Prophecy of the Sisters Read Free Page B

I might faint. The tips of my fingers become numb, a prickly tingling beginning at my feet and radiating upward
     until I fear that my legs will give out altogether.
    And then the whispering begins. It is the same whispering I heard last night before coming to the Dark Room. But this time
     it is threatening, as if warning me off, telling me to go back. A cold sweat breaks out on my brow, and I begin to tremble.
     No, not tremble.
Shake.
I shake so violently my teeth clatter together before I sink to the floor in front of the rug. A small voice of self-preservation
     shouts at me to leave, to forget the Dark Room altogether.
    But I
must
see for myself. I must.
    My hand weaves and shakes in front of my eyes, reaching for the edge of the rug. The whispering grows louder and louder until
     the great buzz of many voices becomes a shout within my head. I will myself not to stop, grasping the corner of the rug with
     fingers that can hardly close around the fine weave of the carpet.
    I pull it back, and the whispering stops.
    The circle is there, just as it was last night. And although the whispers are silent, my body’s reaction to the circle only
     becomes more violent. I think I may be sick. Without the cover of darkness, I see that the gouges are fresh where the wood
     has been dug away to form the circle. This is no remnant from my mother’s time in the Dark Room but an addition much more
     recent.
    I pull the rug back over the carving, rising on wobbling legs. I will not let it drive me from the room. My mother’s room.
     I force myself to the wardrobe as I had planned, though I must step around the rug, for my feet cannot,
will not,
allow me too close.
    Flinging open the wardrobe doors, I perform a quick search, knowing it is not as thorough as it could be and knowing just
     as well that I no longer care. That I really must leave the room.
    In any case, there is nothing of note in the wardrobe. Some old gowns, a cape, four corsets. Whatever drew Father to this
     room is as inexplicable as the reason for Alice’s presence here last night and the thing that draws me to it now.
    I step around the rug, making my way to the door as swiftly as possible without actually running. The more distance I put
     between myself and the rug, between myself and the circle, the better I feel, though still not well.
    I close the door behind me more loudly than I should, leaning against the wall and forcing down the bile that has risen in
     my throat. I don’t know how long I stand there, catching my breath, forcing my physical symptoms into submission, but all
     the while my mind is full of fierce and frightful things.

3
    The day is like a diamond, all beautiful warmth on the outside but without any heat to accompany it. Henry is sitting in his
     chair by the river with Edmund. It is one of Henry’s favorite places, and though I was young, I remember well the construction
     of the smooth stone pathway that winds almost to the water’s edge. Father had it built when Henry was but a babe who loved
     the sound of stones thrown into the water. Edmund and Henry can often be found near the terrace on the banks of the rushing
     water, skipping stones and placing the small secretive wagers that are forbidden but overlooked by Aunt Virginia.
    I circle the house and am relieved when Alice comes into view on the patio outside the sunroom. Next to the wide open spaces
     surrounding the house on every side, the glass-enclosed conservatory is her favorite, but it is closed off from November to
     March due to the cold. During those months, she can often be found on the patio, wrapped in a blanket and sitting on one of
     the outdoor chairs even on days that I find uncomfortably cold.
    Her legs are stretched out in front of her, the stockings at her ankles showing enough to be considered inappropriate anywhere
     but within the confines of Birchwood Manor. Her face, soft and round again in contrast to the harsh angles of night, is tipped
     to the sun, her