, covered in words I vaguely recognize as Latin. I am suddenly sorry I’ve not paid
more attention to our language studies at Wycliffe.

“What does it say?”

He leans in, brushing my shoulder as he looks at the page. “It says, ‘Librum Maleficii et Disordinae.’ ” He looks into my
eyes. “Approximately? The Book of Chaos.”

“The Book of Chaos?” I shake my head. “Father never made mention of it, and I know his collection as well as he knew it himself.”

“I know. And I don’t believe he ever mentioned it to my father, either. Certainly not to me.”

“What sort of book is it?”

“Well, I remembered you have trouble with Latin, so I took it home and made a translation. I
knew
you’d want to know more.” His eyes twinkle with these last words, and I recognize it as a small jibe toward my endless curiosity.

I roll my eyes, smiling if only to feign exasperation with James. “Never mind, what does it say?”

He looks back to the book, clearing his throat before beginning. “It starts out, ‘Through fire and harmony mankind endured
until the sending of the Guards, who took as wives and lovers the woman of man, engendering His wrath.’ ”

I shake my head. “Is it a story?”

He pauses. “I think so, though not one I’ve ever heard.”

I turn the single page. I don’t know what I’m looking for when clearly there is nothing else there.

“It goes on from there,” he adds before I can begin asking questions, “to say ‘two sisters, formed in the same swaying ocean,
one the Guardian, one the Gate. One keeper of peace, the other bartering sorcery for devotion.’ ”

“Two sisters, formed in the same swaying ocean… I don’t understand.”

“I believe it’s a metaphor. For the birth fluid. I think it alludes to twins. Like you and Alice.”

His words echo in my mind.
Like you and Alice.

And like my mother and Aunt Virginia, and their mother and aunt before them,
I think. “But what of ‘the Guardian and the Gate’? What does that mean?”

He shrugs a little as his eyes meet mine. “I’m sorry, Lia. I don’t know about that part.”

Mr. Douglas’s voice drifts down the hall and we glance at the library door. I look back at James as his father’s voice gets
louder and nearer the library door.

“Have you translated the whole page?”

“Yes. I… Well, I wrote it down for you, actually.” He reaches into his pocket as Mr. Douglas’s voice sounds from just outside
of the door, giving us fair warning of his arrival.

“Very good, Virginia. Tea would be most lovely!”

I put a hand on James’s arm. “Can you bring it to the river later?” The river is our usual meeting place, though not normally
for something as staid as a book.

“Well… Yes. When we stop for lunch? Can you meet me then?”

I nod, handing the book back to him as his father comes through the door.

“Ah, here it is! You see, James, it’s just as I said — I
am
losing my wits in my old age!” Mr. Douglas waves a leather-bound ledger in the air.

James’s smile is brilliant. “Nonsense, Father. You’re simply too busy, that’s all.”

I only half-listen to their banter. Why would the book be hidden in the library? It was unlike my father to keep to himself
so rare and interesting a find, but I can only assume he had a reason for doing so.

And I have reasons of my own for wanting to know more.

It cannot be chance alone that Father was found dead on the floor of the Dark Room, or that shortly thereafter I discovered
the mark, observed my sister in her eerie ritual, and was given this strange, lost book. I cannot be sure what it all means
or how these events work in concert, but I’m certain they do.

And I intend to find out how.

Henry and Edmund are no longer at the river. Edmund has always been protective of Henry, and he will doubtless be more so
now that Father has passed. There is a chill in the air, a portent of the coming winter, and worrying over Henry is a habit
for us all.

I follow the pathway to the terrace at its end, stepping into the woods and making my way to the boulder that sits in the
shelter of a giant oak. Serenity creeps over me as I settle onto the rock that James and I call ours. It seems that nothing
bad or frightening could happen here, and by the time I hear James approaching, I have almost convinced myself that everything
is just as it should be.

I smile at him as he draws near, peering up at him in the sunlight when he stops in front of me. He takes my hand and pulls
me to my feet with a smile. “I’m sorry. We were finishing the Religious History collection. Father wanted to complete it before
stopping for lunch. Have you been waiting long?”

He pulls me toward him, but it is with newfound gentleness, as if the loss of my father has made me somehow more fragile.
And I suppose it has, though I should not like to admit it to anyone. It is only James who knows me well enough, who loves
me well enough, that he sees my grief though I look just the same on the outside.

I shake my head. “Not long at all. In any case, waiting for you is made easy in this place. A place that reminds me of you
while I wait.”

He tips his head, taking a finger and tracing my face from the loose curls at my temple, down the angular jut of my cheekbone,
across the curve of my jaw. “Everything reminds me of you.”

He lowers his lips to mine. The kiss is gentle, yet I don’t need the hard press of his lips to feel the urgency in his body’s
call to mine. He pulls away, trying to protect me, trying not to push me in these days after Father’s death. There is no ladylike
way to tell him to push all he wants, that his mouth and body on mine are the only things keeping me from losing my hold on
a reality I never questioned until these past days.

“Yes, well…” He stands up straighter. “Come. I’ve brought my notes on the book.”

He lowers himself to the boulder, and I make myself comfortable next to him, the skirt of my gown crinkling as it rubs against
the rough fabric of his trousers. He pulls the book from his jacket together with a folded piece of paper. Smoothing it across
his thigh, he bends his golden head to the slanted handwriting covering the page top to bottom.

“The story is an ancient one, if the book is to be believed.”

“What sort of story?”

