“Professor Chow would probably give him full marks and an engraved plaque,” Michael declared.
“Heck he’d probably petition to have the Einstein Wing be renamed The Ciaran Eaves Research Laboratory For Things That Defy Explanation!”
“Brilliant idea!” Ronan beamed. “I second it!”
Rubbing the back of Michael’s neck, Ronan held out his hand to Saoirse. Unsure of what her brother was staging, she held his hand and could feel the blood pumping through his veins. “This is an unprecedented event in our history,” Ronan announced. “And I’m so bloody happy that I got to witness it.” He squeezed her hand tightly. “Thank you, Saoirse.”
“I should be thanking you guys,” she stated. “This is all really beautiful in its own way and peaceful and everything, but I thought I was going to be stuck here forever, so, um, thanks for showing up.”
Michael grabbed Saoirse’s free hand so the three of them were joined as one. “Why don’t we go home and share the good news with the man of the hour?” he suggested. “Ciaran’s gotta be dying to know what’s going on.”
“Good!” Saoirse declared. “Because I’ve got a pep rally to get to, and if we don’t leave right now I’m going to be late.”
Once again the water rippled, more intensely this time, and the cave was filled with a harp’s flourish that indeed sounded like laughter. Clearly, The Well was amused by Saoirse’s priorities.
“Then let’s go,” Ronan said. The words were barely out of his mouth and he realized they might have a very serious problem. “Saoirse, I don’t know exactly how you got here, but are you going to be able to hold your breath until we reach the water’s surface?” he asked.
Saoirse didn’t know
Standing in Sister Mary Elizabeth’s office, Blakeley couldn’t control his emotions. He was nervous, scared, and more than a little embarrassed. The first two feelings he was familiar with; the third, not so much. It wasn’t because his trophy-filled office looked like it was a narcissist’s retreat compared to the austerity of the nun’s quarters. It was simply that it had been years since he had sought religious guidance. He didn’t know how to begin.
Sitting behind her desk, Sister Mary recognized when someone was floundering. She placed her pencil next to her notepad and smiled. “Why don’t you take a seat and tell me what brings you here?”
Blakeley could hardly stop pacing the small confines of the office; there was no way he was going to be able to remain seated. No, gotta keep moving, stay alert. Just because he was in a nun’s office didn’t mean he was safe; he knew better. “I’d rather stand, thank you.”
“Whatever makes you most comfortable,” she said. Knowing the coach the way she did, she knew that he was a no-nonsense man, so she adopted the same approach. She replaced her smile with a more serious look and asked, “So tell me, Peter, what’s on your mind?”
How appropriate that a Christian woman would remind him that he had a Christian name. He hadn’t been called Peter in years. To everyone—co-workers, students, their parents—he was just Blakeley or Coach. The sound of his own name made him feel like a child again. Had he really strayed that far from who he was? Had he really grown up to disregard everything that he had learned? Did it take something so ... unnatural, so evil to remind him that he had once believed in things that required faith? He had no clue if this woman, this frail woman whose only weapon against the unknown was devotion, could help him regain his footing, help him rebuild his courage, but he had to try.
“Confession being good for the soul and all that tommyrot?” he asked, his voice sarcastic to hide the flurry of emotions growing in his heart.
Clasping her hands, Sister Mary replied, “Just the simplest way to begin a conversation.”
Blakeley found Sister Mary’s straightforward attitude reassuring, if not entirely calming. Gripping the back of the only other chair in the room, he looked into the sister’s unblinking eyes and found the strength to articulate the fear that threatened to consume him. “It’s Michael Howard, Sister, he’s not right,” he blurted out. “He’s trouble.”
“Did you come to that conclusion on your own?” she asked. “Or did you pray to God for guidance and understanding?”
“I don’t know how to pray.”
Sister Mary laughed more heartily than she or Blakeley expected. The sound was high-pitched and seemed to be released from not just her throat, but her whole body. “If you know how to talk,” she said, “you know how to pray.”
“This isn’t funny, Sister!” Blakeley yelled, unable to control his anger. “I’m scared! And I think you know me well enough to know that that’s not something I admit to very often.”
“There’s nothing wrong with being fearful, Peter,” Sister Mary replied. Every trace of laughter was gone from her voice and had been replaced with a tone that was solemn and learned. “It’s how we act when we’re afraid that’s key.”
“Don’t give me that! You’ve noticed it too. I’ve watched you!” Blakeley shouted, his forehead glazed with sweat. “You know there’s something wrong with this Howard kid, and yet you’re not afraid of him. Why?!”
Sister Mary wished she could hold Blakeley’s hand and tell him he had nothing to be concerned about, that his fears were unfounded, but that wasn’t the truth. Something bad was happening at Double A, and she was fully aware that Michael was at the center of it, but there wasn’t a single part of her mind or soul that believed he was the cause; she believed he would be the salvation.
Unfortunately, there was no way she was going to convince Blakeley of her beliefs. As with all faith-related teachings, he would have to come to his own conclusion in his own time.
“I know how I feel about Michael,” she said. “What you need to do is search within yourself to find out how you truly feel about him.”
Frustrated, Blakeley pressed harder on the back of the chair and pushed it down into the floor, the sound of wood scraping against wood interrupting the conversation. “So you got no answers for me then?” Blakeley challenged.
“I’m a nun, not an oracle,” Sister Mary replied. She was hopeful that her laughter and slight irreverence would have more impact on her caller than a pious decree. “And I think you’re a big enough boy to figure out the answers all on your own.”
Brania wasn’t sure what specific questions she should ask, but she knew if anyone could give her answers about her father’s past it was his sister. That’s why when Rhoswen showed up at the cave without warning or an invitation, announcing that it was time they went on a tour of the past, Brania was riddled with curiosity, even though she knew instinctively that it would alter the way she felt about her father forever.
Stepping out of Ruby’s body, Rhoswen ignored Imogene’s shriek and walked toward Brania, her green and white dress flowing around her, making it look like she was floating over the stones. The scent of the white roses that hung around her waist and graced her head drowned out the musty odor that occupied the cave. Her one outstretched arm, her one beckoning hand, was like an offering of unparalleled insight and knowledge, and Brania ached to grab onto it. But could she? Should she?
“I don’t want to go with you,” Brania said, inexplicably nervous about journeying into the unknown.
It was an absurd feeling, but she sensed that wherever Rhoswen wanted to take her, whatever events she wanted her to see, would be horrifying. But how could anything be more horrifying than what she already knew about her father? He had made her do heinous things as a child. He had ripped purity from her heart and allowed the black blemishes of sin to settle into her soul, all because he was a coward, because he wanted to reap the benefits of someone else’s wicked actions. Someone who he was supposed to love and protect and cherish. No, it was time to stop acting like the child she had never been and learn the truth. All she had to do was take hold of Rhoswen’s hand. If it was so simple, why was she hesitating?
“Do you want to control your own immortality?” Rhoswen asked.
Brania’s reply was immediate. “Yes.”
“Do you want to break free from the harness your father has shackled you with?”
