Shadows Falling: The Lost #2 (14 page)

Jack was incarcerated for murder. Luke was brought there for murder. I
was brought there for being me, which I found patently unfair, but that’s beside the point.

The frie
ndship between my sister and the prostitute, Emme, was simply too good to pass up. I had never really planned to murder Sonnet, and I hadn’t yet decided what to do with my dear old father, but doing in Emme was just lovely. A kind of revenge that would shock them back to their senses. What did they think they were doing anyway? Replacing me? Me: her sister, his daughter? They shouldn’t have been so callous as to do that.

I hadn
’t gone and replaced them, had I?

It was a good plan. I liked it very much. I didn
’t even have to get my own hands dirty, thanks to Jack. Not that I minded doing the deed myself, but, well, it was just cleaner this way. All Jack needed was someone to listen to him; someone to understand his hatred and his desires. I only had to soothe his tortured soul and whisper in his ear. I am a very good listener. It’s one of my finest qualities. By the time Luke got us out of the hospital, Jack was in a black mood.

Power like that can make one
a bit giddy. Who else can do what I can do? I can redirect the Lost’s path like a dam redirects water. Their future lays helpless in my hands. The things I can do…wonderful!

Luk
e was happy to help; our quarrel from before had made him contrite.  “Just don’t hurt Prue,” he had warned. “She’s off limits.” I had nodded, but I hadn’t really been listening. I don’t like ultimatums or anyone telling me what to do. Don’t hurt Prue? Watch me.)

We scampered off
from Bedlam like children. Luke stole me a piece of cake, and we kept our distance for a bit longer as the others acclimated to where I had deposited them.

When next I saw Sonnet, or I s
hould say, when next she saw me—as the two things are not always one and the same—Luke had already made his appearance. I had watched, from a distance, as he did exactly what we had rehearsed. Yes, I made him rehearse with me; of course, I did. I had spent those precious years of my youth with Solomon, hadn’t I? The master actor, the magician. Rehearsal is very important, crucial to a good performance. “If you want the audience to believe you,” Solomon would say, “you have to perfect every move, every cadence, every lilt to your voice, every tilt of your head.”

“
Golden Goose,” he would say. “Practice, practice, practice. Practice makes perfect.”

18

Luke was a good actor. Naturally, Sonnet was thrilled to see him; like a ninny, she suspected nothing. Really, the girl had no survivor’s edge to her, no trace of suspicion, no cynical view of the world. You could tell she had lived too soft of a life. No one had taught her to expect the worst from people. Fooling her was almost too easy.

The manifestation of Emme earlier had been another reunion I had watched, and that one had nearly boiled my blood. Embracing as though they had been lost without one another. Disgusting. They weren
’t sisters. It was time they remembered that, and remembered me.

I let some more time go by, but when I saw Sonnet out walking one day, in a yellow dress laced so tight she walked strangely, I didn
’t let the moment pass by unmarked. We were near where we had all woken up together, and she was staring out at the water. I wondered what she thought about: probably about having a love affair with my Luke or spending time with that hateful Emme.

I walked right up to her, right by her, and stared with her. We stared, the two of us, me barely controlling a smile and her, entwined in her own imagination.
We were so close I could smell her: a kind of nutmeg scent that probably came from her hair. And a mothball scent that came from her dress. I wrinkled my nose over the nutmeg. She didn’t even turn to glance at me until I spoke.

“
Hello, sister,” I said. “I knew you’d find me.”

She turned then to look at me, and her
light blue eyes were wide. I thought I looked very fetching, with my gray cape and the way the wet wind from the Thames had put waves in my hair. I stared back at her, solemnly, although really I wanted to laugh a little. I had wondered if I would feel the urge to hug her the way Emme had, but I didn’t feel it. Evidently, she didn’t either, for she didn’t move at all, except to speak.

“
I’ve been looking for you. I thought I’d never see you again.” Sonnet has a deep voice for a girl, throaty and husky. It’s not at all like my voice, yet another example of how different we are. I’m beginning to suspect different fathers. Perhaps Mother had been busy. Too bad I forgot to ask her before she fell. Or was she pushed?

“
Why would you think that?” I asked. I really didn’t understand the question. “I’m your sister, aren’t I? Don’t we belong together, you and I?”

It was a simple enough query; I still don
’t know why she gaped at me, wide eyed and slack jawed, like a fish.

“
Yes,” she finally agreed. “We do. But we’ve been apart so long. Are you...?”

I wanted to roll my eyes. Really, she was messing up our reunion. Starting with pleasantries? As if I had time for such nonsense.

