The Ghost Bride

by Stacey Keystone

  I breathed the morning air, feeling the smell of the wet soil, humid with the morning dew, fill my nose. The crisp, clean air, the intense smell of the morning glory flowers that covered the front lawn, the purple mallows that were attached to the walls of the house, and the poppies interspersed with the daisies in patches of the grass.

  I walked around, charmed, astounded, admiring the magical beauty of the house. Forgetting why I came here, I felt the sudden urge to take off my shoes, to feel closer to this place, to feel the soil, the ground, the pebbles on the garden paths. I looked around. Nobody was around. I lifted my skirt and untied my bootlaces, taking them off and leaving them discreetly behind a bush. The advantage of long skirts is that nobody will notice I have no shoes if I'm careful enough.

  As I walked on the ground, I could feel everything. The pebbles, the sand, the wet grass. It all felt familiar, as if I had walked on this path hundreds of times before. It felt great.

  I think I'd have spent a lot more time just walking around the garden, but the house, the house was calling me. I could hear it, its desire to see me, to greet me, to show me the beautiful way the morning sun danced on its walls, let me feel the soft, luxurious rugs under my feet, and walk among the portraits of my ancestors. I acquiesced.

  I went up the steps, the cold stone warming under my feet, as the house greeted me. By the time I grabbed the door handle, I could feel the house holding its breath, ready to welcome its long-lost daughter. I could feel tears in my eyes; nobody had ever waited for me as this house had. Greeted me with such love. I caressed the door. I'm here, I told the house. I'm here.

  As I pressed the door handle, I could feel the house's joy at being reunited with me, the one member of the family who was away, the child it had lost.

  The rugs were indeed soft and warm under my feet. The sun's dance on the walls made me want to sing, accompanying the movement, or at least tap my feet softly under the protection of the long, heavy skirt. The house guided me, telling me where to go. Up the stairs, where the main portraits were. The family's founder, Amalia Morad; her husband, also Azrikam. I guess that's who my uncle got named after. I walked around, examining the portraits, the people whose faces all looked so familiar. In the hall upstairs, I encountered a mirror. I was about to avoid it, but the house didn't understand. Why would I avoid my face, this face that was so similar to every other face in the portrait gallery? The face that showed I belonged to this house, to this bloodline. So I looked.

  My hair, still slightly blue this morning, was black now. My entire face had changed, slightly, but somehow making me indistinguishable from the other Morads. The color of my eyes darkened to an almost black brown. My face, previously white, became olive-colored; all the freckles and uneven skin tone had become a uniform, smooth brown. I was unmistakably, unmissably, a Morad. I touched the mirror, following the contour of my facial features. I looked so much like the portrait of Amalia Morad, my great-great-great- I don't know how many times -grandmother. The likeness was so self-evident, there was no chance my uncle would miss it.

  "So," I heard a voice behind me. "Are you Amy? Azrikam told me about you, child."

  I jumped, turning around. The house hadn't told me anybody else was here. When I expressed my disappointment, the house responded with incomprehension. This man wasn't a stranger. This man was my grandfather. If I remember correctly, his name was Ektolaf.

  "Hello, Mr. Morad," I said, stuttering. "I'm Amy, Amy Laurendeau."

  "We both know you aren't, don't we, Amy? Amy Morad," said the man, gently.

  I didn't know what to tell this man. This house... This house was mine. I could feel it in my blood, in the shadows of my memory. I could feel my ancestor's magic in this house, the same magic that filled my body. I could feel the house, the house that was happy to have somebody to talk to, because all its current inhabitants were deaf. It's not like it was complaining, you know, both Ektolaf and Azrikam were lovely, and Azrikam's wife Cloris, and their children Leila, Davyn and Nigel were a delight, but the house had been so long with nobody to talk to, it missed talking to people, you know, because it's not the same when you only listen but can't talk…

  But I wasn't sure I wanted to claim that name, my father's name, for myself.

