by Mia Sheridan
Oh God, that's why they had both stayed. John, cursed never to find true love—his true love, Angelina unless the curse was broken. And it could only be broken there, at Windisle. And Angelina, knowing the truth once she'd passed on, had waited for John until they could be together again.
God, did he believe in the legend of John and Angelina? He didn't know. He wasn't sure. But he very suddenly couldn't let the idea go. It took hold, gripping Jonah, making him desperate to figure it out. He felt an energy that didn't seem to belong to him coursing through his blood, an urgency that spurred him on.
We’re magic. Us.
Keep going, yes. The light . . . the light. The truth.
The wind had kicked up, the curtains whipping around the window, the wind chimes peeling as if with glee in the near distance. The light, the truth, the light, the truth.
The same knickknack rabbit fell off of the mantel again, this time shattering and propelling Jonah’s body forward, out of the room.
She had gone to the garden and that's where his feet took him, through the front door, around the house and down the path to the fountain, long since broken and out of use. He walked around it, considering it from all angles, feeling frustrated and very suddenly silly. He sat against its base. Mist swirled in the air, painting the untended surroundings with a dreamy brush. What had overcome him? What had that been?
He closed his eyes and lifted his face to the sky. This was . . . no, this was for Clara. He’d gotten carried away because he wanted so badly to please her, to beg her forgiveness. Help me help you.
The wind had grown softer, ruffling Jonah’s hair as if it were someone's soft touch. A hush descended and he felt a feather-light tickle against his hand and opened his eyes. An errant petal from a distant flower brushed over his knuckle before being picked up by the wind once more and landing on a stone rosette on the side of the fountain. Jonah stared at it, the crimson petal reminding him of a drop of blood against the sun-bleached stone.
He tilted his head, regarding the rosette upon which the petal had landed. Something about it seemed . . . crooked. He reached out slowly, his fingers pressing against the carved flower. It’s loose.
His heart started pounding rapidly again as he turned so he was fully facing it and used both hands to pry it loose. It came out with a grating sound and he let out a surprised breath. There was a piece of paper inside, folded up so as to be small enough to fit behind the decorative carving.
With shaking hands, Jonah pried it out, unfolding the tattered paper, trying to control his heart rate. His whole body felt charged, a vibration rippling through his veins.
The light, the truth, the light, the truth.
As delicately as possible, he smoothed it out on his thigh, noticing that the bottom edge looked burned, as though it’d been pulled from a fire.
The slanted script, small formal letters mixed with large sweeping ones, was dark and rich and completely preserved. The amazement he felt at having found it was almost too much to comprehend.
The note. Oh dear lord, it’s the note.
Jonah read it, each line, then again, his breath coming out in a loud gasp. Oh Jesus. John had not only loved Angelina, he had loved her so much he was willing to sacrifice everything for her. Oh God.
Jonah knew the truth. He was holding it in his hand.
The wind whipped up again, joy coursing through him that was so pure and strong, it was almost painful. It burst forth, leaving him breathless and in awe as if love itself had just moved through his body.
A charm of hummingbirds danced speedily by him, their iridescent wings fluttering against the scarred side of his face as he closed his eyes and drew back on a surprised inhale.
When he opened his eyes again, they were gone and the mist on the ground began to dissipate as the sun moved from behind a cloud.
"Did you see it?" Myrtle's voice rang out. "Oh Lordy, Lordy! Did you seem them?"
Jonah staggered to his feet, turning to Myrtle. "Who?" He felt dazed, almost drugged as he looked down at the piece of paper in his hand again, marveling at what he’d found.
"He picked her up. They were laughing and crying and he swung her right around, and they disappeared together into the mist. Oh Glory Be. I gotta sit down."
She reached a hand to her face, frowning as her hand fell away. “Where are my glasses? Oh Lordy I’m not wearing them.” She glanced back to the place she’d come from, squinting into the quickly dissipating mist, facing Jonah again with a confused frown.
