After handing over my ID and promising to obey the multitude of rules, I settle into a seat at an empty corner of one of the reading tables. Holding my breath in anticipation, I open the book.
The pages are thin and delicate, the font as small as the librarian promised. I hold the magnifying glass up to the first page and am surprised by the warmth flooding my chest as I begin to read about my ancestor. It feels as if some undiscovered part of me was looking for her all along.
Imagine that you are just a teenager from America, chosen to be a duchess. The adjustment would be quite an undertaking on its own, but add to that a supernatural gift, and it is no wonder Her Grace Lady Beatrice struggled immeasurably in her time at Wickersham.
My spine stiffens. This is sounding awfully familiar. The biographer might have been writing about … me.
I quickly flip to the table of contents, scanning the chapter titles. The book covers the length of Lady Beatrice’s short life and includes chapters with such soapy headings as “Scandals and Country Terrors.” But the one that interests me the most is Chapter 7: “The Elementals.”
Lady Beatrice insisted that she was no witch, but an Elemental. This is an unfamiliar term to most, but certainly not one invented by the late duchess. References to Elementalism are found as far back as in Greek mythology and Ancient Egyptian writings.
An Elemental is known as a child of nature. Unlike mere humans, they are one with the four elements, able to manipulate the air, earth, water, and fire around them. There are those who find it a frightening concept, but I have interviewed two of the late duchess’s acquaintances who profess that she used her gift for good. A Wickersham tenant farmer who was growing destitute from the lack of thriving crops recalls that Lady Beatrice visited his land, and shortly after her departure, the soil came back to life and grew fertile. I of course asked the man in question why he did not come forward with his testimony when Lady Beatrice stood on the gallows. He insists that he tried, but no one cared for the testimony of a peasant farmer against the word of the furious duke. …
I lift my eyes from the page, relief washing over me. My father was right. Lady Beatrice was no villain. And that means … neither am I.
The late duchess wore around one finger a diamond icicle band, known as a water-stone in Elemental mythology. There is no definite word on where Lady Beatrice procured the water-stone, but legend has it that the stone appears to those who belong to it—those who are Elemental. My studies of Elementalism suggest that wearing the ring is a form of communicating with nature.
Aristotle noted long ago that “with the water-stone on your skin and your hands on the land, you will have the answer to all you seek.” The water-stone is said to work with the hand of an Elemental to use the four elements to his or her advantage. And seeing as the elements are the truth of our world, so the water-stone reveals the truth.
The water-stone reveals the truth. … What exactly does that mean?
The only time Lady Beatrice was seen without the water-stone was on the night of her hanging. She professed to have buried it where only her true descendant could find it. If she is to be believed, and there is a “true descendant,” then the second coming of Lady Beatrice will be upon us.
I let out a slow exhale as my mind spins. I know what I need to do.
I’ll return to Rockford and deal with the police, and the Marinos’ visit—but the earliest chance I get, I’m going back to the Maze. It’s time to find the water-stone.
XV
I struggle to sleep that night, my mind busy rehashing my visit with Sebastian and my stilted conversation with the police. Did I tell them anything I shouldn’t have? Did they believe my statement? The officers were so poker-faced, it was hard to tell what they were thinking.
Just as I’m finally beginning to drift off, I wake early in the morning to the sound of familiar voices downstairs in the Marble Hall. I hear what sounds like Oscar making conversation with Carole and Keith—and Zoey?
I leap out of bed, throw on a robe, and race down the stairs.
“Zo!” I squeal as soon as I see her beautifully familiar face. “I didn’t know you were coming too!”
She throws her arms around me.
“I wouldn’t let them leave without me,” she says, grinning impishly. “I literally hid their passports until they booked a ticket for me.”
“Only you!” I laugh. I turn to Carole and Keith, and the three of us form a tight group hug.
“We missed you,” Carole says, touching my cheek. “Thank God you’re all right.”
“Of course I am.” I link one arm in hers and the other in Keith’s. “Come on. I want to give you all the tour.”
Hours later I’m curled up in an armchair in my room, watching fondly as Zoey naps on my bed. Having my sister here is just what the doctor ordered, and spending the day together, catching up and showing her around my new home, has made me the lightest I’ve felt in days. But now that she’s fast asleep from jet lag, I’m once again alone with my worries. Will Sebastian actually get charged with murder? When will I see him again? And why do I still get the feeling the Mulgraves have something to do with all this?
The words from Lady Beatrice’s biography flicker through my mind, and I glance at Zoey again to make sure she’s still sleeping peacefully. Then I tiptoe out of the room, closing the door shut behind me. I’ll be back by the time she wakes up.
Without Sebastian leading the way, the Maze is oppressive and lonely. I creep forward through the green labyrinth, mentally keeping track of my movements so I can find my way back. It strikes me how far I am from the house, how no one will hear me if I scream, and I shudder in the unnaturally fierce wind.
A half hour passes, and then another, until I’m on the verge of frustrated tears. I’m walking in circles, no closer to finding the center of the Maze, with nothing remotely ring-like in sight.
