A Light in the Dark

by Becky Doughty

  Sebastian, on the other hand, I couldn’t tell what went on behind those disturbing eyes of his. Not disturbing in a creepy way like Sierra had suggested, but in a way that made my skin flush and my tongue tie. When he watched me, I felt clumsy and inept. Except when we made music together. And perhaps that was the most disturbing thing of all. This morning, while his eyes, shining with some maniacal fervor, were locked on mine, it was as if we were speaking a language all our own, one that only we knew, but one that came so effortlessly it could only be magic.

  My brothers used to tease me about being a changeling, a fae child exchanged for their real Ransome sister, one who was tall and elegant, with hair like cornsilk, eyes the color of the spring grass, and a voice like the wind in the leaves on a summer’s night. Actually, although they all contributed to the teasing, it was Ben, the oldest of them, who was now, not surprisingly, a Creative Writing high school teacher, who had told me about the human girl I’d been traded for. It never occurred to me when I was little that there was no way he could have known those things about her if the real sister had been just a newborn when we were switched. But I used to beg him to tell the story, to tell me about the mysterious girl who should have grown up in this family, should have been eating meals in my chair at the table, sleeping in my bed in my room, going to school with my friends, playing my piano and my guitar and singing in my place.

  According to Ben, it was my obsession with music that gave away my fae roots. From the time I was an infant, the only way I could fall asleep at night was if someone sang to me, and if no one was around to do so, I cooed and babbled myself to sleep. Music almost always soothed my tears, but there were some songs that would actually make me weep with emotions I couldn’t explain, even years later. Judy Garland’s “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” Bette Midler’s “You Are the Wind Beneath My Wings,” and Pilot’s “Oh, Oh, Oh, It’s Magic.” By the time I was three, my favorite toy was the upright piano in the living room where I’d plunk out tunes of songs I’d both heard and made up. I’d listen to whole albums with my body pressed to my folks’ old-school stereo speaker cabinet while the music throbbed against me. I insisted I was “living inside the music.”

  “Legend has it that the fae changeling is usually sickly or deformed,” Ben would say, shaking his head, a horrified and repulsed grimace on his face. “And let me tell you, you were hideous when Mom and Dad found you, Squeak. You had these huge bumps sticking out of the sides of your head, and the doctors had to remove them so you wouldn’t get teased your whole life.” He’d point to my temples and make me feel the indentations there. “Had to cut deep to get it all. That’s why you have those dents.” It never occurred to me to ask if anyone else had dents in their heads.

  “Even though they cut out your freaky fae horns, and even though you may seem healthy, there are other ways to recognize a changeling. Like being able to trace patterns in their freckles. If they have hair so black it looks blue in the moonlight. If they’re oddly miniature. Or, of course, by their magical giftings, like art or music or dance.”

  My brothers all laughed at my fascination over the stories Ben told, and my ready acceptance of it all as God’s truth. That should have been a red flag to me about the validity of the stories, but I liked the idea that I was at least part fairy-folk, that perhaps I had a little magic running through my veins. I had no lingering deformities, other than the dents on the sides of my head and consistently coming in alarmingly below average on the doctor’s growth charts. Even now, full grown, I still stood just a bit over five feet tall in my socks. But my brothers had often held me down to play dot-to-dot in the freckles across my nose and cheeks, I did have this midnight hair that grew faster than anyone else’s I knew, and I definitely lived inside the magical realm of music.

  My mom finally made them confess the stories weren’t true when she caught them all making the sign of the devil every time they passed me, and truth be told, I was heart-broken. I had reveled in my magical bloodlines and the endless possibilities it offered me. I suddenly felt, at the tender age of nine, that the flame of my life had been cruelly snuffed out.

  That was when I discovered women in rock. Yep. At nine years old. And my mother, crazy woman, became my biggest fan. She had a collection of DVDs of music from the 70’s and 80s that, well, rocked my world. I was like the little girl digging through her mother’s jewelry box, except I was digging through her jewel cases instead.

