I stand onto the dining room table and untie the knot. Myra half-catches her mom, and we lay her down, in Myra’s lap, I’m kneeling beside them. “I’m sorry… She’s gone.”
“But…” She stares at me as tears stream down her face and drip onto her mom’s cheek. “Why?”
The presence I felt earlier, it’s gone. The ghost has left. Because he served his last wish? To avenge his death? Had he, Thomas Gray, driven Miss Mascorro to suicide?
Standing, I spy a piece of paper on the table. I hand it to Myra.
She glances at it. “I can’t see,” she mumbles, her free hand wiping away tears. “Read it to me. Please.”
“Be ye sure? It’s probably private…” The look she shoots me shuts me up. “‘Dear Myra, I’m sorry I wasn’t completely honest with you. I couldn’t. I couldn’t bring myself to tell you the truth, not with you staring at me like I’m the worst person in the world. Which I am. You see, I did kill Thomas Gray.’”
Myra takes in a shuddering breath.
“Do ye want me to keep readin’?”
She nods. Her crying has slowed some.
“‘I invited him over for dinner, like I said. I cooked a meal. I know, I’m not the cook, you are, but I thought I might be able to handle a simple stir-fry meal. And well, we ate, and all of a sudden, Tom started to get really itchy and then couldn’t breathe and he fell over. Dead.’”
Myra’s stopped crying completely by now, and a silence falls over us, like an ominous cloud.
“Go on.” Her voice is so hoarse it’s unrecognizable.
“‘I forgot… I swear I forgot… I knew, but it must have slipped my mind. A long time ago, Tom told me he is… was… allergic to peanuts. He must not have seen them himself beneath the sauce. I never would have added them to the meal had I remembered! You have to believe me. I never, I never, I never…’” I turn the paper over. “‘Unless my subconscious did, and I really did mean to. I’m so sorry, my Myra. I never meant to hurt you. Goodbye. I’ll always love you. If you hate me for the rest of your life, please at least know that.’”
Chapter Ten
Myra and I sit in silence. You would’ve thought it’d be eerie to sit her with her dead mom, but it’s not.
Finally, Myra shifts suddenly. “Do you think she was telling the truth? That she honestly forgot?”
I close my eyes. Now that the ghost is gone, I feel comfortable enough to seek out what the walls can show me. Between the walls and holding Miss Mascorro’s cold hand, I can tap into what happened, and even delve into her memories. They stay locked in the brain until the body is too decayed. The truth lies there. I have my suspicions though.
And they soon prove correct. Myra’s mom actually was humming as she set the table, blushed when she answered the door, fussed over every detail to make it just right. Miss Mascorro liked Tom Gray. She wanted to date him, even wouldn’t have minded if he was promoted over her.
I open my eyes. “I prophesied she would kill again. Not murder.”
“So she really did forget?”
“Whit do ye think? That’s what matters.”
Myra brushes her mom’s hair back. “I forget things all the time. I used to tease Mom she’d get Alzheimer’s when she got older because of how much she forgot.” Her lips twist downward, and a single tear meets the corner of her frown. “She’ll never forget anything else again.”
She rereads the letter, and I sit back against the wall.
“What do we do now?” Myra asks suddenly. “Should we call the police?”
“My parents will be back soon. They’ll know whit to do. But there be somethin’ else for us.”
“What?”
I hold up a finger and get a steak knife from the kitchen, return to her. Grabbing her hand, I cut open the fingertip.
She sucks in a breath. “What are you—”
“Sh.” After grabbing the pad her mom used for the suicide note and the pen, I focus on her blood and follow the lifeline to her mom. Wrong strand. The other one goes off in another direction. My hand flies over the page, drawing a rough picture of the US. “There.” I point to Connecticut.
“There what?”
“In West Haven.”
Her eyebrows knit together. “What’s there?”
“Your father.”
“He’s dead. Mom said—”
“For whatever reason, she lied. He’s alive.” I stand. “Wanna go and find him? West Haven’s not even fifteen minutes away from here.” Four miles on I-95. I’ve never been there before despite its proximity to New Haven. Doubt Myra’s been there either.
