The Seven Boxed Set

by Sarah M. Cradit

  “No, but usually you come right in.”

  “Your mother is getting scatterbrained in her old age, I’m afraid.”

  “Mama, you’re forty.”

  Was that all? Irish Colleen mused at this, how young forty seemed, and how old she felt. She’d lived several lifetimes, and not one had been lived for herself. “Just wait, Lizzy. Forty isn’t too young for back pain and gaps in your memory!”

  Elizabeth smiled. She folded the book she was reading and set it aside. “Usually it’s this time of year you start to ask me about my visions.”

  Irish Colleen settled at the end of her youngest daughter’s bed. She hadn’t consciously put a timetable on her curiosity, but she supposed Elizabeth was right. “Should I be asking you about them?”

  Elizabeth shrugged. She leaned back into her bed, and as the moonlight caught her face, Irish Colleen saw the woman her daughter would one day become. Beautiful. Hardened. “I don’t know if Tante Ophelia is right about this family being cursed, but I wouldn’t have a better explanation if anyone asked me.”

  “You don’t have to be so mysterious, Lizzy. Just say it.”

  “Haven’t you realized, it’s all so pointless?” Elizabeth rolled her head to the side. “I could tell you we were all going to die tomorrow and you’d be helpless to do anything about it.”

  Irish Colleen’s eyes flew wide. “Are we?”

  Elizabeth laughed. “No, Mama.”

  “Then what, Elizabeth?”

  “Why do you torture yourself? What good is knowing?”

  Irish Colleen’s Irish temper was quick to respond, but she tempered it and gave her daughter’s question serious consideration. “Helpless or not,” she replied, after a thoughtful pause, “maybe I don’t want you to live with this by yourself.”

  Elizabeth fidgeted with the hem on her nightgown. She dropped her head. “All I can tell you, Mama, is that for all the love and marriage and relationships coming our way this year, there won’t be any happiness to go with it.”

  Irish Colleen nodded. So many times, her daughter’s prophecies had driven her from the room, afraid of the very thing she’d asked for, running from the truth. But tonight she’d made a silent promise to Elizabeth: she would take whatever her daughter sent her, whether she was strong enough or not.

  “Charles?” Irish Colleen asked.

  “It starts with him,” Elizabeth said. “But he’s only the beginning.”

  One

  Elizabeth Has An Idea

  Elizabeth scribbled her words in a small notebook. There were few ways of sharing the burden her visions had placed upon her, and writing them down was the safest. No one else got hurt. And there was no chance of anyone ever finding the terrible pages, for she burned them once the words were out.

  From there they went… well, she didn’t know. Returned to the universe, she supposed, though the words never left her, not really.

  Tears streaming down her cheeks, Elizabeth tore the sheets from the metal spirals and placed them in the large tin bowl. She’d stolen it from one of the kitchens at Ophélie, and now it was almost entirely blackened from her devious designs. From her drawer, she plucked the matchbook, extracted a fresh match, and prepared to strike.

  Elizabeth paused in mid-action. The undisturbed sulfur burned her nose. She hated the smell, though she’d come to tolerate it.

  Not this, not again.

  The future can’t be changed, Colleen. It just can’t.

  But how do you know?

  I know!

  Yes, but how?

  “It just can’t,” Elizabeth whispered. She chewed her lip, tensing as she focused, willing herself to light the words on fire and release them to their new chemical form. Ashes she would toss to the wind, when the weather changed.

  But she couldn’t. Those words had haunted her nearly a year, hiding in her subconscious, poking at the walls to see where they were thin. Her vulnerabilities were a legion, and she feared the day they all found one another and began working in partnership to overthrow these small, but important, methods of self-care.

  But how? How did she know?

  And therein was the truth, formed of a glue that held her together like so many used matchsticks. Just because. Because, because, because! Because even if they could change the future, it would create new chaos. Her visions were the chaos she knew. She feared, more than the truth, the chaos of the unknown.

