First Light (Forever After Series)

by Michele Paige Holmes

  A child? Mother lost a baby? I reeled with this revelation. When? And what has that to do with me? And who is to return once I go— where?

  “You miss what is not here, yet you choose to dismiss what lies in front of you.”

  I cringed at Father’s tone, though the words were not directed at me. His response was anything but sympathetic, and most uncharacteristic, especially in light of what Mother had just said. My parents were as different from one another as night and day, but I had never witnessed a scene like this before. That I was the cause of their disagreement was most worrisome.

  “You must let her go,” Mother said. “It’s almost time."

  Time for what? I wondered. To be married or sent to work as my older siblings? I

  leaned forward to hear what else Father might say and lost my balance and plunged toward the

  the barn floor. I landed in a shallow pile of hay and scrambled to regain my feet. My awkward curtsy did not amuse Mother.

  “Ladies do not eavesdrop.” Severe disappointment glinted in her eyes, and worry etched her brow. “I swear, Adrielle, you’ll be the death of me.”

  “I’m sorry,” I began. “I never intended—”

  A strangled sort of cry escaped her throat. Her face went ashen and she clutched at her chest. Papa thrust his hands out, catching her as she fell forward.

  I raced over, trailing hay as I knelt beside them on the ground. “Mama, I’m sorry!”

  “Help her.” Father sounded frightened, desperate.

  I put my ear to her chest. No beat. I grasped her wrist, pressed my fingers to her throat. No pulse. I pried open her mouth. Nothing. But she was just speaking. She was well.

  “Wake up, Mother. Please.” I shook her gently. She remained limp, like a rag doll. I pulled back her eyelids and her eyes stared up at me, sightless.

  I fell back, hand covering my own mouth as I turned to Father.

  “Gretta.” He gathered her in his arms and held her close. “Hang on a little longer. All will be well, you’ll see.”

  All was not well. I knew of no herbs to make a heart beat again. I could not save her. I sat helpless as Father held her and cried.

  You’ll be the death of me…

  Mother’s words had echoed in my memory for weeks, and here they were afresh as my eyes blurred yet again. My last image of her— the only one I could seem to conjure— was Mother’s thin frame laid out in the casket Father made. I’d touched her cheek once, just before the lid was nailed shut. Her skin had been so cold. She was locked in a dark pine box beneath the barren ground, and it was my fault.

  The quilting frame shook, and a bright red drop of blood welled up on my finger. I’d pierced it again, my inability to concentrate rendering my sewing skills even poorer than usual.

  That conversation in the barn haunted me. Though Mother and I never understood each other, I hadn’t wanted her to die, hadn’t even realized she was sick.

  But I should have. The weight of guilt had descended squarely on my shoulders in the weeks since her death. Missed opportunities filled my mind; my own cross words reverberated in my ears. I should have known. I could have helped. I’d healed so many others but let my own mother die.

  How long had she known? Why didn’t she tell us? The sickness creeping over the land had swept in and taken her and what little potential this farm seemed to have. With Mother gone, there seemed not even the remotest possibility that anything would ever get better.

  “Fetch another couple of logs for the fire, Adrielle,” Father said, placing his book on the mantle and bringing me back to the present and my last status. I felt only too grateful for the distraction and for the heavy workload that was now mine.

  “Yes, Papa.” With my older siblings grown and gone, I did the washing and the cooking. The fetching, too. Father’s legs and back weren’t what they used to be, and his spirit had all but departed these past weeks. Samuel, the brother just older than I, had found work in the Willowbie township, leaving only me to care for our aging parent and our home.

  I rose from my stool and headed toward the kitchen and the wood box. It wouldn’t do to let the fire go out. Papa had been unwell of late, and nights I often lay awake, listening to his labored breathing and hacking cough. Mother had coughed like that in the weeks before she died. She’d blamed it on the drought, told us it was all the dust in the air that was bothering her. But I knew better now, and I couldn’t bear the thought of losing Father, too. I was doing all I could think of to keep him here.

