فصل 7

CHAPTER SEVEN Guests of the Countess

“I’m so sorry,” Kate said, for the sixth or seventh time. “I’m so sorry.…”

The moment they had appeared, Kate and Emma had run at Michael, nearly knocking him down with their hug. They asked if he was okay, how long had he been held prisoner, if the Countess had hurt him. Emma said she would go murder that witch right now; Michael only had to say the word.

It was early evening. They were about twenty yards from the house, at the edge of a thick grove of pine trees whose intertwined branches rose into the darkening sky.

“I’m fine,” Michael was saying. “I’ve only been here a few days. Guys, I can’t breathe.”

He managed to extricate himself from their embrace, but Kate continued to hold his arms with a fervor that suggested she would never let him go ever again. Her eyes shone with tears. “We didn’t mean to leave you. I thought you were touching me. I would never—”

“Look,” Michael said as he straightened his glasses, “we don’t have time for that right now. I mean, of course I forgive you and everything. But we have to get out of here. They may already be looking for me. Let me have the book.”

Kate hesitated just for a second—why, she couldn’t have said—then she handed it over.

“Excuse me?”

Kate turned. Abraham was behind them, fiddling nervously with his camera. She hadn’t even noticed him till now. “So, I’m fine with the appearing out of thin air and whatnot, seems to be what you lot do, but if it’s all the same, I’m just going to slip off, then, right? Right, I’ll just—” And before anyone could speak, he hobbled away through the trees.

Kate turned back and saw that Michael hadn’t even looked up. He was busy paging through the book. A question rose in her mind.

“How’d you get away from the Screechers? Weren’t they keeping you with the other kids?”

“And how’d you find Abraham again?” Emma asked. “Was he just hanging around?”

Michael snapped the book shut.

“You have to trust me. Whatever happens, everything’s going to be okay.”

“What’re you talking about?” Kate said. “We need to get out of here.” And she was about to tell Emma to get out the photo she’d taken in the bedroom when someone giggled.

The sound was like cold water trickling down her spine.

The Countess’s secretary stepped out from behind a tree. He was wearing the same pin-striped jacket he’d worn that day at the dam; only now, up close, Kate could see the tears and grease stains. He was smiling, his teeth gray and narrow. A tiny yellow bird was perched on his shoulder.

“Oh yes, good, good, good.” His voice had a high, almost hysterical quality. He rubbed his hands together gleefully. “The Countess will be so happy, so happy.”

“I told you they’d come back for me,” Michael said.

Kate thought she must be hallucinating. This wasn’t possible. Michael would never betray them. And she was still telling herself that as two black-clad Screechers emerged from the shadows.

Approaching the front of the house, the Secretary yelled at the Screecher standing guard to open the door. But the dark figure ignored him, and the man had to open it himself, grumbling as he did about lack of respect and how the Countess would most certainly hear of it.

He led them down a twisting series of corridors. Several times Michael looked about to speak to his sisters, but each time Emma glared at him until he turned back around. Michael’s glasses were bent, and he had a red welt on his cheek. The second after the Screechers appeared, Emma had flown at him, knocking him to the ground. She whaled away with both fists, calling him a traitor and a rat and yelling that he wasn’t her brother anymore. Her attack caused him to drop the book, and Kate and the Secretary dove for it at the same time. A tug-of-war ensued. It ended when one of the Screechers dealt Kate a vicious backhand blow. Lying on the ground, her ears ringing, she watched the other Screecher pull Emma kicking and screaming off Michael.

Kate’s head still throbbed. But even so, she couldn’t help noticing the difference in the mansion. Windows and mirrors were clean. Candles gleamed off polished wood floors. None of the furniture was torn or broken or serving as the home for a family of animals. The Countess might be evil, but she could teach Miss Sallow a thing or two about housekeeping.

Kate took her sister’s hand. Emma’s face was a frozen, tear-stained mask.

“It’s not Michael,” she whispered. “It’s that witch. She put him under some spell. It’s not Michael. Remember that; it’s not him.”

Emma nodded, but the tears continued to roll down her cheeks.

