Spectris

by Quinn Coleridge

  I scramble backwards, kicking at the door with my boot, but the Furies enter my home as though it is their right. Tall and regal they stand, wearing white cloaks of spun wool. Thin, silver bands shine on their foreheads.

  Di miserentur. The Eternal Ladies. Why come to me? I have done nothing to warrant a visit from them. In the old days, the people of Rome never spoke ill of the Furies, fearing retribution at their hands. If they were mentioned at all, it was always in a complimentary fashion. The Wise Ones, the Gracious Sisters, etcetera.

  In a panic, I try to subdue my hearing, but it doesn’t work. I have no control over my gift in their presence. One of the Three Sisters lowers herself to the floor and whispers to me, the sound a shriek inside my skull. “Visionary of Stonehenge, thou hast forsaken the gods and serve them no more.”

  I cover my face with my hands, and answer telepathically. No, Lady. I would never.

  She touches my arm and her fingers are as freezing as Sir Death’s. History repeats itself behind my eyes. I see myself at war with my nemesis, my half-brother James Scarlett, just as it happened last spring. Locked in a battle of good and evil, we stand on a platform at the train station in Stonehenge, and the sun above is black, eclipsed by the moon. A tornado whirls about the station house, cocooning us within our little hell as lightning cracks the sky. I lunge forward and rake Scarlett’s face with my bare hand. His cheek and eye-socket dissolve under my fingernails like honey in hot tea. A vision of his death flies through my head as he begins to scream. I know the location, the method, and the perpetrator behind his demise.

  My half-brother’s magic is greater than mine. He never expected to lose to me. “What have you done, you stupid girl? How could this happen?”

  He falls to the train track below, and a bone in his leg shatters beneath him. It takes me a few minutes to locate my sledgehammer, but I return with it to the edge of the platform. Scarlett whimpers like a lost child and with his defenses weakened, I smell the terror inside him. He does not wish to meet Sir Death and face the punishments of the underworld.

  The handle of the sledgehammer feels solid. It would be so easy to finish Scarlett, but I shrink from it. Evil as he is, I pity my brother, and maybe it isn’t in my nature to kill, having represented the rights of the dead for so long. Or it could be that I saw him die a moment ago in my mind, and it wasn’t here and now.

  I call out in my psyche, seeking Sir Death, and find only silence, emptiness. The Reaper does not lurk about the train station but labors elsewhere. Relief pulses through me, and I turn from the edge of the platform as Scarlett calls my name. The tornado dies down all at once; the sun casts off its smothering moon. My chance to kill him has passed, and I feel a profound lightness. I’ve fought and spilled blood many times, but I have never taken a life.

  The vision clears, and all I see within my mind are the black eyes of a Fury. They are like opaque glass, unblinking, all-seeing. It is the one with the basket, the gatherer. I hear her voice inside me, and it is more fearsome than when she merely spoke aloud.

  Thou hast failed thy duty, Hester Grayson. Scarlett lives still.

  I lift a trembling hand, a barrier to block her dreadful gaze. It was not his time, Lady. I saw his death come with a bullet, years from now.

  You saw it? She stands and brushes the skirts of her robe. What proof have we of that?

  Hope sputters inside my chest. Give me your hand. I will pass the vision to you.

  The Fury recoils as I reach toward her. My touch would drive thee mad, mortal.

  But I speak the truth. Scarlett will die as Fate foretold.

  Many souls might have lived had you finished him that day.

  The soft, piercing tone makes me desperate. Rubbing at my head, I try to push the Fury’s image away, but her terrifying beauty remains. Please, Lady. Have mercy. My duty is not to take lives, but to reveal truth. To serve the dead.

  Nevertheless, charges have been brought. How dost thou plea?

  The other Furies gather at her side. Yes, they murmur. Tell us.

  What do they mean, my plea?

  A remnant of the old gods, frozen in a less-civilized time, the Furies are the law within our supernatural society. Their sole duty is to prosecute those who fail in their callings, like a deadly firm of time-hopping magistrates. Fortunately for the accused, habeas corpus applies to magic folk as well as to their human counterparts. Evidence must be proven in court before a congregation of one’s peers, within a proper forum where the Tables of Roman Law are posted.

