The Order of the Eternal Sun

by Jessica Leake

  After poring over the book of the Himalayas, my mind is full of soaring heights and snowy white mountains. I begin a rough sketch of three majestic mountains overlooking a green valley below. All the while I tell myself it would be madness to try to enter such a drawing and that I’m only creating the sketch because I’d like another painting for my room.

  But I know I’m only lying.

  When the drawing is finished, I take a deep breath and add the rune at the bottom corner. The one Mama taught me when I was small and liked to look at her Sylvan book. The one that means “transport.” With a shaky finger and a murmured prayer, I touch the rune, smudging the lead into the paper.

  In a rush, my room disappears. The mountains loom before me in full color: white so blinding I squint, the sky painfully blue, the valley below a luminescent green. The beauty and shock of succeeding renders me incapable of doing anything but taking shallow, panting breaths. The view is glorious—spectacular in a way no landscape in England could ever be. But even more amazing is the fact that I drew something … and then transported my consciousness there.

  As I look out across the mountains, I am struck by the faintest awareness of my room in London. The more I concentrate on the room, the more it comes into view: the messy floor, the soft lighting of the lamps, the smell of roses. I focus on the Himalayas and the green grass beneath my feet, and the room fades again to the very back of my subconscious mind. My brows furrow as I desperately try to puzzle out the meaning behind this.

  When I entered my painting of my Court presentation, I’d been fully immersed in the memory. Here, before these great mountains, it’s the same. I feel the grass sway beneath my outstretched hand, the smell of snow so real I can taste it, the wind a sweet song in my ear. But if I let myself, I can reach for that link to my room in London—stronger the more I think on it. When I entered my last painting, I’d panicked, believing myself to be trapped. But what if I’d always retained the link to the present time? Perhaps in my fear I’d been unable to find it until Izzie brought me back to myself with her calls.

  These thoughts give me the permission to continue on, to explore where I might have turned back. I stroll toward the mountains, head craned back to take them in. The farther I walk, though, the more the scenery before me seems to shimmer. Puzzled, I walk closer.

  Lucy, a voice calls, and I stiffen. It’s not a familiar voice, and yet …

  Lucy, it says again, and I slowly turn.

  A snow-white fox watches me, its eyes the most beautiful shade of aquamarine, the tips of its fur shimmering silver. It’s the color of the Himalayas, but one glance at the ethereal creature and I know it’s from another world altogether.

  “Are you the one who called me just now?” I whisper incredulously.

  Its eyes seem to smile at me. I’ve sought you at the request of your grandmother.

  “My grandmother?” I ask, thinking of my father’s mother in London who had been haunting me ever since I saw her house on Rose’s street. “But why would she—oh.” My mouth forms a perfectly round o in my shock.

  Again, the fox’s eyes seem to shine with mirth. Yes, your Sylvan grandmother. She has sensed your presence through your many travels to the In Between. You have drawn one portal to the Sylvan realm, but now you have discovered another.

  I look around at the breathtaking scenery, and it’s hard to feel surprised. It would seem the perfect place for a portal to another world.

  She invites you to speak with her.

  I freeze, surprise and excitement racing up and down my spine. “I would love to! When?”

  One day hence. The time of day matters not—she will sense you no matter when it is.

  With my heart beating erratically in my ears, I nod. “And what must I do?”

  Draw the rune for the portal just as you have today. She will help you cross over to Sylvania from there.

  “Oh but I couldn’t … I can’t leave my sister … my family …”

  The fox tilts its head. Your physical form would remain behind … just as you’re doing now.

  “I’ve separated my soul from my body?” I ask, my voice little more than a squeak.

  Your sister had nearly the same reaction, if I recall, it says, its tone in my mind almost wry. I used the same arcana on her once, to travel between realms.

  I fall silent, my mind going over everything the fox has revealed. I feel as though I’m a rowboat that’s been set adrift in a turbulent sea. A thought strikes me then, almost frightening in its magnitude. “Do I also have the power to transport my physical body?”

  The fox meets my eyes. Yes.

