The Shadow Sister

by Lucinda Riley

  ‘Course not, Sia. You’re so clever, I’m sure you’ll get in! I’ll have a look at unis in England too, though I doubt I’ll get an offer anywhere. You know what a dunce I am. If I don’t, I’ll just come with you and take a job behind a bar or something,’ she’d said with a shrug. ‘I don’t care. The most important thing is that we’re together, isn’t it?’

  At the time, I had absolutely felt that it was. At home, and at boarding school, where the other girls sensed our closeness and left us to our own devices, we were everything to each other. So we agreed on other universities that had degree courses we both liked the sound of, which meant we could stay together. I did try for Cambridge, and to my amazement, was offered a place at Selwyn College, subject to getting the grades in my final exams.

  I’d sat in Pa’s study at Christmas, watching him read the offer letter. He’d looked up at me and I’d relished the pride and emotion in his eyes. He’d pointed to the little fir tree bedecked in ancient decorations. Perched atop it, there shone a bright silver star.

  ‘There you are,’ he’d said with a smile. ‘Will you accept the offer?’

  ‘I . . . don’t know. I’ll see what happens with CeCe.’

  ‘Well, it must be your decision. All I can say is that at some point, you must do what is right for you,’ he’d added pointedly.

  Subsequently, CeCe and I each got two offers to universities we’d jointly applied for, then we both took our exams and waited nervously to get our results.

  Two months later, the pair of us were sitting with our sisters on the middle deck of the Titan, Pa’s magnificent yacht. We were on our annual cruise – that year sailing around the coast of the south of France – nervously clutching the envelopes with our maturité grades inside. Pa had just handed them to us from the pile of mail that was delivered by speedboat every other day, wherever we were on the water.

  ‘So, girls,’ Pa had said, smiling at our tense expressions, ‘do you wish to open them here, or in private?’

  ‘Might as well get it over with,’ CeCe had said. ‘You open yours first, Star. I know I’ll have probably failed anyway.’

  With all of my sisters and Pa looking on, I’d opened the envelope with trembling fingers and pulled out the sheets of paper inside.

  ‘Well?’ Maia had asked as I took a long time to read the results.

  ‘I got a 5.4 overall . . . and a 6 in English.’

  Everyone burst into cheers and applause, and I was squeezed into a tight embrace by my sisters.

  ‘Your turn now, CeCe,’ Electra, our youngest sister, had said with a glint in her eye. We all knew CeCe had struggled at school due to her dyslexia, whereas Electra was capable of passing any exam she chose to, but was simply lazy.

  ‘Whatever it says, I don’t care,’ CeCe had said defensively, and I’d signed ‘good luck’ and ‘love you’ to her. She had ripped the envelope open and I’d held my breath as her eyes skimmed over her results.

  ‘I . . . oh my God! I . . .’

  We had all collectively held our breath.

  ‘I passed! Star, I passed! It means I’m in to Sussex to study Art History.’

  ‘That’s wonderful!’ I had replied, knowing how hard she had worked, but I’d also seen Pa’s quizzical expression as he’d looked at me. Because he knew the decision I would now have to make.

  ‘Congratulations, darling,’ Pa Salt had said, smiling at CeCe. ‘Sussex is a beautiful part of the world, and, of course, that’s where the Seven Sisters cliffs are.’

  Later, CeCe and I had sat on the top deck of the boat, watching a glorious sunset over the Mediterranean.

  ‘I totally understand if you want to take the Cambridge offer, Sia, rather than coming to Sussex and studying there with me. Like, I wouldn’t want to stand in your way or anything. But . . .’ Her bottom lip had wobbled. ‘I don’t know what I’ll do without you. God knows how I’ll cope writing those essays without you to help me.’

  That night on the boat, I’d heard CeCe stirring and moaning under her breath. And I’d known one of her terrible nightmares was beginning. By now adept at recognising the signs, I’d risen from my bed and slipped into hers, muttering soothing noises, but equally certain I would not be able to wake her. Her moaning had grown louder and she began to shout indecipherable words I had given up trying to understand.