  Besides, she didn’t make the rules. People older and smarter than Elizabeth had tested and re-tested this theory and had deigned that the future was what it was. It was written in stone, in the stars, in whatever.

  Still… she’d never talked to any of them. Not in any meaningful way. Family reunions and such, sure, but never about this. Her one and only conversation about this with Tante Ophelia had been when she was around seven and just coming into her abilities. Her mother had thrown her in the car and deposited her at The Gardens. I’ll come back when you’ve had some education from that woman, she’d declared as Elizabeth stood alone upon the massive porch, wondering what the hell was expected of her.

  Ophelia seemed to know the conversation was imminent, for she’d already had some refreshments waiting. Elizabeth remembered very little from that day, for most was filler and the words of an aging matriarch, but she remembered what Ophelia called The Three Rules of a Seer.

  One, you must never seek to see what has not been given to you freely.

  Two, you must never wield this power in harm to others.

  Three, what has been seen cannot be changed.

  These are the truths we know unequivocally, and that we live by, in order to exist freely and happily in this world, by the by. We carry a great burden, Elizabeth, but in knowing our limitations we can cease the surrender of all our joy.

  If Ophelia said it was true, it must be. Elizabeth had lived hard by this belief, because her great aunt’s reputation was unimpeachable. It was like questioning God, in her estimation, though she held very little belief in the idea that God was loving and benevolent. Though Elizabeth was slightly scared of her tante, she trusted with her whole heart that the old woman put her family before all else. Anyone who could choose not to have children because she saw her family as her charge was a special kind of human.

  If only Elizabeth had been old enough and possessed enough knowledge and courage to ask questions of Ophelia back then. She’d sat, wide-eyed and awestruck as the old woman spoke, choosing each word with great care. Even if she’d had questions, she lacked the faculties to express them. But oh, did she have questions now.

  And what if she showed up on the broad white porch again, this time on her own? Would Ophelia see that coming, too? Would the juice be replaced by tea or coffee? Would her words be less dressed?

  Elizabeth struck the match and dropped it into the bowl. She smiled at how quickly the edges turned to black and curled inward, struggling against the intrusion and the force of change. It felt good, sometimes, to hurt something that couldn’t really feel pain.

  But… what if she just called her aunt? There was no harm in that, right? Maybe she wouldn’t even come to the phone… maybe….

  All the phones at Ophélie began to ring at once.

  Elizabeth tilted her water glass into the tin bowl to extinguish what was left of the smoldering flames. The paper was a mess of black sludge, though it hadn’t burned long enough to turn to ash. She quickly hid it in her drawer and then waited for the inevitable visitor.

  “It’s for you,” Maureen said, without entering. “Don’t know who. Some old lady.”

  “That some old lady is your great-aunt.”

  Elizabeth could feel her sister’s pause. “Ophelia? Why is she calling you?”

  “How should I know?” Elizabeth lied, and was right to expect Maureen would quickly lose interest in the subject.

  Elizabeth climbed to the third floor, to Charles’ office. This was his place, and his alone, but he wasn’t home and if she asked, he’d probably let her use it. Afte
r the door was closed tight and locked, she picked up the phone and said, “Maureen, you can hang up now.”

  Maureen grunted and then did as she was asked. Elizabeth waited for the click to be certain.

  “Miss Elizabeth.” The gravelly voice traveled like rough silk across the lines. “I’ve been awaiting this call.”

  Elizabeth pulled her knees to her chest and chewed the edge of her thumb. “You called me, Tante.”

  “Did I?” The old woman laughed. “Shall we quibble over such small technicalities, or were there other things you wished to talk about?”

  “You seem to already know,” Elizabeth said. “I should have guessed that.”

  “Your most recent visions are most troubling to you.”

  Elizabeth nodded as she affirmed this verbally.

  “You don’t have to tell me the details, child,” Ophelia answered. “I’ve seen them myself, or enough to know why you’re distressed.”

  “Forgive me, Tante, but I’m always distressed. This isn’t anything new.”

