by R. R. Smythe
Beth, please please — my computer is in your guest room. With my first finished book on it. The file’s labeled ‘Deluded Optimism.’ Print it out. All of it. And see if you find the symbol… an ‘L’. Write soon. I don’t know what’s going to happen to us.
My blood runs cold. I don’t need her to answer. The memory surges forward — my exasperation at the scarlet letter.
I am a Literati.
I can’t wrap my head around that… not right now. I need Morgan.
A tiny seed of joy sprouts in my confused heart. We can be together. I am on the court.
My doorknob rattles from a door on the wall — not the one leading to the hallway.
An adjoining chamber?
“Mia? Can you hear me? What was that noise? Are you alright?” Morgan’s voice, rough and hard. He coughs.
I take one final look at the letter, run to the stump, and shove it inside. The forest is cold, dark, and the wind whips my hair into my face.
I fly back through the jagged faux door. I step across the line delineating blackened grass from hardwood floor and the wall reseals with a loud, sucking sound.
It’s gone. Replaced with smooth, flawless plaster.
I lean in, pressing my cheek to the door. “I’m here. I’m fine. Are you alright?”
“Step back. I’m going to break it down.”
“Wait, Morgan, just ten seconds.”
I close my eyes, and place my hands palm up at my sides, remembering the pyrotechnics on the log. I picture my mind, see the folds in my brain, each loaded with sight, sound… and power.
I feel a drawing, a compulsion. I close my eyes, letting it wash over me.
My hands tingle and burn… starting at my fingertips. I imagine the door opening.
In my mind, a dark colored wind holds it back. Pushing from Morgan’s side like a volatile tornado.
The door rattles. I take a deep breath and blow back. The wind scatters and reassembles. The door vibrates and shakes. With a violent tug, the hinges pull off, like a mighty invisible hand torques them, shearing them off where they bend.
The wind howls. I hear it, and so does Morgan.
“Mia! What’s going on?” He rams the door, and it snaps off, falling with a clatter to the ground. He leaps over it, rushing to my side.
He hugs me fiercely. His eyes are red. I push him back — checking for bruises or signs of a struggle. Half of his face is crusted in blood and black and blue.
“Mia. Are you alright? How’s your heart?”
His fingers brush my wet hair from my face and his eyes are tight with concern.
“Morgan — oh, your face! What did they do to you?”
His body collapses, and he pulls me to sit on the enormous bed.
“They — they…” He swallows, closing his eyes. His hands shake like he’s developed epilepsy. I grasp them and squeeze.
“What, what?”
“They showed me what they could do to you.” He amended. “What they would do to you… if I didn’t comply.”
He wrenches his fingers away, tightening them into a ball. “I feel so useless.” He stands, shooting an accusatory finger at the rifle. “That is totally useless against their mind-time tricks. This court. It’s like English rule again. I’m only a bloody courier. Forget a knight—I’m the jester. Their puppet and their amusement. I have no power, no say in my own life. In your life.”
I stand in front of him to halt his pacing. “I — I don’t think we have to worry.”
He bites his lip. “How can you say that? Look what I’ve gotten you into. What my family’s gotten you into?”
“What was the option Morgan?”
His face drains of color. He nods, dragging a hand across it.
“Did Madelon write?”
His eyes tighten. “Yes. But I daresay she loved music more. Composition. Why do you ask?”
“Because her book is on the shelf over there.”
“So… she was…”
“At least a suspected Literati. And from what I’ve seen here—and with the wolves.”
His eyes widen. “Mia. Oh my word. You — a Literati. I have no idea what that means for all of us. I’ve never heard of a Literati in love with someone below their station.” His eyes dart to the mangled door. “But at least we can fight back.”
He pulls me to him and his kiss is tentative as our lips meet. Then I feel the urgency in every swipe of his tongue. His one hand grasps the back of my head, the other pulls me firmly against him.
He breaks away, whispering in my ear. “I cannot lose you. I will not lose you.”
