Darker Still (26 page)

“I don’t know that I believe in luck, Natalie. Of all the things that may be at work here, I’m not sure luck is one of the factors. You see, life is one grand transaction, a constant exchange of energy and purpose. Your mother gave you a weighty gift. A boon.” And here Mrs. Northe paused, and for the first time ever, she looked uncomfortable. “Do you know how she died?”

“A runaway carriage. Run down in the street,” I replied softly.

Mrs. Northe nodded. “Are you prepared for one more detail?”

“Yes. I’ve always wanted someone, anyone, in my house to speak about it, but no one ever has,” I muttered.

“She was pushing you out of the way.”

I felt as though I had been slapped. A sting upon my face, inside my heart, my lungs—I blinked slowly, heavily, as if trying to clear the fog of this news. It was no mere detail.

It changed everything.

Mrs. Northe allowed me the necessary time to catch my breath, and when I could look up at her again she calmly continued. Her measured control encouraged me not to get lost in a drowning tide of sentiment. For now was not the time.

“This imparted an energy to you. While some dare call this magic, it’s not spell casting nor witchcraft. It is the simple transference of sacrifice to your life. And that boon then indebted you. Your mother’s spirit lives on, in part to hope you’ll return that favor for another worthy candidate. And you have done so. You saved young Cecilia down on Anthony Street, and now Lord Denbury’s fate lies similarly in your hands. You were born for this, Natalie Stewart.”

“And my mother died for this,” I murmured. The tears would not stop.

“In that terrible moment she was not thinking of passing a burden or gift on to you. She was thinking only of the survival of her child.”

And so the trauma of my not speaking was far worse than I’d thought, more than anyone had dared say. I was surely too young, waddling along at the age of four, to remember—or else I’d blocked it from memory. But it had been shock enough to cut my voice right from me. Only now, with Jonathon’s help, was I able to find it again. He gave me gifts too.

“But how did I not know this?” I fumbled at my memories. “Did Father tell me and I merely forgot—”

“Your father
adores
you. Once the trauma robbed you of your voice, how could he add further guilt to your burden? He refused to allow himself or anyone to think the accident was your fault.”

I yearned to run to my father immediately, to reassure him and be reassured by him. But I’d promised Mrs. Northe—and Jonathon—that I’d steel my soul. I could not get sentimental now. I had to keep seated and calm the riptide of emotions that threatened to pull me apart.

“Forgive me for not telling you the moment I understood,” Mrs. Northe continued. “But these things unfolded in pieces the more time we spent together, not all at once. And the sad knowledge would do you no good unless you understood the debt and how you are to repay it. It isn’t about luck. More than luck, there are angels on your side that seek to enlarge your gifts. Exponentially. Instead of seeking to help one, they hope you’ll help many, while darker energies would seek to cut you to the quick.”

Mrs. Northe seemed to wrestle with something.

“What else?” I prompted, despite the fact my heart couldn’t take much more.

“When someone dies for someone else, a particular energy releases, a bond both mortal and ghostly. A kind of magic is tied to your body and to the spirit who gave herself for you. When someone dies because of malevolence, though, a different exchange is released. And that will tie the perpetrator to a darker coil. But still, both energies are powerful.”

“I am the former. The demon is the latter.”

“Indeed. And while he has his powers, angels are on your side, Natalie. You have their sort of magic. Lord Denbury sees your magic as light and colors, and this may yet be his gift. You have been granted gifts in your life, the two of you. Whether you make them gifts or burdens is up to you.”

I swallowed hard. I wanted my mother to come to me. I suddenly resented Mrs. Northe for explaining what I’d rather have heard from my mother, declaring her sacrifices in
her
voice. But Mrs. Northe deserved my love, not my frustration, and so I posed questions. “You believe in angels, then?”

“I believe in good spirits and evil spirits,” Mrs. Northe replied confidently. “I believe in God, and I believe that there are beautiful things I cannot see and terrible things I dare not see. And I believe in a space between where all might be glimpsed.”

