“I did,” Dustin said, somewhat sheepishly. “With some help. I brought you home, where I’ve been caring for you. We do this every day, you and I.”
“Every day?” I said. “I don’t understand.”
“You’ve been here for six months. Every morning you wake up and you cannot remember. Or perhaps you remember a little bit more every day. Only you know the answer.”
“Six months?” I said. It was an impossibly long time. How could I have not remembered?
“Do you recall anything now?” Dustin ventured.
I blinked and was being washed down a black river that carried me away beneath the earth until I saw a white burst of sunlight. But that version of the past felt like a dream. “I was looking for something.”
“Yes,” Dustin said, his eyes brightening.
“But what?”
Dustin lowered his head. “I cannot pretend to know the desires of your heart. My sole job here is to help you.”
“Do you think I found it?”
“Only you can know the answer to that.”
My heart sank. I had been alone here for six months. I knew then that whatever it was I had been looking for, I had lost it.
Dustin was about to turn, when he ventured one more question. “Do you remember who you were with that day?”
Had I been with someone? I closed my eyes and went through all of the fragments of images still floating in my head. I tried to fill in the blanks between them, to summon a face amid the snow and rock. I saw a bit of red hair. A tin of pills. A necklace made of beans.
I opened my eyes, the images forming one word. “Anya.”
“Yes,” Dustin said, startled. “She was your friend. We recovered her, too. She is safe at home in Montreal. She is healthy. I spoke with her parents the other day; they said she called out your name.”
I repeated his words to myself. She was my friend. I believed him, and yet I could barely recall knowing her. I closed my eyes, trying to remember more. Shoelaces. A bit of sandpaper. Red dust collecting on the floor. A crooked grin. Then an arm, lifeless. A swath of auburn hair. A constellation of freckles. A handful of blond curls. A pair of thin arms wrapping around me. Candles flickering in a church.
“Theo,” I said. “Noah. Eleanor. They were my friends, too?”
Dustin beamed. “Yes, they were. We found Theodore and brought him back to his grandfather’s house.” Dustin chuckled to himself. “He picked the lock of my car twice before we got him home. I had to go gather him from the countryside, where I found him wandering about aimlessly, but he is back now, and safe. As is Noah. He is at home in Montreal; his parents are incredibly glad to have found him in one piece. He will be returning to St. Clément in the fall. Eleanor is still recovering, though her father and brother are taking care of her.”
His words made me glad, though I didn’t know why. Though I knew they had been my friends, they now felt like people I had known in a different life, people who didn’t belong in this one.
Dustin shifted his weight. “Do you remember anyone else?”
Was there another? I thought back, but the most I could see was a pale sliver of skin, and a dull gray eye, like the sun obscured by a cloud. I tried to complete it, but it slipped away from me.
I opened my eyes. A single image lingered. “Blue lips,” I whispered.
Dustin fell quiet. My words seemed to startle him.
“I—I don’t know where that came from,” I said.
“That’s all right,” he said softly. “Keep thinking. It will come to you.”
I swallowed. The tone in the room had suddenly become somber.
After a moment, Dustin spoke. “Perhaps this will help you.”
I wanted to protest, to say that I didn’t know him, that I didn’t even like presents, but Dustin held up his hand before I had a chance to speak.
“Don’t worry, it’s not a gift,” he said, reading my thoughts.
I looked up, surprised. Maybe he did know me after all.
He handed me a sealed plastic bag. Inside were a pile of dirty clothes and a white canvas bag.
“The clothes you were wearing when we found you.”
I slipped the bag out from the bottom of the pile, and as I did, a sprinkling of black dust billowed up around us. Instead of scattering across the rug, for a second it seemed to pause and hang in the air as if suspended.
I gasped, partially out of surprise, but also because it looked oddly familiar. I felt a warm breeze come in through the window. It picked up the dust, swirling it around and carrying it back outside. I blinked. Had I been hallucinating, or had the dust just moved on its own?
I turned to Dustin. “Did you see that?” I asked.
Dustin merely shrugged, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. “A bit of dirt from the mountains, perhaps. Don’t worry, I’ll get one of the cleaners to clean it up later.”
Maybe I had been seeing things.
“How did you find me?”
Dustin paused. “I’ve worked for your grandfather for thirty years,” he said. “Before he left to follow you, he asked me to look after you should he pass away. So I did just that.”
I looked at him curiously. I had an inkling that he wasn’t telling me the entire truth. “Well, thank you,” I said.
He nodded and backed out of the room. “Enjoy your breakfast.”