“I… I guess.”
Convincing her to leave her mom here proves impossible though, so I do the blood ritual again to learn his name. Via the internet, we locate his address and phone number.
“Go ahead and call,” I urge.
“I don’t know what to say.”
I can’t help myself. I giggle. “Ye never know when to stop talkin’!”
She scurries upstairs with the number, and I stay down here to give her some privacy. Only a minute passes before the door flies open. Five members of the coven, all in their purple robes, hover there, chanting, my parents behind them, also robed.
“There’s no reason to chant,” I say.
The one in the center, long white hair in a severe braid, stares at me with unseeing, yet possibly all-seeing eyes. “Who dares to disturb us?”
I glance at Mom. “I. Caitlin Stewart.” Rambling like an idiot, I bring them up to speed, my words all jumbled and rushed, but they seem to understand me.
“The ghost is gone, yes, and no spirits lurk now. The child is right,” one of the others says.
I try not to bristle at the shock in his voice and the use of “child.”
“You’ve conducted a prophecy and a blood ritual?” the center one asks. I think her name is Camilla. Mom’s talked about her before. In two years, she’ll be the one to test me. Now I’m even more nervous about that day. She sucks in people’s confidence and leaves them hollow shells of uncertainty and self-doubt.
“Twice. The blood ritual, that is.”
The five huddle together as Mom and Dad envelope me into a tight hug. “Ye didn’t listen to me,” Mom scolds.
“Ye knew I wouldn’t.”
“Ye have to be more smart.” Dad throws me a wink, though, when Mom isn’t looking.
They tend to Miss Mascorro, while the five form a semi-circle around me.
Camilla motions me forward. “Caitlin Stewart. I hereby grant you the title of witch.”
My ears must not be working correctly. Say what?
“The youngest witch to ever be granted access into our coven. Hold out your hand.”
I do so, and she grabs it. A rush of knowledge fills me, insight and power. When the connection ends, I’m left feeling woozy, but I refuse to show any signs of wanting to collapse and sleep for a week.
“Congratulations,” the five say as one and disappear.
So cool. Can I do that now?
I turn to ask Mom that, but my parents crush me in another hug.
“I am so proud of ye,” Mom says.
I grin. “Does that mean I’m not grounded?”
“I didn’t say that, young lady.”
Myra comes downstairs, a dazed look on her face. “He wants to meet. In a coffee shop.”
“When?” I ask.
“Who?” Dad asks.
“Her dad.” Mom pokes his side. “Weren’t you listening?”
“I was,” he protests.
Myra glances at her mom.
“We’ll take care of her. There will be a funeral and everything, donncha worry,” Mom reassures her.
“Can I take her, Mom, Dad?”
“But your punishment…” Mom shakes her head.
“Let her go.” Dad’s smile is the antithesis of Mom’s frown. “She’s earned it.”
“Fine. But donncha be out too long, and, Myra, honey, I’m so sorry for all of this.” Now Myra’s
the one to get one of my mom’s tight hugs.
“I… I don’t know what to think or feel right now,” she confesses, “but I think I might be all right. Eventually.”
We run to Mom’s car before she can change her mind, and we speed off, windows down. At least some good came of this disaster, and the best thing of all? Any way the wind blows, and I don’t feel another sneeze coming on and hopefully won’t for a long, long time.
To Undreamed Shores
by Cortney Pearson
For I cannot be Mine own, nor any thing to any, if I be not thine.
—The Winter’s Tale
I know it’s a great honor, but I have no desire to attend the party this evening. I stare out my bedroom window, at the sheep speckling the pasture. The new dress Argento had made for my seventeenth birthday last month lies across my bed, and I sigh.
“It means a lot that we’ve been invited, Perdita,” Argento had said as we rallied the horses and secured their posts in the barn an hour before. “It won’t hurt you to leave your anvil once in a while.”
He was right of course, though I loathed admitting it. I checked the forge in the barn, making sure it was completely out, and secured the crate on the wagon, double-checking its contents. If I didn’t have a delivery I wouldn’t be going. And if Argento hadn’t been specifically invited by King Leontes’ loyal retainer himself. But Argento has been good to me. A father in all but blood.
