by Kara Isaac
“Hey.” Victor held his hands up in an attempted gesture of innocence. “Look, all I did was slice it up for her. She already had it when I got there. If I didn’t, someone else would’ve.”
Peter stared at his brother. Of everything he’d thought Victor capable of, something like this had never crossed his mind. He’d believed him without question when he’d said he wasn’t even there that evening. That the last he’d seen of her had been a couple of days before and she’d been fine.
“She’d been out of rehab for five days. Five!”
His brother rolled his eyes. “I hate to break it to you, Bunny, but Neets wasn’t our cute little cousin in pigtails anymore. She was a big girl.” There was something about Victor’s words that made Peter think he was trying to convince himself as much as anyone else. Maybe it would have been okay if Victor had stopped there, but he had to keep talking. “I wasn’t her chaperone, or her conscience. At least I got her out of there before she landed herself in a stranger’s bed. She got around, did our—oof!”
Peter’s first punch was a direct hit to his brother’s torso. As Victor instinctively doubled over, Peter brought his fist up into his nose. Blood spurted, drops hitting the wooden floor and splattering like violent starbursts.
“Stop it!” Emelia’s scream reached his ears about the same time his brother barreled into him. They both went down, Peter’s head cracking the floor, his vision shattering for a second. Which was all it took for Victor to take his second strike, a well-aimed knee to the groin. This time it was like the entire galaxy exploded in his head.
“About time, little bro. Not the good guy anymore, are we?” Victor’s grunted words cut through the haze as Peter grabbed him by the front of his T-shirt and threw him backward. The hall table flipped over and landed with a crash by the door.
“Stop it! Stop it!” Emelia’s screaming was loud enough to wake a coma patient.
In the seconds it took for the two brothers to get back to their feet, puffing, Victor swearing a blue streak, she had managed to dart between the two of them.
“Get out of the way, Em.”
There was no way they could get at each other in the narrow hallway without involving her. He certainly didn’t trust his brother to let that stop him. Not after what the last few minutes had revealed.
“Why? So you two can beat each other to death? Not a chance.” She shook her head with the determination that had drawn him to her in the first place.
“Em, get out of the way. Please.” Desperation tinged his words.
“I’d listen to what Bunny says. You really don’t want to be in the middle of this.”
Emelia didn’t even look at Victor. Her eyes stayed fixed on Peter. Bad move. Because of the two of them, only one played dirty. He saw Victor’s foot start moving, aimed at her ankles.
“E—” He didn’t even manage to get a single syllable out of his mouth before she had spun around, grabbed his brother by one arm, and flipped him over her back. A guy at least twice her weight and almost totally muscle. Victor landed on the floor with a smack, opening his eyes to find her heel poised above his groin.
“Try that again, clever guy, and you will never have children. Not that that would be such a great loss to the world.”
Victor was silent, staring at her with a vicious glare. But he didn’t move so much as a finger.
“No? I didn’t think so.” She took a couple of steps back toward Peter. “Now get out.”
Victor clambered to his feet. For a split second, Peter caught something that might have been remorse or regret flashing across his face. But it was gone in an instant, replaced with his usual haughty expression. He didn’t say a word as he backed across the threshold, slamming the door behind him.
“That’s going to need some ice.” Emelia put a light finger to his cheek. Peter just stared at her, still dazed. “How many fingers can you see?” She held up three fingers and moved them from left to right.
“What . . . how did you do that?” It was like something from a movie. Except in his hallway. Was any of this real? Or had he just fallen asleep on his couch and this was all a dream?
She gave a sad smile. “Occupational hazard. Martial arts training comes in handy when you have a job that makes you enemies by the week. How many fingers?” She did the same again. This time with four.
“Four.”
“Any double vision?”
“No, I’m fine.” The truth was the feeling of a thousand knives slicing through his groin was making him want to curl up in the fetal position and weep like a little boy, but he was hardly going to tell her that.
He looked at the ground and saw it was covered with splinters of wood. The hall table he’d flipped was intact, so what was . . . oh. He slid down the wall until he sat on the floor amid the ruins of the Dawn Treader. He picked up two tiny pieces of mast. For some crazy reason, he tried to piece them together, like the rest of the ship hadn’t been blown to smithereens all over the floor.
They didn’t fit. So he tried again, stabbing the two tiny segments together like he could make them connect through sheer force of will.
What had he done? What had Victor done?
“They won’t fit.” His words echoed in the hall.
Emelia’s fingers wrapped around his as she knelt in front of him. She took the two pieces from his hands, studied them for a second, then folded them into her fist. “I guess some things are just meant to be broken.”
Forty-Two
WELL, THAT WENT WELL. SHE’D caused a brawl between brothers and the Treader was back in a million pieces. No one could say she did things by halves.
Emelia’s phone rang as she drove up to her house. She pulled up at the curb and answered the call. “Aren’t you supposed to be on your honeymoon?”
“I am.” Allie laughed. “Italy. I’ve sent Jackson to go find some sports to watch. Told you we’d only last three days before we got sick of each other.”
“It’s been over two weeks.”
“Has it?” Allie sounded genuinely surprised.
