The Named

by Marianne Curley

  We’re in Arkarian’s main chamber, after school, while he explains our parts. ‘Isabel, you’re going in as a housemaid, happy to have found service to help your own poor family out. While there you will befriend the girl called Abigail Smith, figure out what her health problem is, and heal her if the illness isn’t natural.’

  ‘What if it is natural, must I just let her die?’

  ‘In that case, we know from history that she will recover.’

  But how will I be able to tell the difference between genuine illness and attempted murder?’

  Arkarian frowns. ‘You’ll know. Use your skills.’

  ‘So what are these people like?’ I ask.

  ‘They’re a prominent New England family; Abigail’s father is a minister from a farming community not far from Boston. It’s a happy household with four children, not a lot of money, but they’re comfortable. The parents, William and Elizabeth, are very concerned about Abigail. Elizabeth in particular is overprotective, which not only worries young Abigail, but irritates her too. She’s had no formal education – girls of that time often didn’t – but her grandmother is educating her at home and doing a fine job. Abigail has a great love of books, so you’ll find her an avid reader, Isabel.’

  He hasn’t mentioned my role yet. Taking a hint from my thoughts, Arkarian turns his attention to me. ‘Now, Ethan, this is basically Isabel’s mission, but as she’s relatively new at this, and in the light of recent disturbing events, it’s been decided you should go along and make yourself useful.’

  Isabel flicks me a brief annoyed look like she thinks there’s a conspiracy going on about her inadequacies, or something. She can be so sensitive sometimes as if she has to prove herself all the time. ‘Are you going just to be my bodyguard?’ she snaps at me.

  I look at Arkarian to define my role. ‘Yes and no, Isabel. Every mission has an element of danger, and lately, well, there’s been some unusual events surrounding you. It would be a good idea for Ethan to keep an eye out for trouble. Remember, your skills are still evolving. It would be irresponsible to send you out there without backup. You’re still an Apprentice, and a new one at that.’

  She nods and keeps quiet while Arkarian turns his attention to me. ‘Now you, Ethan, are basically there to watch over the situation. It would also be helpful, once Isabel works out what’s wrong with Abigail, to find the source of the foul play I suspect and eliminate it.’

  I get it. I’m to watch Isabel without being intrusive, discover the culprit and deal with him or her. ‘When do we leave?’

  ‘Tonight. Be ready.’

  We leave Arkarian’s chambers and walk towards Isabel’s place. She’s quiet, her large brown eyes larger than usual, her fingers digging deeply into her jeans pockets, her eyes focused on the path beneath our feet.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I ask.

  Distractedly she glances at me. ‘Hmm?’

  ‘You’re not nervous, are you?’ I try to put her mind at ease. ‘I mean, this is a pretty routine mission.’

  ‘My healing skills are miserable at best, Ethan,’ she explains her worry.

  ‘Listen, Isabel, you’re ready, or the Guard wouldn’t send you. Trust in them.’

  She tugs out her hands and starts blowing on them. ‘What if I fail? Who is this girl? What happens if she dies? Will the world be cataclysmically different today because of it?’

  ‘Maybe it will and maybe it won’t. Thinking about that isn’t our job. We’re here to ensure that the present and ultimately the future turn out as they should. If history has it that this girl Abigail did not die back in 1759, then she mustn’t die tonight – not in the few days that we’re going to be visiting this time period.’

  ‘Who is she, exactly? I mean, does she do something important when she’s older?’

  I tell her what I know. ‘When she’s nineteen she’s going to marry a brilliant young lawyer named John Adams.’

  She has a think for a second. ‘Not President John Adams?’

  ‘Well, he’s not president when she’s nineteen, but yeah, that’s the one. And of course you know, don’t you, that one of Abigail’s sons becomes the sixth president of the United States later on?’

  ‘Oh, wow,’ she sighs and frowns at her feet, then kicks a stone out of her path.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I ask at her worried expression.

  ‘What if I fail, Ethan? The responsibility is enormous.’

  ‘If you fail – and there’s always the possibility – we hope like hell that Abigail’s premature death doesn’t have significant impact on the present, and ultimately the future.’