  How can I leave her? She needs me . . . and I need her . . .

  And I did, back then.

  So I had turned down Cambridge and taken up my offer at Sussex with my sister. And midway through the third term of her three-year course, CeCe had announced she was dropping out.

  ‘You understand, don’t you, Sia?’ she’d said. ‘I know how to paint and draw, but I can’t for the life of me put together an essay on Renaissance painters and all their endless bloody paintings of the Madonna. I can’t do it. Sorry, but I can’t.’

  CeCe and I had subsequently left the room we’d shared in halls and rented a dingy flat together. And while I went to lectures, she had taken the bus to Brighton to work as a waitress.

  That following year, I had come as close as I had ever been to despair, thinking of the dream I had given up.

  3

  After supper, I excused myself to Ma and went upstairs to our bedroom. I took out my mobile from my rucksack to check my messages, and saw there were four texts and a number of missed calls – all from CeCe. As promised, I had texted her when the plane had landed in Geneva, and now I sent a short reply telling her that I was fine and having an early night and that we would speak tomorrow. Switching off the phone, I slid under my duvet and lay there, listening to the silence. And I realised how rare it was for me to sleep in a room alone, in an empty house that had once been full of noisy, dynamic life. Tonight, I would not be woken by CeCe’s murmurings. I could sleep right through until morning if I wanted to.

  Yet, as I closed my eyes, I did my best not to miss her.

  Rising early the following morning, I threw on jeans and a hoodie, picked up the plastic wallet and tiptoed downstairs. Quietly easing open the front door of the house and taking the path to my left, I walked towards Pa Salt’s special garden, the plastic wallet containing his letter, my coordinates and the translated Greek inscription clutched in my hand.

  Slowly, I wandered around the borders we’d planted together, checking on the progress of our progeny. In July, they came to full fruition: multi-coloured zinnias, purple asters, sweet peas gathered together like tiny butterflies, and the roses that climbed all over the arbour, shading the bench.

  I realised there was only me to look after them now. Although Hans, our ancient gardener, was the ‘nanny’ for the plants when Pa and I were not here to care for them ourselves, I could never be sure that he loved them as we did. Stupid really, to think of plants as children. But as Pa had often said to me, the nurturing process was similar.

  I stopped to admire a dearly loved plant that sported delicate purple-red flowers, suspended on fine stems above a mass of rich green leaves.

  ‘It’s called Astrantia major,’ Pa had said, as we’d planted the tiny seeds in pots nearly two decades ago. ‘Its name is thought to be derived from “aster”, the Latin word for “star”. And when it blooms, it has glorious starburst-shaped flowers. I must warn you that it is sometimes difficult to grow, especially since these seeds have travelled with me from another country and are old and dry. But if we succeed, it doesn’t take much looking after, just some good soil and a little water.’

  A few months later, Pa took me to a shaded corner of the garden to plant out the seedlings, which had miraculously sprouted after careful nurturing, including a spell in the refrigerator, which Pa had said was necessary to ‘shock’ the seeds into life.

  ‘Now, we must be patient and hope that it likes its new home,’ he’d said, as we wiped the soil from our hands.

  The Astrantia took another two years before it produced flowers, but since then it had happily multiplied, self-seeding in any spot in the garden that took its fancy. L
ooking at it now, I plucked off one of the blooms, my fingertips trailing across the fragile petals. And I missed Pa more than I could bear.

  I turned and walked towards the bench nestled in the rose arbour. The wood was still covered in heavy dew and I used my sleeve to wipe it dry. I sat down, and felt as if the damp was seeping into my very soul.

  I looked at the plastic wallet that held the envelopes. And I wondered now if I had made a mistake by ignoring CeCe’s original plea to open our letters together.

  My hands shook as I took out Pa’s envelope, and, with a deep breath, tore it open. Inside was a letter, and also what looked like a small, slim jewellery box. I unfolded the letter and began to read.