  I lift my chin in defiance and get up from the floor. I have never shirked Veritas, and this ambush is no official trial. Like everything else in the universe, the Furies are governed by rules, but they walk a fine line now between keeping them and disobeying. Physical pain and intimidation are not allowed. Are these immortals rogue? Vigilantes?

  Crossing my arms over my midsection, I remember my brother’s ruined face as he lay on the train track. I did not break a law by sparing him. His death is set for the future, as the prophetic vision promised.

  Your plea?

  The Furies raise their voices ever so slightly, and I wince. They look as though they enjoy my discomfort.

  Heartbeat aflutter, I lift my hand, my fingers separating to form a V, for Veritas. This is no court. There’s no jury present. It is a sham of justice, but I am innocent.

  The Sisters glance at each other, as though they expected this response. Thy plea is noted, though the sins of James Scarlett rest upon thee.

  My fear gives way to outrage. I carry no sin of his! Haven’t you heard anything I’ve told you?

  The immortals watch me with their proud Roman faces. Of course they heard, and they will record every word I say to use against me later in court.

  The Sister with the scale wrinkles her forehead and the silver band sparkles. Thou cometh from bad and to bad wilt thou go. First thy aunt’s betrayal, then thy brother—the abomination—with the blood of Archimendax and Veritas at battle in his veins.

  My aunt Mary Arden? What has she to do with this? And whom did Mary betray? I had thought she lost her position as Veritas for ghost-madness or using dark gifts. And why am I to blame for Scarlett’s shocking birthright? He can’t help being descended from both the source of lies and the font of truth.

  I shake my head at the Fury. No, Sister. Your information is unfair, unjust.

  We shall see.

  The three immortals move forward and reach out their hands, pointing just below my collarbone. Above my heart. My skin sizzles, and I pull away from the Furies as they whisper ancient words.

  Thy charges stand. Thou art summoned to trial.

  Tremors run through my body, and I jerk at the material of my bodice. Buttons scatter on the hall floor. Pro di immortales! I burn with torment. I will die.

  The Furies do not stop, and I do not perish. Swirling, elemental fire brands the area above my camisole with golden script, giving the time and place of my court date. Just two months away.

  October 31, 1892. Stonehenge ruins at midnight.

  The writing glows against my skin and disappears a moment later. I touch the space it occupied, but the flesh is cool once more. All three Furies step back and nod.

  Thy summons will burn again, Visionary, the gatherer warns. Enough to consume thee, if thou cometh not to trial.

  I close my tattered blouse, not trusting my hands to fix what buttons remain. Midnight, All Hallows Eve. Nothing could keep me away, Ladies.

  One by one, the Sisters turn and walk toward the door, and my supernatural sight begins to fade. I follow after them a step. It is my right to know the accuser’s name.

  Stopping in the doorway, the gatherer gazes back at me, a faint wind lifting pieces of her hair. Her wool cloak looks pure and primordial as the first snow. You wish to learn who charges thee with the crime of allowing thy brother to live?

  Yes.

  She begins to shimmer, and once more, I smell olive groves and warm, dusty countryside, the old lands of my
people. The immortal smiles gently, but her words slice through my mind.

  He who had the most to lose and gain.

  She laughs and reveals the identity of my accuser.

  Surely, this is a joke. It defies all the rules of the supernatural world.

  In a flash of light, I am alone in the hallway, stunned and completely blind again. The Furies and their maddening voices have disappeared, and I don’t know what to do. Nothing feels safe or real anymore for the name I heard from the Sister’s lips is that of the man I didn’t kill.

  James Scarlett has brought the charges against me.

  4

  Ex caerulo.

  Out of the blue.

  I hold down the contents of my stomach before staggering to the front door and locking it. I hasten to my room and grab my lucky stone off the dresser. My hair still reeks of smoke from the factory, but I climb upon the bed and wrap myself in the quilt Cordelia made for me. It smells of soap and starch and summer sunshine.

  Breathing in the sweetness of the quilt, I roll the lucky stone over my knuckles and begin to organize my fears, putting them away into an imaginary tall boy wardrobe in my mind. Without this coping tool, I could not function within the many roles I play in life.

