Prophecy of the Sisters

by Michelle Zink

  The Dark Room.

  It is not entirely surprising. The Dark Room has been at the forefront of my mind since Father’s death. He should not have been there. Not in the one room that would invoke the memory of my mother, his beloved dead wife, more than any other.

  And yet, in those last moments, as life slipped from his body like a wraith, he was.

  I slide my feet into slippers and make my way to the door, listening a moment before opening it and looking down the hall. The house is dark and silent. The footsteps of the servants cannot be heard in the rooms above our own or in the kitchen below. It must be quite late.

  All this registers in seconds, leaving only the faintest of impressions. The thing that gets my attention, the thing that makes the small hairs rise on my arms and the back of my neck, is the door, open just a crack, at the end of the hallway.

  The door to the Dark Room.

  It is strange enough that the door to this, of all rooms, should be open, but stranger still that there is a faint glow leaking from the small gap between the frame and the door.

  I look down at the mark. It shadows my wrist even in the darkness of the hallway. It is this I’ve been wondering, is it not? I think. Whether or not the Dark Room holds the key to Father’s death or the reason for my mark? Now it is as if I’ve been summoned to that very place, called to the answers I have sought all along.

  I creep down the hallway, careful to lift my feet so the bottoms of my slippers don’t scuff along the wood floor. When I reach the door of the Dark Room, I hesitate.

  Someone is inside.

  A voice, soft but urgent, comes from within the room. It is not the same frantic murmur that called me here. Not the disjointed voices of many. No. It is the voice of one. A solitary person whispering inside.

  I don’t dare push open the door for fear it will creak. Instead, I lean toward it, peering through the opening into the room beyond. It is difficult to get my bearings through such a small crack. At first everything is only shapes and shadows. But soon I make out the looming white sheets of the covered furniture, the dark mass I know is the wardrobe in the corner, and the figure sitting on the floor, surrounded by candles.

  Alice.

  My sister sits on the floor of the Dark Room, the glow of many candles casting her body in soft yellow light. She is muttering, whispering as if to someone very near, though from my vantage I see not a soul. She sits on folded knees, her eyes closed, arms at her sides.

  I scan the room, careful not to touch the door lest it should spring to life and glide open even farther. But there is no one else there. No one but Alice, murmuring to herself in a strange sort of ceremony. And even this, this dark rite that sends tendrils of fear racing through my body, is not the strangest thing of all.

  No, it is that my sister sits with the rug pulled back, a large well-worn rug that has been in the room as long as I can remember. She sits, as naturally as if she has done it countless times before, within a circle carved into the floor. The angles of her face are nearly unrecognizable, almost harsh, in the candlelight.

  The cold from the unheated hallway seeps through the thin fabric of my nightdress. I step back, my heart beating so loudly in my chest that I fear Alice will hear it from within the Dark Room.

  When I turn to make my way down the hall, I have to resist the urge to run. Instead, I walk calmly and step into my room, closing the door behind me and climbing into the safety and comfort of my bed. I lay awake for a long time, trying to force from my mind the image of Alice within the circle, the sound of her murmuring to someone who wasn’t there at all.

  The next morning, I stand in the clear light streaming through the window, sliding the sleeve of my nightdress up and over my wrist. The mark has become darker still, the circle thicker and more prominent.

  And there is something else.

  In the stark light of day, it seems quite obvious what it is — the thing that encircles the circle itself, making the edges less clear. I trail a finger across the surface of the mark, raised as a scar, following the lines of the snake that coils itself around the edges of the circle until its mouth is eating its own tail.

  The Jorgumand.

  Few girls of sixteen would know it, but I recognize the symbol from Father’s books on mythology. It is at once familiar and frightening, for why should such a symbol rise from my skin?

  I only briefly consider telling Aunt Virginia. She has had her share of grief and worry over Father’s death. Our well-being is now left to her, our only living relative. I’ll not add another worry to the ones she already has.

  I chew my lower lip. It is impossible to think of my sister without remembering her posture on the floor of the Dark Room. I resolve to ask her what she was doing. And then I will show her the mark.

  After dressing, I step into the hall, preparing to search for Alice. I hope she is not walking the grounds as she has since she was a child. Locating her as she takes sun in her favorite spot on the patio will be considerably easier than searching the fields and forests surrounding Birchwood. As I turn away from my chamber, my eyes slide to the closed door of the Dark Room. From here, it looks as it always has. It is almost possible to imagine that Father is still alive in the library and that my sister has never knelt on the floor of the forbidden room in the mystery of night. And yet she has.

  My mind is made up before I fully realize it. I make my way swiftly down the hall. I don’t hesitate on the threshold of the room. Instead, I open the door and step through it in seconds.

  The room is just as I remember it, the curtains drawn against the daylight, the rug back in place over the wood floor. A strange energy pulses through the air, a vibration that seems to hum through my veins. I shake my head, and the sound almost disappears.