  Atlantis

  Lake Geneva

  Switzerland

  My darling Star,

  It is somehow the most fitting that I am writing to you, as we both know it is your preferred medium of communication. To this day, I treasure the long letters you wrote to me when you were away at boarding school and university. And subsequently, on your many travels to the four corners of the globe.

  As you may know by now, I have tried to provide each of you with sufficient information about your genetic heritage. Even though I like to believe that you girls are truly mine, and as much a part of me as any naturally born child could be, there may come a day when the information I have might be of use to you. Having said that, I also accept it is not a journey all my daughters will wish to take. Especially you, my darling Star – perhaps the most sensitive and complex of all my girls.

  This letter has taken the longest to compose – partly because I have written it in English, not French, and know that your use of grammar and punctuation is far superior to mine, so please forgive any mistakes I make. But also because I confess I am struggling to find a direct route to provide you with just enough information to set you on your path to discovery, yet equally, not disrupt your life if you choose not to investigate your origins further.

  Interestingly, the clues I’ve been able to give your sisters have mostly been inanimate, yet yours will involve communication of the verbal variety, simply because the trail that leads back to your original story has been very well concealed over the years, and you will need the help of others to unravel it. I only found out the true details recently myself, but if anyone can do that, it’s you, my bright Star. That quick brain of yours coupled with your understanding of human nature – studied over years of observing and, most importantly, listening – will serve you well if you decide to follow the trail.

  So, I have given you an address – it’s attached on a card to the back of this letter. And if you decide to visit, ask about a woman named Flora MacNichol.

  Lastly, before I close and say goodbye, I feel I must tell you that sometimes in life one has to make difficult and often heartbreaking decisions that, at the time, you may feel will hurt people you love. And they might, at least for a while. Often, however, the changes that occur from your decision will eventually be the best thing for others too. And help them move on.

  My darling Star, I will not patronise you by saying any more; we both know what it is I am referring to. I have learnt over my years on this earth that nothing can stay the same forever – and expecting it to is, of course, the biggest single mistake we human beings make. Change comes whether we wish for it or not, in a host of different ways. And acceptance of this is fundamental to achieving the joy of living on this magnificent planet of ours.

  Nurture not only the wonderful garden we created together, but perhaps your own elsewhere. And above all, nurture yourself. And follow your own star. It is time.

  Your loving father,

  Pa Salt x

  I looked up at the horizon and watched the sun appear from behind a cloud across the lake, chasing the shadows away. I felt numb and even lower than before I’d opened the letter. Perhaps it was the sense of expectation that I’d felt, yet there was very little in the letter that Pa and I had not discussed when he was alive. When I had been able to look into his kind eyes and feel the gentle touch of his hand on my shoulder as we gardened together.

  I unfastened the business card that was paper-clipped to the letter and read the words printed on it.

  Arthur Morston Books

  190 Kensington Church Street

  London W8 4DS

  I remembered I’d once passed through Kensington on a bus. At least if I did decide to go and see Arthur Morston, I wouldn’t have far to travel, like Maia had had to. I then took out the quotation that she had translated from the armillary sphere.

  The oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other’s shadow.

  I smiled, as it perfectly described CeCe and me. She: so strong and intractable, her feet firmly rooted in the ground. Me: tall but wisp-like, swayed by the slightest wind. I already knew the quote. It was from The Prophet, by a philosopher named Khalil Gibran. And I also knew who stood – outwardly at least – in the ‘shadow’ . . .

  I just didn’t know how to go about stepping into the sun.

  After refolding it carefully, I retrieved the envelope that held the coordinates Ally had deciphered. She had written down the location they pinpointed. Out of all the clues, this was the one that frightened me most.

  Did I want to know where Pa had found me?

  I decided that, for now, I did not. I still wanted to belong to Pa and Atlantis.

  Having replaced the envelope in the plastic wallet, I drew out the jewellery box and opened it.