I pull him to the bed. He slides in beside me, kissing my ears, my neck, and returning to my lips. Our bodies are flush, and I feel his chest rising and falling. He murmurs in my ear. “I know they are watching. I refuse to let anything so special be marred by… spectators.”
He slides behind me, wrapping his arms around me.
“I think we can sleep. I think they’ll leave us alone. Now that they know.”
“Just the same. Sleep. I’ll watch over you.”
“When I wake, you have to take a turn, Morgan. It’s not like you aren’t human.”
“Shh. Sleep.”
I kiss his hand and open my mind, letting the blackness overtake me.
Chapter Seventeen
Suspended Hearts
I take a last look at the ‘guest room’. My watch stopped dead the moment we entered the tunnels; but my level of exhaustion tells me it’s time. An hour glass, with dramatic blood-red sand, ticks off the remaining seconds.
My fingers run through his dark curls. Morgan’s head is in my lap, his arms securely around me. Every few minutes, he jerks in his sleep, murmuring, worrying. His cheeks are flushed under the stubble peppering his chin and cheeks.
I think of my parents… and Claire. If something happens and I don’t return… since we time-hopped, what will happen to the Mia in their time? Will I just fade into nothing?
Tears threaten and I search for the anger, the resolve to beat them.
I stare at him, wishing I had the power to grasp and hold this moment in my hands. The bed trembles. My head swivels to the bedside nightstand.
The hourglass sands have stopped, hardened. Time is no longer flowing.
I want to stay here with him. I’m so afraid the next few minutes, few days, will mean one or both of our deaths.
Tears well; and pain swells my heart — spreading to fill my whole chest cavity, all the way into my throat to choke me.
I hear Beth’s voice. Is staying in this room any way to live? I picture Morgan and I in the carriage, riding across the battlegrounds.
I sigh and let the images fade, my hands relax.
The hourglass resumes.
I hear the door rattle, and it swings open. My heart skips and stammers.
Th-th-Thump. Th-th-thump.
Along with a sickening twist in my gut.
“Your presence is requested,” a formal voice announces from the doorway. A dark haired man, in Victorian dress, taps his toe against the carpet.
I inhale. Knowing this might very well be our ‘the end’. Every heartbeat jags as if a thicket of pain surrounds my heart. Reminding me to cherish each beat, each remaining second.
I shake Morgan. “Wake up. It’s time.”
He’s instantly upright and awake. His eyes dart all around, and I feel the change in his body where it touches mine — from complete relaxation to taut, ready to strike. “Lead the way, Milady.”
We follow the Victorian man down the meandering staircase. It rumbles in a booming vibrating crack and splits, midair, and we curve away from the entrance to the castle.
The wind’s whipping crazy outside, lashing against the turret. I hear the crackle of the fire before we arrive in a massive common room. A raging fireplace with a multicolored chimney rises up the wall. Tapestries of deepest maroon and gold and red adorn every bit of the ceiling.
I stare at a wooden stage, slightly raised off
the ground. Three polished, dark-wood chairs, almost like thrones, stand like inanimate sentries. Their presence alone is imposing.” Wait here,” Victorian man says. He reaches up to a cord, dangling from the ceiling. When he pulls it, a bell rings. Two men and one woman enter, gliding to the chairs.
A sign near the throne proclaims: Council in Session.
Literati Oleander, Thistle, and Toadstool presiding.
One of the men is in a white t-shirt and jeans; the other, Georgian dress. The woman’s beautiful Victorian gown shimmers in the firelight, sending silver and white undulations from her bodice to her feet.
I squint and lean over to Morgan to whisper, “I can’t make out their faces.”
Georgian man, whom I’m betting my life is Toadstool, opens his mouth to respond, but the man in jeans interrupts. He nods to the sign. “That’s by design. To protect our identities. Welcome, Mia Templeton, is it?” He gives Morgan a slight glance. “And you… her… protector?”
“His name is Morgan Kelly.” I feel the heat on my cheeks. This is like English Court. They’re treating him like he’s nothing. An insignificant courier. My insides tremble.
“Yes, yes. Mr. Kelly, the soldier extraordinaire. Do get on with it. I have much to do today,” Georgian Toady says, his voice bored.
