by Sarah Zettel
In that silence of death, as Ingrid Loftfield’s body lay still on its bed, Ingrid Loftfield also rose. She walked down to the lakeshore and she embraced the man who waited to take her away, and Everett Lederle looked out the window from the keeper’s quarters, and Bridget knew Poppa saw that lovers’ meeting.
Bridget closed her eyes. “Take it away. I don’t want to see this.”
Silence. Of course, there was only silence. Momma could not speak to her. Perhaps Momma had no answers to give. Perhaps she knew there was no way to answer for what she had done.
“You left him. You left me,” said Bridget, her hands knotting into fists in her lap.
Still, there was only silence, but Bridget felt something shift outside her, and reluctantly she opened her eyes to see the new words written in the book.
I died, Bridget. I did not want to.
Which was the truth. She had seen it in the pictures. But it was not enough. How could it ever be enough? The truth left Poppa alone in the cold with only the light and the lake, and a broken heart. “No … you … he … he loved you.”
I know. Momma’s ghost was calm as the words came to Bridget. She felt no touch of the previous sorrow and that calm only fanned Bridget’s anger. It was an old anger, denied through the years as much as she could because to be angry at Momma’s memory meant she had believed what the gossips and the snips in Bayfield and Eastbay said, and she could not.
But she did.
Bridget lashed out with her hand, seeking to grab hold of something, a wrist, a sleeve, something that would get a reaction, break the calm. She touched only cold without even the memory of living warmth. “Why did you marry him!”
Sorrow drifted from Momma’s ghost. Sorrow at Bridget’s pain, sorrow at the loss of years, but like everything else about the ghost it was cold and Bridget shrank from it even as she read the new words.
I married him because he loved me. Because I was pregnant and I wanted my child born legitimate in a house where it would be cared for.
“You didn’t love him at all, did you?” Bridget felt a grim satisfaction at speaking the words aloud. There had been nights when she lay alone in her bed and she thought them, almost sick to death at the disloyalty in those thoughts, and yet knowing in her young heart that there was truth in them. If Momma had loved Poppa, if Bridget really was a Lederle and not just a Loftfield, Momma would not have left. There would not be these rumors to dog their footsteps and keep him out at the light alone.
New words. Nothing but words and cold regret. I was grateful to him. I knew him to be kind and strong. I knew he would love you.
“But you didn’t love him.” Bridget gripped the edge of the enchanted page. She wanted to tear it to bits and scatter it across the floor. She wanted to make Momma’s ghost go away. She wanted to make her stay and acknowledge the truths that Bridget had feared all her life. She wanted her to be warm, and loving, and to deny those same truths. “You loved this Avanasy person.”
Yes.
It was too cold. Bridget couldn’t breathe. Cold wrung tears from her eyes, and cold made her throat and lungs struggle for air. “Poppa loved you. All his life. He never married again.”
I know.
One tear trickled out of the corner of Bridget’s eye, leaving yet more cold to seep into her skin. “Why did you leave me there?” That was the question, the one that had haunted her since Sakra had recognized Momma’s name. If here was where Momma was honored, if here was where Momma loved, why had she taken Bridget to Sand Island, where she was only a bastard and freak?
Momma’s ghost moved forward. Shadows and moonlight both parted to let her pass. She lifted her hands as if to press against a window that separated her from her daughter. For one stark moment Bridget saw Momma’s face clearly. Anger, old anger as hot and vital as any Bridget felt, twisted Momma’s features. It beat against the wall of cold Bridget had surrounded herself with. Bridget’s cold, not Momma’s cold. Anger. Anger at circumstance, at her willingness to leave Isavalta when she should have stayed beside the man she loved and taken her chances, anger at the choice she had made that had wounded her daughter so. Anger at her helplessness now to reach Bridget and make her understand. Momma was mute and she wanted to shout, but all she had were words on page.
