Grey Lore

by Jean Knight Pace

  Finally, gingerly, Ella held out her palm, smiling at her aunt. Her aunt smiled back and returned the ring, her fingers cold.

  Sam jogged to the entrance of the Havensborough Unit—the door with the code that he couldn’t crack. It was different from the main entrance with its urgency and bustle. At Havensborough, very few people went in. Employees occasionally—men and women in quiet suits or white lab coats. Nurses with plain, green scrubs.

  Sometimes other people went in too—never in handcuffs or straight-jackets, never fighting police officers or laid out on stretchers. But they went in. A slow walk, an empty gaze—every step seemingly willing, yet somehow forced. Parents and children with tear-streaked faces, adults leading their elderly relatives with a sad, stoic grip.

  The more Sam came to stare at the building, the more he realized that even the walkers and joggers avoided this entrance, preferring instead the hurry and rush of the front doors or the distant, winding paths of the grounds.

  Even the door seemed to discourage entering or leaving—a slender gray line against the pale limestone face of the building. One thing, though—you could be young or old, ugly or beautiful, poor or rich. The Havensborough Unit did not discriminate. At this door—you could slip in, but it seemed to Sam that precious few slipped back out again.

  This was the door Sam had to face. Somehow he was sure it held Zinnie and it was the door he worried would someday hold him.

  He fingered the $100 bill in his pocket. He wasn’t, at least, crazy, though part of him still wished he was. He hadn’t hallucinated the money that had fallen from the inside of his father’s bedroom door, or the lie his dad had told him about the picture of his grandmother. He hadn’t hallucinated Ella’s resemblance to his maternal grandmother or the headaches he’d started to have.

  Because of that, he was pretty sure that the number that danced through his head and the old woman who had given it to him were also real. But he needed to know.

  He believed now that the number was a code. If he could crack the code and get in, the code was real. If the code was real, the code giver was real, too. If the code and code giver were real, then he could get inside this door.

  He wasn’t quite sure why he would want to, why he would enter the one place that had scared him since they’d gotten to this town, but he did.

  He needed to know why he’d found a woman who seemed to be able to disappear and reappear and make posts out of candy for children to crawl through.

  Was she trying to trick him into the stove, or save him from it?

  Chapter 36

  The senator walked in wearing a trim navy suit—fitted and double stitched. The hemline rested tastefully below her knees, hiding all but the tip of a dark scar peeking out.

  “To what,” Napper said politely, “do I owe the honor?”

  “To my nervousness,” she said bluntly, sitting down and waving away the cup of tea Napper pushed toward her.

  “Over what, my dear?”

  “You may call me Senator McKinney.”

  “I made you, child, and I may call you what I will.” He blew gently across the top of his tea, no anger in his voice, or eyes either, though she felt the pulse of it heat up the room.

  “I’m just worried,” the senator said, her tone softer. “One of the pieces has been discovered. When we thought it completely destroyed; when you gave us your assurance that this was so.” She straightened her skirt as she spoke, tugging it over the ugly scar.

  “Yes,” he said slowly. “It is somewhat miraculous that it survived the crash all those years ago.”

  “And the other piece—the Ursa Major,” she asked. “Have you made any kind of search for it?”

  “None whatsoever,” he said smoothly. “If it is in existence at all, there is no need of recovery. Even with the discovery of the smaller Ursa Minor. Once the minor and major are broken apart, one would have to find both pieces—a near impossibility. And then one would have to realize they must be fitted back together again. And then, of course, a genius would be needed to know how the device must be used.”

  “There are geniuses,” she said matter-of-factly. “You of all people should know that.”

  He smiled. “As well I do. And a terrible burden it is, my child. But to find the pieces, which even our best could not, then to reassemble them into one, and to make use of the object. It is a statistical impossibility.”

  “There are more than statistics at play,” the senator said.

  “The old woman has been committed.”

  “And for how long this time?”