  The house, at the mention of my father, felt guilty. It knew, from the beginning, there was something wrong with Mahalat. His impulsiveness, his casual cruelty, his thirst for power; the house saw it all but couldn't tell its inhabitants. If only they'd listen… That girl wouldn't have died.

  "Did Mahalat kill a girl in this house?" I asked the man.

  He seemed startled by the question.

  "How do you know about that?" he asked. "That case was sealed. Nobody's supposed to know."

  "So it's true," I said.

  The house apologized again, begging me to understand. I casually caressed the wall, letting the house feel my forgiveness. The house wasn't at fault. The people who had allowed that, however…

  Ektolaf was staring at me, wide-eyed.

  "Are you talking with the house?" he asked me, his voice full of incredulity.

  I nodded.

  "I've only ever heard of that," he said. "Some women in our family get the ability. They can understand children and can communicate with the house. An ability only given to those who are Morads by blood and magic right."

  I'd never heard of this magic right, but it sounded serious.

  "But you kicked my father out of the family," I said. "Doesn't that mean I was kicked out, too?"

  Ektolaf shook his head.

  "I thought so, too, at first," he said. "I thought the children of those who are taken out of the family lineage don't belong to the family anymore. But after Azrikam mentioned his suspicions, I checked in our family archives. They said that the children of those that are kicked out can always return to the house, as long as they retain magical capabilities. The house remembers its children and doesn't punish the blameless."

  "Does that mean…" I hesitated to finish the sentence.

  "Yes," my grandpa said. "You're a Morad, Amy. You're my granddaughter. Whatever your father did, to you, to others, to this family, it doesn't matter, since you are blameless. The house recognized you; your blood has expressed itself. Changing your name is just a meaningless formality. You're a Morad in all but name."

  I felt the joy of the house at this realization, finally reuniting all the members of the family under its roof. The family… I looked at grandpa, who seemed to hold tears in his eyes. With the same impulsiveness that had overcome me today, I hugged him, burying my head in his chest, this wide chest that felt soft with all the layers of clothing. He awkwardly hugged me back, placing his hands around my back.

  "I'm sorry, Amy. For your father. For not knowing about your existence. For not making sure Mahalat was caught, for allowing him to continue with his experiments. I am glad about everything that brought you to us, but I regret all the suffering caused to you on your way. I'm sorry."

  I held my tears, sniffling. I rarely hug people, nor do I get attached to people easily. I'm not sure why or how, though, grandpa felt like a close person to me now. As if I lived an entire lifetime with him.

  It was strange. I didn't feel the same way for my uncle, did I? Although Azrikam never seemed very welcoming, looking at me with suspicion, playing with me, trying to find everything about me. It was so strange that he invited me here, only to let grandpa greet me. The house agreed. Azrikam always wanted to be in charge of things, always feeling responsible for everything.

  So why wasn't he here, controlling the situation?

  "How cute," I heard another voice. "Father, did you have to greet her with open arms? She's Mahalat's daughter, after all. Bad blood."

  Azrikam was here, controlling the situation.

  I didn't release the embrace. Why would I? Azrikam had seen everything, he understood the situation perfectly, and I wasn't ashamed of hugging my grandfather.

  "Azrikam, son," grandpa said, pushing me away
gently. "The house accepted her. The house never accepted Mahalat. Not completely."

  "I can see that," Azrikam said. "She's still bad blood."

  "What degree of relatedness is required for the blood to be bad?" I asked. "Because according to genetics, I have half of my father's genes, but you, as a brother, may share more than half. Less than half, too. Do we need to do a DNA test to determine who here has the worst blood?"

  "Genes don't matter," Azrikam said. "Character and magical identity matter."

  "And she has all of that," grandpa said. "And the magical right to our family name."

  I decided to make a point.

  "Look," I told Azrikam, "if you don't want me to be part of your family and carry the Morad name, I won't. I'm perfectly happy continuing to work at Kaffale House, going to the Academy, and avoiding you."