Emelia leaned her head against the headrest. The two weeks may have felt like two minutes to Allie but they had felt like two years to her.
“I guess we’ll see you soon then.”
“I’ve started packing.” If worst came to worst she could just go stay at a backpackers’ hostel until the ball was over. She didn’t have much.
“Why?”
“I just . . . assumed you and Jackson would want the house to yourselves when you get back.” Allie’s contract at Oxford had been extended for another year and she definitely wouldn’t want to be sharing four walls with the besotted newlyweds.
“Don’t be silly. We’re going to base ourselves out of Cambridge while we work out what Jackson is going to do with himself. We’ve got his apartment there and I’ll just commute for the first term. Stay a few nights a week at our house when it doesn’t make sense to go home.”
Allie’s blithe tone made it sound like it was no big deal when it was. Emelia couldn’t have been more wrong about one thing. Allie hadn’t abandoned her when she found out the truth. “Why would you do that for me?”
“Because you deserve good things. No matter how much you struggle to believe it.”
“Peter doesn’t want anything to do with me.” Emelia’s voice betrayed her with a wobble.
“Peter needs a bullet.” At least that was what it sounded like Allie muttered under her breath.
“Sorry?”
“Nothing. Just an expression from home.”
“I just took the Treader over to his house. I never should have gone. He and Victor got in a fight. It got smashed again. Everything I touch goes bad.”
“That’s not true. That fight has been waiting to happen for years. Just give him time. He has a lot to get his head around.”
Emelia sighed. “Not that it matters anyway. Even if he could somehow get beyond all of that, I still don’t believe the same as he does. That’s the dealbreaker. I’ve g
otta be honest, Al. Between you and Jackson and Peter I was beginning to wonder if there might be something there. I know it’s not fair but if Peter can’t forgive me, then it’s kind of impossible to believe in the God he says does. At this point, I’m going to need an unmistakable sign. I’m talking like writing-on-the-wall, booming-voice kind of stuff.”
Allie sighed. “Don’t equate Peter with God. Believing in God doesn’t make a person perfect. We’re still just as prone to messing up and doing the wrong thing as everyone else.”
“It doesn’t really matter anyway. Lacey called this morning. She thinks she can get me some freelancing work with her firm. After the ball.”
“Are you going to take it?”
“I don’t know. It’s not like I have anything keeping me here once the ball is over.” That was what she’d come for. She’d never actually thought about what would happen after.
She asked a question that had been bugging her. She wasn’t going to get an answer from the one person she really wanted to hear it from. “That teacup. In his mom’s collection. Was it really the same one that was in the wardrobe that night?”
“What do you think?”
What did she think? The truth was she’d been trying not to think about it. Because if she thought too much, connected the wardrobe with the teacup, with Peter’s being there, with the mysterious notice that Allie never put up, it all started pointing to a rather uncomfortable reality. “I’ve gotta go, Al. I’ll see you when you get back.”
Getting out of the car, she set the alarm and headed up the path. “You heard that, right? Writing on the wall, big booming voice, something really unmissable.” She directed her words to the sky. Nothing came back except the sounds of birds and the cool fall wind rustling leaves.
Well, that was that, then.
Sitting on the porch was a square cardboard box.
Getting closer, she saw that her name was on it, written in cursive script. No address. No postage. It had obviously been hand-delivered.
Sitting on the porch, Emelia picked it up and turned it around. No return address. No sign of who or where it had come from.
She put it down, then reached her fingers inside the gap and released the tape. Lifting the lid, she peered inside to see a small, rectangular card with bunches of cream-colored tissue paper underneath.
She picked up the envelope, slid her finger under the seal, and tried not to hold her breath as she pulled the card out. She didn’t even know what she was hoping for, but she prepared herself for disappointment.
The same cursive writing was inside the card. Emelia, This will probably sound really strange to you, but God told me this was meant to be yours, not mine. Love, Maggie.
Lifting the tissue paper, Emelia peered inside the box, already knowing what she would find. And there it sat. The pink rose teacup.
The one that had been in the wardrobe the night she met Peter. The one that he’d been trying to find for years for his mom. The one that said more than any booming voice from the sky or writing on the wall.
“Okay.” She breathed out the words. “You’re real. Now what?”
Forty-Three
“YOU’RE A HYPOCRITE.” THE MORNING’S wake-up phone call from Allie echoed in Peter’s mind as the rising sun bounced off Highbridge.
“Have you ever thought that maybe she was exactly who she said she was? Maybe you were one of the few people she let in to see the real her? She is Emelia Mason, Peter. There’s a reason that she wrote as Mia Caldwell. There’s a reason she came here.”
The more he let Allie’s words sink in, the more he knew she was right. He had been left a trail of clues. Emelia had told him she had been called Mia back home. That she’d wanted to be an investigative journalist. Had told him multiple times she had a past he would hold against her. But, like a fool, he’d just bowled on through her assertions.
“Why on earth would she believe in a God who forgives her when you won’t?”
It was Allie’s final words that had propelled him out of bed and out onto the water. She was right. About all of it. Peter was a hypocrite. Anita had been playing fast and loose with life long before Emelia, Mia, whoever she was, had written that article.