  “For as long as necessary.”

  “Unless you plan to kill her in there, it cannot be long enough for me.” The Senator looked to her knee where she knew the long scar bulged up above her otherwise flawless skin.

  “We have no plans to kill her, but the dear cannot cheat death forever, can she?”

  Senator McKinney knotted her delicate brows together.

  “Her medicine has been more heavily dosed; her time is close,” he said.

  “Not close enough,” the senator replied, touching the scar on her knee. “And if the minor and major are reunited…”

  “Then what?” he interrupted. “It is too late. The wolves gather, our people convene, the girl is here.”

  “Then they will know, and knowing, they will resist.”

  “The powerful ones of their kind have been able to do nothing. Look at your own human-filled councils. And as for the child, she is young. She can hardly resist her own hormones, much less a force such as ours.”

  The senator pinched her lips together. “And the Rogue? The Rogue will surely make a grab for the girl if given the chance. ”

  “The Rogue is annoying as ever, but easily enough contained. Our goals, at least, are the same.”

  “Hardly,” the senator said.

  “Mostly.” Napper drained his cup of tea. “We need the girl, the solstice, and the stone.”

  “The Rogue is a potential threat to the council, your plan, everything. And we don’t even know yet who he is.”

  “No,” Napper replied. “The Rogue has left surprisingly few clues concerning identity. However the Rogue would not stop the sun change even if it was possible to do so.”

  “But the Rogue is not on our side.”

  “Obviously,” the old man said, to the clear annoyance of his protégé. “But he is not on their side either. The Rogue, I’m afraid, is on The Rogue’s side—a lone wolf.” Napper paused, the sides of his mouth turning up almost imperceptibly. “If you will.”

  The senator sighed. “We are not the only ones with power.”

  “Perhaps not.” Quietly, he looked at the now empty tea cup in front of him. Pulling back a long finger, he suddenly tapped the cup with such focused force that it crumbled to pieces on its plate. “But we are the only ones with clear focus. With intention. And it is only that focus that can shatter this lesser existence that has been thrust upon us”—he pressed a finger into the ceramic bits and then blew the tiny particles toward the senator’s dark suit—“to dust.”

  Chapter 37

  Ella went into her bedroom, dropped her bag, and walked past the full-length mirror before she saw it—the long red dress laid out on her bed. It was an impossibly deep color, floor length with slender sleeves, shimmering and heavy against the tissue paper and white blankets beneath it. It was a stark point of color in the bland room, matched only by the red sun in the painting on the wall. Something about that made Ella shiver. It was beautiful.

  She reached out to touch the dress. It was made of smooth, satiny fabric and had a fitted bodice with a skirt that moved like water. It was weird that Vivi had left it there. She must have brought it up here for some reason, laid it down, and gotten distracted. Which seemed very un-Vivi.

  “So what do you think?” Vivi asked from behind her.

  Ella jumped. Her aunt wasn’t usually home from work yet, and she had come up to the bedroom door as quietly as an animal.

&nbs
p; “It’s gorgeous,” Ella said. “What will you be wearing it for?”

  “I won’t,” her aunt said, laughing. “It’s for you.”

  Ella just stared at her.

  “The Festival of the Red Candle,” Vivi said, answering the question Ella hadn’t asked.

  “Your fundraiser?”

  “Yes,” Vivi said. “A poem is read and a ceremonial stone is placed after the candles are lit every year. They wanted someone from the high school to do it; they were thinking of holding a contest. But I had a better idea. Beautiful niece. Clear voice. It seemed a lot easier. Mr. Napper liked the idea too. The thought of tryouts with dramatic high-school-aged teenagers made him nervous. He didn’t want the entire female body of the Thespian club to eat each other.” Vivi smiled, but Ella was still too shell-shocked to return it.

  “So I volunteered you. Will you do it?” Vivi asked.

