I recall her earlier pride and sensuality, talking about her turns in his bed. How many years ago was that for her?
“But then who do you—”
“Miles,” interrupts Phoebe, who can’t understand our conversation. “Ask her why we can’t graduate.”
“That’s exactly what I’m trying to do, isn’t it?” I turn back to Athénaïs. “Who is the force behind all this?”
But even as I’m asking, dread fills me because I see the shadow across Athénaïs’s face. I lost the moment, and the light is changing. Phoebe grabs my shoulder and Tabby squeals as Phoebe squeezes her close.
I don’t even get a chance to say good-bye.
We’re now in a cold furnitureless room with no fire in the long-dormant fireplace. Because I now have corporeality, something odd happens: since my weight truly rests on a chair, when it vanishes—or rather, when I vanish—I tumble to the ground. Surprise provides a surge of adrenaline: to be startled, to land on the floor with an ooph . . . this is something I’ve missed.
Phoebe and I move into a pool of moonlight from the window so we can see her sister’s face. She’s fine, absolutely fine, smiling at both of us like this is the biggest adventure. “Can we use intention with her?” Phoebe asks. “Why don’t you stay here in case it doesn’t work, so she’s not alone?”
“I will,” I say. I kiss her on the lips and Tabby on the cheek, and they are gone before I finish straightening from bending over.
So I miss the incredible reunion of the family. I linger instead to see the silver light on the lawn below the window and Eleanor standing by herself waiting, surrounded by gleaming white statues, and a thick silver ribbon of water that stretches into the distance.
I wait until I’m sure Phoebe and Tabby must be with their parents, then I intention myself next to Eleanor.
I’m rewarded with a smile that any queen would’ve wished to add to her arsenal.
“Are you all right?” I ask her.
“The real question is, are you and is Tabby?”
“Tabby’s great. She got to see her sister, really see her. Phoebe’s like me now, at least for as long as it lasts.”
I see the flicker of envy cross her face just for a flash, but she continues smiling through it.
“I’m sure they’re with their parents now.”
“We can afford them some privacy,” she says.
I had been intending to join them; I wanted to see Tabby fly into the arms of her relieved parents. But Eleanor’s right. It’s their moment. They don’t even know me. How terrified would they be to see a strange bloke appear in their hotel room just as they’re wrapping their mind around the fact that their daughter is somehow—but not really—back from the dead?
So instead, Eleanor and I stroll.
We promenade as languidly as any courtiers of days gone by, the sky recovering from the smoke of the fireworks, the moon sorting things out. We pass ghosts as we go, people sobbing, men roaring through their attacks as they run so quickly their heels are a blur.
“It feels good to be peaceful again,” says Eleanor.
“It does.”
We continue walking. I can only imagine what’s happening at the hotel. Phoebe will tell us later. For now: the lawns are ours.
The moon is ours.
I have a job to do before we leave Versailles. During our walk, Eleanor pointed out the bush where the German tourist’s body still lay from this afternoon. We’re worried that when he’s found—as he doubtless will be—Tabby’s father will be blamed for his murder. After all, several people caught him on video fighting the man.
While Eleanor keeps guard, I pull the German from the bushes and drag him toward the canal. It’s the perfect time to do it. No one’s around; the fireworks are over, and the grounds are closed. As I look at his slack, five-o’clock-shadowed face, I feel terrible. No one should die just for being drunk and a jerk.
“Let’s hope he was a really dreadful man,” says Eleanor. “Maybe he was drinking out of guilt for the terrible deeds he’d committed.”
“I agree. Let’s keep thinking that,” I say grimly.
I’ve got him now so his feet are dangling into the canal water. I pause. I could just tip him in, but we need him to stay on the bottom.
“How will we keep him from rising?” asks Eleanor. “Stones in his pockets like Giraude?”
