Impossible (23 page)

Tell her to make me a magical shirt…

Tell her to find me an acre of land

Between the salt water and the sea strand …

Tell her to plow it with just a goat's horn

And sow it all over with one grain of corn …

But as Lucy began the tenth row—half an hour into the work—she had another contraction. This one was stronger than the one she'd had in the car. It broke harshly into the song, the spell, in her mind.

And it hurt.

Instinctively, Lucy grabbed the handle of the wheelbarrow. It helped to have something to hold as the pain rippled through her. She didn't want Zach to see her bend over.

Actually, she thought, as the pain passed, she had just been surprised. The pain hadn't been too bad.

Not yet, anyway
, the voice in the back of her head whispered.

Lucy lifted her wheelbarrow again, but then stopped. During the contraction, she had inadvertently pressed down too hard on the plow handle. The tip of the goat's horn had broken against a rock on the ocean floor.

No problem, she told herself. She went around to the front of the wheelbarrow and released the metal clasp that held the broken horn in place. She pulled it out and swapped in another. It took a few precious minutes to get the new horn in place.

She did not look up to see if Zach had noticed what had happened. There was no point. He had to stay where he was, and she had to stay where she was, and go on plowing.

She furrowed another long row. Then another.

And another.

Tell her to make me a magical shirt…

Tell her to find me an acre of land

Between the salt water and the sea strand …

Tell her to plow it with just a goat's horn,

And sow it all over with one grain of corn …

Lucy lost all sense of time and space. Despite the cold and the snow, she was sweating. She had already pulled off her scarf and hat, abandoning them as she worked. Sometimes she paused to clean accumulated earth from the goat's horn so that it would plow better. Row upon row upon row. One hour passed, and then two. It was hard work, breaking the ground with the goat's horn. Once, she looked up to compare the area that she had finished to the area yet to do, and her heart fell. After that, she did not look again. She kept her head down. She plowed.

Every so often, but she did not know how often, she would have another contraction. When it was going to happen, she had just enough time to put down the wheelbarrow so that the pressure on the goat's horn was relieved and it would not break.

And then she had finished over half the acre, but this did not cheer her, for the remaining portion suddenly looked huge. She had never been so tired in all her life. And the contractions were hurting badly now. They were coming about every fifteen minutes. And a glance out at sea told her that the tide was coming in. She could see it now. It was still many, many yards away. But this was the Bay of Fundy. The tide would move in fast. She could beat it, though. She could, she would. The contractions were only Braxton-Hicks. They had to be. She'd finish the plowing before the tide got to her.

That was what she thought, before she had the vision.

CHAPTER 53

It was a pair of feet that Lucy saw first. The feet were small and slender, and they were tightly encased in shoes—slippers, really. The slippers had delicate toes and arched insteps, and looked to be entirely woven of fragile silken thread, in colors not unlike the red and gold of a glorious autumn, but not quite like that either. Seeing the slippers, you understood that you had never truly seen red and gold before, and that a real shoe was meant to tread a hairsbreadth above the earth, and to showcase a lady's foot in just the same exquisite way that these slippers did.

The slippers made Lucy burn with desire. In fact, if she had not had such a tight grip on her makeshift wheelbarrow plow, she might have sunk to her knees.

She knew vaguely that it could not really be about the slippers; it was Sarah who was shoe-mad, not Lucy. She thought, hoped, that she was hallucinating. And it would be no wonder. She'd been working so hard for so long. She was tired. And also—she faced it—the contractions were no longer likely to be Braxton-Hicks. She was in labor. The baby was coming soon.

If Lucy had been home, if life had been normal, this would have been the time to get into the car and head for the hospital.

But nothing was normal.

Lucy raised her gaze to see the rest of the vision. The feet were of course connected to legs, and the legs to a woman. She was a slender, dark-haired woman wearing a gossamer dress of red and brown and green and gold.

Then Lucy saw her face, and gasped. The woman's face wasn't the single face of a single woman, but a constantly shifting rotation of faces. Lucy knew, even before she caught a glimpse of the one she recognized—that of Miranda—that the faces were those of her ancestors. Even as her stomach heaved and she struggled to keep control of her revulsion, she wondered which one belonged to Fenella, the first Scarborough girl.

She hoped what she saw was an illusion, and not real. It had to be, didn't it? Didn't it?

But she was allowed to focus on the merged women's faces, horrifically trapped on a single body, for only one instant. Then her gaze was seized and commanded by the Elfin Knight, he who had called himself Padraig Seeley. He had a silk-clad arm around the waist of the strangely beautiful being that stood by his side. His black boots dwarfed her exquisite slippers.

Lucy gripped her plow. She tried a quick breathing exercise. She reminded herself fiercely of her baby, and of Zach, who she knew was somewhere near. Who she knew was watching. But that did not matter; he might as well have been on the moon, for she knew instinctively that he would see nothing of what she saw.

Her own world had narrowed so that all she saw was the Elfin Knight, as he stood before her in some magical space that was separate from the howling wind and the raging sleet that assaulted Lucy. The Elfin Knight and the merged women she was destined to join. Part of the Elfin Knight's collection.

