Heart Murmurs (12 page)

****

My mother is rearranging an already meticulous pile of clothes. She's been uncharacteristically hovering the last 24 hours, since I've been home.

“Mom?”

Her eyes stray to the rocking chair, where Morgan is sitting with his hands folded. He smiles at her.

She smiles reluctantly in return. “Okay Mia. But I'm leaving your door open.”

I laugh. “Fine.”

She sweeps out the door in a suffocating cloud of expensive perfume. Morgan coughs a little.

“I'm sorry. My mom can be quite the snob. No one is good enough for me.”

Morgan stands and slides over to sit beside me on the bed. “She's right. You should be cherished.”

His palms cup my face, and he leans in slowly to let his thin lips brush mine. He kisses me tenderly at first, but with every graze I feel the growing fire beneath.

His tongue darts into my mouth. My hands wrap into his hair; my breath hitching too hard and too fast.

His hand slides down to my scar. I flinch.

He breaks the kiss.

His other hand grasps my chin, making me meet his gaze.

His finger traces the scar, firm but gentle. “Mia. You are beautiful, my girl. This — this is nothing. It's your Medal of Honor.”

My heart soars at the words,
my girl
. The murmurs are fading, whispering only occasionally. It's as if they've given up.

I feel… sad. And weirdly determined; not to let Madelon's traits disappear. I will fight to keep them alive and well, in me. She's made me stronger, braver —
better.

I tear up. “I don't know if I would've been able to face everything with anyone else's heart. I think… she's made me brave.”

His right eye twitches, and he quickly rubs it, pulling his fingers together at the bridge of his nose. “Maybe so. But that's good. Maybe she just helped you be who you were supposed to be all along.”

I wipe my eyes. And take my mask off. And let the words flow out of my mouth, which usually flow onto paper. “You know — you always know exactly what to say. No matter the situation.”

My heart and I seem to have an unspoken contract. It no longer feels too far back in my chest. I can feel its pace pick up in time to Morgan's stroking fingers against my scar.

My mother's footsteps echo in the hall and Morgan's drops his hand. She pokes her head around the door. “Maybe you should get some fresh air, Mia.”

Morgan smiles at my mom. “I will be glad to walk her around.”

Mom shrugs. “Just make sure she doesn't get exhausted.”

“Absolutely.”

****

My arm is looped through Morgan's, as he steadies me out onto the porch. I'm still weak from the two days of unconsciousness.

I stop dead as I step out the front door. “What is this?”

“Your chariot, Milady.” He does a footman-like bow that would be perfect in any Austen novel.

My face heats with pleasure and surprise. A black Amish buggy, in mint condition, is hitched up to what I know to be his favorite horse, Beth's white mare, Pilot.

“Well, as I don't have my license yet. And you aren't exactly ready to ride my horse… this was the next best option.”

He leads me forward, and I feel like I'm falling into one of the tunnels. Like instead of my gray sweatpants, I should be in a dress, with boots. The murmurs rise when he takes my hand, helping me into the buggy.

It smells like leather and hay, and every creak's a song of a bygone era. His era.

Morgan crawls up into the driver's seat. “Ready?”

Ready? To hear the story? To be all yours? To accept you
—
who you are?

I swallow. “As ready as I will ever be.”

He slaps the reins on Pilot's hindquarters and heads down the driveway, toward the battlefields.

The fields are stretched and undulating as we pass McPherson's farm. A cold chill steals up my arms, raising the hairs. I've passed this place a million times — so why is it freaking me out now?

Morgan is watching me. His eyes, deadly serious, flick across the surrounding fields. I know he's reliving battles. Friends dying. Madelon. His face looks hard and old.

Now that I've seen it, I see them too. Or imagine I can.

Droves of ghosts of young, brave men. Men much too young to suffer and die.

I gasp quietly and press my lips together. I point. “Over there. That is where I found you in the hospital.

He nods brusquely. “That's right, my love. There was a house there, which they turned into a hospital. It burned to the ground in 1895.”

I can't wait anymore. I need to know.

“Tell me,” I whisper. “Tell me everything.”

He leans over, and kisses me once. Light and tender.

“I am born of a lineage, a secret society. It is known to run in literary families. Bronson Alcott, my father, was a Conductor.”

“A Conductor?”

“Yes. A Conductor controls the tunnels, to a degree. They're more caretakers than masters. The tunnels are not… controllable. They're living, organic entities. Walking through their rooms can change a person's life — permanently. Beth and I have never figured out how or why people are chosen. Why one person's life would warrant saving, versus another's. Most of the times the purpose is noble — lost loves, lost children. It tells us where to go, where to take them.”

“Is everyone in your family… a Conductor?”

“No. Bronson was convinced it would be Louisa who would be chosen. But it was Beth. Which mortified everyone.”

“Why?”

“Well, Conductors might live on indefinitely. Watching everyone they love die, decade after decade.”

“Might?”

My mind is spinning. Does
he
have to live on indefinitely?

“Yes, the line can pass to a descendent, allowing the Conductor to pass on. Not every child will carry the gene. There are also couriers. They can see the tunnels, but don't carry the immortality gene. I believe you, my dear, might be a courier.”

