Smoothing my palm across the inside back cover, it is obvious that something is there. Something that doesn’t belong. I don’t stop to think, though tearing the endpaper off a book of this age would be reason for banishment from the library were my father still alive. Still, I pull as gently as I can and am surprised at how easily the endpaper separates from the back cover of the book. I am even more surprised, however, by what has been waiting, folded very thinly inside the book, all this time.
I pull a square of paper from the book, carefully unfolding the small package. This is no ordinary paper. Not the thick, luxurious stationery used for coveted invitations and pretentious social notices. This is as thin as onion skin, as the pages of a Bible. When the tiny bundle is at last laid flat, the drawings there take my breath away.
The first picture is a serpent eating its own tail. Underneath it is the word Jorgumand.
Behind it is a drawing labeled The Lost Souls, an army of demons riding astride white horses, blood-drenched swords raised high above their heads. This one frightens me, but not as much as the one that come next: a snake forming a circle and eating its own tail, a C at its center.
I pull it slowly from the pile, its entirety revealed an inch at a time as it emerges from the other pages of feathery drawings. When at last it is laid bare, I can only stare, my heart thudding wildly in my chest.
There is no mistaking the medallion. It is as familiar to me now as the mark on my wrist. The gold disc hangs in the center, the ribbon coiling around it. Seeing it in such vibrant detail floods me not with the fear I would expect but with a longing that is far more terrifying.
But it is the words underneath the picture that make the tiny hairs on my arms stand on end.
Medallion of Chaos, Mark of the One True Gate.
12
I shake my head at the empty room, looking down at my wrist, at the medallion lying next to the book. It is the same.
The same. The same. The same.
Medallion of Chaos, Mark of the One True Gate.
It cannot be. Logic refuses it entrance. Alice is the Gate. I know it. She must be.
But there is something primal and even welcoming that tells me it isn’t true. The strange longing beating within me, answering the silent call of the medallion, of the Souls perched on the forbidding horses. It is both comforting and horrifying.
Yet it is undeniably present.
The medallion is the mark of the Gate. The One True Gate, though I don’t know what that means. It fits my wrist perfectly.
It was given to me. It matches my mark, the mark that is different from all the others. And so, it can only be that I have been wrong all this time.
I am weary of the book and its secrets. The time has come to go to the other sister.
I wait until the house is silent, until the footsteps of the servants cease their movement across the floors. Then I wait awhile longer. When I am certain no one is about, I open the door and pad down the hall on bare feet. Even slippers make noise when the house is so quiet.
I knock softly on Aunt Virginia’s door. For a moment, nothing happens. The house continues on its silent journey into morning. I lift my hand, ready to knock again, and the door opens, Aunt Virginia standing expectantly in its frame as if she knew it would be me all along.
“Come in, Lia.” Her voice is an urgent whisper. “Quickly.” She reaches out and tugs my arm, pulling me into the warmth of the room and closing the door.
“I’m sorry. I… I didn’t think you were expecting me.”
Her back is to me as she crosses the room, taking a chair by the fire and gesturing for me to take the one opposite. “On the contrary, Lia. I’ve been expecting you for quite some time.”
I lower myself into the high-backed chair, sneaking a curious glance at my aunt. She looks different, her hair long and loose over her nightdress instead of pulled into the severe knot at the back of her neck. Now that I’m here, I am suddenly unsure how to begin. I’m grateful when Aunt Virginia saves me the trouble.
“Have you found the book, then?”
I nod, studying my hands to avoid her eyes.
She smiles sadly. “Good. He wanted you to find it, you know.”
I look up from my hands. “Father?”
“Yes, of course. You don’t think it was an accident that it was found, do you? That the Douglases are here cataloging the books?”
“I suppose… I suppose I don’t know what to think anymore.”
“Well, let us begin at the beginning then, shall we?” Her voice is sorrowful, and I know she does not want to begin at the beginning any more than I.
But we must. We must begin somewhere. After all, one cannot reach the end of something without the beginning.
“Yes. Let us start there.”
She looks at me with silent expectation. Clearly, I am meant to divulge my secrets first. And what else is there to do? The prophecy and my place in it swirl in a cloud of confusion. Without assistance, it will be impossible to go further.
So I tell her what I know, what I believe I know, repeating my conversations with Sonia, my interpretations of the book. When I am finished, she speaks.
“Miss Sorrensen is quite right. The prophecy has continued for all this time, all these years, all these lifetimes. We are but one more link in the chain,” Aunt Virginia says.
“I thought…” My throat closes around the words, and I have to clear it to continue. “I thought I was the Guardian, at first.”
She looks away, into the fire. “Yes,” she murmurs. “I can see why you might.”
Her easy acceptance of my declaration sits so heavily on my chest I have trouble breathing. “Then it’s true.” It is not so easy for me, though I came to the realization myself the moment I saw the drawing of the medallion.
Her nod is almost imperceptible, as if by making her acknowledgment slight it might somehow be less true, less painful.
