Jilo (32 page)

FOURTEEN

“Who is she?” Jilo asked as Ginny came down the sidewalk toward her. Jilo had been waiting on a porch swing outside of a strange house a bit south of Forsyth Park for a good hour, right out there for God and anyone else to see. Damn the Taylors. Damn their secrets. And damn any buckra fool who’d complain about her sitting there.

Ginny stopped before mounting the steps, casting Jilo a look of disappointment. “You used your magic to find me.” Jilo didn’t deny it. She’d known Ginny was away from the big house. That part wasn’t magic—deep down, she didn’t think Ginny would have left her standing out there like that. Jilo had to believe that despite her brother’s actions, Ginny herself had a shred of decency in her. So, yes, she’d used her magic, as much out of rebellion against these damned witches as from a desire to learn what had happened, and what was going to happen, from Ginny.

“I asked you who she was,” Jilo said, keeping her voice firm.

Ginny climbed the steps and stood before her. Holding a hand out in front of her, she announced in a stentorian voice, “Mr. and Mrs. Oliver Taylor of Savannah”—Ginny was being so loud that, in spite of her earlier resolve, Jilo glanced around her shoulders to see if anyone was near—“are pleased to announce the engagement of their son Edwin to Miss Adeline Rose Connelly. Miss Connelly, a graduate of the internationally renowned Institut Alpin finishing school, is the daughter of Riley and Marguerite Connelly of Richmond, Virginia. A date has not yet been set.” She lowered her hand and turned toward the house’s door. “There, satisfied?”

She opened the door and stepped through. Jilo expected Ginny to slam the door behind herself, but instead she called out, “Are you coming in or not?”

Jilo rose and took a few cautious steps toward the opening. Ginny stood in the hall with her hands on her hips. As Jilo stepped over the threshold, Ginny raised her hands and motioned around the space. “Like it? It’s mine. All mine. Not my daddy’s, not my mama’s. Mine. Close the door behind you, please.” Jilo did as she was asked, and Ginny flipped on an overhead light.

Seemingly intent on providing Jilo with a tour of the place, Ginny raised her hands and turned a full circle. “The foyer,” Ginny said, referring to a wide, but altogether ordinary, hallway. Ginny pointed toward the entrance, and Jilo followed Ginny’s gesture to an old-style chair that sat right inside the door. “It’s a Savery.” Ginny nodded at the blank wall facing the chair. “Of course it’s posing me a bit of a problem as I have a smaller work on paper by Rothko I’d intended for that very spot, but then I found the chair and began questioning . . .”

“I don’t mean to be rude, but I didn’t come here to discuss decorating.”

Ginny shook her head. “No, I know you didn’t. It’s only I was thinking how much you and I are like that chair and the painting. Both,” she said, brushing past Jilo and placing a hand on the back of the chair, “of the highest quality.” She turned back to Jilo. “But so very different in our design.” She held a hand out to Jilo, but Jilo couldn’t bring herself to take it. Ginny let it fall back to her side. “I wasn’t allowed to hang the painting in my father’s house, but this house belongs to me. There’s room, and respect, for both Savery and Rothko in this house.” She cast a glance back up to the wall. “Oh dear,” she said, “would I be ruining my metaphor if I said I just decided that is entirely the wrong place for the Rothko?” She pursed her lips for a moment, then turned back to Jilo. “I’ll just leave that spot open for now, till the right work comes along.” She did an about-face and led the way into a sitting room on the left side of the hall.

Jilo stepped into the room, taking in the unexpected juxtaposition of antique furniture and cubist art. A sound caught her attention, and she turned to face a clock on the mantle that struck off each second, loud enough to wake the dead. Ginny motioned toward the sofa. As Jilo obeyed her unspoken request, Ginny crossed the room and retrieved a bottle of amber liquid from an unlocked tantalus. “Do you like scotch?”

Jilo shrugged. “Never tasted it.”