  ‘Have you ever failed?’

  It’s the question I’ve been expecting, yet dreading at the same time. ‘Yeah, of course.’

  ‘Were there consequences?’

  I think about that convict mission only last year. ‘I was supposed to stop a woman called Elizabeth Howath from being murdered. I knew that her assassin had taken on the guise of a soldier. When I arrived at the scene, Elizabeth was strung to a pole in the centre of a courtyard being whipped by a cat-o’-nine tails. The soldier was hitting her so violently that I felt sure he was the killer. I stopped it by creating the illusion that she had passed out. The soldier walked away, leaving her body to rot in the hot midday sun and I cut her loose. Staggering to safety, she found freedom in nearby bushland. I thought that because I’d stopped the flogging and Elizabeth still breathed, my mission was complete. But she died anyway, from a raging fever a few nights later, alone in the bush.’

  ‘Oh, no!’

  ‘All I’d had to do was tend her wounds and find her a safe haven until she recovered. But I didn’t think of that.’

  ‘Couldn’t you have gone back?’

  ‘You can’t go back to the exact same time twice.’

  ‘Oh. So did anything happen?’

  ‘You mean, did the present change?’

  She nods as we keep walking.

  ‘Thirteen people were recorded as officially missing that night in the present.’

  She grabs my arm. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Because Elizabeth Howath’s life was tampered with, and she died years before she was supposed to, certain descendants that once existed, suddenly didn’t.’

  ‘So all her descendants were, what? Suddenly wiped out?’

  ‘Not all. Arkarian believes some of those people would have been born anyway, through other heritage lines.’

  ‘That’s terrible, Ethan!’

  ‘We only get one chance at it. If someone dies, they die, Isabel. If the Order of Chaos can kill someone prematurely, and the Guard can’t stop it, then that’s it. There’s no second chance with death.’

  ‘Oh, hell.’

  ‘You’re right that it’s a lot of responsibility, but for what it’s worth, the Guard is pretty good at getting it right most of the time, and getting us in there before it’s too late. That was my biggest stuff-up so far, other than the night you came along and saved the situation from being a total disaster.’ I see her smile to herself. ‘Anyway, I learned from that experience.’

  We walk quietly the rest of the way. At her front gate she turns and says seriously, ‘I won’t get it wrong, Ethan. I promise.’

  As she heads off inside with a brighter step, I acknowledge the truth in her statement: Isabel will do her best. And Isabel’s best is more than the Guard can ask for. But I know there’s an added element in tonight’s mission, a danger element. Arkarian couldn’t keep his concern from showing. He suspects that not only the frail girl called Abigail could be in trouble tonight.

  He suspects Isabel could be too.

  Chapter Thirty

  Isabel

  This time I have some dinner, more because it’s expected than because of any hunger. My stomach’s rolling around as it is. Jimmy comes in and acts the fool as usual. The only indication he gives that we met the other night in the ancient city vault is a lingering look before he goes out to watch television with Mum.

 
I wash up, take a shower, then go to bed. Tonight I’m not worried about Mum coming in to check on me. I get the feeling Jimmy will keep her occupied for some time. Matt crosses my mind, but he’s not home yet; he’s having a night out with friends.

  It takes me a while to fall asleep. My body, though weary, seems to have too much restless energy shifting around inside. I grab my notebook with the Prophecy written inside, as I do almost every night these days, and try again to figure it out. But my eyes start to close, and suddenly I feel myself shift as if my body is free-falling. Then I drop and hit a mildly springy surface.

  I wake inside one of the most beautiful rooms I have ever seen. An artist with every colour of the spectrum available to him couldn’t create a masterpiece to match the brilliant display in this room. Every wall is painted with murals of electric colour, some abstract, others landscapes so real it would be easy to think I could walk right through into the scenery portrayed there. From my position stretched out on the Citadel floor, I gaze up at the ceiling, which is equally vividly painted.

  ‘Not bad, eh?’ Ethan is already in the room waiting.