  “Ah, yes, but it is, isn’t it? What you’ve seen is so distressing that you’re now questioning the beliefs you’ve held true all your life. And you’re wondering if I wasn’t blowing a little smoke your way.”

  “No, I would never—”

  Ophelia laughed through a coughing fit. “Elizabeth, don’t trouble yourself. You’re right to question the things you’ve been raised to believe. We are all the products of what we were taught as children, and it does us no good to practice blind faith. But… I would like you to ask me. I may know what you’ll say, but you will still find it beneficial to yourself to say the words aloud. Think of it as releasing them to the universe, just as you release the ashes of your visions.”

  Elizabeth didn’t like how much of herself was laid bare to her aunt, even if she did trust her implicitly. It was like having a camera trained on her at all times, one she couldn’t turn off. And how? Elizabeth’s visions didn’t work like a television you could switch on at will. She got what she got and never what she wanted. Never what she needed.

  “Well?”

  “I suppose…” Elizabeth licked at the pooling blood at the corner of her chewed thumb. “I’m hoping you can tell me why we’re so certain the future can’t be changed.”

  Ophelia made a small humph sound. “Every seer asks this question, Elizabeth. Many ask it more than once, and even when they are confident in the answer, they continue to question it. I believe the future is unchangeable with all my heart, and yet I still seek ways around this truth. But that doesn’t answer your question, does it?”

  “No,” Elizabeth said.

  “No,” Ophelia agreed. “Nor will words alone be enough to satisfy your curiosity.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Lord, do they not teach the scientific method in schools now?”

  “I’m homeschooled,” Elizabeth said. “But you probably know that. And yeah, I remember it from science.”

  “Well, then there you go. You already know the problem: you’ve seen a future that is great and terrible. Your hypothesis is that the future can be changed. The next step is to design an experiment that will test this theory, no?”

  “I… I suppose.”

  “Scientists don’t suppose, Elizabeth. They think, and then they act.”

  Elizabeth started to sweat. The air conditioning unit didn’t reach into this high floor, and the conversation felt more and more like a trap she’d fallen into with her own stupidity.

  “The rest isn’t suitable for the telephone,” Ophelia continued. “Come see me in May, when your schooling is done for the year. We will talk then and put actions to ideas. Yes?”

  “Yes,” Elizabeth said quickly. Her heart raced as the flush in her face deepened. “Okay, I’ll come see you.”

  “Splendid,” Ophelia replied cheerily and the line went dead in Elizabeth’s hands.

  Two

  A Major in Dance

  Augustus listened to the complaints of the head of his finance department with the patience of a saint.

  “Stephen, you’ve presented your concerns to me, but I’m failing to understand how they are legitimate issues.”

  “She’s impossible to work with! She has an idea and expects us all to listen, as if she’s earned a place at the table. But if someone else has an idea? She zones out. Doesn’t care a whit, unless she thought of it first.”

  Augustus folded his hands tighter. “Ekatherina’s ideas have saved this company money.”

  “That’s not the point,” Stephen said.

  “While most of yours end up costing me more.”

  Stephen gave a strained smile. “She needs to understand that there are ways of doing things. That there’s a hierarchy—”

  “If you’re about to espouse chain of command nonsense, you can stop,” Augustus abruptly replied. “You’re good with finance, Stephen. So is she. There’s room for both of you.”

  Evangeline, who either didn’t know when her presence was inappropriate, or didn’t care, sat in the corner with a smirk.

  “It isn’t just me who has a problem. She’s pissing everyone off!”

  “Her ideas are better than yours,” Augustus said. He stood to signal the end of this painful conversation. “You need to find a way to work with her. That’s the way it is.”

  Stephen ground his jaw so hard his veins at the side of his head popped. “I’ll do my best.”

  “Yes,” Augustus said.

  Before he was even gone, Evangeline rolled with laughter. “Did you see his face?”