The man in jeans rolls his eyes. “You seem to be gifted, Mia. Your approach is most unorthodox — we normally do the summoning. But I see you come on behalf of Beth Alcott.”
“She should be punished. For not responding to the order.” The woman’s voice is shrill and cold. “How are we to control the tunnels if our Conductors do not obey?”
Morgan’s hands ball into fists. “My sister has loyally served since 1858! Given life upon lifetime to you people. Left the family she loved.”
“Oh, cry me a river,” the woman barbs.
The man in jeans laughs.
“Did I say that right?” she eyes him, almost flirtatiously.
“Yep, that was great. Very modern.” He smiles back at her. He turns his bright blue gaze back to us, instantly serious. “We all serve for eons. Do I look young to you? I wish upon wish I were. There are rules, Mr. Kelly. As you well know. Think what happens to a brigade during wartime if the soldiers do not obey commands.”
Morgan opens his mouth.
“Chaos, that’s what.” Blue Jeans cuts across him.
Morgan’s jaw snaps shut and his teeth grind together.
I take a step forward and feel his hand tighten in warning. “Please, we’ve come to ask forgiveness for Beth. She and Louisa were only trying to help me. You see, I needed a heart transplant. They couldn’t find a match… and… well, my time was up. Louisa saw M-Madelon suffering, dying — and thought of me. So they both broke the rules, but with a higher purpose in mind. To save a life.”
The woman shoos the air. “Yes, that’s all well and good, but Beth’s been breaking the code for years, writing her sister. She took chances with altering history. This is yet another strike.”
“Then, please.” Morgan steps forward, passing me.
My heart plummets. What is he doing?
“Please let me become the Conductor. Let Beth live out her life and pass. She’s so very weary.”
The Georgian man actually stifles a yawn, wrenches his attention away from his fingernails. “You sir, are a courier. Nothing more.” His expression, his posture, everything about him, screams arrogance.
“Yes, but I’ve heard of people changing positions when there was a need.”
“Have you now?” Blue Jeans looks amused. My mind is confused. I register his expressions, but if someone told me to describe him… I’d have no idea. It’s like the face-recognition-system in my brain is disabled.
Georgian Toady’s suddenly interested, his face alight. “Mr. Kelly. Have you ever written anything?”
Morgan’s face flushes scarlet. He stammers, “N-No.”
Toady’s eyebrows rise in disbelief. “Really, now?”
Morgan’s lips press together. “It was only scribbling. Just my thoughts in a journal.”
Oleander is piqued. “Tell me, Toady. I want to know.”
Blue Jeans rolls his eyes. “Another time. We have more pressing issues here.”
I swallow. “I—I know that I may be a Literati. Perhaps I could take Beth’s place.”
Blue Jeans walks closer, examining us.
“That might be possible. We are having difficulty with a certain Literati. If you would assist us, the council might consider your request.”
A thunderclap vibrates the common room, shaking tapestries loose. They flutter down around in a colored shower like fallen flags.
Morgan pulls me to him.
“What is going on?” shrieks Oleander. Her tone makes me shiver like fingernails on a chalkboard.
Blue Jeans darts back to the stage, and the Literati huddle together, preparing for battle.
Georgian Toady shoots to a stand, and Oleander sneers toward the west castle wall.
Suddenly a thick, putrid stench emanates from the bricks. White worms wiggle from between the cracks.
My nostrils flare and I gag and press my arm over my mouth.
Blue Jean’s eyes narrow. “Show yourself, Edgar.”
The castle wall disintegrates into writhing, black snakes, each pulling and twisting, one over the other. Trying to free themselves from the remaining bricks.
Black smoke billows forth, slowly melding into a face.
“You are going to send her? To subdue me?” A man with a slightly lopsided face leers from the center of the snake pit. He laughs; so brittle and bitter, I shudder at its sound.
Blue Jeans regards him, with eyes both serious and sad. “Edgar. We’ve all suffered losses. You must keep your wits. You must know you cannot win. The tunnels will win. They always do.”
