The Light Who Shines (17 page)

I can just imagine the scrappy little girl Blue had been,
lying on the stairs too proud to cry as she fought for the will to move and get
help. It’s been so long since I was a child that I have only the vaguest
memories, and I had no idea that children could be that cruel. Dreading her
answer, I ask anyway in a voice that does not seem my own, “And that was the
worst of it?”

“Well, there were countless times when my few possessions
went missing and the kids all denied taking them. I would always know who lied,
though, and I would accuse them. That only made things worse because then they
would call me a Witch. When I would try to play games with them, they would either
flat out say no or they would just break up the game. If they were stuck doing
chores with me they would loudly complain about having to work with ‘the freak,’
‘the evil one,’ or ‘Satan,’ so it was pretty bad in general during those early
years.”

I feel like a knife is ripping through my chest at this
point, and guilt lies so heavily on my shoulders I’m surprised the car can keep
pulling the weight. I should have watched her more carefully. I really don’t
have the words to comfort her. I don’t know any words to say that could help
erase that sort of pain, but I feel I must say something. “Blue, I am so sorry
you went through that. It must have been a very hard childhood.”

Blue’s laugh is brittle. “Yes. It was hard, but it did get
better. Shortly after my arm had mended from the fall, Anna Marie took me away
from the school on what she called a field trip. We went into the forest next
to the orphanage, and she asked me to sit inside a circle she had drawn in the
dirt. I remember sitting cross-legged in the center while she chanted a bunch
of songs in a foreign language and waved her arms about in beautiful ways. At
the time she said they were holy songs, and I was so young, I believed her. Now
I know she was performing some sort of ritual or spell, though for what, I
don’t know. I certainly felt magic in the air, but I wasn’t afraid then because
Anna Marie said she was singing a very special song that would help me.

“I remember it was a chilly fall day with the ground covered
in fallen leaves, and the trees were bright splotches of fiery color against
the clear blue sky. We were out there long enough for my nose and ears to get cold
when some of the other housemothers came and made a big fuss. They yelled at
Anna Marie before grabbing me to take me back to the orphanage. They told me
that Anna Marie had kidnapped me, but I didn’t believe them, and I yelled at
them to leave her alone.

“I don’t know what she did, but after that, the kids were
nicer to me. They were not exactly kind and friendly, but they weren’t so
afraid of me or cruel to me. Anna Marie never came back to the school after
that, and I never found out what exactly she did for me, but whatever it was,
it did help.”

I glance over at Blue, who is staring out the window with an
unseeing gaze after finishing her story. The scars of her troubled past are
clearly etched on the planes of her face and in the gleam of her bright eyes.

What did Anna Marie do? I need to do some research on her
and find out. That incident never showed up in any of the reports that I
received.

I lean toward Blue and whisper, “Here we are. This is the
Glenwood Mansion.”

Bluebell Kildare: May 28, 2022, Red Ages

I hear Jack’s low voice breaking into my thoughts, and with
a shake, I extract myself from my remembrances. Looking out the window, I see the
Glenwood Mansion, a softly glowing apparition emerging through the curtain of
night.

The valet takes Jack’s car, and we quietly approach the
entrance. I admire how the softly glimmering firefly lanterns illuminate the
trees hovering over the glow stone walkway. I steal a surreptitious glance at
Jack again, hoping he doesn’t think less of me for the embarrassing truths I revealed
about my childhood. His face looks a study of angles in stone, immovable and
unreadable. He’s wearing a black tuxedo with a champagne embroidered waistcoat
and a gold tonal silk cravat. As we step through the entrance, the party lights
dance through his gilded curls. A man asks if he can take my shawl, but I
decline, tugging it close about my shoulders, eternally conscious of my
birthmark.

Mr. and Mrs. Glenwood greet us just through the entryway. Mr.
Glenwood is a balding gentleman with a standard tux and bow tie and a
nonstandard twinkle in his eye. He takes my hand warmly and bows over it with
his sparse white hair flopping over in a bow of its own. He kisses the back of
my hand as if I am royalty, and my ears and face heat up in a blush.

Mrs. Glenwood is dressed impeccably in a black lace surplice
gown with a full skirt overlaying a golden sheath. The gold goes beautifully
with her caramel hair that surely must be died or charmed to match her color of
youth. Her eyes are intelligent and observing as she takes my hand in a firm
embrace and glances over at Jack.

Jack introduces me. “Good evening, Valerie. This is my good
friend Bluebell Kildare.”

I think it’s an odd way to introduce me, but perhaps it’s wise
not to announce that he’s brought a work associate to the event in case it puts
people on edge.

Apparently Mrs. Glenwood thinks it’s odd too. She raises one
eyebrow and says, “How unusual!”

I wonder what she finds unusual: that Jack brought a friend
or that Jack brought a date at all. Perhaps it is me she finds unusual.

She looks at me again and smiles in a way that makes all the
little lines around her eyes crinkle up in pleasure. “Welcome, my dear
Bluebell. Any friend of Jack’s is a friend of mine.”