  Being last was infinitely better than being alone.

  Gathering a generous armload of the rough, splintery wood, I returned to the fire and knelt before it. With care I added several logs, making sure to keep my skirts well out of the way. Over the years several of my older sisters had, at one time or another, caught their clothing on fire. Watching their mishaps made me more than wary of preserving what little cloth was left on the dresses they’d passed down.

  My parents had always been absurdly strict about letting me start or tend any sort of fire. Only now— since Mama’s death and Samuel’s departure— had I taken over that chore. It was one I did not mind in the least.

  “There,” I said with false cheerfulness, brushing dirt from my hands as I stood. The logs were caught up in the flames at once, and a rush of warmth radiated from the hearth. It seemed I had a talent for building good fires. I looked down upon Father and felt alarm at his pale face and wan expression. “Would you like another blanket? Or some tea?”

  “A blanket would be nice,” he said without his dimpled smile. His eyes were tired, bloodshot from sleepless nights and rimmed with dark, sagging flesh. Once Papa had been a giant of a man, but a lifetime of hard labor, months of malnutrition, and the loss of Mother, had taken their toll.

  “Your tea would do well,” he added. I tucked him in and left to do his bidding.

  Returning to the kitchen, I discovered that the crock used to hold the flavorful leaves was empty. I doubted it was Papa who’d used the last of them, but instead I suspected Samuel had done the pilfering. During his last visit he’d brought little more than his mending to share, though he’d left the next day with an additional hefty bundle. Since his departure, I’d discovered several of our foodstuffs were running low and even more missing.

  “As if it isn’t bad enough he shirks his duty,” I muttered. “Leaving us here to survive on our own, taking what little we have.” I seethed just thinking about it, and I hoped very much that Samuel was destitute enough to need what he’d taken more than we did.

  Mother’s silver had also disappeared, never to be seen again since the morning she’d shown it to me. Father insisted he didn’t know where she’d hidden it, and my brothers obviously hadn’t found it either. If they had, I’d no doubt their circumstances would have improved substantially overnight. I doubted either had the foresight or fortitude to be wise with such a treasure if ever it were to fall into their hands.

  But our hands— and mouths and stomachs— could certainly have used it.

  For now, there was nothing to do but forage what I could from the woods. I’d have to go out to fetch more leaves for Papa’s tea, though it was well past dark. I went to tell him of my errand but found him taken in a rare moment of sleep. His head lolled against the chair, and the slightest snore rumbled from his parted lips. I knew he slept precious little these days, so I saw no reason to disturb him when I would be back before long.

  I took my shawl from the hook and slipped past him unnoticed. Stepping out into the night, I grabbed the lantern from our porch and struck the tinder to light my way. As usual I had success on the first try, and the lantern’s glow lit the path before me.

  I trudged past the garden, our dry well, and the large red barn, with paint faded and peeling. I hiked my skirts and ran to the pasture gate, wanting to return to Papa as soon as possible.

  Had Mother seen me, I would have been in for a scolding. A lady does not run across fields, she would have said.

&n
bsp; But what if she had seen me? The thought pierced my heart, bringing a sudden, sharp pain. A tear slid down my cheek. I lifted my face heavenward, gazing at the sprinkling of stars and the crescent moon overhead. I wanted to think of her up there instead of beneath the ground. “I’m sorry, Mother. So sorry.”

  Again her voice echoed in my mind— our last stilted conversations returning to haunt me.

  I had been the death of her. If I had paid better attention, if I had only listened and noticed, she might still be here.

  I lifted my skirts and tried my best to walk with grace as I hurried my steps toward the woods and the wild plants that grew within. The hill from our farm sloped into a gentle valley, but I held back from running down it. Instead I concentrated my thoughts on Mother and wondered yet again why she’d had such high aspirations for me. Was it really only a last, vain, hope when she knew death was near? Or had Papa’s saying about the first and last meant something to her, too?

