Authors: R. R. Smythe
Heart Murmurs (16 page)
“Welcome, Mia.” A velvety voice calls from the south staircase.
A beautiful woman, in a shimmering dress of vanilla, is gliding toward us.
I squint and see that the fabric looks like real buttercups, undulating in time with her steps. Its movements are disturbing, like the dress is alive.
Her hair is auburn, and her eyes dark⦠but I can't really see her. Like there's a veil over my vision, preventing me from identifying her. A mind-blindness.
My heart; it's tripping and stuttering in the cage of my chest. I feel a tug, and a drawing feeling â like an invisible seamstress has hooked my guts, and is pulling me toward her. A Literati.
“And Mia's companion.” She gives Morgan a slight nod and returns to staring at me. “You have done well. Bested many of our creations. That has earned you the right to an audience with the council.”
My fingers interlace with Morgan's. Intuition clenches my gut. I tighten my grip on his hand, making sure he's still there.
“Easy, love,” he whispers.
“First, you must rest. The council will assemble tomorrow. It's late. Follow me.”
“What â they don't have evening hours? They're writers, for crying out loud,” Morgan says wryly.
My eyes steal to his face and catch his lopsided grin. I try to smile back, but it falters. I see the worry in his eyes.
Buttercup Literati turns on the stairs, and they surreally elongate; contracting then lengthening in a long serpentine walk connecting to a higher floor. I stare into the dizzying height of the turret and swallow.
“Do not leave me, Morgan. Don't let them separate us. Not for a minute,” I whisper.
Buttercup laughs. She's two flights ahead of us, but apparently has elephant ears. “That will not be possible. You will sleep separately.”
****
I follow behind Morgan, trying to memorize as much of the castle as I can. I scan each passing floor, logging the scene and contents. Every floor has one thing in common. A massive library, from floor to ceiling.
It must be their writings? All their thoughts?
I swallow. How many Literati are there?
Buttercup follows my gaze and responds as if reading my mind.
“Some writers aren't even aware they are Literati. It's a genomic expression, we think. So we're always reading, looking for clues⦠for new blood.”
“Wow. I'll bet Louisa thought she was.”
Morgan looks grim, and then nods his head, shooting me a barely perceptible âno'. His eyes flick to Buttercup.
Buttercup's gaze narrows, focusing on Morgan.
“Yes, Louisa. We will discuss her, and her deviation from the natural use of the tunnels. And your other sister... sweet Beth. I was shocked when I found out about her, really. Obedience was always Beth's defining quality.”
I hear Morgan's jaw snap shut, and his lips press together in a tight white line.
I try to apologize with my eyes. He shrugs.
“Ah, here we are.”
We enter an impossibly long hallway. I can't see the end of it.
On either side of us, doors roll out, ornate and old. Like a house of mirrors, the corridor seems to buckle into ever-sprouting, never-ending choices of pathways. Unique carvings decorate each one like family crests.
Morgan puts his arm around me, crushing me against his side.
Buttercup stops, beckoning to the door before her. It opens, of course.
“This is your room, Mia.”
“I'm not leaving her.” Morgan's voice is brittle. His whole body is rigid against mine. Poised to strike. I feel his heartbeat thrumming hard.
“I'm afraid that is not your decision.”
Thump-thump-thump-thump.
No please. Not now. I need to look powerful. Not like some wilting flower of a girl.
I hear the heart-whispers, feel Morgan's arm around my back.
Blackness envelops me.
****
I shoot to sitting. Drenched in sweat. My hair is plastered to the sides of my face, and my head swivels as I try to remember where I am.
I take in the room. A large, mahogany canopy bed, draped with white gauze further adds to the cobwebby feeling inside my head.
And everywhere, floor to ceiling are⦠books. I slide out of bed, and stumble. My head feels like its undergone taxidermy and is now stuffed with cotton.
“Morgan.” Where is he?
I shudder, imagining what they had to do to peel him from me.
I walk over to the single candle and pick it up. My eyes catch a familiar name among the leather-bound manuscripts. Indeed, every âbook' here, looks ancient and decrepit. Like books bound long before printing presses ruled the world.
