Livia flashed a dazzling set of teeth as she explained about the excitement of the Faire, how much the Emerson family waited for this time of year and the usual references to how much cash the thing would haul in for the town. She finished the interview by reminding everyone that only those dressed in authentic medieval garb could enter through the gates and local vendors were limited to ten guests per booth. Beyond that, it was restricted to the area’s residents or by special invitation only. After all, she added, throwing a manicured hand through her mane, this was a personal thank you from the Ladies of the Bastille for the town’s undying support.
Poor choice of words, Lynn mused, considering the two deaths on your property. Since word got around town about the second bag of bones— which took about fifteen minutes longer than Lynn expected—visiting the Faire consumed the minds of the populace. Only in New England does the discovery of two dead bodies add to the mystique of a place. No wonder Stephen King is a millionaire.
The phone at the nurse’s station buzzed and she snatched it up.
“Lynn Swanson.”
“There’s a phone call for you,” Martha’s crisp voice crawled across the line. “Do you want it there?”
“Do you know who it is?”
“Of course I do.”
Lynn waited. When Martha didn’t answer, she decided to play the passive-aggressive game. Her mind could use the gymnastics, as God knows her abs weren’t getting any exercise. “I’d love it if you could tell me.”
“It’s about Abbey.”
“Oh.” Lynn thought twice about having the call routed to her office. She decided it didn’t matter one way or the other. “Okay, thanks, Martha.”
After a slight click, a smooth male voice came on the line. “Doctor
Swanson?”
“I’m not a doctor,” Lynn informed him, “you can call me Lynn.”
“Certainly. My name is Robert, Abbey’s uncle.”
Lynn jumped in surprise, and spat out a mouthful of her Starbuck’s double tall mocha. She snatched a few tissues and dabbed at the liquid sliding down her chin. “Oh, yes, I remember.” How could she forget? For the past week, Lynn had driven around the parking lot twice and parked in the farthest stall away, hoping to accidentally bump into Mr. Perfect on his way into The Meadows. She had had no success on that front, but her calf muscles looked a hell of a lot better from wearing those heels.
“I know Abbey has left The Meadows.” His voice flowed like syrup over warm pancakes. Warm pancakes? Syrup? She needed to get out more. “But I hoped you, perhaps, have checked in on her?”
“I’m sorry, I really can’t discuss my patients.” Lynn tried to keep her voice calm and even. She was sure his hair fell thick and heavy across his head, down his chest and… “I certainly hope you understand.”
“Oh, yes,” he sounded as if he didn’t. Lynn thought she heard him shuffle his feet and cough. “Is there something else I can help you with Mr.…?”
“Please, Miss Swanson, call me Robert. It is Miss?” he crooned.
“Yes. It is…it’s Miss.”
His laughter rippled over the phone lines and vibrated down Lynn’s legs. She sat down hard on the chair. “I shall be frank with you, Lynn— may I call you Lynn?”
“Please do.”
“I shall be frank with you, Lynn,” his voice tickled her ears. She could see his face on the other side of the line, a slight smile radiating from behind the mouthpiece as his tongue formed words over his lips. What else did those lips do? “I am concerned about my niece Abbey, but I hoped to secure some time with you.”
“I’m sorry?” Shit. Her voice went up at the end just like Heather’s. He probably thought she was an airhead, too.
“Dinner? Tonight? We shan’t discuss Abbey, as I understand your professional obligations and commitments.”
“Thank you.”
“So we shall keep this totally…personal.”
Lynn had to pee. She was definitely going to wet her pants. “That… that…I like food.”
“So do I. I shall meet you at The Siren’s Call at seven? Or do you prefer I pick you up?”
“No. Siren’s Call at seven is good.” “Until then.” The line went dead.
Lynn leaned over and put her head between her legs. She was going to throw up. Her face felt hot. Her heart pounded in her chest.
“You don’t look well, dear.”
Lynn looked up. “I’m okay, Edna. Just a bit lightheaded.”
“Abbey looked like that sometimes.”