  Making music with Sebastian, however, felt like making magic with Sebastian, like we were crossing realms, like we were tapping into something otherworldly, a connection forming between us unlike any I’d ever experienced before, especially with someone I didn’t even know. It was terribly disconcerting. But in a terribly exciting way.

  When I’d looked up from kissing Tom to find Sebastian’s eyes on me, I’d felt our two worlds collide and I didn’t know if I could disentangle them ever again.

  I didn’t know if I wanted to.

  ***

  Breakfast was, in fact, ready when the three of us emerged into the kitchen in a line. Mom looked up, smiled brightly, then her eyes darted to the two men following me, and I saw her features shift. It wasn’t much, but I knew her so well, and even though she’d had a lot of practice at maintaining control of her emotions as a parent, she was frighteningly perceptive.

  I caught her eye once more and pressed my lips together in frustration.

  “Titia, honey, would you come keep an eye on the last of the pancakes while I wash up these pans before we eat? And boys, why don’t you head into the living room. Tom, please introduce Sebastian to Jordan and Charlie, okay? Ben just texted to say they were almost here.” She shooed the guys off with the flick of her wrist, and they left the room obediently. I’d forgotten my brother and dad hadn’t met Sebastian yet. I wasn’t sure who I felt sorriest for; I hoped they’d be nice to him.

  “I think these are done already, Mom. And your burner is off.” I eyed her knowingly. “Being sneaky?”

  “Is everything all right?” She didn’t bother pretending she didn’t know what I was talking about.

  “It’s fine,” I replied, perhaps a bit too quickly.

  “Tom’s looking a little green around the heart.”

  “Do you mean green around the eyes? Isn’t it green-eyed monster?” Mom tended to mix her metaphors to suit her needs, so I don’t know why I bit. I’d just given her permission to express her concern in more detail.

  “No, honey. Tom could never be a monster, green-eyed or otherwise. But he does look a little heartsick. That boy’s had it in for you for a long time, and I think he’s feeling the weight of his decision to leave.”

  I didn’t say anything, hating and loving that she could read us all so well.

  “And the way that new guy looks at you. My goodness.”

  “Mom,” I started to protest.

  She brought her hands to my shoulders and made me face her. “Listen, honey. He’s gorgeous. He’s got those dreamy eyes. That Superman stud-lock of hair that keeps falling forward over his forehead. A smile that would melt—”

  “Mom!” I reached up and covered my ears, careful not to knock her hands away. “Ew! You’re such a cougar! Does Dad know you’re hot for guys my age?” I knew she was only teasing me again, but what she was saying hit kind of close to home. I’d noticed all the same things.

  Mom patted my cheek and then pulled a piled-high platter of pancakes from the oven where they’d been keeping warm. She scooped the last four from the griddle onto the top of the stack and held the platter out to me. When I reached for it, though, she didn’t let go. She waited until I met her gaze, now quite serious. “My point, daughter of mine, is that Tom has made a very difficult decision about his future. A decision made much harder by the fact that he’s walking away from what his heart wants. In a little over a month, he’ll be leaving all of this; his home, his friends, his band… and you.” She paused, waiting for me to at least acknowledge her.

  I nodded. �
��I know.”

  She released the platter and reached over to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. She didn’t make a big deal about it—she knew that was the surest way to get me to do just the opposite of what she wanted—but I could tell she was glad I was letting it grow out. Even though it was still layered and a little choppy-looking, it could almost be called long, hanging just past my shoulders. I didn’t plan on cutting it again any time soon. It grew too quickly, and even though I liked the spiky punk look, it was a pain to keep up with it.

  “Then you also know that you, as his dear friend, owe it to him to not give him any more reasons than he already has to regret his very mature decision, okay?” She smiled poignantly, then chucked me under the chin and added, “No matter how yummy the new guy is. Give Tom the courtesy of waiting until he’s gone so he doesn’t have to watch.”

  “I know,” I repeated, a little ugly frustration seeping into my voice. “Besides, I barely know Sebastian. It’s not like I’m going to tie him down and force him to have my babies next week.” Although, the thought did linger a little longer than I’d intended, playing itself out for a moment in my imagination. I took a deep breath in and blew it out hard in an attempt to dislodge the unsettling images from my mind.