  My head shifts from side to side, still in awe. ‘Where does this all come from? Who decorated these rooms?’

  He shrugs. ‘Arkarian once told me there is a reason a room chooses you, but he didn’t elaborate.’

  He reaches down and helps me up. I rub a sore patch on my thigh where a bruise must be forming from the impact with the floor, sparking my temper suddenly. ‘There is a knack to these landings, isn’t there, Ethan?’

  ‘Yeah, why?’ he replies, oblivious to my annoyance.

  I give him a hard shove. ‘Then why don’t you show me?’

  His mouth forms an open circle, then settles into an embarrassed grin. ‘Sorry. It’s not that hard. We’ll practise soon, I promise.’

  In a wardrobe room several flights up, I end up dressed in a long grey cotton skirt over an off-white petticoat, a white blouse with a high neck, and black shoes with holes in the toes. My hair is mousy brown, slicked straight to my scalp and pinned severely in a bun at the back. Beneath a triangular white cap my complexion is pale, as if I hardly ever see the sun. Ethan emerges wearing dark-grey trousers that don’t reach his ankles, a simple beige check shirt and bare feet. He has black curls cropped close to his scalp and appears smaller in stature. Our appearance is definitely simple, tidy, poor and youthful.

  After being sprinkled with the dust that will give us the knowledge we need to fit in with our destination, we go to the edge of the departure door. I’m so astonished by what I suddenly see stretched out before me, I take a tottering step backwards.

  Ethan turns to me. ‘What’s wrong?’

  This must be because of Arabella’s gift, I think. ‘I … I see it.’

  ‘See what?’

  ‘Where we’re going. The town, the actual street, the … the house, with its little red windows upstairs, and the matching red door. North Street or, or Norton Street. Something like that.’

  ‘Excellent!’ He reaches for my hand and tugs me to the door opening. ‘Now all you have to do to land on your feet is flex the ankles, preparing them for a spring. Let’s see how you go this time.’

  ‘What? Aren’t you coming with me?’

  ‘In a little while. They’re expecting you. I have to plead for some odd jobs so I can have an excuse to stick around.’ He gives my hand a gentle squeeze. ‘But don’t worry, I won’t be far behind.’

  I turn and get my bearings, then leap. Now that I can see where I’m going I’d like to think I can land without falling over. What did Ethan say? Spring and flex. But I hit the hard paved footpath like a brick dropping on cement. I get up quickly, glancing around, feeling the side of my leg for grazes. At least no one’s about. I straighten my skirt, stagger up and knock on the front door.

  A woman answers, tall, elegant, her hair pulled tight at the back. ‘Yes, child?’

  I thought I was expected. Now what? ‘Ah, I’m Judith Evans and, um …’

  ‘You’re a lot smaller than I envisaged.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am, but I’m a hard worker.’

  ‘So I’ve been assured, and as I’m not one to judge a book by its cover, you’d better come in, child. You can prove your worth instead. It’s been hectic in here, what with Abby being so ill. She’s my second eldest and has lately been forced to spend a lot of time in her room. You’re to clean her room without disturbing her. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  She nods and steps back to allow me entrance. ‘I’ll show you where you’re going to sleep first. There’s a room in the attic. It’s not much, but it’s comfortable. Then I’ll explain your chores and duties. You can get started straight away.’

  To get into the attic I have to open a square in the ceiling with a hook and pull a ladder down. With this skirt it’s a chore in itself. But the room is not so bad, fairly large, as the attic runs the length of most of the top level of the house. The ceilings are low with cross-beams zigzagging the length and breadth of the entire room, and the bed is small and hard, the room icy cold; but hopefully I won’t be staying long.

  I soon understand exactly what’s expected of me, basically everything from making beds to dusting, beating the multitude of rugs, starching all manner of white fabric, including the household linen, and helping out in the kitchen.

  Keen to get on with what I’m really here for, I work through my duties as quickly as possible, leaving Abigail’s room for last. I want to spend more time with her than with my chores, without having Mrs Smith complaining that I should be working elsewhere. I have a plan; I hope I can pull it off.

