Of Breakable Things (20 page)

“She strayed,” Van Hanlin explained.

“You know all about that, don’t you?” Westfall said.

“Don’t start with me about—”

Westfall cut him off. “Straying is the nature of a child, which is why you are supposed to keep such a tight grasp on the newly buried.”

“No, that was the point of
our
job,” Jonas called, rising to his feet. “To follow the
strays
.”

Professor Van Hanlin surveyed the group with worry etched on his face. “Where is the human she followed?”

“She ran off that way,” Alex said, pointing beyond the trees.

“Both of you followed her?”

“I followed Alex,” Jonas answered quickly. “She didn’t know.”

Another member of the guard began to march directly across the clearing. “There’s a spirit lurking in the trees across the way. There, a few yards in.”

How would he know that?

“Who?” Westfall asked.

“I aim to find out,” the guard called over his shoulder.

Westfall took another step towards Alex, but unlike the others, he wasn’t trying to get a closer look at her. He stood at an angle to block her from the patrollers.

The guard reappeared, carrying a portly boy by the cuff of his shirt. Alex squinted to make out the form. “Reuben?”

Reuben Seyferr covered his face with his sausage-like fingers and peeked through at his horror movie of an afterlife. “I heard the banshee scream. I was curious.”

“What are you teaching these kids?” one of the patrolman exclaimed. He looked charily at Van Hanlin, who sputtered, “That’s not my department!”

Some of the guards swayed from side to side like pendulums, trying to catch a better glimpse of Alex. More of them pointed, and others began to whisper.

“The children should come with us,” another member of the Patrol said. “We need to make sure they are okay.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Westfall said. “Take care of the banshee. I can escort the children to the medical center if need be.”

“They should be questioned,” the patrolman argued, trying to smile, but the messy-haired guard held up his hand.

“There was no crime. The banshee should not even have been here. They didn’t know. Besides,” the messy-haired guard added with a glance at Westfall, “the Patrol can’t override an order given by an Ardor Service member.”

Westfall gave Van Hanlin a shove. “Come on. Let’s get these children out of here.”

The patrol turned to leave, stealing glances back at the field, some ogling Westfall, some still trying to peek at Alex.

Westfall ushered all three newburies back in the direction of the mansion with a push that had much more force than necessary. “
That
was not supposed to happen,” he growled under his breath.

Alex could only wonder what he was referring to. What she wondered more was how this whole scene could play out right in front of that little black box, and no one noticed it sitting there, blatantly out of place, spitting its thoughts at them.

No one had even looked at it.

***

The Patrol recommended that the teachers eliminate the woods from the festivities, but the commotion around town was too intense to ignore. Natives and tourists alike were raving about the “closing act” and how the voices were the greatest illusions they had ever experienced. Skye told Alex that in September and October alone, the insignificant town of Moribund typically brought in more tourism than Redwood National Park did year round, and now the number of guests had risen higher than ever.

Thus, Van Hanlin promised to oversee the woods at all times. Not that Alex could have escaped again if she had wanted to, because her peers were so interested in the banshee encounter. Her reputation had quickly morphed from “bench girl” to “banshee girl.” At least that sounded slightly cooler.

But when spirits asked her about what happened, the topic always seemed to shift to Reuben:

“How could he be so stupid?”

“He’s not too bright, that kid!”

“Why didn’t he try to help you?”

“Who actually hears a banshee and then goes to
find
it?”

And Reuben hid in the corner of the yard, his mouth downturned and his eyes despondently turned away from his hecklers. Alex attempted to comfort him once, but he stood up without a word and walked away.

At the mere sound of the word
banshee,
Alex could still hear shrill shrieking, and it felt like shards of glass being plucked from her brain.

Van Hanlin ordered her to stay at the manor and “direct” the chasings outside, which was completely pointless and utterly boring. How much direction was needed to follow sporadic groups exiting
one
door? The Patrol captured the banshee, and it wasn’t like the monster targeted her specifically. She’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time, so she didn’t understand her punishment.

“I don’t think it’s a punishment,” Skye assured her. She’d sought out Alex in order to give her a bouquet of chamomile flowers. Alex didn’t ask why, because she figured she probably wouldn’t understand the explanation anyway. “But people do seem to be a little freaked out by you.”

“Are you?”

“Nah.” Skye flashed a dazzling smile. It nearly glowed in the moonlight. “I don’t scare easily. I do feel badly for you, though, sitting here and twiddling your thumbs. It can’t be stimulating.”

“That’s an understatement.”

“Duvall asked me to fetch a dozen buckets and shovels, but I don’t really feel like going all the way to the shed. Are you allowed to do it?”

Alex jumped to her feet. “Probably not, but I’ll do it anyway.”

Skye tilted her head to listen for something. Alex wondered if she could hear the pounding of Alex’s nonexistent heart. She desperately wanted to get back to that clearing.

Thankfully, Joey Rellingsworth poked his head out from the doorway and warned the girls that another group of guests was about to exit the mansion. Skye sighed and tugged her mask from her pocket.

“Take this wave,” Alex suggested, “and I’ll go run and grab the stuff.”

“Are you sure?”

