The Fake Heart (Time Alchemist Series) (24 page)

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I pulled out the ye
llow spiral notebook I had loaned
to Dove to use for her notes. I had expected probably a couple of pages, five at the most, but I was floored when I opened to find nearly the entire book was filled, front and back.

Dove’s handwriting was neat and eligible as she copied Guinevere’s words. There were many spaces on the page, probably word
s
or phrases she couldn’t translate, but here it was in perfect English. The pages themselves had look
ed so worn and old I was
concerned that Dove wouldn’t be able to even see the letters, let alone fill the gap.

I began reading, page by page, letting the words sink in.

February of 1918

After years, and years of such long agonizing voyages on the run, I have made it to a safe haven.

The wome
n of this tiny home
,
in a small town called Savannah
,
have taken me in,
mistaken
me for a runaway or an orphan. Let them think what they want; their love can never be repaid with my lies. It does not matter anyway, for in a few years time I shall have to once again pack my things and move for away, for fear of my secret being discovered.

             
She must have been talking about her…immortality. It must have been so rough to live a life, constantly moving from one place to the next so people don’t get suspicious of your age. It must have been especially tough all alone.

             
I kept on, reading about Guinevere’s stay with the girl dubbed “K” and her kind family, of how she explored the marshes near the home. There was even a brief mention of a man that Guinevere met, who reminded her strongly of her late husband.

             
But he was never mentioned again.

             
I read and read until
three years had passed.

March of 1921

Some days I so wish I could turn back
time
and stop all of this from happening. It is a most antagonizing, horrid journey to make alone. But now I have found a friend in the landlord’s youngest daughter, K Hearst.

A sweet, sweet child barely older than twelve.
She reminds me so much of myself. But her health is frail. I imagine she will not make it to adulthood. I comfort her with my stories of travels and fairy tales, as it is the only thing I could do to see the light in her eyes shine.

It makes me yearn so much for my own children. How terribly I miss them so. Often I catch myself reminiscing of the days when I could hold my sweet
(here it was scratched out, probably Dove’s own rendition of Guinevere’s journal)
in my arms and twirl flowers in her hair.

             
So Guinevere had children! I shook my head. For some reason, I found it a very startling idea—that the immortal and powerful apprentice to
Flamel
used to live normally and have a family.

I wonder if she purposely left out many of the names in her jour
nal to protect them from somebody. Somebody deadly, like the Ice Alchemist? I read on.

July of 1921

The poor child has fallen into a lapse of sleep. Her skin is so gray she may as well be dead. But isn’t that what life is? Death…..oh, how I yearn for death myself, but I still cannot. I must finish what my Master
had wished for me
all of those years ago.

July of 1921

(A
nother scratch here)
has found me once again. How long must I run, how long must he chase before this cycle ends? If I do nothing he will hurt them, but if I run, he will still kill them.

September of 1921

Oh, Master, forgive me greatly, for I have committed the ultimate sin against God’s will.

             
And that’s where it ended. I reread everything, scanning my eyes across the neat print, traveling back in time through Guinevere’s eyes and her short but warm stay here in Savannah. I learned that she had made good friends with the little girl named “K” and how she lived near the marsh, and played in their mansion-like home.

             
These short passages ripped my heart to shre
ds. It felt as if I
were
peeking
into Guinevere’s own heart, and it hurt.

What had happened here in Savannah to make Guinevere change her views of the world? Was she suffering the side effects for being immortal…driven to be alone forever while the ones you love grow old and die? Did this young girl, “K”, have something to do with it?

Hearst
…for some reason it sounded familiar. But I jotted down all of the names that were mentioned, planning to look them up. The city of Savannah was large, with history seeping into its very roots. The same could be said for many old families of such times.

It would be tough, going by just a last name, but it was a good enough start.

I spent the next hour going page by page through the translated notes, completely enthralled. It was like walking in Guinevere’s footsteps, trying to ignore the growing, aching pain in my chest when I saw a few of the words blurred by spots of water.

Tears.
It must hurt Dove so much
, I thought, And Leon. It hurts them both so much, yet they can’t see it.

Something fluttered out from the notebook and I picked it up, accidentally tearing a bit of the corner. I winced, smoothing it out carefully on the table. I glanced around, making sure nobody was watching, before I gasped at what I saw.

It was the same picture in Guinevere’s journal. D
ove must have stuck it in there
accidentally, but it wasn’t the picture that startled me, it was the small
little girl
that I had noticed before, the one who was clutching the baby doll.
It was as if I was seeing the photo in a whole new light.

The little girl
looked just like me.

CHAPTER 21

I trudged into the Humanities Club the next afternoon, stifling a yawn. I had spent practically all day in the library looking up the names in the computers, but barely found a thing.

The name “Hearst” and the little girl in the old black-and-white portrait that looked like a mir
ror copy of me wouldn’t leave my
head, like an iron rod had seared the image into my brain. I had a deep, nagging feeling that I was way over my head in this, but I wouldn’t give up.