  “I can completely enter my own drawings?” My mind strains beneath the weight of such a question.

  In time. It is not for me to show you the way, but the ability is not beyond the realm of possibility for you.

  I would ask the fox so much more, so many questions about my grandmother, but more and more, my room in London pulls me back. An awareness, perhaps; a change in the air.

  “I must go,” I tell the fox. “I—”

  Whatever I meant to say slips away the moment my room comes into view again. My drawing is how I left it—simple pencil on paper rather than the vivid colors I witnessed when I crossed over—only the rune has disappeared.

  “Auntie?” Izzie says, her eyes wide as she watches me.

  “Izzie,” I say with a laugh, “how is it you always seem to appear whenever I’m lost to my drawing?”

  “I like the mountains,” she says, her voice sweet and musical.

  “Those are mountains! You are so clever—”

  “The white fox was so pretty,” she says, her eyes on the drawing.

  I glance down at the sketch in shock, but there’s nothing there. I take hold of my niece by her shoulders and look into her eyes. “Izzie, did you see a fox just now?”

  She nods. “Can foxes talk?”

  “White ones with turquoise eyes can.” I hold out my hand, and she puts her small one in mine. “Come, darling, I think it’s time we had a chat with your mama.”

  I’m not sure how Wren will react, but I can no longer avoid telling her, for it’s clear that Izzie has the power to see within my drawings—to sense the In Between.

  “Mama!” Izzie calls as we walk into the library downstairs.

  Wren turns with a smile that lights up her eyes and then she scoops her up. “I’ll never tire of such a greeting. I only saw her a moment ago,” she says to me laughingly. “I hope she didn’t interrupt your drawing.”

  “No, no, and even if she had, I wouldn’t mind it at all.” I glance around the room to be sure we’re alone. “But I’m afraid I did come here to speak to you about Izzie.”

  “Oh, Izzie,” Wren says in that stern motherly tone she cultivated the moment Izzie was born, “have you done something naughty? I do hope you didn’t get into Auntie’s paints.”

  Izzie grins. “I saw a fox.”

  Wren glances up at me, brows furrowed. “A fox?”

  I meet my sister’s gaze, suddenly reluctant to tell her. Still, I force myself. “She saw a snow white fox today that spoke to me from within my drawing.”

  Wren pales, her mouth frozen open as she takes in the many shocking things I just revealed. “Mama’s spirit fox appeared to you? How could Izzie have seen it?”

  Izzie squirms out of her mother’s arms, clearly bothered by her stares, and begins to busy herself with the picture books at her level. “So her arcana is beginning to manifest, then,” Wren says, “in spite of being only one-fourth Sylvan.” She rubs her brow.

  “Perhaps it’s a dominant trait,” I say weakly. “I’m not sure how to explain her seeing the fox. She must have seen my other drawing, too—she said the Court was pretty.”

  “And I brushed it off,” Wren says with a shake of her head. “Do you think she enters the drawing with you? How do you enter it?”

  “By leaving my physical body behind, apparently.”

  “The fox told you?” she asks,
a wistful note in her tone. “What else did it say?”

  “That our grandmother wishes to speak with me—our Sylvan grandmother. It called the places I go in my drawings the In Between, and she was able to sense me. I was so surprised, and of course I’m terribly excited to meet her. Do you think she will be kind like Mama?”

  Wren’s expression is a world away, but she shakes herself back to the present. “Kinder than our earthly grandmother, I daresay. I know so very little about her—only what I gleaned from that tragic memory the fox shared with me. She was always on Mama’s side. Her love for her was clear, but her power … it was nothing like Mama’s—not gentle or healing in the least.”

  “Was it like yours?” I ask, thinking of the awesome destructive power Wren is capable of.

  “More powerful than mine.”

  “Well, that’s rather intimidating then,” I say, and Wren grins.

  “We have a powerful ancestry. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised Izzie has manifested it. I only wish she didn’t bear our same burden.”

  “Perhaps it needn’t be a burden. So far, it’s nothing we can’t keep hidden.”

