Prophecy of the Sisters (9 page)

We walk back to the house in silence. When Birchwood comes into view, Sonia puts a hand on my arm, looking upward. I follow
her gaze to see Alice watching us from an upstairs window.

“Do be careful, Lia,” Sonia says. “Be careful until we find some understanding.”

My sister is too far away for me to see her expression, but even still, I feel the cold fingers of fear at the sight of her
shadowy figure in the window.

Sonia and I continue to the courtyard, and I watch as she leaves in her hired carriage. I wait for it to disappear down the
tree-lined path before turning away from the house. I don’t wish to speak to Alice about Sonia. Not yet.

I hear the rush of water before I come to the riverbank. Last week’s rain has filled the river to the brim, causing it to
race over the rocky bottom at a furious pace. Stepping off the stone terrace, I head into the sheltered copse of evergreens,
maples, and oaks. It is almost lunchtime, and I wonder if James will be waiting.

“James?” My voice would be quiet in any other setting, but here it resonates among the serenity of the riverbank. “Are you
here, James?”

Strong arms grab me from behind, lifting me off my feet. A squeal escapes my throat, and I kick my feet in blind instinct
to free myself from the steely grip. As I lift my fists, preparing to pummel my unseen assailant, I am turned around to face
my captor. Warm lips close on mine, his hands loosening their grip on my shoulders and finding their way into my hair instead.

I lose myself in the kiss, feeling as if the river rushes through me, all the way from the hair on my head to the soles of
my feet.

Then I shove and step away.

“Ugh! Goodness, James! You gave me such a fright!” I favor him with a childish and ineffective punch to the shoulder. “Someone
might have come upon us!”

He laughs, covering his mouth with a palm as if to compose himself. His face becomes more serious when he sees the expression
on my face. “I’m sorry, Lia. Really. But who else would grab you so?”

There is still a trace of amusement in his eyes, and I glare at him in the hopes of removing it.

He comes closer, looking around and pulling me taut against him. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I’m only happy to see you.
It takes such effort to see you in the library in front of my father, to see you on the street with Alice, to see you anywhere
at all and not do this.”

He pulls me closer for an instant, and I feel the length of his body against mine. It steals my breath, and for a moment there
is no prophecy, no book, no mark.

Only James’s warm body against mine.

I am embarrassed at the effect of his touch. I don’t want him to feel my heart striking against the bodice of my gown or to
hear my catching breath, so I pull away, eyeing him playfully.

“You’ve grown bold,” I tease.

He laughs then, and the birds in the trees above us take flight, frightened by the exuberance of it. “Me? Bold? That’s quite
funny coming from one of Wycliffe’s rogue young ladies!”

My cheeks become hot at the mention of our escape yesterday from Wycliffe. There wasn’t time to tell James of our visit to
Sonia Sorrensen’s. Not in the chaos that ensued after our return. And I am grateful for the reprieve, if the truth is told.
Sonia’s behavior during the sitting so unnerved me that I hadn’t decided how to explain it to James. He knows only what we
told Miss Gray — that we fancied a bit of fresh air and took an impromptu stroll. Now, after my discussion with Sonia over
the lake, I am quite certain that it is best for all concerned if that remains the story of record.

“Besides,” James continues, oblivious to my turmoil, “I might say you
make
me bold, and what of it? Why else do we come to our favorite place, to the shelter of the tree and the comfort of our rock?”
He sits on the rock then, as if to demonstrate its comfort, grimacing in play at its hard surface. “All right, then. Perhaps
the rock isn’t as comfortable as I remember.… Or perhaps it is only more comfortable when you are near.” He lifts his eyebrows,
patting the spot next to him and grinning wickedly.

I smile at his attempt to get me closer, making my way to the rock and dropping next to him. “Actually, there’s something
I should like to tell you. Something I think may have to do with the book you found in Father’s library.”

His grin fades. If there is one thing that might take James’s mind off the less virtuous reasons for our meetings by the river,
it is discussion of a rare book. “What is it?”

Drawing a deep breath, I take the smallest possible step forward. That is how the telling will have to be done. “I believe
I understand the reference to the Guardian and the Gate, however much one
can
understand such a thing.”

“Really? But it sounds like such gibberish!”

I look down at my skirt, smoothing it across my lap while I begin. “Yes, well… I might have agreed only a couple of days ago,
but now… well, now I know there
is
a story… a story about sisters, actually. Twins, like Alice and me.”

He listens mostly in silence, interrupting once or twice to clarify parts of the story he doesn’t understand. But his questions
are those designed to further the scholarly pursuit of knowledge. They are not questions in the true sense, not in the sense
that he actually believes the story is real. Instead, he listens as if to a fairy tale. I tell him everything save mention
of the mark. When I am finished, silence fills the space around us as full as any words.

He finally speaks, his voice gentle, as if not wanting to hurt my feelings. “But… Why have I never heard this tale, Lia? Certainly,
as a bookseller, as one who assists serious buyers in the amassing of their collections, I would have heard of it if it had
any merit.”

His doubt raises doubt of my own. Doubt that the prophecy might be believable to anyone but those of us with the irrefutable
proof of the mark.

I shrug. “I don’t know, James. I wish I could answer you, but I cannot.”

This is the point at which I should show him the mark. It is well hidden beneath the long sleeve of my gown, but I can almost
feel it burning, a silent reminder that there is one important detail I have omitted from the story.

But I don’t tell him. I would like to say it is because I’m afraid he won’t believe me, or that it is because I want to keep
him from becoming involved in something so dark. But the truth is I feel the mark as a scar. It brands me as damaged, unclean.

And I cannot bear for James to know. Not yet.

Going to bed is not as easy as it once was. I lie there, trying to force my mind to the blank page that will allow me to sleep.

