The Last Will of Moira Leahy (21 page)

“I was told that he’s dealing with an illness,” I said, remembering. “He must be at his apartment sometimes, though—he’s left those notes.”

Noel grunted. “If he’d wanted to meet you, don’t you think he would’ve contacted you by now?”

“Maybe so.” Though he never would if Ermanno told him I’d sold the
keris
. Why had I found it necessary to confront the
empu’s
brother and lie like that?
Stupida!
I rose and stared out the window, at a black sky.

“So I was thinking you should take a break,” he said.

“A break?”

“Abandon the
empu
hunt for now. Come with me to Paris.”

I spun around. “Paris?”

“I have things to take care of before I can go back to New York. You can meet Ellen and humble me with your French. I’ll show you the sights and introduce you to that mannequin. You’ll have more to tell your students. You can—”

“All right, already, I’ll go with you to Paris if I must!” Could cheeks crack from smiling too wide? “But let’s see the Pantheon today. It’s supposed to look incredible in the rain.”

“The Pantheon, in the rain, with the red woman. I think I can handle that.”

My face warmed. I was the red woman, all right.

“We’ll have to take a cab,” he said. “Are you up for it?”

I considered. “Can we pay him extra to drive slowly?”

“We can try that.” He took my hands. I stepped on tiptoes and kissed him. Gently. He wrapped his arms around me. I sensed a shiver.

“Do you feel cold?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “I feel hope.”

NOEL LEFT LATER THAT
morning to make arrangements, and I packed. It didn’t take long to fill my bags, and then I reached into the safe for my
keris
. My hand met only chill metal.

I reopened every dresser drawer. Empty. Empty. Empty except for a Bible. I remembered my search at home during my father’s visit, when the
keris
had been in my saxophone case, but this disappearance couldn’t be blamed on some mysterious mental lapse. I hadn’t risen in the middle of the night and retrieved it from the safe. Not when Noel had been with me, his arms around me, the entire time.

I checked the floor, under the beds and covers. I’d nearly convinced myself the blade had been stolen when—

The pillow. Check
.

Memories of skulls and frozen water and muddy hills assaulted me as I recalled Garrick’s words:
Put the blade beneath your pillow. If you have a nightmare, the
keris
is bad
.

I swatted at the pillow, flipped it to reveal the
keris
beside its sheath, like a snake shed of its skin. Felt the convulsive swallowing of a fearful person and recognized the person as me.

It has an intention. A will
.

A will to spur nightmares and make me question my sanity?

It removes inhibitions. That’s how it works
.

My convictions fell apart. Maybe I’d been manipulated by the
keris
from the beginning. Chasing an
empu
to Rome? I should be in my apartment, sorting papers with Sam on my lap and preparing for classes. I remembered my beloved sax and the kiss I’d delivered its Roman cousin last night in a fit of aggravated passion, and realized, yes, I’d lost control. And Noel …?

My hand shook as I lifted the
keris
. It felt hot and gleamed dark in my grip, the blood line such an angry red it seemed the blade should drip crimson onto my sheets.

My vision overflowed with gray, then white.

Eling
.

I smelled the earth, the must of our shed, as Moira pondered her scabs
.

“Now we’ll always be joined, no matter what.”

I heard her laugh, felt her hand slip, and held tighter
.

“Wait, we have to say the words.”

Her eyes grew huge. “Till death do us part? This is silly!”

“No, it’s not good enough.” I pushed our small bleeding fingers together. “I know! ‘Even if I die, I’ll be with you for always.’ Say it.”

“Even if I die, I’ll be with you for always.”

Color returned as I came back to the present, though I doubt I had any in my face. I looked at my finger, healed for over fourteen years, and felt it throb.

I didn’t think. Just stuffed the sheath over the blade, thrust on my shoes, left. I saw Giovanni in the lobby.

“Mio Dio!”
he said. “What is the matter?”

I wished I knew the Italian word for
pawnshop
. “I need to find a place where they’ll buy this from me. Someplace close. Anywhere but Trastevere, Giovanni.” Anywhere Ermanno wouldn’t get his hands on it—or me. The irony that I was now doing what I told him I’d already done was not lost on me. “Is there a place?”

“Sì,” he
said after a moment. “There is a place.”

Out of Time

Castine, Maine

NOVEMBER 2000

Moira and Maeve are sixteen

Moira stood frozen beside her bedroom window and watched as Maeve walked next door. Ian would be home soon, and he couldn’t see Maeve just now—not after the argument.

Why did you blow me off today at school? Why didn’t you just take my hand? You think you’re too good for me, don’t you?

Moira hadn’t known how to react to that. He’d obviously walked up to Maeve and reached for her. Acid rose in her throat at the thought.

You still want to hide it all? It’s been three weeks!

She’d called on the original excuse:
My sister—

But Ian wanted no part of that tired line.
Your sister will have to deal
.

Kit emerged from her house and followed Maeve to the backyard, then sat in the hammock. Maeve paced before her, her hands flying through the air. She flung hair over her shoulder with a jerk of her head, then feigned ripping it out. When she stomped the ground, like she would the bleachers at a school rally, Kit laughed. Moira relaxed a little; Maeve must not have been talking about Ian and Moira.