I could do nothing else. Avanasy made me promise to return home because there was no guarantee we would win the war and cage the Firebird. Then he died, and my only thought was to see you safely born. Then you were a babe in arms, and even if I had the strength, I could not have taken you back. Carrying a child through the Silent Lands is dangerous. They attract … powers. They can be possessed and ridden unknowingly.
I meant to take you to Isavalta when you were grown. I thought I would be there to find a way.
It was too much. The anger, the regret, and the words assaulted all Bridget’s understanding of her birth and her life. “What if I hadn’t wanted to leave Poppa?”
The ghost dropped her hands to her side, her capacity for livid anger seemingly spent. At the same time, Bridget felt the cold ebb. At least you would have had a choice. That was all I wanted for you.
As she read those words, Bridget felt the cold bleed away from around her, leaving only the normal chill of winter. It was that cold which separated her from this vision of her mother. Bridget felt suddenly abandoned. She wanted that cold, that separation back again.
Why is it like this? All my life all I ever wanted was Momma back, and here she is, and now I only want her to go.
Answers. There had to be answers, to all the questions that she had not been able to ask over the years and all the ones that rose up fresh from Momma’s being here with her now. Whether those answers would bring the cold back, or take it away forever, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that she finally had her answers. “Why didn’t I ever see you at the lighthouse?”
No reply. The words in the book remained perfectly still, and the ghost bowed her head.
“It was because you went with him, wasn’t it?” The cold gathered again, thick and comfortable like a blanket of snow around old brick walls. “You had to choose, and you chose to be with him.”
No new reply formed in the book. There was only the still presence of the ghost and all of Bridget’s cold.
“You didn’t even want to be around us as a ghost!” she cried at last, as if it would lock the door between them and leave her with her own certainties.
But more pictures filled the white pages. The man, Avanasy, walking at Momma’s side, talking to her, making her laugh. Momma at his bedside where he lay weak and ill. The two of them working a tiny sloop together, Avanasy handling the ropes and Momma at the tiller, her teeth bared in fierce concentration and the wild joy that comes of defiance of wind and water.
Momma lying still on the ground, her eyes closed in a sleep that was far too close to death, and Avanasy on his knees beside her, his head bowed while he wept.
“He didn’t have to take you away from us,” Bridget whispered, unable to tear her gaze away from the pictures. The cold around her wavered, but still she did not want to let it go. “He could have come to you.”
The paper rustled as the images blended back into words.
There are limits, Bridget, even for the dead. Places we may not go, places we may be prevented from going. The ties between the living are strong, Bridget, stronger than any ties to the dead, and the ties of love, gratitude and obligation are stronger than the ties of blood. You did not know Avanasy to love him, and you did love Everett Lederle. Avanasy could not break the bounds of worlds to come to you.
She could not stay here. She would not. But even so, Bridget felt a thread of warmth through the wall of her cold. She longed for the embrace of that warmth and yet at the same time feared the love and forgiveness that would have to come with it. She would have to accept too much to accept that love.
Bridget wiped at her eyes. “Yes, well,” she said, getting to her feet. “As educational as this has been, I should probably get
back before Richikha gets in trouble for sleeping on the job.”
She did not mean to look back at the book, but the words caught her eye all the same.
Bridget, I came to you because you wished to know the truth. The truth is you are my daughter, and Avanasy’s, and daughter of all the magic our blood had to give you. You are Everett Lederle’s daughter. You are the daughter of Sand Island, Lake Superior, and your second sight. You are the daughter of two worlds. You have served long in one, and now must serve in the other.
“Must?” Bridget felt her spine stiffen and savored the familiarity of the sensation.
The words in the book changed before she could finish her reply.
You already know Kalami is a liar, daughter. He’ll use you if he can, kill you when he must. Beware of him. Keep your eyes open to all his works. You may trust even poor, broken Medeoan before you trust Kalami.