  I move to the bureau and open the top drawer. I should not be surprised to find my mother’s things there, but somehow I am. Most of my life, she has been no more than an idea. Somehow, the fine silk and lace of her petticoats and stockings make her seem very real. I can see her suddenly, a flesh-and-blood woman, dressing for the day.

  I force myself to lift her underthings, looking for anything that might explain Father’s presence in the room at the time of his death — a journal, an old letter, anything at all. When I find nothing, I do the same with the other drawers, lifting and searching to the very back. But there is nothing there. Nothing but the paper drawer liner that long ago lost its scent.

  I lean lightly against the dresser, surveying the room for other possible hiding places. Crossing to the bed, I kneel and lift the ghostly coverlet, peering beneath the bed. It is spotless, doubtless cleared of dust and cobwebs only during the maid’s latest round of cleaning.

  My eyes settle on the rug. The image of Alice within the circle is etched in my mind. I know what I saw, but I cannot keep myself from looking. From being sure.

  I move toward the rug and am at its edge when my head begins to buzz, the vibration closing in on my thoughts, my vision, until I think I might faint. The tips of my fingers become numb, a prickly tingling beginning at my feet and radiating upward until I fear that my legs will give out altogether.

  And then the whispering begins. It is the same whispering I heard last night before coming to the Dark Room. But this time it is threatening, as if warning me off, telling me to go back. A cold sweat breaks out on my brow, and I begin to tremble. No, not tremble. Shake. I shake so violently my teeth clatter together before I sink to the floor in front of the rug. A small voice of self-preservation shouts at me to leave, to forget the Dark Room altogether.

  But I must see for myself. I must.

  My hand weaves and shakes in front of my eyes, reaching for the edge of the rug. The whispering grows louder and louder until the great buzz of many voices becomes a shout within my head. I will myself not to stop, grasping the corner of the rug with fingers that can hardly close around the fine weave of the carpet.

  I pull it back, and the whispering stops.

  The circle is there, ju
st as it was last night. And although the whispers are silent, my body’s reaction to the circle only becomes more violent. I think I may be sick. Without the cover of darkness, I see that the gouges are fresh where the wood has been dug away to form the circle. This is no remnant from my mother’s time in the Dark Room but an addition much more recent.

  I pull the rug back over the carving, rising on wobbling legs. I will not let it drive me from the room. My mother’s room. I force myself to the wardrobe as I had planned, though I must step around the rug, for my feet cannot, will not, allow me too close.

  Flinging open the wardrobe doors, I perform a quick search, knowing it is not as thorough as it could be and knowing just as well that I no longer care. That I really must leave the room.

  In any case, there is nothing of note in the wardrobe. Some old gowns, a cape, four corsets. Whatever drew Father to this room is as inexplicable as the reason for Alice’s presence here last night and the thing that draws me to it now.

  I step around the rug, making my way to the door as swiftly as possible without actually running. The more distance I put between myself and the rug, between myself and the circle, the better I feel, though still not well.

  I close the door behind me more loudly than I should, leaning against the wall and forcing down the bile that has risen in my throat. I don’t know how long I stand there, catching my breath, forcing my physical symptoms into submission, but all the while my mind is full of fierce and frightful things.

  3

  The day is like a diamond, all beautiful warmth on the outside but without any heat to accompany it. Henry is sitting in his chair by the river with Edmund. It is one of Henry’s favorite places, and though I was young, I remember well the construction of the smooth stone pathway that winds almost to the water’s edge. Father had it built when Henry was but a babe who loved the sound of stones thrown into the water. Edmund and Henry can often be found near the terrace on the banks of the rushing water, skipping stones and placing the small secretive wagers that are forbidden but overlooked by Aunt Virginia.

  I circle the house and am relieved when Alice comes into view on the patio outside the sunroom. Next to the wide open spaces surrounding the house on every side, the glass-enclosed conservatory is her favorite, but it is closed off from November to March due to the cold. During those months, she can often be found on the patio, wrapped in a blanket and sitting on one of the outdoor chairs even on days that I find uncomfortably cold.

  Her legs are stretched out in front of her, the stockings at her ankles showing enough to be considered inappropriate anywhere but within the confines of Birchwood Manor. Her face, soft and round again in contrast to the harsh angles of night, is tipped to the sun, her eyes closed. The shadow of a smile toys with her lips, and they curve upward in an expression that might be either sly or peaceful.

  “Why do you stand there staring, Lia?”

  I am startled by her voice and the way her face doesn’t change at all. I have not made a sound, having stopped in the grass before stepping onto the stone that would announce my arrival. And still she knows I’m here.

  “I was not staring, Alice. I was only watching you. You look so happy.” The heels of my boots click on the patio as I walk toward her, and I try to hide the note of accusation that has crept into my voice.

  “And why wouldn’t I be happy?”

  “I wonder why you would be, Alice. How could you be happy at a time such as this?” My face burns with anger, and I’m suddenly glad her eyes remain closed.

  As if reading my mind, she opens her eyes, focusing on my face. “Father is no longer in the material world, Lia. He is in heaven with Mother. Isn’t that where he’d like to be?”

