Dove Keeper

by Emily Deibler

  It was, and though Jehanne didn’t want to let the energy building in her dissolve, she returned to the bed and let the servant brush her hair.

  Jehanne realized her right hand was clenched shut, and when she opened it, there were red moon marks. “You said Father’s nice, right?”

  Clair made a noncommittal noise, but didn’t stop her duty. “He is.”

  “Then why does he think he’ll make me have a fit?”

  H

  Jehanne’s hand was slick when Clair guided her down the hall, but if the servant was disgusted by the wet nervousness beneath her grip, she gave no sign. Lions, wolves, flowers, and crosses marked the oil paintings lining the walls. Beasts obscured in dense brush beside flourishing carnations and sad, pale women mourning Christ. Then another with a mud-brown acrylic bowl where grapes draped down like fat, green rosaries.

  Jehanne’s attention wandered to her servant, to a silver glint in Clair’s apron pocket, the fabric too weighed down for the object to be a sewing needle.

  “What is that?”

  Clair followed her gaze. “A knife.”

  Jehanne frowned. “What is it for?”

  “Protection.”

  “From what?”

  “Anyone who intrudes.”

  “Does that happen a lot? Intruders?” Jehanne adjusted her fingers in Mlle Clair’s hawkish clutch.

  “Preparations don’t hurt.”

  “Do you expect—” They halted to a stop outside an open door.

  “This is your father’s study. When he’s not in his room, he spends time here.”

  The room was lit by a roaring hearth and smelled of book must. There were many armchairs, with two in the center by a polished table that had a half-empty glass of wine.

  Both chairs were occupied. A man—Father, yes, the one who had cried by her—held another’s hand. At least, that was how it appeared at first, two men reaching across the distance, but on a second glance their hands weren’t touching, only moving as hands did in conversation. The other man looked so much like Father, with the same golden shine to his hair in the firelight, the similar pleasant, lupine features. Father’s hair and skin were so fair she didn’t see his beard at first. His tunic was Heaven-blue.

  The two men looked to Jehanne, her heart stopped, and they whispered, so even when Jehanne strained she couldn’t hear. But it was when their lips stopped that Father shone as she met his eyes. He graced her with something close to awe and disbelief, and all she craved was to close the distance between them.

  The younger man, she guessed, was the servant Clair mentioned before. Moreau. He wasn’t dressed as plainly as Clair. His scarlet tunic alone was much different than a simple apron and dress.

  Standing, Father said to Moreau, “Will you go feed the doves for me?” His voice was honey, and Jehanne felt complete for the first time since she had awoken after her sickness. Moreau bowed and obeyed, not looking at Jehanne, but passing a glance at Clair as he brushed past them. Clair’s hold tightened before she let go of Jehanne.

  Overwhelmed, Jehanne did what came to her first, and she rushed forward and swept her arms around Father’s shoulders. Though he was taller than her, he’d bent a little like he anticipated her action, like the shore molded by sea waves. With his nose buried in her shoulder, he inhaled as though suppressing a sob, and he embraced Jehanne like she’d turn to salt the moment he released her.

  As an afterthought, Father said to Clair, who had taken an interest in the floor, “You may go.” The servant bowed, as much as one could when her head was already inclined, and left.

  “How are you feeling, pup?”

  “I’m all right.”

  “Good, good.” His breath smelled of wine, but his lingering hand was soft on her cheek. “You gave me quite a scare. I imagine you have questions. Come, let’s sit.”

  When Jehanne settled down, she asked, “Why isn’t Mother here?”

  Oddly enough, despite his previous suggestion for them to sit, Father stood close to her.

  Just a day ago, Jehanne had felt a warmth she connected to her dead mother, warmth as honest as Heaven’s fires. The warmth of being a tiny child and resting against Mother, yes, and a scent, a taste settled in the back of her throat. Hay? She had attempted to weave her senses into coherence, yet the memory was cramped, scratchy, and gone before Clair gave Jehanne her special tea. The warmth she felt now was similar, but stronger.

