A Court For Fairies (Dark Heralds Book 1)
Page 1
A Court for Fairies
Dark Herald Series, Book One
By Lynnette Santiago
A Court for Fairies
Copyright © 2016 by Lynnette Santiago.
All rights reserved.
First Print Edition: December 2016
Limitless Publishing, LLC
Kailua, HI 96734
www.limitlesspublishing.com
Formatting: Limitless Publishing
ISBN-13: 978-1-68058-934-4
ISBN-10: 1-68058-934-2
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
To my sisters, Lysandra and Lysania. You’ve brought countless moments of joy to my life. Thanks for reading my stuff without running scared.
And to a sister life gave me, Rosaimee. Your unfailing friendship is something I treasure.
Table of Contents
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
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Chapter I
The Death of Esteban O’Reilly
“My heartfelt condolences…words cannot express the depth of our pain right now…steady…be brave…”
Marissa played nervously with the charm on her golden necklace, caressing the locket with her shaky fingers. She tried, in all civility, to avoid bursting in front of the audience. They were not hypocrites. They were just creatures of social bearing, bound by etiquette to make their presence felt, to share the pain.
Many times she had been on that side of the curtain, making the best of rehearsed social graces. Each scripted moment allowing her to channel a bit of feeling without being offensive or intruding. It was the key to emerging victorious out of a forced situation. Though grateful for the kindness of acquaintances and strangers, the plates of food did nothing but distract her from the need to make herself useful, perhaps cooking something. It all freed her time to think, which was not good at all. Flowers, rose and hyacinth, her favorite, would always be tied to the smell of formaldehyde and cotton. Those present had no idea that they had ruined certain things forever.
It was not fair to blame them. Death cast the dice and waited for it all to fall. House lost a life and the game continued. Cruel fate was the only one responsible for her boyfriend’s untimely death at twenty-six.
Marissa waited for close friends to finish paying respect to the fine silver urn that kept Esteban’s ashes. While some of those present felt relaxed enough to ease into a cup of coffee and chat, she made her way to the second floor.
Esteban’s eyes followed her, step after step, in photo montages adorning the stairs; frames of childhood and adolescence.
She entered his old room, letting herself fall on top of the twin bed in which Esteban slept as a child, holding tight to a sham that adorned a pillow with patterns of blue, black, and green squares. The ensemble of the room evoked nothing of the taste of the man with love of sober, streamlined contemporary furniture, but at that moment, it all stood for him.
Marissa couldn’t conceive returning to the apartment after the accident, that nook in Brooklyn they had made their home for the last two years. Twenty-four months suddenly became an unbearable world of memory.
She was working in the city when the news arrived, and driving straight to her mother’s place in Queens, she crashed there for a week. She didn’t want to deal with rumpled sheets, or the toothpaste tube pressed in the middle, those little details that once vexed her now would only make her cry.
But she missed him. God, she missed him enough to try to find anything in that room to cling to, like the softness of that pillow that no longer carried his scent. She wanted to coerce the child, no longer there, to paint her a picture of the man she had just lost.
She must have fallen asleep, but the touch of a firm yet caring hand brought her back. Waking up startled, Marissa mumbled some apology while trying to fix her hair and runs in her make up. Two women looked at her, silent before her words, waiting for the young woman to catch a breath and forgive herself.
“No one will blame you, child. It has been a taxing day. We are all tired, some more than others. We are all grieving at the same level.”
Carla, Esteban’s grandmother, sat at the edge of the bed, taking Marissa’s hand, building a bridge between her and her daughter, Isabel, as Esteban’s mother stood, unmoved.
“Marissa, darling,” Carla continued, “Isabel and I have been discussing a couple of things. We know very well what Esteban felt for you. You were not the first girl he brought home, but you were the only one he insisted the family meet. Please don’t think we are about to place a burden upon you. In fact, we know you are young and meant, in time, to heal and thrive, and build another life. Though pain seems inconceivable, it will subside. But we cannot keep silent about the course of certain…things interrupted by the accident that took Esteban’s life.”
The matron looked at Isabel, letting her know that she had said her piece. Isabel let go of her mother’s hand and turned toward the bureau, taking a box out of the top drawer. It was then that Marissa noticed they had been talking in a darkened room. The light from the street lamp barely made it in a thin angle through the window and the patterns of the curtains threw long shadows over Isabel’s hands, making them look older, spotted in dark circles.
“You can turn on the light,” the young woman suggested.
“There is no need,” the mother answered. “I know each corner of this room.”
Carla, however, taking into consideration the young woman before her, turned the switch on.
