Guardian of the Gate (3 page)

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.

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.

But it doesn’t take long to realize that my imaginings are futile. The prophecy has already taken the lives of people I love, and, in many ways, even my own. I could not live with myself if it should take another, least of all James’s. It has been unfair to hope that he would wait for me when I cannot even share the reason that I left.

The unwelcome truth is that James is being wise while I have been only naive. My heart twists with the knowledge I have hidden from even myself, stepping around it in the moments when I came too close.

But it has been there just the same.

Standing, I carry the letter to the dying firebox. I think I will throw it in without hesitation. That I will not ponder a future I may not see until the prophecy is laid to rest.

But it is not so simple. My hand stops moving of its own accord, hovering before the firebox and growing warm from its
heat. I tell myself that the letter is only paper and ink. That James may very well be waiting when all is said and done. But the letter is an albatross of memory that I cannot afford. I will only read and reread it should it remain intact. It will only distract me from the matter at hand.

It is this thought that relinquishes my hold, and I cast it into the flame as if it is already on fire. As if it is burning my hand through its very existence. I watch as the edges of the paper curl under the heat. In moments, it is as if I never read the words printed by James’s careful hand. As if it was never there at all.