Vespers Rising

  She was fiddling with a ring. And his memory flashed back to her father and the last conversation he’d had with Olivia. He thought she was a grieving widow then, and not another conniving Cahill.

  Now he knew better.

  “What inscription did you see?” he pressed. Following Madeleine, bribing the servant — all of that had been child’s play. He had no room for his lackey’s stubborn attitude.

  “If I am to reveal the ring,” Hargrove said, swallowing hard, “I must have your word that —”

  Vesper heard a soft zing. Hargrove fell silent, his mouth agape. He clutched the side of his neck and fell to the ground.

  “Do not play with me, man,” Vesper said. But as he knelt over Hargrove, he heard another zing, and another. He flattened himself to the floor and slapped Hargrove in the face, hard.

  That was when he noticed the small dart stuck in the servant’s neck.

  Bandits. Vesper grabbed a firearm, a long arquebus, from under the carriage seat. “Move!” he cried to the driver. “Faster!”

  His coachman whipped the horses. They took off through the woods, the carriage bouncing wildly. Vesper climbed out of the rear and nearly vaulted toward the driver.

  A set of hands grabbed him from behind. Vesper twisted his body around. He dug his elbow into the attacker’s neck and raised his arquebus high.

  With a grunt, he brought the butt down hard. The attacker tried to duck away, but the gun caught his shoulder. Vesper could see him now — slender, dressed in black, including a mask that covered most of the face.

  Lifting his foot, he gave the thief a kick.

  With a cry, the black-garbed figure fell over the side. His gloved fingers gripped the railing, and he struggled to keep his feet off the swift-moving ground.

  Vesper caught his breath. With a smile, he pinched the gloved hand’s pinkie and lifted it off the railing. “This little piggy went to market …”

  He flicked the next finger off, and the attacker sank lower.

  Now the bandit’s feet were scraping across the roots and ruts. He let out an odd, high-pitched scream — almost a woman’s voice.

  The carriage bounced violently again. Vesper flew backward and felt the small of his back hit the joint of the carriage frame. He clenched his teeth with the pain.

  The fun was over.

  He lifted the arquebus and pointed it at the intruder’s head, which was fast sinking over the edge of the carriage. Releasing the shuttlecock, he placed his finger on the trigger.

  A deafening crack split the air. Vesper felt the recoil of the firearm, the smell of gunpowder. But his shot had gone off course. He rose into the air and then smacked back down sharply. The carriage was careening side to side, its wheels tilting inward at the top, wobbling.

  “The axle!” the driver shouted. “She’s splitting, milord!”

  On the edge of the carriage, Vesper caught a glimpse of the intruder’s fingers, struggling to regain a hold. This bandit had dismaying agility and strength.

  Forget him, he can’t hold on forever, Vesper scolded himself. He caught a glimpse of Hargrove. He had to get the ring from that fool and then jump off before the carriage smashed to splinters. He dove into the cabin, reaching into the pockets of the unconscious valet. Where did he hide it?

  There. His money belt. Vesper ripped it open and pulled out the golden prize.

  With a wild, triumphant smile, he sat up and held it high. There was enough light to see a string of tiny symbols.

  Holding tight to the ring, he scrambled toward the front of the carriage. He couldn’t keep his footing. The wheels were slanting, the carriage bottom scraping the ground. In a moment the axle would split in two. The driver’s seat was already empty. So much for loyalty.

  As Vesper prepared to jump, he saw a movement beneath him. He tried to look down, but his feet lifted off the surface. He was flying.

  His vision filled with the trunk of a thick oak tree, racing closer. He drew his arms in for protection. And he screamed.

  The last thing he saw before impact was a great black shadow.

  “Help!” Master Winthrop cried out. It had begun to rain. He felt scared. Why had Father run ahead of him? It was dark and cold.

  There. Just ahead. He could see Father in his cloak, crouching on the ground.

  At that moment he was glad for the rain. Maybe it would disguise his crying. Father never liked it when he cried.

