Resurrectionists (55 page)

“Well, I’ll practise on Tabby,” she laughed. “I have to practise on someone.” She tipped the envelope into her lap and a folded-up copy of
Good Weekend
magazine fell out. A note from her mother was attached:
From last week’s paper. Adrian hasn’t seen it
yet – still in NZ. Love Mum.

She unfolded the paper. Adrian was on the cover.

“Wow,” she said.

“What is it?”

“It’s Adrian.” She turned the magazine to face him.

“He’s a star.”

“What does it say?” His voice seemed a bit tight. Was he jealous? Or was she imagining it?

“There’s a whole article on him.” She flipped through the pages looking for it. Sacha joined her, perching on the arm of her chair to read over her shoulder.

Maisie scanned quickly through the article. The story of Adrian’s life – strangely streamlined and tidy. In the second-last paragraph: “He lives in Brisbane with his girlfriend who is a cellist with the City Symphony.”

“What’s her name?” Maisie yelled at the magazine, casting it away.

“Wait, I haven’t finished yet,” Sacha protested, picking up the magazine.

She waited, grumpy. She didn’t like being reduced to “a cellist.” Especially as she hadn’t been a cellist for months.

“It’s not his fault,” Sacha said, folding the magazine and putting it aside. “He might have told them your name, but the journalist just didn’t print it.”

“Whatever.”

“He’s good-looking, isn’t he? Adrian.”

“Um . . . yes. I guess so. I guess I’m kind of used to him. Anyway, it’s weird to talk to you about him.”

“You can talk to me about anything.”

She leaned her head back against the chair and sighed. “I have to eat something. I’m starving.”

“Do you want me to make you something?”

“I wish there was somewhere we could go out for dinner. Somewhere that wasn’t the local pub.”

“I’ll take you out to dinner if you like. We could drive down to Whitby.”

“No, it’s too far. I’ll microwave something shortly.”

She sat up and took his hand. “I have to go home soon.”

“Oh.”

“Adrian and my mother have already arranged it. I’m flying out on the second of February.”

“That’s still a long way off,” he said.

“It’s too close. And I haven’t solved the mystery and . . .”

“And what?”

“And Adrian and Mum are pressuring me about going back to the orchestra.”

“It seems they have a lot of power over you.”

She didn’t answer.

He touched her cheek, let his fingers glide up under her hair. “Defy the system,” he said softly.

“It’s not that easy. This is my life. My life is just like this. Mum and Dad and Adrian.”

“And Maisie? Where does Maisie fit in?”

“Somewhere. I don’t know. I’ve never been good at deciding things, making choices.”

“You can do whatever you want. It’s not so hard.”

She felt a flicker of anger ignite deep inside. What did he know? He was thirty and working in a bakery.

“It’s harder than it looks.”

“Defy the system,” he said again, bending his lips to her ear. “Come to bed with me. That’s not in their master plan is it?”

“For all I know it could be. Perhaps my family paid you to seduce me. You know, ‘Maisie needed to get that out of her system before she could start breeding a new generation of musical geniuses.’”

“I assure you that’s not the case,” he said. He pushed her down among the spread-out tarot cards, and made love to her between the Fool and the Star.

She couldn’t keep her hands off him. It seemed they spent a lot of time that day and the next lying around naked. They debated about the meaning of life, about Star Trek, about which was the best breakfast cereal. When they did make love, she was brave enough to ask for what she wanted and he obliged happily, skilfully. The descent into the flesh was blissful for Maisie. An escape, a forgetting of all the anxieties which jittered and jangled against each other in her mind. They were both clean and dressed just before one, planning to brave the local pub for lunch, when a taxi pulled up out the front of the cottage. Maisie was waiting for Sacha to get his shoes on when she heard the car engine. She twitched aside the curtains and saw a small, dark woman get out of the taxi.

“Who’s that?” she said, to herself more than to Sacha.

Sacha joined her at the window. “That’s my

mother.”

They opened the door while she was still only halfway up the path. Sacha walked out into the weak sunshine to lock her in a bear hug. He seemed nearly twice her size, and Maisie wondered how it was possible that such a large person could have once been carried by such a small one. Maisie was not a tall girl, but she stood at least ten centimetres taller than Sacha’s mother.