And her daughters forever possessions of mine.

When would this happen, Lucy wondered. Along with the madness? Or upon death? She prayed she would never know. But she feared she would.

Without taking his gaze from Lucy, the Elfin Knight reached out gently with one hand to caress the shoulder of the woman-creature he held. The woman-creature stood quite still. She kept the gaze of her myriad eyes only on Lucy. That gaze was blank, and Lucy longed not to look.

But she owed it to them all to look. To see.

So she did, for as long as she could bear.

The Elfin Knight smiled at Lucy with his white, white teeth. "I told you, Lucinda," he said, "that I would see you again soon."

Now she looked at him. "I remember," Lucy said steadily. She remembered too the Elfin Knight's terrible words about Zach, and about her baby. Once more, the horror of it all shocked through her—and gave her new strength.

She wrenched her gaze away from the Elfin Knight. She looked at her plow again. She remembered what she was doing, and why. She thought she could hear, just below the wind, the lapping of the oncoming tide.

She pushed desperately, blindly, at her plow. And she felt the goat's horn's tip break. She grabbed for another to swap it in.

As she knelt, the Elfin Knight was beside her. His breath warmed her cheek. It smelled of cinnamon mixed with something more tart, something indefinable and enticing.

"You belong to me, Lucinda," whispered the Elfin Knight. "It's meant to be. And you will like it, more than you know. I can make you like it. Do you know that?"

Lucy fumbled with the clasp to release the old goat's horn. She had barely enough strength to pull it out of its place. As she struggled to fit the new horn onto the plow, the stream of words into her ear continued.

"I admire you, Lucinda, and your exciting defiance. You play the Game well. I won't punish you after all. Aren't you glad to hear that? Aren't you relieved?"

The clasp on the new horn snapped into place. But just as Lucy rose, a contraction swept through her. She cried out. "Poor, pretty Lucinda. Stop struggling. It's so hard, and it's useless. You will fail. Don't you see how close the tide is now? You cannot finish."

Using the wheelbarrow, Lucy pulled herself upright. She grasped the handle and panted as the contraction ebbed. She didn't want to look at the tide, but she couldn't help it. She did.

"You see?" whispered the Knight.

Panicked, Lucy pushed again at her plow. It was heavy, so heavy.

"Stop now," whispered the Elfin Knight. "Put it down. There is just enough time to go to your husband. Don't you want to do that? I know you are fond of him. Don't you want to say good-bye? I will not blame you for it, sweet Lucinda. Go to him."

Lucy could no longer calculate how much time was actually left. Not much, she knew. The tide was close. She also no longer had any clear idea how many rows she had yet to plow.

The Knight was whispering, whispering. Desperate, she drowned him out in her mind with the only thing that came to her. Music. That cursed ballad.

She sang to herself, first in her head, and then aloud, a whisper against the wind:

Are you going to Scarborough Fair?

Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme

Remember me to one who lives there

Always he'll be a true love of mine

She pushed through another row. She seeded it. She hardly noticed that she had altered the lyrics, but she felt attached to her new line. She sang it to herself again, pushing the words against the whisper of the Elfin Knight in her ear.

Always he'll be a true love of mine.
She kept a picture of Zach in her mind as she sang it.

She managed another row.

Always he'll be a true love of mine

Then her song was interrupted. The voice of the Knight insinuated itself again. She could not drown it out.

"If you stop now, Lucinda, I will do something for you. Something you would like. Something you will be very sorry later to have refused."

"What?" Lucy panted. "What would you do for me?" She grabbed her measuring cup with unsteady fingers and scooped up corn dust to seed the row she'd just finished. She struggled to get her song back. The next verse of the song had formed in her head—there—she knew it—it was her version, her very own version—she would sing it—

Tell him I've made him a magical shirt

Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme

Without any seam or needlework

Always he'll he a true love of mine

Again, she fixed Zach in her mind.

But the Elfin Knight's voice was insistent. It forced itself upon her. "Here is my bargain," he said. "You will not be like the others," he said. "You will live forever, with me. As my true love. I can make that happen. You can have what Fenella refused. Didn't you always want to be a faery princess? I know that you did. Most girls do. Now you can be. You're more sensible than Fenella, aren't you?"

Always he'll be—

Lucy's song cracked in two.

"Ah," the Knight said. "I finally have your attention, sweet, stubborn Lucinda. What do you think of my offer?"

She could not ignore him. She could not afford to. "But—my baby—in eighteen years, it would be her turn—"

"If you willingly come with me after her birth," said the Elfin Knight, "if you will be my true love, I will not need your baby in eighteen years. She can live out her human life. Your husband can raise her, as you planned. They can do what they wish. It would make no difference to us."

Lucy clutched the handle of her plow. Was he sincere? Could he be sincere? Was this a trick? Or was it her best hope? She was so tired. She could hardly think.

"Be mine," said the Elfin Knight. "Be my true love, and I will let your husband and your baby go free. My curse will end."

"They'd be safe," Lucy whispered. "You promise?"

"Yes," said the Elfin Knight. "I promise. If you stop your work, if you give up, they will be safe."

