The Usurper's Crown (3 page)

Chapter One

Sand Island, Wisconsin, 1872

The bed frame creaked, and Ingrid Loftfield instantly opened her eyes. Moonlight streamed in through the mended curtains, laying a silver skin across the room’s sparse furnishings. It was more than enough to show Ingrid the silhouette of her sister Grace climbing out of their sagging bed. Unblinking, Grace rounded the bed’s foot. Ingrid held her breath. Grace’s hand strayed out to pick up her knitted shawl from where it hung on the post, but her eyes did not turn to see what her hand did. All her attention remained fixed on the bedroom door as she padded across the bare boards and out into the hall.

Ingrid kicked back the quilt and jumped to her feet. She pulled off her nightgown to reveal her dark skirt and work shirt. Her jaw firmly set, she bent down to stuff her feet into her worn boots.

Tonight she would find out what ailed her sister.

“She just wants a good shaking,” their brother Leo had announced.

“You’re too free with the girl.” Papa had glowered at Mama. “You should not let her go galloping across to Bayfield whenever she pleases. It’s some man, you see if it isn’t.”

“You must watch her, Ingrid,” Mama had whispered in the back kitchen as she banked the fire for the night. “The Devil’s finally got to her.”

Devil or man, I will have my answer
. Stepping as lightly as she could, Ingrid followed Grace into the hallway. Her sister was already down the stairs. Grace did not look back once as she slipped soundlessly out the front door.

Ingrid herself was halfway down the stairs. A floorboard creaked behind her. Ingrid twisted to see back over her shoulder. Her mother stood at the top of the stairs, a candle in her hand, and her face pale with some emotion Ingrid found she could not name.

“What is it, Mother?” she heard Papa’s gravelly voice call.

“Nothing,” Mama called back. “Nothing at all.”

Ingrid swallowed hard, and hurried out after her sister into the chill of the late-spring night. The brisk wind smelled of pine resin and the ever-present cold of Lake Superior. Grace all but flew down the footpath toward the rutted track that served as Eastbay’s main road. Gathering up her hems, Ingrid followed, her teeth gritted until they ached.

Tonight we put a stop to this
.

The settlement of Eastbay popped up here and there out of Sand Island’s wilderness like a cluster of spring mushrooms. It called itself a town, but it was little more than a scattering of dwellings connected by meandering dirt paths. Despite the fat, full moon that lit the night, the houses seemed blind and distant. Even the forge squatted darkly back in the woods. The trees loomed large and all the night noises — the rustling, hooting, rushing sounds — filled in all the empty spaces, leaving Ingrid with the unaccustomed sensation of being a trespasser.
This is not your place
, the whole world seemed to say to her.
Go back to your bed until the daylight comes. Leave her to us
.

But Grace hurried on before her, a pale ghost in her flannel nightdress, and Ingrid could not even think of turning back. Mama was trusting her to find out what was happening, and to do it quickly. If Papa found out Grace had gone out of sight of the house, unaccompanied, at night, Grace’s life would be made unbearable, whatever the reason turned out to be.

Grace’s illness had begun in May, just as the island’s short, late, spring was beginning to warm toward summer. Grace had been across on the mainland in Bayfield, earning a little extra by doing for Mrs. Hofstetter who had just been delivered of twins. Papa had objected to her going, but Grace had just faced him with her sunny smile and said — “Well, Papa, you can lock me in the shed if you choose, but unless you do, I’m going.”

Grace could do that. Grace could smile, and laugh, and glide her way through any storm of shouts or tears. Sometimes it was maddening, but most of the time Ingrid clung to her sister like a sailor clinging to a lifeline. She willingly shouldered Grace’s share of the work around house and field so that Grace might go to Bayfield. So that Grace might keep that easy smile.

Then, a squall had come up, suddenly, as they would in the spring, and Everett Lederle had burst into the back kitchen to tell Ingrid he had seen a great, gray wave swamp the small tug carrying Grace back home.

Ingrid had run then too, her skirts hiked about her knees so she could keep pace with her father and brother, sprinting through the driving rain down to the bay to help launch the boats and bend her back to row against the waves toward where the tug had last been sighted.

Lake Superior was the provider for everyone on the island, but it was also their collective enemy. No one would be left to its mercy while there was any chance she might be saved.