  “Yes, but you and I both know it’s difficult to keep such an inherent part of yourself hidden forever, and especially from the ones you love.”

  I think of my earlier desire to share my ability with Rose and nod slowly.

  “Well, we mustn’t tell Colin—not yet. If you think he’s protective over you …”

  “Izzie, you poor darling,” I say, only partly teasing. Colin will scrutinize every single person his daughter comes into contact with—who can say if he’ll even consent to her coming out years from now.

  Izzie, lost amongst a great pile of colorful books, ignores us.

  “Perhaps our grandmother will have answers when you speak to her,” Wren says, and we both share a look of wonder.

  Never before have we had the chance to talk to our Sylvan kin, and I can’t help but think: why now?

  EIGHT

  COLIN and Wren may not often follow the rules of society, but that doesn’t mean we aren’t treated to a lavish, formal dinner every night. I should think Colin’s London butler, Mr. Hale, would never allow otherwise. The table is set with crystal that sparkles in the soft light of the chandelier, the freshly polished silverware gleaming beside delicate porcelain plates. Two flower arrangements of purple hydrangea and leafy greens add welcome splashes of color.

  With Rob and Papa still in town, six of us sit for supper. Colin and Wren sit at either end of the table, and I find myself seated beside James instead of Rob. As one, the footmen serve us the first course: a creamy watercress soup.

  I take a bite, savoring the richness of it before the horseradish burns my sinuses and I reach for my small glass of wine. I inhale some of my wine wrong and try to suppress a choking cough. When that fails, a great hack escapes me.

  James gives me a few helpful whacks between my shoulders until I can breathe normally again. “Good God, Colin, are you not making sure your sister-in-law is properly fed? She nearly inhaled her soup.”

  I laugh, shaking my head. “It was the horseradish. I assure you, I get plenty to eat here.”

  In answer, Colin merely gives his brother a long-suffering look before returning to his conversation with Papa and Rob on the newly established Territorial Force of the British Army—something neither I, nor James if his wandering attention is any indication, cares one whit about.

  “Did you finish your painting?” James asks.

  “I did—oh yes, of course. You wanted to see it. Forgive me, I … got distracted.” I think of the conversation Wren and I had about Izzie and sneak a glance at her. After our talk, we’d both gone to change for dinner, and I’d forgotten all about James’s interest in my drawing.

  “Quite all right,” he says with a smile. “I’m easily forgotten.”

  I snort into my soup, and the footman comes forward to sweep it away from me. They must believe I’m positively allergic to the horseradish by now. “Now you know that isn’t true,” I scold, but the double meaning of my words causes me to blush. “In any case, I’d be happy to show it to you after dinner.”

  “That’d be far more entertaining than anything these three could talk about,” he says with a nod toward Rob, Papa, and Colin.

  “Do you think they’d let me volunteer then?” Papa asks. “I could ride alongside you in the Royal Horse Artillery, Rob.”

  “I doubt they’d let you drink scotch and read books while doing so, Father,” Rob says, and Papa harrumphs, but the hint of laughter in his eyes is inescapable.

  I glance back at James with a smile. “I see what you mean.” I open my mouth to say more, but then I hear Colin mention Sir Thornby. “Oh, I had such a lovely time with his daughter,” I interject. “I must thank you for introducing us—however indirectly.”

  Colin grins. “Finally, I did something right.” When both Wren and I give him matching withering glances he adds, “No, I’m glad for you, Lucy.”

  “Did you find her just as silly as you?” Rob asks as the entrée course is served: fowl au béchamel.

  I huff good-naturedly. “She was both kind and a delight to talk to. We spent the day drawing and drinking tea.”

  Rob smiles. “A perfect match!”

  “I’m so happy you’ve found a friend here in London, Luce,” Wren says. “I found Penelope to be indispensable during my debut, and I’m sure you’ll find Rose to be the same.”