“Oh, I’m fine, Sister. You?” I played her game and tried to be polite. “You’ve been well all these years? Living with our father?” I made sure to say,
our
father. I hoped she recognized that she had hoarded him to herself all these years, like the spoiled brat she was.

“
Yes. He’ll be so anxious to see you and so happy, too.”

“
Oh, will he?” I thought. Doubtful.

“
Will you come and see him?” Sonnet asked.

I declined, said I was very busy. Another time, perhaps? Weren
’t we striving for politeness, after all? Always be hospitable, even if you don’t feel like it. That’s what Solomon said.

“
Rose, please come with me.” Sonnet sounded very confused, and she reached out to me.

I didn
’t want her mussing up my lovely cape, and I don’t like people touching me without permission, so I pulled away. I wanted to frown at her, but instead I smiled a little. I don’t remember what I said, but she reached out for me again! Doesn’t she ever listen?

“
No, no, don’t pull on me. I don’t like it.” Fine, if she’s going to be impolite, then I’ve tried my best, Solomon. She started it.

For some reason, Sonnet started asking about doctors. I patiently tried to stay with the conversation, but she seemed very dim. Not very bright, my sister, I
’m afraid. She asked me where I was staying.

I don
’t remember much past that. We spoke some more, but I felt puzzled and no longer sure of why I was there. I had a headache, and I had forgotten the next part of my plan. I think I ended up inviting her for tea, a silly thing to do, but it turned out it couldn’t have been better if I tried.

It
was Boxing Day when Sonnet came to visit me. She showed up at my door, looking uncomfortable and unsure of herself. I’m always sure of myself; I think I’ve always been that way. I just know who I am, and what I want, and I don’t see any need to apologize or shirk away from that. Sonnet, on the other hand, can’t seem to figure out who she is or what she wants. It’s not an attractive trait, really, and makes her seem very flighty.

I made her tea, which I thought was very nice of me, but I noticed she wasn
’t really drinking it. She seemed rather nervous, which was to be expected, I suppose, seeing as how we didn’t know one another very well. Family get togethers can be so awkward. I read that once in a magazine when I was visiting another era, and it is true. Awkward, awkward, awkward.

I tried to put her at ease by my conversation; really, I did, but evidently I made her mad when I started mentioning Mother. I even told her my secret, that I could control
my traveling. I thought she’d be proud of me, but nothing could have been farther from the truth. She was upset.

She went on and on about Mother. She was completely missing the point. I hate people who can
’t see the big picture! Caught up on the details, she was. Details don’t matter, it’s the end result. Mother died; so what? Everyone dies. The big picture is how special my abilities are, and she didn’t seem to care about that at all. I was taken aback; how could she not see how splendid my powers were?

I
’ve heard about the competition between siblings and how they always must outdo one another, but really, I expected better of my elder sister. I suppose I must have thrown her out, though I don’t remember now. I think I chucked a teacup at her head—that seems familiar—but I’m fairly certain she ducked.

Luke came home and brought me cake.

Such a dear boy.

The next part of my plan had already been set in motion. Emme was as good as dead, and my hands were clean. Well, very nearly so.

The only thing I hadn’t predicted was Luke blowing his cover, but really, it hardly mattered at that point, anyway. I came home one night to find him barricaded in a closet, of all places. It took me what felt like forever to move the heavy furniture my sister and her lover had pushed in front of the door. I am very small, and sometimes I forget to eat, so I can be a bit frail when it comes to physical strength. Luke was having a fit in there. When he stumbled out, all righteously angry and upset, I had to kiss him back down to a rational place. He can get so angry sometimes. Really, it can’t be good for him to lose his temper the way he does. It’s like he doesn’t even know himself or what he’s capable of when he’s like that. It took all my womanly charms to calm him down.

The next time
—the last time—I saw Sonnet and our father, was at the girl’s funeral, Emme’s funeral. Everything had gone according to my plans, the way I knew they would. Jack took care of her for me. He’s a dear. Very misunderstood on the whole.

I wonder
ed what he could do in other centuries? Why, he’d never be caught if he traveled with me. Interesting thought. I need to think more on that.

At the church yard, we kept our distance, Luke and I; of course we did. We aren
’t stupid. But I was curious. The last funeral I had been to had been Old Babba’s, and that was a festive affair with only me. This one (from what I could tell from such a remote location under several trees and near a crumbling crypt) was a sober event, at least at first. I had forgotten the prostitute had a mother and a brother. That was very nearly sad, but I shook off any sympathy. The big picture, remember? The big picture was I had gotten a revenge of sorts, by taking away someone my family loved - loved instead of me. That was the big picture, indeed. If I had unintentionally made a small child sad; well, it was simply a casualty.