  As he drew closer, he slowed. The carriage — the one that had nearly killed them — was scattered across the forest in pieces. It looked as if Father had taken the whole thing apart himself.

  “Father?” he said.

  Master Winthrop crept closer, his heart beating like a bunny rabbit’s. His father remained silent, his back to Winthrop. In the distance, two men had been tied to an old oak tree. He recognized old Hargrove, and the second man was dressed in a livery suit. There appeared to have been a third captive, but he had managed to escape, the ropes in a heap beside the tree.

  “Are they … alive?” Winthrop said, placing his hand on his father’s shoulder.

  But Luke Cahill’s eyes remained fixed on the ground in front of them. It had been smoothed. Etched deeply into the soil, in precise letters, was a message that made Winthrop’s blood run cold:

  GRACE CAHILL 1942

  by Gordon Korman

  1942. Most of the world was at war. In every corner of the globe, people were fighting and dying for one cause or another.

  And what was Grace Cahill doing at this critical moment in her planet’s history?

  Changing diapers.

  Not diapers — nappies, she corrected herself, deftly fastening a large safety pin at each of the child’s small hips. Here in Europe they used the British term.

  Baby Fiske burped loudly and tried to wiggle out of her grasp. Grace held on with a firm hand. Parts of the lawn at their family’s villa in Monte Carlo were so steeply sloped that a wayward toddler might roll all the way down the bluff and drop into the sparkling waters of the Mediterranean.

  She called him Kamikaze sometimes, after those crazy pilots from the other war — the one in the Pacific. Fiske always seemed to be looking for some great peril to hurl himself into. The little stinker was walking, so it had become nearly impossible to keep him out of trouble. He was a year old now. Grace could scarcely believe it had been that long since …

  She had gotten good at fighting back tears. Her stomach, though, was harder to control. She recognized the feeling from her flying lessons — the sensation of hitting an air pocket and dropping five hundred feet in a matter of seconds. She experienced it on solid ground every time she thought of her mother.

  “You have a healthy baby son,” the doctor had informed James Cahill, “but your wife …” He said more, but their father’s raw, tortured breathing filled in the blanks for Grace and her older sister, Beatrice. Father shed not a single tear over the death of his wife, but he was never the same. His reaction seemed more appropriate to a record-setting marathon run than an expression of grief — hyperventilation and drenching sweats.

  Not that the Cahill daughters had much opportunity to develop an instinct for their father’s emotions. The time he had spent in Monte Carlo since the funeral could be measured in days, possibly hours. James Cahill was so devastated by the loss of his wife that he wouldn’t even look at his newborn son. He had turned to travel, as if trying to outrun his grief. The family had not heard from him in months, save for the occasional postcard from exotic locales — Rio de Janeiro, Baffin Island, Ulaanbaatar.

  Baby Fiske yanked a croquet hoop out of the ground, and Grace barely managed to wrest it from his hands before he could plunge the ends into his eyes. How was it possible to love a child so deeply when he was the author of all the suffering in your life? His birth had cost Grace her mother. And it was costing Grace her father, too. The picture of James Cahill walking out the door was permanently imprinted on her retinas. He’d claimed to be leaving on business “for a few days.” B
ut his vast pile of luggage — enough to require a second taxi to follow him to the airfield — revealed the lie. She could still feel Father’s arms around her as he said goodbye. He’d seemed like a drowning man holding on to a life preserver. Beatrice had noticed the same thing.

  Then he was gone — without so much as a sideways glance at the bassinet that held his infant son.

  Fiske reached for the croquet hoop, howling in frustration as Grace held it just beyond his grasp. She scooped him up in her arms and carried him, kicking and screaming, to the main house. Someday, she told herself, her brother would be a contributing member of society. Just as someday this war would be over, and someday Father would come home. That was what her life had become: too many somedays; not enough nows.

  “How can you take care of that little beast?” came a sharp voice behind her.