Somehow, even if Mrs. Northe appeared to dodge a question at first, she always managed to answer it more sensibly than if she had merely said “yes.” I thought of those swarming threads of vibrancy and shadow from my recent dream and nodded. The world had ceased to have clear yes or no answers; the world was gray scale. Save for my mission—that was black and white, survival or failure against evil.

My heart was heavy but my duties were clear, and there was, frankly, no point in belaboring the issue further. I embraced Mrs. Northe and dried my eyes, and Father took me home. I gave him a very long hug good night that he seemed to awkwardly appreciate, chuckling softly and likely wondering what flight of fancy had made me sentimental. Part of me wished to tell him everything, to unburden myself of my fear, but that would have done him more harm than good. My fate was sealed, and no one else could help or stop me.

Later…

The strangest thing has just happened. Bessie ushered Maggie into our parlor. Father was holed up in his study, so I received her with a smile. I opened my mouth to speak but was too nervous I’d sound inelegant, and I didn’t want to have to explain my “cure.” It was all right because she clearly planned to do all the talking.

“Oh, Natalie, dear, I’ve only a moment. I’m expected at the Bentrops’ but I just wanted to invite you, this weekend, to my house. She leaned in and in a whisper said, “Fanny and I are staging a séance.”

I raised an eyebrow at her. She continued, giddy.

“I was given a book as a gift. It’s
fascinating
and full of incantations! Mr. Bentrop’s niece and I became acquainted at a ball. She had me over for tea, and we got on famously. Mr. Bentrop says that I might have particular talents, provided I study hard, but that I mustn’t ever let that book out of my sight because it’s one of a kind. It’s good to be in his favor. He’s richer than anyone can quite tally!”

I gave her a warning look. This sounded like the sort of thing Mrs. Northe would never have approved of. And how did I know that name? But in her rush, Maggie was off to her engagement in a whirl of turquoise taffeta before I could place it. When I did, a chill crept over me.

Bentrop. He was one of the men in line to buy the Denbury portrait. One whom Mrs. Northe had described unfavorably.

I’ll have to tell Mrs. Northe that the man was meddling with young, impressionable women. But later. I must now prepare myself for tonight’s dread deed.

Later…

I’m sitting at the desk by my bedroom window, waiting for the pebble to strike the pane to indicate that the hired carriage awaits me below. Then I shall slip away and to the task. I write this so I may again go over the plan, for in writing I find calm, focus, and purpose. Perhaps someday I’ll try fiction. Or, perhaps, I’ll merely publish this account instead. No one would believe it real.

I’ve dressed in a fine gown fitted to accentuate my femininity, my best dress from last year. I’m not fond of it anymore; it has too much lace around all the edges. I have altered the neckline so that it might plunge a bit too low. I have dabbed lavender oil upon my wrists and behind my ears. My hair is done winsomely, up but with a few stray locks curled around my ears and neck to suggest a style that’s nearly undone. Men seem to find undone hair a delicious tease. I need not practice blushes or looks of surprise, fear, or innocence. Those will come naturally enough, I don’t doubt. I needn’t hide my apprehension either; the demon will likely feed upon it.

I’ll act as though I am lost and think myself locked inside the building, yet am drawn to the painting, just as I was from the start. The demon knows he’s compelling. I will lock several of the floor’s exits from the outside, leaving less-known passages open. (I dare not block every means of escape.) But I think it hardly out of the question that a girl with no voice might have wandered below stairs and found herself lost, trapped, and without recourse to call for help. I would appear the trapped little lamb to Denbury’s possessor, a girl already associated with the painting. An offering.

I will scribble the plea of my situation upon a note card, and this will surely ensnare the fly—for I will declare my name. As foretold.

Arilda.

This should seal his interest in me as quite an unexpected catch. Arilda is an uncommon name. An uncommon saint. For an uncommon purpose.