I am surprised at the anger that fills me in the wake of Aunt Virginia’s confirmation. It pushes me to my feet, forcing me to pace the length of the room for fear I will jump out of my own skin if I remain still. “But why? Why does it have to be me?”
She sighs, a world of sadness in the soft breath that leaves her body. “Because you are the oldest, Lia. It is always the oldest.”
I stop moving, stunned. That is it? The reason for my enslavement to the prophecy is something as simple, as random, as the order in which I emerged from my mother’s womb?
“But I didn’t ask for it. I don’t want it. How can it be me if I don’t want it?”
She presses her lips with the tips of her fingers. “It is a mistake, I think.”
“What… what do you mean?” I sink back into the chair at Virginia’s side.
She leans forward, looking into my eyes. “Your mother had a very difficult confinement with you and Alice. She was forced to her bed for most of it, and in the end…” She looks back to the fire, her eyes taking on a far-off look.
“In the end, what?”
“In the end, Alice was to be born first. Her head was down, ready to be born, while your feet were down instead, your head pointed upward. It isn’t uncommon in twins, or so the doctor said. And any other time I suppose it would not have mattered. But your mother… she could not birth Alice. Her labors went on and on, Lia, until I thought it would kill her.”
“But it didn’t.”
She shakes her head. “No, though I imagine not so very long ago the mother would have died in a birth such as yours. But your father was a very rich man who insisted on the very best for his wife and unborn children. The doctor who saw your mother, who delivered you and Alice, was trained in techniques that were, are, considered dangerous, including cesarean birth.”
“What is that?”
Her eyes meet mine. “He cut her, Lia. He put her to sleep and he cut her. It was the only way to save her life, and perhaps the lives of you and your sister. When he opened her, instead of pulling Alice out first, he grabbed you. Alice w
as nearer to birth the other way, but as it turns out, you were nearer the incision made by the doctor. I don’t think it was supposed to be you.”
“But how do you know? How do you know any of this?”
She shakes her head. “I didn’t. We didn’t. When your mother awoke, we said a prayer of gratitude for her survival and for the survival of you and Alice, and we never spoke of it again. It was only after I began to suspect that you might be the Gate, that I thought there might be consequences to the doctor’s intervention in your birth.”
“But even so… how do you know it isn’t exactly the way it was supposed to be all along?”
“Because I see the look in Alice’s eyes, Lia. And when she looks at you, I’m afraid.” She looks around, as if someone might have crept in on silent feet while we were sitting right there. “I see her anger, her desire, and her need. And in you…”
“In me what?”
She shrugs simply. “In you I see something else, something… true that has been present ever since you were a small child.”
The fire has burned low, its missing warmth making the room seem more than cold, making it seem hollow, dead. It is only after a time that Aunt Virginia’s gaze drifts to my hand.
“May I see it?” she asks carefully, as if she is asking to see something far more private than my wrist.
I nod, holding it out for her. Her hands are warm and dry on the tender skin of my arm as she pushes up the sleeve of my nightdress.
“Oh!” Her voice is full of surprise. “It is… it is different.”
I look down at the mark. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve never seen one like this.” She traces it gently with her finger. “The Gates… well, they always have the mark of the Jorgumand. But I’ve never seen one with this C.”
Her mention of the mark makes me realize that I have not yet told her about Sonia and Luisa. “There is one other thing.…”
“What is it?”
“Sonia and Luisa have a mark as well, only it is exactly like the one you describe. Theirs does not bear the C as mine does. What do you think it means?”
She looks into my eyes. “I don’t know, but I wonder if it has something to do with the others.…”
Her words cause me to sit up straighter. “What others?”
“The other children with the mark. The ones your father was searching for. The ones he brought to New York.”
I feel as if her words stop my heart, a ripple of intuition rippling up my spine. “I think you’d better tell me what you mean.”
She nods. “It began after your mother’s death. Your father began spending hours and hours in the library.” Her eyes are bright as she remembers. “He had always loved the library, of course, but then… well, then it became his refuge. We rarely saw him, and soon he began getting strange letters, taking long trips.”
“What does this have to do with the others?”
“He was working from a list. A list of names and places.”
I shake my head. “I don’t understand. What use could he have for such a list?”
“I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell me. But he brought two of them here.”
“Who? Who did he bring here?”
“The girls. Two of them. One from England, one from Italy. But he would never tell me why.”
There is a promise of understanding in her words, but one I am not yet ready to share. Aunt Virginia rises, trying to rekindle the dying fire as I stare at the glowing ashes, attempting to make sense of everything that has been said. Even with all I’ve learned, the mystery has only deepened.
But there is one puzzle that can be solved here and now.
“May I see, Aunt Virginia?”
She turns from the fire. In her eyes, I see that she knows just what I mean. She returns to the chair, sitting in it and holding out her hand without a word. When I pull aside the cuff of her nightdress I see nothing but the smooth, pale skin of her slight wrist. She bears no trace of the mark.
I nod. “I thought so.” My voice is wooden in the quiet room. It is a voice that doesn’t sound like mine at all.
“Lia. I’m sorry. I never wanted you to know.”
