“Never much of a parent, I’ll admit that,” he says. “But youcan imagine what it was like.”
I shake my aching head. I still don’t understand.
“Having your little girl tell you such horrible things. You’dtalk about dead people with that voice, and it always came to pass.Always.”
What’s that twitching sound? Is Father so scared he’s shaking? Ibreathe deeply and decide to take action. Powers above, don’t fail me. I’llnever get this chance again.
Reaching out, I touch his cheek. “No!” he yells. “Stayback.”
One of his memories fills my mind, not an image of murder ordeath. This experience happened long ago at The Revels, when I was very young.My present-day adult self stands at the door of the old nursery, watching thefive-year-old me. The child I was is ill and feverish—her silver eyes glazed asshe licks red, cracked lips.
People within the house are weeping, mourning the loss ofseveral servants to the sickness. Typhus, they say. Everyone fears for Mama’ssurvival. Scared and weak, Little Hester calls for her mother, but no oneanswers, so she switches to her father’s name. Grown me watches him stop at thenursery door. He observes the suffering five-year-old for a moment. The pillowunder her head is wet with perspiration, and she begs Father for a drink.
He doesn’t move, a look of revulsion crossing his angularfeatures. “Get it water,” he says to a passing maid.
Little Hester and I simultaneously inhale a coppery scent, andshe begins to cry, knowing what it means. Father smells of blood. Of hatred. Ofhis hatred for her. The tears leave wet tracks upon her face, andshe grows quiet.
Mute from that day on.
This is the reason I have been a prisoner of my own silence?The obstacle preventing me from having a voice all these years? Truth rattlesthrough the adult me, settling in my heart. The vision ends, and I leave thepsychic realm, plummeting back into the crypt.
Father is still talking. “Blame myself, of course. Bringingsuch a creature into the world.”
I shake my head. What a waste, Hester. Allowing one so unworthyto control you.
Almost like a key being turned in a lock, I feel a small clickin my throat, and I know without even trying that I can speak. Something insideme has broken loose and been healed at the same time. I’m free of more than atomb.
“Step aside,” my father says. “I won’t do more.”
I turn my iridescent gaze in his direction. “You’ve done quiteenough,” I reply in that voice.
He dashes out the door, scared as hell.
I eventually find his sledgehammer. It’s a smaller version ofthe tool than I imagined. Heavy but not unmanageable, considering theadrenaline coursing through my veins. I heft it to my shoulder, step out of theroom of death, and begin my journey to High Street. The churchyard smells mossyand the grass is wet beneath my boots. Walking carefully, I turn east andascend a small hill, banging into a wooden structure at the top.
Drop the hammer, and check inside, you dunce. Get yourself astick.
After entering the shack, I nearly fall over an axe. I feel myway around, finding shovels, long-handled clippers, and rope. It’s thegroundskeeper’s hut, it would seem. Discovering a half-broken rake, I stomp onthe handle, until the rod separates from the tines. Voila, a cane! It preventsme from falling over tombstones, but my progress is still slow. Especially withthe added weight of the sledgehammer. I test my hearing ability as I walk—it’sbetter, almost normal now. The extreme sensitivity has faded and I can extendreception and subdue it. Deo favente. Sometimes it’s good to have aRoman goddess on your side.
I sense a presence behind me, smell chimney smoke and unwashedskin. Definitely a woman—part Beelzebub, part wilderness-dwelling peasant. “MaryArden,” I croak, throat sore.
“Good,” she replies. “You’re speaking at last.”
Gesturing in the direction of the train station, I take a stepforward. “Help me. Scarlett’s getting away.”
“He doesn’t leave for a while yet. Let’s talk a spell.”
Mary Arden links her arm with mine, her stench wafting aroundme. We follow a path that intersects the city park. “You’re in my debt now,dearie. My old friend Carver told me you were in trouble over at the crypt, andI sent your father right away. Didn’t want to go at first, but I made him doit. I’ll expect a favor for that one.”
Did she say Carver, as in Carver the gambling ghost? MyCarver is her old friend? Blast him! He’s more like her spy, I’d warrant. Wellthat explains his absences over long periods. Confound it, I knew he was seeingsomeone else.
Swallowing against my burning vocal chords, I turn away. “Nofavors. Father said we’re square.”
Mary Arden laughs. “John always was squeamish, even as a child.Likes things easy and explainable. Magic’s to be avoided at all costs.”
“You know him, too?”
“Of course I do, ducky. He’s my brother.”
We reach the park gazebo where this whole episode began for meon All Hallows Eve last year, when David Thornhill touched my wrist, and I sawhim throw Freckles to her death. Mary Arden follows me into the vacantstructure. I prop the cane and sledgehammer against the wall and cross my arms.“Let me be sure I heard correctly. You are… my aunt?”
She seems amused by the question. “We’re quite a family—all ofus endowed with supernatural talent.”
I can’t help snorting at this. “Father’s notsupernatural.”
“John doesn’t like to admit it, but he has the Gift of thePhoenix. He will always rise from the ashes and reinvent himself—find newsuccess and prosperity.”
She turns telepathic in an instant. All true words, daughterof Rome. You know it, too.
Wishing her out of my head, I stick to speech even though it’spainful. “How did you make him save me?”
“Why, by Compulsion, dear. You know that as well. I have asmattering of gifts, some less than benevolent.”
“Dark skills?”
Mary Arden pats my arm. “Don’t worry, Hester. I won’t use themon you. I’ll need your help one day.”
“Why does Scarlett want me dead so badly? Don’t say it’sbecause of my gifts. I
