The Darkly Luminous Fight for Persephone Parker (8 page)

Alexi pursed his lips. “Perhaps to jog some ancient memory. None of us were clever about this to begin with.”

“Yet we found each other in the end.”

Alexi touched her cheek. “Thank heavens.”

Escorting her back to Athene Hall, he murmured at her doorstep, “Until tomorrow, my darling. Try and rest.”

“You do the same,” she replied.

“I’ll do my best,” Alexi replied unconvincingly. They did not seem able to release hands, lingering until their reverie was broken by the front door being thrown wide.

“Now, I do not care if you two are engaged or not, Professor Rychman,” Miss Jennings scoffed, her face flushed and pinched, “but I’ll not have such an example set on my front steps. Oh, the shame! You’ll have the whole faculty thinking they could have a wife of a student whenever they please.”

“Calm yourself,” Alexi began mildly. “Miss Parker was sent to me by Fate. You ungrateful commoners. I shall mate Prophecy, Miss Jennings, as we control the dead lest spirits wholly unseat the sanity of banal persons such as yourself. Miss Parker’s a goddess of a girl, fit to make my wife, and I will do with her as I please.”

Percy gasped, staring up at Alexi. His eyes, blazing with cerulean fire, mesmerized the chaperone before he turned to Percy and said, “I’ve always wanted to tell the truth. She won’t remember a word, and it felt lovely to say. Now, then.” He indulged a languorous, wholly uncivil kiss, then ushered two dazed females back into the hall.

Left at last in her room, Percy stared out her window at passing spirits. They bade her rest, but her eyes settled instead upon a hanging still life, a ripe pomegranate at its centre. She’d turned the painting to the wall when she first arrived at Athens, and she didn’t remember turning it back. She flipped it to the wall one last time, needing no reminder
of that mythological fruit, which once bound a goddess to an underworld fate.

Beatrice followed the Groundskeeper to the seals, keeping to the shadows, unnoticed. It was easy, considering the chaos and noise. The Whisper-world was a hissing, echoing, miserable labyrinth.

She watched as he heaved and turned each stone pin with great strain. This seal was a gritty, moist cylinder, hardly distinguishable from other rock but for the small trickle of blood that poured forth. When opened, the fissure would leak the miasma of death into a fixed point in the mortal realm. Here in the Whisper-world, distances were odd, as was time. However, expediency and progress did seem to have pace. The Groundskeeper’s work was coming along; Beatrice followed behind to reroute it. After a pin was loosened, the Groundskeeper always ambled back to reconstruct his love.

Beatrice moved to the stone and kept her boot clear of pooling crimson. She thought of the faltering goddess, her divinity rotting and withering under the fist of Darkness, how the form she bore had bled as she laid down the foundations for Beatrice to now finish, coupling hers and her lover’s energy toward their goal. Perhaps this pool was even her blood, refusing to dry. A relic.

She pressed the locket. Hallowed Phoenix fire sparkled in her hand, leaped onto and nestled in the wet stone, kissing the blood dry, creating a pulsing rectangle of possibility where before was only rough stone and the sour air of danger: the portal was rerouted to familiar, friendly bricks.

Beatrice took a deep breath. Though she tried to put on a brave face, her heart had not stopped pounding since she died. So much for eternal rest. She wished to feel in better hands. The current Guard…It wasn’t that she didn’t trust them, but when she’d broken into their breakfast and examined them, the table was rife with obstacles; she saw mortal frailty
cloud each and every gaze. Every single one of them ached for something, was unsettled by something, felt guilty, trapped, unappreciated or unrequited. How keenly she felt their flaws. Prophecy balanced on the edge of a knife, and there was no divinity to ease her mind; that divinity died when the goddess gave herself to the world. The blue fire now held in her hand, this fractal remnant of Phoenix, was all that remained for Beatrice. It would take her someplace new, the next phase of her quest. She hoped when she opened her eyes she would see something comforting.

Beatrice found herself floating above a plot of soil in a York graveyard, a place she recognized, a place of shadows and wind. It was not what she hoped. Her lonely, weighted heart pounded harder with complex memories of grave digging. Her transparent hand grazed and swept across a familiar tombstone. A smaller, grimmer marker lay next to it.