Someone made me sad once.

I survived.

The little boy would survive
, too. Perhaps he’d grow up strong and influential, like me. Perhaps I had done him a favor. I can be kind, you know.

They were a sorrowful, pitiful bunch, I
’ll say. Things had worked out for the best. I wasn’t sure I wanted them anyway; my drunk father, my odd sister, her strange and frightening Israel. Maybe I had been meant to be alone, after all. I hadn’t done so badly, had I? A feel of exclusion still lingered though. I couldn’t help wondering if we all could have been happy together, if circumstances had been different. Would I bring Luke home for Christmas? Would Father someday give me away, walk me down the aisle? Would I be Auntie to Sonnet’s children? In my fairy tale land, would we all live happily ever after?

I laughed at the thought. Silly me, getting romantic notions. And here I thought Austen had been wasted on me, all those years ago at the library! Obviously, some fluffy ideals had seeped through and taken root. Solomon would have tousled my hair and teased me.

If they had bothered to look over, they would have noticed us, Luke and me. They were absorbed in their grief, their shared sorrow, and didn’t glance our way. I watched as Sonnet’s ebony veil blew across her face, and the folds of her black skirt whipped in the wind. It began to snow, and I saw her lift her head up to face it head on. The gesture made me wonder if maybe she wasn’t braver than I had given her credit for. After all, she had sought me out, and most people don’t do that.

Most people leave me alone. Forever, they leave me alone.

Why won’t you?

I really hate when she does that, addresses me as if she knows me. It gives me the chills and makes me feel as though she watches me, curled up on my window seat, drying my freshly washed hair. I sip my tea and pull my shawl closer over my nightgown. My hair smells of apples and leaves and—though it needs a good scrubbing, and I’ll be glad I did it tomorrow—right now it is frigid in my little flat, and my sopping wet mane is not helping. I pull my winter cap out from its place in my bureau and slap it on my head. My hair will not dry well, but I am freezing suddenly. Whether that’s due to temperature or Rose’s cryptic comments and murderous confessions, I do not know.

I only have a few pages left of the little diary. Rose
’s handwriting is difficult again, small and cramped. It strains my eyes; I feel like they’ve been rubbed with sandpaper. I debate whether to finish it all tonight or save some for later. Why am I so reluctant to give her up? I should be happy at the thought, but I have found no clues in recent readings as to where she could have gone and still no mention of Sam either. Would this diary end the abrupt way the first had? Did I need to skim the pages, playing detective, looking for locations she could have stashed the next installment? Or was she writing the next installment now, as I read her words, several weeks or months behind her? Was she curled up somewhere in a flat of her own, penning words for me to find?

How ridiculous. She doesn
’t even know of my existence.

“
Thank God,” I mutter aloud. The thought of actually meeting Rose Gray gives me the willies. Insanity I am used to, but she’s a special case, and now that I have been privy to her private thoughts, it’s somehow worse to think of her face to face with me. And yet, hasn’t that been my goal these past few weeks? To find her?

I groan. What do I want? Maybe I only want to find her to discover her exact connection to Sam. And why would I w
ant that? I pester myself. Blimey, this interrogation in my head is ludicrous!

I decide to force myself to submit to questioning anyway.

Why do I want to know her exact connection to Sam?

“
Because you are falling in love with him, you dolt,” I mutter.

I was unsure of my next step. It was as if my life’s work was closing in on me. I had accomplished so much, but was it enough for me? Should I leave them alone, what was left of my family, or continue to destroy them, one at a time, until they were gone?

Luke wanted to be finished with them, although there was enough pent up rage in him over
being shoved in a wardrobe that talking him into another confrontation with at least Israel wouldn’t have proved impossible. But he was tired, too, and worried about me. He missed our island, he said. We deserved a holiday.

I was sorely tempted, but I wasn
’t sure I should leave them. It would be odd for them to travel so soon after arriving in London, but I didn’t know if their inner clocks would be ticking at a faster pace due to my interference. Would they still be here when we returned? “Just a week,” Luke pestered. “We can come back and find them again; they won’t have gone far.” We didn’t argue about it—our last row had left us careful of each other and wary of tempers—but we could not seem to agree on what was the best course of action. I wanted to stay, follow them a bit, lest they get away forever. Luke, I was beginning to think, wanted them to get away forever, not because he had any love for them, but because he wanted to move onto other things.