Despite a compulsive urge to curtsy to her, I resist and
thank her instead with a smile of my own. “Just call me Blue, please. Thank you
so much for having us.”

The line behind us presses us deeper into a soaring foyer, ending
the formalities abruptly. Directly in front of us, a wide, curved oak staircase
leads to the second floor. Jack tucks my arm under his, and we walk through the
cavernous hall and enter a room via an archway on the right.

On the other side of the archway spreads a two-story grand ballroom
with an expansive, gleaming parquet floor. Tall windows draped in white and
gold brocade curtains line the exterior wall like soldiers at attention. Gilded
frames holding bold impressionistic and contemporary artwork adorn the interior
walls, and the ceiling is made of hundreds of squares of glass held together by
cream-colored steel beams. The ceiling is aflame with thousands of small
firefly bulbs set in three massive, tiered crystal chandeliers that hang from
the beams, giving the room a luminous ambiance.

The far end of the room is a wall of paneled glass, and the
ceiling is tall enough that a pair of weeping fig trees easily stands in the
corners with plenty of room for growth. The second floor balcony surrounds the
other three walls of the ballroom, and I see people milling about, elegant
dresses and stylish suits moving effortlessly in and out of doorways.

On the wall opposite us stands a long row of tables and
counters where the silent auction is showcased. To the left is a refreshment
table mounded with hors d'oeuvres and overflowing with fresh fruits and desserts.
Servers weave through the room tendering copious amounts of champagne to the
guests.

My eyes are absolutely delighted with the ballroom from
start to finish, but my insides are being assaulted with the cacophony of
emotions that fill the room. Usually I only feel emotions when they are strong,
but the pure mass of people in this room assails me with a dizzying array of
feelings. It is so confusing because people are mixing, and I can’t pin feelings
to individuals. Hundreds of signatures swirl around me in dissonance.

Jack leans close to my ear, I imagine because the room is
buzzing so loudly. “You look pale. Are you okay?”

I pinch my brows together and look down a minute. Then I
catch a lively tune I’m unfamiliar with. I lift my eyes and see it comes from a
small orchestra playing between the twin fig trees. Suspended over a small
black stand in front of the orchestra, a magic baton cuts the air, moving left
and right, up and down in a wild dance. I smile in delight as I watch the magic
baton direct the orchestra. It eases me greatly to focus on the sound of the
music instead of my sixth sense.

I stand on tiptoe to lean close to Jack’s ear, and when my
lips are almost brushing his lobe I feel my cheeks heat in embarrassment. I remember
he’s a Vampire and can hear me easily despite the noise. Jack’s lips twitch
slightly in repressed humor as I settle back down and say, “I’m alright. There
are just a lot of people, and I’m getting a lot of impressions at once.” Then I
look questioningly at Jack. “What kind of music is this?”

As he replies, his breath brushes my ear and causes my
entire body to tingle. “A minuet.” Then he asks, “Would you like a refreshment?”

I shake my head no. “I’d like to go to the auction first.
Maud gave me a little money to spend, and I want to find someone who can
further my knowledge of the object in question.”

Jack nods and puts his hand on the small of my back, guiding
me forward. Again I puzzle—am I a friend? Am I a date? Or am I just an
associate? I have no idea at this point, and as usual I can’t read Jack, so he
remains an enigma. I decide to stop worrying about it and just see what
happens.

When we approach the tables and distance ourselves from the
throng on the dance floor, the onslaught of emotions eases up and is instead
replaced with the deep, thrumming vibrations of magic. A fine tremor runs
through the whole of my body from the force of the power in the vicinity. Many
of the individual items are weak, but in large quantity the effect is quite
strong. The cases are framed in oak with thick, cream-colored velvet interiors
and lit from within like cases at a fine jewelry store. Heavy oak tables are
set up to exhibit some of the larger items.

I stop briefly in front of a fountain with a sculpted
Grecian boy peeing water into an enormous clamshell. A thin flow of water lifts
itself from the clamshell and flows upward, twisting around the boys leg and
torso before finally entering through his ear. It’s listed as a “magically operated
pumpless fountain.” I laugh softly. If I were ever in the market for a Grecian
peeing fountain I would definitely prefer one that didn’t require a pump to
operate. For now, I think I’ll pass.

Jack holds my arm tucked neatly in his, and I revel in the
feel of his firm muscles beneath my fingers. We move forward toward some items designed
to aid your vanity. There is a magic curling wand! How nice it would be to just
wrap your hair around the wand and say a magic word to make the curl stay until
you release the hair from its obligation.

Other items are more practical. A set of self-cleaning
dishes captures my eye. They would make cleanup after dinner so easy, but
unfortunately, the pattern is hideous. The light green plates are covered in a glaring
orange and blue tropical design. The starting bid is high, and I doubt they
will get any bidders. Too bad. I’m sure the owner will be disappointed when the
dishes return home. Next I admire an elaborate magical brass fire starter. It would
be so convenient for someone who uses candles frequently or has a fireplace.

