Amber House: Neverwas (24 page)

myself to say the words, one at a time. “You don’t remember

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telling me because you told me in a
different
past — a past that doesn’t exist anymore.”

Again his reaction was absolutely astonishing. I thought I’d

get disbelief maybe, even laughter. But what I saw in his face

was — excitement.

“You don’t know,” he said, “you can’t possibly know how

incredible
, how
amazing
it is to hear you say that.” His hands went to his face; he shook his head; he seemed barely able to contain

himself.

I must have looked as stupefied as I felt.

“Sarah,” he said, “it’s amazing because all my life, ever since I

was little, some of the things I’ve foreseen — the
best
things . . .

They could only happen in a different future, a future you can’t

get to from here.”

A future you can’t get to from here.
More words I’d heard before, in that other past.

He was looking up, away, smiling. “I always,
always
, thought I was crazy — you know, hallucinating or something. But if you

can see a different past, maybe I actually
can
see a different future.” He started walking again, and I trotted after him to

keep up.

He seemed — changed. In an instant. Just like that. He seemed

bigger
somehow. Calmer. Stronger. All the years I had known

him, I had never seen the secret he’d hidden — that he was

afraid he was genuinely out of his mind. Not connected to real-

ity. He’d tucked it away inside himself. How could he do that?

Keep a secret so big, from me? Day after day, watching every-

thing he did and said, to make sure no hint of it ever slipped out.

He must have so much self-control
, I thought. I’d known about the echoes for less than two days and had already spilled my guts.

“What is it you see?” I wanted to know. “The future you can’t

get to from here?”

136 O

He looked at me, and there was regret in his eyes, but he said,

“I can’t tell you, Sare.”

It hurt. He was still keeping secrets. He didn’t trust me the

way I trusted him. Which was probably my fault. “Fine,” I said

down to the ground.

“Hey.” He took my arm and turned me to face him. He bent

down. “I want to tell you, but —”

We’d reached the edge of the road that ran past Amber

House, and a familiar car slowed and pulled up next to us. I

glanced over and saw my mother in the passenger seat, rolling

down her window. A small frown pinched the space between

her eyes, but she said with a smile, “You guys want a ride?”

It would only save us the walk across the front pasture, but we

both recognized that was hardly my mom’s intention. We got in.

But what?
I wondered. I wouldn’t like what he saw? I’d do

something wrong? I noticed Mom was watching me out of the

corner of her eye; I turned my face away and stared out the side

window.

Dropped off at his own front door, Jackson duly thanked my

parents and headed inside.

I kept wondering to myself about that “different future” on

the drive back. I could feel a memory from the time before try-

ing to break through, but I couldn’t quite take hold of it.

“Are you listening, honey? “ my mother said.

“I’m sorry, Mom. Was thinking about something.”

“I could tell,” she said, smiling. “You and Jackson seemed to

be having quite a serious conversation. Everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine,” I said. “What is it you asked before?”

“I wanted you to some with me to Annapolis to help me pick

up a few last-minute gifts.”

I held in a sigh. “Sure, Mom.”

N

o137

I went upstairs, changed into something a little more present-

able, then trotted back downstairs dutifully, resigned to a

two-hour shopping trip. I heard my parents talking through the

door to the kitchen. I hesitated, remembering the shouting

match in the dining room between the other Sarah’s parents, but

this time they were the real thing.

My dad was mid-sentence: “. . . don’t have anything against

their friendship, Annie, but she’s got to understand how it might

look to other people around here, people whose good opinion

she’s going to need.”

“Not to mention what Jackson himself might be thinking.”

That contribution was from my mom.

I thought it time to interrupt. I shoved through the door.

“For your information, Jackson has a girlfriend named Helen.

She’s a refugee from the Empire, and she’s really beautiful. So I

don’t think you have to worry about him.” They both had the

good sense to look embarrassed. I took some satisfaction in that.

“Shall we go, Mom? We want to get there before the stores

close.”

N

Mom and I hit a few antique shops on Main Street, looking for

something for Richard’s mother. Something striking yet fairly

innocuous, since Mom said she and Claire had never been close.

She settled on a little tole-work metal box, festive with stars and

birds, dated 1793. I peeked at the tag tied to its clasp. Mom may

not have been very fond of Mrs. Hathaway, but she was prepared

to get her something expensive.

“Did you get a gift for Richard?” she asked me.

“Mom, I hardly
know
Richard. Why would I give him a

present?”

“Well, you can’t go to his house empty-handed.”

138 O

Go to his house?
My face must have telegraphed my thought.

Mom said, “Dad was supposed to tell you — they invited us for

Christmas Eve dinner. Claire insisted, really. She was very —

sweet. Talked about building ‘bonds’ between our families.”

I rolled my eyes, and knew my mother would too, if she could.

I didn’t want to get a gift for Richard. It seemed too personal,

like an admission that I wanted something to be going on

between us. “Can’t I just give all the Hathaways a present — a

box of fancy chocolates, maybe?”

“Well” — my mother shrugged unhappily — “I know he got

something for you.”

How does she know that?
I wondered, understanding from this tidbit that I was fully condemned to go to the dinner. With a gift

for Richard in hand.

I saw something in the glass case I’d been resting my hand

on — a pocket watch from a century or more before. Its case

was etched with twining lines; its face showed graceful numbers

beneath delicate asymmetrical hands. A masterwork of Time.

The salesclerk noticed my interest; she slipped it out of the

case and onto a black velvet tray before I could stop her. I picked

it up. “Nice price,” my mother commented, “if it works.” I

twisted the knob on top and held it to my ear to hear its whisper.