  Something in her face puzzles me, some shade of peacefulness and happiness that seems altogether wrong so soon after Father’s death.

  “I… I don’t know. We have already lost Mother. I should think Father would have liked to stay and watch over us.” It sounds childish now that I’ve said it aloud, and I once again think Alice the stronger twin.

  She tips her head at me. “I’m certain he watches over us still, Lia. And besides, what is there from which we need protection?”

  I feel the things she has left unsaid. I don’t know what they are, but they pluck at something dark, and all at once I am scared. All at once, I know I will not ask Alice what she was doing in the Dark Room, nor will I show her the mark, though I cannot put words to a singular reason.

  “I’m not afraid, Alice. I only miss him, that’s all.”

  She doesn’t answer, her eyes closed once again to the sun, the look of calm restored to her pale face. There is nothing more to say, nothing more to do but turn and leave.

  When I return to the house, I follow the sound of voices in the library. I cannot make out the words, but they are the voices of men, and I listen for a minute, enjoying their baritone vibration before opening the door. James looks up as I enter the room.

  “Good morning, Lia. We’ve not been too noisy, have we?” There is a thread of urgency under his greeting, and I know immediately there is something he wishes to tell me in private.

  I shake my head. “Not at all. It’s nice to hear noise coming from Father’s study again.” Mr. Douglas is peering with a magnifying glass at the cover of a thick brown volume. “Good morning, Mr. Douglas.”

  He looks up, blinking as if to clear his vision before nodding kindly. “Good morning, Amalia. How are you feeling today?”

  “I’m quite all right, Mr. Douglas. Thank you for asking, and thank you for continuing the catalogue of Father’s collection. He wanted so to see it done. It would make him happy to know that the work continues.”

  He nods again without smiling, and the room falls still with the shared grief of friends. I am relieved when Mr. Douglas becomes preoccupied, looking away and shuffling around for something he seems to have misplaced.

  “Now… where is that blasted ledger?” He pushes papers aside at an increasingly frenzied pace. “Ah! I think I’ve left it in the carriage. I’ll return in a moment, James. Carry on.” He turns and marches from the room.

  James and I stand in the sudden quiet left by his father’s departure. I have long suspected that the never-ending job of cataloging the library had as much to do with Father’s desire to see James and me together as it did his constant acquisitions to the collection. As with his views on women and intellect, my father was not a conformist with regards to class. Our bond with the Douglas men was based on true affection and a shared love of old books. Though there are undoubtedly those in town who think the friendship improper, Father never let the opinions of others form his own.

  James reaches out, taking my hand and gently pulling me toward him. “How are you, Lia? Is there anything I can do?”

  The worry in his voice, the gruff concern, brings the prick of tears to my eyes. I am at once flooded with both sadness and relief. In the safety of James’s company, I realize the strain of my constant caution around Alice.

  I shake my head, clearing my throat a little before trusting myself to speak. “No. It will simply take time, I think, to become used to Father’s absence.” I try to sound strong, but the tears spill onto my cheeks. I cover my face with my hands.

  “Lia. Lia.” He moves my hands and grasps them in his. “I know how much your father meant to you. It’s not the same, I know, but I’m here for anything you need. Anything at all.”

  His eyes burn into mine, and the tweed of his waistcoat brushes against my gown. A familiar rush of heat works its way outward from my stomach to the far reaches of my body and to all the secret places that are only a distant promise.

  He reluctantly steps back, straightening and clearing his throat. “I should think there might be one day when Father would remember to bring the ledger in from the carriage, but it’s a stroke of luck for us. Come! Let me show you what I’ve found.”

  James pulls me along, and I find myself smiling in spite of the circumstances, in spite of his finge
rs nearly touching the mark. “Wait! What is it?”

  He drops my hand when he reaches the bookshelf near the window, reaching behind a stack of books waiting to be catalogued. “I discovered something interesting this morning. A book I didn’t realize your father had acquired.”

  “What…” My eyes light on the black volume as it comes into view. “… book?”

  “This one.” He holds it toward me. “I found it a couple of days ago, after…” Unsure how to make reference to my Father’s death, he smiles sadly and continues. “Anyway, I put it behind the others so I could show it to you before it’s catalogued. It was in a hidden panel at the back of one of the shelves. Father, as ever, was looking for his spectacles and didn’t see it at all. Your father… Well, it’s obvious your father didn’t want anyone to know it was there, though I’m not sure why. I thought you might like to see it.”

  When I drop my gaze to the book, recognition ripples through me, though I am certain I have never seen it before in my life.

  “May I?” I reach out to take it from him.

  “Of course. It belongs to you, Lia. Or… It belonged to your father and I assume it belongs to you. And to Alice and Henry, of course.”

  But this is an afterthought. He is giving the book to me.

  The leather is cool and dry in my hands, the cover decorated with a design I can only feel through the raised figures under my fingers. It is very old, that much is clear.

  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.