by JT Ellison
“I’m sorry. What?”
“Are you still with me, child?”
“I drifted for a moment, but I’m here.”
She smiled that smile of hers. “Have I ever told you exactly what it is I do?”
“You mentioned something about transitions.”
“Put simply, I see to the needs and last wishes of the living in order to make their transition into the afterlife more desirable. Simon was the loneliest little boy I ever tended. He never really grew beyond that frightened child who got taken away by monsters. He never had a chance for a normal life. Never met the woman of his dreams, never fell in love, never had a family of his own. His greatest fear wasn’t dying, but in spending eternity alone. He summoned me here to Culleton House to find him a companion. His soul mate, you might say. And I did. I found you, Alice.”
The teacup slipped from my deadened fingers and crashed to the floor.
Habella seemed transfixed by the spreading stain. “That was another of my special blends. Did you like it, Alice? Do you feel different now, child? A little lightheaded, perhaps? A numbing in your limbs and a thickening of your tongue? Do not worry. It is but another transition. Since that day in the garden when we first talked, I’ve been preparing you for this journey.”
I opened my mouth but couldn’t utter a sound and when I tried to stand, my legs were as useless as rubber. I collapsed against the chair, sliding to the floor, where I lay silent and twitching and more frightened than I had ever been in my life.
When I came to, late afternoon sunlight streamed into the room. I was in the library at Culleton House, tucked beneath the covers on Simon’s bed. I couldn’t move or speak. I couldn’t do anything but stare out the window. I lay silently screaming until the sun went down and twilight settled over the garden.
Night fell. The stars came out and I watched the moon rise over the treetops. After a while, I became aware of a weight on my finger. I thought at first it must be Simon’s bell, but then I realized it was the diamond ring he’d left me. I had a vague memory of Habella whispering against my ear as she slipped it on me, “Don’t fight it, Alice. For your sake and his, just close your eyes and let it happen. One way or another, he’ll come for you, child.”
I lost all sense of time. Where was Habella? No doubt she’d fled the house once the deed had been done, but what of Cook and the others? If I could make enough noise, someone in the house or on the street might hear me. But I remained mute and paralyzed and growing weaker by the hour. My heartbeat had slowed. Soon my organs would shut down and I wouldn’t be able to breathe on my own. Death was coming but not quickly.
Still, I resisted. I fought off the seductive darkness until my fingertips began to tingle. My lungs grew stronger and my heartbeat, bolder. If I could just hang on a little longer…
The garden gate creaked as someone entered from the street. I tried to call out for help, but the plea remained frozen on my lips.
A shadow appeared outside the open French doors. His shoulders were slumped and his head bowed like the statue at the top of the stairs.
Help me. Please, help me, I silently implored.
Into the quivering stillness came the faint tinkle of a bell. Two rings. A pause. Two more rings. And then the sequence repeated.
Alice. Alice.
The Gentleman’s Magicians
Paige Crutcher
Because I could not stop for Death –
He kindly stopped for me –
The Carriage held but just Ourselves –
And Immortality.
—Emily Dickinson
1
Florence
* * *
Drunk people tell tall tales. They tell long tales, stuttered and bizarre tales, fascinating, sad, funny, and inspiring tales. Florence knows this because she hears them all.
If story were currency, Florence would be a wealthy woman.
Thirty is too old for bartending. She knows this because Hairless Gus Hoffman tells her so every time he stumbles into The Main Portal. It doesn’t matter that he’s a forty-year-old bachelor who has hobbies instead of jobs. Hairless Gus, who inevitably will lose his toupee between the hours of six p.m. and midnight, is a man of firm opinions.
His opinions do not bother Florence. Each day is like tasting a hint of the same flavor of sparkling water that is the small town of City, Anywhere. She knows what to expect when Gus comes in, or when the thieving Price triplets, or local librarian/bookseller Susannah Rodgers, or even town recluse Merle Showcaster plop down at their favored stations in her bar. The Main Portal is a revolving door of people, circumstances, and situations. It has been for as long as she can remember.
Until today.
Today is different.
Cecil Fitzwilliam Sterling arrives at The Main Portal every evening at precisely 7:45 for his nightcap of warm milk and bourbon. He’s the last of the Sterlings left in City, Anywhere. He walks from his loft apartment four doors down with a cane he does not need. A man of habit, Cecil occasionally stops at The Full Bloom to pick up a daisy or sunflower to pin to his lapel, and he always pops by Turn The Page to inquire after a rare or first-edition book that he’s asked Susannah to look into. Lately, he’s taken to bringing Florence strange and wonderful tokens from his collection.
A collector by trade, Cecil is an acquaintance to everyone, and a friend to none. He’s a Sterling, after all.
There is only one thing that makes City, Anywhere stand out, and that is Hollowland. Built with hands financed by the Sterling family, Hollowland is the biggest home in the state, and the largest mystery in the region. Cecil’s parents closed the house up when Cecil was a boy. It sits empty and majestic, overlooking City, Anywhere from its perch on Crater Hill.