Madelon White.
No. My heart goes cold, sprinting in my chest.
I yank out the book, and crack it open.
My eyes scan the first few pages. It's about the Civil War. She's writing about the war. “Oh snap, it's her.”
What does this mean? She was a Literati? Or at the very least, a suspected Literati?
Now I have her heart. Does that mean I have her⦠power?
My mind trips back to the way I commanded the wolf. To the freakish strength I showed, hauling Morgan back onto the bridge.
My heart speeds up and I try to take deep breaths. I cannot afford to pass out again. A revelation hits me in a wave. I must know. I must talk to Beth. But how to reach her?
I close my mind, emptying it of every thought â concentrating on the far wall of my room. I picture my desire.
The floor rumbles beneath my stocking feet. The whole room rattles and shifts like an earthquake.
I open my eyes in time to see the back wall blow out, pieces fragmenting then crumpling to dust.
And it's there. The black light forest. And in the center⦠Beth's stump. I run to the desk and snatch a pen and quill and hastily scribble a note.
Beth, please please â my computer is in your guest room. With my first finished book on it. The file's labeled âDeluded Optimism.' Print it out. All of it. And see if you find the symbol⦠an âL'. Write soon. I don't know what's going to happen to us.
My blood runs cold. I don't need her to answer. The memory surges forward â my exasperation at the scarlet letter.
I am a Literati.
I can't wrap my head around that⦠not right now. I need Morgan.
A tiny seed of joy sprouts in my confused heart. We can be together. I am on the court.
My doorknob rattles from a door on the wall â not the one leading to the hallway.
An adjoining chamber?
“Mia? Can you hear me? What was that noise? Are you alright?” Morgan's voice, rough and hard. He coughs.
I take one final look at the letter, run to the stump, and shove it inside. The forest is cold, dark, and the wind whips my hair into my face.
I fly back through the jagged faux door. I step across the line delineating blackened grass from hardwood floor and the wall reseals with a loud, sucking sound.
It's gone. Replaced with smooth, flawless plaster.
I lean in, pressing my cheek to the door. “I'm here. I'm fine. Are you alright?”
“Step back. I'm going to break it down.”
“Wait, Morgan, just ten seconds.”
I close my eyes, and place my hands palm up at my sides, remembering the pyrotechnics on the log. I picture my mind, see the folds in my brain, each loaded with sight, sound⦠and power.
I feel a drawing, a compulsion. I close my eyes, letting it wash over me.
My hands tingle and burn⦠starting at my fingertips. I imagine the door opening.
In my mind, a dark colored wind holds it back. Pushing from Morgan's side like a volatile tornado.
The door rattles. I take a deep breath and blow back. The wind scatters and reassembles. The door vibrates and shakes. With a violent tug, the hinges pull off, like a mighty invisible hand torques them, shearing them off where they bend.
The wind howls. I hear it, and so does Morgan.
“Mia! What's going on?” He rams the door, and it snaps off, falling with a clatter to the ground. He leaps over it, rushing to my side.
He hugs me fiercely. His eyes are red. I push him back â checking for bruises or signs of a struggle. Half of his face is crusted in blood and black and blue.
“Mia. Are you alright? How's your heart?”
His fingers brush my wet hair from my face and his eyes are tight with concern.
“Morgan â oh, your face! What did they do to you?”
His body collapses, and he pulls me to sit on the enormous bed.
“They â they⦔ He swallows, closing his eyes. His hands shake like he's developed epilepsy. I grasp them and squeeze.
“What, what?”
“They showed me what they could do to you.” He amended. “What they would do to you⦠if I didn't comply.”
He wrenches his fingers away, tightening them into a ball. “I feel so useless.” He stands, shooting an accusatory finger at the rifle. “That is totally useless against their mind-time tricks. This court. It's like English rule again. I'm only a bloody courier. Forget a knightâI'm the jester. Their puppet and their amusement. I have no power, no say in my own life. In your life.”
I stand in front of him to halt his pacing. “I â I don't think we have to worry.”