  Grace wheeled. She hadn’t seen Beatrice standing by the doorway.

  “Someone has to,” Grace replied. “Giselle won’t. Leave it to Father to abandon us with a useless governess.”

  “How dare you speak that way of Father?” Beatrice snapped. “Did you expect him to go on as if nothing happened? He lost his wife.”

  “And we lost our mother,” Grace put in.

  Beatrice pointed an accusing finger at her brother. “Thanks to him!”

  Grace hugged Fiske, shielding him from the acid in their sister’s words. Could Beatrice blame a baby for what had happened to their mother? Or was it that the older girl was so miserable herself that she had to make everybody else miserable as well? The sisters had never been close. Yet since Edith Cahill’s death, the chasm between them had grown even wider.

  Didn’t Beatrice see that Grace was suffering, too? That Grace would have given anything to reverse the events of the past year — to bring Mother back, to undo the pain that was tearing the family apart and had already driven Father away? The one thing she wouldn’t change was Fiske. How could Beatrice not love this bundle of giggles and mischief? Motherless — and basically fatherless, too. James Cahill hadn’t bothered to name his only son. He had left that to Beatrice. Fiske. It was Beatrice’s secret revenge on her brother, condemning him to a childhood of fistfights and taunting.

  Grace ran her fingers through the little boy’s fine blond hair. This hellion was the only good thing that had happened to them in a long time.

  Fiske repaid the sentiment with a kick to her stomach that sent her reeling. His feet were already pumping like pistons by the time she dropped him. Teetering unsteadily, he ran out the door to his croquet hoop and who knew what other dangers.

  With an apologetic glance at her sister, Grace followed.

  Sleep did not come easily to Grace these days. It had started with the bombing across the border in France. They were safe — Monaco was neutral so far, and even France had quieted under German occupation. But slumber continued to elude her.

  Clad in her nightdress, she gazed out the window at the dark Mediterranean. From the nursery in the next room came the buzz saw of Fiske’s snoring. Another quality Beatrice found so endearing. Enlarged adenoids.

  Grace frowned. There was a second sound — a low rumble — distinct from her brother’s.

  An outboard motor? She remembered the times when pleasure craft dotted the sea, day and night. Now it was too dangerous. France was under German control, and Italy was only ten miles away.

  Yet when she squinted into the gloom she could make out a small boat a few hundred yards offshore, almost directly opposite their villa. A weak flicker was coming from the wheelhouse.

  Are their lights not working? Grace wondered. And now they’re lost in the dark?

  During wartime, wandering off course could be a fatal mistake.

  And then she recognized the pattern of short and long flashes. Her eyes widened. This was not the product of any guttering lamp. It was something she’d learned from her father several summers ago.

  Morse code.

  It took a moment to decipher the opening salvo of dots and dashes.

  JC

  James Cahill! The message was for her father!

  She scrambled for pencil and paper, converting the dots and dashes into language as she expertly transcribed the message. She’d been only seven or eight when he’d taught her, yet she didn’t miss a single letter. Beatrice received high praise and high marks from their private tutor, but Grace was the sister whose quick and nimble mind was capable of occasional brilliance. This wasn’t boasting; it was simply the truth.

  VS KNOW ABOUT BULLS EYE … GO TO WHITE

  HOUSE AM … FIND GSP …

  A pause. Was that all of it?

  The Morse code resumed:

  TORCH IS MORE THAN IT SEEMS …

  She peered out, waiting breathlessly for the rest. More flashes came, and her wrist jumped to action. But no — it was merely the message repeating.

  At last, the motor swelled and the small craft began to move off.

  Come back! she wanted to scream. What does it all mean?

  A final burst of code:

  PROTECT THE RING AT ALL COSTS

  “What ring?” she said aloud. But the boat was gone.

  She had no idea what any of it meant, but one thing was certain: The people on that boat believed they were communicating with James Cahill.