“Sure, let’s do that.” As I bend over to pick up a stone, I notice that I have trouble picking it up. My fingers wrestle with the surface a little, like I’m trying to pick up a wet balloon. “Eleanor . . . I think I’m starting to lose my corporeality.”
She bites her lip. “Then we have to work quickly. Roll him in. Then we’ll work on keeping him down.”
I nod. She’s right. We can’t leave him here on the edge of the canal. We’ll have to take our chances that we can secure him underwater before I completely lose my strength. He’s wearing oversized jeans and a navy hoodie; my fingers feel and then don’t feel the fabric, then feel it again. I’m fading in and out. I push him into the canal and he sinks.
I jump in after him. We sink together through the dark water to the bottom. As he hits, a dim light emerges from his hip. It turns out he has a flashlight attached to his belt. I have no idea how long the batteries will last underwater—much like me, its power could flee any second.
I take it from his belt and shine it around.
There’s a lot of detritus here on the bottom. Rusted metal and broken things. Shapes I can’t truly discern with the weak light from his torch. It’s almost dangerous to be down here with the sharp edges, or it would be if I were a different sort of person.
At first I think the trash is just what people have thrown in the canal for years, but then I see the glint of a fine golden tray, dented as if from prior violence, and I wonder if these are things the revolutionaries hurled in the canal in anger and outrage. All around me are objects half buried in the canal floor: candelabra, heads of statues, marble arms reaching imploringly.
I see curved lines in the near distance, almost like the ribs of a large animal, and as I approach I see it’s the skeleton of a carriage, turned on its side. Perhaps it’s even the same carriage that once took Yolande away from Versailles, returned, whose horses so captivated Tabby. Now it’s an underwater hulk whose lacquered sides are peeling and swelling.
It’s the perfect place to secure the German. I hold the flashlight in my teeth so I can pick him up, the water helping with his weight, and bring him to the carriage. My fingers press against him and then through him. My power’s waning. I thrust his body halfway through the wrecked carriage and push his legs in until I can latch the swollen door again. Hopefully the weight of the mass will keep him down here until he’s no longer recognizable.
I’m relieved Giraude is in the Hameau pond, far away, slumped with a hundred stones. I don’t think I could handle seeing her down here in the torch beam.
I close my eyes and let myself feel the cold, brackish water on my skin, the back of my neck, my hair wet and lightly floating.
And then I don’t feel it any longer. If I hadn’t known I was dead, I might’ve invented sensation to fill in the gaps, but I know—and the gaps are gaps. There’s just no feeling. And then . . . momentarily, it returns. It’s like trying to catch a radio signal in the car—strong and loud one second, staticky the next, wholly vanished the next.
I rise to the surface and see Eleanor, worried.
“Done,” I say, and she jumps. “Sorry. He’s secured down there. Just wanted to let you know we can cross one more thing off our checklist.”
“No stone left unturned,” she says, but then I think the inadvertent reference to Giraude makes us both uncomfortable.
I join her and we sigh deeply, looking at each other. I think if Phoebe saw us, she would think there was more to that shared look, but it’s really just battle-hardened warriors acknowledging the end of one war.
“Where’d you like to watch the moon set and the sun rise?�
�� I ask her.
“I know where I’ll sit, but you have one more thing to do.”
I look into her forthright gaze, and I know exactly what she means. I’ve been thinking the same thing in the back of my mind all night. I just don’t want to do it.
But I have to.
I intention with her to the meadow at the Hameau so she can wait for the dawn to come and for its warmth to arouse the ghosts of the happy queen and her daughter, frolicking in the flowers before the world tore everything apart for them.
And me?
I go home.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Every culture has a scrying practice, whether by mirror, water, oil, or polished stone . . . a way for the future to show images of what will come to pass.
—Divination Practices
I stop by Gillian’s house first. She’s asleep, thank God. Ideal for both of us. I go to her pencil cup and grab one, open drawers until I find the miniature sketch pad I gave her. I flip past her drawings, including that hat she wanted to buy, to get to a blank page. I write as fast as I can, my fingers fumbling as the pencil is alternately firmly in my grasp and not there—or rather, I’m not there.