  Inside lay a small black figurine of an animal, perhaps made of onyx, which sat on a slim silver base. I took it out of the box and studied it, its sleek lines clearly denoting it was feline. I looked at the base and saw there was a hallmark, and a name engraved on it.

  Panther

  Set into each eye socket were tiny bright amber jewels that winked at me in the weak morning sun.

  ‘Who owned you? And who were they to me?’ I whispered into the ether.

  Replacing the panther in its box, I stood up and walked towards the armillary sphere. The last time I’d seen it, all my sisters had been crowding around it, wondering what it meant and why Pa had chosen to leave us such a legacy. I peered into the centre, and studied the golden globe and the silver bands that encased it in an elegant cage. It was exquisitely fashioned, the contours of the world’s continents standing proud in the seven seas surrounding them. I wandered around it, noting the original Greek names of all my sisters – Maia, Alcyone, Celaeno, Taygete, Electra . . . and, of course, mine: Asterope.

  What’s in a name? I quoted Shakespeare’s Juliet, pondering – as I had many times in the past – whether we had all adopted the personas of our mythological namesakes, or whether our names had adopted us. In contrast to the rest of my sisters, far less seemed to be known about my counterpart’s personality. I’d sometimes wondered whether that was why I felt so invisible amongst my siblings.

  Maia, the beauty; Ally, the leader; CeCe, the pragmatist; Tiggy, the nurturer; Electra, the fireball . . . and then me. Apparently, I was the peacemaker.

  Well, if staying silent meant peace reigned, then maybe that was me. And perhaps, if a parent defined you from birth, then, despite who you really were, you would try to live up to that ideal. Yet there was no doubt that all my sisters fitted their mythological characteristics perfectly.

  Merope . . .

  My eyes suddenly fell on the seventh band and I leant in to look closer. But unlike the rest of the bands, there were no coordinates. Or a quotation. The missing sister; the seventh baby we’d all been expecting Pa Salt to bring home, but who had never arrived. Did she exist? Or had Pa felt – being the perfectionist he was – the armillary sphere and his legacy to us would not be complete without her name? Perhaps, if any of us sisters had a child, and that child was a female, we could call her ‘Merope’ and the seven bands would be complete.

  I sat down heavily on the bench, casting my thoughts back through the years to whether Pa had ever mentioned a seventh sister to me. And as far
as I could remember, he hadn’t. In fact, he’d rarely talked about himself; he’d always been far more interested in what was happening in my life. And even though I loved him as much as any daughter could possibly love her father, and he was – apart from CeCe – the dearest person on the planet to me, I sat there with the sudden realisation that I knew almost nothing about him.

  All I knew was that he had liked gardens, and had obviously been hugely wealthy. But how he’d come by that wealth was as much a mystery as the seventh band on the armillary sphere. And yet, I’d never felt for a moment as though our relationship was anything less than close. Or that he’d held back information from me when I had asked him something.

  Perhaps I’d just never asked the right questions. Perhaps none of us sisters had.

  I stood up and wandered around the garden checking on the plants and making a mental list for Hans, the gardener. I would meet him here later before I left Atlantis.

  As I walked back towards the house, I realised that, after wanting to be here so desperately, I now wanted to fly back to London. And get on with my life.

  4

  London in late July was hot and humid. Especially given that I was spending all day in a stuffy, windowless kitchen in Bayswater. In my scant three weeks there, I felt as though I was learning a lifetime’s worth of culinary skills. I brunoised, batonneted and julienned vegetables until I felt like my chef’s knife had become an extension of my arm. I kneaded bread dough until my muscles ached, and delighted in that moment of ‘spring back’, when I knew it was ready to prove.

  Each night we were sent home to plan menus and timings, and in the mornings we would complete our mise en place – preparing ingredients and placing utensils on our workstations before we began. At the end of class, we would clean every surface until it was sparkling, and I felt a secret satisfaction that CeCe would never wander into this kitchen and cause a mess.