Swoon 02 - Swear

by Nina Malkin

  “Really, sister, come away,” she urges, and she’s right. Whether waltzing in the past, present, or future, Sin and Antonia can’t be disturbed. As I force myself from the room, Early links an arm through mine, and I fall in with her saucy saunter. “What would you say to a bottle of champagne?” she wants to know.

  “I’d say, ‘Hello, bottle of champagne.’” Bubbly being a weakness of mine.

  “Goody. Because ever since you living started hopping the fence, things have really been picking up on this side of eternity.

  The quality of the hooch, for instance. I’d had to settle for the same swill that killed me for eons, but now the floodgates are open!”

  We amble by the dining room, Early’s prattle helping me get a handle on this skewed plane of existence. “What else is new?”

  “Hmm, well, we’re all here at once now, anyone who ever died in this crummy joint,” she says. “It’s not like we’re all making whoopee, but we are aware of one another.” Early clicks a flame to the tip of a cigarette. “It’s like being at a railway station: Arrivals, departures, various trains on various tracks, and while you see your fellow travelers, you stick to your own schedule.” She taps her temple. “Savvy sister that I am, though, I’ve figured out how to boost their juice.” The way this girl smokes and drinks, it’s probably best she died young and left a beautiful corpse. They didn’t have Botox or rehab in her day; she wouldn’t have aged well.

  “The post-Prohibition stuff is the bee’s knees. Have a look-see at my cold closet!”

  We’ve entered the kitchen: linoleum tile, cumbersome appliances, and a breakfast nook with wooden benches.

  Early opens a built-in cabinet with a huge block of ice on one shelf and champagne bottles fitted sardine-style on the other.

  “Thoroughly modern, hmm?” Early says. “I insisted.

  Told Reg, ‘Reg, you may have slapped the cuffs on me, but I will not play the humble country wife at that stodgy old house. You rig it up right and maybe, maybe, I’ll deign to live there.” She rips the foil and unscrews the hood, then pops the cork with a blast, allowing minimal overflow. Clearly, she’s done this before. “Cheers!” Early lofts the bottle, taking a sip before handing it to me.

  I slake, ignoring the pesky inner voice that counsels sobriety in this unstable kaleidoscope of time. Early watches admiringly as I guzzle with gusto. Then, giggling, I hand back the bottle and wipe my mouth on my wrist.

  “So . . .” Early motions toward the nook with the base of the bottle. “What brings you to our little corner of damnation, hmm?”

  From my sense of her attention span, no way she’d sit through the director’s cut, so I whisk her through an edit. “Basically,” I say, “we’re on the hunt for Crane and Charlotte, but we’ve got to be careful not to tamper with anything on this side. Which isn’t easy, with all these events streaming simultaneously. Already it feels like doing ballet in combat boots.” Early pats her platinum crimp in contemplation. “Well,” she says, “Antonia I’ve noticed, of course, moping about in too much gown.” She shifts in the booth, hiking her own skirt higher and crossing her legs at the thigh. “And naturally, I sensed that Crane of yours the instant he arrived; getting a corporeal type is headline news here in the dead zone—only she must have him locked up like a crown jewel because I haven’t caught a glimpse.” Now she leans forward and plucks my arm conspiratorially. “But the kid? She’s pretty much got free reign. When I spied her, she was right there at the counter, the self-sufficient little thing, standing on a foot stool and making sandwiches. If she doesn’t come skipping along any minute, there’s a nursery on the second floor, all kinds of dolls and toys—you might check there.”

  A nursery? Makes sense. “Thanks, Early—good idea.” I should get up there, post haste. Maybe just a few more swigs, and a few more digs for insight. “The thing is, I was convinced Antonia was— is—behind all this. Only Sin thinks she’s innocent, incapable . . . feeble-minded, in fact. And once I got a load of all the evil lurking in this place, I started tilting his way. Now though . . . the look on her face while they danced, delirious, maybe, but not stupid . . .” Clueless as ever, I shake my head. “I guess I’m looking for motive. Why would she want to kidnap Crane, or Char?”

  Early drains the bottle. Daintily, she hiccups. “Why, why, dragonfly!” She recrosses her legs a bit impatiently. “Reasons! Really! Why does anyone do anything?”

  To her, a rhetorical question. In Early Hampford’s wasted life, death, and afterlife, everything’s always been random. But it’s not that way for most people. Most people do have a point, a purpose—or feel we need one. Why does anyone do anything?

