The Light Who Shines

by Lilo Abernathy

  She sighs again, then she says, “Okay, Jack. I’ll give you my worst story, but please don’t share it with anyone. The kids hated to play hide and seek with me because I could sense their souls, so I always knew where they were. I would join anyway, even though they didn’t want me. One time I ran up the attic stairs to find where Becca was hiding. I knew where her best hiding place was, of course, but none of the other kids did. I had found everybody else, and there was nothing I could do then except to find her, so I ran upstairs to her hiding spot. She was standing at the top of the staircase on the landing to the attic. When I reached the top of the stairs she was very mad that I’d found her. She said, ‘Get away from me, you Witch,’ and she kicked me. Her foot caught my shoulder, and I lost my balance.”

  I hear the creak of the steering wheel just then and realize that I am in danger of ripping it off the car. I relax my grip and unclench my teeth to listen to the rest of Blue’s story.

  “I rolled down the long flight of wooden stairs, breaking my arm in three places. My bone was sticking out of my forearm and blood was dripping everywhere. Becca walked right over me, not caring at all that I was hurt. To her I was just a thing, less than a thing, really. In my heart I know that had I died on that fall she would have just walked right over me and kept playing the game.”

  The fury within me is enormous, but it is easily eclipsed by the sea of my own guilt. If it weren’t for me, Blue never would have gone there. I should have found her a loving home. How stupid I was to imagine her safe!

  “By then I knew better than to expect help from the other children. I didn’t cry despite the pain, though I definitely came close to chewing a hole in my lip. I lay there on the third floor landing for a while with blood gushing out of my arm until I had the courage to move. I twisted around because I was too faint to stand, and I scooted down on my butt to the second floor landing. When I reached it, I called for Anna Marie, my favorite housemother. She and the other housemothers got me into bed and called the doctor. The doctor set my arm and had a few private words with Anna Marie.”

  I can just imagine the scrappy little girl Blue had been, lying on the stairs too proud to cry as she fought for the will to move and get help. It’s been so long since I was a child that I have only the vaguest memories, and I had no idea that children could be that cruel. Dreading her answer, I ask anyway in a voice that does not seem my own, “And that was the worst of it?”

  “Well, there were countless times when my few possessions went missing and the kids all denied taking them. I would always know who lied, though, and I would accuse them. That only made things worse because then they would call me a Witch. When I would try to play games with them, they would either flat out say no or they would just break up the game. If they were stuck doing chores with me they would loudly complain about having to work with ‘the freak,’ ‘the evil one,’ or ‘Satan,’ so it was pretty bad in general during those early years.”

  I feel like a knife is ripping through my chest at this point, and guilt lies so heavily on my shoulders I’m surprised the car can keep pulling the weight. I should have watched her more carefully. I really don’t have the words to comfort her. I don’t know any words to say that could help erase that sort of pain, but I feel I must say something. “Blue, I am so sorry you went through that. It must have been a very hard childhood.”

  Blue’s laugh is brittle. “Yes. It was hard, but it did get better. Shortly after my arm had mended from the fall, Anna Marie took me away from the school on what she called a field trip. We went into the forest next to the orphanage, and she asked me to sit inside a circle she had drawn in the dirt. I remember sitting cross-legged in the center while she chanted a bunch of songs in a foreign language and waved her arms about in beautiful ways. At the time she said they were holy songs, and I was so young, I believed her. Now I know she was performing some sort of ritual or spell, though for what, I don’t know. I certainly felt magic in the air, but I wasn’t afraid then because Anna Marie said she was singing a very special song that would help me.

  “I remember it was a chilly fall day with the ground covered in fallen leaves, and the trees were bright splotches of fiery color against the clear blue sky. We were out there long enough for my nose and ears to get cold when some of the other housemothers came and made a big fuss. They yelled at Anna Marie before grabbing me to take me back to the orphanage. They told me that Anna Marie had kidnapped me, but I didn’t believe them, and I yelled at them to leave her alone.