I lifted the cup of tea. Beneath it was a thick white envelope. Ms. Winters, it said, in a sprawling cursive that seemed somehow familiar. Instead of a card inside, there was just a note. I unfolded it.
Dear Ms. Winters,
Only the pure of heart deserve a second chance. A soul is not given; it is earned. To many more birthdays to come.
Sincerely,
Dustin
A soul is not given; it is earned. I heard someone say that to me before, though I couldn’t remember whom. I stared at the handwriting, at the way a hand had smeared the blue ink just after the word Sincerely. It looked startlingly familiar, as if I were holding something I had only seen in a dream. The only part that didn’t fit was the word Dustin.
A memory flashed into my mind. A thick envelope with plane tickets. A letter slipped beneath the door of a church. They had helped me, those letters, though I couldn’t remember why. A single word rose to my lips.
“Monsieur?”
Dustin froze. He had his back to me, his hand resting on the knob. His shoulders relaxed, as if my words had lifted something heavy from them. He turned. “Yes.”
As I studied his face, I began to remember. Descartes. The Nine Sisters. A long-lost secret, and a hidden map leading to it. Eternal life. The Netherworld. That was what I’d been looking for. But why?
“You—you were the one who was helping me.”
Dustin took a step forward. “Yes. With the help of my granddaughters.”
Granddaughters? I blinked. An image of a pair of small, gentle hands flashed through my mind. I felt them lift me from the river. Bright yellow light filtered in and out behind my eyelids. I cracked them open to see the pale cheeks of a woman, her blond hair fluttering around her shoulders, her eyes a watery blue. Though she was young, she had the face of someone old and wise. She looked so familiar, like a kind man I had once known. I reached out to touch her cheek, but she gently pushed my arm away. “Shh,” she cooed.
I remembered the five women, one disappearing behind the window of a old house, another stealing through a birch tree forest, another peering down at me from the mountains, still another materializing through the fog in a monastery. The Keepers, their blond hair the same color as a canary, the bird that had been etched into each of their houses. Their faces had been so familiar, though I hadn’t been able to place from where.
I saw their features in Dustin’s, and suddenly remembered who he was. I remembered him carrying my luggage to the car and holding the door open for me when I first left for Gottfried Academy. I remembered him standing in the dining room behind me, listening as my grandfather lectured me abo
ut school. I remembered when he took me duck hunting in the woods out back; when he told me about my mother and what she was like when she was my age. All along, it had been him.
“You’re the descendent of Ophelia Hart, the ninth sister,” I said in awe. “That’s why there were canaries in each of the houses. That’s how you found me. You always knew where I was going. You’re the protector of the Netherworld.”
Dustin pursed his lips and nodded. “Yes.” His eyes twinkled as he studied me. “We protect it, but never use it. We’ve never had to. We believe that its powers should be reserved for those whose lives are cut off far too soon. Fortunately, I’ve been blessed with a long, wonderful life, as have my daughters and granddaughters. And that’s more than enough for us,” he said. “I wanted to show you the way, though I first had to make sure that you didn’t merely want a second life, but that you were choosing it. Through every point, you had to make the decision. I couldn’t make it for you.”
“Thank you,” I whispered.
He smiled at me, crinkling the creases by his eyes. “You’re welcome.” He clasped his hands together. “Well,” he said. “It’s your birthday. What would you like to do? We can do anything.”
“I’d like to go for a drive,” I said.
“A drive?” Dustin clasped his hands together. “Wonderful. I’ll get my coat.”
“Alone,” I said softly. “If that’s okay.” I don’t know what made me say it, though once it came out, I knew it was the right thing to do.
Dustin paused. “Are you sure?” he said.
“I’ll be fine,” I said.
Dustin clasped his hands together. “Very well. I’ll fetch you the keys.”
After eating breakfast, I picked up the white canvas bag and slung it over my shoulder. It felt so natural, as if I’d been naked without it.
Dustin led me downstairs to the driveway, where my grandfather’s Aston Martin was still parked. He held open the front door and handed me the keys. “It’s yours now.”
I paused on the front step and shielded my eyes. Everything outside looked so vibrant and bright, the grass a lush summer green, the sky an almost electric shade of blue. I was eighteen years old. I had looked up at that same sky for years, and yet it felt like I was seeing in color for the first time.
“Is everything all right?” Dustin said.
I wasn’t sure. I walked to the car and threw my bag in the passenger’s seat. “I’ll find out soon,” I said, and shut the door.
