by HR Mason
Heading into the bathroom, she turned on the shower as hot as it would go and stepped inside. She didn’t feel great about being dishonest with Chase, but ever since she’d learned the truth about Easton, she couldn’t bring herself to be in the same room with him.
Asta and Tawney were both convinced he had something to do with her father’s death, and Runa also leaned in that direction. Easton and Camille had hurt her mother, and they’d hurt her. She didn’t blame Chase for his parents’ actions, but she also didn’t want to be around them any more than was absolutely necessary. She felt mostly validated for her fabrication of the truth.
She was still in the shower when Chase popped his head into the bathroom.
“Are you okay, Runa?”
“Yes,” she replied. “The hot shower helps.”
“I’ll try not to be too late. Get some sleep and feel better.”
“Thank you. See you in a while.”
Runa waited several minutes before getting out of the shower, wanting to make sure Chase was gone. It wasn’t that she wanted to hide, but convincing him she was sick was easier over the phone than in person.
She wrapped a towel around her hair and dried herself with another one, then slipped into her robe and padded from the bathroom to her bedroom. Plopping onto her bed, she unwound the towel and began to finger-comb her hair. Glancing outside, she noticed the wind was picking up. A nasty storm was blowing in.
Runa knew Chase and his parents would be gone for hours, and she was happy to have the house to herself, even if she’d had to lie. Although the plan hadn’t been premeditated, she knew exactly how she was going to spend her evening. She’d been thinking of the portrait in the west wing ever since it had come to life. She wanted to go back, and now she had the perfect opportunity.
Pulling on her most comfortable beat-up jeans and oversized sweatshirt, Runa slid her feet into her tennis shoes and slipped out of her bedroom. She was familiar with the route to the west wing, and her feet seemed to carry her there involuntarily.
Sneaking into the sitting room, she turned on the lights. Walking directly to the easel, she lifted the cover and looked at the painting.
It never ceased to amaze her how much the woman in the portrait looked like her. The resemblance was eerie and unsettling. Runa wanted to know everything she could about the mysterious woman.
“Who are you?” she whispered to the portrait woman.
Thunder cracked and a bolt of lightning flashed into the room. Jumping, Runa caught her breath, her eyes widening as the portrait woman’s eyes began to blink. A second later, the woman’s mouth began to move as the same strange words fell from her red lips.
“Du er i fare,” the portrait woman said.
“I know you’re saying I’m in danger,” Runa told the painting.
“Finn henne,” she replied.
“I want to understand what you’re saying.”
“Finn henne,” the woman said again. “Finn henne.”
Closing her eyes, Runa allowed the words to fall into the room. The portrait woman continued repeating them over and over, and finally Runa joined in, reciting the strange words she didn’t understand. The more she repeated them, however, the more they began to make sense to her ears. Soon, she understood exactly what the phrase meant.
“Finn henne. Find her.”
Thirty-Nine
Runa continued repeating the phrase. Her voice mixed with the portrait woman’s voice, blending, tone over tone, until they became one.
“Finn henne… find her… finn henne… find her.”
Another bolt of lightning shot into the room and Runa jumped, opening her eyes. When she glanced at the portrait, the woman had grown still and was nothing but a painting once again. Her heart beating loudly, Runa puzzled over what had taken place.
“Find her,” the woman had implored.
Runa didn’t know who she was supposed to find. She had no clue what any of it meant.
Overwhelmed by the intense need to do something, though she wasn’t sure what, she left the sitting room. Glancing toward the end of the hallway, she spotted the entryway to the third floor. Remembering the sound of voices and the child crying, she knew she had to go back, if only to prove to herself that none of it had been real.
Slowly opening the door leading to the third floor, Runa took a deep breath. The darkness pressed in on her like a living, breathing thing. Before she could talk herself out of it, she ascended the creaking stairs. Her breath came in short spurts, her lungs tight, yet she forced herself to press on. Reaching the top, she turned on her phone’s flashlight and shined it into the void of blackness, nervously glancing down each ominous hallway.
She allowed her eyes to linger for a moment, peering down the middle hallway. Once again, she spotted a faint glow of light coming from beneath one of the doors. Knowing she had to look but wanting more than anything to run away, she remembered the portrait woman’s words: “Find her.”
Creeping down the hallway, Runa pressed her ear to the splintered wooden door as she’d done before. Standing still and quiet, she listened. The unmistakable sound of conversation from behind the door floated into her ear.
It wasn’t her imagination. Someone was up there.
Turning the knob, she discovered it was locked. Rattling it, she slammed her body against the door, pressing into it in the hopes of breaking through.
Nothing happened.
“Find her! Find her!”
The words pounded inside her brain like a hammer driving a nail, over and over until it was all she could hear. Desperately, she began knocking on the door.
Runa didn’t hold out hope that anyone would answer, but she continued to pound on the door, unable to stop herself. She stood there, crying and beating on the splintered door, the words “Find her” falling unbidden from her lips.
She knocked like a madwoman, sobbing as she begged someone to open the door. She had no idea how long she’d been there. It may have been thirty seconds, or it may have been an hour.