Dear Gillian,
I wish you every happiness. It’s fine to be with Chad: I release you. I’m sorry I scared you that day with the candle. Please no more séances. Love, Miles
I leave the notebook with the pencil cup on it to prop it open to the right page. I walk to where she lies sleeping and jolt at the sight of her new hair color: purple. Grief by way of hair dye. I blow her a kiss. I want to stay, but I have to rush because I know my time is limited.
I intention to my living room.
Mum and Dad sit there watching some inane show, whatever’s on, to fill the house with noise.
I arrive behind the sofa so they don’t see me. I linger there, so scared to walk around to the front and show myself, but I’m also aware that it’s now or never, because my body is losing visibility and corporeality by the minute.
How to do it? What to do?
I’m going to scare the trousers off them (or in Mum’s case, the knee-length tweed skirt).
I wonder how Phoebe did it . . . but it was probably a cacophony of loudness produced by Tabby, and Phoebe helplessly swept along in all the relief and tears and madness. I don’t have a noisy toddler with me, so I have a chance to somehow soften the “news” of my appearance.
On the spur of the moment, I think it might be good to whistle a tune to get their attention. Something that they gradually become aware of as they watch the telly.
I start with the first few notes of “Blowin’ in the Wind,” an old Bob Dylan song both my parents love. How many roads must a man walk down—
I’ve dramatically underestimated my mum’s ability to be startled by strangers whistling in her house.
She screams and is instantly on her feet in some sort of martial-arts pose (nice one, Mum!) and staring at me for a second in which I think she’s going to attack me. Then the fact that it’s me registers.
I see relief cross her face, then horror and confusion make her mouth into a gaping panorama of teeth where I can see the amalgam in her molars.
“I’m not supposed to be here,” I say. Gillian prepared me for this: I’m terrifying my own mother. She believes in heaven, and not seeing me again until she dies.
Now my father’s on his feet, too, making some sort of roaring sound. I feel like the clueless tourist in a Jeep, surrounded by rhinos and elephants preparing to stampede.
“I’m sorry I’m upsetting you,” I say.
“Miles!” says Mum, and there are acres of longing in her voice . . . but she doesn’t move. She’s stricken. I wonder if she thinks I’m a demon or some other trick of the eye.
“I’m a ghost,” I say. “I’ve been a ghost since the accident.”
I add after the long silence, “I’m sorry.”
“Miles,” says my mum again, and she finally takes a few steps toward me. I run to her and am encircled in those sturdy, warm arms that smell of bath salts and the lotions she uses each day.
“I miss you,” I say. For a second, I feel her arms collapse around me, because the body she’s holding on to is wavering and disappearing. “I don’t have much time. I’m going to disappear again.”
“Are you all right, son?” asks my father. He and I never hugged much in life, so I offer him my hand and we shake. How insane to again feel that warm palm, those large knuckles. My father’s hand is a work of art, a warm, priceless sculpture. I never really looked at it before.
“That’s a complicated question,” I say. “There’s so much to tell you, but I think I’m going to wink out any moment. There’s . . . there’s no other way to put this, but there’s a lot of magic at the Arnaud Manor. A family’s living there now and I met their daughter—”
It’s happening and it’s more frustrating than any of the trips. I’m losing myself. I’m fading. I look down at my own arm and its glow seems substantially less.
“Can you still hear me?” I ask, but they don’t answer. Everyone’s attention turns to the bottom of the staircase, where the girl from the secret society stands with her mouth open, looking at me in shock.
“You’re not dead?” Raven says. “My God, Miles, we have to—”
“Tell them everything!” I shout rapid-fire. “Work with the Arnaud family; they will have some answers!”
“Miles!” shrieks Mum in a newly panicked tone.
I think the Sangreçu spell has ended. I wish I had the code to renew.