For a second, Isabel flickered her eyelids and her dark irises seemed to catch the green patterns of the room. In her hands she held a small box, wrapped in soft, red velvet. Marissa guessed the contents of it before they had time to explain. Covering her lips with the palm of her hand, she took a deep breath to steady her heart and keep tears at bay. Isabel continued, automatic, disconnected from the reaction of the woman before her.
“Esteban told us of his intentions before…the case is, after discussing this with Mother…”
The exchange became heavy and lacking warmth. It was plain to see that Carla had the final word on their discussion. Isabel was just following her mother’s instruction, which proved to be a failing script with each word uttered. Carla interrupted yet again, taking the box from her daughter’s grip, opening it so that Marissa could appreciate the ring it contained.
“This meant he wanted to spend his life with you. This is my mother’s ring, and her mother’s before her. Isabel wore it through her own journey but now it has no history that links it to this house anymore. It was meant to be yours, it still
is. My grandson had his mind set before he died.” Her smile was kind, though barely a line set on the firmness of her face. Carla was determined.
Marissa held the exquisite piece of jewelry in her hand, raising it to the light. It was a considerable diamond, cut in eighteenth century fashion. Beautiful workmanship cut a flawless stone into a round shape. The center stone rested on top of a white gold frame in which smaller diamonds were encrusted in delicate half-moons around it, making it look like a rose.
“This…I can’t accept this.” She couldn’t hold the tears anymore as they ran down her face. She had taken refuge in Esteban’s room, trying to connect with the past, and now these women gave her a glimpse of an unattainable future. It was the worst of cruelties, wrapped in generosity and kindness.
“You must,” Carla answered in all resolve. “I can’t take this ring back. It will turn all its sweet memories to sorrows. It is a terrible thing to deny a loved one departed. Please take it, and find it in your heart to do one last thing for us, in his name. Stay tonight and for the next three days. We are taking Esteban’s ashes to rest with his father and we would like you to accompany us. I know my grandson wanted you to visit Innisfree. Sleep now, dear. Think about it. It has been a whirlwind of emotion and we must have a bit of rest as well. “
Isabel broke the silence to say good night, leaving before Marissa had a chance to answer. Carla caressed the young woman’s ash blonde hair, as if playing with a doll. With utmost care, the elder helped her out of a black scrunchie that held her ponytail in place.
“Here, here, this thing will only give you a headache. Take a shower and you can sleep in this room if it pleases you.”
The door stayed half open while both women brought in towels, linens, even a set of pajamas for her to wear. Marissa looked at them as if watching choreography. They needed no words. Crafty hands folded and smoothed almost in unison, their need to please not quite allowing her to feel at home.
Marissa didn’t sleep. Earlier that night she placed a call to her mother, allowing for her to pack a small suitcase. She mentioned the service upstate casually, but not the ring. Her mother might have something to say on the matter and she wanted to make up her own mind on the matter.
Isabel waited for her as she stepped out of the bathroom, placing the laundered clothes from the night before right back into her hands. Neat as ever. The sight of the ring on Marissa’s finger gave her comfort as her eyes softened and the shadow of a smile crossed her lips.
“A cab came by earlier. Your mother prepared travel luggage for you, which tells me you’ve made up your mind to go with us.”
Marissa nodded quickly, taking back her clothes, yet noticing that Isabel also carried a thin, dark black veil. Before she had opportunity to ask, Esteban’s mother entered the restroom and covered the mirror. There were no replies to her curious frown other than, “Breakfast will soon be ready.”
Marissa had heard it before, right from Esteban’s lips. His slight mockery of all things old world that ruled both O’Reillys and Alejandros. He was first generation born in the States, and the cultural baggage of both sides of the family was a little too much to bear. Her hands caressed the cloth, unknowing yet respectful of what it might symbolize.
Downstairs, the kitchen smelled wonderful. Scrambled eggs, bacon crisp off the stove, and an assortment of fruit and bread waited for her. Isabel sat at the edge of the table, nursing a cup of tea and eating a slice of toast while writing instructions for the house maid.
“Anything else you might want, miss?” asked the cook, ready to whip up a platter. Marissa was dismissive, though she did pick a bit of fruit to nibble on.
“Where’s Carla?” she inquired of the maid.
“Mrs. Carla is in the backyard. She finds the kitchen insufferable.”
Marissa saw her, dressed in an impeccable gray pencil skirt and white long-sleeved blouse that matched her daughter. Carla held a small bowl in her hands, no bigger than a saucer. Lifting it up to her lips, the woman, usually a picture of control and demeanor, drank its contents, tilting it hungrily as if she couldn’t taste it soon enough. It was white and thick, heavy and creamed. Her tongue cleaned the bottom of that little plate. It was more greed than it seemed hunger.
“Miss Marissa?” The voice of the maid called her in.
Isabel had determined she should have at least a crepe. “It is quite a long trip, sweetheart. Eat something, even if you just must.” And she did.