Jonah waved the note in his hand at Myrtle. "I have to go to her, Myr—” He suddenly paused. November first. It was Clara’s opening night. Fuck, how had he forgotten? Because he’d made sure to. He hadn’t wanted to picture her dancing so beautifully under those bright lights, knowing he couldn’t be there.
“I have to tell her,” he said. “Now. Right now. Will you drive me to the downtown theater? I don’t want to waste time finding parking." I don’t want to be too late.
Myrtle looked shocked. "The wonders of this day might never cease."
She grabbed Jonah’s hand and practically dragged him out of the garden, apparently worried he might change his mind.
But he wasn't going to change his mind.
He was not going to be too late.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
“Blast this traffic," Myrtle blurted, glancing at Jonah worriedly through her Coke-bottle glasses, the ones she’d thankfully stopped to put on before getting behind the wheel of a car.
He’d spent the first fifteen minutes of the drive attempting to calm his breathing. He rubbed his sweaty palms down his thighs, forcing himself to take large gulps of air. The happenings of the day seemed like a dream, or something that had happened in a story, not to him. But they had. They had.
Outside of the car, a parade passed by on a street that ran horizontally. They were only about ten minutes from the theater, but he was already late. The show was probably halfway over by now.
Streets were blocked off everywhere because of the parade, and unprepared, they’d gotten stuck in it.
"Day of the Dead," Myrtle mumbled.
"What?"
"The parade. They're celebrating the Day of the Dead."
"Huh." Jonah watched for a moment, anxious energy pumping through his veins. Day of the Dead. Of course it was.
He made a split-second decision, taking the mask from his pocket. "I'm going to get out here," he said. "I think it'll be quicker if I walk.”
Myrtle glanced at the mask. “No, Jonah,” she said, so much heartache in her voice. “Not that old thing.”
“Don’t worry, Myrtle. It’s okay.” Grabbing the handle, he opened the door. He began stepping out and then turned back to Myrtle, leaning toward her and grabbing her in a fierce hug before pulling back. "Thank you," he said, his voice hoarse with appreciation. "For the ride. For loving me. For never once abandoning me. For a thousand small things. Thank you."
Myrtle nodded, tears pricking her eyes. “You’re my boy,” she said.
Jonah grinned, slipping on the mask, and jumping out of the car. He ran toward the street the theater was on, mixing with the parade.
He tried to stick to the sidewalk, but got caught up in the crowd and before he knew it, was being pushed along, jostled, moving as if they were all one giant, symbiotic creature.
The sky overhead was dark now, the stars hidden behind the clouds, lights and swirling ribbons bursting into the air.
"This way, Jonah. Take my hand."
He gasped, whipping his head around, trying to see Justin, for it had been his voice he heard.
He felt his hand being pulled and lurched forward, through a space in the crowd, trying to see who was ahead of him but there were too many bodies, too much movement.
"Hurry up, slowpoke. She's waiting for you."
"Justin. Slow down. Let me see you."
Jonah heard his laughter, felt his hand being tugged again as he ran faster, zipping through spaces in the crowd he hadn't even realized were there
until he was bursting through them. There were so many people.
Horns blew in his ear, the laughter and celebratory sounds rising and falling as he whizzed through. Music played somewhere nearby and faces moved quickly in and out of his vision. Some had makeup done to look like skulls, some bleak, done only in black and white, others vivid and colorful with climbing flowers and swirls of magenta, blue, yellow, and red.
"I love you, little brother. Live for me. Make me proud." Justin’s voice was just a whisper now as if he had moved far ahead.
Jonah staggered very suddenly out of the throng, his chest heaving, turning quickly in a full circle. No one was there, yet his palm still felt warm.
He stilled, tears clogging his throat, wondering if he’d just imagined what had happened. Behind him the parade continued by. A little girl handed him a red rose as she passed, looking over her shoulder and smiling as she moved away.