Something
inside me was pushing
to find the answers.

The chattering stopped as soon as Karin flew through the door, taking her place up at the front. She beamed at everyone as she greeted us in typical Karin Foster style, “Greetings, earthlings!”

Then it clicked—if anybody knew anything (or any
one
) about Savannah, it had to be Karin! But how could I explain that I was trying to research a family that possibly didn’t exist anymore, or that I was on a wild goose chase to discover what
happened to a sick little girl named “K”?

My mind raced as Karin went on about a reminder to bring food and drinks and plates to our last meeting of the semester next Wednesday. My foot bounced impatiently for club to finish so I could question her alone. My heart was pounding, even though I was grasping very
, very
thin threads.

Finally, the slow hour came to a pass as everybody gathered their things and shimmied out the doors. I lingered behind, waiting to catch Karin alone as she conversed with Josh (see? I remember
ed
his name!)
on
a lasting discussion of Abe Lincoln’s assassination.

I bounced from foot to foot as I eyed the clock, watching the minutes tick by. Finally,
Karin saw me waiting and smiled.
“Need
somethin
’ Emery?”

Josh shot me a look of abhorrence, still in his position. His attitude was getting a little annoying, but I smiled at him anyway, “Actually, I have a question.”

“Well
c’mere
and ask! I don’t bite!”

I glanced at Josh again, “It’s kind o
f…personal. I can wait, though—” S
he waved her hands, brushing me off, “It’s fine, it’s fine! We’ll just pick up where we left off next week, alright Josh? Don’t forget to bring the plastic cups!” she called to him as he huffed away like a seething bull. What was his problem anyway?

She got up from her chair and grabbed her folder. Apparently she never carried a book bag or purse. Just a folder and the occasio
nal book I saw her bring
. “So what can I help
ya
with, Emery?”

I talked in a low voice as we left the rooms, her closing the door firmly shut behind us. “Well, it’s kind of hard to explain, but I’m, well, researching a family that probably used to live in Savannah.”

“You don’t say,” she said, nodding at my explanation, “And what do you need help with then?”

I laughed sheepishly, “Well, I just don’t know where to start. I have the family name—if that really is their name—but it’s kind of hard to do any research on the internet with just that.”

“And
that
is your problem!” she grinned, bouncing with each step as we made our way to the stairs, “Everyone relies too much on Google and Wikipedia to do their work! Although I do admit that the Internet
is
convenient,
but
it can never replace books. You should ask to look at family documents and historical papers on whoever it is you’re searching for. Our library has a huge selection of records just ripe for the picking.
It’s the wonderful world of Genealogy!
”

That would make it easier.
My cheeks burned in embarrassment. I had been so wrapped up in using the libraries computers that I completed neglected the one best thing that every library in the world had to offer—books!

“Thanks, Karin,” I smiled, “I’ll do that!”

“You bet your butt you will! Now I’m curious, too. And hey! That’d make a fine idea for a presentation for the club!
Heck! T
hat would be an excellent way to get new members: we could become a living, breathing heritage club! I’ll mention it to the other members through email. Thanks a bunch, Emery! See
ya
next week!”

I waved as she tromped down the stairs and disappeared around the corner. I took a deep breath, filling my senses with hot tea and pumpkin pie spices from the coffee joint and began my plan of attack.

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Three hours later (or was it four
? I haven’t the faintest idea, but it was still light out so it wasn’t
that
late) I had finally found everything I could on a family called Hearst. More specifically, I had found Guinevere’s
mysterious
“K”.

Kathleen Hearst
an article of an old, brittle newspaper had read
the miracle child. Daughter of the wealth Victor Hearst, Kathleen was born with a weak heart and a poor immune system. But on the eve of her thirteenth birthday, the mysterious illness that had her bedridden for more than half of her life suddenly vanished!

Even doctors are baffled by this miraculous recover. Kathleen’s grandmother claims it is the work of God
,
“The Lord has answered our prayers!”

When questioning little K
athleen herself, she simple replied,
“An angel was watching over me.”

This had to be it. This had to be what Guinevere had done. She had saved Kathleen’s life with the Elixir—even though it was against her beliefs. Guinevere had seemed so upset over it. It was possible that Kathleen’s illness had
…killed her
, and Guinevere had used a shard of the Elixir to revive her.

“Her sin.”

There was little more history about the Hearst family. All I know is that Kathleen was the only heir to Victor’s company; she grew and married
and had one child
, and eventually passed away at the age of
eighty-three.

But…where was this shard of the Elixir? My eyes scanned the other documents until I reached the end of her obituary. There was a tiny section of it where they had interviewed Kathleen Hearst on the 50
th
anniversary of her recovery; a then sixty-three year old very healthy woman.

“My good luck charm that was blessed with the powers of God,”
she stated in one article,
“I’ll take it with me, even in death.”