The Line

SEVEN


“Mercy! Mercy!” an excited squeal came from behind me. I almost jumped out of my skin, but then I turned to see Wren standing in the corner.

“Were you in here the entire time?” I asked.

“Yes,” he responded, looking down. “I just wanted to show you this,” he said as he held up another new toy, this time a blue pickup truck.

“You know you aren’t supposed to come into a room without announcing yourself,” I said, trying my best to sound stern. But how can you get angry with a little boy who has been a little boy forever, even before you were born? A child you once played with yourself? A child who isn’t even really a child? When dealing with Wren it was easy to forget that he wasn’t real, that he had started out as Uncle Oliver’s imaginary friend. But when a young witch with as much power as Oliver has invents a playmate, that playmate can truly take on a life of its own. While Wren looked as real as could be, he was in actuality just a thought-form, a bit of imaginative energy so thoroughly well imagined that it had been able to separate itself from the one who originally envisioned it.

Wren dropped to his knees and began to push the truck up to me, running it over my feet as if they were speed bumps. After a moment, he stopped playing with it and looked up at me. “I don’t like that man,” he said, trying to change the subject just as a real child might.

“I don’t think I like that man much either,” I said. I put my hand on his head, and his warm, glossy curls felt so real to me. After all these years and too many games of ring-around-the-rosy to count, I don’t know why it still surprised me, but it did. Even though he looked just like any other kid you might see riding his tricycle down the street or tagging along with his parents in a store—your average six-year-old—Wren was an uncanny creature, something unnatural to this world. And it didn’t seem right that there weren’t any outward signs of that.

Iris told me that Wren had faded away by the time Oliver hit puberty. The family had thought he was gone for good, but he had evidently been dormant, waiting for the arrival of another child to reawaken him. That child had been Ellen’s son, Paul. By the time Maisie and I were born, Wren had already returned to being an accepted part of the family, never growing or aging past his initial incarnation.

“My truck is better than Peter’s,” Wren said.

“And how do you know that?” I asked, amused.

“I’ve seen his truck. His is old.”

“Yeah, but his is real,” I said, regretting it instantly. He stood and kicked the truck away, causing it to roll into the far corner.

The door opened, and Ellen stuck her head in.

“Ellen!” Wren squeaked and ran toward her, totally deserting the toy truck that had captivated him only seconds before. She came into the room and knelt down next to him, kissing his forehead and pulling him to her.

Ginny had often complained that “it” should be dissolved and laid to rest. The family’s job was to maintain the line, not pluck at it like a guitar string. But after Ellen’s son Paul died, she had latched onto Wren. No one, not even Ginny, had had the heart to rip another child from Ellen’s arms, so in spite of Ginny’s churlishness, a tacit agreement seemed to exist in the family that Wren would be kept “alive.” I suspected it was the combination of booze and this need to hold onto an illusion that was siphoning off Ellen’s power. He had to be getting his juice from somewhere; I doubted that he was pulling much from Maisie, who had no need for him anymore, and I had none to give him.

“I can’t find my ball,” he said, addressing Ellen. His lower lip poked out comically, causing Ellen to laugh and hug him even more tightly. I was concerned about what he was doing to my aunt, and I knew it wasn’t natural for him to be here with us, but I couldn’t help it. My heart went out to him like it would to a real child.

“Don’t worry, baby,” she said. “If we don’t find it, I’ll set Connor on the case with his pendulum.” She looked up at me. “And you, young lady, don’t you worry about Adam. He’s going to realize he is barking up the wrong tree soon enough.”

“He thinks one of us did it for Ginny’s money,” I said.

“Aunt Ginny didn’t have any money of her own. She got her stipend from the trust just like the rest of the family does. Just like you and Maisie will, starting on your next birthday. Nobody’s going to gain financially from poor Ginny’s death. What she had to give wasn’t money. It was knowledge.”

She reached out and took my hand. “He’s wrong, you know, this detective. It wasn’t anyone from the family, close or extended, who hurt Ginny. If a witch with bad intentions had been approaching her, Ginny would’ve sensed the danger from a mile away.” Ellen weighed her words. “Someone born of the power, we have a signature, something like a vibration. When we get near someone like us”—she looked away from me, maybe feeling a bit guilty for excluding me—“that vibration either falls in sync and kind of hums along with ours or is like nails scraping against a chalkboard.” She let go of my hand and turned her attention back to Wren. “Ginny would have sensed it if a rage-filled witch was coming at her.”

