Guardian of the Gate, Page 2

  “You try.” I smile and try to make my voice cheerful as I encourage Sonia to take her turn at the well-used target. This, even though we both know it is unlikely that she will actually hit it. Sonia’s gifts for communicating with the dead and traveling the Plane do not, as it turns out, translate to a talent for archery.

  She rolls her eyes, raising the bow to her slender shoulder. Even this small gesture causes me to smile, for not so long ago Sonia would have been too serious for such lighthearted humor.

  Threading the arrow, she pulls back on the string, her arms shaking with the effort of holding it taut. When launched, her arrow wobbles through the air, landing silently in the grass a few feet from the target.

  “Ugh! I think that’s enough humiliation for one day, don’t you?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer. “Shall we take the horses to the pond before supper?”

  “Yes, let’s,” I answer without bothering to ponder the question. I am not eager to relinquish the freedom of Whitney Grove in favor of the tightly bound corset and formal dinner that await me later this evening.

  I sling the bow across my back, packing the arrows within my knapsack, and we cross the archery range to our horses. Mounting up, we start across the field to a glimmering streak of blue in the distance. I have spent so many hours astride my horse, Sargent, that riding him is second nature. As I ride, I survey the lush openness spread out in every direction. There isn’t another soul in sight, and the utter isolation of the landscape makes me grateful all over again for the quiet haven of Whitney Grove.

  The fields here stretch in every direction. They give Sonia and me the privacy required for riding in men’s breeches and practicing with the bow, both pastimes that would hardly be considered appropriate for young women within the confines of London. And while Whitney Grove’s accompanying cottage is quaint, we have thus far used it for nothing more than changing into our breeches and the occasional cup of post-exertion tea.

  “I’ll race you!” Sonia calls over her shoulder. She is already pulling away from me, but I don’t mind. Giving Sonia an edge on horseback makes me feel that we are still on equal footing, even if it is with something as simple as a friendly horse race.

  I spur Sargent forward, leaning over his neck as his muscled legs break into a run. His mane licks like ebony fire toward my face and I cannot help but admire his glistening coat and superior speed. I catch up to Sonia rather quickly but pull back on the reins a little, maintaining my position just behind her gray horse.

  She holds her lead as we cross the invisible point that has been our finish line through many races. As the horses slow, she looks back over her shoulder.

  “Finally! I win!”

  I smile, trotting my horse up to her as she comes to a stop at the bank of the pond. “Yes, well, it was only a matter of time. You’ve become an excellent rider.”

  She beams with pleasure as we dismount and lead the horses to the water. Standing in silence as they drink, I marvel that Sonia is not out of breath. It is hard to imagine a time when she was afraid to sit astride a horse, let alone gallop over the hills as we do now at least three times a week.

  Once the horses have slaked their thirst, we walk them over to the great chestnut tree that grows near the water. Tying them to the trunk, we sit on the wild grass, leaning back on our elbows. The wool breeches we wear while riding pull at my thighs, but I do not complain. Wearing them is a luxury. In a few hours, I will be laced tightly into a silk dress for dinner with the Society.

  “Lia?” Sonia’s voice drifts on the breeze.

  “Hmmm?”

  “When will we go to Altus?”

  I turn to look at her. “I don’t know. When Aunt Abigail believes I’m ready to make the journey and sends for me, I suppose. Why?”

  For a moment, her usually serene face seems to darken with turmoil, and I know she is thinking about the danger we face in seeking the missing pages.

  “I suppose I’d simply like to have it done with, that’s all. Sometimes…” She turns away, surveying Whitney Grove’s grounds. “Well, sometimes all our preparation seems pointless. We are no closer to the pages now than we were when we first arrived in London.”

  There is an uncommon edge to her voice, and I feel suddenly sorry that I have been so wrapped up in my own difficulty, my own loss, that I have not thought to ask about the burden that is hers.

