Mary Arden pauses briefly and then severs our psychogenic connection.
4
Coniunctis viribus.
With united powers.
Why has she withdrawn? I lift my face, sensing movement and vibration within the maze. Footsteps. The tread is even and controlled, barely shifting the gravel on the path. Distribution of weight and length of stride suggest this is a male. He’s nearing the center of the maze, still thirty feet from the conservatory.
Now twenty-seven. Twenty-one. Sixteen…
Mary Arden turns toward the forest as I silently count. She stomps her foot and mutters an oath against time, luck, and men in general. Rather timid for an alleged witch and former Visionary. Why not cast a spell upon the fellow? Why does she fear him?
The old woman reconnects with me briefly. Consider my message, Hester. We’ll meet again.
Light on her feet, Mary Arden leaves her spot outside the maze and hurries into the forest. The air immediately grows warmer in the conservatory and tentative bird song erupts outside, squirrels begin to chatter. Hushed during Mary’s visit, the animal kingdom returns to life all at once. I curl in on myself, wishing that I felt safe in my glass fortress. What to make of all this? I thought Mary was a myth until today. Is she sane? Trustworthy?
Gravel crunches nearby, and I cock my head toward the sound. My heartbeat quickens, growing light and fast when the door to the conservatory rattles. I step away from the wall and lift the latch. The man with the steady tread walks right inside, without an invitation.
“What’s a nice girl like you doing out here all alone?” he asks.
I remove my concealing spectacles, tuck them into a cloak pocket, and smile. Waiting for you, Tom Craddock. Or have you forgotten?
Never, love. The words float through my mind. How could I?
Every Visionary needs an Interpreter, and Thomas Fearchar Craddock is mine. He is a gifted telepath and helps me analyze my dreams. Tom also teaches me about the sighted world by sharing pictures of his memories with my mind. This is how I know he has black hair and matching eyes. How I identify shades of color, symmetry, and visual beauty.
His father’s people come from Scotland, and while there is not a drop of their Highlander blood in my veins, Tom and I are two halves of a whole. Since childhood, we have communicated with each other through clairvoyant thought—often using Latin, a language we’ve never studied yet still understand. The side-effect of our ties to ancient Rome, I suppose.
Iam invenisti me, Thomas. It took you long enough to get here.
Tom laughs, the happy sound filling the conservatory. Paenitet me fuisse serus. How shall I make amends?
He lifts my hand and touches the lucky pebbles. “Worried about something, love? What happened?”
Putting the pebbles in my pocket, I smile at Tom. My distress over meeting Mary Arden burns away like dew in August, and I feel safe once more. Valued, loved. I am not the odd town’s town oddity when we are together. My gloves warm from the outside as I touch his face. Strong cheekbones and jaw. Poetic brow. The full lips curve into a smile.
Kiss me, Hettie. I’ve missed you.
Salve, Temptatio.
Tom smells of the dried alfalfa he feeds to his livestock. He pulls me close, inside the lapels of his cowboy coat—a long, leather duster—and his arms and shoulders are work-hardened and muscular. I never have bad visions when I touch Tom. He cradles my head in his hands as though I am a delicate treasure. I marvel that such a rough and tumble man of action who wrangles cattle and runs a ranch can be so gentle.
Beginning slowly, Tom kisses my forehead, temple and cheek, working his way to my mouth, where he lingers for quite some time. I pull back, wishing that I could shout, make some assertion of my happiness for the world to hear. What would I say to equal the joy in my heart? Would it provoke the gods to wrath? They can be jealous, it’s said.
The thought of the immortals sobers me. We have Visionary business to attend to, and we’ve put it off long enough. Incipiemus?
Tom releases me with a sigh. I suppose we must, Hettie.
I sense his feelings, the longing and physical attraction, inhale their scent as we separate. Rich and deep, like the finest cocoa with just a hint of chili powder. My favorite.
Tom claims a creaky wooden chair and provides me with a seat on his knee like Father Christmas. Smiling, I touch the rumpled material of his shirt, and tug at the thick lock of hair that always falls into his eyes when he leans forward. He unbuttons my glove like a man of leisure, gently taking his time and drawing out the process of removing it, as though nothing dark or evil awaits us in the moments ahead.