  “I saw it,” Augustus said tersely. Evangeline’s weakness was subtleties, and he hadn’t quite learned how to tell her she needed to leave his office, or get back to work, without offending her.

  “Stephen’s an ass,” she said. “But he’s not wrong.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Your little protégé is pissing off the majority of the office.”

  “Not this again.” Augustus sighed and closed his office door. “You don’t have to love the people you work with. We’re here to do great work. Nothing more.”

  “Oh, bless your heart, Aggie, I know you mean those words when you say them,” Evangeline cooed. “But that’s why you have me. So I can steer you back in the right direction when you miss the mark. Remember when you so generously offered to give the staff Christmas off? No? Oh yes, that was my idea!”

  “Don’t you have class?”

  “Not on Wednesdays.” Her face distorted in amusement. “If you’re thinking of firing me, you can’t. I’m an unpaid intern.”

  “I can still fire you,” he grumbled. “I don’t have time to deal with petty squabbling. They’re adults. They need to act like them.”

  Evangeline rolled her eyes. “Such an idealist. If you like this girl, brother, then talk to her before she makes enough enemies that the others up and quit. Stephen’s a dolt, but he’s a useful dolt.”

  “That’s foolish,” Augustus said. “Anyone who would get so fussed over a young woman with new ideas is an imbecile.”

  “And yet you’ve just described the entire state of the male world, in one sentence.”

  “Go,” he warned.

  Evangeline swung on the door handle and turned her eyes on her brother once more, eyelashes fluttering. “Talk to her.”

  She left, and Augustus was alone to ponder the strange accusations of Stephen, and the unwelcome wisdom of Evangeline.

  He wasn’t running a daycare, and he refused to kowtow to the delicate emotions of the men in this office. Augustus wasn’t blind to Evangeline’s insight. He understood precisely why Stephen and his peers were upset, and that understanding was what made Augustus rigidly against addressing it. One of their co-workers made them look bad for their lack of innovation. If Ekatherina had shaken things up, then maybe it was needed.

  So, no, he wouldn’t speak to Ekatherina about her inability to minister to the hubris of the men in the finance department. Evangeline
was right, Stephen was useful, but he was also replaceable.

  He’d come to see Ekatherina as priceless.

  * * *

  Charles smashed his greasy palms into his jeans.

  Cordelia Hendrickson and her father, Franz, were due at Ophélie any moment. They were actually late, a fact punctuated by Irish Colleen’s nervous pacing in the parlor. He wanted to take his mother by the shoulders and bolt her to the chair. You’re making this worse!

  He didn’t want to do this.

  He didn’t want to be here.

  He didn’t want to marry this woman he’d never met.

  And yet, the events leading him to this unhappy event were of his own making.

  Why, why, why had he, in a moment of great weakness, prostrated himself before his mother and asked what he could do to redeem himself? Why?

  “Perhaps they got lost,” Irish Colleen mused.

  “Fucking hope so,” Charles muttered and rocked forward, burying his face in his hands.

  Charles had so many questions. This entire situation was bloated with mystery and truths his mother had yet failed to reveal.

  For one, she’d known for years that he was going to marry Cordelia Hendrickson, when that was entirely news to him, and had failed to mention this even once. She’d even played coy initially, acting as if she’d need to “look into” marrying him off… as if she didn’t already have the whole thing planned out.

  And why Cordelia? Why her? There was something there, too… something fucking devious and terrible, like deals made in dark rooms. This was 1973, for the love of God! He had more money than he’d ever know what to do with, so there was no business benefit to a marriage for him. Why didn’t he have a choice in the matter?

  Charles imagined himself bolting from the room. He imagined letting his mother know what was what, that he was twenty-three years old and she had no right to make decisions for him. He was twenty-three and… and the heir, and a grown man, and he didn’t need her constant fussing.

  And yet, he didn’t bolt from the room. He didn’t say as much as a boo to his mother. He sat, impatiently, waiting to meet the woman who would sleep in his bed, bear his children, and either make his life interesting or terrible.