  In the first drawer, I stow my visitation from the Furies, and think of the tokens of old Rome. The manner of dress, the noble beauty and sense of timelessness. How I wish I could love the immortals. And perhaps behind their keening voices and cruelty, I do in a way. They cause me to yearn for my ancient homeland as though I have known it and lived there long ago. Sighing, I shut their drawer firmly. I will ponder more upon the Furies, and my upcoming trial, in the days to come but not tonight.

  My next order of business is to stash James Scarlett into the deepest of hiding places, but I do not shut that drawer immediately. How could he do this, bringing charges against my name because I did not kill him? Most people would be glad they are alive, scarred or not—I certainly am. Is this ridiculous farce all because I marred his beauty and pride? Rumor has it he’ll be back from Georgia soon, a new and improved psychopath with a score to settle. Hopefully, by then I will be prepared to do battle once more.

  After putting Scarlett in the tall boy, I banish Willa Holloway and the factory ghosts. Though they do not remain hidden, but caper about in my mind, unable to rest. I give up on forcing the ghosts to obey, knowing they will continue to haunt me regardless of my attempts to suppress them.

  Last of all, the final drawer is reserved for Constable Drown and his suspicions about Isaac Baker’s involvement in the bombing. I shove it closed and hope for a positive outcome with the policeman. Barba tenus sapientes. Smiling over the Latin insult, I wish Drown well. Let him prove wiser than he sounds and more perceptive than his theories suggest.

  I rise from the bed, feeling less anxious, and return my lucky stone to the dresser. Cordelia’s quilt doesn’t smell so lovely now as I shake it out, but I have no other covers to sleep with tonight. I remove my clothes and gingerly touch my upper chest. The skin is as smooth and cool as before, with no evidence of the brand given me by the Furies. I curse the cold water under my breath, but I refuse to reheat the kitchen stove again. Bending over the hip bath, I quickly wash my hair. When that chore is done, I climb into the tub and scrub myself clean.

  Sadly, even the lilac soap can’t improve this miserable experience.

  Finished bathing at last, wet hair tied back with a strip of cotton, I sit at the kitchen table, warming my hands around a cup of tea. The scalding sweetness burns my tongue until it feels rubbery at the tip, but I cannot stop drinking. My brain seems to think I will recover warmth and normalcy if I ingest enough Darjeeling. I eat a leftover biscuit from the sewing circle, one that has sat on a platter for hours, waiting to be put away. Nevertheless, I suddenly feel famished and wish for another half dozen biscuits. Crunchy, slightly spicy, with a hint of molasses, they’re therapeutic for one’s nerves.

  As I savor the last crumbs, I keep my mind carefully blank. I focus on the simple pleasure of tasting, and then I doze while sitting at the table. Somehow, I do not slip to the side or fall on the floor. I’m unsure how long I manage this trick, but my body is stiff and uncertain of movement when I return to full wakefulness. Is this how horses or cows feel after taking a nap on their feet, out in the barnyard? If so, I do not envy them, poor beasts.

  With this foolish nonsense in my head, I decide to get up and tidy the kitchen. A metal, clinking sound drifts across the room as someone unlocks the front door. I hold my breath, hoping it is just one of my boarders. Thankfully, it is Gabriel who murmurs a greeting from the hall.

  “No survivors,” he says, entering the kitchen. “Of course the search isn’t over. A new team’s taken my place, and I’ll go back tomorrow.”

  Because he deserves some comforting, I go to the effort of heating water for his wash. Gabriel dumps it into a basin outside on the back porch. He takes longer than usual to clean himself, which gives me time to set out the last of the ham. I add some cheese to the plate and a precious bottle of pears. Gabriel returns to the house and thanks me for the spread. Listening to him eat, it’s easy to tell that his appetite is minuscule compared to the hearty consumption I’ve come to expect.

  “Thank you again, Miss Hester,” he says, after finishing the meal. “For this food and for having my back on Cardiff Avenue.”

  I smile up at him. You’re tired, I sign. Go sleep.

  “My thoughts, exactly. Good night.”