  I think of Penelope, Wren’s closest friend, and her bright smile. She had been married off shortly after Wren and Colin, and ever since then, Wren hadn’t seen much of her. Many, including Wren, believed that to be because of Penelope’s husband—a man who was chosen by Penelope’s mother, but one who was known to be cruel. “How is Penelope? I miss her.”

  “I do, too. Well, I suppose. You know her husband passed? She’s the Dowager Lady Brasher now.”

  “At her age? Goodness, how strange that would be,” I say, though what I’d really like to say is “good riddance.”

  “Indeed, but I hope we might be seeing more of her soon. She wrote not long ago to say she will be in London next month. But what of Rose’s health?” Wren asks after she pauses to take a few bites of her entrée. “Is it as bad as Sir Thornby led us to believe?”

  Sadness twists inside me. “Worse, actually. She has bronchial asthma and sounded miserable when I was there—which reminds me! What say you to a short trip to Bath?”

  “Oh,” Wren says with a glance at Colin, “well, it would be fine with me, Luce. It’s your coming out, after all. Do you mind missing even more of the Season? We’ve been abstaining from so many events during the week as it is.”

  “I wouldn’t mind if it helps her. There would be room for her at Colin’s townhome, right? Besides, I’ve always wanted to visit Bath.”

  “Yes, plenty of room. Rob, Papa,” Wren interrupts, “would you like to accompany us to Bath?”

  Papa hurriedly eats one more bite of his entrée before the footman whisks it away and replaces it with the second course of roast pork with apple confit. “I’m game for a visit. A spa village is more my speed than London anyway.”

  “I suppose I’ll tag along, too,” Rob says. “I could use a break from this grueling London schedule.”

  “Yes, I’m sure a ball every few days or so has been just exhausting for you,” I say.

  Rob looks at me, aghast. “You’ve been around your elder sister for far too long. Father, are you going to stand for her being so cheeky?”

  Papa eyes him over his wine glass. “If you haven’t learned how to manage both your sisters by now, Rob, then it’s simply a lost cause.”

  I laugh at Rob’s feigned look of exasperation and turn to James. “And as my instructor in self-defense, of course you should go, too.”

  “I accept your invitation, but only if you agree to start calling me sensei—that’s what they call their teachers in Japan, and I rather like the pompous sound to it.”

&
nbsp; “It’s only pompous when an Englishman insists on being called so,” I say, and James barks with surprised laughter.

  “I agree with Rob,” James says, “you’ve become quite cheeky of late.”

  I laugh. “Well, I’m not sixteen anymore.”

  James meets my gaze, appraising me over a sip of wine. “No, you are not.”

  His tone sends a blaze of warmth from low in my abdomen all the way to my cheeks, and I take a bite of food to hide it, hardly tasting it.

  Later, after we’d devoured our third course of quail followed by a meringue for dessert, we adjourned to the elegant drawing room. Because no guests were present, the men remained with us, which was just as well since I’d agreed to show James my drawing. After excusing myself to retrieve it, I was surprised that nervous anticipation made my knees shaky. It’s not as though James had never seen my drawings before.

  With a deep breath to steady my nerves, I pull James aside and thrust the paper toward him. He takes it from me gently, his eyes roving over the drawing. Uncharacteristically for him, he’s quiet as he gazes at each detail. I have to bite my tongue to keep myself from asking for his thoughts.

  After several moments of silent contemplation, he says, “I wonder if you might let me keep this?”

  Taken aback, I cannot restrain the sudden smile of pleasure from my face. “You like it that much?”

  “It’s beautifully rendered, Luce, as all of your drawings are. The attention to detail is such that I can picture myself there, which is why I’ve made my strange request. This little valley here, well, it reminds me of the trip we took to India when I was a boy. Father was there … and Mama …” He trails off, his expression vulnerable for the first time in … well, as long as I’ve known him.

  I’d forgotten how much we had in common, that we shared the loss of a beloved mother. Though for James it was much worse—for he had lost his father, too. In spite of that, he was always cheerful and good-natured, charming and mischievous to a fault.

  “Then of course you should have it,” I say, touching his hand. “If you’ll allow me a little more time, I can fully bring it to life with paint.”