“But if she could know when a witch was coming at her, why couldn’t she tell if a normal person was headed her way? Seems to be a hell of a blind spot,” I said and then regretted having used the word “normal” for non-witches.

“I would say ‘regular’ instead of ‘normal,’?” Ellen corrected me, but I could tell she wasn’t really upset. “Whoever hurt Ginny was regular. But they certainly weren’t normal. My feeling is that the person was probably deranged. You know how disturbed people tend to get more excitable during a full moon?”

“Sure, it’s why we have the term lunatic,” I said.

“Precisely. It’s kind of the same when a crazy person, pardon my lack of political correctness, approaches the line. The vibration causes them to become more unhinged than they might typically be. And Ginny was the focal point, the anchor for our portion of the line. So you end up taking crazy and turbocharging it.” She paused. “As far as Ginny not picking up on a threat, I suspect she thought she could control the situation. That she underestimated the strength or craziness of whoever attacked her. All the same, the killer is not one of the family.”

“Yeah, I know, but I don’t think I helped convince Detective Cook of it.”

“Don’t worry. He will chase his tail a bit, but he is keeping an open mind. And by open, I mean open enough for me to poke around in a little.” She placed her hand on Wren’s head.

“What did you see?” I asked.

She began to stroke Wren’s blond curls, the muscles in her forehead relaxing at the contact. She took a lot of comfort from him. “One of the neighbors spotted a young man in Ginny’s yard, the morning she was killed. African American, I gather. I couldn’t pick out the actual description, just Adam’s impression of that description. It looked like no one I knew.”

“My ball,” Wren was growing impatient.

Ellen patted his head and stood. “All right, little man,” she said, taking hold of his hand. “Let’s go find it. Where do you remember playing with it last?”

“Outside,” he replied.

“Then let’s start there,” Ellen said and led Wren from the room.

Seconds later, Teague Ryan, one of the cousins, popped his head into the room. “You done in here?” he commanded more than asked. Teague’s square jaw and high forehead landed him somewhere on the looks spectrum between high school prom king and newscaster. His sense of entitlement positioned him somewhere between a spoiled six-year-old and Louis XIV, the Sun King of France.

“Yeah,” I replied. “All yours.” He stood stock still in the doorway, preventing my exit.

“Excuse me,” I said, but he didn’t budge. I managed to duck around him into the hall, but he reached out and grasped my arm before I could walk away. The pressure of his grip made me wince at first, but I managed to shake myself free.

“You Savannah Taylors think you got this all wrapped up,” he said, his harsh northern accent making the words all the more abrasive. “But I don’t think you should be so sure of the outcome this time.” He circled in front of me, blocking my way again. “You Taylors are weak and spoiled, while others, myself for example, have been working on our discipline, building our strength. I think the line is going to pass your family over this time. The rest of us have been dancing to the Taylors’ tune for generations now, but Ginny was the last one of you to lord it over us. It’s our turn for the power now.”

“As far as I am concerned, y’all are welcome to it,” I said, pushing past him and doing my best to avoid the psychic feelers that I could feel directed at me from every corner of the house. I was an easy target for the cousins to read, and they all knew it. I concentrated on the mantra, “Mind your own damned business!” hoping it would blare out the rest of my thoughts.

I climbed the stairs and headed down the long hall toward the linen closet where I knew Maisie was waiting for me. We had been using the space as our clandestine rendezvous point since we were old enough to walk. The closet had a window and was actually large enough to serve as a small bedroom. It might have housed a servant at some point, back when it was still socially acceptable to have live-ins. Over the years it had become more to us than a place to whisper secrets. It had become a sanctuary, a holy of holies. And now, with the house crawling with the cousins, it was also the only place left to share even a nominally private conversation.

It was silly, I knew, but for tradition’s sake, I softly tapped our secret knock. The door opened silently for me, revealing Maisie, whose face was softly lit by the glow of candles on the cake she was holding.

“Happy birthday to us,” she said, smiling. I stepped into the room, and the door automatically swung closed behind me. Maisie was so powerful that she probably hadn’t even needed to consciously direct it.

“But our birthday isn’t for days yet,” I said.

“Yeah, but if I get selected to replace Ginny, I won’t be able to spend it with you. I’ll be off training under another anchor. And I don’t want to miss celebrating our twenty-first together,” she said. “Now come here and help me blow out these candles. I’ve got a surprise for you.”

I laughed. “I’m already surprised.”

“This,” she said, “is better.”

I walked over to her, feeling the warmth that emanated from the candles.

