Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
The ghosts stood in a row not far from Wren, their eyes flicking between her on one side of the bonfire and Dane on the other.
“It’s like watching a rally between Martina Navratilova and Chris Evert-Lloyd,” Ruby wailed.
“Who?” Lila asked.
They all looked at her, equally confused. Ruby huffed and rolled her eyes. “The Rev, the Captain, and you are too old, Lila, and Naomi is too young. Tennis, two great players, known for taking ages to score a point off each other.”
“Still in the dark,” Lila retorted.
Silas had graver matters on his mind. He looked at the paper clutched in Wren’s hand—earlier, they’d witnessed her penning her wish, her fingers trembling. She’d spoken under her breath, calling wishes foolish things, unlikely to be granted, yet still she hoped.
Hope was such a powerful thing.
And perhaps—just perhaps—he might see that hope answered. Perhaps, in this final hour of his watch, he might perform one worthy deed.
Everything had changed since last night when he’d accompanied the doctor to Boston.
It had been his first venture beyond Solstice Springs—and his last anywhere—and the blaze of lights and the towering buildings unnerved him.
The city throbbed with restless energy, and he longed for the quiet of Solstice Springs.
He’d stayed close to Dr. Trafford. And when they reached the banks of the Charles River, Silas withdrew into the shadows behind him, standing guard while he fought his private battle, silent and, to his way of thinking, alone. But Silas heard it all.
“I’m not the only one who can make a difference. I am allowed to step back, not forever, but for now. I am allowed to put myself, and my happiness, first.”
Dr. Trafford’s words hit him like a barrage of bullets to his chest.
Allowed. To step back. Allowed. To choose himself.
The idea was so foreign it rattled him then, and it still rattled him now.
For a century and a half—and more—he’d believed duty was the only way to outrun the guilt.
If he kept serving, kept saving, kept fixing, then maybe he’d be able to stop thinking about the men who never came home, then maybe the guilt would fade and the ache would dull.
He never believed he’d earned the right to rest.
He’d kept that belief as he transitioned from life into—he looked around—this. Not life, not death, suspended. But Dr. Trafford, cut from the same cloth, carrying the same impossible expectations despite them living centuries apart, had, in life, chosen to set his down.
“It’s your duty, the way you serve.” Silas said those words out of habit, out of fear, but despite hearing them, Dane didn’t bend under them.
He simply, almost gently, rejected them.
And Silas realized that Dane was choosing to live, really live.
Despite the fear and the difficulty, and not knowing whether he’d succeed or not, he was choosing something different.
And a thought settled, took root… If he can do it, why can’t I?
He understood that remaining with Lila, The Reverend, and his new companions—Ruby and Naomi—would be the easier road.
It was the life he knew. He had long been acquainted with pain and guilt and knew how to deal with them.
Yet he found himself contemplating departing this place, and the notion both scared and excited him.
Still, before he took such a step, he had to repay his debt to the doctor for the part he’d played in getting him to this point.
Without him, Silas might’ve stayed another century or two in this place of in-between.
He’d shown him how to leave the battlefield of his own mind.
And the only way to aid the good physician was to help him in matters of the heart.
But how?
Of one thing he was certain: the doctor had to know what the dancer had written, as he told his companions … no, his friends. For once, they did not quarrel or argue but quickly nodded. Keeping his gaze on the paper in the dancer’s clenched hand, he spoke again.
“That paper cannot land in the fire.”
His words were barely out of his mouth when Wren lifted her hand, scrunched the note into a ball, and hurled it toward the fire. Naomi yelped, tried to bat it away, and her hand passed straight through the ball and into the flames.
For a moment, the fire took it, and the ghosts gasped as flames curled around the edges, greedy and bright.
Knowing he needed to do something, anything, Silas stepped into the raging fire, placed his face close to the paper, and blew.
For a second, he didn’t think anything would happen, but the paper moved.
“Help me,” Silas snapped, and his friends willingly stepped into the flames. The wish hovered, and Ruby was the first to react, but she blew too hard and sent it veering off, too close to another flame. They were running out of time…
Lila darted in and blew hard, and the fire seemed to bend, arching away from them. “Blow again, Ruby, but change the angle. Try to keep the same rhythm.”