Poe’s face twitches spasmodically. His arm sweeps out of the wall in a huge arc.
Georgian Toady and Oleander join hands and a sparkling, iridescent wall erupts around the three.
The flames in the fireplace erupt, blasting off the grate.
Blue Jeans steps out of the circle of protection, hurrying toward Poe’s image.
“He’s either very brave or very mad,” Morgan whispers.
Poe’s eyes shoot to us. “He’s both.” And with a flick of his head, the flames spiral into a fiery funnel cloud. It incinerates the grate and spins toward us. Sucking in chairs and books and tapestries, spitting them out as a black ash, which instantly coats the room.
“Poe! Desist!” Georgian Toady commands.
Morgan pushes me behind him.
Blue Jeans rushes the fiery tornado, vaulting himself in its path. It cuts right through him, barreling toward us.
Five feet, two feet. “For the love of mercy, Poe!” Blue Jeans screams.
Its heat blisters our skin; like standing in the heart of a furnace.
It will devour us.
My hands tingle and I shoot them in front of Morgan. They fizzle and pop, exploding in an incandescent fury.
The twirling slows, the revolutions turning slower and slower, shrinking to a singular matchstick.
Poe roars in frustration. His eyes, wild and mad.
“I will be waiting.”
Oleander nods to the windows, and sunlight streams through the remaining black smoke.
Poe’s face becomes smaller and smaller till it’s gone. The snakes turn to stone and crash to the floor as the bricks rebuild themselves.
Morgan’s face flushes bright red. “That is who you want us to defeat? You cannot even fight him yourselves!” His chest is heaving and he lunges at Blue Jeans.
Blue Jeans backs toward the stage, back under the protection of the trio. “Calm yourself, Mr. Kelly.”
Oleander smiles wickedly. “Do let me help.”
Morgan’s face is instantly placid, his unfocused eyes staring straight forward.
“Is he alright? What are you doing to him?”
“He’s fine,” says Georgia
n Toady. “We just need to have an intelligent, emotion-free conversation. I’m afraid Mr. Kelly is not currently able to participate.” Blue Jean’s tone is one suited for a cocktail party. “Yes, we are very interested to see what you can do, Mia. So I am to understand it is Madelon’s heart, giving you the power?”
“I think so.”
Blue Jeans steps off the stage, walking toward Morgan and me. My mind keeps darting in and out of recognition. His name’s on the tip of my tongue, and then some unseen force pushes it out of reach.
“We have a proposal. If you agree to the terms, perhaps we can forgive both Beth and Louisa, and relieve Beth of her responsibilities.”
Morgan shakes his head and steps protectively toward me, almost shielding me with his body. I have to move around him. “What are the terms?”
“We are obviously having difficulty with Mr. Poe. He’s gone rogue, if you will. His wife died—and he’s totally run amok. Using the tunnels at will in his quest to find her. To stop her death. You know using the tunnels for personal gain is strictly forbidden, yes?”
Oleander’s voice is grave. “We need you to stop him. Your skills, Mr. Kelly, will help Mia get to where she needs to be. In the same room with him. To battle.”
“I’m not sure if I know how to battle.” I hate the tremor in my voice. I clear my throat.
“If it’s anything like what you just did to his little revolving fire of death, you’ll do fine,” Georgian Toady says, stifling a yawn into the back of his hand.
“And Buttercup’s wolves. Oh, I love how you put her in her place!” Oleander claps her hands vindictively.
Blue Jeans eyebrows rise and he tsks with disapproval. “Your jealousy is not becoming, my dear.” He turns back to us. “It’s a battle of… creativity. Your mind, against his. We think it’s a genetic phenotype gone postal. Excuse my cliché. The ability to open and close the tunnels; to temporarily create matter. We don’t have all the answers. We aren’t the creators of the tunnels.”
“S—” The woman chastises him. “She doesn’t need to know everything. Not just yet.”
Blue Jeans smiles. “Sorry. I’m still a little wordy, after all this time. Poe’s run amok. He must be stopped.”