The driver picked them up at ten. Two vehicles were ready to depart the house on Long Island. The women traveled in one, while the second carried, among other things, Esteban’s ashes. Carla and Marissa waited for Isabel, while the mistress of the house took care of last minute details, including a list for weekend groceries, allowing for their return on Tuesday.
“Make sure all the mirrors are covered. My son’s spirit cannot find dwelling in this house. It must be compelled to follow us to Innisfree.”
Chapter II
Those Masks We Wear
Upstate New York might come as a shock to those who lived all their lives in the city. It seemed a world away, hard to process for those of urban settings. As years went by, people who made their living in the busiest city on the East Coast joined the ritual of habitual things, checking in and out their daily schedules like precise clockwork. Closing their eyes, most of them fell back and bought the idea that there was no world beyond the five boroughs that comprised a stretch of land known to the entire world.
Marissa had never left the confines of The Big Apple. Since her birth, it had been nothing but Manhattan’s concrete and steel under her every step. Her idea of nature was none other than the greens of Central Park.
Once, Esteban proposed they go on vacation. “For the love of God, sweetheart, you can’t pretend the North Atlantic actually has beaches. Saint Petersburg, Flo-ri-da; frigid name, hot sand. I’m talking about the Gulf of Mexico!”
She was quite resolute in her negative response. He knew quite well she was not the sun and sand type and loved to make her miserable with his proposed excursions. She had things to do, a niche to carve for herself. She wouldn’t leave, not at that moment at least. Had Marissa known forever was not granted, she would have humored him.
Esteban was always lenient with her, giving space and time to her every whim. Cynics said relationships never granted equal measures; there was the one who loved and the one who received the love. Though she never conceived herself as selfish, Marissa was spoiled, a little immature. Esteban derived a certain pleasure in giving her all. Though their age difference was merely four years, sometimes he found himself overprotective of a woman of delicate persuasions who grew up without a father figure. Since his father also died when Esteban was quite young, he understood the feeling very well.
So he declined prolonging his argument into a squabble and changed the subject. The next day, he showed up, armed with a charming smile and a conciliatory gift: a gold chain fitted to a small, curved charm fashioned as a sideways eight. The symbol of eternity. Though the chain was exquisite, the charm looked opaque, rough, and untreated. It was an oddity since Esteban usually showered his girlfriend with extravagant pieces of jewelry that though lovingly given, made her feel inadequate. This was different. She loved the little imperfections about it. Her boyfriend answered as if reading her mind.
“That one cost me my reputation with the jeweler. We put the malleability of gold to the test, there is fine concrete dust, even stone from the city baked into that mix. Wherever you go, you’ll take New York with you. Now, I declare you free of whatever binds you to this city. Marissa Salgado, please, take some time off.”
Esteban had the kindest, warmest smiles, the best of dispositions, and a spirit of adventure she could not quite grasp. More than once, his enthusiasm overwhelmed her. Their friends used to call them Break and Locomotive. No need to say which one was which. She loved him as much as she sometimes felt annoyed by his displays. For them, it was as easy to make love as to get in
to an argument in the spirit of the moment. The very definition of opposites attracting.
Marissa played both their agreements and disagreements back and forth in her memory. Distracted, she took to biting the charm on her chain while an interminable road slithered through hills and valleys ahead. Exuberant greens were interrupted by the orderly layout of a vineyard or an Amish farm; friendly folk, yet separated from the world by their views of God and nature. Distant mountains, framing lakes of almost glacier blue, made her, if only for a moment, forget the reason for her presence upstate.
Sitting on the second row of the SUV by herself, Marissa couldn’t help touching her hand to the glass, as a child might do when witnessing some wonder.
“Do you mind if I roll down the window?”
Isabel secured her dark sunglasses on the bridge of her nose, letting her know it was okay to do as she wished. Carla simply kept glued to a book, tucking the silk red marker after each page, as if expecting to be interrupted.
The young woman rolled down the tinted window, allowing total access to a world of color and sound, vegetation and fauna. There was a soft, humid feeling to the air, as the breeze rising from the lake dispersed thin fog upon the road.
Innisfree was quite a valuable piece of real estate, located within an esplanade of a hundred and twenty kilometers between Syracuse and Rochester. One of those hideaways where industrialization had not yet made its mark. It was a playground for the rich who didn’t feel the need to be famous. A place to downplay opulence, which was in itself a kind of eccentricity.
The State Road soon took a turn into a private road that led to the gateway of the house. Impressive white gates opened and a guard assigned to take care of the property greeted the women from an equally white office located at the entrance. Beyond the gates, the front of the house was paved in delicate blue cobblestones and flanked by red maple trees that had started sprouting the first of spring leaves.