The Secretary stopped at a set of double doors in a dim hallway. Kate knew they were outside the ballroom. She could picture the cobwebbed chandeliers slumped on the floor, the half-collapsed balcony, the broken windows.

“You stay here,” he ordered the Screechers, their yellow eyes glowing in the shadows.

Cavendish leaned in close. He wasn’t much taller than Kate, and his breath stank of onions. He was the single most repulsive person she’d ever met.

“You take my advice, little birdies, and not make the Countess angry. You don’t want to go to the boat, do you? Little birdies don’t like the boat.” He smiled his gray-toothed smile.

“You need to brush your teeth,” Emma said. “For like a year.”

Cavendish closed his lips and scowled. Jerking his head for them to follow, he pushed through the double doors.

It was like stepping into a dream. Kate and Emma blinked a few times, dazzled by the light, and then blinked again, hardly believing what they were seeing. A hundred couples moved about the floor, turning and spinning as a thirty-piece orchestra played a waltz. Kate could see the conductor, his arms waving, glancing back at the dancers like a proud parent. Some men wore tuxedos, with long tails that flew out when they twirled their partners. Others were in uniforms with red and blue sashes, their chests shining with golden medals. The women were dressed in gowns embroidered with rubies, pearls, and emeralds. And everywhere Kate saw diamonds on bare necks, refracting the light from the thousands of candles that burned in the chandeliers. A servant in green livery and high white stockings passed by carrying a tray of champagne to the older men and women who stood along the walls.

“Little birdies wait here,” Cavendish hissed. “The Countess will come when she likes.”

And then Kate saw her, the golden hair shining at the dead center of the dancers. Her skin was pure white, her gown the color of blood, and the diamonds covering her throat and chest shone as if they alone gave light to the room. Her partner was an athletic, uniformed young man who had the most impressive brown whiskers Kate had ever seen. The Countess said something, and the young man stepped back and bowed. She gave a tiny curtsy in return and, holding up the hem of her dress, skipped through the couples to where the children stood beside the eagerly squirming Cavendish.

The Countess’s face was flushed from the warmth and exercise, and her eyes sparkled with life. They were a deep, almost violet blue, and the moment they landed on her, Kate felt as if she were the luckiest person in the world.

“You’re here! My beautiful Katrina!” The Countess took Kate’s hands and, before she could react, kissed her cheeks. Behind her, couples whirled about in unison, creating a dizzying backdrop. “And how lucky you arrived in time for the ball. The crème of St. Petersburg is here. Even the Tsar is supposed to turn up later, though of course he won’t, the dullard. Now tell me, my dear”—she moved closer to Kate, whispering—“what do you think of the gentleman I was dancing with?”

The young man in question had moved off the dance floor to join two other men in uniform. He stood ramrod straight, one hand tucked in his belt and the other stroking his whiskers.

“That’s Captain Alexei Markov of the Third Hussars,” the Countess said in a conspiratorially low voice. “He is a bit too proud of his whiskers, but he’s a handsome beast for all that. We’ll have an affair shortly, though it won’t end well.” She frowned theatrically. “Alexei will insist on bragging about it at his club, and I’ll have no choice but to slaughter him and his entire family.”

Kate smiled, and as she did, she saw Emma staring at her in horror. It was like being slapped awake. She yanked her hand away from the Countess, her heart pounding.

If the Countess had noticed Kate pulling her hand free, she said nothing. She was pointing with her fan to a very old man with white muttonchops who was asleep in a chair. The old man sported such an enormous collection of medals that he was listing to one side. Kate half expected the weight to drag him crashing to the floor.

“Behold my beloved husband,” the Countess said, speaking over the orchestra. “Isn’t he too revolting for words? And do you know that when I married him at sixteen, I was hailed as the greatest beauty in Russia? Shall we take a turn about the room?” She started away, and Cavendish, still clutching the book to his chest, gave Kate and Emma a shove to follow.

