Sleeping Helena (5 page)

All she could do now was wait, but Kitty did not mind. Life was full of waiting. She was good at it by now.

The pungent scent of damp spruce wafted through the open window of Thekla’s bedroom. She stretched her arms as best as she could and opened her eyes, overcome for a moment with a feeling of disorientation. She rose from her bed and went to the window. Thekla’s belly pressed into the sill as she craned her neck, trying to fit the whole sweep of the countryside into her vision, inhaling deeply of its aroma. Bayern, dark and magical land
—
she was home.

Her sisters had been delighted at their first sight of the house, more impressive than they’d imagined, more familiar than they’d hoped. Even Thekla had crowded in with a secret relief. The house was a jettied, four-story manor, traditionally half-timbered with crossing dark beams that drew the eye toward the steep, slated roof. It was solid and stout and surrounded on three sides by the imposing forest. The courtyard was behind the house, while the grounds spread out in front, a calm sea of lawn dotted with a sparse scattering of trees, as though they had staggered out of the forest one-by-one and taken root. The lawn bordered the lake in which Louis had drowned. One of several drawbacks, Thekla thought callously, that could not be avoided.

There were eight separate bedrooms on the second floor, with doorways of dark wood interrupting the pattern on the papered walls. Kitty’s old bedroom was at the front of the house, tucked into the far corner of the north wing. Helena now slept there. Thekla’s bedroom was at the back of the house. The lake could not be seen from the windows, but the hedge of black thorns was visible below the sills. In Thekla’s youth the scent of roses had filled the air from early spring until the end of autumn, when the first frost covered the ground. The day Louis died, every last bloom had withered on its stem, as though they couldn’t live without him either—like Papa, who perished shortly after. All that was left was the memory of scent, etched onto the naked limbs of the briars that clung stubbornly to the house. Thekla, old now and as barren as the roses, wondered how long it would be before she, too, was no more than memory, a phrase carved into stone.

The roses had caused quite a stir when the sisters arrived. Thekla had to explain, over and over, that there was nothing they could do. The blackened stems were embedded in the landscape, a part of the house itself, and nothing they did would make them bloom or force them to disappear. They had to live with them, she had told her sisters, and then refused to speak again for the rest of the day.

Thekla had been more horrified when, upon entering the house for the first time in years, they found everything in order for their arrival. The curtains were fresh and the woodwork glowed from a polishing. Paintings had been carefully uncovered and dusted, carpets had been swept and upon every bed the sheets were tucked in tightly. Thekla had fumed and stormed for several days, muttering to any who would listen about how it was all Kitty’s evil doing. She’d even scowled at the new light switches. They couldn’t have been installed in a month. Thekla was furious.

One week later, there was still evidence of the confusion they’d brought with them scattered throughout the house. In the hallway Thekla bumped her knee against a box of trinkets Zilli would not leave behind. She muttered at her sister’s carelessness as she made her way into the kitchen, where Hope was preparing breakfast for them all.

The kitchen was an immaculate fortress of pots and pans, all hung in a glistening array from stout beams in the ceiling. Thekla had watched Hope peek into the cupboards on the day of their arrival. Hope’s pleasure in finding them stocked with clean dishes, cups, foodstuffs, and a hodge-podge of sundries had been obvious. When she’d checked the pantry, it seemed Hope would faint at the wealth it contained. Thekla’s eyes had narrowed in anger, but even she had to agree that the new freezer was impressive.

Thekla kissed Helena, who was propped up in her high chair with a pillow, before pouring a cup of steaming black coffee into a sturdy clay mug. Hope dusted her floury hands on her apron and began to set out bowls full of applesauce, eggs, melon, and toast. Thekla smiled her thanks as Helena conversed in burps and squeals with Hope or the tableware or with anything she thought would listen. Breakfast was consumed to the sounds of Hope’s rolling pin thumping on the dough, Helena’s angry chirping, and the clink of Thekla’s fork against a china plate. The others would come in, singly or in pairs, as the morning passed. Thekla was glad for a moment of peace before they did so.

She had, at last, allowed herself to appreciate the simple joy of being home. She had admired the delicate Persian rugs and the velvet curtains and pushed aside the thought that Kitty herself might have chosen the fabrics. Thekla, with no way to know that Karl had chosen new furnishings and restored the old, had drifted between outrage and enjoyment as she wended through the rooms, down the hallways and up the stairs, returning the home to memory. In the music room, she had shut the door to make sure no one could see her and then sat down, eyes hot with tears. Though it was no longer there, she could still see the old piano in the corner.

Thekla dabbed at her eyes with a napkin as those same tears threatened again. She glanced at Hope, and was relieved to find her turned away. She would not like to be caught in a moment of raw emotion.

The piano had been a baby grand. Its ivory keys had called to Thekla from the moment she could reach them. She had been taught to read music, but she’d never needed those straight lines and harsh notations in order to play. As soon as her father had sat her on the bench, her fingers had picked out a tune. Her lessons had started in earnest and continued even during the awful period after Louis died. She’d been a wonder to hear; no human hands should be able to draw such sounds from an instrument.

When they’d moved to America, the piano had been left behind, put in storage. It would be out of tune by now, she thought, dulled by the passage of time and grown small with age like the rest of them. It had been replaced by a grand piano in the family’s new home, where Thekla had continued her lessons with a different instructor. Playing had been her passion, her healing, and her escape. Her first great performance had been scheduled; she had been billed as a prodigy and assured of a wonderful future. But it was that evening, shortly before the concert was to begin, that their mother had been found dead.

