by Gwenda Bond
“Just Bone,” Bone says, gritting his teeth.
I bite back a smile. “Where’s your dad?”
“In the library,” Bone says, still suspicious.
“You could wash Miranda’s car while we’re talking to him,” I suggest, not making it sound like a suggestion.
Bone snorts and steps out onto the welcome mat. I’m not a brawler, but I’m also not afraid of this jackhole.
“I didn’t have anything to do with it,” Bone says. “I already told you.”
Am I imagining it, or is he actually nervous? We’re far out in the woods, but, come on. His dad is home.
“Are you scared?” I ask.
Bone straightens. “Scared that bad luck just showed up at my doorstep.” He turns to Miranda. “Interrupt any shows lately?” he adds.
Miranda opens her mouth, and though I don’t catch Bone’s meaning, I can see the sting of his comment on her face. I’ve officially had enough of him insulting her.
I nudge Miranda around Bone and through the door with my shoulder. I move fast behind her, shooting my hand back to slam the door and lock it. With Bone still standing outside.
“I don’t want to be in the same house as the broken Bone,” I say. “What a dick.” I idly worry that Bone will do something else to Miranda’s car, but I know I didn’t imagine his fear, and he isn’t banging on the door. Good enough.
Miranda tips her head to me and grins in thanks. “Tell me about it,” she says.
Guess I passed.
Chapter 15
MIRANDA
I’m not used to having someone stick up for me. I… like it. Probably more than I should.
Grant steps past me, further into the house. “Dr. Whitson?” he calls. “It’s Grant.”
I try to figure out where a library might be inside this neat, but smallish house. Clean hardwood floors, modern furniture, and no TV in sight. It could still be a timeshare waiting for the next guests to arrive. I wouldn’t have guessed that Bone lived in such tidy digs — or his eccentric dad, for that matter.
Then the floor shifts under my feet, and I stumble into Grant. He catches me, seemingly not bothered by the door opening below us.
The square section of the wood floor that tossed me off balance slowly rises. It’s a trapdoor hatch into a level below. Basements are so unheard of on the island that I’ve never seen one before. Sure, the house is on a little hill, but what about the water table? Is this guy truly insane?
“Down here.” A hand — presumably belonging to Dr. Roswell — reaches over the lip of the opening to wave us down. Feet thump on the rungs of a ladder as the hand disappears again.
“It’s safe — I promise,” Grant says. He releases my elbow and starts down the ladder, which descends into what appears to be a well-lit, if snug, underground space. He pauses, the opening framing his face like a strange photograph. “It’s okay,” he says, lower, reassuring, before he continues down, the top of his head disappearing.
That leaves the ladder clear for me. As I put my feet on the rungs and start the descent, I tell myself I’ll be safer down there than upstairs, where Bone might reappear. I do my best not to think about being trapped under the earth, about worms and dirt and the things I sometimes have nightmares about crawling over Mom’s body in the cold, cold ground. I press from my mind the steps down to the coroner’s room, where Dad was laid out on the table, the clear skin of his cheek shining up at me.
I reach the last rung.
The library is a little smaller than I expected. Three walls are lined floor to ceiling with books, some in glass-fronted cases. Framed area maps and prints I recognize as John White’s drawings cover the fourth wall. Tables hold high stacks of yellowed documents with frayed edges. All of it is probably arranged in some system only Roswell can comprehend. Frankly, the crackpot’s library reminds me of The Lost Colony gift shop.
“Do you mind getting the door?” Dr. Roswell asks.
Grant must suspect the effort it takes for me to stay down here, because he hurries back up the ladder. The door thunks into place, deepening the hard shadows thrown by the lamps in the corners of the library. Tight spaces don’t usually bother me, but I’m already off my game. My hand goes to my cheek automatically.
Roswell extends his hand to me. “Dr. Whitson,” he says. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of making your acquaintance.”
“Miranda Blackwood.” I shake his hand, ducking my head when it seems like his eyes gravitate to my cheek. The birthmark’s not that noticeable, is it? That his bearded face is familiar doesn’t make him any less of a stranger.
“She’s a friend,” Grant says. “Her father was murdered the night of the disappearance, and we’re trying to figure out if there’s a connection.”
Roswell is interested, his brows lifting, his eyes eager. “How do you think they’re connected?”
“I don’ t know. But I know you have theories about the lost colonists,” Grant says. “I bet you have theories about this disappearance by now too. I want to know what they are.”
“Sit, sit,” Dr. Roswell says, taking a seat himself.
That leaves one small wooden chair at the nearest table. I choose to take the carpet and let Grant do the talking.
“Where should I start?” Roswell’s question isn’t for us, since he doesn’t wait for an answer. “At the beginning.”
I exchange a look with Grant. This better help.
“These are my theories, understand, but they are based on years of research. I am not a crackpot.”
I study the loops of the carpet beneath me. “Of course not,” I say.
“Go on, Doc,” Grant says. He’s comfortable with this man in a way that I don’t get. “Tell us.”