  Musing on that, I hit on one major reason: We do what we do for love.

  “There’s one thing you should know about us ghosts, even wet blankets like your Antonia,” Early goes on. “We ab-so-lute-ly adore games. You know, all the rules we’ve had to follow in life . . .” Rules? Doesn’t seem to me Early abided by many . . .

  “Now we just want to play . . .”

  That rings true. Ruby’s even more mischievous in death; in life, she had so much to prove—how hot she was, how cool, how desirable, how untouchable. And Sin! In a way I miss his roguish ghost gags—the telekinesis of the Leonard Labor Day barbecue, the way he inspired Pen’s feats of gymnastics sans underwear at the Lancers/Trailblazers showdown. As a representative of the living, I’ll admit there’s a certain appeal to a place like this—party central twenty-four-seven, playmates like bad girl Early, all the bubbles you can imbibe—

  “Dice!?”

  My name, on Sin’s mouth, interrupts my reverie.

  “In here, big boy!” Early answers for me.

  He barrels into the kitchen, then stops with a wide-legged stance in front of the nook. The jeans and PWT Sin; no sign of the old-fashioned garb he sported in the salon. I wag a few fingers; then I burp. Early ogles him candidly.

  “Dice . . . you’ve—you’ve been drinking!” Early snickers. “Ooh, a real swifty!”

  “I’ve been gathering intelligence,” I say defensively, except it comes out “tin-ell-o-gence.” Which is funny. So I giggle.

  So does Early. “You are just too darb, Dice,” she says, which I figure is a compliment. “Shall I pop another bottie?”

  Sin leans his fists on the table. “I think you’ve both had enough.”

  “Never!” Early cackles. “I don’t know the meaning of the word.”

  But now Sin’s eyes are on me, and adroit as he is at hiding emotion in their facets, I see the amusement there. I smile at him, my smile chock-full of the main reason anyone does anything.

  XXXIII

  “East wing? Second floor?” Gentle yet firm and frankly flabbergasted, Sin hoists me from the table and steers me away from the influence of Earline Hampford. “We were to meet, if you recall?”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. But I heard ‘Miss Forsythe’s Minuet’ or whatever. I went to investigate.” Uh-huh: “vin-est-o-gate.”

  “Vin, indeed,” he says. “Dice, this is most unlike you. First to flit off like that, then swill to the point of—”

  “Look, I’m fine,” I tell him. And I am. For the most part.

  Cognizant enough to milk my condition and cling to his arm for balance. “A little tipsy is all.”

  He’s dubious. “Nonetheless, I was concerned. Some of the things I’ve seen here.”

  I lay my head on his shoulder, wincing as we walk past the great hall and I get an unbidden instant replay of the beating I watched in there. “I’ve seen stuff too,” I say. We’ve reached the main staircase, and I grab for the newel, aiming to straighten up, sober up, lose the ditzy drunk-girl routine, which is cute for only maybe half a minute. Instead, I lose my grip on the post, spin around, and windmilling woozily, plop to the bottom step.

  Looking up at Sin, I say, “Whoops . . .”

  “You could do with some fresh air.” On one knee in front of me, he makes a vain attempt to sweep my hair back.

  “Wait,
wait. I’ve got a thingie . . .” I dig in my pocket for the wriggle of elastic, gather my mess into a low tail that probably looks like it belongs on a beaver. “You’re right,” I agree, our faces close. “It is hot in herrrre. But can we go out? I mean, what happens to the whole mortal/spectral-plane deal when we leave the premises? I’m thinking it might be an all-exits-final situation.” Itch-you-station. Great.

  He lends an arm, helps me up. “Possible,” he concedes.

  “Perhaps the porch.”

  We risk it. Sin pours me into a chair before seating himself catty-corner. There’s a breeze. It ripples the trees and shrubs that frame the property and cools my skin. A splash of lightning turns the sky to lilac; thunder mumbles more than rumbles, very far off.

  “Early was helpful, by the way,” I say, filling him in on her view of this warped dimension. “Plus, she saw Charlotte making sandwiches, so no matter what, our people won’t starve here. It’s possible for the living to ingest—” Another burp, the last vestiges of champagne. “Excuse me.” Blushing in the dark, I press my fingers to my lips.