First I tell him of Mary Arden’s visit, and I feel his surprise over the message she delivered. Any sense of whether she’s telling the truth, Hettie?
No. I couldn’t read much through olfaction or voice. Is it even credible, that the heir of Archimendax lives in Stonehenge?
We’re here, aren’t we? Who’s to say there aren’t more with supernatural gifts? Let’s assume the threat is real, for now, and use extra caution where you’re concerned.
Tom switches to audible speech. “I take it you’ve had another vision. Was it bad, love? Are you all right?”
My Interpreter has this habit of changing from telepathy to the spoken word. It’s a breach of etiquette among clairvoyants, and technically against the rules. I let it slide because it’s Tom.
Since I receive the visions through physical contact with a victim or perpetrator, I must also use touch to share the revelations. Tom can see them in no other way. Counter-balancing my skills, he shares his own memories through our psychic link at any time, over great distances. We clasp hands, and I show Tom the All Hallows vision several times. The Cornishwoman’s blackmail attempt, the murderer throwing her off the mountainside.
He considers the crime scene, hoping to identify the location. “I saw something white behind those cedars. What do you suppose it is?”
After reviewing the scene again, I notice the blur of white. Snow drift, maybe?
“Not with columbine growing all over the place. Must be June or thereabouts. The weather’s still cool then, but not enough for snow.”
What if it’s a house?
“Not many settlers in the mountains anymore, but it might be a building of some kind.”
Ruminating, he plays with the fringe on my shawl. “According to the vision, the killer wears an expensive suit and a fur trimmed coat. Yet when he was with you in the gazebo on Halloween, he stubbs out his cigar and takes the unused portion with him. The man’s either very frugal or unaccustomed to wealth. I’m betting it’s the latter since most frugal men don’t own fur coats.”
Tom drops the fringe and picks up my sash, probably unaware that he is even holding it. “Victim’s thin, her clothing patched. Most likely unmarried, too. No ring.”
Notice her hands? They’re red, almost raw.
“My mother’s look like that when they’ve been in hot water and lye. Perhaps our lady was employed as a laundress.”
You didn’t recognize the killer?
“Nope, but now that I’ve seen his face, I won’t forget it. I’ll keep an eye out; ask around about a woman matching the victim’s description. Rancher’s wives love to gossip.”
I sigh and nestle closer to him. If only Freckles could tell us her name or identify the man who killed her. But you know ghosts. They hate thinking about their past lives.
He switches seamlessly into telepathic mode. Who’d want to remember how they were murdered? With trauma too horrible to relive, the spirit suppresses the memory.
Can’t move on, can’t remain here either. Believe me, I know. Nevertheless, a fully-cognizant ghost would be refreshing.
Tom sets me on my feet and stands. You need to get back, carissima. Before your parents cotton on to the fact they have an escape artist for a daughter.
We can’t have that now, can we?
Laughter rumbles up from his chest. Let’s study the dream
out a bit more, and then meet in a few days.
Just tell me when, lover.
A ripple of wanting travels from him to me. Lust, respect, love, friendship. It’s all inside my head, and I know my face is flaming. Which is an embarrassing thing for a near-albino.
Leaving the maze together, we converse in our unique way, and travel back across the grounds to my home. The exact route I took before but in reverse—courtyard, chess board, statuary, etcetera—until we finally arrive at our destination. Stealth personified, Tom and I sneak up to the less-frequented servant’s entrance. I wait beside the door, listening as he walks away.
My smile grows smaller with each receding step.
“Be careful, Veritas,” he whispers. “Remember what Mary Arden said.”
I extend my hearing farther and farther until my ears hurt, but it’s worth knowing when Tom reaches his horse, tied to a tree in the apple orchard. He climbs into the saddle and rides north at a fast clip, toward his family’s ranch. How would it feel to be so free? To race the wind?