  Ella was flattered, but a little worried too. She thought about Sarah. Sarah might have eaten someone to be able to do a reading at The Property. But probably not—she was all teeth and no bite. Instead she would have spent the night bawling into her pillow if she had auditioned and not gotten the part. So it was probably better just to pick someone. Ella just wasn’t sure if it was better to pick her.

  “Well,” Vivi said, “go try it on.”

  Ella could barely touch the dress much less put it on her body. It had probably cost more than her mother’s last month of rent. Plus, waltzing out of the bathroom to display it to her aunt instead of her mother made her feel like crying. “Well, okay, maybe,” Ella said. “I…”

  Vivi picked up the dress, lifting it from the tissue paper. She let the heavy fabric fall through her hands and over her fingers. It looked like sand the way it moved, like blood-red sand through an hourglass—smooth, glittering, suffocating.

  “I don’t know,” Ella said suddenly. “Do you think I’m the right person for it?”

  “Oh, of course,” Vivi said, looking up from the dress. “And it’ll be a really good opportunity for you to meet lots of influential people. Mr. Napper, of course. And the mayor, the head of the school board, lots of other people too.”

  Vivi must have seen the way all those names seemed to discourage Ella more than encourage her because she said, “But don’t worry, not all the faces will be unfamiliar. Mr. Sanderson will be there.”

  “Jack?” Ella said, trying to sound nonchalant and looking at the dress. “How come?”

  “Oh—I guess I never told you. His mom is well connected with Mr. Napper.”

  “Oh,” Ella said, touching the dress.

  “Here,” Vivi said, putting the gown into Ella’s arms. “You don’t have to decide now. Just think about it.”

  Ella held the heavy red dress and nodded.

  “I didn’t mean to thrust this on you,” Vivi said. “I just thought it might be a good opportunity. And a lot of fun. But you don’t have to do it if you don’t want to.” She nodded at Ella and left.

  Ella held the dress a moment more, then turned to the mirror. She let the full skirt fall down and held the dress in front of her. She had never owned something so expensive or beautiful before. She had never been that girl.

  She slipped out of her clothes and put the dress on. It fit like a magical glove—tight and loose in all the right places, bendable, but gorgeous. At the bottom were tiny stitches of shimmering gold that formed a sort of sun and moon pattern along the hem.

  Downstairs she heard Jack’s voice. She looked once more at her reflection in the mirror. Maybe she would go. Maybe.

  She slid out of the dress and back into her normal clothes, which seemed scratchy and stiff in comparison. Across the room, she looked at her mother’s jewelry box—so plain and square and small. Then she laid the dress on the bed and went down for her session with Jack.

  Vivi set fruit and cheese on the table.

  “So,” Jack began. “Vivi tells me you might be at the Festival.”

  “Maybe,” Ella said, slightly annoyed that Vivi had said anything at all. “It’d be a really great opportunity.”

  “Absolutely,” Jack said. “It also comes with a decent little scholarship.”

  Ella looked in Vivi’s direction, but her aunt had already left the room.

  “Really,” Ella asked. “I thought this whole thing was for a fundraiser.”

  Jack shrugged. “A fundraiser with extremely rich people. Napper always donates the lion’s share, of course, and this year he’s giving a little something extra for the reader of the poem.”

  Ella pressed her lips together. She and Vivi hadn’t talked about college and paying for it, but Ella knew that Vivi hadn’t spent the last sixteen years saving to send a kid to school. “How much is a little something extra?” Ella asked.

  “$25,000,” Jack said with a smile.

  “You’re kidding,” Ella said, sitting back on the couch.

  Jack laughed and said, “But scholarship aside, I need you to come. We’ll protect each other from old people overdose.”

  Ella smiled and Jack winked.

  Chapter 38

  Napper wasn’t used to being surprised. And with the discovery of the Ursa Minor, he had been.

  He was glad that no one had taken the ring, and he hoped The Rogue would stay out of his way and leave it alone. It was more important to have the child’s trust than the bauble on a gold band.