  Father scrutinized her like she was a porcelain doll he didn’t want to break. “Ah, straight to the point. You must be my daughter.” His smile was sad, and Jehanne thought he wouldn’t answer, but he did. “She passed.” Yes, Clair had told her that, but maybe she wasn’t supposed to, and Jehanne wouldn’t do anything to indict her.

  “What happened?”

  “She was sick.”

  “Was it the same illness I had?”

  The lines around Father’s eyes became more pronounced. He hadn’t looked terribly old until now. “I’m not sure. I’m not a doctor.”

  That led to another inquiry. “Why don’t I see a doctor, or why doesn’t one come here?”

  “You can never trust them. Charlatans, the entire lot. Most of them don’t even believe in God, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t know, but a doctor heals the body. I don’t expect a sermon.” She didn’t think a doctor needed to believe, unless the illness came from something wrong with her soul too.

  Father settled his large hand on the crown of her head; he seemed unable to keep his hands off her. “There’s not a disconnect between the body and soul, I don’t think.”

  “Another question.” Jehanne pointed to the side of her neck. “How did I get this scar?”

  Father followed her gaze and wet his lips. It took him a moment to answer, and only the crackling fire filled their silence. “You tried to chase a feral cat in the garden when you were a child, and I’m afraid the cat won.” That was probably before Clair worked here, since the servant hadn’t the slightest clue about Jehanne’s scar.

  “What other rooms are there I can explore?”

  “Hmm, come with me. I have something that might interest you.”

  He took her hand, a touch Jehanne welcomed, and led her to a smaller, emptier room just across the hall. The room had neglected bookshelves, but in the center lounged a strange device beside a green armchair with clawed feet.

  She asked, “What’s this room for?”

  “It’s a bit of a neglected second study.”

  “What’s this?” Jehanne lifted the strange device.

  Father seemed to hide a chuckle, but not an unkind one. “A telephone.”

  Jehanne fit her chin between it. “What does it do?”

  Father took the telephone from her and put it against her ear. The cold shocked her. “You can speak to another person by moving the rotary dial over the numbers.” He pointed to the wheel with holes.

  “Really?” Jehanne couldn’t hide her awe. This couldn’t be real. “What’s our number?”

  Father’s face broke into a fond smile, likely from her enthusiasm. He told her the four-digit number, but when she tried to enter it in with her tenuous remembrance of numbers, Father tenderly took her free hand in his. “No, pup, it’ll do no good to call ourselves.”

  “Who could I call?”

  “No one, as of yet.”

  “Do you call anyone? Can I go outside and meet people?”

  Father’s brow furrowed. “So soon after you’ve gotten out of bed?”

  “I would’ve left sooner if it weren’t for the servant keeping me there.” Jehanne couldn’t help her pout. Clair could be tiresome with all her rules and demands.

  His words were good-humored rather than admonishing. “Now, pup, she only does as I ask, and I pay her exceedingly well to do just that.”

  “It makes me feel bad that she does so much.” To be honest, it didn’t really. She enjoyed having someone do things for her, but it felt gracious to say that. Her father would be impressed with her.


  Father’s smile didn’t waver. “Nonsense. You are within your rights to ask the servants to do anything. If you want to leave, there’s a park nearby, just across the road, but I wouldn’t want you to go so soon and without supervision. And I wouldn’t want you to exhaust yourself staying out too long.”

  “Well, when could I go?”

  His knuckles brushed her temple, and he leaned down to kiss her there. “Let me think on it.”

  “Father, please?”

  “I won’t leave you pining, pup, I swear. Now, would you like breakfast?”

  H

  Jehanne eased her breathing once she closed the manor’s white-stained front door. She really shouldn’t. It was a bad, no, terrible idea. To betray Father’s trust while he read in his study, to go out into the unknown. Even the front yard was strange with its globes of violet weeds and yellow wildflowers. Just off the segmented path, parked to the side of it, was this odd mechanical thing with cataracts in its eyes, a hood covering the interior, tentacled grooves running along its side, and wheels for feet. When Jehanne squeezed her way past the front gate’s needle teeth, she swore the bushes along the dirt road stared back and that the red dots she saw weren’t unpicked berries, but a bushel of alien eyes.

