Peter swallowed hard. “What happened then?”
“That, as my generation used to say, is the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. Your mother said they should have died. None of them could swim, nor were they wearing anything that would have helped them float. They should have died, and that would have been the end of their short, uneventful lives. Those were the exact words that your mother used when she told me the story. Only the children of Marble didn’t die. Something happened in the depths of that pond which forever changed them. They floated to the surface, and climbed out through the holes in the ice, and hurried back to the village.”
“How did they climb out if they couldn’t swim?”
“Your mother never explained that part.”
“You must have some theory.”
Milly shrugged and did not reply. Peter felt himself growing frustrated.
“Did they know they were psychic at that point?” he asked.
“That is a question I asked your mother,” Milly said. “She told me that it happened a short while later. Your father was pillaging the attic in his house when he found a chest that had belonged to his great-grandparents. The chest contained a talking board carved out of old wood with a matching planchette.”
“You mean a Ouija board?” Peter asked.
“A Ouija board is a game for children and drunk adults,” Milly said. “A talking board is used when speaking with the dead. The talking board in the attic of your father’s house was such a device. It had been carved from a single piece of wood, and contained the twenty-six letters of the alphabet, the numbers one through ten, and the arching sweep of a crescent moon with a black cat sitting within the moon and wearing a pentacle pendant around its neck. The cat bore a striking resemblance to the cat that had drawn the children to the pond, hence your father’s interest in it.
“Your father took the talking board from the attic, and went down the street to where your mother lived. He showed it to her, and she agreed that the cat on the board matched the cat they’d seen. She suggested they play a game with the board, and ask it a question. They sat at the kitchen table, placed their hands on the planchette, and asked the board if it was sunny or cloudy outside. To their surprise, the planchette raced across the board under its own power, and answered them. That was the beginning of the seances. Later, they invited their other three friends to join them.”
Peter stared into space. For some reason, he’d always assumed that his mother and father had been born psychic, just as he had, and never considered that something might have happened during their childhoods which made them this way. It put a spin on things which he did not completely understand.
“How did they become the Order of Astrum?” he asked.
“I asked your mother that very question,” Milly replied. “She said it was your father’s idea. Your father felt they needed a name for their little group. He had read a story about Aleister Crowley, who had practiced dark magic during the turn of the century. Crowley called his group Argentium Astrum, which in Latin means silver star. Your father thought this was just splendid, so he named their group the Order of Astrum.”
“So it was all a game.”
Milly leaned into him. “Yes! Your parents never meant for it to be anything more than that. The horrible things came later, when the children grew up.”
“Do you know why?”
“Money.” She let out a deep breath, and seemed suddenly fatigued. “The other three were all failures at the work they did. They banded together, and decided to use their powers for financial gain. Your parents were against it, and left England and came to New York.”
“Is that why my parents were killed? Because they wouldn’t play along?”
“That was always my assumption.” Milly rose from the couch, signaling that she was done. “It’s been a long night. I need to get my rest.”
Peter rose as well. There was no doubt in his mind that his parents had sworn Milly to secrecy, and breaking that vow had not been easy for her. He put his arms around her, and rested his chin on her head. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you so much.”
“You’re welcome, my dear boy,” she said.
27
It had grown late, and Milly was tired. She bid Peter goodnight and headed off to bed. Peter passed through the living room on his way out. He sensed the presence of a third person.
“Holly?”
He saw an indentation in the cushion of a love seat. Had Holly been sitting in the living room, waiting for him? If so, then why had she left? He wanted to speak with her, and headed down the hallway to the kitchen, where he pushed in the swinging door.
Holly sat at the round kitchen table with a sullen look on her face. On the table was a plate of her aunt’s homemade chocolate cookies.
“Still mad at me?” he asked.
“What do you think.” She sulked.
They had never fought well, even as kids. He grabbed a quart of skim milk out of the fridge and retrieved from the cupboard two glasses, which he placed on the table before pulling up a chair. Holly eyed him sullenly as he filled the glasses to the brim and slid one toward her.
“Who said I wanted a glass of milk?”
“I did.”
“But I don’t.”
“You always drink milk with your cookies.”
“Stop treating me like a child. I hate when you do that.”
“Pardon, madame.”
Peter picked up his glass and made an imaginary toast. When he put it down, his lip was covered in a white moustache. Holly forced herself not to smile, and looked away. He bit into a cookie and made an
“I’m sorry for upsetting you in the elevator,” he said. “I was out of line.”
“You were mean. And ugly. I didn’t like it.”
“I was out of my mind with worry. When I saw Wolfe come after you and your aunt, I lost it.”
“Did you have to take your anger out on me?”
“You were the closest target.”
“That’s no excuse, Peter.”
He was not going to win this argument, so he just finished his cookie. He glanced at Holly out of the corner of his eye, hoping her anger would fade. She still looked furious.
“I want you to explain something to me,” she said after an excruciatingly long minute had passed. “How can you tell me that you have feelings for me, and then treat me so rudely a few hours later? How does that work?”
“You know what they say. You always hurt the one you love,” he said.
“Is that supposed to be a joke?”
“It’s a song by the Mills Brothers. ‘You always hurt the one you love, the one you shouldn’t hurt at all.’ Never heard of it? Well, it’s true, and I’m sorry I hurt you.”
“That moustache on your lip looks ridiculous.”
Peter found a towel and cleaned his face. The conversation had turned awkward. He’d spent a lot of time with Holly growing up, less so as an adult. She seemed a different person than the one he’d known as a kid. Had he a few hours to spare, he might have been able to get to the bottom of what was bothering her, only he needed to call Liza, and hear how his fan club had reacted to his bolting from the show. Hopefully, she had kept the damages to a minimum.