Bridget frowned, feeling a new cold that had nothing to do with old anger or fear. “But they’re the ones who brought me here. If I’m not to …”
Momma lifted her head, and Bridget felt the ghost’s attention draw away from her and focus toward the library doors.
“What is it?” asked Bridget, her gaze flickering from the ghost to the book.
Kalami wakes. Tell Peshek he has done right.
She vanished. Bridget started forward so suddenly that the corner of her skirt caught the book, dislodging it from the table and sending it crashing to the floor. A rush of warmth filled the air where Momma had stood, but Bridget felt no relief. Bridget wanted to drop to her knees beside the fallen book and rifle its heavy pages for some sign of Momma’s presence. Just in time, she remembered the broken glass and instead snatched the book up before the oil could soak its leather bindings.
“Are you hurt, mistress?” A man’s voice accompanied the sound of footfalls.
Bridget whirled around: Sakra walked through the faint light. The moon must have gone down. The illumination from the stars was all that remained.
“No, I’m fine.” Bridget bit her tongue. She had not meant to answer him, but could not stop herself. Evidently, the enchantment he had placed on her was still in good working order.
Sakra saw the expression on her face. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It was not my intent to force an answer from you, not now, at any rate.”
His face was frank and open, and Bridget suddenly felt enormously tired. She turned away, laying the book back down on the copy table. “What has changed, sir?”
“You saved my life when there was neither need nor reason for you to do so.”
“Ah.” Bridget pressed her hands against the leather. A dark stain did indeed discolor the binding. She hoped she had not ruined anything irreplaceable. It seemed so much easier to concentrate on this small thing than on the enormity of what had just happened to her. “Perhaps I just saved your life to trick you. Perhaps I meant to worm my way into your confidence so that I could spy on you.”
He shook his head. “No.”
All her anger, frustration and fear overflowed at this and what little patience Bridget still had snapped under the pressure of it.
“Why not?” She rounded on him. “Because I’m too much of a fool? Because I’m an ignorant little girl to be paraded around like a puppet by whoever can get hold of my strings?”
“Because a ghost stood here and had some lengthy speech with you.” Sakra’s face and voice both remained mild. “No ghost of evil intent to the anointed emperor and empress could enter this house, even at this time. It would not be permitted.”
He’d been watching her. The realization burned through Bridget’s blood. He’d been there the whole time and he’d seen. He’d seen all Momma’s words, seen the pictures, seen what she was. “You are a lying sneaking spy!” she cried.
“Yes.” Sakra spread his hands, a gesture of disarmament she was in no humor to see. He’d spied on her. He knew. He knew she was a bastard abandoned by her mother for a stranger. He knew Everett Lederle had never been loved by his wife. He had no right knowing such things. Kalami had no right to bring her here to find out such things.
“You are all lying sneaks!” She wanted Kalami here. He had tricked her into coming to this place. She wanted his throat between her hands. She’d wring his neck like a chicken for putting her through this.
“Yes,” was all Sakra said.
Her cheeks were wet. More tears, too many tears. How could she let herself cry in front of this man? She dashed them angrily away. “Why should I even stand here listening to you?”
Incredibly, the corner of Sakra’s mouth curled up into a smile and he shrugged. “Because I have admitted I am a lying sneak, and Kalami has only compounded his lies.”
Bridget laughed. She couldn’t help it. It was all so ridiculous. Ridiculous. Her gasps turned to whoops as she tried to catch her breath and failed. What did she have here? A choice between liars, fathers and worlds. Insane. Insane.
More tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, and Bridget, her whoops fading back to choking laughs, could not have said if they were for mirth or sorrow.
“You may want this, mistress.”
Bridget cracked her eyes open. Sakra held out a handkerchief. Such a small, familiar, gentlemanly gesture, ridiculous a world away from home, it almost set Bridget off again, but she controlled herself. She put the book down and accepted the square of cambric and dabbed her eyes.
“Did you follow me?” she asked, the heat of her anger burned out of her, at least for the moment.