  I drop my gaze to the sliver of black velvet around Sonia’s wrist. The medallion. Mine. Even on her wrist as it is for my protection, I cannot help wanting to feel the soft dry velvet of the ribbon, the coolness of the gold disc against my skin. My strange affinity with it is both my millstone and my cause. It has been so since the moment it found me.

  Reaching out to take her hand, I smile, feeling the sadness of it on my face. “I’m sorry if I don’t thank you enough for sharing my burden. I don’t know what I would do without your friendship. Truly.”

  She smiles shyly and pulls her hand away, waving it at me dismissively. “Don’t be ridiculous, Lia! You know I would do anything for you. Anything at all.”

  Her words soothe the worry at the back of my mind. With all the things to fear, all the people to distrust, there is a significant measure of peace in the friendship that I know will always be ours, whatever else may come.

  The dinner crowd at the Society is as civilized as any other. The differences lie under the surface and are visible only to those of us in attendance.

  As we move through the crowd, my earlier distress slips from my shoulders. Though the prophecy itself is still our secret, mine and Sonia’s, it is here that I come closest to being myself. Aside from Sonia, the Society has been my sole source of companionship, and I am forever grateful for Aunt Virginia’s letter of introduction.

  Spotting a well-coiffed silver head in the crowd, I touch Sonia’s arm. “Come. There’s Elspeth.”

  Catching sight of us, the older woman winds her way gracefully through the throng until she is standing before us with a smile. “Lia! Darling! So glad you could come! And you as well, dear Sonia!” Elspeth Shelton leans in, kissing the air near our cheeks.

  “We wouldn’t have missed it for the world!” Sonia’s cheeks flush pale pink over the deep rose of her gown. After years spent in confinement at Mrs. Millburn’s in New York, Sonia has blossomed under the warm attention of others who share her gifts and have many of their own.

  “I should hope not!” Elspeth says. “I can hardly believe it was only eight months ago that you two appeared on our door with Virginia’s letter in hand. Now, our gatherings would not be the same without your presence, though I daresay your aunt expected a good deal more oversight from me.” She winks wickedly, and Sonia and I laugh aloud. Elspeth may have found her calling in organizing the Society’s events and social gatherings, but she leaves Sonia and me ample room to be independent. “I must say hello to the others, but I shall see you both for dinner.”

  She makes her way toward a gentleman I recognize as old Arthur Frobisher, though he is currently attempting to demonstrate his prowess with invisibility. It is said in the halls of the Society that Arthur descends from a long line of Druid high priests. Even so, his age makes his spells weak, and the faint outline of his graying beard and rumpled waistcoat can be seen through a haze, even as he speaks quite clearly to a younger member.

  “You do realize Virginia would have a conniption if she knew how little chaperoning Elspeth has given us?” Sonia’s voice is playful at my side.

  “Of course. But it is 1891, after all. And besides, how would Aunt Virginia ever find out?” I grin at Sonia.

  “I won’t tell if you won’t!” She laughs aloud, nodding to the others milling about the room. “Let’s say hello to everyone, shall we?”

  I scan the room, looking for someone we know. My eyes light on a young gentleman near the elaborately carved staircase. “Come, there’s Byron.”

  We make our way across the room, snippets of conversation drifting to me on the pipe smoke and incense, thick in
the air. When we finally reach Byron, five apples spin through the air before him in perfect time as he stands with his eyes closed, arms at his sides.

  “Good evening, Lia and Sonia.” Byron does not open his eyes as he greets us, the apples continuing their circular dance. I have long since stopped wondering how he knows we stand before him though his eyes are often tightly closed while he performs some parlor trick or another.

  “Good evening, Byron. Getting quite good, I see.” I nod toward the apples, though surely he cannot see the gesture.

  “Yes, well, it amuses children and, of course, the ladies.” He opens his eyes, looking right at Sonia as the fruits drop one by one into his hands. He presents one of the crimson apples to her with a flourish.