“On the count of three,” she said and counted, “one, two, three!” We drew in air together and blew on the candles. To my delight, the flames leaped right off the candles and danced into the air instead of flickering out. While most of them maintained their color, one was the bright blue of a gas flame. “These are twenty-one memories for you to relive,” Maisie said. “Well, to be precise, they’re twenty memories and one wish—my wish for the two of us.”

I stood there in silent amazement, watching the flames bob up and down in the air.

“Go ahead!” Maisie encouraged me. “Touch one!” Her eyes shining blue flames of excitement.

I lifted my hand and gingerly poked at the nearest flame. A rush of warmth immediately enveloped me, and suddenly I was in Forsyth Park with Maisie, sharing an ice cream cone. Behind us, a group of boys were playing half rubber, Savannah’s own brand of stickball. I knew instantly where—and when—we were. It was the Fourth of July, and Maisie and I were ten. Uncle Oliver was visiting, and that morning he had given us new bicycles, which we had taken to the park. I knew exactly what would happen next; we were about to meet Peter for the first time. He was one of the boys playing half rubber, and against the other boys’ wishes, he would invite us to join in. We would, and we’d kick ass.

It had been the most perfect Fourth of July of my life, and I got to experience it all over again. After we won the game, the vision faded, and I was once again standing across from an adult Maisie in our little room. I felt tears form in my eyes. “That was incredible,” I said. “How did you do it?”

“Just a little trick Ginny taught me,” she responded. “Somehow it seemed appropriate to include a bit of her in your gift as well,” Maisie said and smiled, though her eyes betrayed the loss she felt. The cake in her hands disappeared and was replaced by an old Ball jar. She ran her finger around its lip, and the remaining flames started to descend and fill the jar. All except the odd blue one. “You’ve got nineteen more to enjoy whenever you like. But I’d like it if you looked at my wish now.” She tightened the lid on the jar and handed it to me. I gazed for a moment at the flames, which were bouncing around like so many trapped lightning bugs. I wasn’t going to waste them; I would parcel them out and save them for the days when I really needed a happy memory. Still feeling giddy with wonder, I set the jar down on an old table that had been relegated to the closet.

I looked up and reached out for the hovering blue flame, this time feeling an intense spark, like a jolt of static electricity. Once again we were in Forsyth, and once again it was summer. But Maisie looked like she was in her late twenties or early thirties. Children were playing nearby—two perfect little blondes and a couple of rough and tumble redheads. My heart swelled at the site of the redheaded little ones. They looked so much like me, but each of them had mismatched eyes—one blue, one green. Maisie poured me a glass of cold wine, and I turned when I heard a voice. Jackson and Peter were standing by a smoking grill, beers sweating in their hands. Settling herself down next to me on the ground, Maisie called out something to our children and then kissed my cheek.

When the vision faded, Maisie was standing across the room from me, and the smile had left her lovely face. “It’s very difficult for me,” she said, “not to read your thoughts. We are so connected. I try to stay out of your head, but when you have an intense feeling, it just comes to me. I can’t help it.”

I stared at her like a deer caught in headlights.

“I know how you feel about Jackson…”

“I am so sorry,” I interrupted her.

The smile returned to her lips, and she rushed forward and hugged me. “I know you are. Truly, I know you are. And I want you to know that I understand. Believe me, if anyone understands why you love Jackson, it’s me.” She released me from her embrace, but kept my forearms in her hands. “I know if you could change the way you feel, you would,” she said. Then she asked me, “Is that why you went to Jilo?”

There was no use denying it, my thoughts evidently belonged to her almost as much as they did to me. “Yes,” I said. “I wanted a spell that would make me feel for Peter…”

“The way you feel for Jackson,” Maisie finished for me. “Did she work it?”

“I changed my mind. I told her not to,” I said. “But she told me she was going to do it anyway.”

“That is not good,” Maisie responded. “Love spells almost always backfire. The feelings they create aren’t real, they’re counterfeit, and they can easily warp into passions that have nothing to do with real love. I’d never attempt something so foolish. Have you noticed any changes in the way you feel about Peter?”

“No,” I responded, but then the thought I’d been suppressing since the moment I found Ginny’s corpse mushroomed up before me. “She said the spell would take blood. Lots of it.” My body began to tremble.

“Don’t even go there,” Maisie said. “The old bat was just pulling your leg. You don’t use blood to work a love spell. Even if Jilo was involved with Ginny’s murder, it had nothing to do with you or this spell. You hear me?” I nodded, feeling an enormous weight lift off my chest.