Kitty should have been there for them, Thekla had thought for the thousandth time, but Kitty had been here, in that filthy coach house, making impossible plans to change the past while avoiding the present entirely.

Thekla, bound by obligation, had taken over the care of her sisters and never touched a piano again. She had pushed all of her sorrow down into those places it is best kept, in the dark and secret corners of the heart where it troubles no one but itself. Giving Helena her own gift of music had woken it up again.

Thekla’s thoughts turned again to Kitty, who had thrown obligation to the wind on more than this one occasion. No, there were even older bones to pick with Kitty. She interfered when she was not wanted and vanished when she was needed, every single time.

Helena threw her spoon across the table, startling Hope and forcing Thekla back to the here and now. Thekla rose, a decision abruptly made. She was going to pay her elder sister a visit. She did not mean to offer a truce, for there could be none between them. Thekla went only to demand that Kitty stay out of their lives.

“I know you planned for this,” Thekla said at Kitty’s doorway, refusing to cross the threshold. “We are here. You may leave us alone now.”

Kitty coughed. “I have no intention of disturbing you or our sisters. They know where to find me if they have a need.”

Thekla shook her head. “We did not come here for you, but in the hopes of undoing what you have done.”

“I know.”

Thekla refused to react, though she could feel the familiar anger bubbling in her gut. “You are to leave the child alone.”

“Do you think to order me about as you do the rest of our sisters?” Kitty chuckled. “I will do as I please.”

“You always have.” Thekla spat before walking away.

Thekla crossed the courtyard and left Kitty’s house behind her. She hoped never to have to return.

The forest was close all around, not the straggling trees that adorned the grounds but the thick, wild wood where Louis had once hunted. At the edge of the flagstones she walked under the pergola that bordered the garden wall. It dripped with a froth of clematis and dark ivy that had wound its way up the stones. The tunnel ended at a small wooden door in a frame of crumbling stones.

“I’ll have to put a lock on this door,” Thekla muttered as she pulled it open. “I won’t have that woman thinking she can stroll over here whenever she likes.”

Beyond lay the kitchen gardens, where a bench invited her to rest. Thekla felt needles of pain shoot through her knees. A moment will not hurt, she thought, as she lowered herself onto the hard seat with a sigh. She was too old for this nonsense. Perhaps they should face Kitty’s gift and maybe, if they were lucky, that would be an end to it. But how to face something you don’t fully understand?

“I must be mad, to think such a thing,” Thekla said out loud. She blamed Kitty; the sight of her had caused Thekla to lose all reason. Family drew family in these dark woods, but until the christening, it had been years since she’d seen Kitty’s face. There in that room recognition had been instinctive and at Kitty’s door, it had happened just so, again. Thekla’s body had tensed and her breath had come in short bursts from her lungs. Kitty was a ghost come to life and Thekla was done with being haunted.

The past began to circle Thekla as she sat in the quiet garden. Unlike Katza, she didn’t like to look too closely at it. She usually summed up history concisely: Louis died and Katza left. She did not dwell on the myriad of emotions that lurked just to the side of those words. She was afraid of those emotions and afraid of what she’d become if she acknowledged them. Thekla had to be strong for her sisters; she had to hold what was left of the family together. Though she felt old and tired, she knew now was no time to weaken.

Kitty sulked after Thekla left. She felt no remorse for anything she’d done after her brother’s death. It was what she hadn’t done to prevent it that plagued her. Thekla judged her and found her lacking, but her sisters would never know the truth about Louis, gods willing, nor should they. They all believed his death was accidental—he drowned, no more than that. Their mother, Magdalena, had made it clear. Kitty’s younger sisters were never to know how or why it had happened. Kitty sighed. Even Mama had not known all of the ugly truth.

The deaths had occurred so quickly. First the king murdered, then Louis drowned, and before Kitty could come to terms with either, her father had died of sorrow for both. Her Sight was useless, she had thought at the time, but her other gift was suddenly not—if only she knew how to use it. She had left home, determined to find a way.

Kitty recalled those days with displeasure. She had done nothing but waste precious time in the end and she, of all people, should have known better. Youth, it is true, is wasted on the young.

When the rest of the family moved to America without her, Kitty had returned to their home. The answers she had been seeking had been there all along.

At first she had wandered aimlessly through the rooms and hallways as her feet traced the pattern in the carpets, recalling the route they’d once followed beside another pair of larger, surer feet. Louis’ feet. When she could no longer bear the reminders of her brother in every dusty corner, she had turned the coach house into a place where memory would be close, but not so stifling.

It was during the process of closing down the great house that she had found again the hidden stair and recalled the words the hag had spoken on the night of the king’s visit.

Break the spell
—Kitty had known then with a sudden, piercing pain, what the old woman had meant.

Once realized, it seemed so obvious that Kitty had raged for days at her own stupidity. Her brother would never have loved the king of his own accord; Ludwig must have enchanted him. The hag had been telling
her
to break his spell. It had been another shock to imagine the hag was herself, in the distant future, warning herself about Ludwig. Was it a future in which Louis lived or died? She could not know for certain, but there was one thing of which she’d been sure.

An enchantment was the answer. In Bayern the land itself is magic, and no king ever loved his land as much as Ludwig II. He was a dreamer and in dreams magic is made. Her family had been loyal and all loved their monarch deeply, in the way that subjects will. But Louis’ love—she was certain—had been born of magic. It was unnatural, and it had caused him to do unnatural things.

Yes, Thekla and the others could hate her all they liked. It hardly mattered now. Only she knew Ludwig’s secret and saw how it fit into the rest of her brother’s tale. There was no need for her sisters to learn the truth. Kitty smiled, her foul mood passed.