The Amaranth Enchantment (6 page)

There was a rag nearby, and I used it to clutch the lid 60

and lift it off the pot. Soup. And on a small table by the foot of my bed, a clean setting of dishes.

Stories of witches poisoning young girls came to mind, but I dismissed them.

In the stories, the witches were ugly hags with warty faces, and the girls were beautiful princesses. Hence, I was safe. Not very sound reasoning, but it reassured me.

The soup was bland and slightly bitter with flecks of dried herbs. It was perfect. I set down my bowl and heard Dog bleating outside. It comforted me mightily.

I laced on my shoes, which stood at attention nearby. Beryl.

Why had she brought me to my bedroom and fed me? Why hadn't she beaten me or at least scolded me? Who was she?

I didn't know if I was a prisoner in her home, or a guest, but I decided to go find her and ask. I had a sense of where she'd be. I opened the door and stepped into the dark hallway.

I found the door I wanted and opened it. My foot reached for the stairs, overestimating their height. Of course. I was bigger now. I adjusted my steps and climbed the winding staircase to the many-windowed room at the top of the house. The tower room, where Papa used to sit at night and watch through his spyglass for the lights of his ships returning from across the sea.

She sat in a cushioned chair in the middle of the room.

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There was no candle or fire, but reflected moonlight threw a pale glow over empty flowerpots, damask chairs, and the mounted telescope, looking like a long-legged hunchback draped in a cloak of dusty leather. A pane of glass was missing from more than one window, and night noises climbed inside.

I sat in a chair opposite Beryl.

"Why do you live in my home?" I asked.

"What have you done with my stone?" was her answer. A swell of anxiety rose in my throat.

"Are you a witch?"

"Are you a thief?"

Now I was angry.

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"If I was a thief, why would I have come back here to confess and prove it to you?" I demanded.

"If I was a witch, why wouldn't I have killed you by now? Or cursed you with warts?"

My hands flew up to my face. It was still smooth, though tender where Aunt had struck me. I chided myself for checking.

We were at an impasse. I could think of nothing else to say. I debated rising to my feet to see if I could walk out as easily as I'd walked in. I had just decided to try it when she spoke.

"I bought this house. Years ago. From a lawyer who was selling it. The owners had died in an accident."

In the dim light I felt safe when my eyes grew wet. It 62

had been so long since I'd last heard them mentioned. I needed a change of subject.

"What is an amaranth?"

She smiled faintly. "A mythical flower that never dies. There's also a real flower called by that name. I have several of them growing here in pots. I'll show you. Another name for it is 'Love-lies-bleeding.'"

I studied Beryl's face as she studied mine.

"Beryl. That's not your true name, is it?" She said nothing. I tried another angle. "How did you know my name?"

She laughed a little. "I know many things, but that took no... magic, as you might want to call it." She smiled a wry smile. "You're the exact image of your mother. There are several paintings of her here."

It was all I could do not to jump up and go searching for them. They'd be easier to see in the morning, I told myself.

"I'd heard about a daughter who was sent to live with relatives," she went on.

"I often wondered what became of her. When I saw you in the shop, I was pretty sure I'd found my answer. When you showed up at my door, I was certain."

How could a painting of Mama tell her who I was? I didn't look much like Mama, so far as I could tell. "You didn't look happy there," she said.

This puzzled me. "Is that why you spoke for me? Because you pitied me?"

She watched me for a moment. I became conscious of 63

the wind whistling through the open windows, and a night bird calling off in the trees beyond the lawns.

"What is your given name?" she asked softly.

It seemed as though I was bound to never get a straight answer from her. Yet something made me trust her, made me willing to reveal my name.

"Lucinda," I said.

"Should I pity you, Lucinda?" she asked.

I sat very still, feeling pricked by her question. Perhaps I pitied myself, but I didn't need her to.

"No."

She nodded her head, as if my answer pleased her. "And yet," she said, "you have bruises on your face that weren't there yesterday."

I hadn't known they showed.

