A Midwinter Fantasy

by Leanna Renee Hieber; L. J. McDonald; Helen Scott Taylor

  It was indeed the sturdy marble floor of her academy; she was in the school she had run with strength and aplomb, the place that had given so many opportunities otherwise absent to its students and staff. God, she loved this building.

  Her eyes found those of the guardian angel whose light had helped her fight the greedy Whisper-world: they were the eerie, ice blue irises of Persephone Rychman. The young woman’s inner light, as white as her skin, faded as Rebecca moved to safety. She was breathing heavily, as if from great pain and exertion; but save for a bit of sweat on her brow she seemed otherwise composed. Her faintly rouged lips curved into a small smile just as radiant as her spirit.

  “Welcome back, Headmistress!”

  Rebecca swallowed hard, at a loss for words. “Indeed. Th-thank you, Percy.”

  There was a short pause.

  “Merry Christmas!” Alexi’s young wife cried, and she threw her arms around Rebecca.

  Rebecca took a moment to take stock. There was no jealousy. There was no pining. There was only possibility. The spirits had granted her new life. She felt entirely, wholly, utterly new. She returned the girl’s embrace, no longer tentative.

  Percy pulled back and grinned again.

  Curtseying before either of them could say another word, the young woman trotted off up the staircase . . . and the vast room seemed suddenly all the more empty for the lack of her. There was no remaining bitterness as Rebecca’s unwitting rival disappeared. This girl had never wished to be her rival; she had only embraced fate. Something the headmistress intended to do from now on.

  “They did it all in one night,” she murmured, wandering to her office, a grin on her face. “Spirits. Good spirits. Of course they did it all in one night. Of course they can.”

  Dickens was to the point after all, damn him. She realized she didn’t mind being proven wrong.

  It seemed her surprises weren’t done. There was an envelope on her desk bearing the official seal of Athens. From the board of directors. Rebecca’s heart was in her throat, for she feared something had finally snapped. Perhaps closing the school to battle Darkness had brought about repercussions? Perhaps the board had heard that she’d been acting odd of late, which she most certainly had. But her tension vanished as she read, and a grin again spread across her face.

  In recognition of your exemplary work as headmistress, the board of Athens Academy has voted to secure you more spacious housing near but not on the grounds of the academy. We will convert your existing apartments into space for visiting faculty, there being a number who wish to learn from and champion Athens’s impressive and progressive model as their own. Enclosed, please find the keys for 6 Athens Row.

  Merry Christmas.

  It looked like Alexi’s handwriting but she couldn’t be bothered to verify it.

  A home. A real home, just down the block. Of course she’d not want to be far, but . . . a home! Not some attic perch or cloistered closet filled with memories of loneliness. She’d now have a hearth. She had someplace to begin her new life, someplace to invite the someone she wanted to be part of it. Now that she was whole, now that she knew the heavens wanted something of her—demanded it, in fact—a glorious future awaited.

  She nearly ran out the door.

  Chapter Ten

  Considering all the spiritual upheaval the school had seen, it was lucky Athens was tucked into an area of Bloomsbury and placed at such an odd angle: the red sandstone fortress was surrounded on all sides by alleys and the backs of other buildings. Billy and Mary floated at face level, their arms crossed, and they were just outside the front doors of the academy, in the cold. The breeze felt good on Michael’s flushed face; bracing.

  He was still reeling from admitting his constant nerves when coming to call upon Rebecca. Surely that made him seem less of a man. But Michael had done as the ghosts wished, moved in his own footsteps through years and years, all seen from the spinning temporal axis of Billy’s chandelier vantage. The boy and Mary had taken turns urging him on, and now he was certain he could knock upon the headmistress’s door without trembling. He wanted her and loved her more than any fear could obstruct.

  “So ye see,” Billy said, taking a paternal tone, “it isn’t that you fear for your Guard gifts gone. You fear for the very human gift of love being accepted. You fear havin’ what you desire. You’ve feared it all along.”

  Michael nodded, dizzy.