She is sorry. I can see it in the worry lines around her eyes, the tense set of her mouth. I try to smile for her, but it doesn’t feel right on my face. “It’s all right, Aunt Virginia. I knew, I think. I knew it all along.”
And now, at least, I need not fear my aunt. I cannot bring myself to think the other thing. The thing about my mother and her role as Gate. Instead, I focus on the things I can still change. “Where are the keys, Aunt Virginia?”
“What keys?”
I study her face, but there is no guile there. No secrets. “The keys mentioned in the prophecy. In the book. The keys to ending the prophecy.”
She shakes her head. “I told you; your father was very secretive. I’m afraid I’ve never seen the book.”
“But how did you maintain your role as Guardian without knowledge of the prophecy?”
“I was trained by my Aunt Abigail, also a Guardian.” She drops her eyes to the hands clasped in her lap, before looking up at me once again. “And now it is my task to train Alice in her role as Guardian. I should already be training her, if the truth be told. But I must confess that I’ve done no such thing.”
I shake my head. “Why?”
“I would like to say I don’t know, but it would be a lie.” She sighs. “I have been hoping I was wrong — that you were the Guardian and Alice the Gate, because I cannot imagine training Alice for such a role any more than I can imagine her fulfilling it.”
“But… if you train her… if you teach her how to be a proper Guardian —”
She does not allow me to finish. “There is something you must understand, Lia; even among those of us who play a role in the prophecy, there are varying degrees of strength. The Guardian’s ability lies both in her willingness to assume the role and in her innate power. Most desire to fulfill the role that is theirs, but some do not. Then again, some are born with extraordinary power and others… others with less. I’m afraid I must count myself one of the latter. Your mother was far stronger. She was a Spellcaster, in fact, while I have little power beyond that required to travel the Plane.”
I am beginning to understand, though I don’t like where the knowledge leads. “So the Guardian has no guarantee of keeping out the Souls?”
“Alice’s task would be great enough were she eager to assume it, but it will be impossible if she has no desire to play her part. The Guardian is simply an overseer… a sentinel, if you will. It is the Guardian’s duty to keep watch over the sister named as Gate, to use whatever power available to deny the Souls entrance to our world and to entreat the Gate to fight against the role that is hers.
“But it is not foolproof. The Souls have made their way here, hundreds, perhaps thousands, of times over the past centuries. No one can say for certain how many have gathered to wait for Samael, but we do our best to limit their number. If the Doom of Gods does arrive, it is to our advantage to ensure that Samael fights with as few Souls as possible.” She shrugs. “It is all we can do.”
I’m not sure what I expected. But not this. I suppose I hoped there was some sure answer… some information Aunt Virginia possessed that would allow me to fight the Souls and find the keys.
But it will not be so easy. There will be no quick and simple end to the prophecy that steers my life in an ever darker direction.
My room is cold, the fire burned to a soft, orange glow. I have no idea the time; surely late enough that I should be ready for sleep. But I cannot stop thinking, cannot stop the wheels from turning over all I have learned. I let my mind wander through the darkness.
I am not the Guardian, but the Gate. Whether through fate or chance, it is something I must accept if I’m to find a way back from its bleak promise.
If I am the Gate, Alice is the Guardian.
I shake my head into the empty room, for even alone I want to prot
est, to cry out, It cannot be!
Yet I know it must.
And if I am the Gate, should I not fear finding the keys even more than Alice finding them? Perhaps it is I who might use them for harm instead of good.
I push these thoughts aside. I know my own intentions, and while it is true that I have felt the strange affinity for traveling the Plane, for the medallion that found its way to me, it is also true that I do not seek to do harm. This I know as sure as I breathe.
With this certainty, I also know that Alice does not seek to do good, whatever the prophecy may call us. Whatever names it may assign us.
My thoughts sound desperate, even to me, as if I seek to reassure myself with false truths and empty reassurances. But there are far too many things I do not yet understand. The prophecy is too long, too winding, to begin with those things. I shall continue instead with the ones I do.
My father began searching for something after my mother’s death, compiling a list of children. Bringing them here.
One from England, one from Italy.
Sonia and Luisa.
I do not have proof. I never asked the circumstances of Sonia’s coming to live with Mrs. Millburn. There has not been time. But I will wager that Sonia is from England.
Why would Father bring them here? Why would he bring them to me, for that is what it feels like — as if he brought them all this way for me, though for what purpose I cannot imagine.
At last, the call of sleep arrives. I reach to turn off the lamp, stopping before I turn the key. I feel the medallion in the drawer of my night table. It pulses there like a living thing, sending out a soundless but primeval signal meant only for me. Part of me believes that the medallion belongs to me, belongs on my wrist. But the other part, the thinking part, believes it unwise to wear it until I know what part it plays.
The will required for me to leave it takes me by surprise. I turn out the light and, all at once, my plan to leave it in the drawer is nearly overmatched by my desire, my need, to have it on, to feel its caress on the warm skin of my wrist. For one strange moment, I cannot remember why I should leave it off at all.