“Not this time. I intended to meet someone quite different here.” Sakra glanced toward the doors. “I am early, and he may not have found the roads easily passable.”
“Then perhaps I should go.” Bridget reached down and delicately picked her shawl out of the oil and glass. It was only loaned to her. She did not feel she could leave it here to be swept up as trash by whoever was charged with cleaning this room. She shook it to let the few pieces of glass that had become caught in the wool clink to the floor.
“You may wish to stay,” said Sakra. “This man knew your father.”
Bridget did not look up at him. She concentrated on bundling up the shawl such that she could carry it by the clean corners. “I do not care.”
“And your mother.”
Momma, who was here for so short a time, who tried so hard to reach through Bridget’s cold to find Bridget’s heart. Momma, who had not wanted to leave her, and did. Left her to face two worlds alone.
Yet who came back, and tried to explain, tried to warn her.
She pulled her shoulders back and fixed her gaze on the doors so she could still avoid looking at the man. “I think I have had quite enough of my mother for one night, thank you.” She started forward, determined to leave here as quickly as possible.
“Mistress Bridget, please stay,” Sakra called after her.
“Why?”
“Because there are things which will be said that I very much desire you should hear,” he said. “Because Lord Master Peshek is an aging man, haunted by doubts, and seeing you will help put him at his ease.” Sakra stopped, and began again. “Because I wish you to know that, despite all, I am your friend, and if you need it, I will help you through these days however I can.”
Bridget swallowed against the tightness that seized her throat. Carefully, she laid the shawl down on the stool and she stared at him. Slowly, it dawned on her what was missing. When she looked at Sakra, both her eyes saw the same thing. There was no reflection, no distortion, nothing hidden to be seen only by her left eye. She walked slowly forward, peering closely at him, but all she saw was the man before her, with his autumn brown eyes and his patient face. She stood close enough to touch him now, and she still saw only honesty in his eyes. How long had it been, oh God, how many years, since someone had offered her so much? Honesty and friendship, unmixed with pity. Had she ever been given so precious a gift in her whole life?
“I beg your pardon, master, mistress.”
Bridge
t and Sakra froze like a pair of guilty schoolchildren caught behind the barn. Her eyes blurred by tears and too many emotions, Bridget could not clearly see the figure that stood in the doorway, but she had an impression of a lean man.
“Lord Master.” Sakra reverenced. The man returned the gesture before he came forward. The starlight was thinning, but Bridget, wiping her eyes, could now see he was indeed a lean man and of sober demeanor. Once he had been handsome, she thought, but care had etched too many lines on his face and drawn down his cheeks into hollows.
“Thank you for coming, Lord Master Peshek,” said Sakra.
“You said you had words of importance for me.” Lord Master Peshek did not take his gaze off Bridget. “I beg your pardon, mistress, do I — ”
Sakra did not let him finish the question. “Lord Master Peshek Pachalkasyn Ursulvin, this is Bridget Loftfield Lederle Avanasidoch Finoravosh.”
The man staggered as if struck. He gripped the corner of the nearest desk and even in the dim light, Bridget saw his knuckles turn white.
Sakra turned to her, and she felt him measuring her with his gaze, waiting for her reaction. He was stretched tight, she could now tell. Tension hummed from him. “Bridget, this is Lord Master Peshek, of whom I spoke.”
At least this had a familiar social formula. She remembered to reverence rather than simply bob a curtsy. “How do you do, sir?”
“By my bones,” Peshek breathed. “We never knew. We never knew if she had made it safe across …” He reverenced, but he was still shaking. “You are most welcome to me, Mistress Bridget.”
“Thank you.”
Peshek seemed to decide discretion was the better part of valor, and he sat down in the nearest chair. He wiped one large hand across his face, and looked up at Bridget again, as if he could not believe what he saw. His gaze was easy to bear, however. It was soft, and there was kindness in it along with the wonder. “How is it you come to be here now of all times? Was it …”