“I admit,” the Countess said, moving through the crowd, nodding to people on either side, “there were those who insisted on praising Natasha Petrovski and her curdled-milk complexion and watery cow eyes. That was before, of course, she had that awful accident with the pitcher of acid. Poor dear, I heard she died in a Hungarian asylum. Mad as a hatter and raving on and on about a witch.” The Countess giggled, covering her mouth with her fan and giving Kate an aren’t-I-bad look. “But what was I saying? Oh yes, my husband. When I married the Count, everyone said he had no more than six months to live. I don’t need to tell you I didn’t plan on allowing him even that long. But wasn’t it just like the old mule to creak on for nearly a year? Honestly, he must have survived a half dozen of my attempts to poison him. Never marry a finicky eater, my dears. Nothing but trouble.”

None of the guests appeared to notice the children. As the girls or Michael, or the Secretary for that matter, approached, the immaculately dressed people simply moved out of the way without ever looking at them directly.

The Countess gave a bright little laugh. “Finally, I went to a hag and bought a potion of bees’ root, amber paste, and willow’s breath. No need for him to swallow a thing. He just breathed it in as he slept and come morning was as dead as a peasant in winter, leaving me sole mistress of the largest estate in the Tsar’s realm.” She turned to them, her face glowing at the memory, and curtsied low. “The Countess Tatiana Serena Alexandra Ruskin, at your service.”

Kate and Emma stared at the bowed, blond head. Michael leaned forward and whispered, “It’s polite to—” but Emma elbowed him in the ribs. Kate was thinking of the day they’d first seen the Countess at the dam, how she’d seemed almost too radiant, too beautiful, too full of life. Now Kate understood: it wasn’t real. The Countess wasn’t sixteen or seventeen. In fact, if she was who she said she was, if she’d been alive when there were still tsars in Russia, she could be a hundred. Or more. Magic was keeping her young. No wonder she sometimes seemed like she was playing the part of a teenager.

The Countess rose with a soft rustle of silk and gazed out over the dancers.

“Yes,” she said with philosophical weariness, “this was my world. I had wealth, position, beauty. Simpleton that I was, I thought I had actually achieved something. But I was still to learn the true meaning of power.” She clapped her lace-gloved hands, and it all disappeared, the men in uniforms and tuxedos, the women in gowns, the orchestra, the green-liveried servants, the light from the chandeliers, all gone. The children were suddenly alone with the Countess and her rat-toothed secretary in the large, silent room. Only a few candles flickered along the walls.

“Now,” she said with a smile, “shall we go out onto the verandah? I’d like to take the air. And I believe you have something for me.”

The Countess made Kate and Emma wait with the Secretary while Michael helped her on with a black silk wrap. Kate watched the Secretary for any sign his attention was wandering, anything that would give her a chance to seize the book. She’d already whispered to Emma to be ready with the photograph.

But mostly, she wished her hands would stop trembling. She’d balled them into fists and, when that didn’t work, shoved them in her pockets so Emma wouldn’t see. She didn’t want her sister to know how terrified and truly hopeless she was.

The Secretary muttered something to the tiny bird on his shoulder and hugged the book even closer.

Suddenly, Kate felt Emma’s hand in her pocket, prying her fingers apart, sliding her small hand into hers. She looked over and saw her sister’s face turned upward, her dark eyes full of trust and love.

In a voice only Kate could hear, Emma said, “It’s gonna be okay.”

Kate thought her heart might burst. She’d always known her sister was strong, but she was still three years younger, and at this moment, when everything seemed so bleak, for Emma to be the one offering her strength …

“Come along,” the Countess said, sweeping past them toward the door.

She led them to a stone patio off the back of the house. The night was warm, the air heavy and sweet with the smell of blooming flowers. Glass dragons of every color were strung overhead, candle flames dancing in their open mouths. A porcelain jug stood on a table at the center of the patio and, beside the jug, a crystal carafe filled with dark liquid.

“Please,” the Countess said, gesturing to the chairs. “I do love sitting outside on a summer’s evening. Perhaps it’s my Russian blood reminding me that winter is never far off. Do you care for lemonade? I promise it isn’t poisoned.”

Without waiting for an answer, the Secretary began pouring, slopping a fair amount onto the table.