“Then you don’t like scotch,” Ginny said, pulling out the stopper and filling two tumblers almost to the rim. “But you’re going to learn to.” She crossed the room to Jilo and held one of the glasses out to her. Jilo took the drink, watching as Ginny swept her skirt to the side, bent her knees in a smooth, though Jilo reckoned practiced, motion, and sat down next to her on the sofa. “Until then, at least it’ll dull the pain.” She tipped the tumbler to her lips, downing a third in one draft. “So, how is Binah? Are she and Juliette settled?”

Jilo brought the tumbler up to her nose, uncertain she wanted to taste the witch’s brew it contained, uncertain she wanted to discuss Binah and her daughter with the sister of the man who’d wronged them. She took a taste of the scotch, almost coughing it back up. “That is vile.”

Ginny nodded and clinked her glass against Jilo’s. “Finish it. Doctor’s orders.”

Jilo took another sip. Prepared, this time, she managed to choke it down, appreciating the pleasant warmth flowing through her. “She’s got some crazy idea, Binah. Gonna take up singing. Like our mama did.”

“Doesn’t sound so crazy to me. Binah’s got a beautiful voice. And she’s a beautiful woman.”

“A beautiful woman who’s also a mother.”

“Oh,” Ginny said with a laugh. “She can afford help to watch over Juliette.” She took another deep gulp, grimacing and closing her eyes. When she reopened them, they were filled with fire. “I saw to that. I’ll be damned if our niece doesn’t get the best of everything.”

“Our niece,” Jilo said, taking a quick and pleasant sip of her drink, “and the one who’s on the way.” Ginny’s eyes flashed in surprise. Jilo nodded, pleased that she had managed to withhold a secret from this woman who seemed to read her every thought—until she was ready for that secret to be revealed.

“You’ve learned how to block me out, haven’t you?” Ginny raised her glass in salute. “I should be worried, but truth is, I’m a bit proud.” Her brow furrowed. “So my brother is to be a father again,” she said. Jilo nodded again. “God, I already regret the devil’s bargain I made with my kith and kin.”

“Bargain?” Jilo felt her spine stiffening.

“Yes, my silence in exchange for the fortune paid to your sister.” She gave Jilo a sideways glance. “Notice the word ‘small’ wasn’t part of that sentence.” She tilted her tumbler to her lips, draining the rest of her drink. “Now I just wish I’d pushed for double.” She rose and reached out for Jilo’s glass. “Let me top that off for you.”

Over the last year, Jilo had gotten into the habit of avoiding the stretch of Ogeechee Road that passed by the cemetery, even though it often meant adding a mile or more to her journey. Each time she passed the cemetery, her mind’s eye would envision the family she’d been led to believe were her flesh and blood, sitting there side-by-side in lacquered white rocking chairs. Together they would rock, taking their ease in the shade of the large oaks, shaking their heads as one at the mess she’d made of things. Maybe it was only the Dutch courage of Ginny’s scotch, but today, she finally felt ready to face them.

She paused, but only for a moment, as she passed beneath the gate. It felt foolish. Coming here to confront people who were dead and buried. Just a couple of years ago, she would’ve considered it a mad waste of time. The dead were dead, she’d thought, not listening, and certainly not capable of talking back. She knew better now. Sometimes dead didn’t mean gone. Perhaps it was this knowledge that kept her feet on the marked path, following the circuitous route rather than cutting straight over strangers’ graves to where her nana and the man she still thought of as her father lay buried.

Soon she stood before their graves. There were no rockers. No disapproving stares. There were only four stones in a row. The leftmost was her nana’s, and next to it was the oldest of the four, honoring Reuben Wills, the averred grandfather she’d never met. To Jilo’s right lay Jesse Wills, a man she only remembered from photographs, gone as he was before she could walk, and beside him, Tuesday Jackson, her nana’s mother, related to her, Jilo sensed, through inherited magic, if not by blood. She let her gaze return, right to left, over their stones before coming to rest on the newest of the granite quartet.