She spoke softly to the stone, caressing it though she could not touch. “Since I’ve not seen your ghost, my only comfort is that you’ve surely found peace. May Ibrahim and I join you soon, and we’ll all embrace in that Great Beyond.” Sensation was an echo, yet she acted as though she could still participate in rituals of the flesh. Tears streamed down her phantom cheeks, surprising her. She missed Ibrahim. She missed her Guard. She missed sweet Iris Parker, this young mother dead before she could appreciate her unique baby. And to her surprise, she also missed the goddess, difficult as their relationship had been. Though she was a woman skeptical of prayer, Beatrice needed divinity. Thus she prayed over her friend’s grave that their myriad sacrifices would not be in vain.

The stunning light of morning was jolting. The day would eventually bring the night, and Percy thrilled with desire and trepidation. She knew nothing of intimacy, save the kisses and caresses Alexi had shared. A new education awaited.

She glided downstairs to the dining room, where an urn of hot water was kept for the restless or studious. Readying a cup of tea, she chose the spiced blend, for it reminded her of the scent of Alexi: clove and leather-bound books.

A rustle behind her proved to be Marianna, her eyes a bit groggy but her excitement palpable. “And how doth the bride to be?”

“Nervous.”

“Of course. May Edward come?”

“Of course.”

The girls sipped their tea, took hands and silently watched the sunrise. Only a hasty tread behind them eventually roused their comfortable quiet, the disdainful Miss Jennings, again with news. “Miss Parker. More company for you. Two French ladies.” She grimaced. “Bearing a rather large box.”

“Oh, do let them in.” Percy turned to Marianna. “I believe it’s my wedding dress!”

The two girls hurried to the door where Josephine and a tiny woman whose black curls alone could be seen through the window. “Hello, Percy dear,” Josephine called as they entered. “This is Madame Sue, a sorceress of the trade.”

Percy made introductions to Marianna as they moved
the garment box upstairs and into her room, Madame Sue streaming fabrics dramatically from her own apparel.

“And how do you know Percy, Mademoiselle Belledoux?” Marianna asked, clearly admiring Josephine’s gown.

“I’m a friend of the professor”—Josephine smiled—“and thus, of Miss Percy.”

“And I am the hired help,” Madame Sue volunteered, adjusting the corsage of pearl-tipped straight pins stuck to the lapel of her sweeping robe.

“The best seamstress on the isle, I tell you,” Josephine said.

The box safely upon Percy’s bed, Madame Sue did the honours. Everyone, save madame, gasped. Inside the box lay the most beautiful assemblage of light blue satin, lace and sparkling silver thread that modern fashion could imagine. Percy lovingly scooped up the thickly corseted bodice. The plunging neckline was lined across the bosom with thin, starched lace and silver-and-seed-pearl-embroidered ivy. Out tumbled three-quarters sleeves from which lengthening layers of pale blue lace fell in bells. Full skirts were doubled and cinched with a pearl-strung cord. A curl of satin had been arranged at the small of the back, like a rose, which bustled the train before sweeping downward.

“Oh, madame,” Percy breathed. Marianna’s hand would not leave her mouth.

“Pleased?”

“More than I can possibly express. You are an exquisite talent.”

“Thank you. Step in, let us make sure it fits. I adjust, then I sleep.”

“I’m terribly sorry for the rush, madame,” Percy said.

“No matter, people must marry when the fit seizes them, I suppose. You aren’t expecting, are you?”

“No!” Percy cried, blushing as she was helped into the dress.

“Good.” Madame yanked hard upon the corset strings, and Percy felt her ribs bend and her breath fly. “Ah. Fits well, this.”

“Indeed,” Percy squeaked, her already slender waist further tapered and her curves made voluptuous.

Madame disappeared somewhere behind the bustle and made a few adjustments. Reemerging with a small pair of scissors, she flitted about clipping threads, stood back and clapped her hands.
“Finis.”

“Madame!” Percy could not stop staring. “How can I thank you? Do stay for the wedding!”

“No. Weddings make me anxious. Promise me only that you will come by and let me experiment with your white face in other colours. And bring that eerie man of yours. I see him always in black. I make him a cloak of bright orange.”

Everyone laughed before Josephine said, “Percy, I’ll return for you at half past. I must go make sure Alexi’s kept his head and the chapel is presentable.
Oui. Allons-y,
madame.” The two women then disappeared in rustles of fabric and French mutterings that Percy understood as Madame Sue’s surprise that such a sweet, pleasant girl was to marry such a brooding man.

Percy and Marianna simply stared at each other.

“Marianna, I cannot believe this is happening.”

“Nor can I. Most certainly not after your first quarter!”

They giggled. It was rather sudden, but Percy wasn’t at liberty to explain.