Then I hear my name being bandied about inside the kitchen. Cook is telling Martha that my dinner tray is ready. I subdue my magic ears, tiptoe up to my bedroom and shut the door. After throwing my cloak and shawl into the wardrobe, I jump under the covers of my bed, pull the blankets up, and turn to face the wall. The stairs creak as Martha climbs them with my dinner tray. She won’t question my taking a rest. Why should she? I have no responsibilities or friends who would come to call. Nothing is expected of the infirm Miss Hester.
Yet if I seem too robust the servants will talk to Mama. She prefers me as a near-invalid. It’s unacceptable to act wild or get excited—that’s when the laudanum is brought out.
Martha walks down the hallway, enters my room, and places the dinner tray on a nightstand. “Warm rolls and a bowl of chicken broth today, miss. Cup of buttermilk, some shortbread. I expect you can manage that yourself.”
Botheration. I hate buttermilk. And what of the chocolate gateau? The dessert I smelled downstairs? I’d trade my shortbread for it in a trice.
Gateau is not to be, however, and Martha fills my bed-side carafe with water before leaving. Perhaps a nice cool drink is what I need. My heart is thumping and my forehead is damp with perspiration after sneaking up the stairs. But I got out of the house and back in with no one the wiser for it.
An escape artist indeed.
5
De fumo in flammam.
Out of the smoke, into the flame.
Cordelia and I visit the Home for Orphans and Foundlings the next day. We sit at the back of a small classroom and listen to the children recite their history. It is a scene straight out of Jane Eyre. Cordie has read the book to me several times, and this sounds a lot like Lowood School.
The teacher raps on his desk, far too loudly in my opinion. Mr. Allen is a strict man who is inclined to punish first and ask questions later. My fingers are itching to touch Mr. Allen, but I haven’t the nerve. There must be an intriguing secret somewhere in his past to make him crave structure and discipline so badly. People like him always come from something dreadful.
“What is the current population of Stonehenge?” he asks.
“Ninety-eight thousand souls,” the students reply in unison.
“Very good.”
Mr. Allen walks the length of the room, tapping an object against his palm. It sounds thin and flat—like a ruler. He stops at a desk near the front.
“Simmons Harrow, you will stand.”
“Yes, sir.”
At seventeen, Sim is the oldest child in the orphanage. He’s shy and sweet, and Allen often singles him out for abuse.
“When was Stonehenge founded, Mr. Harrow, and by whom?”
I hold my breath, hoping he has the correct answer, but I needn’t have worried. Sim clears his throat and recites with the skill of a seasoned thespian. “Eighteen fifty-nine, sir. Welsh immigrants camped in the foothills outside town, near a double circle of stones with lintels on top. Almost identical to the Stonehenge in England.”
“Yes,” Mr. Allen replies. “And what became of those immigrants?”
“They found gold, the biggest strike in Colorado.”
“That will be all, Harrow,” Mr. Allen says. “You there, Proctor. On your feet.”
The child rises from his desk slowly. He is a new addition to the orphanage and possesses a terrible stutter. His fear has a sharp, vinegar-like odor and makes me feel ill. According to Sim, Proctor never knows the answers and spends most dinner breaks sitting on a stool with a dunce cap on his head. I’ll sponsor the lad’s extra tutoring, but how can I prevent Allen from embarrassing him today? A hamper sits on the floor to my right, filled with freshly baked rolls. I pick it up, having no better plan in mind, and rise to my feet, just as Allen reaches Proctor.
“Is there something you need?” Allen draws out each word as though I am the thickest person in the room.
His students titter as I shake my head, step forward, and hand him the basket. Allen sighs with impatience and puts it down. On a desk? A chair? I’m not certain.
“Will that be all? May I continue now, Miss Grayson?”
Not if I can help it.
Using my cane as a guide, I distract Allen from asking Proctor questions by wandering around the room. Allen thinks I am an imbecile and talks to me slowly, with simple words. He tries to guide me back to my seat several times, but I intentionally turn the wrong way at the last moment. The children laugh as I dodge their teacher once again and soon the noon bell rings.
Something lands with a clack at the front of the room, and I jump at the sound. Cordelia touches my arm, whispering, “Just Mr. Allen tossing his ruler to the desk. No need for concern, miss.”
