by R. R. Smythe
My heart is a wild bird fluttering in my chest. Is he beginning to feel as I do? That I might be more than a friend? I think of our kiss and my stomach pitches as if falling.
I walk as quickly as I can manage, still short of breath, but for once not caring.
I steal around the side of the barn and pause, squaring my shoulders. I suck in a breath and step around to the back.
He’s waiting as promised, leaning with one leg propped against the silo. He turns and his face lights up on seeing me. “You made it. I’m so very glad.”
I reach him and swipe the hair from my face. A stray lock tumbles back.
His thick fingers reach up, tucking it behind my ear. Yearning fills my chest and overflows like water over a too-full dam. The whispers agree.
Sunlight glitters against his dark hair and I notice the natural highlights.
I clear my throat. “What’s the surprise?”
He gestures to the small cart.
“The cart? The cart is the surprise?”
He laughs. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s your carriage.”
“What are you talking about?” I eye it skeptically.
“I have something I want to show you… and if you walk too far…”
I nod. “Okay, I guess.” I climb on and cross my legs. I wave my hand playfully, “Carry on, boy.”
“Yes, milady.” He turns, picking up the cart handles, and it rumbles across the stones towards the wide horse-path in the woods.
Sunlight filters through the dense forest canopy, illuminating spots on the ground. Thick, lichen-covered stones and trees give this part of the forest an otherworldly feel. “Can I have a hint?”
He shakes his head. “No.”
I watch the muscles in his legs work and can’t help staring at his calf; blackened and so much smaller than the other.
“Morgan…” I ask quietly. Something in my tone makes him turn and set down the cart.
“Yes?”
“Your leg? What happened to it?”
He sighs and kneels before me. “It’s not that I don’t want to tell you. The time just isn’t right.” His blue eyes flick back and forth, reading my reaction.
“Well, when will be the right time?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know.”
I huff, exasperated.
His fingers slide beneath my chin, forcing my gaze. “I believe it will come though. When I can tell you…”
“Everything?”
“I hope so.” He turns to pick up the handles, and I force the disappointment from my face.
I want him to kiss me again, and having him so close, only to leave, feels like denying parched lips a drink.
I clear my throat and search for courage. “Are you… some sort of English royalty in hiding? Like the witness protection program?”
He laughs loudly; it echoes through the quiet forest, bouncing off trees. “Erm, no. Why do you ask?”
“Well, I overheard you and Beth talking about a court.” I see his shoulders stiffen, but I plunge on. “And you have such strange diction and speech — like you’re trying hard to sound like everyone else. But honestly, most of the time you fail miserably.”
He glances back, a grin spreading his mouth wide as irony parts his lips. “So, I’m not fitting in, then?” His eyes dance.
“Not very well, no.”
This personality change is striking. I’m reminded of the flashing vision which prompted our kiss. Of how light and happy his eyes were — as if he was someone else. Someone without all these mysterious burdens.
He shakes his head and laughs again as we reach a very small goat-path. It snakes between huge boulders, up an incline. I eye it warily.
He extends his hand.
“How?” I prompt. No way I’m going to manage that hill.
Morgan pulls me to stand. “Climb on.”
“Your back? Are you crazy?”
“Yes, but that’s irrelevant. Just get on.”
He helps me to stand on the cart. My hands push down on his shoulders as my legs wrap around his waist. My body presses against his, and I hope he can’t feel how quickly my breath is coming.
His back muscles tense and tighten as he carries me up the sloping trail. A light sheen of sweat appears on his neck. “I hope I’m worth all this effort.”
He turns his face toward mine. His lips are an inch away. He murmurs quietly, “You are worth much more than this, Mia.”
His cheek brushes mine and my breath intakes at the stubble. It catches, and I’m mesmerized as his hand strays to my leg. His chest heaves faster, matching mine. I feel it rise and fall.
He trips, stumbling on the path as he loses his footing.
I jam my eyes shut, preparing for the impact with the stones. He swings me around, so I’m on his front. He gently eases me down on the path.
His lips crush mine, hard and fast. My hands wind into his thick curls and I push back. We kiss and lick in a heated, desperate dance. I bite his bottom lip and he laughs, low and throaty. “Mia,” he whispers, kissing me lightly, barely brushing my lips.
And he pulls back, pulling away.
I want to scream. Instead, I close my eyes, waiting for my breath to find my chest.
He lies beside me on the path. I open my eyes and glance over. His blue eyes stare at the forest ceiling. He’s smiling slightly.
“I’m glad you’re happy. I may just burn and turn to ashes over here.”
He smiles wider. “I’m. Happy.” A dark cloud breezes through his eyes. “I didn’t think that was possible. Didn’t think I deserved it.”
I sit up quickly, afraid his mood will sour. I stand. “C’mon you tease. I want my surprise.”
His eyes clear and I exhale. “Not much further.”
We wind to a cliff top, breaking out of the trees to overlook the wide expanse of a valley. I stop, eyes flitting across the panorama, trying to drink in everything at once. It’s very high, and I step away from the edge as vertigo sways me.