His oars had cut through the water with power. About the only good thing he had going was that his rowing was the best it had been since the accident. His shoulder felt smooth and stable when he went for a big reach. But not even a good row had managed to wipe away the storm whirling inside him. So he’d gotten in the car and started driving. Found himself almost home before he even realized that was where he was going.
His feet crunched on the gravel as he let himself into the back entrance. A pot of coffee sat, still hot, on the counter, so he poured himself a large mug and took it with him on the trek to the library. His mother would be there, reading the Saturday paper, as was her habit. He could only hope she had the words he needed to help bring clarity to this whole mess. He was certainly getting nowhere on his own.
He walked down the hall, averting his eyes from the spot where he’d trapped Emelia against the wall, almost kissed her. Even his parents’ house wasn’t safe.
As much as Allie’s telling-off from Italy had knocked the air out of him, he still didn’t know how to forgive Emelia. Didn’t know even where to start. She hadn’t told him. That was what burned deepest of all. All their time together and she’d let him think the biggest thing between them was faith, when there’d been another canyon equally wide. And then she’d sat there and just listened as he’d told her how he blamed himself.
She’d let herself get outed by Victor, of all people. He supposed he should be grateful to his brother for shattering the moment before Peter had done something that would have had him wallowing in even more regret, but he couldn’t. Especially not now that he knew Victor had been there that night.
He was almost to the door to the parlor when footsteps came from his right, along with a dragging sound. He turned and sucked in his breath.
Emelia. The ball was still weeks away. It hadn’t occurred to him for a split second she might be here.
She wore an old T-shirt and yoga pants. Hair pulled back in a haphazard bun with a pencil stuck through the center. A long roll of shimmery silver material was tucked under one arm and dragging beside her. Her attention was focused on that. She had no idea he was standing only a few meters away.
He gripped his mug so tightly, he wouldn’t have been surprised if it shattered. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. In a few seconds she’d be right on top of him. “Hi.” It was brusque. He didn’t know how else to do this.
Emelia started and dropped the roll of material. It unraveled across the wooden floor, spilling a shimmery silver lake in its wake. They both just looked at it until the wooden tube came to a stop.
Emelia spoke. “It’s going to be puddles. For between the worlds.”
“I’m sorry?”
Emelia gestured at the material. “We’re going to put Astroturf down in the entranceway. Then this will be big puddles over the top.”
From The Magician’s Nephew. The woods and pools that transported people between Earth and Lewis’s magical worlds. Narnia nerds would love it. “It’s a great idea.”
He looked up to see she’d come a couple of steps closer. Was looking straight at him. She looked tired. She looked beautiful.
He searched for something neutral to say. If she kept standing there just looking at him like that his heart might crack open. “Is everything going okay? With the planning?”
She looked at him, big blue eyes filled with questions. “Do you hate me?”
He flinched. “I don’t hate you. And I owe you an apology.” He tried to loosen his grip on the poor mug he was strangling. “I told you there was nothing you could have done that would make me walk away and then I did. I spent months lecturing you about God, and then when it really mattered, I didn’t even live what I said I believed.”
“I believe now.” Something like surprise flitted
across Emelia’s face. Like she hadn’t meant to say it.
Peter stared at her. “Believe what?”
“ ‘Yes,’ said Queen Lucy. ‘In our world too, a stable once had something inside it that was bigger than our whole world.’ ”
It was a Narnia quote she had spoken, no doubt, but he didn’t know it. Which meant it had to be from The Last Battle. The part he hadn’t gotten to.
Emelia seemed to realize it too. “He sent me a teacup. God.”
“What?” Was this a really weird dream? He bit the inside of his cheek, the pain confirming it was reality.
“Via your mom. The one in the wardrobe. When we met. She left it on my porch. You didn’t know?” She sounded surprised.
He shook his head. Not that it surprised him. His mother was frequently carrying out mysterious errands of kindness that she didn’t want anyone else to know about.
“Why did you never tell me the full story? That the teacup in the wardrobe that night was the same one you’d been looking for for years.”
“I didn’t know if you’d even seen it. And if you had it just sounded too . . .” Something caught in his voice.
“Crazy?”
He gave up a half smile. “Wouldn’t you have thought so? We don’t exactly live in a world where magical teacups spring up by the dozen.”
She shrugged. “True. I don’t pretend to even begin to understand any of it now. Least of all why God went to so much effort to get through to a girl like me. But I’m glad He did.”
“Me too.” He meant it.
“Are you ever going to forgive me?”
His sigh was ragged as he poked at the shimmery ocean with his toe. “I’m trying. You have no idea how much I wish that I could get past this. I just don’t know how. Even when I forgive I don’t know how to move from there.”
Emelia gave him a quivering smile. “It’s okay. I get it.” She dropped to her knees, started rolling up the material. “I need to get on with this. I’ll see you at the ball. Maybe both of us will manage to get at least one thing we’re hoping for.”
He wanted to be the bigger man. To crouch down beside her and help her cut out magical puddles or whatever it was she was about to do. But there was no wishing on make-believe magic in the world that could fix this. So he turned and walked away.