And then the thought hits me, as obvious as the gusts of wind inside the Maze. If Lady Beatrice left the ring for her descendant … she would need proof, a way of knowing for certain who that person is.
I reach my arms out to my sides and brush my hands against the hedge walls, just as I did two weeks ago with Sebastian. The hedges once again change color, my hands painting them a vivid periwinkle. But this time the dirt path beneath my feet also begins to glow with an ethereal yellow light. I gasp as the light beneath my feet winds forward … leading me.
I pick up speed, keeping my hands on either side of the hedge walls as I run, following the twists and turns of the glowing path before me. And at last I am in a place I’ve never been—a curving corner of the Maze highlighted by a bed of hydrangeas, the only flowers I’ve encountered within. Dad’s words from years ago return to me.
“… remember the hydrangeas. When you see them, that means you’re close.”
My breath catches. This must be the Maze’s center.
I reach out to touch the hydrangeas, and a pressure fills my hand. The flower beds quake, and I watch, heart in my throat, as something pushes out of the dirt. The water-stone?
I stare at it in amazement. It is unquestionably the same ring from my dream, the very one Lady Beatrice wore in her long-ago portrait—with the diamond icicle set into an ancient silver band. The water-stone is the most extraordinary object I’ve ever seen, and I shiver, simultaneously terrified and awestruck. There’s no turning back now. I slip the ring onto my fourth finger.
The ground beneath me shakes violently. I scream, clinging to the purple hedges, then scramble away from them in fear as they rise higher and higher, connecting and forming a domed ceiling overhead.
“Help!” I scream, though I know it’s futile. I’m trapped, and no one will ever be able to hear me.
Suddenly there is a rustling within the hedges—and then the sound of whispers, incoherent all but for one word.
“Imogen.”
I jump.
“Lady Beatrice?” I whisper back.
There is no answer, but the wind blows mor
e fiercely in response.
“Wh-what is this?”
A swarm of hushed whispers echoes around me, and I strain to decipher them. At last, I make out the words.
“You’ve made it to the Whispering Gallery. You won’t see me, for I am on the other side. But you can hear me.”
Trembling, I stare up at the domed ceiling above me. It’s unbelievable, like something out of a frightening dream, and yet it’s real. I am the true descendant of Lady Beatrice; I am an Elemental. And now I possess the water-stone.
“With the water-stone on your skin and your hands on the land, you will have the answer to all you seek.” Remembering these words from my research, I keep my eyes on the dome overhead and nervously whisper my question.
“Why am I here? What really happened to Lucia?”
The whispered voices go quiet, but wearing the stone, I suddenly know what to do. I am drawn like a magnet closer to the evergreen walls, until I am touching the purple-hued hedge with the water-stone.
Flashes of light and shadow dance across the hedges. I stumble backward, stifling a scream, as the shadows form distinct shapes, playing against the walls of the Maze like a macabre puppet show.
Two shadows morph into the image of two girls, walking alongside each other. The girl on the left abruptly stops and leans into the girl on the right—until she overtakes her. Until they have switched sides. Switched places altogether.
I watch with a frown. Is this supposed to be me and Lucia?
A third girl’s shadow joins them, looming larger over the other two. Her hand closes around one girl’s wrist, covering it entirely. The sound of soft singing wafts through the hedges, familiar and dreadful all at once.
“I know dark clouds will gather round me,
I know the road is rough and steep. …”
Suddenly a voice interrupts the singing—the voice of twelve-year-old Lucia, coming from nowhere, yet as clear as if it were playing on speakers. She speaks words I remember from that long-ago day in the Shadow Garden.
“Where did her flower come from? Is this a trick?”
I jump in shock as my own voice echoes through the Maze—but my mouth isn’t moving. These are words I said yesterday.
“Since when does a student bring a housekeeper and a companion to boarding school with her? You have to admit it’s unusual. And why did I never know about it?”
And then a third voice joins the echoes in the Whispering Gallery, replying just as Maisie had responded to me.
“Is this a trick?”
She asks the same question as Lucia. But that isn’t the only similarity. When I hear them back to back, something strikes me about the two voices.
“Is this a trick?”
Is it all a trick?
And then I lose my breath as everything hits me at once.
I know why Mrs. Mulgrave is obsessed with Lucia and seemingly indifferent to her own daughter, Maisie. I know why the Lucia I’ve been hearing about from Sebastian seems so removed from the cousin I remember, the cousin who loved me. I know what’s been nagging at me, the pieces that failed to fit.
Something unbelievable has happened, and finally, I know the truth.
I sprint back to the house, gasping for breath, reeling from my discovery. I slow down as I walk into the Marble Hall, forcing a smile for the housemaids and doing my best to act normal, like the world as I know it hasn’t just taken a 180-degree turn.
I hurry up the stairs, whipping my head left and right as I look for her. And then I freeze. The song I heard in the Maze—Lucia’s song—is coming from my bedroom.
What is she doing in my room, when Zoey’s alone in there napping? I run to my door and fling it open.
Zoey is nowhere in sight. Maisie is calmly making my bed, her back toward me as she hums under her breath.
“Where is she?”
Maisie turns around.