White fences seem to grow from the waning fields: their rickety shapes cutting a real life map of boundaries and lands and family. All around the natural basin, small homes dot the landscape, miles away.
Boulders pile upon one another below and random sprigs of purple flowers sneak and bloom from between them. I smile. They’re survivors.
That’s what we are. Survivors.
“Wow,” is all I can manage.
Morgan’s smile is playful. “Pfft. This isn’t the surprise.”
“What? What do you mean?”
Thunder rumbles in the sky and echoes, reverberating through the valley. I shiver as black clouds roll across the blue like a heavenly bruise.
“Perfect. But we better hurry.”
Sunlight peeks from behind the storm clouds, shining against a cornucopia of blooming fall trees. Morgan takes my hand and leads me under an elderly blood-red maple; its woody, twisted arms and trunk jut up and out over the chasm.
“After you,” he motions to the tree.
“What?”
“Up you go.”
I now see newly nailed pieces of lumber crawling up the trunk in a ladder formation.
My heart leaps, but the whispers quiet, as if anticipating.
I climb the steps, one at a time, till I reach a dizzying height, and angle my body into a woody crook of the tree’s outstretched arm.
I can see perfectly into the valley. I look up and spy newly pruned branches, shaping the limbs into a faux picture window, allowing a wide berth, so that all the fall foliage can be taken in. Yellows and greens and stark reds dot the countryside like a natural puzzle.
I sigh. It’s breathtaking.
For me? He did all this for me?
Morgan arrives behind me — his smile so wide his eyes are almost closed from the squint. He pulls out a belt, wrapping it around my waist and the limb, like a seatbelt.
“For safety. The ride can get pretty bumpy.”
“It’s magnificent. What ride?”
“We can’t stay long, so keep this close Mia, close to your heart and your memory; pull it out on days that seem hopeless. Close your eyes.”
My patchwork heart beats hard and fast in fear. I close my eyes.
“Picture Charlotte. Beneath you. The feel of her barreling across the field.”
The trees sway and pitch in time with his words, and my muscles tense as I right myself; like I’m balancing in the saddle. A thunderclap erupts, and the vibration echoes through the valley, through me. Like hoof beats as they strike the ground.
Tears gather under my lids. But for the first time, they’re tears of joy. It does feel like riding. How did he know? How did he find this? I don’t want to open my eyes to spoil the illusion.
The only thing missing is the sound of her snort. And I hear it.
A snort.
My eyes fly open, searching for the sound. Morgan’s expression has shifted. His eyes tick wildly, searching for something; his mouth is pressed into a straight, white line.
“This was amazing. Honestly, I don’t know how you ever thought of it.” I touch his hand, gaining his attention. “Thank you isn’t enough, but I mean it so much.”
His eyes burn with attraction and… love?
But they quickly shift back to search mode. “You’re so very welcome. I imagined being forbidden to perform the desire of your heart, and immediately thought of this place.”
The bough is whipping madly in the wind as his fingers quickly unbuckle the belt. “Hurry now. These hills bear the brunt of the storm.”
Thunder cracks in agreement and lightning’s jagged blue light flashes as if warning.
As our feet reach the ground, the skies open and the deluge pours down, instantly dousing us.
A snort echoes, not ten feet away.
Morgan’s face drains of color. “We need to get back to Orchard House. Beth’s expecting you.”
****
“Are you sure I can’t get you anything?” Beth hovers at the guest room door. “You’re all set for the night, then?”
I can hear her husband, Edward, finally home, messing around in the store area. Beth’s hands fidget.
“For goodness sake, Beth. I’m fine! He’s finally home — go! I’ll get you if I need you.”
Edward appears, stooping to miss the light, but his tousled hair brushes it anyway. He smiles brightly. “Miss Mia. I’ve missed you, girl.”
I smile back. “Me too.”
I shoo them away.
“You’ll behave — right Mia?” Her voice has the same reluctance as when she told my parents I could spend the night while they traveled on business. All the way to California for a cardiac conference.
“Promise.”
She shuts the door and I hear their footsteps head upstairs. I listen intently for any sound of Morgan. He disappeared the moment we arrived at Orchard House.
The night is silent except for the call of the cicadas. An occasional hoot of a barn owl strays in on the night air.
I open a drawer, poking around. Inside the chest is an array of 19th century attire. I smile. I love getting dressed up. It’s a fun perk of the job.
I wriggle out of my jeans and blouse, slipping the white chemise over my head. I stare at myself in the full-length mirror. Now I match the bedroom perfectly.
I stare, taking it all in. It’s simply furnished in early 19th century decor. I wander over to the bookshelf, letting my fingers gently brush against their old spines. They look expensive — and ancient.
Edgar Allen Poe, Charles Dickens, Louisa May Alcott, Bronson Alcott, Hitchcock and I laugh at the last — Stephen King. And a leather-bound book at the end, with very small, silver wording at the top. Conductor’s Ledger.
I feel my eyebrows draw together. These do not seem like Beth’s reading tastes. More like mine. She’s much too airy and light for these authors.
Authors.