Alex nodded. She couldn’t believe she was doing this alone, but the whispers called to her the moment she stepped away from the mansion. They urged her along through the darkness.

When she reached the field where the chatty box waited, she marched forward and kicked it for causing her so much grief. It slid across the grass like a hockey puck and collided with a tree, spewing its contents onto the ground.

Alex picked up a dilapidated black and white photo of two young boys grinning widely. One was dressed in shabby play clothes. Suspenders held up his loose slacks, overlapping a dirty white smock. The other boy was adorned in wealth. His slicked hair shone brighter than his shoes, and he had removed his suit coat and slung it over the shoulder of his perfectly cuffed dress shirt.

The box brimmed with aged brown envelopes tied together with string. Alex carried it back to the center of the clearing where the glow of the moon could provide a reading light. She extracted a random envelope and slid her fingers underneath the flap, breaking the wax seal etched with a capital E. The brittle paper was decorated in the most artistic handwriting Alex had ever seen.

November 1865

Dear Sephi,

Professor Melbourne is late for the morning session as usual, and I am once again avoiding Paul Bond and his embarrassingly zealous offers to proofread last week’s work. Knowing his family’s defiled history, I’d be likely to fail the assignment if I allow him to touch it. Thus I’m writing you this note to make it seem like I’m immersed enough to disregard him.

I sit here among the mindless prattling, and it’s apparent that plenty of rumors still swirl about your death, even though you’ve been here for several months. The newburies continue to gossip about Ulysses S. Grant, especially the dead soldiers to my left, who claim they knew about your involvement in the war.

The cockroach of a girl who sits in front of me was far too eager to hiss loudly about what had happened to your family. Let me express my condolences. Now I know why you encourage me to conceal my own talents. To think that a person is hunted for having extraordinary gifts! It dishonors your family the way people talk.

Admittedly, I was most annoyed with the uproar of excited hysteria during your arrival. I was insanely jealous that you were stealing all the attention, but that was before I saw you. The moment I caught your gaze, I never wanted to let it go. I felt like I’d known you forever, and you filled a piece of me that I never knew I was missing.

Will you meet me again tonight?

Alex let the paper rest in her lap and it retracted, curling itself back into a protective bud. The recipient of the letter was dead. These were written by a spirit.

Alex snatched the next letter from the stack.

December 1865

Dear Sephi,

It must be difficult to be so well known. Especially as a child. It’s a bit tragic that you can’t simply be left alone. You handle the burden with such humility and patience. It only makes my affection for you stronger.

I’ve put some thought into what you’ve said to me. That you are not encouraged to develop friendships with anyone here. They just want to isolate you; they want your talents for their own. You’ve never been given the chance to make your own decisions. To follow the paths you see before you.

I’ve seen how they try to detach you from the rest of us. Duvall especially. But you also said that despite your efforts to avoid me, you already knew what was going to happen between us. So why do we need to be given the chance to let it develop when it’s already full grown? Let’s skip the beginning.

Here’s to backwards thinking.

Yours,

Eviar

December 1865

Dear Sephi,

I caught her staring again, sneering at me in revulsion like vermin infesting her classroom. I sat oblivious in class, without the faintest notion of why there were shivers creeping down my spine, and then I realized the witch held me in her gaze. Perhaps she sacrificed a goat and drained the blood of a virgin to coax the devil into revealing her foes. Thus I have more respect for the slugs she adds to her potions. The school can label it “alchemy,” but “witchcraft” is more like it. I hate that you allow her to have so much influence over you.

Alex was more than intrigued. Duvall! The Bond family! All from over a century ago. Alex lowered her gaze to another sheet of yellowed paper.

January 1866

Dear Sephi,

I hate to admit weakness, but you have completely taken over my mind. I swear on my soul that every inch of my desire belongs to you. Even if I tried to change it, to deny it, I cannot envision a future without you in it.

I understand that you are apprehensive, and with good reason. You have never been allowed happiness. You are feared in death more than you were feared in life. But I promise that I will always be the one to protect you. We just need to find where we belong. A large city may not be the most favorable. Perhaps a smaller one like Vorbild or Paradise.

Ev

Paradise. Where had Alex heard that before? Her brain began to shuffle through its filed memories, and finally an image remained. Her psychology classroom, but she hadn’t a clue why.

There was something about these letters that was completely consuming. They called to her like a siren song. Alex reasoned that it shouldn’t matter if she took them with her. Beyond doubt, the box wanted her to find it, and if everything she’d heard about visibility was true, some part of her must have been looking for the box if she could see it when no one else could.

She felt it no crime when she stood up and tucked the box securely under her arm and made her way back to the lights of the manor. Oddly enough, during the journey back through the trees, she felt an iambic pulse, as though the box had a heartbeat.

March 1866

Dear Sephi,

I will admit to only you how much I miss home. I vividly remember my father’s intense eyes and the warmth I felt when I was around him because I adored him so. His words had such eloquence that everything and everyone around him fell silent the moment he parted his lips to speak. I have memories of curiously peeking into our study, which was filled with the clinking of ice in liquor glasses. This was where my father typically presided over a meeting of the most esteemed gentlemen in a town he himself founded. He would smile at me over the misty swirl of cigar smoke.