Jonah turned toward the street. The theater was directly in front of him. He walked toward it, his attention briefly caught by a white man and a black woman who stood in a doorway laughing and kissing. As he passed, the woman saw him watching them and smiled shyly, pushing her boyfriend away teasingly. He laughed and took her hand and they turned in the other direction.
Jonah grinned, his heart filling with sudden joy as he turned, jogging across the street, the rose gripped in his hand.
"Sir, would you like a ticket?"
Jonah turned his head to see an older gentleman. The man’s eyes widened as he saw Jonah was wearing a mask, but then he glanced back down the street to the parade, the surprise fading to understanding.
“Sorry, I thought you were here to see the show. It's half over but it’s sold out. My wife's not feeling well and we have two seats near the front if you’d like to enjoy the second half. It’s wonderful."
Shit, Jonah hadn't even thought about a ticket. “Actually, I am here for the show. Let me pay—"
“No. I’m just happy they’re not going to waste.” He glanced at Jonah’s mask again as he handed him the tickets, perhaps wondering why he hadn’t removed it yet. His wife pulled on her husband’s arm and they moved away, down the street.
Jonah gave one of the tickets to a bored ticket taker, who didn’t even glance up at him and entered the theater, the outer hall deserted except for a beautiful woman with long, dark curly hair to her waist standing behind a coffee counter. There was a vase of white roses in front of her and Jonah hesitated but then turned, approaching her.
She took in his mask, but didn’t comment on it, instead asking, “We sold out of baked goods during intermission, but there’s still a cup or two of hot coffee if you’d like one?” She looked tired, but there was unmistakable pride shining from her eyes.
Jonah shook his head. “Can I buy one of those roses?”
She looked slightly confused, but plucked one from the vase, handing it to him. Jonah dug a twenty out of his pocket and threw it on the counter. “Thanks.”
Jonah could hear the music from behind the doors in front of him and his heart thrummed in his chest, beckoning him forward. Toward Clara.
He pushed the doors to the darkened theater open, the music swelling as he ducked inside.
All eyes were cast on the stage as he took his seat and he only received a few second glances from the people directly around him. But then they turned their attention back to the performance and Jonah did as well.
He lost himself in the story, in the heart-squeezing beauty of Clara’s dancing, in the pride he felt in her, soaring inside of him along with the musical notes.
Right then, he didn’t love her for how she made him feel, or how she’d inspired him, or anything else that had to do with himself. For that moment in time, Jonah just loved her for her, for Clara, for the woman who had spent hour after hour practicing so resolutely that she danced like an angel. For her heart, for her mind, for all the ways she made the world a better place by being in it. He loved her purely, deeply, and with every fiber of his being.
Keep your eyes on me.
The show came to an end, Jonah’s anxiety returning, flooding through his body and causing his heart to pound against his ribs.
The lights came on as the audience stood, bravos being flung into the air, whistles rising high above the crowd. Jonah focused on breathing, his eyes never leaving the swan who emerged with the other dancers, smiling that smile he hoped to see every day for the rest of his life. Please. Please.
The audience began sitting, those around him taking their seats and beginning to gather their things. But Jonah remained standing as the dancers began leaving the stage, the stage lights dimming.
Murmurs began, then whispers as the audience members noticed him standing there alone in his mask.
The swan, Clara, hesitated and then turned, her gaze locking with his, eyes growing wide. Her lips parted and she walked back toward the center of the stage, the other dancers stopping and turning their heads to watch her.
Jonah stood in the audience looking up at her, breathing heavily under the rubber of the mask, and Clara stood on stage, a singular spotlight on her as she peered back at him. Waiting.
Keep your eyes on me.
He heard the whispers now. They broke through his fear, his uncertainty.
Oh my God. It’s the do-gooder. Have you heard of him?
That guy who goes around helping people?