Dear Saint Arilda, fighting to be taken by love, not by force. Mary and I agreed that the only way to give oneself to a man was to love him, and that the claim, while a man may suggest it, is ours to make and no two ways about it. Naming has power. So does the body.

However, I hope not to follow in young Arilda’s footsteps as a martyr slain on a tyrant’s sword. It is bold to use such a telling name, but Mrs. Northe and I are wagering that the demon has grown too proud not to think me a fortuitous gift rather than a trap.

Oh! I am startled. The pebble strikes! Mrs. Northe’s hired help is at the door. The hour is at hand. I’ll need all the prayers I can muster.

Later…

(Upon the bench in Denbury's exhibition room)

Dear God.

Imagine my surprise when Mr. Smith escorted me down to the exhibition room and there I found Maggie staring up at Denbury, the curtain of his painting drawn to reveal him. She was murmuring up to him, a black book in hand and with a pentagram marked on the floor in chalk.

“Maggie,” I choked. I actually spoke her name.

She whirled to face me. Her face flushed furiously, and her jaw dropped. She glanced in horror at Mr. Smith and then again at me.

“What are you doing here?” We both spoke at the same time.

“You’re speaking!” Maggie cried.

“I work here,” I declared, ignoring her exclamation. I glanced at Mr. Smith. He was expressionless, but if I wasn’t mistaken, a part of his mouth curved as if he was amused.

“This late at night? Who’s this? Isn’t that one of Auntie’s servants?”

Mr. Smith raised an eyebrow and walked away. I’m sure he didn’t consider himself a servant; that much was clear. Maggie rushed up to me. I pushed her inside the room and closed the door.

“Maggie, what are you doing?” I demanded.

“I had to do this,” she blurted. “I hid upstairs in the museum until closing. I’ve been studying. This is what I’ve been given.” She lifted the book, which bore a golden goat’s head on its black leather cover. I didn’t recognize the volume offhand from Mrs. Northe’s library, and I was fairly sure that she and Bentrop didn’t share the same reading list.

“I can’t get him out of my head or my dreams!” Maggie exclaimed, rubbing her head as if it ached. “I’m trying a summoning spell to bring Denbury’s spirit here, to talk to him—”

“Maggie, this is dangerous, a man like Bentrop and a book like that. You don’t know what you’re doing. That pentagram—”

Her eyes flashed. “And what would you know about it? All the time spent with
my
aunt…Has she been teaching you all the things she’s denied me? What makes you think you’re so special? Tricking me into thinking you’re mute—”

“No, that isn’t true,” I said. My voice, nervous, was inelegant. Surely Maggie could see I wasn’t entirely cured. I blushed furiously, ashamed at the sounds. “I could speak all along, with some work. I just suffered trauma when I was young so I never did. Your aunt has been helping me regain speech.” It was partially true.

“Because she likes you better than me.”

“That isn’t true. Maggie, listen to me. Something very bad is about to happen, and you need to get out of here.”

“Why? What do you know? Why do you keep things from me?”

“I’m here because I’m helping the museum with a problem. And you need to go,” I stated.

I had to clean that pentagram off the floor. I threw the exhibition-room door open again and stalked to a nearby supply closet. Maggie followed me as I grabbed a towel. Mr. Smith was standing patiently in the hall. His fiercely sharp eyes and quiet manner made him a man not to be questioned. Maggie gestured to him.

“Why is Mrs. Northe’s man here then, and not your father—”

“Maggie, please…”

I reentered the room, knelt, and began to rub the yellow chalk off the floor.

“What are you doing? I made that for the spell—”

“Maggie, listen to yourself. You sound mad. You can’t go around drawing on museum property. And certainly not something like this.”

“Something’s going on, and you’re going to tell me. I’ll tell Aunt Evelyn
you
drew the pentagram. I can make her take my side!” It was incredible how an entitled, wealthy girl could rely on threats. I stared up at her.