Heart Murmurs (14 page)

****

I look up through the trapdoor at Beth's face for what I desperately hope will not be the last time. Morgan steps away, but I hesitate.

“Beth, if something happens. My parents. I don't want them to be left not knowing.”

She gives me a sad, knowing smile. Yes, she's left parents. Parents she deeply loved, despite their flaws. “The stump, remember? I'm already in trouble so… write them, put it in the stump, and I'll see they get it.”

I nod and give her a little wave — and plunge forward, not looking back when I hear the door slam shut. I look down at my jeans and boots and wonder if I should be in period dress.

“Morgan—” He turns and the words die on my lips.

His eyes widen. “What?”

“You're. You're black and white?”

“Really? I still see myself in color. And I see you in color. I look black and white to you?”

I nod furiously.

He shakes his head, staring at his arms in confusion. “We'll figure that out later. I have so much to tell you. They won't make this easy for us.”

“What do you mean?”

“To get to them. We are breaking rules by approaching them, unannounced. It's almost like the English Court from way back. We should be summoned. And there is no
popping in
without an appointment.”

As we walk down the tunnel, it's utterly quiet. No people coming or going. But the flowers rise and grow behind every step we take.

They giggle again. I squeeze Morgan's hand. “Can you hear them?”

His eyes stay forward. “Yes. Don't encourage them. Just keep moving.”

The tunnel shivers. The walls wavering, altering. They look gelatinous as they sever, cleaving into four separate openings. My heart beats wildly in my chest. “Morgan — what do we do?”

He turns to face me, his eyes intense and serious. “Choices. Life is all about choices, Mia. Remember that. Even when it seems all is lost, we still always have a choice.”

Fear is blistering my skin, shaking my hands. I grab both of his and squeeze. “Why are you saying this? Are you keeping something from me? Morgan, please — I can't bear not knowing. Will I be with you or not?”

His face twists in pain again, but he manages a smile for me. “War taught me nothing is guaranteed. I love you, Mia. Remember that, no matter what happens, no matter what you see in these tunnels. Things aren't always what they seem. I believe they will try to separate us.”

I shake my head. “I won't let them. Morgan — I only feel whole when I'm with you.”

He smiles, still sad. “That's my girl. Keep that thought…” he hesitates. “Close to your heart. Now choose.”

“Me? Why me?”

“You're the writer Mia. I'm a soldier, a mere courier.”

“Well… I'm nothing, to this court.”

“I don't know. I have suspicions.”

“You're projecting, Morgan. Wanting me to be part of the court because
you
are—so you can prove we fit together.”

“My being with you has nothing to do with the court. We shall see. Choose. I trust you.” His hand caresses mine. I feel the courage rise.

I point to the left. “This one.”

****

We step from the tunnel.

“We are inside now.”

“Inside where?”

“No time to explain. It's dangerous, Mia. We need to find a safe spot immediately.”

Color erupts in isolated sections — the toadstools, a pumpkin, a variegated ivy, weaving its way around a meandering stone fence. The blips of color are brighter and more dazzling than anything I've ever seen in my world.

It's reminiscent of The Wizard of Oz, when they flicked colored bits onto the wholly black and white scene. Who knows, maybe that's the source of their creation? Isolated islands of forest color stand out and glow against the darkened landscape.

The contrasts and shadows make everything look like it's bleeding; foreground into background… a comet's tail.

A vast, dark forest stands as far as the eye can see.

I feel like crying. Like I always do when I see something so amazingly and naturally majestic. Like the humpbacks and their song when my parents took me whale watching long ago.

Morgan reaches for me. He pulls me close, one hand sliding into my hair, balling into a desperate fist. His kiss is intense and his breath shudders with what I know is fear. “Remember. Do not let them make you doubt.”

“Never.”

He swallows. “Keep close.”

We walk to the stone fence, which is long and winding, like a snake. It reminds me of pictures I have seen of Ireland.

We haul our legs over it, and a thunderclap vibrates so close my teeth rattle. Instantly, a deluge of rain pours down as the skies open wide.

Morgan grips my hand and runs, weaving me in and out of the tightly knit trees. It's almost a thicket.

“How do you know where to go?”

“Look closer.”

I squint and, indeed, see a slightly luminescent trail, side-winding through the forest. “Should we follow this? What if it's a trap?”

“We haven't any control now. We must make good choices.”

I stop dead, letting the rain pelt my head. “
What do you mean
? I'm not taking one more step till you
explain
!”

“We're in their imagination.”

“What? Who?”

“The Literati. They have the ability to alter time and space, temporarily. Make their imagination take temporal shape. It's not a permanent state. One of them is creating this, as a test. Who knows what they're looking for, or if they're just playing with us? Some are cruel, some are kind, just like all mankind.”

My heart skips a beat, my mind recalling the names on the bookshelf. “So, we could be in Poe's imagination now?”

He shrugs. “Any one of them.”

The thunder growls. “We have to move. What if our pig friend has followed us?”

I nod. I still have so many questions. I try to focus on Morgan, the feel of his hand, to drive down the fear.

The rain stops. Just like the snap of a finger.

I picture it… and shudder. And wonder if someone, somewhere—did just that.

Up ahead, it's growing lighter. I seize the moment, raising my voice above the forest melody. Cicadas and crickets burst into song the second the rain ceases.

“What's the difference between a courier and Conductor again?”

He doesn't look at me. His eyes constantly sweep the forest for danger. “Couriers are just that. They lead
The Lost
from one time to another—under direction. They're able to see the tunnels, sense their presence. That is all.” He looks at my confused face. “Think of your nobility. Couriers are like knights. No nobility, all the work — just for the
honor
of being in the court.”