“Really?”
Edna nodded and sighed with great drama. “When she dreamed of death. I don’t think you’ll die, though. You have gas.”
“I do?” Lynn asked. Edna nodded at her and patted her arm.
“I can tell. I’m pretty good at…WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WANT, YOU NOSY BITCH?”
“Edna? Is that good language?”
Edna turned to Lynn and rolled her eyes. “You take care, sweetie. Get some antacids.” She brushed past Heather with a defiant, “IT WAS A PERSONAL CONVERSATION, ASSHOLE!”
“Miss Swanson?” The meek voice was barely audible above the din. Lynn turned to it and found Mr. Graves standing at the station with something in his hands. He held it out to her. “The next time you see Abbey, will you give this to her?”
Lynn took it from the man. A paper airplane made of the heavy construction paper used in art therapy. Meticulously folded, the paper creation looked far more sophisticated than folded paper. “It’s beautiful, Mr. Graves. I’ll be happy to get it to her.”
“If I don’t see her before our outing to the Faire,” he said softly, “I want her to know I’m thinking of her when he meets her.”
“Who? Who’s going to meet Abbey?”
“The Angel of Death.” With that, he turned and walked slowly back to his room.
36
Robert hung up the phone and wrapped his hand around the knife he had chosen to kill Lynn Swanson. The knife was a souvenir from one of his lives in France and an artifact he clung onto through the centuries. With this knife, he slew many an enemy of the state, a young mercenary Eleanor sent after him just prior to Napoleon’s rule, and one of the witches of the Tapestry the year they moved the fabric to North America. He looked at this knife as a good luck charm in times when he needed more luck than talent. From point to butt, it measured twelve inches. The hand-carved, cherry wood handle depicted intricate religious markings of various depths. The molding contoured to fit his hand. To be stabbed to death by this knife would be an honor.
He didn’t want to kill Lynn; in fact, he fancied the young lady. She wasn’t too annoying, she kept her opinions to herself and had perky, firm breasts. But he needed to be sure that all loose ends remained tied. “Who do you plan to kill now?”
Robert turned toward the voice. The Doctor stood at the door to the bedroom with a cigar in his teeth and a snifter of brandy in each hand. Robert took one of the drinks.
“The social worker, Miss Swanson, if she knows more than she should.”
“What would that be?”
Robert shrugged. “I can hardly answer that now, can I? I have no idea how much she has spoken to the witches, how much Abbey has told her—nothing.” He slid the knife into its sheath and laid it on the bed. He began to unbutton his shirt.
“I have the update on the corpses.”
Robert nodded and slipped off his jacket, laying it on the bed and re-creasing the folds. “Here, put these on.” Robert tossed the Doctor a bundle of maroon-colored clothing and motioned for him to get dressed.
“Robert,” the man sighed, “your previous two attempts have proven to be failures.”
“It was those damned dogs of Tomyris! Couldn’t get onto the property.”
“Nonetheless, Robert, you walked almost two miles in female garb looking like you stepped out of 1492. Have you no pride left at all?”
“Please change clothes while you tell me what you know of the two bodies.”
“The bones from 1940 a
re exactly who we thought it was,” the Doctor said, slipping out of his shirt and jacket.
“Elfi Reisner,” Robert said, climbing out of the remainder of his clothes. He stood naked staring at the doctor. The Doctor nodded.
“Which is very unfortunate. I had hoped the bones were not hers.”
“Was there any doubt?”
“I guess not. Still…with Boudicca running around stabbing everything in sight, how is one to know?”
“Next time you want a hidden body, perhaps you could be so kind as to hide it?” The Doctor stood naked at the foot of the bed hanging his suit in the closet. He picked up the clothes Robert had given him and looked at them suspiciously.
“So many years ago. We knew so little about…”
“Boss?” Joshua’s voice boomed into the room. As he knocked on the door, it swung open. “Oh, sorry, the door’s not totally shut and…” Joshua stopped when he saw the naked men.