  “I don’t know what she did, but after that, the kids were nicer to me. They were not exactly kind and friendly, but they weren’t so afraid of me or cruel to me. Anna Marie never came back to the school after that, and I never found out what exactly she did for me, but whatever it was, it did help.”

  I glance over at Blue, who is staring out the window with an unseeing gaze after finishing her story. The scars of her troubled past are clearly etched on the planes of her face and in the gleam of her bright eyes.

  What did Anna Marie do? I need to do some research on her and find out. That incident never showed up in any of the reports that I received.

  I lean toward Blue and whisper, “Here we are. This is the Glenwood Mansion.”

  Chapter 22

  Gala Magic

  Bluebell Kildare: May 28, 2022, Red Ages

  I hear Jack’s low voice breaking into my thoughts, and with a shake, I extract myself from my remembrances. Looking out the window, I see the Glenwood Mansion, a softly glowing apparition emerging through the curtain of night.

  The valet takes Jack’s car, and we quietly approach the entrance. I admire how the softly glimmering firefly lanterns illuminate the trees hovering over the glow stone walkway. I steal a surreptitious glance at Jack again, hoping he doesn’t think less of me for the embarrassing truths I revealed about my childhood. His face looks a study of angles in stone, immovable and unreadable. He’s wearing a black tuxedo with a champagne embroidered waistcoat and a gold tonal silk cravat. As we step through the entrance, the party lights dance through his gilded curls. A man asks if he can take my shawl, but I decline, tugging it close about my shoulders, eternally conscious of my birthmark.

  Mr. and Mrs. Glenwood greet us just through the entryway. Mr. Glenwood is a balding gentleman with a standard tux and bow tie and a nonstandard twinkle in his eye. He takes my hand warmly and bows over it with his sparse white hair flopping over in a bow of its own. He kisses the back of my hand as if I am royalty, and my ears and face heat up in a blush.

  Mrs. Glenwood is dressed impeccably in a black lace surplice gown with a full skirt overlaying a golden sheath. The gold goes beautifully with her caramel hair that surely must be died or charmed to match her color of youth. Her eyes are intelligent and observing as she takes my hand in a firm embrace and glances over at Jack.

  Jack introduces me. “Good evening, Valerie. This is my good friend Bluebell Kildare.”

  I think it’s an odd way to introduce me, but perhaps it’s wise not to announce that he’s brought a work associate to the event in case it puts people on edge.

  Apparently Mrs. Glenwood thinks it’s odd too. She raises one eyebrow and says, “How unusual!”

  I wonder what she finds unusual: that Jack brought a friend or that Jack brought a date at all. Perhaps it is me she finds unusual.

  She looks at me again and smiles in a way that makes all the little lines around her eyes crinkle up in pleasure. “Welcome, my dear Bluebell. Any friend of Jack’s is a friend of mine.”

  Despite a compulsive urge to curtsy to her, I resist and thank her instead with a smile of my own. “Just call me Blue, please. Thank you so much for having us.”

  The line behind us presses us deeper into a soaring foyer, ending the formalities abruptly. Directly in front of us, a wide, curved oak staircase leads to the second floor. Jack tucks my arm under his, and we walk through the cavernous hall and enter a room via an archway on the right.

  On the other side of the a
rchway spreads a two-story grand ballroom with an expansive, gleaming parquet floor. Tall windows draped in white and gold brocade curtains line the exterior wall like soldiers at attention. Gilded frames holding bold impressionistic and contemporary artwork adorn the interior walls, and the ceiling is made of hundreds of squares of glass held together by cream-colored steel beams. The ceiling is aflame with thousands of small firefly bulbs set in three massive, tiered crystal chandeliers that hang from the beams, giving the room a luminous ambiance.

  The far end of the room is a wall of paneled glass, and the ceiling is tall enough that a pair of weeping fig trees easily stands in the corners with plenty of room for growth. The second floor balcony surrounds the other three walls of the ballroom, and I see people milling about, elegant dresses and stylish suits moving effortlessly in and out of doorways.

  On the wall opposite us stands a long row of tables and counters where the silent auction is showcased. To the left is a refreshment table mounded with hors d'oeuvres and overflowing with fresh fruits and desserts. Servers weave through the room tendering copious amounts of champagne to the guests.