  Grace had not lived to the ripe old age of thirteen without realizing that there was something special about Father’s family. Her parents had told her and Beatrice how Cahills had shaped human history for centuries. Some of the most famous people of all time were cousins — Shakespeare, Mozart, Abraham Lincoln, and even Babe Ruth. Secret words had passed between her parents in whispers — Lucian, Janus, Tomas, Ekatarina, and one that seemed especially mysterious, Madrigal. There was also a number that kept coming up — 39. It had been Father’s football number at Harvard, but Grace suspected it meant much, much more.

  Grace didn’t know the specifics of Cahill business — just that James and Edith Cahill had been up to their necks in it. But now she suspected that when Mother died, James had abandoned his Cahill responsibilities along with his children. The people on that boat were trying to communicate with an agent who had dropped out. Another vital role was going unfulfilled.

  She stared at the cryptic words on the pad. The message made as much sense to her as Fiske’s childish burbling. VS — somebody’s initials? No, then it would be VS KNOWS. This was VS KNOW. So the Vs had to be a group of people. But who?

  BULLS EYE — a direct hit. In a war, that could mean almost anything. GO TO WHITE HOUSE. Surely not the one where the president lived?

  AM — as in morning? Or that could be initials, too. Also GSP. Were these people or things? More confusing still, TORCH and RING — two random items.

  She opened her bedroom door and stepped out into the hall. Beatrice would know what to do. She was two years older, and Beatrice was the one their parents had been grooming for a major role in the Cahill family. Grace had only been included when it turned out that her sister had no stomach for flying lessons.

  Beatrice always had a fuller understanding of the sudden trips their parents used to take on urgent Cahill matters. Maybe she could decipher the strange communication.

  “Bea?” She peeked into her sister’s room. “Are you asleep?”

  “I was,” came the reply. No one expressed annoyance more thoroughly than Beatrice Cahill. And she had plenty of practice at it. Everything annoyed her.

  “I have to show you something.” Grace told her sister of the boat that had come, flashed its message, and disappeared just as abruptly. “Here — I’m turning on the light.”

  Blinking in discomfort, Beatrice sat up in bed and examined the paper Grace proffered. “It’s gibberish.”

  “Gibberish doesn’t come in Morse code,” Grace insisted. “It was meant for Father.”

  “Anybody with a message for Father should know that he hasn’t lived here for more than a year,” Beatrice retorted.

  “Not if it’s a Cahill thing,”
Grace argued. “The family is scattered around the world. Father might have been keeping in touch with them some other way. You understand more about Cahill business than I do.”

  “I understand enough about Cahill business to stay well out of it,” Beatrice said caustically. “There’s nothing about that lot that interests me.”

  “Maybe this is about the war! What if Father and his contacts could help put a stop to it?” Nothing would take precedence over that. Millions had died already, and the conflict only seemed to be spreading.

  “Whatever it is you think you know about Cahills, let me set you straight. Our family has wasted centuries playing foolish games, stabbing each other in the back and reading all sorts of meaning into meaningless things. If one more coded message shows up for Father, I think I’ll scream.”

  Grace stiffened like a pointer. “There were others?”

  Her sister shrugged derisively. “I don’t waste my time trying to decipher every moonbeam.”

  “But, Beatrice,” Grace pleaded, “you’re the one Mother and Father chose to share the secrets of our family with. Don’t you want that?”

  “What I want,” Beatrice said firmly, “is to be a regular, normal person. The Cahill world isn’t normal. I intend to ignore the whole thing. And if you know what’s good for you”— she cast her sister a sharp look — “you’ll follow my example. Now, go to sleep!”

  Grace looked into her sister’s eyes. There was another emotion there, concealed by Beatrice’s perpetually sour face.

  Fear.

  She couldn’t decipher the message any more than Grace could. But one thing Beatrice did understand was that high stakes meant high risks. She wanted no part of the Cahill world because it scared her to death.

  Grace withdrew, more disappointed than angry. As usual, there was no talking to Beatrice, who was an immovable mountain when she made up her mind about something.