Scared and worried as she was, Kate couldn’t help thinking how familiar everything seemed. The house, the stables. This was the place where they lived. And yet they were such a long, long way from home. She stole another glance at the book under the Secretary’s arm. Somehow they had to get it back.

Suddenly, the night was rent by a scream. Kate felt Emma’s hand grip hers more tightly. The scream was far off, from somewhere deep in the woods. But there was no mistaking the source.

The Countess was pouring herself a glass of whatever was in the carafe. It was a deep ruby color and oddly thick.

“Now and then women from the town attempt to reach the house. No doubt wanting to see their brats. You’d think they’d learn. They have no hope of getting past my guards.” The Countess swirled the liquid around her tiny glass. “They are amazing creatures, the morum cadi. They never grow tired. They know neither pain nor fear nor compassion. They are possessed solely by a hatred for every living thing.” She lifted the glass to her lips and drained it off.

“What did you call them?” Kate asked, cursing the tremor she heard in her voice.

“Morum cadi, the deathless warriors,” the Countess said. “Though I admit Screecher is a fitting name. They were men, hundreds of years ago. But they traded their souls for power and eternal life. Which they were granted, of a sort.”

“They’re not so bad,” Emma said. “Mostly smelly is all.”

The Countess smiled indulgently. “Aren’t you a brave little liar?” She poured herself another glass. “They say the scream of a morum cadi is the cry of a soul being torn asunder, over and over, for eternity. One is awful enough, but a thousand together on a battlefield? I’ve watched whole armies turn and flee.” She raised the red liquid to her lips. “It really is quite a sight.”

Kate imagined someone’s mother running through the forest, her legs growing heavy, the screams drawing closer.

“Ow,” Emma said.

Kate was crushing her sister’s hand. She loosened her grip, whispered, “Sorry.”

“Such devotion,” the Countess cooed, “but I see the truth.” She reached across the table and placed a finger on the base of Kate’s throat. “Abandoned by those dearest in the world. The wound hangs over you like a shadow. But I could make it go away. It would be so easy.…”

She withdrew her hand; a wispy gray tendril clung to her fingertip. She seemed to be drawing it out of the center of Kate’s chest. As it pulled free, Kate gasped.

“What did you …”

“What have I done? My sweet little Kat, I’ve set you free! Oh, the weight you’ve had to bear! Can’t you feel how it’s worn you down, little by little, every day of your life? But it’s gone now, all the pain and hurt, all the fear; I’ve taken it away. Imagine living that way always.”

She was right, Kate thought. It was as if she could breathe for the first time in years.

“Say the word, and you’ll never feel it again.”

The tendril drifted in the air, still clinging to her fingertip. Kate thought back to her mother leaning down, telling her to watch over her brother and sister, and though the memory was there, the feeling of her mother’s love, of that last kiss, was gone.

“Give it back.”

“Are you sure, mon ange? There’s a great deal of pain here.”

“Give it back.” If holding on to that one moment meant a lifetime of pain, Kate would take it.

The Countess shrugged and touched her chest. Kate felt the weight settle on her like a shroud.

“Well, shall we take a look at what you’ve brought me?”

The Secretary had been hovering a few feet away, both arms wrapped greedily around the book. Now he scurried forward and placed it in the Countess’s outstretched hands. She let out a small gasp as her fingers touched the emerald cover.

She was clearly trying to control herself, but still her fingers trembled as she opened it and turned the pages. After a minute, and with obvious effort, she set the book aside.

Kate heard her whisper, “Finally.”

The Countess looked at the children, her eyes glowing brighter than ever. “Alors, mes enfants, would you like to know what it is you found?”

The Countess began by saying that to understand where the book came from, the children first had to imagine an age long past when the worlds of magic and men were one, back before the magical world had begun to pull away and humankind had been made to forget—

“Yeah,” Emma interrupted rudely. “We know all that.”