He found me abandoned in the countryside when I was an infant. He could have let me die, but he raised me as his daughter instead. I owe him this much.
I bathe and slip into the soft, white underdress. The bell sleeves flare out at my wrists, the wide collar leaving my shoulders exposed. Next I pull on the sapphire, velvet overdress and lace the corset. The full skirt flows out more than anything I’ve ever worn, and I can’t stop petting the fabric. It’s the finest thing I’ve ever owned.
After a short debate over what to do with my mop of black curls, I pin them all atop each other in a tousled, yet tasteful style.
I stuff the maps scattered across my bed back into their basket. Maps I’ve drawn from books I’ve read, of America, of England, Ireland, and France. Dreams play through, dreams of dancing, of sailing on a boat, of touring the countryside and seeing things I’ve only imagined.
“I won’t be doing much traveling tonight,” I say, spritzing myself with rose water and slipping my feet into the new boots I bought with this last payment from Sir Tomsin. He’d given me quite a bit extra.
“For such unusual skill,” he’d said. “Gidget hasn’t limped once since you shoed her.”
I smooth my skirts once more, admiring the fit and the emphasis it gives to my figure. My calluses catch on the fabric, and I stare at my traitorous hands.
“You’d never tell I was a blacksmith in this,” I mutter to myself with one last glance in the mirror.
Argento drives the wagon, guiding Ivory and Brecker down the road winding to the valley below. Trees line either side like a barbed snake. The Bohemian valley stretches, expanding to more trees in the distance that reach up to tickle the underbellies of aloof clouds.
My stepfather wears the same suit he’s worn on holidays and harvest celebrations since I’ve known him. Its edges are a bit tattered, but he’s somehow managed to keep it in one piece.
I brush a fleck of dirt from his collar. “You should’ve let me buy you a new one.”
Argento gives me his wrinkly, sweet smile and pats my knee. “Save your money, Perdita. You do enough helping to keep the farm afloat.”
Brecker and Ivory clip-clop ahead. Dwellings begin to multiply the farther we go, along with the streets and lanterns being lit in preparation for the party. Wagons and carriages fill the streets, people chatter. We make our two stops to deliver our goods, and a large number of coins jangle in my purse by the time we arrive at St. John’s Inn.
“Do you have any idea why you were summoned here?” I ask as Argento helps me down from the wagon. The air is chilled. I pull my wrap tighter around me.
Music wafts from the inn—fiddle and pipe prattling a cheerful tune and blending over gales of laughter and the smell of ale and freshly cooked stew.
The inn brims with life. Every lantern has been lit, every fireplace dances with flames. Barmaids scurry, delivering orders and enduring unwanted pinches. Couples dance in the center of the ring of tables pushed along the wall.
Argento and I greet the familiar townsfolk, including Christabel Attwater and Pastor Jamison, when two men standing near the bar signal us over. One I recognize as Sir Tomsin. Tall and thick in the shoulders, he wears a stately suit and holds his hat under one arm.
“Mr. Aravale, a pleasure to see you,” says Sir Tomsin. “You remember my son, Theodore.” He gestures to the gangly young man at his side. Theodore is dressed similarly to his father in a fitted red suit coat with silver buttons.
Argento gives a slight bow. Even dressed in his best, my stepfather looks shabby beside the royal surveyor and his son.
“I understand you have some business to discuss,” Argento says.
“I do indeed. Theo, would you keep Miss Aravale company while we talk this evening?”
The gangly boy closes his lips over his teeth in an attempt at a grin and inclines his head at me. “With pleasure.”
“Oh, that isn’t necessary,” I say, backing up and nearly running into a barmaid. Theo’s face falls. I hadn’t wanted to come in the first place, and I certainly have no intention of being ‘kept company.’ “Thank you all the same. Argento? I’ll just wait over here.”
Sir Tomsin opens his mouth to argue, but Argento only smiles. I scurry away like a mouse from a pouncing cat. The table nearest the fire has no takers, so I slide in.