When the knob finally turned and the door opened, she was unprepared for the sight that met her eyes.
Standing on the other side of the door was a woman, nearly identical to Runa in every way.
Time seemed to stand still. Tunnel vision kicked in until the woman’s identical eyes were all Runa could see.
The two women looked at each other, and Runa tried to make herself understand what was happening. Unable to explain it away, her fragile mind began to shut down. Suddenly everything went dark and she hit the floor.
Forty
Departure Cove, Oregon, 1908
“Ingrid, sweetheart, where are you?” Brynja called into her daughter’s bedroom. “I’m home.”
She wrinkled her forehead as she looked around her daughter’s empty room. Ingrid wasn’t there, but something else was missing.
Stepping inside, she immediately sensed that Ingrid’s presence, her essence, was gone. The room felt abandoned, and her stomach clenched with trepidation.
Running down the hall, she began screaming for Mrs. Stevens. She found the servant in the kitchen, bent over the counter, her head in her hands, sobbing.
“Mrs. Stevens, what is it? Where is Ingrid?” Panic rose in Brynja’s chest.
“Gone, ma’am,” the woman choked out between sobs.
“What do you mean, gone? I’ve only been in town for three hours. She was here when I left.”
“Mr. Everwine took her. He said… he said—”
“He said what?” Brynja grabbed the woman’s shoulders and shook her.
Wiping her face with her sleeve, Mrs. Stevens tried to catch her breath. “Mr. Everwine said it was time for her to learn how to be a lady.”
“A lady?” Brynja roared. “Do you mean that boarding school he’s been talking about?”
“Yes, ma’am. He packed her things, and they left as soon as you were gone. He said he knew what was best and you couldn’t see what Miss Ingrid needed. He said the school in Eng
land would teach her all she needed to know. He took her to the docks to meet the ship,” Mrs. Stevens sobbed.
“He can’t do that. He can’t do it without my permission,” Brynja said desperately as she sank into the kitchen chair.
“He said he’s her father and he can do what he wishes, ma’am. I tried to stop him, but it was no use. I think he’s been planning it for months and was waiting for the right opportunity to get you away from the house.”
Jumping from the table, Brynja screamed, “I have to go to her! I have to find my daughter!”
“Ingrid is just fine, so calm down, darling,” Lucas’s voice boomed into the kitchen. “She’s with her new governess.”
Spinning abruptly, Brynja ran at him, throwing her small body against his towering muscular frame and pounding his chest with her fists. She had grown so thin and frail that it was the equivalent of a fly beating itself against an elephant. It had little effect on Lucas, besides being a nuisance.
“You’re making a spectacle of yourself. But if it makes you feel better, please continue.” He chuckled.
Dropping to the floor, her body racked with sobs, Brynja tried to catch her breath. Mrs. Stevens finally pulled herself together and ran to her mistress.
“Come now, ma’am. Let me take you to your room.”
“Leave us, Mrs. Stevens,” Lucas commanded.
“But, sir, Mrs. Everwine is distraught. She doesn’t know what she’s doing. Let me take her to her room,” Mrs. Stevens pleaded.
“I said leave us,” Lucas repeated, leaving no room for arguments.
Nodding curtly, Mrs. Stevens scurried from the room, throwing one last withering glance over her shoulder toward Brynja.
“How could you do this to me? To Ingrid?” Brynja sobbed.
“I’ve done nothing to you. I’ve done it for you. More importantly, I’ve done it for her. The child needs a proper education. She needs to learn her place in society. You are entirely too attached to her. It isn’t healthy,” Lucas replied without emotion.
“My baby,” she cried.
“I’m her father, and I know what’s best for her,” he demanded.
Something bubbled up within Brynja. It had been ages since she’d felt even an ounce of her former power, but in that moment, it surged.
Slowly, she rose to her feet and raised her face to look at Lucas. Her eyes bored into his, not flinching, not looking away for even a second.
“You are not her father. Her father is and always will be Thomas Calais. You can change her name, you can call me your wife, you can take over this house, and you can believe you possess us, but we will never belong to you.”
Brynja’s body began to tremble, a vibration of energy causing her to shake from head to toe. She smiled as the familiar rush of power slammed into her middle, gut-punching her like a bolt of lightning. She closed her eyes and let it flood over her, remembering for the first time in years who she was and where she came from.
She remembered her mother, instructing her on the power of her gifts. She remembered her beloved twin, Sigrid, and how they had been the “generation of two,” paying the ultimate sacrifice of losing each other. She remembered how it felt when she stood in the wind, speaking to it and calming it on her voyage with Captain Ingebjorg to the new world. She remembered the clear visions she’d had that led her to Thomas and their life together.
As she remembered, she felt her power build. It grew, rising within like the swell of the ocean. Wiggling her fingers, Brynja felt the familiar blue light, crackling with energy as its otherworldly glow filled the kitchen.
Lucas watched his wife, concern spreading across his face as he took one step backward. He’d been married to her for years but was finally seeing her clearly for the very first time.
“Wh-What are you doing?” he stammered.
“Are you afraid of me, Lucas?” Brynja taunted as she continued walking toward him.