What’s he doing here?
I think he’s here for her. The dancer.
Oh God, what would they think when he revealed himself?
Keep your eyes on me.
Jonah reached up and the whole auditorium seemed to still as he pulled the mask up and off, dropping it on the floor beside him as he took in a shuddery breath.
Clara grinned, putting her hands over her mouth as tears rolled down her cheeks.
There was a collective gasp in the theater as people took in his damaged face, but he didn’t turn his gaze to any of them. He kept his eyes on her for another frozen moment as she walked to the edge of the stage, as close to him as she could get.
Who . . . who is he? He looks familiar somehow.
How do you think he got those scars?
I don’t know. But this is one story I’ve gotta hear.
He saw flashes in his peripheral vision. People were taking pictures, recording this moment, documenting it for all time. Keep your eyes on me.
“Step on me!” one of the audience members said, and confused, Jonah finally broke eye contact with Clara to look at a guy who was offering Clara his back so she could step off the stage.
Clara laughed through her tears as several other men turned, beckoning her forward. She took the first step, the audience reaching their hands up to help her stay stable as she crowd-surfed toward him.
Jonah laughed, braving a glance at a woman next to him and seeing that instead of horror, she had a look of wonder on her face.
Clara drew nearer, and he held out his arms for her, grasping her as she slid down his body, tears still coursing down her cheeks, mixing with the heavy makeup she had on, several thick black trails marring her cheeks. She looked like a mess and he loved her so much it hurt.
He handed her both the white and red roses and she blinked, her face crumbling for a moment before she laughed with joy.
She brought her hands to his face, gripping him, the whole of him, and he leaned forward, their foreheads coming together gently. “I love you.”
She sniffled, laughing, another black trail making its way down her face. “I love you too. My wish collector.”
“I have so much to tell you, Clara. You won’t even believe—”
She ran a thumb over his lips. “I will believe.”
He smiled against her thumb. Of course she’d believe. She always had. In Angelina. In justice. In him.
Jonah kissed her as the flashes continued to blink around them, the audience standing again, the claps beginning slowly and then swelling into an ovation that this time, was for them.
F
or love.
For magic.
For impossible wishes that somehow came true.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Dear Angelina,
I am entrusting this letter to my friend and comrade, Timothy Mansfield, and know in all faith that he will read it to you and that you, my love, shall hear my voice and cast aside any doubts that my absence has created.
I love you, Angelina Loreaux. I love you with the whole of my heart and every ounce of my soul. Neither time, nor distance, nor a million smoke-filled battlefields stretched before me will ever deter me from returning to you and loving you until every last star falls from the sky.
I am risking greatly in the fight for your freedom—and for my own, for if you are not free to love me, my life is without meaning—a fight of which I cannot speak just yet. But have faith, my love. Believe that the world can change, and that indeed it will change.
Your eternal love, John
EPILOGUE
Twinkle lights sparkled in the trees around them, casting the rose garden in a romantic glow.
Jonah took Clara’s hand in his as they walked the cobblestone path, the sweet, sultry fragrance of roses swirling in the evening air.
From the open balconies, voices and laughter could be heard, and Jonah’s lips curved into a smile as he glanced toward the place that had once been his self-made prison and was now one of his greatest sources of pride.
He stopped and turned toward his wife, pulling her against him and smiling down into her lovely face.
“You get more beautiful by the day,” he said, letting go of her waist and taking her hands so he could step back and look at her.
She laughed, moving from side to side so that her black, lace dress swirled around her legs. She looked as though she felt beautiful. Loved. As she should for she was both.
She moved forward, bringing her hand to his scarred cheek. “So do you,” she murmured, kissing him softly. And then she smiled, that smile that lit up his entire world.
Inside Windisle, the event being hosted by the Historic Preservation Society was just getting started. Clara and Jonah had wanted a few moments to themselves before dinner, so they’d escaped to the garden.