  The road was hard and gray, a flattened snake. An old couple smiled at her beneath the crescent-shaped French pussy willows draping their fuzzy, pink hair on the road. Jehanne smiled back, life brimming deep in her, yet she couldn’t suppress the shiver that rattled her shoulders. With their matching black garbs, the couple looked like two elderly, oversized crows if it weren’t for their ghost-white faces, like they’d burrowed in flour. The whiteness crinkling around their eyes and mouths reminded Jehanne of a dream where flames engulfed her.

  In that dream, she cried out. Little blackbirds sifted around the burning, bone-white earth, and she screamed for them to fly away, to keep away from the fire. She prayed to the Virgin for their protection and her release. An angel hung above her like a weeping portrait.

  Jehanne begged for help. Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. The angel had five pairs of eyes, at least on its face alone, and stars dripping down its sable mantle. When she touched its iron skin, the coldness became wet sand, squelched and funneled between her fingers. What she thought were wings were wisps of sky, a white, spired horizon, and she was falling below herself, sinking into water as black as pitch.

  As Jehanne reached the silty bottom, she met another creature, a hunched, emaciated giant with skin white as the clouds and teeth like a jackal’s. A long tongue and a vulture’s half-clipped wings. Its eyeless face was like a skull without flesh, and its long, pale body was a cross between a human, a horse, and a dog; spindles poked out of its arms and spine like it was part-fish too. Thick, black worms shivered on its back and side.

  Instead of moving to attack, the giant waited on its haunches, and Jehanne had the inkling that she was witnessing something both profane and godly, though she could only guess what. Jehanne woke before dawn with blood cresting her pillow, which she tossed under the bed because she had ten more. With a ringing in her ears, she suffered a thundering headache and wiped off blood where she’d bitten her lip.

  After her recollection, Jehanne realized the old couple was gone, and she was alone with her thoughts and the brisk, howling wind. She walked, and she heard only the sound of her shoes slapping the hard road.

  It was okay. So long as she knew her way back, nothing terrible could happen. As she continued, she met an expanse of muted green full of proud birches and oaks; there were also winding dirt paths with benches.

  But the most striking image was a girl with red hair trying to climb one of the trees.

  5

  Marcy

  André was a father, and she’d do anything to forget that, even climb this stupid tree. For at least a week, which was a substantial chunk of time, she wanted to at least kiss him, that was all, and she had, yet it’d been empty, not enough.

  So, she tried to climb, but the tree was smooth like a scaleless lizard, so gaining traction was hard. Marcy grunted and landed on her rear. Maman would have words if she saw this; her mother didn’t have words for her unless it was a correction of something such as this.

  Well, I have the boots, coat, and hat she asked for, don’t I? Defeated on the ground, the hat was by her elbow and wings-up like a headsail.

  From behind, a voice said, “Hello?”

  Marcy hurried to her feet, forgetting all about the hat. When she swiveled about, there was a girl staring at her, and this stranger’s face and arms were long like a wolf’s. Marcy admired the girl’s body, especially the shape of her legs, at least what could be discerned beneath the pants. She wondered how soft the skin there felt.

  But the girl’s clothes were odd. A simple tunic and pants, how strange, especially in public, despite Marcy’s limited knowledge of such. That sort of attire on a woman was probably not unheard of, but it was still boyish, though not unflattering.

  The girl looked at Marcy like she had sneaked behind her.

  Nevertheless, the stranger said, “Sorry.”

  Marcy tried to save face by grinning and brushing herself off. This was the first girl close to her age she had encountered in years, and she wouldn’t squander that. “Hi. What’s your name?”

  Without hesitation, which struck Marcy as odd, the girl answered, “Jehanne.” She looked closer to André’s age; there was something about her that seemed experienced yet untouched all at once.

  Marcy extended a hand and grinned. “I’m Marcy, Marcy Deibler.”