Josephine entered Alexi’s office to find him pacing. “Alexi.”

“Hmm?”

“Has your suit arrived?”

“What? Suit? Oh, yes. Just now.”

“May I see?”

Alexi pointed to the alcove where a long, exquisite suit coat hung beside a silk cravat of pale blue.

“Oh, Alexi, how lovely—and you even got the blue correct!”

“Give me a bit of credit.”

“Constant black aside, you’re always well-appointed, yet I’m impressed. Now, you’d better—Alexi!”

“Yes?”

“Stop pacing, you’re driving me mad.”

Alexi moved to his desk and sat with unusual obedience that came only from distraction. “What were you about to tell me?”

“Dress yourself. You never know what strange delays may occur. You had better tune the chapel, too. Heaven only knows what might erupt.”

“Ah, yes. I suppose none of us has any idea.” He tapped a quill incessantly upon the desk. Josephine had never seen him fidget.

“Alexi, I am sure this must be overwhelming for you.”

“Yes.” His low voice was slightly strained. “It is, a bit.”

“You needn’t be nervous. Besides that this has been foretold nearly all our lives, I daresay you can do no wrong. The girl’s absolutely mad for you.”

Alexi stared straight into Josephine’s eyes, and then she saw the strangest of all sights, a foreign image to which they would all have to grow accustomed: his wide and genuine smile. “Yes. She is, isn’t she?”

Josephine returned his smile and masked the ache within.

Jane was clad in her finest dress, still relatively plain but it would have to do. She found the headmistress staring out her office window, Frederic upon the inner sill, absently stroking his feathers. Quite smartly, in a bit more colour than her usual custom, Rebecca was dressed in a fitted purple jacket and mauve skirts. A cameo at her throat, lace cascaded between the double-breasted folds of her jacket. It was clear she had taken great care.

“Good morning, m’dear,” Jane said at the open office door. “You look stunning.”

“Hello, Jane.” Rebecca beckoned her in, her smile strained. “May I offer you tea?” She placed Frederic outside the window with a piece of bread and closed the casement.

During the business of preparation, the two women were silent. Cup in hand, Jane asked, “Has he been by at all this morning?”

“No. That’s best, isn’t it?” Rebecca’s gaze was particularly sharp.

“It will grow easier. We’ve had such a shock. We all must mend. But she’s a sweet, dear presence—”

“Of course she is,” Rebecca snapped. “And I will care for her, as we all must. I trust you to leave me to that; trust me in that.”

“I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise.”

“I knew that none of this would be easy,” Rebecca murmured, and a strained pause followed. “Only, I wish he wouldn’t have—”

“What?”

“I shouldn’t speak of it.”

“To me, you may.”

Rebecca looked up, surprised. Her friend wasn’t one to speak volumes or make overtures; she had always been detached, and Rebecca loved her for it. This admission could be made to no one else: “When Alexi first admitted feelings for Miss Parker, I…pressed him on it, made my own confession, like a fool. He told me if we’d been born to another fate that he might have made me his wife.” Bitterness drew down the corner of her lips.

Jane granted the statement a necessary, gracious few moments. “And I’m sure he meant it. He cares for you. You’re close—”

“
Were
close,” Rebecca muttered. “I cannot imagine the tenor of our acquaintance will continue.”

“Of course it will; don’t be absurd. There is no threat imposed upon the betrothed by your presence. You are Alexi’s dearest friend.”

“He has a new confidant.”

“We all do. I have this strange feeling she’ll take all our confessions before the year is through,” Jane stated. “I’m sure she’ll know my secrets soon.”

“Your secrets, Jane?”

Her friend grinned. “Certainly. But, Rebecca, think of it: you’ve always been in Alexi’s shadow, the both of you scowling away the hours. Now you must come into your own. You’re too powerful to allow this to weaken you. You’ve had years to prepare.”

Rebecca exhaled a long breath. “I’m glad you came this morning, Jane. Thank you. I suppose we’d better survey the chapel. Surely Josephine has thoughts on the arrangements.”

“I must confess,” Jane murmured, “I am looking forward to the few days Our Lord and Master will be out of town.”

Rebecca raised an eyebrow, and saw a most mischievous light in her friend’s green eyes. “Why do you say such a thing, Miss O’Shannon Connor?”

Jane escorted Rebecca out the door with a mysterious smile. “A bit of work to be done, Headmistress.”