  Sin no longer bothers to suppress his smirk; I see the gleam of teeth as the left side of his mouth spikes. “You’re excused.” We’re quiet a minute, then I ask him, “So, Sin, you know my number?”

  It’s been on my mind, but it takes him aback. “Now I must beg your pardon.”

  “My number, my cell number. Before—” Was it really mere hours ago? “When you were in lockdown, you called me. I can’t remember you ever calling me, so—”

  “Ah,” he says. “That. In truth, Dice, but I have no idea what your number might be.” He leans forward, wrists on his spread knees, and beseeches the floor. Then he swivels his head toward me. “They told me I could make a call, so I picked up the phone and thought of you . . . and there you were. Your voice. Your ‘hullo?’”

  Glad I asked. I square my shoulders and smile inside all the way to Uruguay. Then I say, “Oh, I forgot to tell you the most important thing. Early says there’s a nursery, a kid’s paradise, apparently.”

  “We should go, then, if you’re up to it.” He slaps his thighs.

  “Yep, I’m good.” This is actually true.

  “And this time, let’s stay together, shall we?”

  I’m all for that. As we ascend, I steel myself for what ugliness might greet us on the second floor. I also debate telling him how I watched him and Antonia waltz in the salon—and decide against it. If Sin was, is, or will be compelled to take the girl in his arms, I’ll just have to trust it’s in the best interest of all. We enter the corridor on tenterhooks, neither of us eager to throw wide a door. Toward the end, we hear the preoccupied murmurs of a child. Charlotte.

  Seated serenely, shins against floor, she’s surrounded herself with a select group of stuffed animals and dolls. There’s a miniature tea set in front of her, and she’s so intent on serving her guests, she doesn’t notice us come in. Softly I call her name.

  “Oh. Hi, Dice.” She says it as if expecting me, then absorbs Sin with an enigmatic stare—I’m not sure if she remembers him—before lowering her gaze to her party. “Thank you all so much for coming,” she says. “I hope we can do it again very soon.” With that, she stands and walks over to us. “Okay, I’m ready.”

  I edge my eyes to Sin, then grin at the girl. “Ready?”

  “To go back,” she says. “I bet Willa cried when she couldn’t find me. She does that—she gets frustrated and then she cries.

  Because she’s still so little.”

  “I see,” I say. “So . . . do you know how to get back, Char?” She tilts her head quizzically. “Not exactly. Don’t you?” I take her hand and give it a squeeze. “Not exactly. But we’ll figure it out. I think we have to go to the round room first.”

  “Oh, yes,” Charlotte agrees. “Down the big stairs and then up the skinny stairs. It’s a lot of walking. It’s okay. I’m not tired.” How much like Marsh she is—the wide eyes, the trooper attitude. “You’re not?” It must be after midnight in the real world. “Well, that’s good. What about hungry? Are you hungry, Char?”

  “Nope,” she says. “We ate.”

  Again my glance consults Sin. “Who’s we?” I ask mildly.

  “Me and Crane. I made sandwiches, all by myself. Then I put them on a tray and—” She stops, as if maybe she’s said too much.

  Rather than push, I change tactics. “Oh, Crane. How’s he doing?”

  “He’s fine.” Her tone is cagey, noncommittal, and then she says, “You know what? I am tired.” She pokes Sin. “You could carry me. Piggyback.”

  “Of course, dear lady.” Sin assumes the position, and she clambers up, resting her cheek against his broad left lat, end of discussion. We’re all quiet now, climbing to the tower. Mostly I muse on how to proceed. Do we put Char to sleep in the fluffy canopy bed and continue searching for Crane? Or swing back on the gate, delivering our bird-in-the-hand to safety, and then come back for the errant boy?

  Notions that get shoved aside the second we enter Antonia’s room. Softly lit by several silver candelabra, it has been prepared in our absence. Before, a lone bud stood on the mantel; now the entire space is filled, flooded, flush. A riot of roses, plus grasses and sprigs of baby’s breath to set them off, arranged in vases and strewn about in heaps.