  “So now what are you waitin’ for? You, of all people! We’d have thought you’d seen plenty to give you perspective. Do ye need to be frightened by something far more terrifying? Do you want to go back and fight Darkness again? He could live again, could take your bones as his own . . .” Billy threatened. He made a motion and there was a tearing sound. Where the front door of Athens stood, a dark maw of a portal opened to the Whisper-world. A rushing river of bones gurgled by.

  Michael gulped. “No, thank you. I’m grateful to battle the heart, instead.”

  “And are ye going to win this battle this time, Vicar?” cried a voice in an Irish brogue. Stepping from the portal, a woman floated down to hover over the Athens stoop.

  “Jane!” Michael cried. He rushed forward.

  Jane wafted close, giving his cheek a phantom kiss of cold condensation.

  “I . . . I can hear you, too!” He was amazed and pleased.

  She grinned. “You’re still under my spell.”

  “Your spell? Are you all right? Is Rebecca all right? Where is she?”

  “Oh, yes, I’m grand. She’s grand. She’s still inside, working a few things out. Percy’s watching her, the dear heart. Time’s a bit funny here and there, especially crossing in and out like we’ve been doing, toying with the past. It doesn’t all add up, exactly . . . but then again, that’s the Whisper-world for you, full of baffling wonders and terrors. When has it ever added up?”

  Michael’s face darkened. “What do you mean, she’s ‘inside’?”

  “Inside the Whisper-world. The Liminal, to be exact. It’s dangerous, but that’s where a soul best gets changed. Would you like to go? Do you need to go? Or might we move on to the next phase of this ridiculous and beautiful production?”

  Michael shook his head, and his fists clenched. “The Whisper-world? We’re not meant to go in there. That was the whole point of the war of the spirits—that we couldn’t go in, that Alexi couldn’t run in after Percy, that we’ll go mad if we go in. What do you mean you’ve taken her in? I’ll go in after her and get her out!” He prepared to run inside the gaping portal.

  Jane made a motion and the portal snapped closed behind her. “Why, Vicar Carroll, such spirit,” she said.

  Michael eyed her with desperation. “You know I’d do anything for Rebecca. Always would have.”

  “Except say that you love her,” Jane accused.

  “I did! Much too late, but I did! Can’t that count for something? Where is she? Promise me she’s not in danger.”

  “Michael, my dear, if anyone was suited for the mental rigours of the Whisper-world, it’s our headmistress. You, dear heart, would be destroyed by the sadness of that place. You’d be unable to break free; it would cripple and scar you forever. Let this moment be. Let her be. Focus on yourself.”

  “When can I see her?”

  “Momentarily. I promise.”

  The tension in Michael’s shoulders eased, and his fists un-curled. Jane would never leave Rebecca without recourse. He stared at the greyscale spirit, noting how only colour and transparency differentiated her from when she lived.

  “Oh, goodness, what is it now?” she said, smiling as his eyes welled with tears. She’d always loved his sentimentalism but teased him for it.

  “It’s so very good to see you,” he explained. “I think the idea of the Grand Work made us take for granted how much we care for one another. Are you well? Are you at peace? It’s so frightfully good to see you, but I didn’t mean to rouse you as we prayed at your—”

  Jane drew her cold fingers across his eyes, and the
draft dried Michael’s eyes. “I happily chose to linger on, to help make this right. And there’s only one thing I’ve left to do. Tell me, Vicar, are you ready to start again? It’s my favourite trick, this.”

  She didn’t wait for a response when she snapped her fingers. In a blink, Michael was suddenly fourteen years old again, standing on a street corner and staring. He’d been summoned from his home as if by a great bell, knocked to the ground by a great wind, and his heart exploded with new sensations. His eyes were full of ghosts. It was the first day of the Grand Work, and he was living it.

  Living it, indeed. He was no longer watching himself, as he’d done in Athens; he was in this memory. He stared down at his hands and flexed them, felt the vigour of youth pounding in his veins. His consciousness was fully aware, though these events happened years long past. With a little giggle he ran full tilt until he reached the crest of Westminster Bridge. If time and memory were both flexible, perhaps there were ways of making things right.