She walked up to the foot of the grave. “You could’ve warned me of what I’d be up against, old woman.” The words came out angry, sharp. Instantly she felt a pang of regret. “I’m sorry. I know you were only trying to protect me. I just wish you’d let me know what you were protecting me from.”

“Not to worry, dearie,” a voice came from beside her.

Jilo startled. A moment before, she’d been alone. Now a veiled form swayed next to her.

“She can’t hear you. None of them can. They’re all at rest. You can thank me for that, you know.” The black lace shroud billowed up around the specter even though the wind was still. “You took long enough to come find me.”

“I didn’t come for you . . .” Her first impulse was to flee, but she felt caught in the Beekeeper’s gravity.

“And yet you knew you’d find me here. I waited for you to come. Willingly. I did not search you out or force my presence on you.” She took a few sashaying steps back, then spun around and reached out to caress Jilo’s cheek before dancing away again. “No matter what lie you’ve been telling yourself, I was the one you were avoiding. And I am the one you’ve come to see.”

Jilo shook herself. She ran her hand over her cheek to wipe away the sensation of the Beekeeper’s touch. “No. You’re the liar. You’re a trickster. You and your ‘sons.’ You deceived me. Tricked me into letting you have influence over me. And Tinker.” Guilt nearly knocked the wind out of her. She struggled to catch her breath. “God, Tinker. I helped you tarnish one of the purest souls ever to walk this earth.”

“My, my, listen to you now, you ungrateful child.
God
.
Souls
. You are indeed a preacher’s daughter.” She paused, as if to make sure Jilo had felt the sting. “Perhaps,” her tone changed, sounding of regret now rather than venom, “I am a liar, but when all is illusion, only the trickster speaks the truth.” A gloved hand extended toward her. It held a bottle. A conciliatory gesture. “Rum?” she offered. Jilo didn’t budge. She could feel the creature’s disappointment at her refusal turn to anger. “Unless, of course”—the sharpness returned to her speech—“you’ve already had too much of that prig of a witch’s brew.” She lowered the bottle. “Shame, she has to die as she does, our poor Ginny. I’ve grown rather fond of her, now that we’ve gotten to know her.”

“You won’t harm her.” Without thinking, Jilo advanced on the Beekeeper, only then realizing that a ball of blue lightning, unbidden magic, had formed in her hands, ready to shoot out and destroy the interloper. “You won’t harm anyone I love ever again.”

“Very good. Very good, dearie. You were indeed made for magic.” She leaned back as if she were admiring a work of art. “But can you really believe that little spark is going to do you any good against me?” The Beekeeper waved her free hand in a circular motion and laughed as Jilo’s magic took the shape of a hummingbird and flitted away. “You are but the lightning, dearie. I am the storm.” She swept away her veil, and Jilo stood there staring into the face of the void.

For a moment Jilo felt like she was lost in that unending emptiness. No, not lost. Searching. Searching for something important.
Someone
important. A girl.
A girl who could never exist
.

“Yes, you’re the one, all right.”

Jilo found herself at the foot of her nana’s grave again as the Beekeeper tilted the bottle high. When she pulled the bottle away, the veil fell back into place, once again creating the illusion of features behind it. “The girl in the darkness. You two are so damned linked together, I don’t think the one of you could exist without the other.”

“I have no idea . . .” Jilo began, but the creature rushed up to her. Her veil puffed out, as if she’d just exhaled a heavy breath. The creature began sashaying, rum sloshing from the bottle she held at a careless angle. “She’s awakening. She’s awakening,” she said, at first chanting the word, then nearly singing it. The creature reached out with her free hand and lifted the skirt of her garment. She began swinging in mad and widening circles, singing out the word “awakening” over and over again till it lost all meaning, till it became nothing more than the drone of a thousand wings.