  “I know you know, sweetie.” She ignored my crude sarcasm, pulled out two large egg and hashbrown casseroles from the oven, and turned toward the dining room, motioning with her head for me to follow. “But maybe Sebastian doesn’t. Remember what the greatest lover of all time says? ‘Do not—’”

  “Do not awaken love until the time is right,” I interrupted, having heard the advice many times before. “Thank you, King Solomon.” I trailed after her like a little duckling, and set the platter of pancakes in the middle of the already burgeoning table. Mom had gone all out this morning. Besides the standard peanut butter and maple syrup our family loved on pancakes, she had a whole smorgasbord of toppings to choose from; strawberries, fresh peach slices, chocolate chips, raspberry syrup, her famous homemade plum jam, powdered sugar, coconut shavings, and whipped cream. “I’ll be careful, Mom. I promise. I just wish—” I broke off.

  “Wish what?” she murmured when I didn’t finish. I knew she wanted to call the guys in before things got cold, so I let the words spill out quickly.

  “I just wish I felt the same way about Tom as he does about me. It would make things so much easier.” I shrugged my shoulders and looked up at her, knowing she’d understand.

  “I know,” she said, sounding just like me. Our voices were so similar in tone, her eyes the same sooty-lashed crystal blue as mine, the slashing angle of her dark brows and shoulder-length hair just a toned-down version of mine. How did I ever fall for the changeling story? No one could look at us together and not know immediately whose child I was.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  A scuffling at the front door heralded the timely arrival of Ben and his family. He and Marilyn practically fell into the house, both with arms full of squirmy children, car seats, and diaper bags. They deposited their armloads on the floor of the front entry, and the older of the two kids made a beeline for me.

  “Tiss! Tiss! Looka my sirt!” she cried, holding out the sides of a black band shirt like she would a dress. “I’m wearing your sirt!” The little girl looked like a miniature version of me in her leggings and Marauders T-shirt that was way too big for her tiny frame. Except she wore red, glittery Dorothy shoes instead of black Toms, and her hair was the same light brown as her mother’s.

  I hugged her tightly, told her how rockin’ she looked, and nudged her toward Mom for grandma kisses. I knew she’d be back by my side in a moment; Gina was my little shadow. I greeted Ben and Marilyn, squeezed fat Little Ben until his chin started to quiver in fear for his life, and then handed him off to Jordan who finished the job nicely. By the time the baby made the rounds back to his mother, he was in tears. They were short-lived, though, especially once he laid eyes on the table laden with food and his high chair already set up waiting for him.

  Ben and Jordan shook hands like the adults they were, followed by that hug/backslap thing so many men do, and then started throwing punches like the boys they’d always been. Tom, taller and beefier than all four of my brothers, grabbed them each by a shoulder and shoved them apart so Dad could slip into the melee and greet his eldest son. They all stood around in a tight man-circle, guffawing over something. I thought I caught the word “trout” or perhaps “goat” in there, but I had no desire to know any details.

  I darted a glance over at Sebastian and bit back a grin. He was standing in front of the armchair where he’d been sitting when the troops arrived, wearing an expression that could only be shock, or maybe fear, at the chaos that had just erupted inside our front door.

  I felt a tug on my shirt and found Gina grinning up at me. “Come,” I said, grabbing her hand. “There’s someone here you need to meet.”

  We halted a few feet from the shell-shocked Sebastian, and I crouched down so I was on Gina’s level. To my surprise, Sebastian did, too, although he still looked a little apprehensive about what might be expected of him. “Gina, since you’re the biggest Marauders fan in the whole wide world, you should be the first to meet our new guitar player, Sebastian Jeffries.” Gina had already been informed of Tom’s pending departure, and although the little girl had been initially distraught, every time I saw her she asked if we’d found a new poopdeck swabber yet. I was pretty sure she just liked saying the word “poop,” because she always snickered behind her hand when she did. “Sebastian, this is my niece, Gina Ransome, Marauders’ number one fan.”