  She was waiting, young and spindly-legged, the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Strands of her brown hair were caressed by the wind, and she glanced around nervously, clutching her skirts and shifting from foot to foot. She’d been the first to arrive, the first of them anxiously awaiting destiny.

  “Hello. I’m Rebecca,” she said. She opened her mouth to say something else but stopped, staring intently at him. Something on his face had stilled her.

  Michael took a step forward. He reached for her hand, and she gave it willingly.

  “Hello, Rebecca, I’m Michael,” he heard his young voice say. But his old heart shaped new words, released the thunderbolt of knowledge he felt but had once feared to utter. “And I will always love you.”

  The young Rebecca gasped. She blushed furiously and smiled a welcoming smile.

  History changed.

  Chapter Eleven

  Released from time, from memory, from the magic of the past, or perhaps caught in some sweet mixture of the three, Vicar Michael Carroll stood at the back door of a building he did not recognize. He felt a new man. He wasn’t sure what he was suddenly doing on the steps of this lovely town house, or how he’d gotten there.

  He looked around for Jane. She was nowhere to be seen, but his heart pounded with the same vigour he had just felt. He wasn’t sure if what he’d seen had truly happened, or if it had been a dream, but either way he yearned to find Rebecca, to walk up to her right now, again, a lifetime later. He would approach her with that same surety and change history again.

  A sound on the street made him turn: a slowly approaching carriage. The curtain on the window was flung aside, the glass opened, and a snow-white face beamed an expression of joy up at him where he stood on the steps. She waved.

  Mrs. Rychman’s eerie eyes were shaded from the winter glare by dark-tinted glasses, and she turned to someone behind her and uttered a sort of admonition. “I have to tell him something,” she insisted, and soon the door was flung open and a firm male voice barked for the driver to stop.

  Before her husband could help her out of the carriage, Percy had lifted up her skirts, disembarked from the carriage and trotted up the stairs to Michael’s side. Professor Rychman exited behind her, standing tall and imperious, his black hair, frock coat and carriage a stark contrast to the white of his wife and the snow on the street.

  “Hullo, dear girl,” Michael said, squeezing her hand, “I’m not sure what has happened, but Jane told me you were at hand, so I’m sure I owe you some sort of—”

  “The town house is unlocked,” Percy blurted over him. “Your key on the table. The headmistress’s key is in her office, with a letter from the academy board explaining the change in quarters. You must have a home, Vicar,” she added earnestly. “A fresh new start, with no memories but those you two now make. The spirits told me so; they insisted upon it. You must have a home free from the haunting of memories gone by, and you shall make new memories to inhabit these bricks. Spirits understand the need of such things: hearths and homes, it’s why they haunt them. There is very little more important.”

  “Indeed,” Michael said, having never thought about such a detail. “Most sensible.”

  “Merry Christmas!” Percy cried, throwing her arms around him. She released him, lifted her skirts and scurried back toward her husband, who awaited her with a small smile tugging at his mouth.

  “But . . . where did this home come from? To whom do I owe . . . ?” He stopped short.

  Percy waved her hand as if it didn’t matter.

  “This building is the property of Athens Academy. How it was paid for is none of your concern,” Alexi said, his tone all business, though Michael knew there was warmth beneath. “As Percy said, the board voted to give the headmistress better lodging. Go on, Vicar, we’ve all got Christmas merrymaking to do. We’re hosting a New Year’s celebration at the Rychman estate, don’t you know. Do come with your fiancée.”

  “My fiancée . . . ?” Michael registered the words, processed them and stepped back a pace. Then he grinned and nearly jumped in the air.

  “Go on, she’ll be here any minute!” Percy squealed, and dragged Alexi back to the carriage. He gladly helped her up, and they started off.

  Michael entered the front hall of the town house. There were spicy scents and warm, alluring lights. Ignoring the stairs that ascended, surely, to bedrooms and studies, he entered the main room to find it well furnished and decorated, with a blazing hearth.

  “My God,” he murmured, staring at the painting above the mantel. Josephine was right: she was painting more beautifully than ever. Her distinct style was no longer limited to guardian angels, as required by the Grand Work, and now her subjects were free and entirely her own. Tumbling masses of sumptuous flowers, bursting with both colour and life, threatened to spill directly onto the mantel below.