"Was it your aunt?"

There was no need to answer.

I was startled to see the great sadness written on her face. She rose from her chair and approached mine.

"May I?" she said. She knelt before me and slowly placed her hands over my eyes and cheeks. Her hands were cool, the skin taut and fine over hard muscles and bones. At her touch, the wounds stung and burned, until a sweet numbness came over them. She pressed more firmly, then removed her hands.

My breath came fast and heavy. I patted my face. It was warm, no longer numb or hurt.

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"Are the bruises gone?" I asked.

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She nodded.

I couldn't believe what had just happened. Who was she? "Thank you," I said, not without some fear.

"You are welcome."

"Is this why they call you Amaranth?" I said. "You can heal yourself, so you don't seem to get older?"

She smiled. "I chose the name, actually. It seemed to fit. I loved the flower because it reminded me of home. I called myself Amaranth in a town where I lived for a time, and the name stuck when I traveled here."

I tried to gather together the things I knew, or thought I knew, about her.

What else had Father Julian said? "Did you really curse the queen when she was expecting a child?"

She sagged in her chair. "The only person I've ever cursed is myself. No," she said suddenly, "I must amend that. There are two others. But neither of them was the queen. She was simply unlucky."

I sat, wondering how she could have cursed herself. Her words interrupted my thoughts.

"I told your aunt that I was looking for a servant," Beryl said, "but that was not quite true. I am looking for help of a different kind, and when I saw you, I felt you could be just the person I needed." She stroked her fingertips across her collarbone, as if searching for something that wasn't there.

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"I don't know how I could help you, unless you want your floors scrubbed.

You're... well, if you're not a witch, you're something. There's nothing I could do that you could not."

She sat silently. I waited for her to say something. I'd nearly given up when she spoke.

"Do you know what it's like to be alone, Lucinda?" This question wasn't what I'd been expecting. It made me stop and consider.

"I've been alone since my parents died, mostly," I said. "Uncle was good to me, but Aunt made it hard for both of us. I've never had friends to speak of."

She leaned forward in her chair, gripping the armrests. "That makes two of us, utterly alone, doesn't it?"

The wind pouring through broken windowpanes blew cold over my skin. "I suppose it does."

"What would you give to have a friend? One true friend, who would never leave you?"

"I suppose I'd give a lot for that." My mouth felt dry, parched. I wanted to end this interview. "You said there was something you needed from me?"

A flicker of disappointment crossed her face, then it was gone. "Yes. Well."

She folded her hands in her lap and sat more erect, businesslike. "Where is my stone?"

Hope sank like a stone in my stomach. I had hoped that maybe the subject wouldn't come up again. "I don't know."

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Outside on the lawn, Dog bleated. Beryl rose from her chair and stood at the window, looking down on the grounds. Moonlight on her pale features turned her into a marble sculpture. She kept her eyes fixed on some faraway sight--perhaps the sea.

I joined her at the window, drawn by curiosity. Saint Sebastien sparkled like a field of stars, and beyond it lay the deep black of the ocean.

"Who is this Peter that you mentioned?"

"I hardly know him," I said. I told her the story of how Peter came bursting into the room, spent the night, and disappeared, leaving a pebble in my pocket. Beryl listened intently, frowning more and more as I went on.

She seized my arm. "Lucinda," she said, when I was finished, "the day you wandered about the city, when your aunt and uncle had asked you to return the stone, but you didn't"--I felt my cheeks getting red--"did anyone approach you, or talk to you, or any such thing?"

I thought I knew where she was headed--that perhaps the stone had been stolen
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before Peter came.

"No," I said, "not a soul. And anyway, I had the stone in my room that night.

I remember looking at it. It almost felt... alive."

Beryl clenched and unclenched her fists, growing more agitated by the minute.

"It doesn't seem as if... it doesn't sound like... could it be?" She was talking to herself now.

"Could it be what?"