Cecil doesn’t speak about Hollowland. He doesn’t talk about his two sons or their two sons, all of whom live Elsewhere and haven’t set foot in City, Anywhere in almost fifteen years—when Dylan and Major Sterling accidentally set the town hall on fire and their father and uncle spirited them away.
No, Cecil doesn’t speak about the uncomfortable things. He comes in, takes his stool, orders his drink, and asks Florence about her day. He offers advice when the deliveryman puts her last on his route and her liquor supply runs dangerously low. He brings her roses when her ex-boyfriend starts dating the owner of The Portico, her bar’s direct competitor. He hands over a new token and tells her a tall tale about the token’s origin of birth. Cecil talks a good game, but never about himself, and he’s never late.
Until today.
Today is different.
Gus takes his perch at six o’clock, and two shots of the cheapest bourbon with it. His toupee is lopsided, his smirk a smear across his otherwise nearly-pleasing face. He observes Florence watching the door, presumably for Cecil. Five, ten, fifteen minutes tick by. Cecil’s delay is unusual in a town that doesn’t thrive on unusual. Florence places a call to Susannah at the library and Marigold at the flower shop. Neither has seen Cecil, both are worried.
As Florence hangs up, Gus belches. Loudly.
“I think that cane finally got the best of him,” Gus says.
“What?”
“Old Man Sterling. There were an ambulance and a rescue truck at his place. Saw ’em when I was heading in.”
Florence’s hand pauses over her dishrag. “You didn’t think to mention it?”
He takes his third shot. “Hell, no. You didn’t believe me when I told you his number was up the first, second, or third time. Why would you believe me now?”
Gus has spent the better part of the last year telling her Cecil’s demise is imminent. That “doom is on his way.”
He’s also told Florence she does not belong here, she will find a key to take her to the place only she knows, and that thirty is way, way too old to be a bartender.
Florence tries hard not to listen to what Gus has to say.
When she sees the flashing lights pass by, Florence puts down the rag and walks to the front door. Outside, Susanna
h and Marigold stand in front of their stores, Florence’s expression of concern mirrored on their faces.
The usually quiet streets on Second and Main are full of people and fanfare. It’s a strange sight to see. Unnerved, Florence turns and goes inside, shutting the door, wondering why her legs feel as though they are liquefying.
Gus sets a stool under her and goes to the bar phone. He holds his hand over it a second before it rings.
As he goes to pick it up, he winces, turns to face Florence before he’s answered the ringing, and says, “Ayep. The old man is dead.”
Cecil Sterling tripped over his cane and fell down a flight of twenty-two stairs. He did not survive the fall.
Florence closes up shop and goes to sit on the stoop, frozen like a human statue as people come and go. She watches three firemen, two EMTs, the young doctor who is doing his case study in town at the local hospital, and two misplaced pugs go in and out of Cecil’s door. After half an hour, the young doctor approaches her.
“Florence?”
She stands, noting the tan lines peeking out from under the doctor’s collar, a smudge of chocolate on his sleeve. It’s a human thing to see, and somehow helps her remember to breathe.
“Dr. Keating,” she says, her hands pressed into one another as though she’s been praying. “Is Cecil—”
“He’s gone.”
Florence starts to ask where he went, before her brain wakes up and pays proper attention.
“Florence,” Dr. Keating repeats, reaching out to pat her arm, but stopping just before his hand finds its mark. The doctor draws back, likely unaware he never made contact. Florence doesn’t blink at the missed comfort. It isn’t the doctor’s fault people—well, most people—can’t touch her.
“How can I help?” Florence asks, a quiet plea in her voice.
“Biscuits and Gravy,” the doctor says, looking back at the entrance to Cecil’s home.
Florence follows her gaze to the two well-fed dogs, French bulldogs. Realization is a fog clearing. “They’re homeless.”
“Yes,” he says, tugging on his sleeve, checking his watch.
“I have room, I can watch over them.”
“Good, I was hoping you’d say that.” The doctor absently brushes at the chocolate stain. “I’ve called Dylan and Major, left messages for them both. There weren’t numbers for John or Richard.”
Florence’s stomach rolls over. Outwardly she shrugs, because what else can you do but shrug when dealing with death. “At least he kept in touch with his grandchildren.”
“I’ve got to get back,” the doctor says. “We can figure out a more permanent arrangement for the dogs, once we sort out the rest.”
Dr. Keating reaches for her again, brushing air. Florence smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. It barely graces her lips. Then the doctor is walking away and Florence is whistling for her newest roommates.
She sets them up in her living room with bowls and beds and blankets. It’s odd for her to have Sterlings, even furry ones, back in her home.
The night has encased the world outside. The stars, which normally alight the quiet town, have tucked themselves away. It’s a fitting tribute for Cecil.
The pit in Florence’s stomach has grown into a canyon. She tells herself it’s because she is sad. Cecil was a good man, or as good as a Sterling man can be, and he was kind to her.
She makes a pot of tea, gives Biscuits and Gravy fresh water, and tries to ignore the tremble in her hands.
Normally Florence is as steady as a rock. She can withstand drunken brawls and shouting matches with ease. She ducks thrown cups, dodges insulting jabs, and forces out customers who won’t leave, barely blinking an eye. She handles it all without so much as a single shake.
