Chapter 21 #2
She pressed her lips together, and for a moment, I thought an angry tirade was going to burst through them. But then she seemed to deflate and gave me one curt nod.
“So it’s Bernadette’s silence you’re getting back, not your spirit guide’s.”
Again, a single nod of the head. I thought I saw her lip tremble, and I hastened to continue, because I didn’t think I could stand it if I had to witness Persephone Vesper burst into tears.
“I know I don’t need to remind you that Bernadette herself once reached beyond the veil for answers, and got much more than she bargained for.
I think she knows how dangerous it is when you can’t let go of what’s already gone before you. ”
“I’m not trying to resurrect anyone, Wren. She’s dead, and I know that. I’m just trying to… to…”
“To hold on,” I said quietly. “It’s natural. You weren’t ready to let go of her, and so you haven’t.”
There was no mistaking it now. Persi’s whole chin trembled as she fought against the unshed tears now glistening in her eyes.
“But, it’s like you said. They understand better, from where they are. They’re part of that… that collective consciousness that gives them a better perspective—a better viewpoint to take it all in and understand what it means.”
“Then the answers should come easier,” Persi said, shaking her head. “She should be able to tell me what I need to hear.”
“I think she might be.”
Persi stared at me, eyes bright with more than tears now. “That doesn’t make sense, Wren.”
“It does, though. I think she… I think the silence is the answer. She’s choosing not to answer you.”
“Why would she do that?” Persi asked, and the desperation in her voice nearly broke me.
“Because she loved you,” I said. “And she knows that you won’t be able to move on or heal if you keep looking behind you for what’s already gone. By staying silent, she’s telling you to look forward.”
Persi swallowed convulsively, her throat bobbing as she fought back a sob. “I don’t want to.”
“What we want to do and what we need to do are sometimes very different things,” I said.
Persi stared down at the spirit board in front of her, the candlelight winking off the smooth stone planchette.
Without warning, her hands shot out, and she flipped the board, sending the planchette tumbling to the floor along with the candle, a number of jars and bowls, and a mortar and pestle.
The candle extinguished, and one of the jars smashed into glittering shards.
We sat in silence for what felt like a long time, the only light now emanating from the moon, filtering in through the filmy white curtain that hung over the window.
“I knew she wouldn’t want me to.” The words were so small. “She was pulling away from me for a long time before she… died. I think she knew. I think she knew she would be gone, and she didn’t want me to… to…need her anymore. To love her.”
I listened, barely daring to breathe.
“But she has to know. Now. She has to know that you can’t just… just turn it off, blow it out like a candle. She must know it doesn’t work that way.”
“I’m sure she does. But she also understands that your life is in front of you. She wants you to live it, Persi. That’s why she stays silent. She loves you, too. She loves you enough to let you go.”
Persi didn’t reply, but the tears that had been threatening to spill over now slid in silent tracks down her cheeks.
The sight of them made me want to fling my arms around her neck and hug her.
I didn’t dare act on that impulse, but I couldn’t just sit there, watching her.
I compromised by reaching out and, after another moment’s hesitation, I placed my hand on top of hers.
I braced myself for her to shake it off, but she didn’t.
She started at the contact and then twisted her hand around so that she could entwine her fingers with mine.
She squeezed them tight and held them, anchoring herself against the tears she couldn’t fight anymore, while I simply sat. Sat and held her hand and let her cry.
We sat that way for what felt like a long time, and I wondered, if Ambrose had had someone to sit with him—sit with him and hold his hand and bear quiet witness to his tears—if the Darkness would exist at all.
I arrived out of breath at the front door of the Sedgwick Cove Historical Society several minutes late. Xiomara already stood there, her arms crossed over her bosom, an annoyed scowl on her face.
“You’re late,” she said.
“I know, I’m sorry,” I gasped, clutching a stitch in my side. It was too icy to risk riding my bike, and so I’d had to jog the whole way, which was nearly as treacherous. “I had to… to talk to Persi.”
The words were ambiguous enough, but Xiomara seemed to read the significance in them. Her expression softened, and she nodded. “Glad to hear she’s talking to someone.”
“Me too,” I admitted.
Xiomara had enough tact not to pry. She turned and unlocked the doors, and I followed her inside.
I had been in the Historical Society several times, most recently to return the sea glass to Leila.
But while Leila worked the public facing version of the place—the walking tours and the photo and artifact displays—there was a deeper level of the Historical Society that no tourist or outsider ever saw.
It was the museum equivalent of a speakeasy—a hidden door that revealed the true nature of our town’s history.
It was to this area we now ventured, down a flight of stairs and through another locked door.
Xiomara turned on the rows of flickering fluorescent lights, and took me straight to the back of the main area to a long, windowless hallway lined with locked doors.
The doors were all labeled simply “Storage”, but I knew better than to expect cleaning supplies or reams of paper.