“This is Maisie,” Sacha said, arm around his mother, leading her inside.

“Maisie!” she cried, grabbing her and giving her a warm hug. “I’m delighted to meet you. I’m Mila.”

Maisie took a moment to look at Mila. She was golden skinned and dark haired, with eyes as dark as Sacha’s. She barely looked forty, but Maisie figured that she must be nearly fifty. Rather than being dressed in headscarves and bright colours as Maisie had expected, she wore a rather sober pale pink twinset and grey skirt. “Glad to meet you.”

“You look nothing like your grandmother,” Mila said. Her accent was particularly thick, central or eastern European. They were inside now, the cold shut out behind them. Mila dropped her battered carpetbag in the hall and looked around. “You’ve cleaned up, yes?” She peered into the bedroom and then the lounge. “Sybill wouldn’t recognise this house.”

“We’ve been searching for something,” Sacha said, leading Mila to a chair by the fire. “Did Sybill ever talk to you about a diary she found?”

“Oh, yes. She found three pieces over the years, while she was renovating.”

“Only three pieces?” Maisie asked.

“Yes, though she was convinced there was more around here somewhere. She never found it.” She reached up and patted the side of Maisie’s arm. “I bet you have a lot of questions about your

grandmother, yes?”

“I sure do.”

“Ask away then. I’ll stay a few days if that’s all right.”

“Of course it’s all right. I . . . we need you.”

“We were about to go out for lunch,” Sacha said.

“Want to come?”

“I’d love to.”

They found the most secluded corner they could at the Black Cat. It was Saturday afternoon and crowded. Sacha went up to the counter to order their lunches while Mila and Maisie sat down and faced each other.

“Your grandmother was so sad she never got to know you,” Mila said.

“I’m sad about that too. But my mother kept us apart.”

“Janet probably had her reasons, not all of them bad.”

“What do you mean?”

She tapped her finger on the table, thinking. “Sybill wasn’t a good mother,” she replied at last. Maisie was surprised. “I know they didn’t really understand each other.”

“Oh, it was more than that. I believe Sybill treated Janet very poorly.”

Maisie gazed out the high window at the pale blue sky. Reassessed her mother. “I didn’t know that.”

“I never met Janet,” Mila said, qualifying her statement. “I just gathered that from what Sybill told me. From some of the things she said. She regretted it.”

Sacha joined them, carefully placed three beers on the table in front of them. “Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding coming,” he said.

“Yum,” said Maisie. “Did they look at you

strangely?”

“Not really. Though the bartender’s keeping a close eye on you.” He turned to Mila. “Maisie’s not very popular around here.”

“Neither was Sybill.” Mila sighed. “I miss her. I can’t believe I won’t see her again. Maisie, could you tell me about the dream you had, about the night Sybill died.”

Maisie checked to make sure nobody was sitting close enough to hear them. “I don’t know how much I can rely on the dream to be the truth,” she said.

“Oh, you can rely on it, my girl,” Mila said. “The Gift is so strong in you. I could feel it when I got out of the taxi, before you even opened the door. Come, tell me.”

So Maisie described it in detail. Their meals arrived, but sat untouched for the duration of the story. Mila listened intently, eyes locked on Maisie’s, tears welling when Maisie told about the Wraiths, and how they had attacked Sybill.

When Maisie had finished, Mila pulled a tissue out of her sleeve and composed herself. Sacha had started eating, Maisie did the same. Mila pushed her peas around on her plate for a minute before saying,

“And there were definitely only two of them? Two of the Wraiths?”

Maisie nodded, her mouth full of food. “Mm-hmm.”

“But Sybill said there were three.”

“The diary said there were three, too,” Sacha said.

“She was in contact with one of them,” Mila said.

“What?” Maisie remembered her grandmother’s notebook, the words “make contact” underlined. “She spoke to one of those . . . things?”

“I looked back through my letters before I came up here,” Mila said. “They were cryptic – Sybill loved mystery, intrigue.” Mila laughed lightly. “Her specialty was communing with the dead. You know that, don’t you?”

“Sacha mentioned it.”

“One of these Wraiths responded to her attempts to contact it. It gave her a protection spell for the cottage.”

“Of course – the Anglo-Saxon spell,” Maisie said.