“Of course I’m not afraid,” he insisted, backing away.
“I can feel your fear. I can taste it,” she challenged.
“You’ve lost your mind.”
“On the contrary. I’ve found it.”
“Brynja, darling, calm down,” Lucas soothed.
Raising her hands into the air, Brynja closed her eyes and summoned every ounce of power she possessed.
She began to chant, “Som du vil… as You will… som du vil… as You will.”
Blue light crackled from her fingertips, arcing like lightning bolts toward the ceiling as Lucas’s eyes widened with fear. She continued toward him, advancing as he retreated.
“Lucas Everwine, I curse you. I curse your family. You’ve stolen what rightfully belonged to me. You’ve taken my daughter, and you’ve taken my home. I curse you.”
With those words, Brynja flung her hands toward Lucas, bolts of blue light shooting across the room. A clap of thunder boomed as the light made contact. Screaming in pain, he clamped his hands over his face as the flash hit his cheek, leaving a large open gash in its wake.
For a moment, neither moved or spoke. Brynja’s body still vibrated with energy. Lucas, obviously stunned by the fact that she’d sliced his face open without ever touching him, was momentarily silent. When he regained his wits, he ran toward Brynja, grabbing her by the arm.
She felt her power begin to drain, her body growing limp as her energy left. She’d used up everything she had. There was nothing more.
Collapsing to the floor in a heap, she surrendered, knowing her job was done. She’d wounded Lucas, and his face would forever bear the scar she’d given him. It would serve as a reminder to everyone who came in contact with him.
In a fit of rage, Lucas scooped up Brynja’s body and carried her up the stairs, down the corridor, into the west wing, and all the way to the third floor. Heading down the center hallway, he opened a door and climbed the large staircase leading to the suite of rooms connected to the turret.
Tossing her roughly onto the bed, he wiped his bloody cheek on his sleeve. She could feel the anger rolling off him in waves, but so did fear. She knew Lucas had never before seen such a raw display of power. She also knew that if he didn’t contain her, she would kill him.
“You’ve done this to yourself, darling. I’m afraid I can’t let you out of this room. You’ve proven to me that you can’t be trusted. This is for the best.”
With one curt nod, Lucas turned and walked back down the stairs, away from the turret, and away from Brynja.
When she heard the distinct sound of a key in the lock, she understood her fate had been sealed.
Rising from the bed, she climbed the stairs leading into the turret. She squinted as the sun cut through the kaleidoscope of designs in the stained glass windows. She was empty, spent, broken. Lucas had taken everything she loved, leaving her with nothing. She’d been his prisoner in many ways since their wedding day, and now he had actually locked her away.
Without Ingrid, Brynja had no reason to go on. Resolve kicked in and she knew what she must do. As she’d told Mrs. Stevens the day she married Lucas, women like her very rarely had a choice. With trembling hands, she reached for the metal vase on the table beside her. Dumping the water and flowers onto the floor below, she raised the vase above her head and slammed it against the window.
The sound of shattering glass pierced the quiet of the room, and rainbow shards fell to the floor. Brynja attempted to steady her shaking knees before stepping on the bench below the row of windows.
Placing her feet on the windowsill, she closed her eyes. Smiling, she saw Thomas reaching his hands out toward her.
Her body grew weightless, and Brynja leaned forward, falling into Thomas’s waiting arms as the sound of the sea crashed in her ears.
Forty-One
Runa opened her eyes, blinking quickly. She glanced around; nothing at all was familiar. She sat up, finding herself in a beautifully decorated suite of rooms. Running her hands across the velvet duvet cover, she tried to remember how she’d gotten there. Her th
oughts raced as she tried to piece the puzzle together, but then it all came crashing down on her at once.
For a split second, she believed she must be dreaming. Rubbing her eyes, she willed her brain to catch up. Sitting across the room, in a large armchair facing the bed, was the woman from the portrait. Logic begged Runa to accept that what she saw was impossible. And yet, the woman was there.
“You’re awake,” the woman said.
“Where am I?” Runa asked.
“You don’t remember?”
“I do, but… no, I don’t. I mean… I think so… but that can’t be right.”
“Some things are hard to believe.”
Rolling her body off the edge of the bed, Runa tried to stand on legs that felt like Jell-O, her knees knocking together as she walked slowly across the room toward the woman. As she approached the chair, the woman stood. Face-to-face, they regarded each other.
The similarities were startling, so much so that Runa actually reached out and touched the woman’s cheek simply to convince herself she was real. As she looked closer, she saw that the woman’s face, although beautiful, had a grayish pallor, and her hair, the same flaxen shade as Runa’s, was dull and lackluster. It clearly hadn’t been trimmed in quite some time, and rough split ends were obvious upon closer examination.
“Who are you?” Runa asked.
“I can’t say,” the woman replied, looking away.
“Of course you can. Tell me who you are,” Runa demanded.
“No,” she insisted.
Confusion and fear turned to anger. Runa needed to know who the woman was, yet she refused to explain.
“Listen to me! You’re going to tell me who you are and what you’re doing up here. If you don’t, I’m going to tell my husband.”