I feel my brow tighten. My mind recalls the three books on Beth's shelf. Their titles emblazoned in my memory: Courier, Conductor, Literati.

“Can Conductors get ill?”

“Yes, they and the Literati can become mentally and physically ill — but it's worse than dying. They just continue on in that state indefinitely till they produce an heir or the council rules they may move on. Then the tunnels… take care of it.”

I shiver. He notices.

His eyes widen. “I'm not certain you're a courier. But I don't know how else you could see the tunnels. When others enter — all they see is one straight dirt passage; like any other Underground Railroad tunnel.”

Another realization dawns, and with it a jealous streak of heat across my face.

I ball my fist at my side. “Was Madelon a courier?”

He bites the side of his lip. “No. I — I think she was a Conductor.”

“How do you know?”

“We have the branding. It's a birthmark. Conductors and couriers are black, but I've seen some change to red, for the Literati-mark.”

“How did she pass on, then?”

Morgan swallows. “The council ruled her injuries unsustainable. To allow her to carry on in such a state would've been cruel and unusual punishment.”

“I'm sorry.”

They need permission to die.

He nods and we're quiet for a few minutes; while the ghost of Madelon mentally torments us.

I think of Beth, and the time I saw the birthmark on her forearm. “I've seen Beth's birthmark. It looks like a Rorschach inkblot.”

“A what?”

“Never mind.” I want to soften that hard set to his jaw. Just use a search engine.”

His lips twitch up in a reluctant smile. “I will.” He sighs. “There's a catch to loving me, Mia.”

My heart falls, twirling in my chest. “Yes, what?”

“I'm… I'm not supposed to marry just anyone. I have to marry a courier, like myself. It's like an arranged marriage.”

Tears burn my eyes again, and I quickly blink them away. I'm beginning to hate them. “I know this is early — but then marrying me is not an option?”

His eyes blaze. “I don't care. If you'll have me, I will.” He glances at me. “In due time, I mean. I know girls here don't run off and get married at eighteen — like where I'm from.”

Fear, pain, and joy whirl around in my chest. I won't worry about particulars. Not now. He loves me that much. “B-but. What will happen? If you go against the law? And who are these Literati?”

He won't meet my eyes. He turns the horse up onto Cemetery Ridge, where stone sentinels mark the battle commanders' positions.

“There will be consequences.”

“What kind of consequences?” Panic is thickening my thoughts.

“I don't know. Beth… has brought some on us.”

“Like what?”

His lips are a grim line. “Like that battlefield pig. The Literati released it, as a warning to her. That they know she's been writing Louisa, using the tunnels for personal gain. I don't know if they've figured out the rest.”

“What do you mean?”

“Me. My existence, Louisa convincing Beth to save me, will be deemed as personal gain… and…”

“Morgan!”

His eyes are terrified. “You. You getting Madelon's heart would be forbidden, too.”

****

He holds my hand as we walk through the pasture toward the shop. It's the strangest feeling, being in love. It's like coming home; to a home you never knew existed.

My mind wanders to a selfish place. He knows I love him. I've told him. He's never tried anything else but to kiss me. Whereas with that idiot — Steve, I had to fight off his clammy, spatula-hands, every other night.

I tug his hand, stopping him in the middle of the field. He turns, indecision written on his face. His eyes snap from me to the house and back.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Well, you say you love me… but you haven't shown me.”

His looks at me in confusion. “How can you say such? I've told you I don't care what the Literati do to me. I'm willing to die, if need be—”

I step to him and silence him with a kiss, and slide my hand down his chest, to his hard stomach. I untuck his shirt, feeling underneath.

His breath quickens and his muscles tighten under my touch.

I repeat, “You haven't shown me.”

His lips stop moving, and he pulls his head back. His eyes widen and he grasps my hand, removing it from under his shirt. “Mia. I will do no such thing. I will not dishonor you.”

“You've already said you plan to marry me.”

“Planning and doing. Two different verbs.”

I blush and stomp past him. He grabs my arm, whirling me around. “Listen to me. I realize many changes separate your world from mine. Many things for the better. This is not one of them, in my opinion.”

My eyes dart around, refusing to look at him. My cheeks are embarrassingly flushed. He pulls me in, and kisses them, one at a time; his lips cool against my hot skin.

His hand cradles my jaw, tilting it back. His lips trail down my throat, to my collarbone, to the top of my scar. He deposits small, lingering kisses back up to my ear.

He whispers, “It will be worth the wait. Trust me.”

I nearly faint. “Fine.”

“Come. Not that this is not important, but my sister is in need.”

We enter the shop. Beth sits at the table, looking haggard.

Edward places a steaming mug of chamomile tea into Beth's shaking hands.

“Beth. Is there anything I can do?”

Her mouth drops open, and snaps shut. “You've told her everything, then?”

Morgan shuffles his feet beside me, looking down. “Almost.”

My mind shifts.
What hasn't he told me? There's more
?

Beth's eyes fill and she sobs into her hand. Edward slides beside her. As he puts his arm around her, I see a bat-like, black birthmark on the inside of his forearm. He is one of them. “Shh. It's okay, Beth.”

“Tell them,” she wails.

I feel Morgan go rigid. “Tell us what?”

Beth voice shakes. “I'm pregnant.”