I drove down the winding driveway lined with trees until I reached the main road, where I took a left. I didn’t know why I chose that direction or where I was going, only that I would know which way to go when I saw it.
I drove for hours. The road meandered in and out of the countryside. Trees arched over the pavement, forming a canopy of green. Sunlight flickered through it. I opened my window and let the warm summer hair blow in my face. The ends of my hair flitted in the wind. I ran my hand through it, surprised by its length. Had I always worn my hair this long? I couldn’t remember.
I caught a glimpse of a clear gray eye in the rearview mirror. I gasped, only to realize it was my own. It was pale in color, with hints of blue like the sky on an overcast day. Why had it startled me so much? I gazed at my reflection, trying to grow accustomed to my nose, my cheeks, my mouth.
I turned on the radio to fill the emptiness of the car. An announcer spoke about the weather, about September approaching. My gaze drifted to the seat beside me. I half expected to see someone sitting beside me, but all I saw was the white canvas of my bag. Who had I been looking for? I didn’t know when I started crying, only that it felt like the tears had been building up inside me for years. The past was gone.
A road sign approached. What did it say? I wiped my eyes, but I was too late. It had already passed. And yet when I saw the road it led to, I knew it was the right way. I swerved, and pulled onto a bumpy street that led toward a small town perched by the side of the ocean. The road was lined with restaurants and shops. Families gathered on the streets, chatting and laughing and licking cones of ice cream. I parked and stepped out into the crowd.
I kept my head down as I slipped through them. I didn’t want anyone to see that I was crying. I walked along the marina to the far end of the street. Seagulls circled above. My gait was light and quick without the weight of the bag on my shoulder. The afternoon sun streamed down over the ocean, making the ripples in the water shimmer. I slowed. I was standing in front of an old house, a sign creaking over the door. THE OLD SOUL. I peered through the windows. An old man was wiping down the bar inside. I cupped my hands over the glass. Did I know him?
Sensing my presence, he turned around. I ducked out of the way and turned back toward the road when I saw the outline of a boy in the distance. He stood by the curb and stared out at the ocean, the hazy light glowing around his silhouette. There must have been dozens of other boys in the marina, and yet the sight of him seemed to paralyze me. He must have seen me, too, for he turned, his head tilted as if he were studying me. He ventured closer.
As he approached, I could just make out the short brown locks of his hair, his broad shoulders and the smooth contours of his arms. The sunlight blinked around him. Did I know him?
He inched closer. He said nothing as he studied me, his eyes curious, searching, as if he were trying to relearn my face. I had never seen him before. None of his features looked familiar, and yet when put together, they formed an expression that I knew from a lifetime ago.
A thin white scar cut through his upper lip, the same exact mark I had, though his was on the opposite side. Without realizing what I was doing, I lifted my hand to his face and traced the scar over his lip. His skin was so warm. When we touched, the flash of a memory barely registered in my mind. A cave. A swirl of dust. A kiss. I closed my eyes, trying to fill in the spaces, but the memories kept slipping away.
I let my hand slide down his arm, where it rested at his wrist. Gently, I pressed my thumb into his skin until I felt the steady thud, thud, thud of his pulse. He was alive.
He laced his fingers through mine. The world around me came into focus. I gasped, realizing now that I knew him, that I had always known him.
His lips parted, as if he were just as startled as I was. “You,” he said.
My chest swelled. I felt my heart. “You.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Ted Malawer, for being as good an agent as you are a friend. Tracey Keevan, Christian Trimmer, Ricardo Mejías, Abby Ranger, and Laura Schreiber, for your invaluable editorial advice. I feel so lucky to have been able to work with all of you. All of my copy editors, for sharpening my writing. The entire team at Hyperion, for taking such good care of me all these years.
Lauren, Shirin, and Rahia, for getting me out of my apartment, and reminding me how friends can be soul mates, too. My mom, for every trip to Aussois, clock included, and for giving me an appreciation for mountain life. Claire and Luc, Roland and Josette, for your incredible hospitality, home cooking, and mountaineering skills. Claudia, for schooling me in everything German. My brother, Paul, for getting me through all those family vacations. Vicky, for her generous help with my French translations. My dad, for sending me books and packages while I was writing, and for being a real-life Monsieur. Akiva, my soul mate.
Thank you.
YVONNE WOON, the author of Dead Beautiful and Life Eternal, grew up in Massachusetts. She lives in Stanford, California, and holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Columbia University. Learn more at www.yvonnewoon.com
Yvonne Woon, Love Reborn
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