Chapter 21 - The Wizard’s Rage

“Leave. Take your damned book with you. I have no need of you, Astrid. You’ve come to destroy my family’s peace.”

Table of Contents:
1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - 8 - 9 - 10 - 11 - 12 - 13 - 14 - 15 - 16 - 17 - 18 - 19 - 20

Recap: In the previous chapter, Johann, Marjorie, and Astrid set out to rescue Nina from the mausoleum where their rival had cruelly trapped her.

Will they find her before it’s too late? Can they ever restore peace in their home?

---

Marjorie broke into a run after the Shelleys. She managed, somehow, to ignore the ghostly wailing to her left and right.

She did not need guidance to the Shelleys’ mausoleum, as she was familiar with the graveyard. However, the eerie light emanating from them was a welcome guide, helping her to avoid tripping on headstones.

The mausoleum was soon within sight—she saw its outline in the pale moonlight.

Stopping, she allowed herself a pause in which to catch her breath. Ahead of her, Papa and Astrid hurried to the door first.

Marjorie let them go first. They were already trained in magic; they would know ways to open doors.

She felt her knees threaten to buckle as she stared at the tomb in which her mother had been placed by the Elf, that demon.

A sob escaped her, but she gathered herself; now was not the time for displays of emotion. She would bawl later, alone in her bedroom. Now, she needed to maintain a clear head, because she did not know if her mother was well.

Papa pounded at the mausoleum door, calling his wife’s name. Even in the most optimistic situation, Marjorie doubted any clear sound would make it through the thick stone walls.

“I can go in,” said Mrs. Shelley. “I’ll tell her you’ve come.”

“Please,” said Papa, at the same time that Marjorie choked a weak “Thank you.”

Meanwhile, Astrid knelt before the door to the mausoleum, examining the lock with an expression of calm concentration.

Calm—it was far from anything Marjorie or her father could muster.

“This is a clever lock,” said Astrid. “Obviously, no thief has been able to break it open. Only an Elf’s magic was able to undo it. An Elf’s, and mine as well.”

She placed both hands over the lock and closed her eyes; leaning in, she whispered something, but Marjorie could not make it out from the distance at which she stood.

Marjorie felt it, though—a stirring in the air indicating magic, a charm being coaxed into motion. She pictured the gears in that lock being forced into movement, as if a key had been inserted for the first time since Mrs. Shelley was laid to rest.

She watched anxiously, loathing the helplessness that settled in the pit of her stomach.

Mama is in there, she thought, staring at the mausoleum no creature with a beating heart was meant to enter. She’s there, and not in the home she loves.

Her father continued to pace back and forth across the grass, not seeming to care if he was stepping on a soul’s remains. She could see that he was speaking under his breath, but was unable to discern if he was pronouncing an incantation or simply muttering—words of reassurance? Words of blame? Perhaps it was neither of those things; perhaps he was speaking aloud to his wife, hoping that she might be able to hear him.

Turning, Marjorie was startled to find a group of glowing spectators. Most of the spirits had ceased their wailing; they now watched as a witch cast magic on a mausoleum.

She realized it was the most interesting thing they’d been able to witness since being forced from eternal rest. It might provide relief, a way to focus on something other than their misery.

All the same, she disliked the thought of her mother’s suffering being used as entertainment. They had been dead for so long, they must have forgotten what it was like to suffer from things such as cold and claustrophobia.

A young couple held hands as they witnessed the spectacle; in spite of her displeasure, Marjorie could not help but marvel at the fact that love could survive death. It seemed just as strong in the spirit form as it must have been when they had bodies.

Her father had stopped his rambling. He was now pounding at the mausoleum door; though presumably unlocked, it was rusted enough that it was still caught.

“Nina!” he called, his voice breaking. “I’m here—don’t be afraid—I’m sorry.” He pounded once more at the door, before repeating: “I’m sorry…”

Astrid placed a hand on her brother’s shoulder, and looked as if she wished to speak words of comfort. Those words did not seem to come to her, and she kept silence instead.

“Nina,” Papa called again, slamming his body once more into the door—it shook and groaned, but did not yet open—“Nina, can you hear me? Please, my heart, make a sound!”

“Johann,” said Astrid softly, “she is probably not awake. She’s been here for hours. Mrs. Shelley might succeed in waking her, but I do not think she’ll be fit to stand and walk back.”

He shouted back, distraught, as if for all of the ghosts to hear him: “Then I will carry her!”

Papa rammed himself once more into the mausoleum door—and this time it opened, nearly sending the wizard face-first into that place of death. He showed no signs of fear as he stumbled inside, calling his wife’s name.

Marjorie heard a sound of relief escape from her as she hurried to join him, but Astrid took her arm and shook her head.

“They need time alone,” she said softly, when Marjorie opened her mouth to protest. “I believe they will appreciate privacy.”

Behind them, the spirits were exclaiming, some with delight and others with indignation that a mausoleum had been opened.