The bread basket creaks when the teacher grabs it. “I really should chide Miss Grayson for spoiling you with extra food. Perhaps I will forbid it in future, but as it is mealtime, we will adjourn for our repast.”
I keep my face neutral as he threatens his students. Allen won’t forbid anything edible—not if he gets a share. The linen tea towel is removed from the wheat buns, and the smell of yeast and sweet butter fills the air. Allen takes some buns for himself from the basket, gives the rest to Cordelia, and vacates the classroom.
We must steal the dunce cap while the coast is clear. And that hateful ruler as well.
The children form a line, whispering to each other about the food. Cordie gives each of them a slice of cheddar, a large bun and a dollop of strawberry preserves. I am thanked often. Twenty-seven times to be exact. They finish the rolls at their desks and then leave for the dining hall and the thin cup of beef broth the orphanage provides. I have Cordelia rewrap the remaining bread in the linen cloth and put it on Mr. Allen’s table.
Hopefully, he won’t notice the missing ruler and dunce cap.
Willard Little Hawk carries our empty baskets out to the wagon and Cordie and I follow him as far as the door. I am about to step outside when Sim Harrow touches my shoulder. He helps in the kitchens at the orphanage and smells like the broth they eat for dinner. “That sure hit the spot, miss. We never know what you’ll bring, but it’s always tasty.”
I accept his appreciation with a smile. In a few months, he’ll be too old for this place and will have to fend for himself. I can’t imagine a bright mind like his being wasted at the button factory.
Schedule new project, I remind myself. Find quality employment for Simmons Harrow.
Willard returns and ushers Cordie and me out to the buckboard. It isn’t a big rig, but sizable enough to pick up some crates of chickens at Hollister’s Mercantile. Cordelia and I sit on the bench seat next to Willard as he drives down High Street, amid clatter and dust. We pull around behind the store, and our horse Jem comes to a stop. Willard jerks the brake lever into place, then flips the reins around the hitching post before going inside.
A special corner in my heart is reserved solely for Hollister’s. I met Tom Craddock here. He was seven and I a year younger. Tom pu
lled my braid, asking if I wanted a piece of the toffee he had just bought. I replied in my head, Of course I do, silly boy! and he told me not to be rude. He’s been hearing my thoughts ever since.
Cordelia pokes through her reticule. “I need some new ribbon and thread.”
I nod, thoughts of love and destiny still warming my insides.
“And you’re coming with me,” she adds.
There are people within the store whom I don’t especially like. I hear them chatting away near the bolts of fabric, and I would rather not deal with unkind townswomen today. I shake my head and yawn at Cordelia. She takes the hint, lickety-split, and climbs down from the wagon.
“All right. We’ll do it your way, Miss Hester. I know I’ll regret this, but I don’t have the energy to fight you at the moment. I’ve a raging headache after listening to Mr. Allen all morning.” Cordie leans in and lowers her voice. “Don’t even think of leaving this bench. Or I swear before the Almighty, I will quit this very hour if you hare off again.”
Now that’s just throwing down the gauntlet.
Surely Cordie must know me well enough to foresee the effect of her words. I never met an ultimatum I didn’t want to defy. But I decide to honor her wishes as I listen to my companion stomp toward the mercantile. I wouldn’t want her to quit this hour or any other. She’s the loveable sort, despite her pushy tendencies, and most days I almost forget that she’s paid to be my friend.
Alone now, I stretch and listen to the surrounding streets. A few people are wandering about, no one too close. A catnap seems just the thing, like the ultimate indulgence. So I lean back, tilt my bonnet over my face, and concentrate on dozing. For all of five minutes. Sunlight engulfs my body, and I feel energized rather than fatigued.
Willard exits Hollister’s with a crate of noisy poultry, causing our horse to yank against his tether. He’s a gentle old love, the noblest of animals. Yet squawking hens can have a negative effect on equines, even a fine Welsh cob like Jem. Willard deposits the birds into the back of the wagon and returns to the mercantile for another brood.
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