  I felt a wave of jealousy. What did that other house offer that he didn't? It had much better light and a prettier garden. It also had a bedroom, just perfect for me, with plenty of shelves for books and shut down curtain and an exit directly to the garden, so I could walk barefoot and enjoy the sunrise every morning.

  "I'm sorry," I said, caressing the wall. It was weird, but the house felt alive enough. Like an animal or something. A being with feeling and emotions, and certain intelligence. "But I don't want to live where I'm not wanted."

  Azrikam observed the exchange, his facial expression inscrutable.

  "Do you talk to the house?" he asked.

  I nodded.

  "It complained about you being deaf," I said. "It said it noticed Mahalat's cruelty and tried to tell you about this. But none of you could hear."

  "Prove it," Azrikam said. "As a kid, I lost one of my favorite books somewhere, and I could never find it. The house should know where it is."

  15

  The house knew. I followed the path it showed me, towards what looked like a huge cupboard in one of the rooms. Then I grabbed a chair, stood on it, and introduced my hand into the half-inch gap between the cupboard and the ceiling. It seemed like that gap shouldn't have existed, but the bit of wood covering it had been carefully removed to create that hiding place. I couldn't introduce my hand there, because it was too big. Only a child could put their hand inside.

  "I think I might need a stick or something," I said, "to take it out."

  The house, eager to help, just pushed the book out for me, and I took it, extending it to Azrikam. Who was staring at my feet.

  "Why aren't you wearing shoes?" he asked.

  By standing on my tiptoes like this, I had uncovered my feet, the long, wide skirt and petticoats that hid them dangling in the air.

  I stepped down from the chair, extending him the book. 'The tales of the Dragons', a book I'd been reading to Bevan when he'd been having trouble sleeping. I think I've read it around twenty times by now, but Bevan wasn't too keen on me changing the book.

  "Is this the book?" I asked, offering it to him again.

  He stared at the worn, discolored cover, and sighed.

  "It is," he said. "Judging by the place you found it in, Mahalat must have hidden it from me. He liked to play games like that. I suspected him at the time but could never prove it. Why are you not wearing shoes?"

  He wasn't going to let go of the shoe question, was he?

  "I just felt like it," I said. "I didn't want to wear shoes in this house."

  He stared at my thick, navy skirt, where, under many layers of other skirts, I was barefoot. Why does he care so much, anyway?

  "Great," he said. "Just great."

  I wanted to go back to the initial point I was trying to make in this conversation.

  "Look," I said, "I was saying the truth before. I don't need to live here, I don't need your surname, I don't need your money, or you. I would like to talk to grandpa from time to time, and maybe visit, but if you're really against it, I won't."

  "You don't get a choice about that," Azrikam shrugged. "And neither do I. Father is right. You're a Morad by blood and magic right and acknowledging your surname only changes things on paper. Anybody who sees you will see you're a Morad, anyway. We should acknowledge it, or we'll look foolish denying it."

  "But you don't like it," I said.

  "It doesn't matter whether I like or not," Azrikam said. "I don't decide here. Even father doesn't make this decision. The house does."

  "I'll be glad to have you living with us, Amy," grandpa said.

  "Father is quite sentimental," Azrikam said. "It broke his heart to kick Mahalat out, even after everything he did."

  "He was my son," grandpa said. "Murderer or not, he was my son."

  I wasn't sure what to respond. I looked around. The room we were in was empty, bare, with nothing here. Unused and unloved, it felt like a sore spot in this house, which was lavishly and lovingly decorated with the family's knickknacks, books, furniture, personal objects, etc. Like they had stripped it bare for some reason, to tear down the very memory of its inhabitants. Inhabitant, rather.

  "This is Mahalat's room, right?" I asked.

  Azrikam nodded.

  "Yes," he said. "This is my brother's room."

  I stared at the cupboard, on top of which I found my uncle's childhood book.

  "Maybe we shouldn't talk here," I said.

  "I don't like this place," Azrikam agreed. "Let's go to the living room."