I remember and hurry over to my overnight bag, pulling out the book Morgan gave me.
A Long Fatal Love Chase by A.M. Barnard.
I pull my laptop out of my overnight bag, and type the title in the search engine. My eyes scan the results and I click on the first one.
A.M. Barnard was a pseudonym for Louisa May Alcott. She wrote these books in desperation, trying to make money for her father’s failing household. She worked to help the family from a very early age. Morgan’s voice, dripping with contempt, echoes, “He couldn’t keep his family above the poverty line.”
“Some mystery.” My voice breaks the stillness. It’s. So. Quiet.
Too quiet.
I flip through its pages, deciding to read till I fall asleep. There are few televisions in Orchard House, and none in this guest room.
I flip to the front of the book, and my breath catches. It is signed in an untidy scrawl.
“To my only brother. May you find your heart’s desire and find enough love to heal your soul.”
Lou
“What does this mean? Is this the secret?” My stomach lurches with the impossible idea. “No, that isn’t… possible. Is it?”
I slip the book back into my overnight bag. And zip it. Trying to close the Pandora’s Box I’ve unwittingly opened. My mind stutters up a memory. Of Morgan’s fumbled words. He’d said, “Lou,” before correcting himself, and saying, “Louisa.”
I shake my head. It’s just a coincidence. I’m fabricating clues.
But my new heart is beating hard under my hand, and in my mind’s recesses, I hear the banished whispers, trying to find a way around my mental barricade. They’re almost panting.
Am I onto something?
More and more, the whispers and I are merging — like my heart has grown, expanded to accommodate them. Where they used to feel alien and intrusive, they now feel like an extra conscience. One more bold and confident than I had before the surgery.
My mind takes off to the place I’ve been avoiding. I eat foods I never liked before, can sing, when I was once tone deaf…
“Stop.”
Admitting it, even in my head, feels too crazy scary.
Suddenly I can’t sit still — the possibilities will drown me if I don’t move. I slide out of bed and pace in front of the open window, where the battlefield is bathed in the moonlight.
“What does it mean?”
I wish, not for the first time, that Morgan had a cell so I could text him. He doesn’t have a cell. I remember the look he gave mine, like it was something to fear.
“Stop it. That proves nothing.”
I think of texting Claire, but it’s football Friday again. Plus — I know she loves me—but I don’t think even she could wrap her head around all this. She’d chalk it up to my ‘author imagination.’
I stare at the crammed bookshelf. I’m drawn to the center shelf. A pull, a now familiar compulsion. Like someone inserted a fishhook around my spine and is yanking me forward through my belly button.
I take a deep breath and reach up to the shelf. My hand is shaking like mad. There are three leather-bound books, sitting in a row. Titles are burned into their leather spines: Couriers, Conductors, Literati.
I pluck the middle one off the shelf and sink back onto the bed.
I crack it open.
A bell tolls. Loud, like it’s right beside the bed.
My stomach lurches and I gasp and drop the book with a ‘thwump.’
I sit perfectly still, waiting. But all I hear are the owls, hooting outside my window. Then, their low resonant voices grow frantic, calling back and forth across the barnyard. It sounds like a mantra, ‘the bell has rung, the bell has rung!’
A huge screech owl takes to the wind, swooping past the window. I back away and loose the drapery, breathing hard.
My whole body trembles like I’m having a seizure, and I pick the book back up, wiping the sweat from my palms on my shift.
The first page says,
Recollection sparks in the back of my mind. The people who helped slaves escape on the Underground Railroad… they were called Conductors.
Is this from the Civil War?
I turn the page and my blood goes cold. Erasing any thoughts that this bound volume was written for abolitionists.
My eyes scan the words, handwritten in a neat script.
“’The Conductor will assume responsibility for their tunnel, and continue in perpetuity until a suitable heir can be found. Suitable heirs are easily identifiable by their butterfly-shaped markings. These have been known to fade and reappear over time.’”
Three words echo in my mind, clanging inside like the tolling bell.
Continue in perpetuity. Forever?
My new heart flutters as I turn the page again. My insides liquefy and slosh as if my organs have been swapped with ice-cold water, and gooseflesh erupts on my arms.
“’The tunnels are not to be used, under any circumstances, for personal gain. The plan assigned by the Literati should be executed in a timely fashion. Should one succumb to greed or cowardice, using said tunnels for personal wish fulfillment, consequences will ensue.’”
My eyes drop to the bottom of the page. The names on the page match the names of the authors on the shelf before me.
Except one.
Instead of Louisa May Alcott — it says — Beth Alcott.
Chapter Ten
Heart In My Mouth
I wrench open the door, tiptoeing across the hardwood floor, cringing as the floorboards creak. Beth and Edward are upstairs, blissfully oblivious to anything I am doing. And Morgan… his rooms are through a door behind the sweets counter. But there’s no sign of him.
My head whips back and forth around the store, trying to take in everything at once. I have no idea what I’m looking for — but it’s like seeing the place with new eyes. This is no ordinary house. Beth… may not be ordinary either.
I swallow.