The Unwanted (17 page)

None of them had ever married, and each of them had borne a single child—a daughter.

Except for Miranda.

Miranda was the last of the line. When she was gone, for the first time since the seventeenth century there would be no Sikeses in False Harbor.

But what was it that Cassie had been looking for? Why had she been touching the stones?

Suddenly Rosemary remembered standing outside Cassie’s door, listening to Cassie talking softly in the privacy of
her room. She remembered how she’d been reminded of Miranda.

Shivering against the chill and the darkness, Rosemary hurried out of the cemetery.

That night she’d tried to talk to Keith about it. Though he’d listened patiently as she attempted to voice her concerns about Cassie, he became coldly furious when she’d mentioned Miranda.

“What are you trying to say?” he asked. “That Cassie is going to turn into another Miranda, walking around in rags and talking to herself? For Christ’s sake, Rosemary, look at things from her point of view. She’s an outsider here, and she’s having a hard time making friends. So she’s lonely. Haven’t you ever talked to yourself? And as for the graves, why shouldn’t she be interested in them? Miranda’s the town character, isn’t she? Cassie’s probably been asking questions about her, and somebody told her about the graves.”

“But she hasn’t been talking to anyone,” Rosemary protested. “That’s the problem—she spends all her time in her room, with that cat.”

Keith only shrugged. “Just because you can’t stand cats doesn’t mean everybody has to hate them,” he said. If he noticed how his words stung Rosemary, he gave no sign. “Sumi’s a nice cat. Besides, Cassie has a lot to work out for herself, and she hardly knows us. You can’t expect her to open up to us right away. Give her a chance, honey. Just give her a chance.” He snapped his paper and turned the page, and Rosemary knew the conversation was over.

Feeling dismissed, she retreated into silence.

And then, yesterday, Miranda Sikes had come into her shop.

Many times before, Rosemary had seen her pause in front of the shop to stare inside. She had often wondered if Miranda was really seeing what she was looking at, or if her eyes merely drifted from object to object while she herself watched whatever strange visions might be going on in her head. Over the years Rosemary had been tempted to open the door and speak to her, but when she tried, Miranda had quickly moved on. After a while, understanding that the woman didn’t want to be spoken to, Rosemary had given up. Indeed, for the last year or so she’d barely been conscious of
the strange figure in black who drifted through the town almost like some sort of ghost.

But on Friday morning Miranda had paused outside the shop again, staring in through the window, and Rosemary had suddenly become aware of the fact that her lips were not moving in their customary whispered monologue. As Rosemary watched, afraid to move lest Miranda dart away, the woman pushed her shopping cart close to the window, carefully tucked the large black shawl she always wore on her head over the tops of the bags, and opened the door.

She stopped cold as the bell tinkled above her, then slowly tipped her head up to stare at the tiny brass object. At last, nodding, she came inside and closed the door behind her.

She looks like a fawn, Rosemary thought. She looks exactly like a frightened fawn. Rosemary stayed where she was, certain now that if she moved, Miranda would bolt out the door.

For a moment Miranda seemed totally disoriented, as if she didn’t know quite what to do. She glanced around, then took a tentative step forward and reached out to brush her fingers lightly over the marble top of a Victorian sideboard. As if reassured by the fact that the piece of furniture didn’t crumble under her touch, she moved farther into the shop, pausing every few steps to lean down over one of the display cases. Finally she was only a few feet from Rosemary, but still Rosemary didn’t speak.

At last Miranda turned and looked directly at her.

As their eyes met, the room seemed to reel, and for a split second Rosemary was afraid she might faint.

Suddenly she knew why she’d been so certain she had seen Cassie’s eyes before. She was looking into them now.

Yet Miranda looked nothing like Cassie at all. As Rosemary studied the ruin that was Miranda’s face, she could see no resemblance to Cassie’s clean, clear features. Whatever beauty Miranda might once have had was long since buried under the sea of wrinkles that had ravaged her flesh. Her gray-streaked black hair was pulled back into a thick braid that had always before been hidden in the folds of the black shawl.