  The living room was cozy, full of bookshelves that contained fiction, with armchairs spread around it, the big windows brightly lighting the room. There were also big chandeliers, unused at the moment, hanging around the room like spiders.

  They sat on armchairs were around a table, and Azrikam waved his hand, making a tray of cookies, tea, and milk appear. He poured each of us a cup, to which I added the milk. There was no sugar on the tray. I didn't ask for it, since I could compensate the milky bitterness with the sweetness of the cookies, anyway.

  "Did you call me for this?" I asked Azrikam. "Because I thought you called me to ask me questions in your official capacity. Not as my uncle."

  "As loyal as I am to the Magic Council," Azrikam said, taking a sip out of his cup, "family comes first. I called you in my official capacity, probably abusing my authority, because I needed to see whether I was right."

  "And what are you going to do now?" I asked.

  "In my official capacity or as your uncle?" he asked.

  "Both."

  "Well, I'd like to start by hearing your story. Your full story," he said. "In both my official capacity and as your uncle."

  I looked at grandpa, who was nibbling on a cookie. I could see, by the way his eyes migrated from Azrikam to me, that he was paying attention.

  "Don't worry," Azrikam said. "Father would need to listen to the full story, anyway. We can't keep something that involves the family's secrets from the family's head. The Council has no right to do it."

  "OK," I said, also grabbing a cookie. It's not like I was hungry, but the cookie was an excuse to delay talking. I started nibbling on it, sipping on the milky tea in-between.

  Azrikam patiently waited, his hands interlaced in front of him. He could see I was stalling, but he was allowing me to do it.

  "I grew up on Earth," I started, because I had to start somewhere, right? "A magically isolated world. I'd never heard of magic there, except in fairytales. I don't remember anything unusual about me, except for my prodigious appetite. I never made things float, burn, freeze; I never had a magical outburst. I think this is because my magic was redirected, on an unconscious level, since I was a baby, towards my mother. My mother, who was an ordinary woman, had many health issues because she carried me. When I was sixteen, all her health issues were aggravated. She had cancer. I wanted to help, so I quit school and started working, trying to help as much as I could."

  I went on to explain everything, like how I started attending the Academy, how I read mother's letter, how I had issues with magic, and I got checked by a Healer, and Colonel Yaldai then came to investigate me, and how he brought me from
Earth to get Mahalat to reveal himself…

  "That boy needs a lesson," Azrikam said. "Hiding such an important issue from his superiors, and our family. Who does he think he is?"

  "I asked him to," I said. "I didn't want you to know. I wasn't sure how you'd react to your crazy brother's bastard daughter, and I didn't want to find out."

  "You aren't a bastard, Amy," grandpa then said. "There is no such concept in magical families. You either belong to a family or you don't. Anybody who has the family's blood and magic is a legitimate member of the family. And those who aren't, we take care of them, although sadly, they can't live in this house."

  "I could understand why you'd be scared," Azrikam said. "But Teyo Yaldai belongs to a magical family. He knows how these things work. He could have told you the truth and allayed your fears; instead, he fanned the flame. I place most of the guilt of this coverup on him."

  "You could have been living in this house since they brought here you from Earth," grandpa said, "in complete safety. Nothing the police can offer equals the protection of a magical house."

  "But would the house protect me from Mahalat?" I asked. "He is my father, after all."

  "We didn't just officially kick Mahalat out of the family," Azrikam said. "It was a full magical shunning. The house considers him a total and complete stranger, with no right to be here. We took away his magical right, although we obviously couldn't affect his blood."

  "But if it's so," I asked, "and he isn't the carrier of the magic bloodline anymore, how could I belong to it? When I couldn't inherit it from him?"

  "We're not sure," grandpa said. "This situation is highly unusual. High magicians are usually only born by female high magicians. And women rarely commit crimes heinous enough to get kicked out of a family. But in any case, with a woman, once she has a child, the child usually belongs to the father's family. Unless otherwise stated. We haven't heard of cases like yours before."