  “Wow!” Charlotte capers from Sin’s shoulders. He and I exchange incredulity and watch the child dart around, blissing big-time in this bumblebee fantasy. Every color, from almost black purple to the fairest pales to the near-neon of tropical fish, even some with double-hued petals—yellow tinged with tangerine, pink that bleeds red. The bed is a collage of whites—milk, ivory, birch, bone—and all blooms; the stems, leaves and thorns removed, a sublime, satiny blanket. Most extraordinary, on the escritoire, a ribbon-sashed bouquet of blue roses. Drawn to them—I’ve never seen such beauty—I notice they rest atop a creamy envelope. It’s addressed, in careful calligraphy, with just one word. A name:

  Sinclair . . .

  XXXIV

  My Darling—

  Be steady my hand! Be smooth my quill! Oh the thrill, after all these years, of writing to you. Yet even as the fire claimed my life, I knew our love was not to end. When first I found my spirit released, I was plagued by an indescribable loneliness, a yearning for you. Then I felt your essence enter my house, calling to me powerfully—and so enabling me to contrive the clever plan that shall at long last unite us. Anon comes the moment you will be in my arms, and I in yours! It is gladly and with good faith that I return this child, the final piece in the trail that leads you to me. Likewise shall I cede to the land of the living the young man I have sequestered, after you join me upon yonder bridal bed to fulfill the vow you swore to me, now and for eternity. Till then—so sweet! so soon!—I remain . . .

  Yours—

  Antonia

  Me, a gloating “told you so”? Nope. I won’t remark that for a feeb, Antonia Forsythe has quite a rich vocabulary—if, irony intended, a tad flowery. As Sin lets the letter flutter to the desk, I pick it up and read for myself, then wait for him to say something.

  He does. “She’s deranged . . .” His seething is a measured hiss.

  After all, Charlotte’s here in the room with us, and who knows if the she-demon herself isn’t eavesdropping. “I swore no vow to that wretch!”

  I want to believe him, so I do, offering the faith in my eyes.

  “Yeah, well, clearly she thinks you have,” I whisper. “And she’s gone to a lot of trouble to get you to make good on it.” I scan the monogrammed sheet once more. Deranged? Damn skippy, bartering Crane for Sin as though human beings were tokens in a game. Yet under the insanity lies doubt, and it’s doubt that fuels Antonia: If she were so sure Sin had made a pledge to her, she wouldn’t need a hostage. It’s terrorism of the heart—crazy, yet crafty.

  “Trouble for nothing.” Sin indicates Charlotte with a slash of chin. “Collect the child. We’re out of here.”

  “Without Crane?” Of cour
se we’re not.

  Stumped, stricken, he lets a hand fly up, then fall to his side.

  I focus on Charlotte. She knows where our boy’s been stashed.

  They shared sandwiches together, picnicking in one of the manor’s many rooms. Yet she’s Little Miss Mum, thanks to some coercion—a promise, maybe, or a threat. Looks like I’ll need to trick her. Motioning Sin away, I crouch where she plays among the roses, making selections from a pink stack while humming, distractedly, that familiar tune.

  “Wow, you’re picking really pretty ones, Char,” I say. “Are they for a bouquet?”

  She nods. “Uh-huh. Two. One for Will and one for Marsh.”

  “That’s so thoughtful. But will it be all right . . . with Antonia?” Hesitating, Charlotte considers the stem between her fingers.

  “I . . . I think so. I mean, she has so many flowers. Wouldn’t she want to share?”

  “Gee, I don’t know.” I choose a bloom myself and regard it uncertainly. “I never met Antonia. What’s she like?” She has to think about it. “Nice, I guess. We were playing with all the toys and stuff, but then for no reason she got mad and pinched me, hard. Only right after that we went to the kitchen, and she let me have whatever I wanted. Although she didn’t have any mayo.” Charlotte smirks, remembering. “She didn’t even know what mayo was!”

  “That’s funny!” I tap her nose with the rose. “What kind of sandwiches did you have?”

  “Definitely not mutton!” she says, and laughs. “It smelled gross, and besides, Crane wouldn’t eat it because mutton is a meat and he’s a vegetarian. Are you a vegetarian, Dice?”

  “Me? Uh-uh. But of course I know Crane is—we’re good friends. He’s in our band and everything.” Charlotte’s face turns wary, like she’d rather not talk about him. Major manipulation is due. I glance at Sin, lounging impatiently along the wall. “Yeah, he’s like the leader of the band, actually. But he hasn’t been around, so we all really miss him.” Cue the heavy sigh. “No one misses him as much as Marsh, though.” I place a hand on Charlotte’s arm, but she evades my gaze. “Marsh misses Crane like crazy.