The Wish Collector
Page 42

“It’s just another piece of the puzzle, you know? I feel like . . . I feel like we’re getting close to something.”
He loved the hopeful tone in her voice, the underlying excitement, and he wouldn’t dash that, but even if there were a mystery to solve, how in the world would they confirm any of it?
Too many decades had passed, too much evidence had turned to dust, and too many stories and truths had died along with those who’d carried them.
“Thank you for helping me.”
“I’m happy to.” And he was, despite his lack of belief that any of this would come to anything. But he’d damn near do anything for the girl on the other end of his phone.
“I didn’t tell you about what the priestess I went to said.”
Oh right. The priestess. He’d seen her enter that shop and waited in a doorway until she came out. “What’d she say?”
Clara sighed. “She might have been a bit of a . . . well anyway, she gave me some good general information. You know how the legend says that Angelina is trapped at Windisle because she somehow became tangled in the curse put upon John?”
“Yeah.”
“The priestess, Fabienne, said that it isn’t how it works. Other people cannot become tangled in curses that aren’t put directly on them.”
“Okay . . .”
“So,” Clara said, speaking faster, that energy that made her eyes sparkle, filling her voice, “Fabienne guessed that if Angelina lingers at Windisle, it’s by choice. It’s because of John that she stays.”
“I don’t get it.”
Clara let out a breath. “The legend is wrong. There’s something about it that’s not accurate.”
“What?”
“That’s what we have to figure out. Why would Angelina choose to stay trapped for eternity, waiting endlessly for a man who betrayed her? It has to be important, Jonah. Angelina lived her life in chains—almost literally. She wouldn’t choose to spend her afterlife in such a way if it wasn’t vital to her soul. Is she waiting for some sort of revenge? Or does she continue to love John despite his betrayal? There’s a reason she won’t leave him, Jonah, and we have to figure it out.
“And for that matter, why does John linger at Windisle? Is it because Windisle is the place where the curse was placed upon him?” She paused. “Or,” the word rushed out on an excited breath, “is Windisle somehow involved in breaking it?”
For a moment Jonah had gotten lost in the earnest passion in her voice, and he had to take several seconds to go back over her actual words to respond. “Clara, I don’t know that I believe in ghosts, but unless you can speak to them, I don’t see a way to solve any of this.”
Clara sighed and Jonah regretted his words. He hated to say something to dampen her exuberance, but he also wasn’t going to pretend to believe things that had no basis in real life.
There was not only no point to that, but it was dangerous to him on a personal level. Jonah was not a man who could afford to get lost in fantasy. There was no telling where his mind would go if he gave it free rein to dream. Even if the topic involved those long dead and gone.
“There’s a way,” she murmured. “I realize all the ghost stuff is supposition, but . . . I still think there’s something to be found if we know what we’re looking for.”
The foliage rustled around him and he sat up, a shaft of pearly moonlight highlighting a thorny rosebush empty of all blossoms. Next to it, a walking fern, which was mostly disguised in shadows, shook. Jonah’s skin prickled, as if Angelina herself had heard him speak his doubt and was about to prove how wrong he was.
The fern shook more vigorously and a small bunny jumped suddenly through the leaves, startling him. Jonah rolled his eyes, sinking back into the bench as the rabbit stared at him, wiggling its pink nose.
“Let me know if you find anything else in that file, okay?”
Clara yawned. “I will. I better go. Hey, Jonah?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For being you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
June, 1861
“Angelina, follow me to the parlor please,” Mrs. Chamberlain said, her voice clipped, as she stood at the doorway to the kitchen before turning and immediately walking away.
Angelina wiped her hands slowly on her apron, fear pooling in her belly. She’d done nothing but lie low for the past three months, as John had said. She barely had the strength to do more than that anyway—the heartache of missing him made her feel weak as if an invisible layer of fog constantly surrounded her.
Angelina shot her mother a quick look where she stood slicing an onion at the counter, the knife moving smoothly and steadily in her adept hands. Her mother frowned back, her eyes questioning. Angelina forced a smile to her lips, shrugging nonchalantly as she turned from the kitchen to follow Mrs. Chamberlain.
The windows were open in the parlor, a rare summer breeze causing the gauzy curtains to float into the air, and bringing with it the scent of garden roses. Garden roses.
The memory of the first time she’d laid eyes on John came back to her then, infusing her with strength.
Mrs. Chamberlain stood at the fireplace, her back to Angelina. “Yes, Mrs. Chamberlain?” she asked softly as her gaze landed on Astrid who sat on the other side of the room, her pallor ghostly, her eyes downcast.
“Something nagged at me after that party when you brought Astrid the mask. I couldn’t figure out what it was until a few days ago. And then I did. You were wearing your Sunday best, Angelina.” Mrs. Chamberlain turned toward her slowly, holding a book in her hands. “Why was that when you were only delivering something to Astrid?”
Angelina clasped her hands together, her mind spinning quickly. “I”—she swallowed heavily—“I didn’t want to embarrass you, Mrs. Chamberlain. It was a party.”
Mrs. Chamberlain’s eyebrows rose slowly. “It didn’t make sense,” she said as if Angelina hadn’t spoken at all.
Her hands rose and she waved the book she was holding around, turning her nose up at it as if it emitted a bad odor. “I never understood the need to keep a diary,” she said. “Especially when one has so many dirty secrets.”
Angelina glanced at Astrid as Mrs. Chamberlain turned away again and Astrid’s eyes met hers, the bereft look on her stepsister’s face sinking all of Angelina’s hope, and making her realize that Mrs. Chamberlain hadn’t really needed an answer to her question. She already knew.
“I’m sorry.” The words were whispered and they dropped heavily from her mouth, weighed down by surprise and terrible fear.
Mrs. Chamberlain turned back toward Angelina again. “Dirty, filthy secrets,” she said, her gaze raking down Angelina’s body in disgust.
“Mrs. Chamberlain,” she said, her voice cracking, her mind searching for some way to explain what Astrid had already revealed in her diary. But maybe she hadn’t revealed everything. Maybe there was still a chance. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
Mrs. Chamberlain laughed, a nasty sound full of mocking. “No? Well, let me ask you this. Do you understand what happens to old used-up slaves like your mama when their owners no longer have a need of them and toss them away like the garbage they are? Do you understand what happens to negro whores who seduce white men from wealthy families with their evil voodoo? Is that what you did, Angelina? Put a spell on John Whitfield? Made him falsely believe you were something worth having?”
Horror washed over Angelina, so suddenly and with such strength that she reached for the wall, holding on to it so as not to fall.
“Mama,” Astrid said pleadingly.
“Shut up, you little ingrate! You filthy liar! How dare you speak a word to me?” Mrs. Chamberlain’s face strained with anger as she screeched the words, her skin almost purple with rage.
Astrid sank back in her chair, her face full of misery, her hands grasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles were bright white.
“Now,” Mrs. Chamberlain continued, “here is what is going to happen. When John returns, you will cease your whoring and animal seduction and allow the proper relationship between John and Astrid to develop. Is that clear?”