“Marjorie,” said Astrid, after a pause. This time, it was her voice that broke. “I’m sorry about this. Your mother didn’t deserve it—none of you did. I hope that, one day, you can find it in your heart to forgive me.”

Marjorie felt a knot form in her throat. She looked up at her aunt, searching the woman’s face in the pale, ghostly light; from what little she could see, the words had been spoken with honesty.

“Perhaps,” Marjorie managed at last, “one day. But…” Her voice became hard, harder than she had ever heard it, and she found that she could not control it. “But not now.”

Astrid looked bewildered by Marjorie’s anger. Her expression changed from one of shock to sorrow, at last settling on dull acceptance.

Marjorie, who found that she retained a softness in her heart for the woman who had purchased a ballgown—Marjorie, who avoided conflict when possible—did feel her resolve waver. She knew that, had they met under different circumstances, she and her aunt would have been friends.

It was not difficult for her heart to harden once more when, after what felt like an eternity, Papa stepped out of the mausoleum. In his arms he carried Mama, a figure so motionless that Marjorie would have feared she’d died, were her arms not wrapped around her husband’s neck as if he were the only good thing in the world.

Leaving Astrid, Marjorie hurried forward, relieved and horrified to see that the Shelleys had told the truth. Her mother had spent a day trapped inside of a dark, cold tomb, with no way of knowing that she would ever be found.

Though Papa made an effort to keep a brave face, Marjorie knew that he felt the pain and the fear just as much as the woman he’d married.

His Nina.

The one he’d promised to carry.

Marjorie also wrapped her arms around her mother, but did not know what to say; she only felt the hot tears slide down her face. Oh, how cold her mama was. How was she tricked into the mausoleum?

She did not wish to know; it was far more likely that the Elf used some form of perverse magic to take hostage his enemy’s wife.

“Let’s go,” Papa managed, and she nodded.

Neither of them looked at Astrid as they walked past her. Remarkably, the spirits in the graveyard watched with solemn expressions.

Marjorie could not help glancing at the ghostly young lovers; the man held his lady in a tight embrace. If spirits had hearts, the lady’s head rested on his chest where she would have heard evidence of life.

That was the tragedy of it: the souls the Elf had wrenched from death were wisps of what were in life. Mr. Shelley bemoaned not being able to do things he enjoyed. He had expressed his hope of being returned to eternal rest.

Marjorie managed to smile at the lovers, and they nodded back solemnly, holding one another while their faces betrayed a sadness no one living could imagine.

---

She could feel welcome warmth as they stepped through the door, into the house. Adam, who had been pacing in circles as he waited, stopped in terror as he saw the state of his mother.

“She’s alive,” Papa choked, “but needs warmth.”

“Her lips are blue,” Adam said, as Papa gingerly laid his wife on the softest, most comfortable couch near the hearth. “Mama? Mama?”

“Unconscious.” Papa pronounced the word like a sob. “Blankets—get the blankets—if we do not warm her body, then there will be danger.”

Marjorie turned to do as she was bid. She was surprised to find Astrid standing alone at the door, her face pale and eyes red as though she had shed tears.

“Let me help,” Astrid choked, though her confidence from earlier had vanished.

Papa’s body rattled—was it a laugh? A sob? He looked at his wife’s pale face, pale as death, then turned to his sister.

Marjorie tensed; it was the first time she had ever seen anything resembling hate in her father’s features.

“Stay here for the night,” the man whispered, “and then leave. Take your damned book with you. I have no need of you, Astrid. You’ve come to destroy my family’s peace.” He stood, and with each word that he said, Astrid seemed to shrink into herself. “I don’t want your help, either, with the Elf. If we must move, then we will, but I will not return to Cinder House.”

He pointed an accusing finger at his half-sister, who at that point had backed up so that she was pressed against the door.

“First I blamed myself for running off, but now I know better. None of this would have happened if you hadn’t come to my town—if you hadn’t turned that Elf into a raccoon, where townsfolk would mistake it for a boy—and my wife, who loves even strangers, insisted that we rescue what she thought to be a child. Sleep, then take your ladies’-maid, and go!”

This last word he shouted, causing Astrid to flinch.

Tears slid once more down her face, distorting her fair features. “Johann,” she managed.

“I said, go!” Papa showed no mercy as he took a step in her direction. “Leave this place! If I find myself burying her body tomorrow—if I am left with nothing but her cold spirit to interact with, another prisoner of this graveyard—” Here he broke off, turning away.

Astrid, who had managed to wipe her tears with the hem of her cloak, turned meekly to Marjorie.

But Marjorie, horrified by the real possibility her father pronounced, found she could not look Astrid in the eye, either. She turned instead and went to the kitchen, ignoring Miss Fealy’s startled gaze as she prepared a cup of tea.

Papa was right.

If he became a widower—if Marjorie and Adam became motherless—all of the blame fell, ultimately, on Astrid.

All because of a damned book.