“A tale about angels or… demons, I think. Here, you can read it just as easily.” He lowers himself to the rock once again,
thrusting the book and his notes toward me.

For one brief moment, I don’t want to read it. I wonder if there is a way to ignore it. To simply go on as I always have,
pretending none of it exists. But it doesn’t last long. Even now I feel the wheels of a great invisible machine turning all
around. They will continue turning whatever I do. This I somehow know.

I bow my head to the comfort of James’s handwriting, strangely matched with the terror of words that are not his.

Through fire and harmony mankind endured

Until the sending of the Guards

Who took as wives and lovers the woman of man,

Engendering His wrath.

Two sisters, formed in the same swaying ocean,

One the Guardian, One the Gate.

One keeper of peace,

The other bartering sorcery for devotion.

Cast from the heavens, the Souls were Lost

As the Sisters continue the battle

Until the Gates summon forth their return,

Or the Angel brings the Keys to the Abyss.

The Army, marching forth through the Gates.

Samael, the Beast, through the Angel.

The Angel, guarded only by the gossamer veil of protection.

Four Marks, Four Keys, Circle of Fire

Birthed in the first breath of Samhain

In the shadow of the Mystic Stone Serpent of Aubur.

Let the Angel’s Gate swing without the Keys

Followed by the Seven Plagues and No Return.

Death

Famine

Blood

Fire

Darkness

Drought

Ruin

Open your arms, Mistress of Chaos, that the havoc of the Beast will flow like a river

For all is lost when the Seven Plagues begin.

My attention is drawn again to the oddity of a one-page book. I don’t know as much about books as James, but even I realize
that it is unusual for someone to have a book bound and printed for only one page.

“Shouldn’t there be more? There’s nothing here. Nothing at all after the story. It seems that there
should
be more. Something that tells what happens next…”

“I thought the same thing. Here, let me show you.”

He brings the book closer so that it is between us, half on his legs and half on mine, and turns the single page. “Look, here.”
He points to the space where the pages meet the binding.

“I don’t see anything.”

He takes a loop from his pocket, handing it to me and pulling the pages taut. “Look closely, Lia. It’s difficult to see at
first.”

I hold the lens of the loop over the area marked by his finger, moving my face to within inches of the page. And then I see
the tear marks, so clean as to not be tear marks at all. It is as if someone has taken a razor, slicing cleanly from the book
the pages that were once there.

I look up. “There
were
pages here.”

He nods.

“But why would someone remove them from such an old book? Surely it’s quite valuable if nothing else.”

“I don’t know. I’ve seen many strange and damaging things done to books, but cutting pages from one such as this is a sacrilege.”

I feel the loss of pages I have never seen. “There must be another copy somewhere.” Closing the book, I turn it to the cover
and then to the binding for clues about the publisher. “Even if this is the only printing, the publisher will have a copy,
will they not?”

He presses his lips together before answering. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple, Lia.”

“What do you mean? Why not?”

His eyes drift to the book, still in my hand, before skittering away. “I’ve not… I’ve not told you the strangest thing by
far. About the book.”

“Do you mean to say there is something stranger than the story itself?”

He nods. “Far stranger. Listen, you know from your father, from me, that books are full of clues. The typeface, the ink, even
the leather used and the manner of the bindery tell us from where a book comes and how old it is. Virtually anything one needs
to know about a book can be discovered with enough study of the book itself.”

“And? Where
does
it come from?”

“That’s just it. The typeface is very old, but one not documented as far as I can tell. The leather is not leather at all,
but some other material, something I’ve not seen.” He sighs. “I cannot find a single clue to its origin, Lia. It makes no
sense at all.”

James is unaccustomed to mysteries he cannot solve. I see the distress on his face but can do nothing to lessen it. I have
no more answers than he.

I return from the river to find Henry sitting alone before the chess board in the parlor. The sight brings a lump to my throat,
and I try to compose myself before he sees me. His days will be vacant without time spent playing chess or reading with Father
in front of the fire. Neither will my brother have the distraction of school, for Father took Henry’s schooling upon himself,
spending hours teaching him far beyond the subjects commonly deemed necessary.

In this way, Father augmented my and Alice’s education as well, introducing us to all manner of mythology and philosophy.
Even our attendance at Wycliffe two days a week was a compromise of sorts between Father, who believed he could do a better
job all around of educating us, and Aunt Virginia, who argued that we would benefit from the social aspect of exposure to
girls our own age. Of course, Alice and I have had the advantage of Father’s influence for sixteen years. We can advance our
education independently of Wycliffe’s curriculum if we wish, but what will happen to Henry?

I swallow my fear for his future and enter the room with as much carefree briskness as I can muster. His eyes light up when
I ask him if he’d like company, and we take turns reading aloud from
Treasure Island,
Ari purring against my leg as if he knows I need the reassurance. The simple pleasure allows me to forget, if only for awhile,
the events taking shape around me.

It isn’t late when we finish, but I am tired. I say good night, leaving Henry near the fire with his book. I am halfway up
the stairs when I hear Alice’s voice coming from the library. Though it is not off-limits to any, I cannot remember the last
time Alice spent time there. My curiosity gets the better of me, and as I make my way there, Alice’s voice is so soft that
at first I think she is talking to herself. But it takes me only a moment to realize that she is not alone. Her voice is matched
by the deeper timbre of a man’s voice, and when I reach the half-open door of the library, I am surprised to see James sitting
in a high-backed chair near the reading table.