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tense against the thick wool of her jacket. Such pain, Rebecca felt and saw, shocked by its magnitude. Such pain, all to love a man who was saving himself for some future stranger, when she was yet so close and could grasp those black robes and pull him near . . . Even looking back, knowing all she knew, she could not think herself wrong for urging caution in the matter of Prophecy, or for loving him. She had never been able to help it. But then, as now, such love was futile. Empty. Hopeless.
A sound came from the windowsill. Frederic, her raven, a single blue breast feather indicating his service to The Guard, had alighted upon the ledge outside. He rapped again upon the casement.
“He’ll never love me,” her younger self said. “I do not want this fate. I do not want to patrol the dead if I
feel
dead, and this shall surely kill my heart. I don’t want this destiny, for I am ill suited to it.” Her face held no expression, though Rebecca recalled all too well how her body had shuddered against her corset bones, how her heart lurched in agony. She’d never been fond of emotions, and they’d certainly never been more useless or cruel.
Her young self rose, went to the window and dragged a finger across the glass, absently mollifying the bird. Then she walked out of the office, her elder self and Constance in silent pursuit.
The younger Rebecca descended and burst from the school into the cool London night. A host of spirits followed, curious,worried by her air of misery, and they turned to one another in consultation. Frederic was immediately upon her, squawking and swooping to get her attention, but she paid him no heed. The bird went so far as to pull on a lock of her hair, but this only caused her to whirl, batting at him and hissing in the language of The Guard, “Leave me be!” The bird offered one more gruff call before flying off.
Frederic, her stalwart companion. One couldn’t know how such a creature might be missed until he was gone. Rebecca suffered a pang watching the raven fly off. She wished to run forward and chide her younger self: how foolish it was to go out into the night unaccompanied, how it was begging for trouble. She remembered how this had crossed her mind, and how she hadn’t cared. In that moment she’d cared for nothing but finding a drastic solution to the unnecessary complication that was her heart.
Out into the dark London night she glided, in and out of the pooled light of gas lamps as if she were already a wraith, past clattering carriages, avoiding puddles of filth and ignoring the occasional inappropriate comment hurled from the safety of shadows, likely by gentlemen with wives awaiting them at home. Rebecca remembered how sickened she’d been by humanity as a whole, how she’d wondered why they even deserved any protection.
“To hell with them,” she heard her younger self hiss. “To hell with all of it. There is nothing here worth saving, not even myself.”
The hazy night held the buildings in a wet fog that rose from the riverbank, and young Rebecca moved through it to the crest of Westminster Bridge. She stared down at the deep black Thames, at the cargo ships and ferries so far below and at countless manner of traffic, all ringing bells and making noise. She stepped onto the ledge, grasping the parapet besideher. She pulled up her skirts as if preparing to climb, intending to pitch herself into the air, to hurl herself to freedom, to end it all.
Constance touched Rebecca’s sleeve. “You may think, Headmistress, that this is just a recollection, and will unfold just as you remember. But the Liminal is far greater than mere memory. It can change. So I beg you, beware your heart, right at this moment, lest it alter the outcome before you.”
Rebecca turned back to watch herself, her heart pounding in fear, terrified to speak lest the wrong words send her tumbling . . .
Her younger self trailed death in her wake, literally. The spirits that had followed her
A sound came from the windowsill. Frederic, her raven, a single blue breast feather indicating his service to The Guard, had alighted upon the ledge outside. He rapped again upon the casement.
“He’ll never love me,” her younger self said. “I do not want this fate. I do not want to patrol the dead if I
feel
dead, and this shall surely kill my heart. I don’t want this destiny, for I am ill suited to it.” Her face held no expression, though Rebecca recalled all too well how her body had shuddered against her corset bones, how her heart lurched in agony. She’d never been fond of emotions, and they’d certainly never been more useless or cruel.
Her young self rose, went to the window and dragged a finger across the glass, absently mollifying the bird. Then she walked out of the office, her elder self and Constance in silent pursuit.
The younger Rebecca descended and burst from the school into the cool London night. A host of spirits followed, curious,worried by her air of misery, and they turned to one another in consultation. Frederic was immediately upon her, squawking and swooping to get her attention, but she paid him no heed. The bird went so far as to pull on a lock of her hair, but this only caused her to whirl, batting at him and hissing in the language of The Guard, “Leave me be!” The bird offered one more gruff call before flying off.
Frederic, her stalwart companion. One couldn’t know how such a creature might be missed until he was gone. Rebecca suffered a pang watching the raven fly off. She wished to run forward and chide her younger self: how foolish it was to go out into the night unaccompanied, how it was begging for trouble. She remembered how this had crossed her mind, and how she hadn’t cared. In that moment she’d cared for nothing but finding a drastic solution to the unnecessary complication that was her heart.
Out into the dark London night she glided, in and out of the pooled light of gas lamps as if she were already a wraith, past clattering carriages, avoiding puddles of filth and ignoring the occasional inappropriate comment hurled from the safety of shadows, likely by gentlemen with wives awaiting them at home. Rebecca remembered how sickened she’d been by humanity as a whole, how she’d wondered why they even deserved any protection.
“To hell with them,” she heard her younger self hiss. “To hell with all of it. There is nothing here worth saving, not even myself.”
The hazy night held the buildings in a wet fog that rose from the riverbank, and young Rebecca moved through it to the crest of Westminster Bridge. She stared down at the deep black Thames, at the cargo ships and ferries so far below and at countless manner of traffic, all ringing bells and making noise. She stepped onto the ledge, grasping the parapet besideher. She pulled up her skirts as if preparing to climb, intending to pitch herself into the air, to hurl herself to freedom, to end it all.
Constance touched Rebecca’s sleeve. “You may think, Headmistress, that this is just a recollection, and will unfold just as you remember. But the Liminal is far greater than mere memory. It can change. So I beg you, beware your heart, right at this moment, lest it alter the outcome before you.”
Rebecca turned back to watch herself, her heart pounding in fear, terrified to speak lest the wrong words send her tumbling . . .
Her younger self trailed death in her wake, literally. The spirits that had followed her
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