Moira abandoned the window and stepped before the mirror. She arched her head and pretended to laugh. She tried to fling her hair over her shoulder, though it took three attempts to get it right. She used Maeve’s hairbrush and noticed the rougher bristles made her strands more like her sister’s, a little wild. She studied her reflection as she widened her eyes, lifted her hands, and made them flutter as Maeve did when she described an event. She paced, then stepped back before the mirror with flushed cheeks.

Passionate
, she thought.
I look passionate
.

A car door slammed. She rushed to the window to see Ian stride up the drive. His last words rung in her head.

I’m sick of the game. I’ll tell Moira myself, I swear it
.

Please don’t let him see her, Moira thought, but Kit sat alone on the hammock.

“What are you doing?” Maeve’s face appeared near Moira’s in the glass.

Moira whirled around, her hand over her chest. “How long have you been in here?”

Long enough
, Maeve’s eyes said.

“Are you ever going to tell me what’s going on?”

“Are you ever going to lay off?”

Moira thought she sensed her twin’s hurt feelings, the way she used to sense all her emotions, but that was impossible now. Maybe the sorrow was Moira’s. She
was
sorry. Sorry for so much.

“You regret something you did,” Maeve said. “I can feel it.”

Moira threw down the brush. “How many times do I have to say this? You’re not welcome in my mind! Leave me to my life!”

“I thought I was your life. I thought you were mine.”

Tears pooled like a fast leak in Maeve’s eyes. Moira thought she could count on one hand the number of times she’d seen her sister cry. She felt wretched to see it now, to know she’d caused it.

“I don’t know you anymore,” Maeve said.

“Don’t say that.” Moira swallowed her own tears.

“This is what you want, fine. I’ll never come to your mind again.” Maeve dashed tears from her cheeks as her features hardened. “You know, Moira, I think I figured something out about why you could never sense things like I do, why you never heard the music, and why you never would’ve been good at the sax. You’re afraid of everything. We’re supposed to be so alike, but we’re not. Because I’m not afraid, Moira. I’m not afraid to let go.”

Cold emptiness pervaded Moira’s senses as Maeve walked away. She thought she’d been blocking her twin for weeks, but a bond must still have dangled between them, must always have been there. And she’d never meant for the distance to last forever. This, now, felt irrevocable. Unbearable.

She heard the front door open, close.

“Maeve!” November air stung Moira’s eyes when she lifted the window. “Maeve!”

Ian stood in the grass with Kit, his eyes on Moira. For a second, she thought he recognized the swinging pendant she wore, but then he turned to her sister, who’d stepped onto the walk.

“Maeve!” he shouted.

But Maeve didn’t turn. Not for Moira. Not for Ian.

“Leave me alone!” she said, and ran off. Kit followed.

Ian kicked at the fallen leaves, then went inside. The door crashed shut behind him.

Moira closed the window and wrapped her arms around herself; it hurt to breathe. Soon everything would come out, all of her deceptions. And at what cost? She removed the saxophone necklace and left it on the dresser. She used her own brush and pulled her hair back into a ponytail. And then she dropped her barriers against Maeve.

Come back to me
, she thought.
Come back
.

She went downstairs and sat on the piano bench but couldn’t summon the desire to play.

“I haven’t seen you there in a long while.” Her father leaned against the doorjamb. “Everything all right, sweetheart?”

“Not really, Daddy.”

“Well,” he said, “do you know how to fix it?”

She had broken the bond with her sister. Was there glue for that? She had lied to Ian. He would hate her when he learned the truth. Even her parents would despise what she’d become and that it had all begun with jealousy. Moira despised herself, too—for the choices she’d made and the damage she’d done, the damage her lies would still do. Maybe hating herself had made it easier, somehow, to do it all in the first place—actions that required no pride or sense of self-worth.

“I don’t know how to fix this, Daddy.”

He nodded. “I’m going off this weekend to fix the Hobsons’ old boat. Need some stabilizers—wood and glue—and to find the weaknesses. I’ll patch what I can, reinforce, and heed the leaks. That’s important,” he said. “Never ignore the leaks, Moira.”

Long after Daddy left, Moira stayed in her room, thinking.

There’d been no sign of her sister or Ian, but she couldn’t imagine facing them with what needed to be said anyway. Finally, she sat down at her desk and withdrew a sheet of stationery. She touched it—a fragile, thin serving of wood—unsure whether it could truly patch this leak, but ready to try just the same.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

ABIN BLOO

D
rizzle spit at me as I strode over slick stone, past cars and people. I heard no music, not on the streets, not in my mind. Not then.

“Scusi,”
a man said, because I’d stalled before a brick façade. I stared at the sign. This was it—the pawnshop. The keris burned against my chest.

I walked on until I found a public fountain and bench. I sat and pushed wet hair off my face, wiped my nose with the back of my hand. A woman with two children approached, but she took a look at me—and maybe the blade sticking out of my coat—and turned away to find another place to sit or drink. Smart woman, good mother.