They pulled Frank and Todd Johanssen out of the frigid, grasping waters, but although they strained their eyes and shouted until their voices were hoarse, there was no sign of Grace.

Ingrid was blind with tears and rain when her father ordered them back to shore. Shaking, she’d climbed over the gunwale onto the sand, brushing aside all the hands that reached out to help. She would have to be steady when they told the little ones. Fiercely, she’d knuckled the water from her eyes, just in time to see a white shape burst from the gray lake. Leo saw it as well and threw himself into the water, grasping Grace by her shoulders before she could disappear beneath the surface again. Amid the cheers of their neighbors, Leo had dragged Grace shivering to the shore. Coats and oilskins had been thrown over her, and her family had led her home to a bright fire and a warm, dry bed.

She’d been sick for a time after that, to no one’s surprise. Mama had tended her with mustard baths for her feet and strong tea for her stomach. After three weeks, though, Papa began to ask what could possibly still ail the girl, and Mama urged Grace to come to the breakfast table. Leo and Papa frowned, sure she must be better by now, and equally sure she was lazing. But Ingrid looked at Grace’s pale cheeks, and saw how listlessly she picked at her porridge, and Ingrid knew in the depth of her heart something was still wrong.

The color in Grace’s cheeks did not return, nor did the saucy light that used to dance in her eyes. Instead, her skin remained as white as if she had just been pulled from the lake. If left to herself, she would stand at the front window gazing across the tiny, weed-choked yard. Mama or Ingrid could nag or cajole her into lending a hand with the work, but they found they had to keep a sharp eye on her, or her mind would drift and the copper tub for the laundry would be overturned, or on baking day the fire would be built so unevenly the loaves came out charred lumps.

“What is the matter with you, Grace?” Ingrid finally demanded in exasperation.

“I don’t know,” said Grace, tears brimming in her dimmed eyes. “I don’t know.”

Ingrid hugged her sister hard then, and let the matter drop.

After another two weeks of this, over even Papa’s grim objections, Mama summoned the doctor from Bayfield. He could find no crack in Grace’s skull, nor any irregularity in her eyes, heart, or breath. Nor did he find what Ingrid suspected was the greatest fear — that Grace was with child. He simply counseled patience and packed up his black bag.

But that same night, Grace began walking in her sleep. They found her first in the front room, kneeling on the horsehair settee and staring out the window. On the next night, she was standing in the front yard, staring hungrily at the closed gate. On the next, she was halfway down the track toward the bay, for all that Mama had locked and barred the doors for the night. When they questioned Grace afterward, she could give no answer, no hint of a reason for her behavior. In fact, she stopped talking at all. During the day, she would not get out of bed unless lifted bodily. She would not eat. Only Ingrid sleeping in a chair before the front door kept her inside at night.

It was desperation that had made Ingrid decide to follow Grace instead of barring her way tonight. Papa was talking about sending Grace away, and Mama’s tears told Ingrid that she would wail about such action, but she would not stop it. Mama’s tears only came when she was not going to take any other step.

Now, the darkness itself seemed to part for Grace’s effortless, hurrying feet. All the purpose that had drained from her during the daylight had returned and even when she took a sharp right turn off the road, her gait was sure and unhesitating. Ingrid was left to stump behind her, blessing the full moon and cursing the brambles and tree branches snatching at her hems and elbows.

Where are you going?
Ingrid thought, torn between frustration at her sister’s silent purpose, and fear that her noise would wake Grace from her trance at any moment. If Grace woke, she might simply return to her stupor, leaving Ingrid still without answers.
Much farther and you’ll be in the lake
.

Indeed, the shore was in sight. Lake Superior spread out black and silver below the gentle rise which Grace had climbed. Ingrid ducked behind a wild blueberry bush, catching her breath and narrowing her eyes suspiciously.
Grace, if this truly is because you are meeting some fisherman, it’s not Leo you’ll be getting your shaking from
.

The water was calm tonight, Ingrid noted. The moonlight highlighted only the barest ripples in the night-darkened water. She could just hear the sound of water lapping at the stones under the whisper of the wind through the trees. Grace paused for a moment on the top of the short bluff. In the light of the moon and a million stars, Ingrid saw her sister scan the shore, searching for Ingrid knew not what.