  Sebastian, looking rather charmed, held out a hand to Gina and smiled warmly at her. “Nice to mee—” Before he could finish his sentence, Gina had thrown her noodle arms around his neck and was squeezing him hard, her knobby shoulder pushing against his Adam’s apple. He gagged a little and wobbled awkwardly on the balls of his feet. He braced one hand flat on the ground to keep from tumbling backward, his other hand snaking around the little girl to hold her upright, too. “Whoa!” He laughed, obviously a little embarrassed about being nearly bowled over by a preschooler.

  “Hi!” Gina squawked close to his ear. He flinched and I clamped my teeth together to keep from laughing out loud. Gina stepped back, struck a saucy pose, with one hand on her hip. The other she held up in front of Sebastian’s face, all five fingers splayed. “I’m five. My brother is on’y one, and I do the talking for him ‘cuz he’s the baby. So jus’ aks me your questions, not him.” Then she pointed at her shoes, did what I presumed was supposed to be a soft-shoe shuffle, and asked, “Do you like my magic s’ippers?”

  Sebastian nodded, still looking a little knocked off-center, but he somehow managed to keep up. “Yes. I do like your shoes. They make you look quite glamorous. Like a sparkly movie star.”

  “Not a spark’y movie star, siwwy. A spark’y rock star!” she corrected, planting her feet a little wider in a stereotypical rocker stance. She really did look like a mini me.

  “Right. Of course. Silly me.” Sebastian smacked his forehead self-deprecatingly, but he seemed like he was actually enjoying the exchange with Gina. “What was I thinking?” He leaned forward and touched the toe of one of her shoes. “Maybe you’ll let me borrow them some day.”

  My heart melted, okay? I didn’t know what I’d expected, but a man who knew to compliment a girl on her shoes, no matter what her age? Something in me told me he might just be a keeper.

  Gina reached out and stiff-armed him with both hands, shoving his shoulders with surprising strength. This time he did go toppling backward. “You’re so siwwy, Bast’en,” she chortled. “You’re a boy. You can’t—”

  Sebastian lurched to his feet almost reflexively, looming to his full height over us. I stood quickly too, watching him, wary, my hand on Gina’s back, drawing her close to my side. “You okay?” I spoke to him slowly, calmly, not wanting to alarm Gina needlessly. Or anyone else in the room for that matter. She might have been a litt
le rough, but he’d reacted almost blindly, instantly on the defense. I didn’t think he’d landed hard enough to hurt himself. Maybe he was just embarrassed about being knocked over by her, but something about the way he’d reacted didn’t sit well.

  Sebastian cleared his throat and relaxed his stance immediately, but not before I saw a shift in his expression, a decision made, a door slammed shut on something. Then he gave Gina a warm, albeit more reserved smile. The little girl’s eyes were wide as she tipped her head way back to look up at him, just like I did. Would she cry? Freak out? Sebastian’s expression told me he was worried about the same thing.

  “Bwasted barnacles, toots! You are one tall poopdeck swabber!”

  Of all the things Gina might have said, even I was not expecting that, and I snorted in a very unladylike manner. Sebastian released a strangled chuckle of surprise, too.

  “Oh. Well, yes, I guess I am.” He bent forward at the waist, gripping his knees. “At least compared to you I am.”

  “And compared to Tiss, too. See’s sort like me, you know.” Between Gina’s slight lisp, her precocious attitude, and complete lack of guile, I could see he was beginning to relax again.

  “I suppose she is.” He glanced over at me, clearly relieved. “But tell me something. Where did you learn to cuss like a sailor? It’s pretty impressive, I have to admit.”

  “You mean like a piwate?” Gina bounced her skinny little hips from side to side in a show of straight-up sass. “My cuz here.” She pointed with her thumb over her shoulder at me. “Tiss is teaching me evewything see knows, and see knows lots of piwate bad words.” She reached up and tugged on my hand. “I know ‘Bwasted barnacles,’ and ‘sufferin’ seesells,’ and ‘siver me timbers,’ and ‘go take a long walk on a sort plank,’ and—and—”