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Her eyes met mine. "Twice, in the city, someone has tried to steal the stone from me," she said. "A man. That's how the setting broke. I took it for repair in part to put it beyond the thief's reach. But I don't know who the thief is."

I began to see the cause of her fear. "You think Peter was working for someone else?"

She pressed her lips together tightly. "I hope not."

I searched back in my mind, thinking of the night he came. "I'm sure it isn't so," I said. But whether it was or no, what could I do about it?

Beryl began pacing the floor. "We don't know for certain that Peter took it, but it seems the most probable," she said. "And we don't know where he is, or how to find him, but we know he frequents the city streets, yes?"

I nodded.

"And he's likely to be out and about during the Winter Festival, would you say?"

I nodded again.

"Do you think you could find him and get it back from him?"

I laughed. "Not a chance! He's as slippery as a tadpole!" Beryl leaned forward once more, her violet eyes seeming to have a light of their own.

"What if," she said, biting off each word deliberately. "What if I gave you something in return?"

She had my attention. But still, there was no way I could get the stone back from Peter.

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"What if I gave you this house in return for my jewel?" A cold breeze from the window blew over me, but I was already frozen with shock.

My house?

It was impossible!

My chances were miniscule at best.

Yet, the fact that there was a chance at all was irresistible.

She watched my face closely, apparently concerned that I hadn't answered yet.

"And," she added, as if to sweeten the deal, "all the gold you'll ever need to live here comfortably for the rest of your life."

I laughed out loud. The absurdity of it all was too much. She thought the first offer wasn't good enough for me? What else might I throw into this bargain--a royal crown?

"Where did you get such wealth? And what in heaven's name is this stone of yours?" I asked. "It's rare, I know, and huge, and priceless, even I can see that. But how could it be worth so much to you?"

A cloud passed over the moon, leaving us standing in darkness. I couldn't see Beryl at all, nor even hear her breathing. For an odd instant, I imagined she was no longer there--that she was a ghost or a vision who had vanished.

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Then she spoke.

"Would you believe me if I told you that the stone is... how shall I describe this, the words are so shallow... that the stone is my soul?"

I heard my heartbeat thrum in my ears. What could I say to that? "I am listening."

"Yes," she said bitterly, "I know you are. But you're not believing."

Was I not?

"I am trying to," I said. "It's much to believe."

The clouds passed before the moon, and Beryl appeared again, ghostlike. Her
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arms were wrapped tightly around her body, as if it took all her strength to hold herself together in one piece. One fist she pressed into her lips and chin as if she were trying to knead away a toothache.

"I've said too much already," she said miserably. "You couldn't possibly understand, much less believe me."

I reached forward and touched her arm. She was cold and hard, yet pulsing with life, just like her stone had been. The feel of her skin unnerved me. She jumped a little at my touch, and met my gaze. I pulled my hand back.

"Who are you?" I said.

"Do you mean, what am I?"

I nodded. "I suppose I do."

She looked back out over the sea. "I am someone very lonely."

I reached out again, and this time I didn't flinch. "You 70

can trust me, Beryl," I said. "I won't hurt you." I took a deep breath. "And I'll try to believe."

She gripped my hand so tightly, I had to stifle a squeak. She looked down at my hand, held in hers.

"You're cold. Come downstairs. We can build a fire, and I will try to tell you."

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Chapter 10

We sat by the fireplace in the drawing room. Beryl lit a fire from the dusty logs in the grate while I threw back the canvas drapes that covered the nearest couch. I sat on one end, watching as she lit the tapers on a pair of candelabra and set them on the mantel.

The walls were covered in paintings, from the chair rail up to the ceiling. A few were portraits of my family, but the rest were different, in a style like nothing I'd ever seen. The colors were intense, deep reds and blues, plays of dark and light in stark contrast, and the people in the paintings were not sitting still for portraits, but doing things--throwing javelins, tossing laughing children in the air, stroking animals, gathering fruit. I had never seen such lifelike paintings. No, that was not correct. Those people weren't lifelike. They were more alive than life.