And where Cassie’s eyes were dark brown, Miranda’s
were the startling blue of sapphires. Always, Rosemary had had the impression that Miranda Sikes’s eyes held the strange vacant stare of the mentally disturbed. But now, as the woman faced her, she saw that they held the same strange intimation of darkly hidden secrets that Cassie’s eyes contained. In their depths Rosemary was sure she saw an underlying residue of anguish, and something more.

“If you don’t want me here, just say so,” Miranda said in a voice that was little more than a whisper.

Slowly, deliberately, Rosemary tried to clear away the fog that seemed to have gathered around her mind. Part of her—a part she immediately understood to be irrational—wanted to turn away from Miranda, to banish this grotesque figure from her shop and her mind. But the pain she’d seen in Miranda’s eyes was so clearly reflected in the woman’s voice that a tear welled up and overflowed onto her cheek. Vainly she searched for her voice. Miranda waited for her to reply, then finally nodded slightly and turned away. Only then did Rosemary manage to get to her feet. “No—no, please don’t go,” she said.

Miranda turned back.

“I’m sorry,” Rosemary floundered. “You—I didn’t know what to say. I thought—oh, Lord, I don’t know what I thought.…”

Miranda smiled then, but instead of replying, she turned away from Rosemary again and looked curiously around the shop. “I’ve always wanted to come in here, you know,” she said at last. “It’s my favorite place in the whole village. I always look forward to the days when you change the windows.”

Rosemary swallowed. I have to speak, she thought. I have to say something. Anything. “Y-you should have come in then,” she heard herself say.

But Miranda shook her head. “I don’t go in any of the shops. They don’t want me, and I don’t want to impose myself.”

“But you came in today,” Rosemary breathed. And yesterday Cassie was looking at your ancestors’ graves, she thought. And the day before that I thought of you while I listened to Cassie. She could feel her heart begin to pound.

A shadow fell over Miranda’s eyes. Rosemary noticed for
the first time that she was clasping her hands nervously together.

They were the hands of an old woman, the skin as translucent as parchment, covered with a network of fine wrinkles. Dark brown spots were scattered over their backs, and the fingers seemed permanently bent. She’s an old woman, Rosemary thought. So old. But it was impossible. Surely Miranda Sikes couldn’t be much past forty.

As if she felt Rosemary’s eyes on them, Miranda’s hands suddenly disappeared into the folds of her long black skirt. “I wanted to talk to you about Cassandra,” she said. “I wanted to tell you that she’s going to come to see me.”

Rosemary’s jaw sagged dumbly. “She’s spoken to you?” she asked, her voice hollow. “I didn’t know—”

“She hasn’t spoken to me,” Miranda interrupted, as if she’d read Rosemary’s mind. “But she wants to talk to me. She wants to know who I am.”

Rosemary shook her head uncomprehendingly. “I—I’m afraid I don’t understand.…”

“She’s going to come tomorrow,” Miranda went on. Her eyes took on a faraway look, and she nodded slightly. “Yes, tomorrow. I hope you will let her.”

Rosemary’s confusion only deepened. Tomorrow? How could Miranda know what was going to happen tomorrow, unless she’d already talked to Cassie? What did Miranda want of her stepdaughter? Rosemary felt a shiver of foreboding pass through her. “What is it?” she pressed. “What is it about Cassie? Why do you want to see her?”

Miranda’s eyes met Rosemary’s, but she did not answer. She turned away then, and started slowly out of the shop.

Rosemary stood frozen where she was for a moment, trying to absorb the strange words the woman had uttered. And then, without thinking, she spoke. “Miranda!”

Miranda stopped and turned back.

“Miranda,” Rosemary asked, “is something wrong with Cassie?”

For a moment Miranda said nothing, then she shook her head. “No,” she said in a voice that was oddly empty. “Nothing’s wrong with her. But she belongs to me.” She fell silent for a moment, then smiled again. “Yes,” she repeated. “She belongs to me.” Then she turned away again, and left the
shop. Outside she removed the black shawl from the shopping cart and carefully wrapped it around her head. Without looking back, she started down the sidewalk, pushing the shopping cart in front of her.

The memory of that strange visit had hung over Rosemary all the rest of that day, and last night she’d found herself watching Cassie.

Perhaps it had been meaningless. Perhaps Miranda was—as everyone thought she was—only harmlessly daft.

But what had she meant? Cassie belonged to her? It was crazy!