  Abigail is sleeping when I enter her room. Quickly, I go about my chores. I drop my broom with a loud bang to the polished wooden floor, and she doesn’t stir. What if she’s already dead? But then she moans softly and I relax a little.

  Having finished my chores, I go and stand by her bed. There’s a book on a seat nearby – a selection of poetry. I place the book on her side table and sit on the seat. Glancing at the door, I’m grateful no one’s around. For a minute I do nothing except watch Abigail sleep. She’s small, but has the look of someone who still has a lot of growing to do. Her hair is long and plaited in two braids. She lies unnaturally still. Her bed linen is neat and tidy for someone who spends a lot of time among the sheets. Perhaps she’s just a deep sleeper, not troubled by bad dreams. Her skin is pale, but that figures, as she’s been so ill. I take her hand, close my eyes and begin to visualise.

  What I perceive shocks me. Her body is in the midst of inner torment, every cell fighting some sort of alien and very unwanted invasion. I search through blood, bone, organ and tissue, desperately trying to find the source of this intrusion. My head pulses with possibilities and visual images. I suddenly feel nauseous.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Breaking my concentration, I turn towards the voice, gently laying Abigail’s hand back down on the white, stiffly starched sheet. ‘Pardon me, ma’am, but Miss Abigail called out in her sleep. I sought to comfort her.’

  Miss Smith takes in Abigail’s sleeping form and gives a tight nod. ‘In future, Evans, you come and find me.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  Abigail stirs with a soft moan and opens her eyes. I start thinking that at last I’ll get to speak with her.

  ‘If your chores are done, Evans, you may leave now.’ Great, I’m not even going to get a chance to introduce myself. Reluctantly, I get up and with a last longing look at Abigail – or Abby, as her mother calls her – I start to leave. Abby’s eyes are wide open now and looking at me questioningly. I give her a wide smile as I slowly back out of the room. Mrs Smith’s stern eyes follow me all the way out the door.

  With a little spare time on my hands, I go outside for a look around. It’s a farm and there are lots of activities going on. I head towards the sounds of men talking and animals grunting and snorting. There’s a square fenced-off area adjacent to a large shed that is probabl
y a barn. I get a few strange looks from the workers there, and as I can’t see Ethan anywhere, I go back inside. In the kitchen I help a woman named Mary prepare a stew with corn on the cob, sweet peas, turnips and other vegetables. But it’s the pecan pie that grabs my attention: the largest pie of any sort I’ve ever seen. I get it out of the wood-fired oven carefully with two hands. It must weigh a couple of pounds on its own.

  As we work, I ply Mary with questions about Abigail, but either Mary is reluctant to discuss the girl’s health and background, or she just doesn’t know much. I think, considering Mary’s been working here for years, she’s probably keeping quiet out of family loyalty.

  I work for two days and still don’t get any closer to Abby nor to the reason for her illness. Mrs Smith is so protective, hovering over her daughter like a watchful hawk. I’m also worried because I haven’t seen anything of Ethan yet. Where is he? He promised he would be nearby. Well if he is, he’s sure doing a good job of remaining invisible.

  By the third night I decide to hurry things along. Abby is obviously not getting any better, while Mary grows snappier with her matronly concern. I sense Mrs Smith may be off-loading some of her concerns for Abby onto her. So when the house finally falls asleep, I slide out of bed, braving the cold with every step down the ladder. Hurrying on bare feet down the long narrow hallway, and with a quick look around, I open the door to Abby’s room.

  I find Abby sitting up, leaning against a stack of pillows and reading by the light from a single candle by her bedside. When she sees me she gives a little startled squeal. ‘Oh, sorry,’ she says with a slight giggle. ‘I wasn’t expecting anyone. You must be Judith Evans. Mother says your work is sloppy and poor.’

  Her insult makes me gasp, but I realise quickly that she’s joking. Even though the light is dim and her face should be in deep shadow, I can see her as if the room were showered in brilliant sunlight. A mischievous smile is clear on her face.

  ‘I must work harder then, even though my knees and elbows are red raw from scrubbing these polished floors for hours every day.’