  I’d not had the courage to ask him about the conversation I’d overheard between them that day. We had each been too consumed with life and death and grieving to speak with each other as we used to. I longed to talk to him but didn’t know how to begin or what to say. In failing to save Mother, I was sure I’d failed him, too.

  I reached the tall shadows of the wood and plunged forward into the mysterious gloom without faltering or fear. To be sure, the forest could appear eerie at night, but I knew its secrets— or so I thought— well enough that the looming trees with their twisted branches posed no threat, and the discord of sounds heard only after dark were familiar and harmonious to my ears. The animals within these woods were my friends; the plants that grew here, our providers.

  With purposeful strides, I wound my way past bushes, boulders, and trees until I found the textured, fragrant plant I was looking for. Taking a knife from the sash at my waist, I knelt and cut enough mint for Papa’s tea. Tomorrow I would come back for more, but now I wanted to get home to him.

  I’d nearly reached the forest edge when the acrid smell of smoke stung my nostrils and nettled the back of my throat. I paused for a half-second, trying to determine where the fire might be, wondering if our neighbor— crazy old McClurry— had decided to purge his fields again.

  “It’s God’s wrath,” he’d said on more than one occasion, “that we’re suffering so." Apparently the way to appease that wrath included a burnt offering of one’s fields— in the dead of night.

  Poor McClurry hadn’t been right in the head for years. We all prayed for him, and for our own fields, hoping his fires would never spread that far.

  Without effort, I found the path home and had only started down it, when my brother Edward came racing by, nearly knocking me over.

  “What are you about for?” he demanded as he ran by, not bothering to stop.

  I could have asked the same of him, though I guessed it easily enough. He and his wife had built a little hovel of a home on the eastern corner of Papa’s land, and Eddie often came over when their flour barrel or some other commodity ran short. I imagined he hurried through the night now because his bride of six months had demanded something of him and expected it delivered quickly. The way she had Eddie wrapped around her finger disgusted me.

  When I’d spoken of it to Papa, he said there were things about men I did not yet understand, and that I should never underestimate the power of womanhood. Perhaps he was right. And right about magic, too. Whatever power Vetrie, my sister-in-law, used was fierce.

  Eddie continued to run, and I kept up easily, though I felt bone weary. It often seemed as if the ground moved beneath my feet with little effort on my part— yet another trait to make Mother turn over in her grave. I held the swinging lantern out in front and jogged over the uneven earth.

  “Father wanted tea, and Samuel took the last of our leaves,” I said in answer to Eddie’s question. Thievery runs in the family, I might have added.

  “Is he there?” Eddie demanded.

  “Samuel?” I felt my breath coming in gasps. We were running uphill, and fast though I was, it took two of my strides to match my brother’s one. The smoke seemed to be thickening, and I began to worry our neighbor’s fire had gotten out of control.

  “Aye. He’s with father?” Eddie asked, his tone uncharacteristically concerned.

  I shook my head. “No. Only Papa is at home, and he’s aslee—” The word died in my throat as we crested the hill and the bright orange glow of fire filled the night. Our humble home was engulfed in flames.

  “Papa!” I surged ahead, hurdling the broken pasture fence before Eddie. Twenty paces from the house, I set the lantern on the ground and ran forward, arm held to my face, trying to shield it from the intense heat rolling toward us in waves.

  “No.” Eddie grasped my free arm and hauled me back. “It’s too late. There’s nothing to be done,” he shouted above the roar of the flames. “I spied it all the way from our place. It’s been burning a while.”

  “Papa—” I cried, straining against my brother’s hold. No answering call came. Eddie kept hold of my arm, and we ran around the perimeter of the house, as close as we dared get, shouting for Papa and receiving no answer. By the time we’d come around front again, angry flames reached skyward through the roof. Eddie pulled me farther away as the second floor crashed onto the first.

  “Papa,” I cried hoarsely, desperate to hear his reply. None came.

  A crushing weight pressed against my chest. The fire was my fault. I was the one who had built it up before leaving. It was I who’d left it unattended.