“Well,” the Countess continued, her voice still soft and sweet, “the center of the magical world, the seat of the highest learning and power, was Alexandria. Or Rhakotis, as it was then known, where the great desert met the sea. The city was ruled by a council of wizards who traced their line back to the dim beginnings of the world. Their knowledge was ancient, primordial. Passed down from master to student for thousands of years. But powerful as they were, they saw their time was ending, that the age of humans was approaching, and they feared the day they would be forgotten.

“You see”—and here the Countess smiled at Kate and Emma—“though wizards, they were also men. And like men throughout time, they could not imagine a world where they would cease to matter. So what did they do, these wise, foolish men? They wrote their secrets down, those things said at the birth of the universe, the words spoken aeons ago, in the darkness and the silence, to call everything into being, all so that they, through their knowledge, would endure.”

The Countess laughed, but it was not the bright, gay laugh from before. The sound was hard, scornful. “Their ancestors had understood. Some things are too powerful to be controlled by any one person. For this reason, the knowledge had always been divided among the council, with none knowing exactly what the others possessed. In this way, there was safety. When it was proposed that the secrets be collected, there were voices that argued against it. Who said such power, gathered together in one place, was too dangerous, that perhaps it should be lost. But other voices won out, and thus the great magics were committed to simple paper.

“They were not complete ignoramuses, to be sure. They built in protections. You’ve seen yourself that the leaves are blank. It would take a lifetime of magical study to read and understand a single page. In addition, they established an order of guardians whose sole mission it was to protect the Books.”

“You mean,” Kate said, “there’s more than one?”

“Yes. The wizards created three great books, which they named the Books of Beginning. And they buried them in a secret vault far below the city.”

“So what happened?” Emma asked petulantly, as if she didn’t care, though Kate could see she was hanging on every word.

The Countess shrugged. “What happens to every great civilization. Convinced they were the most enlightened society on earth, they grew decadent and soft. The council of magicians fought among themselves and fell apart. They had been right, you see: the age of magic was waning. Finally, the city was overrun by Alexander, the first great human warlord. He burned it to the ground. And when the ashes were sifted, the Books had disappeared.

“Everything now becomes conjecture. Some believe Alexander took the Books with him, that they remained in his possession till his death, when they were stolen by his chief magician. Others believe that the order of guardians created by the wizards spirited the Books away before the siege, splitting them up and hiding them in the far corners of the earth. Others think that in the confusion of the city’s fall, the Books were stolen by those who had no conception of their importance, and they were passed from hand to hand through the ages. If someone did chance upon their nature, they made use of the Books’ power in the crudest, simplest way, as you three did when you traveled back through time. Of course, there were always rumors that this or that book had come to light, but none were ever proven. As far as I know, no one can honestly claim to have seen one of the Books of Beginning since Alexander marched into Rhakotis more than two thousand years ago. That is, until now.”

She laid her hand lightly on the cover of the book.

For a few moments, no one spoke. Kate wanted badly to say, “And so what?” It didn’t matter to her that the book was written by a bunch of wizards a long time ago. She just needed it to get her brother and sister home.

Then Michael said, “So now will you do it?”

Kate looked at him. He seemed to have grown paler as they sat there, and he was visibly sweating. His glasses kept slipping down his nose.

“I mean, you’ve got it now, right? So you’ll do what you promised?” His voice was pleading.

“What’s he talking about?” Emma demanded.

“It’s very simple, my dear,” the Countess said. “I wished you and your sister to return with the book. So I made your brother an offer. In return, he agreed to lure you here and turn you over to me.”

Emma snorted. “You think we’re gonna believe that? You got him under some spell is all.”

“I’m afraid not. Your brother helped me of his own free will.”

The Countess said this as if she were stating no more than plain fact. Kate felt a stab of ice at her heart.

Emma seemed to sense it as well for she pushed back, harder than ever. “No, that’s not true! Michael’d never do that! Not to us! Would you, Michael?”

She looked at him, imploring. But Michael just stared down at the table.

“Tell them, Michael,” the Countess said, her voice low but firm. “Tell your sisters.”

Kate held her breath. No, she thought, please. Let him be under a spell.

Very quietly, Michael said, “It’s true.”

“No!” Emma grabbed him by the shoulder and began to shake him roughly. “No! You’re under some spell! I know it! You gotta be! You wouldn’t do that to us!”