“Good afternoon, Your Grace. Where is who?”
“Zoey.” I struggle to keep calm. “She was in here sleeping when I left.”
“The room was empty when I came in. Your Grace. She must have gone downstairs to explore. I can ask Mother—”
“I know she’s not your mother,” I reveal. “You’ve both been lying to me—to everyone—all along.”
The color drains from her face.
“I—I can’t possibly know what you mean,” she stammers.
I grab “Maisie’s” arm, catching her off guard, and unfasten her thick wristwatch.
“Don’t!” she cries, struggling to yank herself free and keep her wrist covered. But I’m stronger. I tear the watch off and it falls to the floor. And there, on the inside of her wrist, is Lucia’s spade-shaped birthmark.
“Lucia.” My voice shakes, the room spins, as my incredible, unthinkable discovery is confirmed. My cousin, alive, and looking back at me behind her disguise. “Maisie Mulgrave is the one who died. Not you.”
“No,” she gasps. “You’re mad. I’m Maisie. Lucia is dead. I’m Maisie!”
A hysterical laugh bubbles out of her, a laugh that convulses into a sob. And then she crumples to the floor, nearly gagging as she struggles to repeat the name. “Maisie—I’m Maisie. Lucia is dead!”
I watch her in horror. Dr. Heron’s notes come back to me.
Still struggling with delusions and violent temper. Patient should see me on a more frequent basis.
Something is terribly wrong with my cousin—something serious enough to result in an identity switch of this magnitude. I crouch beside her, placing a nervous hand on her arm.
“Talk to me, Lucia.” I try to adopt a soothing tone, but my voice is high-pitched with shock. “Tell me what happened. Why did you do this? How could you do this?”
She lets out another frightening wail, beating the carpeted floor with her fists. I look from her to the door in a panic. Should I get help? I need to find out the truth from her but I don’t know what I’m doing, I’m not equipped to handle her nervous breakdown.
“Lucia, it’s me,” I try again. “Your cousin, Imogen. Once we were the closest of friends. Don’t you remember?”
She lifts her head. Her face is red and swollen, but the wild animal in her seems to have calmed. Relief mingles with despair in an expression I’ve never seen before.
“You’re going to hate me,” she whispers.
“I won’t,” I tell her, though I know that’s something I can’t promise.
Lucia hesitates, her eyes flicking nervously back and forth. “I don’t think I can say it. But—” She reaches for the pendant around her neck. I watch, astonished, as she opens the pendant … and pulls out a tiny flash drive.
“What is that?”
“I knew that when I died, I wanted to be buried as me,” she says haltingly. “The real me. So I wrote my story and kept it in here. That way whoever found my body, whether it be in the near future or later years, would discover this drive and learn who I really was.”
I reach out my hand and Lucia drops it into my palm, squeezing her eyes shut as if in pain.
“I—I hope you won’t think too much worse of me after,” she whispers as I hurriedly plug the drive into my computer.
XVI
LUCIA
AUGUST 2007
I’m huddled on my bedroom floor, studying the framed photograph in my hands. The room is in a complete state of chaos, with clothes and books strewn about and untouched trays of food in a row by the door. Anyone would assume I haven’t ventured outside these walls in days. And they would be right.
I’m so fixated on the photo of my parents that I don’t notice someone else has entered until I hear the voice.
“Well. You’ve certainly made a mess of things,” says Maisie.
I leap to my feet, holding the photograph protectively against my chest.
“What are you doing in here?” I demand, staring daggers at the hateful maid. “Get out at once!”
“I’ve come with a solution to your predicament,” Maisie says smoothly.
; “Didn’t you hear me?” I draw myself up to my full height, until we are nose to nose. “I said. Get. Out.”
“Oh, I don’t think you’re in a position to give me orders anymore,” Maisie says loftily. “Not after what you did.”
I freeze.
“What are you going on about?” I ask, a touch too loudly. “I didn’t do anything.”
“Maybe you need me to refresh your memory.”
Maisie pulls a cell phone from her pocket, the same cutting-edge model my father had.
“How do you have one of those?” I ask, my pulse racing in fury at the thought that she might have taken it from my father.
“Dad bought it for my mum,” Maisie answers, scrolling through the phone as she looks for something.
“My dad. Not yours,” I snap.
“It’s a little late to be in denial,” Maisie retorts. “Look.”
Reluctantly, I glance at the phone. The screen is filled with … a moving image of the Rockford gardens. A cry escapes my lips as I see myself enter the frame, dressed in pajamas and carrying a lantern as I stand outside the Shadow Garden’s gate.
“You were filming me—spying on me,” I gasp. “How dare you! Why would you do something so twisted?”
“It turned out to be rather bright of me, actually,” Maisie boasts. “I had to know if you were going to tell Imogen the news at your little sleepover, so I followed from a distance. Then, when I saw you leave in the middle of the night, I knew you had to be up to no good.”
I recoil as my father enters the screen. My undoing, my most terrible act, has been caught on film.
“What are you doing out here so late, darling?” Dad asks, swaying slightly as he holds a martini glass aloft. “Shouldn’t you and Imogen be in bed?”