The Ghost of a Chance (22 page)

"Your poor heart," she says again, letting
go of my collar to rest one hand upon my cheek.
 
"You never let it out to play.
 
It’s used to the dark, silence.
 
Containment.
 
It’s sickly,"
she smiles, "like Colin Craven.
 
A
scared, scarred thing. You ought to show it a garden, Darcy."

"I can’t," I tell her simply.
 
"I haven’t got the key."

Alis gazes at me oddly for a long while, her mouth
drawn and thoughtful, as if she’s pondering something, or making up her
mind.
 
Then her hand begins to slide
from my cheek to my hair, weaving with my dark waves and brushing against my
ear.
 

"Darcy, it’s all so confusing.
 
I can’t make sense of the haunting,"
she whispers, pulling lightly on my collar again, "but I know my own
heart.
 
And I listen to it, and speak
it—and that often gets me into terrible trouble.
 
And it will this time, too, because Catherine…
 
Because we can’t…
 
We just
can’t,
Darcy.
 
But I have to tell you."

"Tell me, Alis."
 
My hands rest upon her knees as I lean toward her, drawn by a
gravity that could never be measured or explained.

Her lashes lift, revealing eyes more dazzling than
the sapphires in her pendant.
 
I hold my
breath as her lips part.
 
"Darcy, I
love—"

But she jumps as her words are overwhelmed by an
eager rap—
knock, knock! Knock, knock!—
at the front door.

We draw apart, our expressions mirror images of
flushed and stunned dismay.
 
I want to
ignore the knocking, want to take Alis’ hand and leave through the back
door.
 
We could hide ourselves away in
the cabin until the intruder has gone, until we’re alone again.
 

Though we can never be truly alone, not here.

Remembering that, I sigh and rake my hands through
my hair, resigned.
 

I owe this much to Catherine.
 
No, I owe much more than this, so much more,
but it’s the only thing I can do for her right now.

"I’ll answer it," I mutter, rising from
the table, pushing back my chair with a bone-jarring screech.

Because Genevieve McLeery is here, regrettably right
on time.

---

Alis’ hand in mine is as cold as ice.

"Let me get you a sweater before we
start," I whisper to her, but she shakes her head mutely, eyes locked on
Genevieve, who is seated across from us with her own eyes closed, her mouth
tight and furrowed.

I suppress a shiver, cold myself.
 
A chill has come into the room, that seeping
sort of chill that bypasses your skin and sinks deep into your bones, nestling
there like a squatter, freezing your marrow.

"Spirits bring the cold air with them," Genevieve
announces suddenly, dramatically, startling Alis and setting my teeth on
edge.
 
The old woman’s eyes remain
closed, her posture unchanged, as she says, "A sweater will do nothing to
warm you, not when spirits are about."

I glance to Alis; she swallows but continues to
stare ahead.

Genevieve arrived dour-faced in a simple beige
pantsuit.
 
She spoke very little at the
door, scarcely even greeted us before setting to work, directing this and that,
all business, though she had been quite friendly during her previous
visit.
 
She bid us to light a few
candles and turn off the lights, to disconnect the phones, to shut the doors
and the curtains, closing off all outside interference, so that nothing might
disrupt our otherworldly enterprise.

Then, in her soft Scottish lilt, brown eyes stern,
she stressed to us the importance of circles.
 
"Life is a circle.
 
Again
and again and again, we turn…"
 
With her index finger, she drew a circle first upon my palm, and then
Alis’.
 
She joined our hands together,
watching us closely as we gazed at one another, still as sculptures.
 

"All spirits know this, the circle—human,
animal.
 
All spirits, living or
passed.
 
They recognize the circle.
 
In séance, then, we must make the circle for
them, so that they arrive welcomed.
 
And
unafraid."
 

With only the three of us, though, we can’t quite
form a circle, so a rounded-off triangle will have to do.
 
Besides, I don’t expect Catherine to have
any difficulty "recognizing" us, or to harbor any fears about
approaching us, either—that is, if she intends to communicate at all.
 
I feel a crushing sense of unease, sitting
there in the dark and the quiet, holding Alis’ cold hand and Genevieve’s frail
one, holding my breath and holding my tongue, because all I want to do is say,
"Stop.
 
Stop.
 
I can’t do this.
 
I can’t face it…"
 

If Catherine comes, what will she say?
 

If her voice fills my ears again, how will I bear
it?
 
After these months of silence,
hushed as graves, how will I
bear
it?

I don’t know if I can.

And why must I try?

I want to call the séance off.
 
Nothing’s happened yet, nothing that can’t
be undone.
 
I’ll blow out the candles
and open the blinds.
 
I’ll pay Genevieve
and send her off, and then Alis and I will—Well, I don’t know what we’ll
do.
 

My heart clenches as I consider my options, which—as
Genevieve sinks deeper and deeper into herself, her pale forehead creased—are
fading fast.
 
Alis is right: how can the
two of us ever be together if Catherine’s ghost remains with me, possessing my
body and my heart?
 
A cold sweat breaks
out on my brow, and my heart flips a panicked somersault.

But how can I let her go?
 
How could I ever
wish
Catherine to leave me?
 
I can’t…

I don’t want her to leave me.

I don’t know what I want.

I want Alis.

I want Catherine.

Do I deserve either one of them?

I want—

"Someone wants to speak with you now."

"What?" I try to pull my hand from
Genevieve’s grasp, but she holds me tight; my bones ache in protest.
 
"What do you mean—"

"She’s here."

Alis makes a gasping little sound of fright, but she
quickly bows her head and squeezes my hand, keeps squeezing until I squeeze,
lightly, back.
 