Ruby sent him a mischievous smile. “No problem, baby, my blowing skills are first rate.”
Lila laughed, and Silas shook his head, not understanding their mirth. Sometimes, most times, all the time, he didn’t understand women. And he never would.
“Angle,” Silas ordered, bending down to blow. “Mind the angle.”
Together, they used all their energy to move the paper, and it shot out of the flames, the edges smoking, to land on the doctor’s boot. Dane picked it up, squinted at it, and looked over to where Wren stood.
The surgeon stared at the paper for a long time before folding it carefully and pushing it into the front pocket of his pants. Dr. Trafford and Silas looked around, but the dancer had disappeared again. Really, she was making this more difficult than it needed to be!
Silas looked at the surgeon, saw the determination on his face, and knew that his intervention was no longer required.
Which meant that Silas could carry on.
“I’m going to head toward the light,” he told his friends. He was battle-worn and scarred, sometimes thought of as a brave man, but he was tired.
He felt their eyes on him, shock and seriousness rolling off them. Whatever it was they expected, it hadn’t been this. “But … why?” Lila wailed.
He thought about explaining, about telling the truth, but a part of him wanted to keep it between him and the doctor, between two people who served.
“It’s time,” he said, keeping it simple.
They’d been his friends, his companions, a way to pass time in this place between places, but he needed to leave.
“Be good to each other,” he said, resting his hands on theirs, just briefly, because affection was still a foreign concept. And improper. “But more than that, be good to yourselves.”
Sensing Dr. Trafford behind him, he turned, looked his way, and for a moment, just a moment, Silas thought that Dane could see him.
In case he could, Captain Blackwood, of the 10th Massachusetts Volunteer Infantry, faced him, clicked his heels together, and raised his hand to his head in a sharp salute.
You’ve done enough, son. And so have I. Captain Blackwood felt the weight he’d carried—those endless centuries of unfinished duty—finally slip from his shoulders.
And for the first time since his heart had last beaten, he felt … free.
So he let go.
And the world between worlds let him go in return.
* * *
After tossing her paper into the fire, Wren walked a little way down the beach from the crowds to where a big log sat in the sand.
Stretching out her legs, she noticed a Summerween program resting against the log.
Picking it up, she tried to smooth out the crumpled paper.
It had been, for so many reasons, a successful event, but Wren still felt as lost as she did when she first arrived in H-Town two months ago, but for completely different reasons.
She’d thought she wanted to spend the summer alone; now she wanted to do anything but spend the rest of her life on her own…
Wren held the program to her heart and sucked in a deep breath.
She caught the eye of a waitress from The Bar and waved and tried to smile.
Tina looked like she was about to run up to her and have a conversation, and Wren prayed she wouldn’t.
She simply wanted to be alone, to gather her emotions and her bearings.
Though trying to be alone at one of Luna’s festivals was like trying to push a boulder uphill.
Wren glanced at her watch, saw that it was very close to midnight, and decided that she’d given enough of herself, her time, and her energy to this festival, to this town, and to Luna. It had been a hell of a night.
She would just wait for Luna to give her closing-out-the-festival speech and someone—the head witch of Luna’s coven?—to give the Lammas blessing, and she’d leave. Ten minutes? Fifteen? She could last that long.
She hoped.
Wren felt movement to her right and shifted left to allow someone to sit down beside her on the log.
She looked down and took in familiar, well-used, expensive trainers, black jeans, and amazing cologne.
Wren’s neck prickled, and the hair on her arms rose.
Shock and disbelief smacked her, and she turned her head, taking in Dane’s clean-shaven face, his intense eyes on her.
She gasped, frowned, and dropped the program.
She went to pick it up, but Dane got there first, barely bending over to scoop it off the floor, his fingers brushing her ankle as he did so.
“What are you doing here?” she whisper-shouted, unable to believe her eyes. Or nose. Or her sense of touch. He had to be a mirage…
“This is where I need to be,” he responded, his voice calm and clear.
“But … Kashmir, the earthquake… Shouldn’t you be on a plane?” she demanded, her words machine-gun fast.
His eyes were steady on her face. “I choose to be right here with you,” he told her, sincerity wrapping itself around every word like a warm blanket on a freezing day.