“He’s gone,” cries my father and he runs to where I am, windmilling his arms through my ephemeral body. “He’s coming back, isn’t he? We’ll see our lad again?”
I totally blew it. I didn’t get the chance to say anything worthwhile, and all I did was distress them. Better to have left them watching the telly like zombies.
I’m not sure if anyone heard my last words, either.
The only good thing was the hug and the handshake.
Actually . . . those were both pretty damn good.
“I’m going now,” I announce, but I’m ignored. “Great seeing you. Glad we connected. I’m going back to Versailles if that’s cool with you. Because I’m sure you have no further questions or concerns.”
A stronger man would’ve stayed and observed his parents recovering. I tell myself that Eleanor needs me more.
Yeah, right.
She needs me like a cod needs a scooter.
I’ve always hated crying. I’m just not good with tears, my own or anyone else’s. So it’s really best for all involved if I . . . just . . . go.
Bye, Mum and Dad.
I’m sorry.
I rejoin Eleanor at the meadow and sit in darkness with her. It’s a long night. It’s okay.
Eternity is long, too.
In the morning, Phoebe comes to us. I can tell the Sangreçu is dim within her, too, slowly crawling in her veins. We both lost our bodies, but we can still touch each other like always. She melts into my arms, and she’s serene, bolstered with happiness. She whispers into my ear, “Thank you,” and then hugs Eleanor.
“How did it go?” asks Eleanor when they disengage.
“Wonderfully.”
“You were able to talk with your parents?” Eleanor asks.
“I did. They’re okay,” says Phoebe
I raise my eyebrow. “Only okay?”
“Well, it was intense. Imagine seeing your dead daughter show up in the middle of the hotel room with the child you believe has been abducted. But we sorted things out, and I got to tell them about the Arnaud twins.”
“They must’ve been reeling.”
“They were. Big-time. And just as I was telling them about the secret society and the girl who visited your house, Miles, I started to fade. So we all hugged together in one clump until I just wasn’t part of it anymore.”
“How beautiful,” says Eleanor. “I would have welcomed that chance myself. Miles availed himself.”
>
“You did?” Phoebe looks at me in surprise.
“I did, and it was quite the what-the-eff-is-my-son-doing-back-from-the-dead? kind of moment. And then shortly thereafter, I disappeared.”
She takes my hand. “I’m so sorry. That sounds awful.”
“Yeah. I don’t think anyone got much out of it. But I did leave a reverse-love note for Gillian, so she can relax about her relationship choices.”
I see Phoebe and Eleanor exchange a glance. “I’m not bitter!” I protest. “I’m just . . . it was a lot.”
“I know,” says Phoebe. “Believe me, I know.”
“A lot,” agrees Eleanor. “You’re both handling this so very well. It’s quite the shake-up.”
“Well put,” I say, and burst out laughing.
“It’s really, really good,” says Phoebe. “My stepdad . . . my dad? . . . what on earth do I call him? . . . anyway, he’ll help us with research. He agreed that whatever he finds, he’ll leave it on the kitchen table for us open to the right page so we can read it, too.”
“And Tabby’s fine?”
“Always.”
“And your mum?”
Phoebe’s face darkens momentarily. “It’s the hardest on her, but I tried to be really positive, like the afterlife is all upbeat and awesome.”
“This isn’t the afterlife,” says Eleanor. “At least, I hope not.”
“Well, it came after my life ended,” says Phoebe. “Afterlife sort of sums it up.”
“Whatever it is, it’s quite the grind,” I say. “Assassinations, victim burials, time and place switching at a head-spinning speed . . .”
“I need a vacation from my eternal vacation,” says Phoebe.
“You lot should’ve tried life in service in the eighteen hundreds,” says Eleanor. “You wouldn’t be complaining a bit now.”
“Ah, Eleanor, put your feet up and we’ll bring you a spot of tea,” I say.
“A really big spot!” says Phoebe. “Like, a sphere!”
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