The White Forest (12 page)

When Mother told her stories, I felt close to her for once, as if she and I were a matched pair. I lay in my bed, with her standing over me, feeling as warm and comfortable as I would ever feel. As this happened before her death, I could not yet perceive the souls of objects. We were in the nursery, a room of quiet colors with battens of gauze fastened near the ceiling like clouds. Mother looked weathered and slightly frail. Only her dark, lush hair had the appearance of health.

There was a tree,
Mother told me in a quiet voice,
a good strong oak.
She said she would admire the tree during her walks through the southern woods. It was the sort of tree that made her forget the sky because its canopy was so vast. She said druids might have once worshiped at such a tree. Mother walked around and around the oak, trailing her fingers over its fine bark. On the oak was a knot that caught her attention because, over the course of months, the knot expanded until it was nearly as large as a serving bowl. She would often touch the round hard knot, feeling curious warmth that emanated from it and hoping the tree wasn’t ill. She returned often to check on the well-being of the tree. One day she found the knot split open, and there, cradled in the roots of the tree (for the roots had grown together to form a kind of bed), was a baby with dark hair, dark eyes, and the smoothest skin—nothing like the old ruined bark of the tree. She gathered the child in her arms and took it home for fear that the tree could not protect it from the animals that crawled upon the Heath. “I gave my little tree child a name,” she said, stroking my hair. “I called her Jane.”

The story frightened me, though I understood my mother intended it as a fairy tale. “Mother, I’m not a tree child,” I would say. “I look like you. I
am
like you.”

“I’ve thought about that,” she mused. “It’s possible that the oak loved me as much as I loved it, and so made a child in my image.”

“You’re telling lies,” I said.

She brushed hair from my face with her hand. “I always wonder what my little tree child knows. What secrets does she keep?”

“No secrets,” I said.

“You don’t have tree knowledge?” she asked, playfully.

“Mother, please stop.”

“As you command, tree child. As you command.”

I
wanted to speak with Maddy, to learn why she’d revealed something as personal as the Doorway to Inspector Vidocq. I therefore went directly to La Dometa after my interview with the inspector and asked if she’d take a walk in the southern woods. Maddy was agreeable and told me that she was glad I’d come. She, apparently, had a kind of proposition for me. I’d already decided not to tell her about the letter from Ariston Day, as I no longer entirely trusted her with such information. I was wary of what she might reveal to the inspector if pressed once again.

The southern woods were silent, sprawling around us like a tendrilous dream. I could barely see the white of the sky through the tree branches. Maddy wore a dramatic Spanish mantilla fashioned out of black lace—an uncommon choice for a walk in the woods, and as I walked behind her, an awful image crawled into my head. I pictured myself attacking her, twining her mantilla around her neck and using it like a garrote to close her airways. I’d silence her so she could never reveal another of my secrets. The image left me feeling ill. I’d never harm her, of course, and yet I still could not understand why she’d betrayed me.

I suffered her initial questions about the interview, forcing myself to behave as I normally would, subdued and compliant.

“I told Vidocq nothing,” I said. “I assure you.”

“You didn’t say anything about Nathan’s erratic behavior near the end?” she asked.

“I did just as you instructed. But I learned something very curious from the inspector.”

“What’s that?” she asked.

“He knew that Nathan was fond of calling me the Doorway, and when I asked him how he knew, he told me you had revealed that information to him. Why would you tell him that, Maddy?”

She paused, looking momentarily unsure of herself. “Vidocq was so direct,” she said, “so intent on plying every bit of information from me. I couldn’t help myself. It merely slipped out. I’m so sorry, but I promise you I said nothing about your abilities. I would never do that.”

“But you told me yourself that revealing even the slightest detail of significance could be dangerous,” I said. “We’re trying not to sully Nathan’s good name. I’m just wondering why you tried to sully mine.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“You trust me, don’t you, Maddy?”

“As if you were my own sister,” she said.

“I believe you,” I replied, and in my heart, I truly wanted to.

Maddy put her hand to her forehead, like she was checking for fever. “So many strange things are happening. At times, I think this couldn’t possibly be my life.”

“Unfortunately it’s both of our lives,” I said. “What was it you wanted to propose?”

She clutched the edges of the mantilla, drawing the drape of it around her body. “Last night, I had a realization—an epiphany, if you will. You’re going to think it’s mad, but I need your help.”

“An epiphany?” I said, dryly. “Did the angels come and visit you?”

She ignored my comment. “I think we should take the investigation in hand, Jane.”

“Meaning what, precisely.”

“I’ve discovered the location of the tavern that’s frequented by
Day’s Fetches—the one called the Silver Horne that Nathan often talked about. We’ll go there and question the patrons. Who knows, maybe Vidocq was correct in saying a woman might get more information than a man from these fools. And at any rate, it will make me feel as though we’re
doing
something.”

I thought of the Fetch who’d brought Day’s message to Stoke Morrow—his black eyes and awful grin. I certainly didn’t want to be in a room with so many boys who were like him. “Traveling south of the river is dangerous for people like us,” I replied.

“The tavern isn’t in Southwark,” she said. “It’s near Hyde Park. We can’t expect the children of money to take their pints in the slums, can we?”

“I don’t know about this, Maddy.”

She paused and widened her eyes to evoke pity. “You wouldn’t let me go alone, would you?”

I gave her a hard look. “You’re such a fiend. People say I’m possessed, but I know very well that all the wicked demons are hiding in your pretty head.”

“You’re the dearest friend a girl could ask for, Jane. And I, for one, don’t think you’re even a bit possessed.”