“Oh, wow. Dudes. Like totally sorry to interrupt.” “What is it, Joshua?” Robert asked.
The young man turned away and fondled the light switch. “Do you, like, need me later?”
“Yes, Joshua, we will need a ride to the Bastille within the hour,” answered Robert, shoving his legs into a pair of dirty jeans.
“Oh…sure…then…I guess I’ll...wait.”
“Thank you, Joshua.” The boy’s eyes darted between the two before closing the door tightly.
“As you were saying?” the Doctor said, donning the clothes.
“First, the Bastille. Then I am to meet Miss Swanson tonight at seven.”
“To what end?”
“To eat a delicious meal, extract any information I can from her regarding Abbey’s mental state and, if possible, about the women of the Bastille.” He finished putting on the clothes and stood admiring himself in the mirror. He made a terrific-looking cowboy. The jeans hugged his body like a second skin and faded in the crotch so the material enhanced the outline of his penis. The denim shirt’s snaps shone brilliantly and the battered and frayed boots announced his riding habits. The pungent smell of cow manure still clung to them, tickling his nostrils.
“You will kill her then?” the Doctor asked, standing next to Robert and looking at himself in the mirror. He wore baggy pants, a plain brown shirt, and a baseball cap.
“I will if I must. I prefer to keep her alive.” He patted the Doctor on the shoulder. “To the car, then?”
“What, pray tell, will we do at the Bastille?”
“Spy, my friend. What else?” He smiled, picked up the knife, and walked to the door. “If we are caught, you are the lost traveler brought to the Bastille by rumors of the Faire.”
“And you?”
“I have...something...to retrieve from the grounds of the Bastille,” Robert winked at the Doctor. “However, I have been alerted by…a… friend within the walls of the manor that the witches believe Abbey’s interactions with the Frisians will aid her memory. I want to be prepared in case I ‘accidentally’ bump into her on the trails. If I am so lucky, I plan on commiserating with her—one horse lover to another.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. And, if possible, extract her from the Bastille.”
“And if you cannot? If this attempt fails like your last?”
“Then there is always Miss Swanson.”
37
“I don’t understand what it is you wish me to do,” Abbey asked Eleanor.
“Remember,” Eleanor replied, coming up behind the young woman. The image that reflected from the full-length mirror pleased her. Abbey stood tall and straight, dressed in a worn pilot jacket, loose fitting slacks, and thick-soled boots. She looked somehow…right…as if this were the role she was born to play.
“I do not understand.”
“These are the clothes you wore when we fished you from the sea. This,” Eleanor turned her attention away from the mirror mounted on the side of the hanger and pointed to the prop plane several yards behind her, “is the plane that crashed into the ocean. Sometimes the body remembers what the brain cannot.”
Abbey turned back to the mirror. She hated all the clothing: jacket, pants, scarf, helmet. She looked like the Sunday comics where Snoopy dressed up like a World War I fighter pilot. It smelled musty and the leather didn’t crackle like leather should.
Eleanor guided the girl onto the stairs leading up into the cockpit. “Climb inside. Close your eyes. You spent many hours in this plane. Let your body remember.”
Abbey shrugged and smiled weakly at Eleanor. Seven days had passed since the day when the horse and swordsman emerged from the Tapestry. Seven long days she’d listened to the aunts telling her stories from their past. Seven days of tutoring with Aunt Boo on the sword, knife and how to kill a man with your bare hands.
Despite all this education, Abbey still didn’t feel as if she was a part of the Tapestry’s legacy. Every fragment of information was a piece of a larger puzzle, but it held no emotional weight for her. She merely memorized academic facts that she parroted back to the aunts when they asked her questions. This was particularly disheartening the day Aunt Boo put a short sword in her hand and began to spar.
“You move sluggishly,” the big woman snapped.
“What do you expect of me?” she had said, throwing the sword on the stones of the hallway.
“I expect you to fight!” Boo hissed. “You spent lifetimes as a warrior; prove it.”