Behind each door in this hall were the most important documents, artifacts, and historical records that built the magical legacy of our town.
Generally, only the Conclave had direct access to these rooms, though other residents could petition for access.
And even then, access was granted only if supervised; a member of the Conclave had to be present for the duration of the visit to oversee the handling of any documents or artifacts being examined.
Xiomara walked straight down to the last door at the end of the hall, and then came to a stop so suddenly that I walked right into her.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, but she completely ignored me. She was staring at the door with an odd expression, the keys held limply in her outstretched hand, as if she had forgotten what she was supposed to do with them.
“Xiomara?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she pocketed the keys and stepped closer to the door, so close that her nose was barely an inch from the surface.
“Don’t we need those keys?” I asked.
“They won’t do us any good now,” she said.
Then she dropped her voice and began to mutter under her breath, raising her pointer finger into the air, and tracing the shape of the door like she was trying to diagram it in her head.
Then she dropped her hand, took a step back, and made a sound halfway between a growl and a sigh.
“What’s wrong?” I ventured.
“I knew it was too easy,” she said, more to herself than to me. “I should have realized she was up to something.”
“Who?”
“Ostara. She’s changed the enchantment.”
“You mean we can’t get in?” I asked.
“That’s exactly what I mean. She’s sealed it with blood magic.”
“Why?”
“Why do you suppose?” Xiomara asked, turning to glare at me.
“Because of me?” I guessed.
“She’s out of town tonight. She knew we were coming. She’s done this on purpose, to keep us out until she returns.”
“But the Conclave voted that I could be here,” I said, feeling indignant now. “How is she allowed to do that?”
“She’s not,” Xiomara said. “And she’ll make some excuse when she returns, no doubt. She’ll claim it was a mistake, that she forgot to inform me about the change in security. And I’ll have to take her at her word or risk calling the head of the Conclave a liar.”
Xiomara’s face was twisted into a knot of frustration and fury. It was such a fierce expression that I took an involuntary step back from her.
“What… should we do?” I finally ventured to ask.
“Nothing,” Xiomara ground out. “We do nothing, because there is nothing we can do. We serve at the pleasure of Ostara Claire, apparently. When it suits her whim, we will get you the information you need. Until then, mija, I’m afraid you are out of luck.”
“Right. Well, thanks for trying,” I said.
Xiomara locked the front door of the Historical Society, and we parted ways on the sidewalk.
I started in the direction of home, but when Xiomara disappeared around the corner to her house, I backtracked in the direction of the Manor.
Not wanting to be spotted downtown, I slipped down a side street, deciding it would be safest to walk along the beach.
It was low tide, and I could stick close to the pier without being visible from the road.
I didn’t know how to feel about what had just happened.
On the one hand, I was relieved not to have to pretend to be interested in a bunch of old books and documents—my visions were providing me with the kind of information no historian had ever had access to.
On the other hand, I was frustrated with Ostara.
For all she knew, that archive was the best resource I had to prepare myself to face the Darkness.
Did she really want to leave me undefended?
Generations of insecurity and shame, weaponized against a kid who never asked for any of this.
Suddenly, this woman who had always seemed so powerful and so intimidating diminished in my estimation, shrunk by her own petty foolishness.
Everything she does to stand in my way, I thought grimly, is just one more stain of dishonor on the coven she tries so hard to keep spotless.
The beach was deserted, of course. It was far too cold and late for anyone to be wandering the sand.
A bit of weak golden light filtered down from lampposts on the shore road, but mostly I was saved from stumbling around in the dark by the crisp, bleaching glow of a nearly full moon.
Clumps of seaweed littered the sand, and tide pools shimmered in the rock formations that appeared when the tide went out.
I wandered between them, lost in thought, about Ostara, and Ambrose Wright, and conjuring Circles and Persi’s silent tears—so lost that I didn’t notice that one of the clumps of seaweed was hiding a rock.
I struck my boot against it and lost my balance, staggering to the side and landing with a splash, my elbow in a tidepool.
“Damn it!” I gasped, wincing at the cold of the water and the pain now shooting up my arm like an electrical current.
Still cursing, I rolled over onto my knees so that I could stand back up, and found myself staring down into the moonlit tidepool.
Within it, a tiny crab was scuttling along sideways, climbing over shells and pieces of…
Sea glass. A very familiar piece of sea glass.
Gloved fingers shaking, I reached down into the water and plucked the sea glass out of the pool, startling the crab, and breaking the reflective surface with expanding ripples that shattered the moonlight into shards, and sent them skittering like diamonds across the water.
I held my breath, waiting. As the water settled again, I was looking not at my own startled face, but into what looked like a dark, rocky tunnel.
I leaned closer, trying not to disturb the surface of the water as I began to breathe again.
There was movement, a figure I could barely make out. I leaned closer still.
The tip of my nose touched the water, and the world turned upside down.