Then, Grace began to run, down the slope, right down to the narrow strip of sand at the water’s edge. Ingrid peered between the branches of the spindly shrub that sheltered her and watched Grace kneel beside what appeared to be a large stone.

“I came.” Grace’s voice drifted up to Ingrid on the chill, steady wind blowing off the lake. “I promised I would.”

“Cold,” answered a shivery man’s voice. “So cold.”

Ingrid shot up to her full height, uncertain which of the two on the shore she was going to murder first. But even her sudden motion and all the noise of it did not cause Grace to turn her attention from the man beside her. While Ingrid stormed down the hill, every fiber in her tight with fury, Grace just took off her shawl and draped it across the man’s shoulders.

“Is that better?” asked Grace.

The man was little more than a collation of indistinct planes and angles in the moonlight, but Ingrid saw him reach out one hand to pull the shawl more tightly around himself. “I never dreamed it would be so cold.”

“Let me help you,” urged Grace.

Which was all Ingrid could take.

“Grace Hulda Loftfield, what do you think you’re doing!” she shouted as she strode onto the sand.

The sound of her full name seemed finally to reach Grace. She tore her attention from the man. Ingrid planted herself before her sister, hands on hips. Grace stood slowly, her own hands dangling at her sides.

“Ingrid …” she breathed weakly, as if the strength that had brought her here had all flowed away.

“The whole family has been an uproar for weeks!” cried Ingrid, flinging her arms wide. “I thought you were ill, and all the while you were just waiting to sneak out to meet some man! Papa will thrash you within an inch of your life!” Ingrid rounded on the man. “As for you, sir …” and her voice froze in her throat.

The man had also stood up. He was sopping wet. Water dripped from the bedraggled ends of his curling hair. It ran in rivulets from down his naked shoulders and his sodden canvas trousers to puddle around his bare feet. Grace’s shawl clung to his shoulders, soaking up quarts of water. His chest was so sunken that Ingrid could see his ribs.

But it was not this that robbed her of her voice, nor was it even his hollow eyes or his gray skin. It was the silver sand behind him. Ingrid could see Grace’s moonlit shadow spreading clearly across that sand.

Beside her, the man cast no shadow at all.

“What are you?” Ingrid croaked. “Grace, come here.” She stretched out her hand. “Come away.”

“Ingrid …” said Grace, but she did not move. She just swayed in place.

“No,” said the man, whatever he was. He knotted the end of Grace’s shawl in his gray fingers. “Don’t leave me, Grace. I beg you.”

“Come here, Grace,” ordered Ingrid, fear and dawning comprehension giving her voice strength. “Now!”

Grace slumped her shoulders. “I can’t.”

The drowned man — against all reason, Ingrid knew that was what he was — clutched Grace’s shawl even tighter. “You promised you would help me. You promised you would not leave me here.”

“I won’t.” Grace lifted her foot to take a step toward the drowned man, but Ingrid dodged between them.

“Leave her alone!” she cried. Now that she stood before the ghost, she felt the cold. It rolled off him in waves and bit straight into Ingrid’s bones. It was cold beyond winter, beyond ice, beyond the waters of Lake Superior. It froze her blood in her veins and threatened to reach through to her soul. Ingrid staggered backward, trying to push Grace more fully behind her. Then, because she could think of nothing else that might help, she began — “Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name …”

At the sound of the prayer, the drowned man’s face twisted into a horrible scowl and a light came into the hollows of his eyes that filled Ingrid’s heart with fresh fear.

“No!” shouted the ghost, and his voice was like the winds of a winter storm. “There is no God where I am! He left me there in the dark but I will not stay! I will not stay!”

Ingrid snatched at Grace’s hand and turned to run, but her sister might have been a block of marble for all Ingrid could shift her. The ghost now gripped Grace’s shawl in both fists. “She promised,” he said grimly.

“I did.” Grace’s voice was as pale as her cheeks. “I promised. Under the water.”

“She’s mine.” The ghost slid closer.

“No.” Ingrid stepped back between them, trying to stiffen her spine against the all-consuming cold. “Jesus, Joseph, and Mother Mary, help me. You shall not have her.”