  I fell to the ground, a heap of skirts and sorrow as my wailing began.

  Hale, Prince of Baldwinidad, uncorked a third bottle of wine, tipped it to his lips and drank deeply, setting the bottle aside only when more trickled down the sides of his mouth than entered. Wiping the back of his hand across his face, he stared at the woman sitting at the other end of the long table, his lip curling in a sneer as he followed her steady, focused gaze.

  “Three months more, Mother, and your disillusionment will be over. Whatever will you do then?” Hale leaned back in his chair, his feet resting casually upon the table where, inside the glass in which it was encased, a bleeding heart— the last of eighteen— reached near full bloom on the vine.

  “I will rejoice that I no longer have to suffer your ill company.” Queen Nadamaris swept her hand through the air as if flicking away an annoying insect. Though she was nowhere near Hale, his legs jerked suddenly and flew from their perch, sending him crashing to the floor.

  The queen rose from her own chair, crossed the room, and stood over him. “In three months it will be your wife— not I— who must endure the clumsy monstrosity you are. I almost pity her.”

  “You pity no one,” Hale spat. He leaned toward his overturned chair, but another swish of the queen’s hand pushed it across the room, far from his reach.

  “So true,” she said. “As no one has ever pitied me.”

  Turning away, she stared at the delicate flowers within the glass. It had taken years to obtain the plant, hidden as it had been by the fairies. Now that she had it, she knew exactly how much time was left, how many weeks, days, hours, minutes— even seconds— remained for her to secure the princess’s gifts. She needed no other reminder of the situation’s urgency, especially from her useless son.

  The towering, golden doors that marked the entrance to the dining hall swung open, and a footman appeared, a scroll balanced precisely on the tasseled pillow in his outstretched hand. He stared straight at her, though his sightless eyes saw nothing.

  It was easier that way.

  Years ago, after the accident, she’d collected all the servants and, one by one, blinded them. There would be no gossip among the staff regarding her appearance. There was no gossip among the staff at all. The removal of a few tongues after the blindings had taken care of that.

  “A message, your Majesty. From the eastern border.”

  “Bring it to me,” Nadamaris ordered, t
hen waited while the servant deftly crossed the room and bowed before her, the pillow still aloft in his hand. She took the scroll from him. “Leave us.”

  He did as she bade, exiting more quickly than he had entered, closing the great doors behind him. Nadamaris slipped the ribbon from the scroll, unrolled the parchment and read silently, while Hale continued the struggle to pull himself across the floor to his chair. He’d nearly reached his destination when Nadamaris brought her pointed shoe down on his fingers.

  Grimacing, he looked up.

  “You will remove your loathsomeness from my presence,” she ordered.

  “I’m trying to.”

  She caught his flinch as he looked at her. Perhaps someday she’d poke his eyes out, too. Unfortunately, for now, she needed him as whole as possible.

  “An enchanted fire was spotted in eastern Canelia, though the fairy who started it was not captured.”

  Hale’s mouth curved upward. “Thwarted again, Mother.” He wrenched his fingers from beneath her shoe.

  Nadamaris ignored him. “My spies traced the sparks to a remote farmhouse but found

  only an old man, an aged farmer, and he would not tell them of the fairy.”

  “No worries then,” Hale said sarcastically. “I’m sure a few days with you will be enough

  to loosen his tongue— provided you don’t remove it.”

  “He is already dead.” Nadamaris crumpled the parchment in her hand, yet furious

  at the news it contained. “They set the house afire, trapping him inside.”

  “And the little fairy is long gone. Never to return.” Hale laughed. “And you call me incompetent.” Demonstrating he was the opposite, he gripped the overturned chair and used it to pull himself to a standing position.

  “I do.” The queen leveled her gaze at him. “You’ve had nearly eighteen years to claim your bride, and you’ve failed to do so repeatedly. Only because you are my— flesh and blood—” the words came out in a choked sort of way— “am I giving you another chance to prove yourself, to prove you’re not as worthless as your hideous foot."