“Thank you for that,” I said. “Will Pascal come along at least?”

She seemed only mildly disgusted at the mention of his name, and I hoped that her reaction meant their friendship was on the mend. “He’s afraid of seeing Alexander there. We can take Ferdinand for protection, if it makes you happy.”

I sighed. Ferdinand was the Lees’ excitable shepherd hound. “I suppose a dog will have to do, or I could dress as a man.”

“Like you used to?” Maddy asked.

I merely shook my head, amused at the notion. Before the world went wrong, she and I played a game where I pretended to be Nathan Ashe. This effect was garnered by my wearing one of Father’s suit coats and placing a carnation in the lapel. I didn’t mind playacting, as it pleased Maddy so.

We would sit in my bedroom at Stoke Morrow where the silk wallpaper was painted with blue forget-me-nots and white rosebuds.
After having instructed me never to
actually
kiss her, she would then try to persuade me to do just that. And in this way we could keep the game going. She would sweep about my chair, sometimes dipping nearly into my lap, sometimes hovering at my shoulder and whispering in my ear.

“Maddy, I hardly think behaving like a fly is the way to get Nathan to kiss you,” I said.

“Jane, stop it,” she said. “You
are
Nathan Ashe. He doesn’t speak in the third person.”

Assuredly, my characterization was far from perfect, as I had little notion of how to pose as our beloved. Maddy and I talked of Nathan like he was some figure from a romance novel. We’d layered him with so many conventions that we could barely be sure there was a human being beneath.

As Maddy swept about, I was to say things she thought Nathan might say—
are you quite ill, Madeline? Are we nearly done with this tomfoolery?
And as I sat there, I focused on my right hand, imagining that Nathan was touching me. I ran my hand gently down my cheek to my neck, not daring to dip lower.

“Whatever are you doing that for, Jane?” Maddy asked. “Nathan doesn’t go about caressing himself, does he?”

“Sorry,” I said. “I was drifting.”

“Well, please apply some focus to your role.”

And so I did. I focused every thought and devotion on Nathan Ashe. Even if I could not have his hand or Maddy’s, I could certainly have my own.

“Jane, are you quite all right?” Maddy asked, pausing at her entreaties.

“Of course,” I said.

“For a moment, you actually
looked
like him. I didn’t like it at all.”

I touched the sleeve of her dress, avoiding her skin. “I’m sorry, dear. I won’t do it again.”

•   •   •

Remembering our playacting was like coming upon some lost civilization. None of us knew the sort of lines that could be drawn among people who loved one another. And they did love me, Nathan and Madeline. There’d been times during our friendship when dark emotions from my solitary childhood resurfaced, and in those moments of doubt, I worried that they only
tolerated
my presence, that they were waiting for me to leave so they could be alone. I invented sidelong glances between the two of them. The combs in Maddy’s hair chirped like petulant birds, the brass head of Nathan’s cane spat sparks, and I imagined these objects were doing their masters’ bidding, trying to frighten me away. Most often though, I believed my friends found me a necessary piece.

For a long while, we triangulated, and there was energy in that. I sometimes felt myself to be the center of our group, a project for both of them. It wasn’t until Nathan discovered the Empyrean itself that everything truly got out of hand. The triangle was broken by that strange vision, and it was then that we began our free fall.

T
he three of us were at Highgate Cemetery when Nathan made his discovery and first called me the Doorway. This was soon after Maddy started speaking to me again, having gotten over the fact that Nathan said I’d mysteriously possessed his hand. It was a warm afternoon in June, and we’d all paused near the entrance to the necropolis that bordered the Heath to the north. Nathan claimed he wanted to smoke. I preferred not to stop near the cemetery gates for the same reason I preferred not to travel to the interior of London. Being surrounded by so many manufactured objects agitated me, as the pollen of flowers agitates some. New objects were especially bad, and Highgate was largely new construction.

But Nathan insisted, taking a seat in the tall grass and resting his back against the stone wall. His auburn hair fell in a fine arc across his forehead, and the rest of his face was a picture of wistful elegance. The tombs rose behind him like windowless houses. The avenues of Highgate were cobbled and manicured in such a way one might believe the dead made actual use of them. How could it be that the cemetery was so freshly mortared, while London itself was breaking into ruin?

The air smelled of brake ferns and earth, as the parkland roused itself from winter, but I could take no pleasure in any of it. My
thoughts were with the carved stones, which each sounded like distant steam engines, beginning their approach.

I’d recently begun experiencing something new from the objects, but I hadn’t shared it with my friends. This new sensation was the most dramatic turn my talent had taken since its inception. In fact, I believed it might be my talent’s final evolution—what my power was meant for all along.

It was as if every object had become a curtain, and behind that curtain lay a new realm. The realm was not of simple color and sound—it was an actual place. Had I read any of the burgeoning literature of scientific fiction, I might have called the place a “parallel dimension,” but I had no word for what I saw. It was a landscape—a white forest, pale as paper, clearly a vision of some alien landscape. In the forest was a stream of milk-white water that did not flow but remained still, as if frozen. There were flowers in the undergrowth—blossoms that appeared to be lit from within, like Chinese lanterns. I recognized the place. As a child, I’d seen it in dreams inside the mouths that opened in Mother’s flesh.
Don’t be swallowed, Jane. You must never be.
This was the place where the old animal gods lived. Where they waited for me. And I knew instinctively this forest was meant to be a secret, like the oval painting in Mother’s wardrobe. The secret was not to be shared, even with my friends.