He bites his lip. “How can you say that? Look what I've gotten you into. What my family's gotten you into?”
“What was the option Morgan?”
His face drains of color. He nods, dragging a hand across it.
“Did Madelon write?”
His eyes tighten. “Yes. But I daresay she loved music more. Composition. Why do you ask?”
“Because her book is on the shelf over there.”
“So⦠she was⦔
“At least a suspected Literati. And from what I've seen hereâand with the wolves.”
His eyes widen. “Mia. Oh my word. You â a Literati. I have no idea what that means for all of us. I've never heard of a Literati in love with someone below their station.” His eyes dart to the mangled door. “But at least we can fight back.”
He pulls me to him and his kiss is tentative as our lips meet. Then I feel the urgency in every swipe of his tongue. His one hand grasps the back of my head, the other pulls me firmly against him.
He breaks away, whispering in my ear. “I cannot lose you. I will not lose you.”
I pull him to the bed. He slides in beside me, kissing my ears, my neck, and returning to my lips. Our bodies are flush, and I feel his chest rising and falling. He murmurs in my ear. “I know they are watching. I refuse to let anything so special be marred by⦠spectators.”
He slides behind me, wrapping his arms around me.
“I think we can sleep. I think they'll leave us alone. Now that they know.”
“Just the same. Sleep. I'll watch over you.”
“When I wake, you have to take a turn, Morgan. It's not like you aren't human.”
“Shh. Sleep.”
I kiss his hand and open my mind, letting the blackness overtake me.
Â
Suspended Hearts
Â
I take a last look at the âguest room'. My watch stopped dead the moment we entered the tunnels; but my level of exhaustion tells me it's time. An hour glass, with dramatic blood-red sand, ticks off the remaining seconds.
My fingers run through his dark curls. Morgan's head is in my lap, his arms securely around me. Every few minutes, he jerks in his sleep, murmuring, worrying. His cheeks are flushed under the stubble peppering his chin and cheeks.
I think of my parents⦠and Claire. If something happens and I don't return⦠since we time-hopped, what will happen to the Mia in their time? Will I just fade into nothing?
Tears threaten and I search for the anger, the resolve to beat them.
I stare at him, wishing I had the power to grasp and hold this moment in my hands. The bed trembles. My head swivels to the bedside nightstand.
The hourglass sands have stopped, hardened. Time is no longer flowing.
I want to stay here with him. I'm so afraid the next few minutes, few days, will mean one or both of our deaths.
Tears well; and pain swells my heart â spreading to fill my whole chest cavity, all the way into my throat to choke me.
I hear Beth's voice. Is staying in this room any way to live? I picture Morgan and I in the carriage, riding across the battlegrounds.
I sigh and let the images fade, my hands relax.
The hourglass resumes.
I hear the door rattle, and it swings open. My heart skips and stammers.
Th-th-Thump. Th-th-thump.
Along with a sickening twist in my gut.
“Your presence is requested,” a formal voice announces from the doorway. A dark haired man, in Victorian dress, taps his toe against the carpet.
I inhale. Knowing this might very well be our âthe end'. Every heartbeat jags as if a thicket of pain surrounds my heart. Reminding me to cherish each beat, each remaining second.
I shake Morgan. “Wake up. It's time.”
He's instantly upright and awake. His eyes dart all around, and I feel the change in his body where it touches mine â from complete relaxation to taut, ready to strike. “Lead the way, Milady.”
We follow the Victorian man down the meandering staircase. It rumbles in a booming vibrating crack and splits, midair, and we curve away from the entrance to the castle.
The wind's whipping crazy outside, lashing against the turret. I hear the crackle of the fire before we arrive in a massive common room. A raging fireplace with a multicolored chimney rises up the wall. Tapestries of deepest maroon and gold and red adorn every bit of the ceiling.
I stare at a wooden stage, slightly raised off the ground. Three polished, dark-wood chairs, almost like thrones, stand like inanimate sentries. Their presence alone is imposing.” Wait here,” Victorian man says. He reaches up to a cord, dangling from the ceiling. When he pulls it, a bell rings. Two men and one woman enter, gliding to the chairs.