“I suspect that Jilo was totally bluffing about working the spell, but if you do notice anything out of the ordinary, you come to me.” She paused for a second before continuing. “The sad thing is that if you ever do open your fool eyes, part of you will always wonder if your change of heart had something to do with Jilo. But let’s not think too far ahead. For now, you stay clear of Jilo. She is dangerous. Don’t ever go to her again. For anything.” She released me and paced the room. After an eternity she finally stopped, and turned to look at me. “I’ve always envied you, you know?”

“You envied me?” The thought was too preposterous. I had spent my entire life in her shadow—less pretty, powerless, and probably less intelligent too.

“Yes. I’ve envied your freedom. While you were out wandering around Savannah and making friends, Ginny kept me close,” she said. “She always thought I’d take over from her one day, and she spent my whole life training me for it. I was always okay with that, but I did think it would come much later in life, after I’d done a little living. I’d even hoped the two of us could travel the world together once we gained access to our share in the family trust.”

“We still can,” I said.

“Not if I become the anchor. Anchors hold the line in place, and I’ll need to spend the rest of my life within a stone’s throw of this city. But I am okay with that, since I will have Jackson here with me.” She began to pace again. “It’s only that your life has so many possibilities for happiness. For me there is only Jackson.” She stopped and turned to look at me again. “I can’t tell you whether Peter is the right man for you. All I know is that he adores you; he always has. But I can tell you that Jackson loves me. He does.”

“I know he does,” I assured her, but she ignored me.

“I sense, though, that it’s in your power to confuse him about that. He’s as drawn to you as you are to him.”

“How could he ever want me when he has you?” I asked sincerely.

Maisie was momentarily at a loss for words. Finally she shook her head and rolled her eyes. “Mercy, your perception of yourself is way off. If you saw yourself the way Peter sees you, the way Jackson sees you, you wouldn’t be asking that question. But please, don’t make me stroke your ego at the same time I am begging you to leave Jackson to me.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, feeling both selfish and narcissistic. This time I approached her and put my arms around her.

She let me draw her close for a few moments, but then gently pushed me away. “We understand each other, then?”

“Yes, we do,” I responded. “And please promise me that you know that I love you more than any other person on earth, and that I would never knowingly do anything to hurt you.”

She smiled and shook her head. “I’ve got one more surprise, and I hope you’ll be happy for me. It’s been killing me not to say anything to you.” Beaming, she pulled a chain out of her shirt collar and revealed a solitaire engagement ring. “Jackson and I are getting married! We’ve been waiting for the right time to start telling everyone, and I wanted to start by telling you. We were going to make an announcement the next time the family got together, but considering the circumstances of the current reunion…” her voice trailed off. I felt my attention, my entire being contract as I stared into the ring’s gleaming stone. “Well, say something, Mercy! Are you happy for me?” Maisie’s voice took on a keening quality. She stood there frozen, waiting for me to respond.

I shook myself back into my body. “Of course! Of course, I am happy for you!” I pulled her back into my arms. And by God, I was happy for her. I had to be. I simply had to be.

There was a loud rap on the door. I turned and opened it to find Connor standing on the opposite side, pendulum in hand. “Found you,” he said, looking past me at Maisie. “Your aunts and I need to talk to you about the lot drawing.”

“We’ll need Mercy too,” Maisie said. “She’s going to be part of the draw.” I noticed she had surreptitiously tucked the engagement ring back inside her shirt.

“All Mercy needs to know,” Connor said, speaking as if I weren’t even there, “is that she’ll stick her hand into a bag and pull out a white chip of wood. You, on the other hand, stand a very good chance of being selected as Ginny’s replacement. And that would mean a lot of changes in your life.” Connor eyed her. “A lot of changes.”

A shadow crossed Maisie’s face. “Even if I am selected, I won’t make the choices that Ginny did. I’m going to have a life of my own.”

“Well, my girl, let’s see how things shake out before you get your dander all up. And don’t go judging Ginny too fast. You might find yourself wearing her shoes and then you can start making speeches about how you aren’t going to be like her. Come on, now. Your aunts are waiting for us.”

Maisie gave me one last smile. “Happy birthday, sis,” she said and headed from the room.

“I love you,” I called after her. Connor gave me a cool, dismissive look—his nickname for me flitted through my head, “The Disappointment”—then padded out of the room after Maisie. I returned my attention to the jar of memories Maisie had given me. It was cool to the touch, but bright as a nightlight. I took it to my room for safekeeping and hid it inside a box of toys and things from my childhood that I was saving for the day I would have my own children, perhaps the very same redheaded ruffians Maisie had envisioned for me.