My eyes alight on a tall, crystal-footed perfume bottle with
a delicate handle, a small pour spout, and a beautifully shaped stopper. Its
curves are captivating, and its placard says it magically preserves contents
from UV damage and age spoilage. This would be perfect for my homemade oil
mixtures! Many of the more delicate oils will not keep in a clear container due
to UV damage, but I do love to see the colors of the oils. Right now I just
keep my oils in amber jars. Excitement thrills through me as I write down my
bid. It’s the first bid entered on this item, and I hope I’m the only one
interested.

Jack seems taken with some magical strategy games, so I
wander over to the glass cases. They are filled with jewelry, weaponry, and other
high value items. I see nothing of relevance in the first case as it’s filled
with small chainmail gloves, hoods, and weaponry.

In the second case, a soft, thrumming vibration captures my
attention. It is not as strong as some of the other vibrations I sense, but it gives
off a wider spectrum of frequencies than I’ve ever felt before. My eyes alight
on a necklace made of small metal pieces linked together in strands that
connect at a choker and fan out in all directions. I can see that if the
necklace were worn, the cascading strands would lie all over the shoulders and dip
down to cover the sternum. The choker has no clasp, and it is labeled
“Belladonna Necklace, Properties: Protection against magic.” I shiver when I
look at it. It is both alluring and menacing at the same time, and the intricate
web of vibrations that exude from it tell me of the great power it contains.

An older gentleman with a bald head and a distinguished beard
has just approached the case next to me. He leans toward me and says, “It’s
fantastic, isn’t it?”

I feel a sense of delight coming from him. He is truly
enchanted by the piece, but his delight is somehow repugnant to me. He
continues with a twisted little smile on his face. “What’s amusing is that it
is lauded as a piece for protection. Now what do you think would happen if
someone who had a magical gift wore it?”

I’m startled at this thought. Why, their magic would probably
be suppressed. The necklace would be like a prison.

I feel a vile joy build in the man as he contemplates this
and looks at me sharply. I feel uneasy about this conversation and quickly turn
to see Jack watching. When Jack approaches, I’m relieved to see the stranger
move on to examine some items in another case.

Jack puts his arm around my shoulders and leans in to me.
“There are some amulets in the last case on the other side. Let’s take a look.”

I move with him, momentarily grateful for the security of
his presence. In the case Jack leads me to are a few amulets but none as old as
what I’m looking for. Jack releases my shoulder and tells me he’ll be at the
next case over. I look closely at the other contents of the case in front of
me. There is an exquisitely designed set of ancient silver mirrors labeled
“Scrying mirrors, Properties: Visual and audio communication over distance.” A
substantial minimum bid is requested, well out of my price range.

A handsome, aristocratic man is bidding on the set. I ask
him, “Are the old mirrors more valuable than the newer ones?”

He smiles at me and explains, “Most scrying mirrors are the
same, new or old. They allow you to see and listen. But some of the older
mirrors have additional properties that even the owners aren’t aware of. Some
allow you to zoom in and out. Others allow you to see the surrounding area as
though you are there. I’ve even seen those that allow you to spy or see things
that are otherwise warded.”

I puzzle at this. “How can you spy with a mirror set that is
clearly used for two way communication?”

The gentleman replies, “Well, sometimes the set is designed
so you can turn one on without notifying the other and therefore see and hear
what is going on when the other owner is unaware.”

“Oh!” I say, turning a little pink. “I should have guessed
that. I’m a little ignorant on the subject. That is quite an invasion of
privacy!”

The man smiles at me. “Don’t be embarrassed. I’m a collector,
so I know a good deal more than most. My name is Robert LaRoche, by the way.”
He holds his hand out in greeting.

I place mine in his and give it a firm squeeze. “I’m Bluebell
Kildare.”

Robert says, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Kildare.” He
holds my hand a tiny bit longer than necessary, but it’s not unpleasant. In
fact, it’s quite the opposite.

Robert is a handsome man, perhaps in his late thirties. He’s
tall and slender with an elegant stance and handsome face. His thoughtful brown
eyes stare intelligently from behind wire frame spectacles. He emanates none of
the intense power that Jack does but instead holds an easy grace. His hair is a
tad longer than it should be, and combined with his spectacles and pale skin gives
him the look of a scholar who buries himself in a library too often.

Turning back to the mirrors, I inquire, “How do you know
that this set has some of the extra properties?”

Mr. LaRoche points to the mirror that is facing down with its
intricate filigree showing on the back side. “Do you see the filigree? I can
date the work based on my knowledge of the skill level and the popular craftsmanship
during different periods. I can date this particular piece at approximately 200
R.A.”

I whistle softly at this, and Robert smiles as he continues.
“To be honest, I can’t know for sure that this piece has any special
properties, but due to the expense of producing such fine work at that time it
was likely made for someone of extreme wealth, so there is a good likelihood of
some special properties being imbued. The only way to know with certainty is to
take it home and study it.”

“What will you do if it is just a plain old scrying mirror?”