Until today.
Today is different.
There’s a knock on the door, and her knees buckle.
Setting the saucer aside, she goes to the peephole, but decides against looking through it. Taking a deep breath she knows won’t help anything, Florence opens the door.
Dylan Sterling stands taller than she remembers, the same curious look in his eyes and concerned downward tug of his lips.
“Hey, Freckles,” he says, his voice deeper than it was fifteen years ago. He reaches out and squeezes Florence’s upper arm. “It’s good to be home.”
2
The Gentleman
* * *
It didn’t start there. Oh, I know they say it did, now, but they are rarely right about anything.
If I had to pinpoint when it started, I might be tempted to go as far back as when Adam met Eve. With how way leads to way, when two people are put in an improbable situation, the impossible always seems to happen. But since I’ve never met Adam, and Eve seems like a nice girl whose sweet tooth branded her a harlot, I wouldn’t say it started there, either.
It could have started back in 1903 when the town let in just about anyone, and Main Street became a stretch of saloons and fisticuffs. When Lady Franklin opened up her first brothel on the second floor and the mayor became her first paying customer.
But that’s not right, either.
It might have been when Sam Allen fell in love with Esme Tarlington and stepped out on her with Mitchel Breyers. To say Esme’s heart attempted to implode from the pain and injustice of it all—she broke up with Mitchel to step out with Sam, after all—is a severe understatement.
No, I would say the elements have been there since the first fool Sterling came to town 206 years ago. Trouble follows a Sterling like light follows the dark.
But the dusting off of the lock, readying it for a key, well, that started when Dylan Sterling showed up on Florence Holden’s front step the first time, fifteen years ago. When spring was just kissing summer hello and day had slowly beaten back the night. When City, Anywhere was still a town called Hope and death didn’t lurk in the shadows with the other hobgoblins and monsters born from Hollowland.
But what do I know?
No one ever listens to me.
3
Florence
* * *
Florence stares at Dylan. He is seated on her couch holding her favorite daisy-embroidered pillow her grandmother made for her the year she turned sixteen. It had been too girly for her then, when the last thing Florence wanted was to appear like a child.
Now she keeps the pillow in whatever room she’s in, and sleeps with it at night. There is something immeasurably comforting about holding a belonging her grandmother once cared for. It makes her think she was cared for as well.
In the fifteen years since Dylan has been gone, Florence has done well to forget him. Others might assume she’s been planning this moment, working out what she would say when she saw him. She has not. Florence has a gift for moving forward, and when Dylan went, she left him behind.
As he sits to her right, filling up the air with his calm demeanor, she wishes she had more in her arsenal than pretty pillows and oversized mugs of tea. The room’s silence is not golden, but charged, and Florence cannot stop staring at the way Dylan’s skin creases pleasantly around his eyes, or how he wears patches at his elbow. The boy in the heavy metal T-shirts is gone, and in his wake is a person who stares at Florence like he has been planning very much for this moment.
“You seem surprised to see me.”
She looks at the pillow, then back up to his face. “Well, yes.”
“My grandfather—” he says, but stops. She’s gone back to looking at the pillow. He sets it down. Florence resists the urge to snatch it to her chest. Like a barrier, or a shield.
“I’m sorry,” she says, with feeling. “I really liked Cecil.”
Dylan’s brows wing up, and Florence wishes she hadn’t said that. She’d forgotten how expressive his face was, unlike his brother.
At the thought of Major’s face, Florence swallows hard.
“When I left, you hated him.”
“Major?”
Dylan’s lips twitched, and Florence briefly closes her eyes. Shi
t.
“Him too, sure.”
Florence opens her eyes. “I never hated your grandfather.” The same could not be said for Major Meriwether Sterling.
“Freckles,” Dylan says, throwing an arm across the couch so his fingers are mere threads from brushing her shoulder. “You tried to set his hat on fire.”
“It was an ugly hat.”
Dylan chuckles. “While it was on his head.”
“It was an ugly head,” she says, unable to prevent the smile from creeping into her own voice.
It had been during the Autumn Awakening, a yearly festival when the town sets out candles and candy corn, filling the air with the scents of burning leaves and pumpkin-spiced everything. A festival meant to awaken the slumbering gods of autumn and bring good tidings for the season.
Cecil Sterling did not like children. He thought they were dangerous, and so he refused them when they came to his booth. His odd but wonderful booth that sold tree carvings in the shape of smaller trees with faces and gnarled hands. Little Ents, Florence’s grandmother called them. Cecil called them Protectors.
Florence had wanted a Protector. She needed a Protector. She’d been dreaming of trees that grew out of the ground and turned into hands with long thin fingers, trying to catch and drag her under. The nightmares had been so vivid; she refused to sleep unless it was light out.
When she’d confessed to Dylan why she kept forgetting her homework and couldn’t memorize her lines for the festival’s production of The Bewitching of a City, he’d told her she needed a Protector.
The idea stuck.
When Cecil refused to sell Florence one, she waited until he was in line in front of her for Sissy Neighbors’ “Unbeatable Kettle Corn” and tried to light his hat on fire. Dylan confiscated her Zippo before the flame reached the brim.