But the words of the prophecy, the shadow of my sister in the upstairs window, the mark naming me as a thing I scarcely understand
— they all conspire to keep me from rest. I finally rise and cross the room to my writing table.

How is it that the legend Sonia told me by the lake is the same as the one in Father’s ageless book? And how have I come to
share virtually the same mark with someone like Sonia? A spiritualist, no less. I
feel
the questions trying to make sense of themselves, trying to fit together into something solid, something I can hold with
both hands and begin to understand.

Opening the book, I remove James’s translation and read the prophecy, trying to make sense of the senseless. A cold chill
runs up the fine bone of my back as I read again about the sisters. But it is after the tale of the twins that the prophecy
leaves me behind.

If I am the Guardian and Alice the Gate, what part does Sonia play in this strange story? And what of the Angel? If I am unable
to decipher the identity of so central a figure as the Angel, how am I to understand how to fulfill my role as Guardian? How
might I foil Alice’s role as Gate?

I bend my head back to the book, reading the prophecy again until I come to the mention of the keys.

Let the Angel’s Gate swing without the Keys, followed by the Seven Plagues and No Return.

I reread the line, willing my mind to find the answer. Even in my current state of ignorance, it is quite simple; without
the keys, something terrible will happen. Something that cannot be undone.

If Alice and I are on conflicting sides of the prophecy, the keys would almost certainly be dangerous in her hands, which
means I have to find them.

And I have to do it before my sister.

Alice does not mention Sonia on our way to Wycliffe the next day. I have spent the time since Sonia’s visit avoiding my sister,
hoping to put off her inquiry. I imagine my reprieve over and brace myself for Alice’s questions, but she remains silent.
It is as if she already knows everything. And the knowledge she has she intends to hold dark and close.

Our return to school is far from celebrated. Whether because Victoria blames Alice for the forbidden outing to Sonia’s or
resents us for not having to submit to a more severe punishment, she and her closely guarded circle of friends greet us with
icy stares. Only Luisa seems happy to see us, me in particular.

She leans toward me during breakfast, having taken the seat next to me as if she has been sitting there all along. “Are you
all right?”

I nod. “Oh, but I
am sorry,
Luisa! Did you get in a lot of trouble?”

She smiles. “Some, but it only made things more interesting. I don’t regret a thing!”

After breakfast we are led through our paces in music, literature, and language. The day passes in a haze of whispered innuendo
and mean-spirited laughter. By the time we file outdoors for the last lesson of the day, Landscape in Art, I cannot help noticing
the stillness of Alice’s expression or the way she holds her head too high, her back too straight. She avoids my eyes. For
Alice, isolation is preferable to pity.

The easels are set up in the courtyard, facing the modest garden that is all but dead with the coming winter. Though the sun
shines, the air is frigid with cold, and I realize this will likely be one of our last outdoor lessons of the year.

“Lia! Over here!” Luisa calls, her breath a puff of smoke, waving to me from an easel near the brick wall.

Making my way to Luisa, I am grateful and surprised all over again at her clear offer of friendship.

“I saved you an easel.” She waves to the empty easel on her right, smiling up at me from her stool, paintbrush already in
hand.

“Thank you. What object shall I torture today?” I am not well known for my artistic ability.

Luisa laughs. Not the polite giggle I am accustomed to from the girls at Wycliffe, but a full-fledged, joyous laugh. “I don’t
know. Perhaps you should choose something that’s already dying.” Her eyes drift to Mr. Bell, our art teacher, as he stands
before us on the stone walkway that winds through the gardens.

Mr. Bell is not dapper, exactly, his face slightly too long and narrow and his hair carefully combed to hide the emerging
bald spots, but he is otherwise quite normal. It is not his looks but his status as bachelor that is much discussed and wondered
about among the girls at Wycliffe. Wycliffe’s students, particularly those who live there, are carefully sheltered from the
attention of men. Any man of marriageable age who is, in fact, not married is worthy of speculation, thinning hair or no.

“Ladies, as you know, autumn will soon be behind us. Today you will choose an artist from those we have studied, and using
that artist as a guide, you may paint any scene from the garden that you wish. Given the cold, we will only have a few days
to finish, so please work quickly and with focus. That is all.”

Luisa is already absorbed in her painting, the beginnings of color taking shape on her canvas. I scan the dying garden for
something worthy of my almost certainly doomed efforts. Dismissing anything too vibrant or complicated, my eyes light on a
pointed purple flower, dark as a plum. It is a simple arrangement, one even I may be able to replicate.
Good enough,
I think.

I am determined to do my utmost when something catches my eye. It is Luisa, her hand poised over the canvas, the tip of her
brush stroking an area of barren purity.

But not just Luisa. Her hand, her wrist, peeking out from her red velvet cloak and the silver bracelet loosely covering the
white of her skin.

And the Mark. Sonia’s Mark.
Mine.

It is only a sliver, only the smallest of outlines, but I would recognize it anywhere.

“Whatever is the matter? Lia? What is it?” Luisa’s brush drips emerald paint, her eyes full of concern.

“Your… The… Where did you get that?” I cannot take my eyes from her slender wrist.

She follows my gaze, looking down at her hand, eyes wide with panic. Her brush clatters to the ground as she pulls the sleeve
of her cloak down over her wrist.

“It’s nothing. Only a scar.” She bends to pick up her brush from beneath the easel, her face white.

“I don’t…” But I am unable to finish. Mr. Bell has suddenly appeared behind us.

“Miss Milthorpe, Luisa. What seems to be the problem?” He surveys our canvases with a critical eye, avoiding our faces entirely.
Even with the questions beating through my brain, I am angry that he has addressed Luisa by her first name, saving the more
respectful “Miss” for me.