Genevieve’s hand I am no
longer holding at all; my fingers are splayed as she wrings at my palm.
 

"Courage now, girl.
 
Don’t lose heart, not when you’re so close to your heart’s
desire."

"But what if I’ve made a mistake?
 
I don’t know if—What if—"

"What if we’re all just some superior being’s
dream?"
 
And Genevieve’s stern
brown eyes soften, gazing at me with something like pity.
 
"There’s no use in pondering what ifs, Darcy.
 
And there are no mistakes, only what
is
,
what was always meant to be.
 
And what
is meant to be now," she says, her voice taking on that theatrical tone
once more—incongruous with her frail and simply attired appearance—"is a
conversation."

"A conversation," I repeat numbly,
narrowing my brows.

"Yes.
 
Between you and your beloved, your Catherine.
 
She has tried to speak with you many times, Darcy, but the veil
is too thick; the sound could not penetrate.
 
But I have pushed the veil aside for you, and I will hold it back for as
long as I am able.
 
Or for as long as
this spirit wishes to remain."

"But how can I talk to her?
 
How will she speak to me?"
 
I glance furtively about the darkened space,
flickering with candlelight, the flames elongated and as white as burning
stars, and I search for a specter, any hint of ghostly presence.
 
But there are only Alis and Genevieve, the
candles and the darkness.

The medium tugs at my hand, urgency in her voice:
"Catherine must inhabit a vessel, Darcy, in order to speak with you.
 
I will give her permission to use my
body.
 
You mustn’t be frightened.
 
It will seem very strange.
 
But her spirit will fill me; all that she
was, and is, will fill me.
 
However,
possession weakens me, so you must speak quickly, must waste no time.
 
Are you ready for this?"

"I…I don’t know," I stammer, again trying
to slide free of Genevieve’s grasp, and again failing to do so.
 
She has the grip of a vice.
 
"I don’t know if—"

"Could she use
me
?" Alis says then,
shocking both Genevieve and myself to silence.
 
The weight of Alis’ question presses heavily upon me; for a long moment,
I find myself unable to move, unable to respond at all.

Then: "No…"
 
I stare at Alis, gripped with horror, and squeeze her hand
anxiously.
 
"No.
 
No, Alis—"

But, "Could she?" Alis persists, ignoring
me entirely, until at last Genevieve lifts her chin high into the air and
brings it slowly down to her chest: a noncommittal nod.

"She could, if you permitted it, but it would
be unprecedented in my experience.
 
I
couldn’t guarantee your safety.
 
I am
the medium; I am paid for this service, practiced in possession, and it is I
who should—"

"But you said it tires you, that Darcy would
have to hurry, that she wouldn’t have much time to talk.
 
If I did it…
 
If I were the vessel, then you could reserve your strength.
 
Darcy and Catherine would be able to speak
more freely and…"
 
Alis gives me a
shy, apologetic glance.
 
"I think
they have a lot to sort out."

Genevieve pierces Alis’ blue gaze, her mouth
twitching with disapproval.
 
"My
dear, I can’t take responsibility for—"

"I’m offering of my own free will.
 
Anything that happens as a
result…"
 
Alis swallows, eyes
hooded and focused on the table, "Will be wholly my fault."

"Well, if you insist—"

"No, wait."
 
I try to wrench free of both of their hands now, but they won’t
let me go, and I groan in frustration.
 

"Darcy, let me do this for you."

Alis’ face is set, determined—and all the more
beautiful for it.
 
In the candlelight,
her fair skin glows, and when she smiles at me, the gentlest, most affectionate
smile, my defenses dissolve, melted like ice in summer.
 
"But Genevieve said it’s
dangerous."

"I don’t believe that."
 
Her smile falters, but she leans nearer to
me, pressing against my shoulder.
 
"Catherine was one of the kindest people I ever knew.
 
She’s possessed you, without causing
harm.
 
I know she wouldn’t ever harm me,
even though…"
 
Alis lowers her long
lashes, blushing.
 
When she lifts her
gaze, there’s something new in her eyes: a gleam, diamond hard,
unbreakable.
 
I marvel at her
strength.
 

"Even though what, Alis?"

In a quick but graceful movement, Alis brings my
hand to her lips, kissing my fingers, one by one, lightly.
 
"Even though I love you," she
says, then, exhaling a deep breath.
 
Flames dance in her eyes as she watches me, smiling nervously.
 
"There.
 
I’ve told you.
 
Finally!"

"Yes, finally."
 
I feel nothing but love as I look at her, my eyes roving her
sweet face, memorizing the curves of her mouth, the arch of her brows, the
startling shade of her eyes at this awaited and sacred moment.
 
"I love you, Alis."

And with another long sigh, as if she’d been holding
her breath, Alis smiles invitingly at me and returns my hand, still in her
grasp, to the table’s shadowed surface.
 

"Well!" Genevieve, stunned, blinks her
brown eyes several times, her thin brows drawn together, as if trying to make
quick sense of the exchange she just witnessed.
 
"How will we carry on, then?
 
The spirit is restless.
 
She may leave if we don’t make our intentions known—and soon."

Alis implores me.
 
"Please let me help you and Catherine, Darcy.
 
Let this be my gift to you both.
 
I know it’s strange…
 
But I think it’s what she wants.
 
I don’t know how I know that.
 
I just…
 
It feels right to me, like when I painted her portrait."

"But will it frighten you?"
 
I watch her lips part, curving upward; I
long to kiss them, can, shamefully, think of little else...

"No," she smiles.
 
"You’ll be right here beside me.
 
And I’m never afraid when I’m with you.
 
Did you know that?"