“What can I get ye, miss?” asks the barmaid. Blonde curls drip down past her shoulders, and she gives me a pretty smile.
“Something to drink, please. Some water.”
“Comin’ up, miss.”
I dart a glance near the inn’s entrance, to where Argento and Sir Tomsin have reconvened with several others. Theo stands near a column, watching me, a perplexed crease in his brow.
“Oh please, don’t come over here,” I grumble under my breath. The barmaid places a cup of ale before me. It’s not what I ordered, but I take it. A quick gulp, and my pulse rises as Theo tugs the bottom of his jacket and lifts his chin, eyeing me where I sit.
It’s one thing to know I’d been so rude. It would be quite another to have him come remind me of it. Expressing remorse has never come easily to me.
A boy with black hair, blue eyes, and mischief riding his glance slips onto the seat across from me, breaking my view of Theo’s reproving glare. His collar hangs open, and his hair is freshly tousled as if he’d run all the way here instead of riding in a carriage like others of his status would. He rears around in his seat and tips two fingers to his forehead in gesture to Theo, who seems to rethink his present route.
“Um,” I say. It’s about all I can say, actually.
“I think your friend is not used to being snubbed. Some cider for me, please,” he orders as the barmaid stops by our table once more.
“Excuse me?” I say, wondering who this boy is and why he thinks he can sit here.
“He’s dejected,” the boy goes on. “Just look at him.”
“I suppose I was a tad harsh,” I say. “I despise being thought of as weak. As needing to be entertained.” It’s one reason I opted for the blacksmith apprenticeship four years ago.
“Heaven knows I could use some entertainment,” the boy says, fidgeting around as the barmaid places a cup before him. He takes a long swig.
“You don’t dance?” I ask, referring to the only entertainment there is.
The boy sets his cup down and traps my eyes with his blue ones. “Why, are you offering?”
His lip crooks upward. I force down my own smile and stiffen my posture, chin raised.
“As a matter of fact, no.”
“Good
. I wouldn’t have accepted anyway.”
I chuckle, and so does he. We take a silent moment, punting inquisitive looks back and forth. He never seems to stop smiling. Even when his lips straighten, the gleam lingers in his gaze.
“Who are you?” I finally ask. For a moment a small puncture of guilt pangs for speaking with this stranger and yet not being Theo Tomsin’s ‘company,’ but a group of laughing girls pulls Theo to their table across the room, dousing the guilt in an instant.
“Cove Rutledge. And whose company am I enjoying?”
Heat crawls to my cheeks, and I dip my chin. “Perdita Aravale.”
“What brings you to the St. John’s Inn this fine evening, Miss Aravale?” Cove asks.
“My stepfather has some business with our friend Theo’s father,” I say, peering at the crowd near the bar. Argento and Sir Tomsin are engrossed in their conversation. I wonder what they’re speaking of.
“You shoed my father’s horse the last time I was here. But you were younger then.”
I analyze his thin smile, playful-glinted eyes, and the way his hair flat-out refuses to behave. He’s too striking. I certainly would have remembered him.
“It’s possible,” I say. “I shoe a lot of horses. Who’s your father?”
“He’s back there.” Cove points toward a stately man dressed in a fine red coat who is conversing with Argento as well. It seems Cove is also associated with royalty.
“So.” Cove leans in and links his fingers together across the table from me. “Tell me about yourself.”
“That’s a very vague request,” I say.
“Okay, I’ll be more specific.” He rests his hands behind his head, staring up at the pieced-glass lantern dangling over our table. “Specific…specific…I know. Let’s talk colors.”
Colors? I fold my arms. “Pity. You’re reverting to the one question everyone resorts to when they don’t know what else to ask.”
Cove points a finger. “Touché, Miss Aravale. I said colors. I didn’t say I was going to ask what your favorite is—although I’m sure it’s highly interesting. Here’s my question. If everything was black and white, and you could only see one color—ever, for the rest of your life—what would it be?”
Never Be Younger: A YA Anthology Page 11