  I turn to Sonia. “Why don’t you stay and ask Byron to divulge the secrets of his… talent while I fetch us some punch?” It is clear from the gleam in Sonia’s eye that she enjoys Byron’s company — and clear from the look in his that the feeling is mutual.

  Sonia smiles shyly. “Are you certain you don’t want me to accompany you?”

  “Quite. I’ll be right back.” I am already making my way to the crystal punch bowl shimmering at the other end of the room.

  I pass the piano, a tune tinkling with no one at its keys, and try to gauge the player from among those milling about the room. An iridescent wave of energy connects a young woman sitting on the sofa to the ivory keys across the room, marking her as the gifted pianist. I smile to no one in particular, pleased with my observation. The Society offers me endless opportunities to refine my gifts.

  When I reach the punch bowl, I turn back to look at Sonia and Byron. Just as I expected, they are deep in conversation. Returning too quickly with the punch would make me no friend at all.

  Leaving the parlor, I follow the sound of voices coming from a darkened room down the hall. The door is only half closed, and when I peer through its opening, I see a group congregated around a circular table. Jennie Munn is preparing to lead the attendees through a sitting. I cannot help but be pleased, for Jennie has been schooled by Sonia in the strengthening of the powers with which she was born.

  Jennie instructs those seated at the table to close their eyes, and I pull the door farther shut as I pass down the hall, heading for the small courtyard at the rear of the building. I reach for the door, wondering if I will need my cloak, when I notice my reflection in the glass on the wall. I am not one given to vanity. That was always Alice’s place. Indeed, I always thought her more beautiful than I, despite the fact that we are identical twins. But now, seeing my face reflected in the glass, I almost do not recognize myself.

  The face I once bemoaned as too round, too soft, has sprouted elegant cheekbones. My green eyes, inherited from my mother and always my best feature, have developed a force and intensity not present before, as if all the suffering and triumph and confidence gained in these past months has been cast, shimmering like a jewel, into their depths. Even my hair, before only brown, gleams with health and radiance. My pleasure is a secret rush as I step into the chill night behind the Society’s brownstone.

  The courtyard is empty, as I knew it would be. It is my favorite escape when we come here to dine. I am still unused to the heavy incense preferred by the more ardent sorceresses and spiritualists, and I breathe deeply of the cold night air. My head clears as the oxygen cuts a path through my body. I make my way along the stone walkway that winds around a garden tended by Elspeth herself. I have never been very good with planting and gardening, but I recognize some of the herbs and shrubs about which Elspeth has tried so mightily to educate me.

  “Are you not afraid, out here in the dark?” The deep voice comes to me from the shadows.

  I straighten, unable to make out the face or form of the man to whom the voice belongs. “No. Are you?”

  He chuckles, and it is like warm wine spreading its fingers through my body. “Not at all. In fact, sometimes I think I should be more afraid of the light.”

  I pull myself back to the present, opening my palms to the darkness around us. “If that is true, then why don’t you show yourself? There is no light here.”

  “So there isn’t.” He steps into the dim glow of the half moon, his dark hair gleaming even with so little illumination. “Why do you come into the chill, empty garden when you might be inside, laughing in the company of friends?”

  It is odd to come across someone unfamiliar at a Society gathering, and I narrow my eyes in suspicion. “Why should you care? And what brings you to the Society?”

  All members of the Society zealously guard its secrets. To those outside our walls we are nothing more than a private club, but the witch hunts of old would be nothing compared to the outcry that would arise were our existence to become widely known. For though there are those in “enlightened” society who seek the counsel of simple spiritualists, the power that truly exists among our ranks would frighten even the most open-minded individual.

  The man steps closer. I cannot discern the color of his eyes, but the intensity with which they survey me is unmistakable. They travel over my face, down the length of my neck, and rest lightly on the pale rise of my breasts above the moss-green bodice of my gown. His eyes skip quickly away, and in the moment before he takes a step back, I feel the heat emanating between our bodies and hear the quick breath in the air around us. I cannot be sure whether it is his or mine.