“I cannot!” Abbey screamed. “I know I should remember how to use this,” she said, pointing to the sword, “but I do not. I’m sorry.”
Boo looked at her with an expression full of pity, as if Abbey had somehow disappointed her. As Boo turned, she said in a voice so quiet that Abbey almost missed it, “You are going to get us all killed.”
For the next entire day, none of the aunts approached her. None of them met her eyes when they passed in the halls. None of them tried to teach her anything further about what they called her ‘divine destiny.’ Until this morning, when Aunt Eleanor knocked on her bedroom door, threw these ridiculous clothes at her, and told her to walk with her to the airplane hanger.
Abbey sulked all the way to the plane, then began climbing aboard. “At The Meadows, the day you brought me home, you handed me a small toy airplane with an inscription on it.”
“Yes.”
“This is that plane, isn’t it?” Eleanor nodded. “And the initials?”
“Can you not guess?”
“Guild of Immortal Women.”
“Do you remember joining the Guild?”
“I don’t,” Abbey confided, “Aunt Boo told me.”
Eleanor sighed. “I see.”
Abbey felt the hollow pit of her stomach churn in frustration. “I am sorry to disappoint you, Aunt Eleanor.”
“Abbey!” Eleanor’s voice stung her ears. “You do not disappoint any of us.” She stared at Abbey until the young woman looked away.
“Why is it taking me so long to remember?” Abbey felt her body flush and knew her face must be red. “What is wrong with me?”
“Nothing, girl, nothing at all.” Eleanor’s voice struck her as calmly soothing. “Death affects all of us differently. Yours was such a… horrendous death, that it is taking longer than we expected.”
“Or hoped.”
“Yes.”
Abbey continued climbing into the cockpit and settled herself into the pilot’s seat. She lightly fingered the controls, playing her fingertips along the dials and levers. She yelled down to Eleanor standing below,
“What now?”
“Nothing.”
Eleanor stepped away from the plane and peered up at the cockpit. “Many of us allow ourselves to forget the circumstances following a tragic death. We have learned it is better to let the memories come back at their own speed.”
“And me?”
“With you, we must…hurry the process.”
“And sitting in this plane will do that?”
“I hope so.”
; A lingering silence stretched between the two. Abbey looked around the cockpit. The setting looked familiar, although she couldn’t place it. Her stomach began to churn and she suddenly felt anxious. Where had she seen this place before? A movie in the day room, perhaps? A television special on the history channel?
“Aunt Eleanor?”
“Yes, dear?”
“Why do Emerson women live forever?”
Eleanor chuckled. “Nobody knows, child. We only know that sometimes a child is born that does not die. Unless the head separates from the body, of course.”
“Always girls?”
“The occasional male. But male Immortals are few and far between.”
“How is it we breed children then?” Abbey felt suddenly lightheaded and the sound of her own voice seemed far away.
Eleanor thought about this a moment. “Take care, Abbey. Unlike us, the Immortal males cannot breed with Human females. They need the Immortal females to carry their child. Some become desperate for offspring and will stop at nothing to impregnate an Immortal female.”
“Against our will?” Abbey’s voice floated out of her in a note she could not control. She felt dizzy and nauseous.
“It has happened. Will again, I am sure.”
“Robert.”
“Yes.”
Abbey looked above her and saw the blue sky spread out like a painting. She looked to the sides and saw that the barn, hanger and landing strip were gone. Replacing them was a blue that was deeper in hue and went on for miles in any direction. She looked beneath her and saw herself flying over the ocean. She was finally free.
Worries over the long distance instruments, unfavorable flying weather, and the bout of dysentery made the past several days seem less like heaven and more like hell.
All that worry was behind her. Her stout immunity had beaten back the illness, the plane was in a state of perfection, and the weather had decided to cooperate. This is what flying was all about. Below her, the Pacific spanned for miles, the brilliant midday sun shooting its rays across the water’s surface. It wasn’t water beneath her now, but a vast blue expanse of heaven, decorated with sparkling jewels of white—diamonds on a bed of blue velvet.
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