I nod, trying to keep it all straight. “And the Conductors?”

“The next level. Like an earl. They can manipulate the tunnels — control where they open and close. They command the couriers. They're guardians of the tunnel, the secrets. They can alter the tunnels — but are not supposed to. Definitely not for personal gain.”

We've arrived at the light. I grasp his hand, stopping him. “Beth's a Conductor?”

“Yes. Louisa was a courier.” His smile is sardonic. I know why.

“Louisa didn't like that. She thought she would be the Conductor, because of her writing.”

“Yes.”

“How did Beth get the stump to work? If she's not a Literati?”

He grits his teeth together, talking through them. “Beth is a writer — never famous. Too shy to share her words with her father… with her world. Sometimes, Conductors become too close to the tunnels, usually after they're tiring out. So she and the tunnel are becoming one. Another sign she should be freed. And the fact that Louisa had the actual stump put into the tunnel at her end. So it just whisked through time.”

He grabs me, hauling me forward, knowing I will keep pummeling him with questions.

The light changes and along with it, the scene. Like a movie fading from darkness to light.

“Another mind?” I ask. My voice trembles and I try to steady it.

“Yes.”

I gasp again. It's a field.

Of tulips, of every color: yellow, white, orange, pink, fuchsia. A strong wind picks up, blowing across their velvety heads; bowing them into an undulating sea of shades.

I smile, itching to fly into them, touch their silky tops.

Morgan grabs my elbow. “Careful, love. Evil can transform itself into light — or how else would it lure anyone to it?”

My mind trips. “Like a Venus fly trap.”

“Yes. Carefully, now.”

We weave our way into the depths of color. My eyes are transfixed, I can't look away.
I don't like it
.

Panic flutters my heart, and I hear the faintest whisper. They're calling to me.

“Morgan?” I hear the dread in my voice.

“Love?” He turns around and lunges to grab my other hand. “Don't touch them Mia!”

Too late. Like a gravitational force, I watch my other hand reach down, and stroke their lovely, silky heads. A beautiful, yellow, crystalline dust catches in an updraft. But I know it isn't pollen, though it's meant to look so.

I hear Morgan's far off voice, like I'm deep down in a well. “Oh, Mia. No. No.”

He screams, “You cannot have her — I will die if I have to. Do you hear me? You. Cannot. Have. Her!” His voice breaks through, closer for a short burst.

I fall into their soft, downy, flower-arms. They wrap around me, like a cocoon. I hear deep baritone strings as they twist around my head; cellos and violins. My eyes are open, but I cannot blink.

I see Morgan. Tears cut down his cheeks. His gun is drawn; he's spinning in circles around me, head swiveling.

What have I done?

I can't speak. Can't move. Catatonic.
Oh, no. I'm so sorry
.

What if I'm stuck like this? Forever?

A huge gust bends the flowers in two. And I see her.

Madelon. Cutting through the color.

Her raven hair bouncing against a gown of the deepest jade. Her fingertips tickle their heads, leaving behind a trickling cloud of the pollen-tonic.

Don't breathe it! Don't breathe it!

She reaches Morgan, who lowers his gun a fraction of an inch.

She notices, and smiles. She is so beautiful. Raven hair and matching coal-black eyes. Round, voluptuous curves. Much more so than my own small swells of flesh.
Oh, no
. I'm torn.
Am I really the one? Should he be with her?

I feel ill, but can't throw up. My stomach clenches.

“It's me.”

Her voice is wrong. Surely he hears it
?

It's like three sounds, overlapping. Out of time and dissonant. Like a wrong chord plucked during a heavenly symphony.

Madelon's long, elegant fingers reach up and stroke his cheeks.

He winces. Jams his eyes shut.

“Yes, my love. We are one now. She is I, I am she.”

NO!

I strike inside my mind, pummeling my motionless limbs. It's like trying to move a mountain. Futile.

The yellow dust swirls around Morgan in a spiraling tornado. Slowly at first — then faster and faster.

I can only see blips of them, as it thickens.

Yellow clots of crystal
. She is leaning in, licking her thick, red lips.

Yellow whirlwind
. Morgan's lips are parting; opening. Her hand drags along his chest. I hear his moan, and it breaks my heart.

I cannot watch
. But I must. My eyes are frozen open, like rigor mortis has set in. They sting and water with dust and tears.

Yellow webs, spinning around him.
And he's the fly, caught in the center.

I see her tongue dart into his mouth. I sob, without sound.

Suddenly, his eyes roll open, like a doll's.

He grasps both Madelon's wrists, wrenching his mouth free.

The yellow falters, dissipating, slowing in its revolutions
. The webs begin to melt.

The sky churns above, quickly turning gray and heavy. Thick clusters of snow begin to fall.

They dust the tulips, quickly hardening into hoarfrost.

Finally, my finger responds to my mind's desperate commands. I wiggle it furiously.

I feel the movement driving back the paralyzing pollen. I move my wrist. My lips twitch. I try to cry out.

Morgan's face is twisted in pain, as if he's forced to watch death, over and over. “I am so sorry, Madelon. I loved you. I did. But I know this isn't you. You are a facsimile — even if you don't know it. And even if you weren't — when I see the two of you —
it's Mia.
It's her I cannot bear to see with another. I release you—to someone who will feel the same.”

The whirlwind freezes in midair, crystals turn to diamonds, and then crash in a tinkling circle off the hoar frosted tulips.

He's stunned, unmoving. His shoulders slump. His red-rimmed eyes find mine.

“Oh, Mia. I'm so sorry.”