Roswell leans forward in his chair. “The first colony was actually a joint project of Sir Walter Raleigh and John Dee. Everyone here knows Raleigh — and of course the colony’s governor, John White — but are you familiar with Dee?”
Grant makes a sort-of sign with his hand while I quickly scan the character list from the play in my mind. I come up empty.
“Dee was a philosopher, a physician, and an alchemist. His power is difficult for us to understand today, so it may help if you also think of him as something else. A sorcerer. A holy man, even.”
An involuntary cough escapes my lips.
“Go on,” Grant says.
“Believe me, I know how all this can sound to someone who hasn’t sifted through the documents in this room. Someone who has grown up believing the local version of events,” says Dr. Roswell, peering at me with way more intensity than I’m comfortable with. “But haven’t you ever thought to yourself that parts of the story about the colonists are awfully vague? Why on earth would they have traveled across the ocean to live in such an inhospitable environment? If you think about it, you’ll discover that I’m right. That, in truth, you know little about the colonists themselves, even less about why they came here, and nothing about where they disappeared to.”
What he’s saying isn’t totally cracked. I think about The Lost Colony’s script, knowing it stretches the truth anyway, and can find little except the colonists doing the stuff of daily colony life and fearing starvation and attack. Still…
“The colonists who survived were probably absorbed into the local tribes, weren’t they?” I say. “That’s what most people think now.”
Dr. Roswell puts a finger against his lips and studies us. “Do they? It’s a very convenient theory, I suppose. No one has to die in that configuration. But here’s another little known fact about the colonists — not long before John White left for England to summon help and provisions, there was a murder.”
The word murder rings in my ears. My father was murdered. He was so helpless. I still can’t understand why.
“A colonist was murdered?” Grant asks.
Dr. Roswell switches his focus to Grant. I welcome the chance to listen without his eyes burning into me.
“Yes, one of the local tribes killed a man named George Howe. They undoubtedly had their reasons for doing so, having witnessed what the colonists were doing on the island.”
“What were they doing? And what does this have to do with Dee?” Grant asks.
I suddenly don’t want to know. I wish we were alone and anywhere else. I wish us being together had nothing to do with the ancient history pouring out of Roswell’s mouth.
“I’m sure you’ve heard some of the legends about witches during the period we’re discussing. They were thought to be people who signed a contract with the devil himself, to do his bidding. But,” Dr. Roswell pauses, “according to what I’ve found, in England witches didn’t make a deal with the devil. They made a deal with Dr. John Dee. And the word witch meant something besides black cats and flying broomsticks.”
“I still don’t see how the murder of the colonist is connected,” Grant says.
“Of course, I’m being obtuse.” Dr. Roswell laughs. “I have found not a little support for my pet theory, which seems borne out by recent events.”
“The theory, Doc,” Grant prompts.
I’m almost afraid to hear it.
“The colonists weren’t witches, but alchemists, under the rule of John Dee,” Roswell says. “They came here to build him an empire, starting with a New London.”
My mouth opens and closes. “The colonists were alchemists? What does that even mean?”
Roswell ignores my tone. “In those times, witch was as likely a term as alchemist in certain quarters. These were people dedicated to unlocking the secrets of nature, of life and death itself. The discoveries alchemists made during that period became the foundation of modern chemistry. And Dee was at the forefront of that. He may not have been known as a kind man, but he was known for his power and intellect. He wanted to rule and believed his achievements meant he deserved to. The colony was part of his plan to do just that. Men like him, they wish to live forever. Dee invented some sort of device that would allow him and his followers to do so, when combined with the right sorcery, of course. Or, more accurately, the right manipulation of the natural world.”
“Doc —” Grant starts.
But the older man has warmed to his topic. He’s treating this like a CNN appearance. He waves Grant silent, grabbing a book from the table and flipping through the pages until he comes to a painting of a man with a thin face and long beard. And black, black eyes.
Below the haunting face is a symbol. My heart feels like it skips several beats. It’s identical to the one on the phantom ship’s sails, the one repeated on the grip of the gun I found in the closet. The circle, the curved legs and straight arms, the half-moon on top…
I sit up taller. “What’s that?” I ask, extending my finger to the symbol.
“This was Dee’s own mark, the monas hieroglyphica, a key to his alchemical power,” Roswell says. He puts his finger on the painting. “Dee secured the land rights to our coast, much of what was known of North America at the time. He arranged for Raleigh to be in charge of transporting his colonists here, along with their sacred artifacts. I believe when John White left the colony, it was not to request help, but to fetch Dee back. The great experiment was set to begin. Dee had forged this device, and the colonists awaited his arrival. I haven’t been able to identify precisely what the device was. But the coded information hidden in the documents left by those involved make it clear that it existed.” He pauses for effect. “What I do know is that on the shore of Roanoke Island, they planned to use that device to become the first immortals. I believe they came very close.”
I don’t risk looking at Grant. The man’s explanation is crazy — except for the antique gun in the closet, handmade strikes showing in its metal. Grant must be thinking the same thing.
Lucky I didn’t immortal him with it.
“What stopped them?” Grant asks.