Eling
.

I remembered leaving Castine, the effort it took to pack my things, say good-bye to my father, my mother’s straight back. To leave Moira. That had been the hardest thing I’d ever done. But this I knew: Sometimes you had to cut out a piece of your heart in order to save the greater part of yourself from annihilation.

Some things were inhibited for a reason. Some things should remain buried. Whether the keris held power or it was all in my sick head didn’t really matter; what mattered was that the blade had become interwoven with the bones of all my skeletons.

And
eling
would kill me.

I stood, resolved, and walked back to the pawnshop.

Merchandise lined a long and narrow room, but I was blind to specifics. I had something to sell, I told the woman behind the counter. I showed her the
keris
. I knew the amount she offered was far below the blade’s worth, but it didn’t matter. She tucked a yellow euro in my hand and it was done.

Back outside, I leaned against the brick and sucked cold air through my mouth. My head filled with noise, lost words—
Vinah way pleshee myna—
and dissonant notes that made me light-headed. I stumbled further from the shop. People stared.

Abin fanto. Abin rextin
.

The voice grew dim as I wandered unknown streets, mapless and bereft. Minutes passed, hours.

Abin fanto
.

I remembered arms around me. Moira’s.

Abin fanto
.

I realized with a jolt what the words meant.

Abin fanto:
Good-bye, love.

Abin rextin
. Rextin. This was my name. The name my sister called me. And she was Bloo.

Abin, Rextin. Abin, Bloo
.

Good-bye, sister
.

I redirected myself, started back the way I’d come. How could I have sold the
keris
—something that reminded me of good times, of adventures with Moira when we’d been whole and happy? How could I think to give it up, to cave in to some ridiculous fear? How could I blame it for nightmares I’d had all along? I’d get it back. I would. But the mazelike streets I’d ensnarled myself on seemed to have other plans, and a thick fog descended on the city.
Game over
, nature seemed to say.
All is lost
.

I wouldn’t accept it.

I demanded right-of-way as I ran through intersections and across roads. I felt myself soaked through, skin to bone, when the sky opened again. No cab stopped for me.

In the end, my father’s homing genes saved me. I returned to the pawnshop and told the woman I wanted my
keris
back. I thrust two yellow euros at her. She handed me the blade, then asked me to leave; I’d dripped all over her wood floor.

I SAT FOR HOURS ON
the polished granite-and-marble inside the famed Pantheon, while a freefall of rain stormed through the opening in the high dome. The great eye that was the oculus, its iris a mosaic, seemed to weep.

“It’s mind-boggling to think people stood here two thousand years ago and watched rainfall just like this.”

Noel, impossibly, stood behind me.

“How did you find me?”

“I have superhero powers. I thought we’d established that.” He paused, studied me. “We talked about it this morning.”

“Oh. I forgot.”

He sat. Our knees touched. “You all right?”

“This place was supposedly the temple for all the gods,” I said. “The gods’ messenger was the goddess of rainbows. Her name was Iris.” I pointed to the oculus.

“Interesting,” he said. “But I asked about you.”

“The root of the word
iris
is Greek for rainbow. I wonder if they thought about that. I wonder if you can see a rainbow in here when the sun shines through a storm.”

“Maeve.”

“What?”

“Let me in. Tell me.”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“You’re here alone, crying on the floor. I think there’s something to tell.”

Crying? I wiped at my face, at the sea salt on my cheek.

“What happened?”

The
keris
flared under my coat.

Vinah way pleshee myna. Bloo
.

I couldn’t shake the sense of her. Moira was everywhere: in the storm, in my head, my blood. “I had a sister, Noel.”

“Yes, I know. Moira.”

“We were twins.”

“Twins?”

I nodded.

“What happened to your twin?” He asked it quietly, like he might, with a quick inhalation, take the query back.

I’d never told anyone, but now I found myself transported back and back. I was no longer in Rome; I was in Castine. It was not December; it was November, nine years past. And I was not After Maeve; I was Before Maeve.

But not for long.

I’D HAD A
knack for foretelling disaster with the people I loved. I’d sense it creep along the back of my neck or trek through my marrow to kick at my ribs. I’d felt for a long while that something was wrong with my sister
. Are you okay?
I’d ask her, and she’d nod
. Yes, Goose.
I felt in her a kind of restlessness I could only identify with music, with wanting to play and not having enough time for it, yet I saw her at the piano less and less
.

When we turned sixteen, our sick poppy gave us passports, and my soul cheered, because our future—full of travel and music and each other—loomed so close. But Moira became a stranger to me, almost overnight. She’d leave the house and get defensive when I asked questions. She closed herself to me, though sometimes I felt a new happiness in her, along with a new grief
.

One night, Kit handed me an envelope from her brother. I evaded her questions pretty handily, acted like I didn’t care about the letter. The truth was, I had a crush on Ian—everyone did—but I didn’t want anyone to know about it, or the kiss he’d given me on my birthday. Especially Moira
.

I read the note
.

Maeve, meet me at the lighthouse this time
.

I read it again. this time
.