Tick-tick-tick.
“You think Richard would like that?” she asked.

“It’s not for Richard,” I said with sudden clarity. “It’s for

Jackson.”

“I already got both Rose and Jackson two very good gifts from

the family, honey, to go with their Christmas bonuses.” She

sounded anxious again. “You probably shouldn’t give him such

an expensive thing.”

Fine for Richard
, I thought,
but not for Jackson?
“It’s not
that
expensive,” I said. “I’m fairly certain I just heard someone call it a ‘nice price.’ ”

o139

I handed it back to the clerk along with a one-hundred-dollar

note — the remnants of my Astoria babysitting money that I’d

had converted into Confederation currency. Mom’s eyes wid-

ened, but she tightened her mouth and didn’t say anything else.

N

When we got home, Dad was busy frying up crab cakes from the

seafood place in Severna. Rose was still not feeling well, so we

were fending for ourselves. We ate in the kitchen, like we used

to in Seattle.

Dinner was tense. I could see my parents were decently

unhappy at being cast as racists. And maybe I was being unfair.

They clearly thought there was more going on between Jackson

and me than being best friends, and maybe they wouldn’t have

had a problem with that if we were still in Seattle. Things were

different here. Perhaps they were only trying to protect me. But

I was a big girl. And I didn’t want that kind of protection.

I went to hide in the conservatory after dinner. I needed a

break from my parents, and I suspected my parents needed

a break from me.

In all the time I’d been visiting my gramma’s house, when-

ever I was lonely or grumpy or bored or just needed someone to

talk to, I’d go to the conservatory and, magically, Jackson would

be there, waiting for me. I used to think it was because we were

such good friends that we were kind of in tune. But now I real-

ized it was because Jackson had foreseen somehow that I needed

him and had generously consented to appear.

Just one of an endless number of kindnesses he’d shown me

over the years.

But this night, when I reached the koi pool, Jackson wasn’t

waiting for me. I guessed someone else needed him more than

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I did. It hurt a little. I hoped Helen was nice enough to

deserve him.

I sat on the edge of the pool and looked up at Fiona’s statue.

Except for a moment it wasn’t Pandora I saw but another weep-

ing young woman with six bloodred stones on her outstretched

hand.
Persephone
, I remembered. The lost child.

Strange that Fiona chose a different statue from the one she

chose the last time, the
other
time.

I felt the atmosphere change, shift, and I heard voices behind

me. I turned to see an old woman walking toward me, holding a

little girl’s hand. I realized they were Fiona and my child mother.

“But she’s so sad, Grandmama,” the girl was saying. “Why

didn’t you pick someone happier?”

Fiona was remembering. “It had to be Pandora. The girl who

let troubles loose in the world.”

“I don’t like stories that blame the girl. I don’t like the one in

the Bible either.”

“I used to think that too, Annie. But then I thought, what if

we should be grateful to Pandora and Eve instead of blaming

them? What if they did exactly what God wanted them to do —

to choose
choice
itself? To bring change to immutable order.”

“But Mama always says to keep my things in order. Isn’t order

a good thing?”

“It is when you create it for yourself. It is not such a good

thing when someone tries to make it for you. Believe me, child,

I know. Many people spent many years trying to make me live

according to their ideas of order.”

“But didn’t Eve do a bad thing?” my mother persisted. “Didn’t

she make Original Sin?”

Fiona smiled. “So the ancient patriarchs would have us

believe: Man could have lived in paradise but for the wickedness

of Eve. And yet I think,” she said, looking at Pandora, “that para-

dise is not a home you can be given — it is a destination you

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must reach by fighting for it.” Then she looked in my direction,

as if she knew I was there, listening. “By choosing and choosing

yet again. Do you see?” she said.

Why was she always saying that?

I turned and fled up the metal stairs to the second floor. I did

not see. I did not believe. I did not want to participate. And I

did not, under any circumstances, want to be my crazy great-

grandmother’s Pandora.

CH A P T ER FI F T EE N

K

I need to finish my conversation with Jackson.

I went to sleep thinking this, and woke up thinking this. I

needed to find him.

I knew without any effort that he wasn’t in the House, but

when I put my mind to it, I could feel the warmth of him some-

where close by. I pulled on some outdoor clothes and went out

to find him. My sense led me down the path to my grandmoth-

er’s stables. I unlatched the door and went in.

It was dark inside — not the darkness of shadows, but of

night. A lantern threw orange light against the whitewashed

walls of the central corridor. I saw a man sitting on top of a

horse, lolling drunkenly, while another, younger man tried to

help him down, both laughing raucously. They wore clothes

from another era, another century. The younger man’s were

finer, trimmed with gold braid and buttons in a military style.

The man in the saddle came down in a sodden lump, nearly

carrying them both to the stone floor. “Steady as she goes,” the

younger man grunted, trying to balance the older on his feet.

The drunken man slid down the wall to sit sprawling on the

straw spread over the stone. “Give it here,” he said.

“Wait,” the younger man said, opening a stall door.

The man on the floor waved an arm, “Give it —”

“I said wait!” the younger man ordered. “This animal per-

formed well and deserves its rest.” He led the horse into the stall

and came out a moment later carrying the saddle and the bridle.

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“Jes’ wanted another drink,” the older man said. “Didn’t

mean no offense.”

The younger man handed him a flask. “What a lucky man

Dobson is,” he muttered, looking around enviously, “to have

all this.”

I could see his face clearly then. A beautiful face. Fine bones,