  I track Gabriel’s progress through the house. Old stairs squeak as he climbs them to the second floor, and the banister groans mightily. The giant ambles toward his bedroom with the tread of a sorrowful man. A few minutes later, Willard enters the kitchen as I’m washing a stack of plates. He walks past me to take something from the table. A crunching sound follows and a tart sweetness hits the air. Our last apple, if I’m not mistaken.

  He moves on to the cheese and bread next. “This is good, Silver Eyes. Got any more pears?”

  Smiling, I tilt my head in the direction of the pantry. Willard gets himself a bottle of fruit and leans on the counter by the sink to eat as I finish the dishes. “Seem worn out,” he says.

  No woman likes to hear this, especially if it is true.

  I shrug in reply to his observation and Willard offers to check the doors and lock up so I can get to bed. I hear the scrape of a Lucifer match being lit. It ignites and Willard makes a choking sound, as though the sulfur fumes have gone up his nose. He curses in Arapahoe and lights his lantern. The distinct, oily smell of kerosene makes me want to curse as well, but Willard removes the source of the odor by carrying the lantern outside. He walks toward the barn with that slight arthritic hitch in his step. Behind schedule, Willard goes about his chores quickly. They are a daily ritual, a constant in my chaotic life just as the man himself has been. The cows make happy sounds as Willard fixes his special mixture of corn and grains. Maybe a bit of alfalfa if he’s feeling generous.

  That done, Willard moves on, invading the hen house and plundering the nests of the drowsy chickens. I take off my apron, and stretch my back. Damn and blast. It aches more at night.

  Willard enters the house and locks both front and back doors. He then hands me some type of bowl. “A present for the landlady.”

  I smile and mouth the words thank you. Worn out women like presents. Especially landladies.

  The bowl feels like it’s made of felt with high sides and a brim. I run my fingers over the object and realize it is Willard’s pork pie hat. A dozen eggs nestle inside.

  “See you in the morning, Shorty,” Willard says as he leaves for his rooms in the basement.

  Shorty? I thought I was Silver Eyes, Pale Skin, and White Hair.

  I can’t complain too much—at least Willard’s talking. Usually he avoids chatter like the plague, arriving and departing like a trade wind from a distant shore.

  My dilemma of what to serve for breakfast has been solved since everyone in the house like
s coddled eggs. Now if I can avoid setting my apron on fire, all will be well. I wince at the thought, just the idea of something catching fire brings back all the smells from the disaster at the factory. It kills any appetite I might have had for the eggs in Willard’s hat.

  Biting my lip, I wonder why he entrusted me with them. Perhaps Willard is showing good faith in my cooking potential, implying that my next foray into the kitchen might be the beginning of a new chapter of culinary brilliance. I shake my head in doubt at the notion.

  I am more likely to grow muttonchops by sunrise than to achieve any sort of brilliance in the kitchen.

  After putting the ill-fated eggs away in the cold closet, I retire to my bedroom. My old cotton nightgown is soft against my skin as I slip it on. I crawl into bed and lie in the darkness for a long time, thinking about the day. Cool air blows through my open window. It is fragrant with timothy hay from the barn, lavender sprigs, and the peachy scent of the orchard. A sweet concert begins as the cows make their lowing sounds while the crickets sing like a group of woodwind instruments. Soothed by this peaceful music, I open Willa’s drawer in the tall boy in my mind and replay the exchange between Shaw and Mr. Charcoal Suit. I’m done paying, Shaw said in the vision. What was he done paying? His mortgage? The butcher? No, there’s more to it than that. We all get sick of everyday expenses, but we can’t quit paying them on a whim. Not if one desires a roof overhead and food in the larder . . .

  Shaw’s debt couldn’t have been ordinary then. It was a cloak and dagger affair.

  With so much focus on the murder, I inadvertently call Willa Holloway’s ghost. Her face appears first and then the rest of her body. Until she is standing at the foot of my bed in her blood stained apron and white cap. No ghost-sight with everything from her point of view, just the old woman’s image in my mind.

  I sit up, hand over my heart. Don’t just appear like that! Do you wish me to die of fright?

  Willa heaves her ample bosom. Well, I’m not to blame. I was minding my own business until you brought me here.