“Don’t be too harsh with him, my dear,” the Countess said. “I looked into his heart and saw the thing he desired most. He couldn’t resist.”

Emma was crying. Large tears tumbled down her cheeks.

“Shut up! You’re lying! There’s nothing you could give him that’d make him betray us! He’s our brother! You don’t know anything! You’re just an evil witch is all! You—”

“Emma—” Kate said.

“No!” Emma cried. “He’d never—he—” She broke off, burying her head in Kate’s shoulder, sobbing. “He’s our brother. He’d never … he’d never …”

“The poor thing,” the Countess cooed. “She’s actually quite fragile, isn’t she?”

Kate glared at her. Her fear had vanished. Her whole body was suddenly consumed with a white-hot rage. She wanted to leap over the table and scream at the Countess, tell her how year after year, orphanage after orphanage, with nothing, not even a bed to call her own, Emma had never given up. She’d always fought. Because she knew, wherever they went, her brother and sister would be there. They were her family, the one sure thing in her life. And now the Countess had taken that away.

Kate tasted salt and realized she was crying too. She wiped her tears and looked at the beautiful, violet-eyed creature across the table and made a silent promise that if she ever got the chance, she would kill her for what she’d done.

“Tell them what I offered you,” the Countess said.

Michael was crying and his voice hiccuped when he spoke. “She said she’d … find them.”

“What’re you talking about?!” Emma whirled on him, still crying, but furious now. “Huh?!” She started hitting him. Michael didn’t fight back or defend himself. “Find some stupid dwarf?! I hate you!”

But Kate suddenly understood. “She promised she’d find Mom and Dad.”

Emma stopped, one hand still balled into a fist. She was stunned, wild-eyed.

“Why,” Kate pleaded, “why would you—”

“Because”—Michael looked up, his face a mess of tears, his nose running freely—“what if they’re not coming back?”

And that was it. The thing none of them had ever said. Even the air seemed to sense it and grow still. Then Kate imagined herself shouting at Michael, telling him he was wrong: she was the one their mother had promised, not him; she knew. She saw Emma staring at her with huge eyes, begging her to say something. But Michael—who for a moment had looked as shocked as his sisters—was already barreling on.

“You say they are, but what if they’re not? It’s been ten years! She can find them! She promised she would!” He turned to the Countess, tears still streaming down his face. “Do it. You’ve got the book now. You said you’d do it when you had the book. Find our mom and dad. Please. Do it.”

The Countess reached out and caressed Michael’s hair. “My sweet boy, I wish I could. But you see, I don’t have the book.”

She nodded to where it lay on the table.

“What—what’s happening to it?” Kate said.

The edges were becoming fuzzy and indistinct. It was as if the book was slightly out of focus.

“A funny thing about the universe, my dear Kat: it respects individuality. A person or object may truly exist only once in a given moment. Multiple versions are verboten. That day you left Michael at the dam and returned to your time, there must have been a second or two when you saw yourselves. Do you remember how it felt?”

Kate did. There in the underground room, watching herself and Emma and Michael, she’d felt a huge force pressing down on her. Then, the moment their other selves disappeared, it lifted.

“Now, magic can bend those rules,” the Countess said, “especially magic as powerful as contained in the book. For a brief period, two copies can be made to exist at once. But sooner or later, the universe asserts itself. Ever since you arrived here, the other copy of this book, the one that already exists in this time, has been exerting its dominance.”

The book was growing more and more faint. Kate felt panic rising in her.

“Do something!”

“I wish I could. Regrettably, even I can’t change the laws of nature. Though I am grateful. I was about to give up. Two years I’ve been in this backwater, seemingly no closer to attaining my goal. But the fact that you found the book in this house, that tells me I am close. Take a good look now.”

Then, before their eyes, the book faded away and vanished.

There was a cracking in the sky, and a cold wind blew across the patio. A storm was coming in.

“But”—Kate couldn’t stop herself—“how will we get home?”

“My dear,” the Countess said, her eyes shining in the candlelight, “you are home.”