  Jehanne stared in confusion for a moment before her eyes brightened and she shook Marcy’s hand. The air between them grew solemn. Jehanne said, “I’m really not allowed to be out long.”

  “Oh, me neither.”

  “I should go soon. I don’t want my father to worry.”

  Marcy persisted, “How often do you come out here? I don’t go out much. I mostly look at newspapers to see what’s happening outside. Do you read them?”

  Jehanne’s lips tightened in thought. “I didn’t see any on the front steps. I think—maybe the servants throw them out.” Servants? Like in those pulp Gothic stories? “And I can’t read much.”

  Now that was curious, Jehanne not being able to read much, especially if she could afford servants, but the servants thing came to the forefront of Marcy’s mind. “Wait, where do you live?”

  Jehanne pointed. “Just down the road, where there are a little more trees.”

  Marcy frowned. That was where the ancient manors were. Some were even a few centuries old, Papa had told her. Mostly old people stayed in them. “How big is your house?”

  “It’s pretty big.”

  “Do you live with your parents?” Her father, at least, based on what she’d said. Marcy was letting her mouth go so she could keep this interesting new girl here.

  “My father.” Jehanne paused, gazing down at her clasped hands. “My mother is dead.”

  “Oh, ah, I’m sorry.” Even with their troubles, Marcy couldn’t cope if Maman died because that’d ruin any chances of them learning to speak the same language. “I could come visit you sometime, if you need someone to talk to.” Marcy hoped the desperation didn’t burden her voice.

  “I could ask Father. Maybe. I’d like it. Home could use more noise in the day. But I should go before—”

  “Let’s climb a tree.”

  Jehanne’s forehead darkened with lines. “Father will . . .”

  Panic beat against Marcy’s ribs like wings. If she didn’t get this girl to stay, she’d lose the one fresh connection she had made in the past several years. She was always kept home and tutored by her parents. She needed Jehanne to stay even if it killed Marcy to make it happen. She sifted through possible ways to keep Jehanne there, the stories she’d read about the ghost barber or the death-bride—no, telling those stories would be a bit gruesome, though it was a guilty pleasure for Marcy to read those kinds of tales this time of year, the time Papa made his
toffees and a special orange, caramelized cake with apples, hazelnuts, and raisins.

  There was the book she’d read, Là-Bas, but it was grotesque too, and Jehanne might not be interested in that. The story had been about a man of Brittany, who was hanged in Nantes because he had sold his soul to the Devil. He had done so with the help of an alchemist and, after, murdered hundreds of innocents, so the demon he conjured up would give him silver to save him from becoming destitute; there were rumors today the man became a demon himself after the Church burned his body.

  No, that wouldn’t do.

  “Please?” Marcy ran and tilted her thumb toward a gnarled branch that was tinged with gold. Best of all, it didn’t molt like the birches. “Look! This looks like a good one, lots of places to put your feet.” Jehanne walked over and inspected the tree. “It won’t take that long, and then you can leave.”

  Marcy’s excitement caught on, apparently, because Jehanne seemed reluctant to crush her hopes. “Okay.”

  Marcy took note of how Jehanne didn’t shake in the cold. “Aren’t you freezing?”

  “Should I be?”

  Marcy lifted a corner of her mouth. “I suppose you don’t have to.” She tilted her chin up. “Are you afraid you’ll fall?”

  Jehanne flashed her a grin. “No, I have better faith than anyone.”

  So, they climbed until they were both standing on thick bark knobs with their hands on the rough trunk, and Marcy laughed once she caught her breath. Both girls stayed like that for a good minute before Jehanne, hands shaking, broke the silence.

  “I was sick recently, and I almost died.”

  Marcy’s heart hurt. “If you don’t want to talk about it . . .”

  Jehanne tilted her head. “I have amnesia; I can remember almost nothing about the past.”

  “I don’t really know what amnesia means, except for the memory loss. I’ve read about it in stories, where people lose their memories and get them back when they need to, those odd little vampire and ghost stories, but I don’t think I can be much help.”

  “Talking helps, I think. I just don’t have that many people to talk to.” God, Marcy understood that well.