  He heard a hiss from the rearmost room—a kitchen, likely—from which warm and intoxicating odours flowed. Someone was mulling wine, a fine cabernet. “Go, go out the side. One of them is here!” hissed a voice with a French accent.

  Michael rushed forward. He was in time. In the kitchen he found Josephine, who had prepared a feast that overflowed from tables and countertops. Lord Withersby was lighting candles, careful to keep his absurdly excessive mauve sleeves from catching fire.

  “Hullo, friends.” Michael grinned.

  Josephine and Elijah turned, sheepish. “Sorry, old chap,” Elijah murmured. “We wanted to have this all done and ready before you got here, but the spirits sure were quick about it, weren’t they?”

  Michael didn’t know what to say.

  Seeming to understand, Josephine took his hands. “Have you lived a whole life over? For us it’s only been a day. You must promise to tell us all about it!”

  “Josie, it’s private,” Elijah scoffed. “If the spirits went rooting around in our pasts, do you think we’d want to share?”

  Josephine raised an eyebrow, shocked at her fiancé’s unusual moment of discretion. “C’est vrai. I suppose for once you are right.”

  “Listen,” Michael said, grabbing Elijah, “whom do I have to thank—?”

  Elijah waved at him to be silent. “I’ve a message from the orphanage. Little Charlie’s health has turned a corner. He said an angel came and commended him for his help. You should have him over for a nice dinner, he said he’d like that—and ‘God bless us’ and all that nonsense.” Withersby grinned. Michael pressed his hands to his face in a prayer of thanksgiving.

  Josephine removed her apron, showing herself in a far fancier gown than anyone should have been found cooking, and threw one last handful of cinnamon sticks into the wine. “Finis.” She turned to Elijah. “Allons-y, ma chere.” She turned to Michael. “Joyeux Noelle!” Kissing him on both cheeks, she darted into the main hall and out the front door.

  Elijah plucked a piece of paper from his vest pocket and pressed it into Michael’s hands. “Get done with this quickly and stop us all from living in sin. I love you!” He kisse
d Michael’s forehead and darted out the door.

  Michael opened the paper. Stunned by his good fortune and his even better friends, he entered the sitting room and sat before the hearth, tears of joy in his eyes. While The Guard couldn’t be more different as individuals, Michael doubted there’d ever been such care between other humans. He held a certificate for two rings, courtesy of Lord Withersby’s favourite jeweler.

  He felt as though his heart might burst from the magnitude of his blessings. It was hard to imagine that just yesterday he’d been feeling that his world was collapsing, that he’d lost everything. His heart was as full as the first day he joined The Guard. He’d lost nothing. He had everything yet to gain.

  Heedless of the falling snow, flakes melting immediately against her flushed cheeks, Rebecca was down the block before she knew it, at the address specified in the letter. She went to turn the key in the lock and found it already open. The interior was lit. It smelled like heaven.

  She did not take the stairs to the upper landings because a crackling warmth drew her toward the parlour. Inside sat a dapper man upon a divan, his hair more kempt than Rebecca was ever used to seeing, and his oceanic blue eyes were wide and brimming with promise. In what surely must be firelight, it seemed as though a great aura hung about him, as if he were channeling an angel. Or perhaps they were illuminating him for her. Lighting the way.

  Michael Carroll. This was the man she’d been meant to love all along, the dear friend whom she had loved all along. And now she understood the truth. He was her past, her present, her . . .

  “My Christmas yet to come,” she murmured from the doorway.

  Michael’s eyes snapped up to behold her, and his face, somehow joyous even without expression, shone like a sun when he bestowed upon her his magnificent smile. The light was, in fact, his own. Jumping to his feet, he rushed to the threshold and took her hands. From there he escorted her into the parlour, where surely a hundred candles were lit. The pungent smell of spice wafted from a back kitchen. The walls were bare save for the most gorgeous canvas she’d ever seen: Josephine’s rich style, uninhibited, the voluptuous beauty of flowers that had Rebecca feeling as fresh and untouched as those blooms.