  Still, he was more concerned about the Ursa Minor than he had let on. Which is why he had lied to the Senator. He did, in fact, know where the Ursa Major was. He had been watching it since August when the renowned folklorist had arrived in a small town in Indiana. Did the old teacher really think he could slip in under Napper’s radar? Napper doubted it.

  So if David Witten didn’t believe he was unseen, what exactly did he believe? He was here for the Festival—there was no doubt. But to what end? And did he—he who could handle silver unscathed, strengthened even—was he the one who had been responsible for the deaths of the council members. Napper pursed his lips together. Was Witten the Rogue? It seemed like it should make sense. And yet it didn’t. First of all, Witten should know better than that. He should know that a few killings could not stop a man in Napper’s position. He should know, in fact, that a few killings would only heighten the risk of those Witten wished to protect.

  And then, of course, there was the issue of teeth. Witten, he was fairly certain, would not want them.

  Ella sat staring at Mr. Witten’s silver bracelet. Now that she’d seen Jones’ work, she could see his hand in it. The band was blocky, thick, not perfectly symmetrical, rustic. That wasn’t the weird part.

  The weird part was that the metal square that had been connected to it was ornate and delicate, the sides and surface smooth, with an engraving Ella never got a good look at. In a lot of ways the band and the metal square didn’t seem to match—one chunky and bohemian, the other intricate and graceful—like two different personalities had gotten stuck together.

  Witten wore it every day.

  Today they were discussing a lesser-known British tale called “The Ring and the Fish.” It was about a wealthy magician who divined that his son would marry a poor peasant girl. The magician promptly sought out the girl and tried to kill her. Because, apparently, that’s what you do to a poor person who tries to marry your rich son. The murder plot didn’t work and, eventually, the girl married the magician’s son. The magician then threatened to push her off a cliff. When she begged mercy, he threw a ring to the river below and told her he didn’t want to see her again until she could present the ring to him. Naturally, later when she was employed as a kitchen maid in an inn, the magician and his son came in. And she, hidden away in the kitchens, prepared them a fish which—tada—had the ring inside it. The magician concluded that you couldn’t fight destiny and allowed the girl to claim her place as his son’s wife.

  Lucky her.

  The feminists in the class had gone twitchy and were practically dislocating their shoulders in an effort t
o get their hands the highest so they could comment first.

  Behind her, Ella heard Sam mutter, “Who comes up with this crap?”

  Ella didn’t feel twitchy or annoyed. She felt weird. There was something about the story that reminded her of something in the jewelry box, something her mother had written.

  When once a man of perfect wealth

  Perfect form and perfect health.

  Feared a girl of lowly birth

  Planned a plot, her life to curse.

  Yet curses cut along both sides

  When moonlight floods the black night skies.

  A portion of herself, the cost

  To break their twine, his fate, his loss.

  At that, Ella raised her hand and said, “I think the feminist tones come into this story in the power the girl held throughout over the magician. He just couldn’t get rid of her. Or her role in his life.” Ella paused. “Granted a modern story might give us a stronger ending.”

  “Perhaps a retelling then,” Mr. Witten said, smiling.

  Ella nodded, but inside she groaned. She was dreading doing a story retelling.

  She tried to make eye contact with Sam—to share an eye roll or a smile. But he wouldn’t look up. He’d been like that a lot lately. Ella leaned forward in her chair, looked down at her mostly blank notebook, and sighed.

  Sam hadn’t realized how messed up most fairy tales were until they’d started talking about them in Folklore. No Disney princesses need apply.

  One thing about today’s story had gotten him thinking though. The ring—it had been hidden. But the fish was right there in plain sight. Which, of course, is the best way to hide a thing.

  Now Sam sat in history class doodling on his notebook. They’d been talking about World War II for weeks. It was actually interesting enough stuff, except that it seemed Mr. Dillimon worked extra hard to make it uninteresting.