  My eyes are absolutely delighted with the ballroom from start to finish, but my insides are being assaulted with the cacophony of emotions that fill the room. Usually I only feel emotions when they are strong, but the pure mass of people in this room assails me with a dizzying array of feelings. It is so confusing because people are mixing, and I can’t pin feelings to individuals. Hundreds of signatures swirl around me in dissonance.

  Jack leans close to my ear, I imagine because the room is buzzing so loudly. “You look pale. Are you okay?”

  I pinch my brows together and look down a minute. Then I catch a lively tune I’m unfamiliar with. I lift my eyes and see it comes from a small orchestra playing between the twin fig trees. Suspended over a small black stand in front of the orchestra, a magic baton cuts the air, moving left and right, up and down in a wild dance. I smile in delight as I watch the magic baton direct the orchestra. It eases me greatly to focus on the sound of the music instead of my sixth sense.

  I stand on tiptoe to lean close to Jack’s ear, and when my lips are almost brushing his lobe I feel my cheeks heat in embarrassment. I remember he’s a Vampire and can hear me easily despite the noise. Jack’s lips twitch slightly in repressed humor as I settle back down and say, “I’m alright. There are just a lot of people, and I’m getting a lot of impressions at once.” Then I look questioningly at Jack. “What kind of music is this?”

  As he replies, his breath brushes my ear and causes my entire body to tingle. “A minuet.” Then he asks, “Would you like a refreshment?”

  I shake my head no. “I’d like to go to the auction first. Maud gave me a little money to spend, and I want to find someone who can further my knowledge of the object in question.”

  Jack nods and puts his hand on the small of my back, guiding me forward. Again I puzzle—am I a friend? Am I a date? Or am I just an associate? I have no idea at this point, and as usual I can’t read Jack, so he remains an enigma. I decide to stop worrying about it and just see what happens.

  When we approach the tables and distance ourselves from the throng on the dance floor, the onslaught of emotions eases up and is instead replaced with the deep, thrumming vibrations of magic. A fine tremor runs through the whole of my body from the force of the power in the vicinity. Many of the individual items are weak, but in large quantity the effect is quite strong. The cases are framed in oak with thick, cream-colored velvet interiors and lit from within like cases at a fine jewelry store. Heavy oak tables are set up to exhibit some of the larger items.

  I stop briefly in front of a fountain with a sculpted Grecian boy peeing water into an enormous clamshell. A thin flow of water lifts itself from the clamshell and flows upward, twisting around the boys leg and torso before finally entering through his ear. It’s listed as a “magically operated pumpless fountain.” I laugh softly. If I were ever in the market for a Grecian peeing fountain I would definitely prefer one that didn’t require a pump to operate. For now, I think I’ll pass.

  Jack holds my arm tucked neatly in his, and I revel in the feel of his firm muscles beneath my fingers. We move forward toward some items designed to aid your vanity. There is a magic curling wand! How nice it would be to just wrap your hair around the wand and say a magic word to make the curl stay until you release the hair from its obligation.

  Other items are more practical. A set of self-cleaning dishes captures my eye. They would make cleanup after dinner so easy, but unfortunately, the pattern is hideous. The light green plates are covered in a glaring orange and blue tropical design. The starting bid is high, and I doubt they will get any bidders. Too bad. I’m sure the owner will be disappointed when the dishes return home. Next I admire an elaborate magical brass fire starter. It would be so convenient for someone who uses candles frequently or has a fireplace.

  My eyes alight on a tall, crystal-footed perfume bottle with a delicate handle, a small pour spout, and a beautifully shaped stopper. Its curves are captivating, and its placard says it magically preserves contents from UV damage and age spoilage. This would be perfect for my homemade oil mixtures! Many of the more delicate oils will not keep in a clear container due to UV damage, but I do love to see the colors of the oils. Right now I just keep my oils in amber jars. Excitement thrills through me as I write down my bid. It’s the first bid entered on this item, and I hope I’m the only one interested.