CHAPTER 54

From where Zach stood above Lucy on the shore, watching her, he had no way of knowing exactly how she was doing. But at some point he guessed she was in labor. He had been to the childbirth classes. He saw the times she paused and bent over sharply at the waist, clutching the handle of the wheelbarrow. He was in a better position than Lucy to time the contractions.

There was a particular moment when he realized for sure. Lucy had paused. She was not only clearly in pain, but was also staring fixedly into the middle distance. Something about her stance, the position of her back, the lift of her head, alarmed him. He took several steps toward her before he caught himself.

He whispered her name.

But then Lucy straightened. She lifted the wheelbarrow and turned away, determinedly, from the empty space at which she'd been staring. She began plowing again.

For several minutes, she moved as if frenzied. All the deliberateness she'd shown earlier was gone. One more row, done.

But now he could see that she staggered each time a contraction took her. She slowed. She broke a goat's horn and had to swap in another one, and she did it so clumsily and ineptly that he wanted to scream with fear. This was no longer the graceful, physically confident Lucy that he knew, the Lucy who had continued to train hard into the eighth month of her pregnancy. This was someone near paralysis with exhaustion.

Every so often—the intervals were random and oddly spaced—she'd stand still. But she did not seem to be resting. She seemed almost to be conversing with some invisible person. She gestured weakly. She seemed to ask a question.

She was giving herself pep talks, Zach thought, in his more hopeful moments. But in his less hopeful ones, he wondered if she was hallucinating. If the madness might be descending. Or it could be fever; it would be a wonder if she didn't catch pneumonia out there. There were in fact so many things to be afraid of that Zach hardly knew which to settle on.

But his most immediate worry was the tide. Lucy had stopped turning her head to check its position. And it was coming in, visibly moving closer, now covering the rows she had plowed earlier. There was still time, Zach thought. It was enough time, if Lucy had been moving at her original pace.

But she wasn't.

Then, with only three rows left, she simply stopped plowing. At first Zach thought she was having one of those momentary rests. She again seemed to be talking to herself. But the moment elongated. And then Lucy turned in his direction. She half lifted a hand, as if to wave. She let go of her plow and took a few steps toward him.

The tide was only a few feet behind her.

He shouted at her. "Lucy, no! Go back! You can finish!"

But she continued on, away from the unfinished plowing and sowing. Toward him.

He thought he heard soft laughter in his ear.

He moved. He raced down to the ocean floor, to Lucy. He met her halfway, just as another contraction gripped her. He grabbed her and held her upright, seeing up close the rigid pain on her face as she endured the contraction. Then her eyes focused on him, and her lips moved.

"I'm having the baby, Zach." Her voice was the barest thread above the wind. "It's started."

"Yes. I could tell. But you can do the plowing and sowing first. Come on."

"No!"

"Yes!"

It was the most difficult thing he had ever done. His rational brain was screaming that he was wrong, all wrong. That he ought to carry Lucy away right now to the car. To the hospital. That would be the safe, the right thing to do. Forcing her to finish the plowing was all wrong, and dangerous too, because surely Lucy herself knew best what she could and couldn't endure.

Evil, he found himself thinking. And arrogant. You're putting her at more risk. The words pushed at him, insistent.

But he did it anyway.

Lucy fought him, with all her feeble remaining strength. "No," she whispered. "Let's go to the hospital. That's what's best. I don't need to finish. I have to have the baby now!

"No, you don't," said Zach grimly. "First you finish this. Trust me, Lucy. I have a clearer head than you do right now."

"No," Lucy said. "I know more than you do—"

"You're delirious, and no wonder. Just do as I say. Don't quit."

He positioned Lucy's limp feet on top of his and walked her back to the row she'd abandoned. "You can do it," he said. "I'll help."

She was crying. "Please, let's stop," she said. "Please."

He steeled his heart. "No."

"If you help," she whispered, "it's useless anyway."

"We don't know that. Anyway, it's better than not finishing. So, if you don't do it, I'll help you. That's your only choice. Do it alone, or with me."

He made her stand behind the wheelbarrow, still with her feet on top of his. There was no time to lose. He put his hands over hers and pushed her, supporting her body from behind. The plow went forward.

Too bad if it wasn't allowed. Too bad if it was cheating.

He could feel the moment in which Lucy stopped fighting him. He felt her draw some strength into herself. She stood on her own again. She pushed at the plow by herself again. She didn't need his hand holding hers as she sprinkled the corn dust. He was just behind her, with her, touching her. But except for those few steps, those few inches of plowing when he'd supported her, she did the rest on her own.

The whole time, he kept talking to her. "You're strong, Lucy. Mind and body strong. You can do this. You can."

At one point, Zach thought he heard her humming, or singing, just below the noise of the storm. He recognized the tune, though he could not quite hear Lucy's words. It was that ballad. Was this what she had been doing before, when she seemed to be talking to herself? Had she been singing?

He hated the ballad. But if singing it helped Lucy, if it motivated her, then so be it. He joined in, leaning close to Lucy's ear. Unwilling to sing the terrible words he knew so well, he spontaneously altered them slightly into his own version: