“No. It’s not that. Things are complicated for sure, but I never thought that about you. In fact …” Sebastian lowers his eyes. “I told Lucia how I felt, how I thought she was wrong about you. It was the one thing that came between us.”
My breath catches in my throat. So then … he cared. He cared enough about me to stand up to his beautiful, powerful girlfriend.
“I thought what you did that day in the Shadow Garden was … incredible,” Sebastian continues. “It was magic. Afterward, I kept waiting for you to come back. I wanted to ask you to show me more—but you never did.”
“And now?” I ask, my chin quivering. “What do you think now, after everything you’ve seen and read?”
Sebastian touches my shoulder briefly, and I feel a tremor where his hand was.
“I’ve seen enough to know that you’re still the Ginny I remembered from when we were kids. Open, honest, and incapable of hurting anyone. Maybe you are an Elemental, maybe not.” He leans in closer. “But I’m not afraid.”
Relief floods through me, and I find myself gratefully reaching for his hand. Our fingers lock for one brief second and I revel in his touch, until we simultaneously drop our hands to our sides.
“So …” I take a deep breath, regaining my composure. “Maisie said something mysterious about there being another reason why I’m here. Any idea what she could have meant by that?”
Sebastian shakes his head.
“I don’t know.” He pauses. “Maybe—maybe she’s trying to get you to finish what Lucia and I started in the Maze.”
“The Maze?” I repeat. “But it’s been closed since the fire. Max said he can’t find his way around it anymore.”
“Yeah, the fire changed the layout somehow—I still haven’t figured out how to make it all the way through to the center. But I was always able to retrace my steps and find my way back to the start when we needed to get out.”
“And what were you guys doing in there?” I ask, the hairs on my neck standing up as my father’s words come to mind again. “There’s something hidden in the Maze.”
“Lucia was looking for something, and she convinced me to help her,” Sebastian says with a sad smile. “It was something called a water-stone. Lady Beatrice’s biographer wrote that she hid it there for her chosen descendant to find after she died. Of course, no one has ever seen it.” He rolls his eyes. “That part of the story always sounded like a load of codswallop to me—an excuse to get tourists buying tickets to treasure-hunt at Rockford Manor. But I wonder if Maisie believes in it too, and if that’s why she urged you to talk to me. Lucia must have told her I know how to get through the Maze.”
“But why?” I ask, my heart racing. “What’s so special about a stone? Why did Lucia want it so badly, and why would Maisie want me to find it?”
He shakes his head. “I’m not sure about Maisie, and I don’t even know if the stone exists. But I think the reason Lucia wanted it was because of her fear of losing Rockford … to you.”
“She thought if she found the stone, then she could somehow be Lady Beatrice’s descendant instead of me?”
“Something like that.” He hesitates. “But once she realized we didn’t see eye to eye on any of this, she stopped talking to me about it. I—I can only guess what she was thinking now.”
“My father told me something the day he died. I’ve never told anyone else.” My heart thuds loudly in my chest. “He said that something was hidden in the Maze, and that it was there for me when I really needed it. I never understood what he meant, and sometimes I thought it must have just been one of his games or riddles. But now I’m wondering … was he talking about the water-stone?”
Sebastian stares at me.
“We’re going into that Maze,” he says. “I’m going to help you find it.”
“No, really,” I object. “I can look for it myself. I’m not scared of a garden maze.”
“I know you’re not,” he says. “I know you don’t need me there. But I want to be.”
I look up at him, color flooding my cheeks. “Really? But won’t that be too painful since that’s where she … ?” I can’t bring myself to say the last word. Died. I watch as Sebastian’s eyes darken, and then he looks down, studying a fallen tree branch.
“I’ve been through everything you can imagine already,” he says. “I can handle this.”
XI
That night, Lucia pays me a visit in my dreams.
I am standing at the top of the grand staircase, about to descend, when she appears below, a pristine figure on the bottom step. I freeze, staring at the back of her gauzy white dress and her cloud of blond hair. The intoxicating scent of jasmine bathes the air as she floats toward the Marble Hall, her hands possessively skimming the walls of Rockford Manor. A chill runs through me as I hear the sound of her light voice singing softly.
“I know dark clouds will gather round me,
I know the road is rough and steep.
But golden fields lie just beyond me,
Where weary eyes no more will weep. …”
She stops to brush her manicured fingers over a piece of artwork, her bow-shaped mouth turning up in a smile. I can’t look away. My heart is in my throat; goose bumps prickle my arms. How can she be here?
Suddenly the front doors swing open. When Sebastian walks through them, I find myself involuntarily racing down the stairs, as though someone else is in charge of my movements. No one seems to hear or see me, so I sneak behind one of the tall pillars in the Marble Hall, a silent voyeur.
I watch her lips part at the sight of him, her eyes coming alive with an expression I’m unable to discern. And then her neck swivels in my direction. I can’t breathe as her brown eyes fix on me, in a gaze thick with hatred.
With that one look, I understand. Lucia Rockford might be gone, but her presence is a permanent mark. The house—and Sebastian—still belong to her. I am nothing more than an unwelcome successor.
“Looking for this?” she whispers, dangling her pale hand in front of me, her finger adorned with an unusual, icicle-shaped diamond ring. And then she begins to laugh, a shrill, humorless sound that echoes against the walls, until her voice seems to multiply.
“Sebastian!” I scream.
But he is gone. And now another blond girl joins Lucia, a girl who looks a bit like … me. Her blue eyes bore into mine as she creeps closer.
“Who are you?” I demand, my voice quavering. “Are you … Lady Beatrice?”
She merely smiles—a strange, incandescent smile.
I jolt awake, my pulse racing. With trembling hands, I reach for the lamp on my nightstand. My breath returns as light floods the room, with no sign of Lucia or the other blond girl.
Teddy stretches lazily at the foot of the bed, oblivious to my nightmare. I reach over to stroke his back, wondering what the dream meant. Why was my cousin portrayed as an enemy? Is my subconscious guilty over my lingering feelings for Sebastian, and trying to make Lucia into the enemy? Or is it because I now know the dark thoughts she had about me? And who was that second blond girl in the dream—some alternate version of me? Or was it Lady Beatrice?
“Imogen, pull yourself together,” I tell myself sternly. “You have some investigating to do.”
Teddy looks up at me questioningly.
“Yeah, I know, I’m talking to myself.” I sigh.
Teddy flops back onto his side, unimpressed. As much as I want to drop the whole thing and fall back to sleep alongside him, my mind is whirring, and I know I have to do something. I need to find out more about Lady Beatrice and our supposed connection, more than what Sebastian told me. And suddenly it occurs to me where I might find the most information—even more than online or at the Bodleian.
I haven’t been inside the Rockford library since my return. It used to be my favorite room in the house, and I guess … I didn’t want to face it without the person I used to spend the most time with there. My mother. But tonight I have no choice. The Rockford library possesses t
he vastest collection of our family history, and I have a feeling I might find what I’m looking for there.
I pull my robe tighter around my shoulders as I tiptoe down the grand staircase, nervously aiming a flashlight ahead of me. Stealing through the dark, I have the chilling sensation that ghosts are floating alongside me, that the portraits on the walls are following me with their eyes. With a pang of longing I think of the Marinos’ modern apartment, far too bright and contemporary to house any spirits.
I recognize the door to the library by its familiar, towering marble casing. For a moment, I’m certain I can hear snatches of sound inside: the soothing hum of a woman reading aloud, the melodic giggling of two young girls. But just as quickly, the sounds fade. Holding my breath, I open the door, flick on the lights, and step into an enormous oasis of books.
I forgot just how long the library is; it must run the entire length of Rockford Manor’s west front. With its vaulted stucco ceilings, decorative window arches, statues, busts, and paintings of past dukes and duchesses, the room is a seamless blend of art and literature. An eighteenth-century mahogany rolltop desk beckons the writer, while the carved white bookcases lining the walls hold books numbering in the thousands. A painful wave of nostalgia overcomes me as I move farther into the room, but I still smile at my surroundings. It is a book lover’s dream.
I pace the bookshelves, which are ordered by subject, until I find Rockford Family & History. I quickly scan the titles, bypassing two shelves of volumes on the first duke and his battles, till I reach Lady Beatrice’s period in history. But while there seems to be a book on nearly every duke and duchess in the family up until my grandfather, the fifth Duke and Lady Beatrice are missing from the shelves. I flip through three different books covering the entire Rockford dynasty, but none of them allow so much as a mention of Lady Beatrice. And then it all becomes clear as I open a coffee-table book about the Rockford gardens—only to find that a page has been torn out.
Someone has clearly tried to erase Lady Beatrice from our family records. And that only increases my desperation to find out more about her.
I drum my fingers against the bookcase impatiently, glaring at the volume in my hand. I’m so wrapped up in thought that it takes a few minutes before I notice the sticker on the book’s cover: “Property of the Rockford Archives.”
The Rockford Archives … I vaguely recall seeing the name on the map of the manor that Harry Morgan gave me weeks ago. The archives are a physical place—and while Lady Beatrice might not have been allowed representation in the public Rockford library, surely bits of her life must remain in the private archives.
I quickly stuff the book back into its shelf before racing upstairs, eager to retrieve the map and the ring of keys Oscar gave me upon my arrival. As I seize the keys from my desk drawer, I say a silent prayer: for one of them to unlock the door to the Rockford Archives.
Holding the map in one hand and a flashlight in the other, I quietly make my way up to the Rockford Archives, located in one of the manor’s four towers. The map directs me to a door concealed within the Marble Hall’s wall paneling, and my heart jumps as I open it and find a stone spiral staircase. I follow the staircase higher and higher, my thighs beginning to burn from the climb, until I at last reach a narrow stone door. My fingers fumble with the keys on my key ring as I try each one, and on my second-to-last attempt, the door finally creaks open.
I step into the tower room and look around in wonder. It is a nondescript little space, lined with identical file cabinets and a smattering of brown boxes. But the view out the window is the most incredible sight I’ve ever seen, revealing miles of Rockford parkland, the lake, and the bridge, all lit up by the night’s stars. It’s like a painting brought to life.
The only light in the tower is from an antique table lamp that barely casts a glow when I switch it on, so I keep my flashlight trained ahead as I investigate the file cabinets. My heart sinks as I realize they aren’t in any particular order. It’ll take me months to go through the endless supply of stuff in here.
I slump onto the floor, hugging my knees to my chest. It’s past three o’clock in the morning, and I am mentally and physically exhausted, longing for the comfort of my bed. But how can I leave now, after all the effort it took to find the archives?
An idea occurs to me, and though I feel foolish for even considering it, I can’t think of any other way to tackle the mountain of files in front of me.
“Lady Beatrice,” I whisper. I clear my throat and try again, this time louder. “Lady Beatrice. If—if you’re out there … somewhere … please, show me what I’m looking for.”
I chant her name and repeat my request for what feels like hours, until I’ve grown numb and the words have lost their meaning. And … nothing.
I peel myself off the floor. That was just stupid. No one else in their right mind would call on a long-dead spirit for help. I’m really beginning to lose it. Which isn’t too comforting a thought.
A gust of wind blows into the tower, knocking the flashlight out of my grasp. I whirl around. The window is closed, so where did the wind come from?
And then my eyes follow the flashlight’s glow. Its beam is pointed at a small box tucked between two file cabinets, bearing my name. I cover my mouth in shock.
Time moves in slow motion as I approach the box and lift the lid. I feel a tightening in my chest as I touch the contents, returning to a former life. My elementary school class pictures, old report cards, and baby photos mingle with letters from Mum to Grandfather, updating him on my latest milestones. A lump rises in my throat as I read Mum’s handwritten words.
December 5, 1998
Imogen said her first word today! ‘Dada.’ Edmund was awfully chuffed! We just knew she’d be a daddy’s girl …
October 23, 2006
Thank you, dearest, for Imogen’s beautiful bracelet. She loves it. Birthday #10 was a success! Can you believe our little one is already in her double digits?
I drop the letter back into the box, tears blurring my vision. That was my last birthday with my parents. I remember the party, the gifts, and Mum and Dad beaming as they sang to me, none of us knowing we were about to be forever separated.
Only two sheets of paper are left in my box, which doesn’t seem to have been updated since the fire. I pick them up, and discover that they are pages from a magazine. I quickly scan the heading and byline.
THE ISIS MAGAZINE
AN OXFORD UNIVERSITY PUBLICATION
MAY 21, 1988
THE ROCKFORDS OF WICKERSHAM: PERCEPTION VS. MISCONCEPTION
BY LORD EDMUND ALBERT ROCKFORD
I sit up straighter, jolted by the sight of my father’s name in print. I’m not sure what his magazine article is doing in my archive, but it’s a welcome mistake. I eagerly begin to read my father’s words from twenty-six years ago.
Every dynasty has its stain. The reprobate, the scandalous, the fallen—each great house of the English aristocracy can lay claim to at least one of these characters. We know their stories inside and out; we’ve read them in books, witnessed them in our neighbors, and maybe even lived them in our own homes. But what happens when the family stain goes beyond what we understand or know to be possible? How do we categorize someone as “good” or “evil” based on that which we’ve never seen before, and never knew existed?
How do we judge them at all?
When Beatrice, the Duchess of Wickersham, arrived at Rockford Manor, she created an international stir. Her marriage to the fifth duke in 1830 was the first of the transatlantic alliances between an English nobleman and American heiress, and the idea of a nineteen-year-old American girl as chatelaine of Rockford Manor provoked much interest. But far greater controversies were to follow her. It wasn’t long before rumblings could be heard in the staff quarters and throughout Wickersham Village, with talk of frightening occurrences in the manor since the beautiful young American’s arrival. This was the beginning of Beatrice’s characterization as a member of th
e “occult.”
For more than a century now, Lady Beatrice Rockford (1811–1850) has been known as “that wicked American” and her husband, the fifth Duke of Wickersham, the victim forced to send her to the gallows. But these roles are ludicrously reversed. The real ugly stain in my family history is my ancestor, the duke who murdered his wife simply because she was capable of something he had never seen. He feared what he didn’t understand, and let his fear drive him to evil.
Is there anything inherently wrong in having a paranormal talent? More than likely, Lady Beatrice didn’t wish for her gift, and with the exception of the burned garden, which she instantly restored, there are no accounts of her ever using her skill to cause any harm.
If we misconstrue that which we don’t understand as frightening or criminal, then we are lost. But if we recognize differences in others as something beautiful or miraculous—even, or especially, differences as astounding as Lady Beatrice’s—then we all win in the end.
By the time I finish my father’s article, my cheeks are soaked with tears. He knew. That’s the reason his pages ended up in my file. He wanted me to find them.
For the first time in seven years, I can feel my father’s presence in the room with me; I can almost hear his voice. I know he is responsible for my finding the article at the moment I needed it most. I shake my head in wonder at the realization that almost a decade before I was born, Dad published the very words he would have said if he were standing before me now—that I don’t need to be afraid. My differences are what make me special. And there is no shame in being linked to Lady Beatrice.
The way Dad spoke to me so cryptically in front of the Maze, the look he and Mum exchanged in the church, the words he said to her in hushed conversation … I realize now what those long-ago moments meant. He knew I was different all along. Just like Beatrice.
I stand up, a smile spreading across my face. I wonder what I can do with this gift if I’m no longer afraid of it. If I am an Elemental, like Sebastian said, then that means I can control the four elements. So …