The chapel was a small white wonder of light and warmth, the stained-glass angels ablaze from within. Rebecca and Jane found Josephine in a flurry of movement, singing a French ballad and telling Elijah where to place several bouquets far larger than his head. Lord Withersby followed orders, grumbling and sneezing as she said a few pointed words about weddings.

“I don’t suppose you’d like to do this madwoman’s bidding, would you?” he asked pathetically at the door.

“No, watching you is far more entertaining,” Jane replied.

Michael emerged from the sacristy in a white robe and a
cleric’s collar, a Bible in his hands. Rebecca moved down the aisle and declared, “Well, aren’t you the picture of priestliness, Vicar Carroll.”

He chuckled, flushing, opening his arms to gaze down at himself. “We ought to have some measure of formality and godliness, shouldn’t we?” He flashed his winning smile.

“With Elijah Withersby present in a chapel?” Josephine called, having disappeared behind the altar. “We must take all precautions.”

“A stroke of lightning might as easily smite you, my darling,” Elijah called from behind an armful of lilies.

Josephine reemerged, candles in her hands. “Please elucidate, Lord Withersby. Do.”

Elijah balked.

“Might we set discussion of sin aside for the moment, for Miss Percy’s sake?” Michael begged wearily.

Every sill bore a candle and every pedestal a bouquet of lilies, the scent pervasive and welcoming. Once all was in place, as if on cue the chapel door was flung open and all candles burst immediately into flame. Alexi strode down the aisle, more compelling than ever, particularly elegant in his wedding attire. His hair was as neat as could be and his eyes were particularly stirring. When his companions remembered to breathe, they greeted him warmly.

“The man of the hour,” Elijah said with good cheer and a sneeze.

“Hello, my friends.” Alexi eyed the chapel. “Marvelous. Simply marvelous. Thank you.” He offered Rebecca a lingering glance. She returned it with a smile. Jane squeezed her hand in silent encouragement.

“While you tune, Alexi, I’ll be off to prepare your bride,” Josephine said, and she darted down the aisle, shimmering and rustling golden taffeta. Elijah could not help but watch. When he saw Jane smirking at him from the pew across the aisle, however, he scowled.

Alexi drew a meaningful relic from his breast pocket—a
thick, pale feather—and, with the powerful grace unique to him, moved to each window and tapped its stained-glass angel. Each glass seemed to vibrate, a soft hum rose, an invisible choir: the chapel would now allow no unwanted visitors.

Michael had disappeared but returned, opening wide the door for a woman in dark green. She advanced her wheelchair into the aisle, and Alexi darted forward, sweeping his sister up in his arms and carrying her up the aisle to seat her in a front pew. “Alexandra, my dear!”

The woman observed the room with wonder, knowing there was something inexplicable, craning her neck as if to hear with better ears. “What news, and so sudden!” she exclaimed. “You made no hint of it a few days past, when the two of you visited. Surely this surprised Miss Percy as much as I!”

“Yes, indeed. But it couldn’t be helped,” Alexi replied, his eyes glittering. “I’m very glad you’re here.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Alexi kissed his sister upon the temple and took her hand, sitting to anxiously await his bride. He noticed his favourite librarian, Miss Mina Wilberforce, duck into the chapel with an amazed smile, a bright white flash against dark brown skin. She’d long ago curried his favour by boldly having taken on the name of an emancipator rather than a master, and by proving she knew every book in the Athens catalogue. He hadn’t thought to invite her, so he supposed Percy must have, of which he was frightfully glad. He had a host of friends here after all, to share in his sudden happiness.

Michael gestured to Jane, who fumbled beneath her pew for a fiddle and moved to sit with it in a chair at the altar.

“Ah, good. Music,” Alexi stated.

Marianna opened the door to Josephine, who found Percy sitting wide-eyed upon her bed as if she had not blinked in
an hour. The German girl had swept up Percy’s hair into artful spirals.

“Come, dear, it’s nearly time.” Josephine rustled in the garment box to reveal a pearl tiara, set with blue glass flowers, and a veil of pale blue. Percy gasped, as if it were the final touch of absolute reality. “Yes, my dear, he really is going to marry you,” the Frenchwoman promised softly. “He really is.” Marianna was quiet but smiled.

The train hooked and the crowning veil set, Percy stared in the mirror and her eyes watered. She had applied just the faintest hint of rouge to her cheeks and lips, and had lined her white eyelids with the thinnest grey, which caused the ice blue slivers of her irises to jump forth. Feeling beautiful, she plucked her phoenix pendant out to hang not against her skin but proudly in the open, a mark of the fate-forged bond of long ago.