“They were Anglo-Saxon priests. That’s why it was in their language. So she didn’t have a clue what she was saying, did she? When she went out there in the forest and said those words?”

“In her last letter, she said she had finally found the perfect banishing spell for the Wraiths.” Mila forked a carrot but brought it no closer to her mouth. “That’s probably what she thought she was doing when she went out that night.”

“She was betrayed.”

“And the third Wraith is gone,” Sacha said.

“Perhaps destroyed by the others?”

“Maybe. That would explain a lot.”

Sacha stood. “I’m going to get another beer. Anyone?”

“Yes, please,” Maisie said.

“Not for me,” Mila replied.

He went up to the bar. Maisie leaned forward.

“So in Sybill’s letters,” she asked, “did she ever mention me?”

Mila nodded. “Yes.”

“Did she put a spell on me to come here?”

“Not that she told me. But you may have felt drawn here by your inheritance – your psychic Gift.”

Mila reached across and patted her hand. “She loved you very much, Maisie, though she didn’t have a chance to tell you that.”

“I don’t know if I loved her,” Maisie said. “It makes me guilty sometimes – you and Sacha are more upset about her death than I am. It’s just that I didn’t know her. She seems interesting and was probably a nice lady but . . . I didn’t know her.”

“Don’t feel bad.”

“I would have liked to know her.”

“You would have felt a very strong connection to her,” Mila replied. “As if your souls were made of the same substance.”

Maisie smiled. “That’s a nice thought.”

Mila’s eyes went to the bar and then back to Maisie. “You and my son are lovers?”

Maisie was surprised by Mila’s frank question, but she wanted to trust her. “Um . . . yes. Did he tell you that?”

“No. You know, the line between psychism and simple intuition is blurred. I think I could tell by the way you look at each other.”

“I have someone else. Back home in Australia.”

“It must be very difficult.”

“Don’t have sympathy for me,” Maisie said,

laughing self-consciously. “I’m a lying, cheating bitch.”

“Sometimes it’s difficult being a lying, cheating bitch.”

Maisie laughed more freely this time. “It sure is.”

Mila smiled at her. “While I’m here, I’d like to help you develop your psychic ability. You’re alive with it. You simply must learn to use it.”

“I’d love to. Sacha’s working all day tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow then,” Mila said, sitting back. “You’ll be amazed by what you can do.”

“Dreaming is the most unreliable and unworkable way to use your psychic power,” Mila said on Sunday morning, just after Sacha had left for work. “You have very little control over it and you can forget what you dreamed on waking.”

“Sacha said my Gift might have been driven

underground, that’s why I dream things.”

“But if you can remain conscious while you delve into your unconscious, you’ll have so much more power and control. It’s only a matter of learning to relax properly.”

“Sacha taught me how to relax, line up my energy centres, all of that.”

Mila smiled. “I’ve yet to meet a woman who can really relax around somebody she desires, yes? I don’t think you even know the meaning of the word relax –

look at you. You’re so uptight. Your nails are bitten, your shoulders are stiff, you dart your eyes everywhere before you say anything. What are you afraid of? Who are you afraid is going to judge you? Not me. Come, let’s try it.”

Maisie had no idea she could work so hard on relaxing. Mila made her lie still on the mattress in front of the fire, not moving, just focusing on her breathing, for three and a half hours. She thought for the first half hour that she would go mad with boredom, but then something started to change. A profound serenity began to creep into her body. At first it was physical – her limbs felt heavy and warm, her scalp and face smooth. In the next hour it became mental – the chatter in her head ceased, and a rush and swell like that of the sea began to take its place, the sound of her own breathing. Finally, it became spiritual. One moment, she was just Maisie Fielding, the next she was stunningly aware that she was part of some greater whole, some large, unmoving spirit at the centre of the universe. She gasped.

“Maisie?” Mila had been sitting quietly beside her, whispering encouraging words.

“I felt something.”

“Sit up and open your eyes.”

Maisie did so.

“Now you are relaxed, yes?” Mila asked. “You’ll never use the word so lightly again.”

Maisie shook her head. “I feel like I weigh nothing.”

“So now you can work. Here,” Mila passed her the deck of tarot cards, “read for me.”