  Jack seems taken with some magical strategy games, so I wander over to the glass cases. They are filled with jewelry, weaponry, and other high value items. I see nothing of relevance in the first case as it’s filled with small chainmail gloves, hoods, and weaponry.

  In the second case, a soft, thrumming vibration captures my attention. It is not as strong as some of the other vibrations I sense, but it gives off a wider spectrum of frequencies than I’ve ever felt before. My eyes alight on a necklace made of small metal pieces linked together in strands that connect at a choker and fan out in all directions. I can see that if the necklace were worn, the cascading strands would lie all over the shoulders and dip down to cover the sternum. The choker has no clasp, and it is labeled “Belladonna Necklace, Properties: Protection against magic.” I shiver when I look at it. It is both alluring and menacing at the same time, and the intricate web of vibrations that exude from it tell me of the great power it contains.

  An older gentleman with a bald head and a distinguished beard has just approached the case next to me. He leans toward me and says, “It’s fantastic, isn’t it?”

  I feel a sense of delight coming from him. He is truly enchanted by the piece, but his delight is somehow repugnant to me. He continues with a twisted little smile on his face. “What’s amusing is that it is lauded as a piece for protection. Now what do you think would happen if someone who had a magical gift wore it?”

  I’m startled at this thought. Why, their magic would probably be suppressed. The necklace would be like a prison.

  I feel a vile joy build in the man as he contemplates this and looks at me sharply. I feel uneasy about this conversation and quickly turn to see Jack watching. When Jack approaches, I’m relieved to see the stranger move on to examine some items in another case.

  Jack puts his arm around my shoulders and leans in to me. “There are some amulets in the last case on the other side. Let’s take a look.”

  I move with him, momentarily grateful for the security of his presence. In the case Jack leads me to are a few amulets but none as old as what I’m looking for. Jack releases my shoulder and tells me he’ll be at the next case over. I look closely at the other contents of the case in front of me. There is an exquisitely designed set of ancient silver mirrors labeled “Scrying mirrors, Properties: Visual and audio communication over distance.” A substantial minimum bid is requested, well out of my price range.

  A handsome, aristocratic man is bidding on the set. I ask him, “Are the old mirrors more valuabl
e than the newer ones?”

  He smiles at me and explains, “Most scrying mirrors are the same, new or old. They allow you to see and listen. But some of the older mirrors have additional properties that even the owners aren’t aware of. Some allow you to zoom in and out. Others allow you to see the surrounding area as though you are there. I’ve even seen those that allow you to spy or see things that are otherwise warded.”

  I puzzle at this. “How can you spy with a mirror set that is clearly used for two way communication?”

  The gentleman replies, “Well, sometimes the set is designed so you can turn one on without notifying the other and therefore see and hear what is going on when the other owner is unaware.”

  “Oh!” I say, turning a little pink. “I should have guessed that. I’m a little ignorant on the subject. That is quite an invasion of privacy!”

  The man smiles at me. “Don’t be embarrassed. I’m a collector, so I know a good deal more than most. My name is Robert LaRoche, by the way.” He holds his hand out in greeting.

  I place mine in his and give it a firm squeeze. “I’m Bluebell Kildare.”

  Robert says, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Kildare.” He holds my hand a tiny bit longer than necessary, but it’s not unpleasant. In fact, it’s quite the opposite.

  Robert is a handsome man, perhaps in his late thirties. He’s tall and slender with an elegant stance and handsome face. His thoughtful brown eyes stare intelligently from behind wire frame spectacles. He emanates none of the intense power that Jack does but instead holds an easy grace. His hair is a tad longer than it should be, and combined with his spectacles and pale skin gives him the look of a scholar who buries himself in a library too often.

  Turning back to the mirrors, I inquire, “How do you know that this set has some of the extra properties?”

  Mr. LaRoche points to the mirror that is facing down with its intricate filigree showing on the back side. “Do you see the filigree? I can date the work based on my knowledge of the skill level and the popular craftsmanship during different periods. I can date this particular piece at approximately 200 R.A.”