She had said nothing the night before, unwilling to try to talk to Keith about it and knowing that to Cassie none of it could possibly make any sense. But still, before Cassie had gone up to her room for the night, Rosemary had asked her what her plans were for the weekend.

Cassie looked at her disinterestedly. “I don’t know,” she’d said at last. “I don’t have any, really. I guess I’ll just study.”

Then she hasn’t talked to Miranda, Rosemary had thought. So it probably doesn’t mean a thing. Still, she’d been unable to sleep last night.

It was nearly nine when Rosemary finally went downstairs. She found Keith sitting at the kitchen table, working on a crossword puzzle. There was no sign of either Cassie or Jennifer.

“Where are the girls?” she asked as she poured herself a cup of coffee and settled into the chair opposite her husband.

He glanced up from his paper, shrugging. “The beach,” he said. “Cassie was going by herself, but Jennifer made such a nuisance of herself—”

“The beach?” Rosemary echoed hollowly. “Did—did she say why?”

Keith grinned at her. “Why do kids ever go to the beach?” he countered.

But Rosemary knew Cassie hadn’t gone to the beach at all.

It was the marsh.

The marsh where Miranda lived.

The fear that had been flitting around the edges of her
consciousness ever since Cassie had come to False Harbor suddenly coalesced into a tight knot in her stomach. Her hands shaking, Rosemary tried to pour herself a cup of coffee.

It spilled over the rim, scalding her hands.

There was a sharp bite to the morning air, but the sky was a deep cloudless blue and the morning sun made the sea sparkle as if it had been scattered with millions of tiny diamonds. A strong wind was blowing in from the east, and a heavy surf was building, the swells close together, so the beach resounded with a steady din of crashing water. There were birds everywhere—gulls and sandpipers covered the beach. A flock of ducks churned over the marsh, rising as one into the air, circling, then dropping back down into the reeds to continue feeding. As Cassie and Jennifer walked along the hard-packed sand, staying just above the highest reach of the surf, the sandpipers skittered out of their way, opening a path before them then closing it again after they’d passed. Jennifer stopped short, clutching at Cassie’s hand. “Look!”

From the south, barely visible above the horizon, Cassie could make out a faint line. “What is it?”

“Geese,” Jennifer explained. “Sometimes they stop in the marsh.”

The birds flew steadily toward them, and Cassie watched, fascinated by the perfect formation. As they drew nearer she could make out the individual birds, their necks stretched out straight, their feet tucked up under their bodies, their wings beating steadily in an almost hypnotic rhythm. By the time the formation reached the coast, everything else in Cassie’s consciousness had faded away and she found herself imagining that she was with them, riding on the wind, looking down
on the sparkling expanse of water and the thin strip of beach along its edge.

The big Canada geese were flying low, and as they came across the surf line, Cassie could hear the rush of air across their wings and almost feel it on her brow. Her whole body began to tingle with excitement. Then, as if giving a signal, the bird at the center of the V-formation honked loudly and veered off to the left. In perfect synchronization the rest of the flock banked to follow, then the formation suddenly broke as the geese lost altitude, braked in midair, and plummeted into the marsh in a cacophony of flapping wings and excited honkings. Even after they had disappeared from her sight completely, Cassie gazed out over the marsh, the image of the magnificent birds still vivid in her mind. Then, in the distance, she saw something else.

Far out on the rise in the middle of the marsh, Miranda was standing on the porch of her cabin. Though the distance was far too great for Cassie to see clearly, she knew that Miranda, too, had been watching the geese.

Now Miranda was watching her.

Watching her, and silently calling to her.

Already Cassie could feel the first stirrings of the strange force within her, drawing her toward the marsh.

“Isn’t it neat?” Jennifer said excitedly, totally unaware of the strange feeling that had come over Cassie. “By next week there’ll be so many of them you can hardly believe it. They just keep coming in, and then one day they all take off. They’re going up to Canada, and after they’re gone there won’t be any more until fall.” Her eyes widened in wonder as she gazed at the marsh. “How can they do it? How can they fly that far?”

Vaguely, Cassie heard Jennifer speaking, but her eyes never left the figure on the porch of the little cabin, and she made no reply.

Finally Jennifer looked anxiously up at Cassie. “Cassie? Is something wrong?”