“I don’t believe they were stopped. I believe they were delayed,” says Dr. Roswell. He closes the book on that thin, black-eyed face at last.
Grant reaches out across the small table like he means to take the book but instead lays his hand across the surface. “You can tell all this from examining old documents?”
Not at all the question I want to ask. Mine’s more along the lines of: Are you nuts?
“Yes,” Dr. Roswell says. “The code they used is a fairly simple cipher of the time. Finding the documents that contain the concealed information has been the harder part. Some of Governor White’s personal papers and drawings, a few of Raleigh’s, a handful of Dee’s own letters from the period. It’s been a painstaking process, and I’m still missing key pieces, but I’m convinced of one thing.”
Again with the pausing. I sigh, caught up in the story despite questioning our host’s sanity, and ask, “Which is?”
Dr. Roswell’s chin tilts down, and he regards me over the top of his glasses. His beard doesn’t seem as neat as usual. Stray hairs flick out from his cheeks, as if he’s gone a few days without trimming it, and there are dark circles smudged around his eyes.
I bet he’s been staying up all night poring over these papers — all these years haven’t been enough, not when it finally matters.
“I’m convinced that the messages were meant to be found. To continue the project,” he says. “The plan was disrupted, but it’s been set in motion again. That’s the only explanation for the mass disappearance.”
I climb to my feet, and stand beside Grant. “I don’t get it,” I say.
“It’s a pattern. This is what happened last time, everyone gone. Or, rather, a certain number of people gone. I can’t say yet what’s next in the pattern,” the doctor says. “But there is one other thing.”
Dr. Roswell has such a flare for the dramatic that I wonder why he’s never come down to audition for the show instead of making Bone work on it. He obviously wants to climb back inside history and live there. Discover its secrets.
I wait for his next words, and so does Grant.
“Well, what is it?” Grant finally asks.
“There was a name removed from the colony manifests that have been passed down through history. It belonged to an ancestor of yours, Miranda. At least, that’s a logical assumption.”
“What?” I ask. The snake pounds like my heart has moved to my cheek. The family legend has always said we went back that far, but history doesn’t support it. It’s the only thing that ever gave me hope the curse might not be real.
“There was a Blackwood in the party of colonists,” Dr. Roswell says, and I nod, somehow unsurprised. “Mary Blackwood, an alchemist.”
Chapter 16
GRANT
I wish I could read minds instead of hear spirits chatter as I watch Miranda’s back disappear up the library steps. She bolted as soon as Whitson said those insane words: Mary Blackwood, an alchemist.
“You’re sure about that?” I ask him.
“I hope I didn’t offend her,” he says. “I thought it was an interesting piece of family history. After all, you came here for a reason, I assume?”
I nod, but I don’t feel comfortable discussing Miranda with him. Or leaving her to face that jerk Bone by herself.
“Thanks, Doc. I’ll talk to you soon.”
I rush after her without waiting for him to say goodbye, up the stairs and through the house to the door. It’s open, so she’s already outside.
I don’t know her well enough yet to know how bad this is, if it connects to something else for her. I don’t know the right thing to say. And I definitely don’t want to make the situation worse.
Turns out Bone has already done that.
Miranda parked her faded yellow car with the driver’s side facing the doc’s house. Instead of washing off FREAK like a decent person, Bone h
as decided to add to the message so it includes me. It now reads FREAKS IN LOVE.
“And tools doing graffiti!” I call out, hoping Bone is near enough to hear. I don’t see him anywhere, but the truck’s still parked in the drive.
Without slowing her pace, Miranda holds up her hand for me to stop. She levers open the car door and climbs in, the harsh set of her features not promising.
I jog across the lawn, curious if she’ll actually leave me behind. Thankfully she waits until I get in before she starts the car. “Miranda,” I say, “it’s not a big deal — what an idiot. He’s probably in love with you.”
Miranda shakes off the hand I tentatively attempt to lay on her arm and puts the car in drive. I’m still watching her when she finally looks over — past me, out the window.
I should have expected the loser to put in a final showing. Bone lounges in the open front doorway. His whole head is flushed pink, and by my estimation not from the sun. He raises a hand and salutes us with a tight grin, and I decide that he’s absolutely burning some kind of torch for Miranda. Why else would he go to so much trouble to torment her?
Miranda flips Bone off and jams her foot on the gas, throwing up dust and sand as she angles onto the narrow road.
“I know that was a lot to take in…” I say. “But I need some help figuring out what’s upsetting you the most?”
“Witches,” she says, teeth gritted. “Alchemists.” She’s forced to slow behind a pickup truck hauling a fishing boat called The Lucky Strike.
“I know it all sounds crazy, but the gun — it’s got to be Dee’s missing object, right?” If I can get her talking everything will be okay. “That’s his symbol on it. The monas hieroglyphica.”
Miranda’s eyes flick over to me, and then she veers around the fishing boat. “It does sound crazy, that’s for sure. Where did you put that thing? Is it still in your mom’s trunk? Maybe we should throw it in the sound.”
“No,” I say, qualifying when that earns a scowl. “What if we need it to… save the people? Or you? We don’t know enough yet.”