  “It is Arthur who extended the invitation.” The warmth is gone from his voice, and he suddenly sounds very much the proper gentleman. “Arthur Frobisher. Our families have known one another for a number of years.”

  “Oh, I see.” My sigh is audible in the night. I don’t know what I expected, why I held my breath in fear. I suppose it is difficult to trust anyone when I know the Soul’s ability to change shape into virtually anything — most easily a human body.

  “Lia?” Sonia’s voice calls to me from the terrace.

  I have to pull my eyes from the gaze of the man. “In the garden.”

  Her shoes click on the terrace, growing louder as they approach us on the stone walkway. “What are you doing out here? I thought you were going for punch!”

  I wave my hand vaguely toward the house. “It’s hot and smoky inside. I needed some air.”

  “Elspeth has asked that dinner be served.” Her gaze drifts to my companion.

  I look at him, wondering if he thinks me rude. “This is my friend, Sonia Sorrensen. Sonia, this is… I’m sorry. I don’t even know your name.”

  He hesitates before making a small, formal bow before us. “Dimitri. Dimitri Markov. It’s a pleasure.”

  Even in the dim light of the garden, Sonia cannot hide her curiosity. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Markov, but we must make our way to the dining table before Elspeth sends out a search party!” It’s obvious she would much prefer to stay here and determine what I am doing in the garden with a dark and handsome stranger than go inside for dinner.

  I hear the smile in Dimitri’s reply. “Well, we cannot have that, now, can we?” He tips his head toward the house. “Ladies, after you.”

  I follow Sonia toward the house, and Dimitri falls in step behind me. Aware of his eyes on me, I feel a thrill even as I try to banish the whisper of disloyalty to James and, if I am honest, more than a hint of suspicion.

  3

  Later that night, I sit at the desk in my chambers, fingering the envelope of another letter from James.

  It is useless to delay reading it. I already know that it will not get easier. There will be no sudden strength to brace me against the pain I know will come, as it always does, when I read his letters. And allowing it to remain unopened is not an option. James deserves to be heard. I owe him that much.

  Reaching for the sterling letter opener, I slide it under the flap of the envelope in one motion, pulling the paper from it before I have time to change my mind.

  June 3, 1891

  Dearest Lia,

  Today I walked by the river, our river,
and thought of you. I remembered your hair shimmering in the light and the soft curve of your cheek as you bowed your head, your smile teasing me. It is nothing new that I remember these things. I think of you every day. When you first left, I tried to imagine a secret grave enough to cause you to leave me. I could not, because there is no secret, no fear, no task that could ever willingly keep me from you. I suppose I always believed that you felt the same.

  I think I have finally come to accept that you are gone. No, not only gone, but gone in such silence that even my repeated letters bring no word, no hope.

  I would like to say that I still believe in you and in our future together. And perhaps I do. But now I am left to do the only thing I can — to take back my life and the loss felt without you in it. So let us just say, then, that we will both go on as we must.

  Should our paths cross again, should you desire to come back to me, perhaps I will still be waiting on our rock by the river. Perhaps one day I will look up and see you standing in the shade of the great oak that sheltered us through so many stolen hours.

  Whatever happens, you will always have my heart, Lia.

  I hope you remember me well.

  James

  I am not surprised. Not really. I left James. My one and only letter, written to him the night before Sonia and I departed for London, gave no answers. No explanation. It offered only a declaration of love and a vaguely worded promise to return. Those things must seem very empty to James in the absence of a response to his letters. I cannot blame him for feeling the way that he does.

  My thoughts travel down a familiar and beloved path. One in which I tell James everything and confide in him as I was unable to do before leaving New York. One in which he stands by my side as I work to bring the prophecy to a conclusion that might allow us, finally, to share a future.