The Steward

  “Please don’t worry about the Unseelie, Maggie. There are absolute rules in place to protect your family and your friends. You already know one of the most important,” Sara said.

  “Stay off the island, right? This island,” I said, laughing a little.

  “The Unseelie are not permitted to come to this island during our cycle, and the opposite is true of their cycle. Our cycle begins on the new moon and continues while the moon is waxing—from new moon to full moon the islands are ours. When the moon is waning, from midnight the night of the full moon until midnight of the new moon, they belong to the Unseelie—they have complete jurisdiction.”

  “So this pact works? They don’t come here when it’s not their turn?”

  “To break a cycle would be an act of aggression and the pact would fail,” she said.

  Gavin nodded. “The Steward of the Weald is the only being permitted to come to the island at all times. As long as you accompany them, no harm will fall to your family or friends who come here. That said, it is probably in your best interest to keep everyone off the island unless the need is overwhelming. Likewise, the Unseelie are not permitted inside the cottage or any of the outbuildings near it. They are not permitted inside the garden walls, either.”

  I shuddered with a new thought. “When the Unseelie are here, how many of them will there be?”

  “There might be none, there could be hundreds—the right to use the islands doesn’t mean they have to use them,” Gavin said.

  “So, they are on the Weald, too, except for the places you mentioned,” I asked, looking back at the Eastern shore.

  “Yes, the Weald is mutual ground and all of us share it,” Gavin said.

  “There are rules, of course, stipulating what forms we’re permitted to take in the Weald—nothing too provocative, if you get my meaning. Those forms are strictly reserved for the islands. We also have rules for things like punishing trespassers,” Sara said.

  Punishing trespassers? The words were numbing.

  “Allow Maggie time to consider everything we have told her before we share more,” the beautiful voice rang again. “And I believe it best not to reveal her ability to detect us with any beyond the Council.”

  Of course, that made sense, I thought. The Fae on the promontory, excluding Gavin and Sara, were members of the Council. That also meant that I was correct—the beautiful voice simply had to belong to Ozara. There were so many questions I wanted to ask, but I had learned that voicing them was futile. The Fae were more stubborn than I am. When they said enough, the conversation was over.

  “Thank you, Ozara,” I said.

  “Clever girl, you are most certainly welcome.”

  Gavin and Sara took me by the arms. I felt the sensations of my feet lifting from the ground and air rushing past for a few seconds. There wasn’t much light, but I knew they’d taken me off the promontory and back to the boat. They sat me down just as I tried to feel how they had moved me. I caught a distant numb sensation before it ended, and I tried to memorize it so I could practice later.

  I was aware of other Fae on the ride back to the peninsula and tried not to pay too much attention. Still, I could detect them when we got close enough, so I did my best to act like I didn’t notice. There were Fae in the water that passed the boat, and there were others in the Weald that came close as Gavin and I made our way up the path to the cottage. Most likely, I thought, I’d been surrounded by Fae the entire time I was here, but didn’t know it.

  I nonchalantly looked around and focused on plants and trees, trying to get a glimpse, and I wondered if I’d be able to tell the difference between Seelie and Unseelie. A few of them remained in their natural form and I couldn’t see them, but some transformed into birds and mammals. Inside the garden wall there were more—they had to be Seelie.

  Some of the legends and myths in the books made more sense to me now. If I had developed a sensitivity to Fae on my own, like some people have, and I had not been told the truth, I’d have probably come to the same conclusions as those authors—well, at least some of the same conclusions. Aunt May was right about that as well—knowing the truth about the Fae, I felt sorry for everyone else.

  FOURTEEN

  EXPOSURE

  Carefully studying the kitchen when she walked in, Mom forced me to eat a bowl of stew and lectured me about training and proper nutrition when she realized I’d skipped dinner. Aunt May sat with us. Swimming in the memories of her anniversary, she told us about James—my great uncle. He had purchased the Chris Crafts, she told us, and spent most of his time motoring around on the lake. He read everything he could get his hands on, filling the small library with rare first editions they’d bought all over the world. With each story, she seemed to drift off as though she were reliving them. Occasionally a smile would cross her face, followed by wetness in her eyes.

  It wasn’t until I’d finished eating and mom finally left that Aunt May looked at me over the top of her glasses—her silent way of asking whether I’d passed the trial. When I nodded, she smiled, but seemed troubled.

  “Aunt May, what is it? I thought you’d be happy?” I whispered.

  Leaning forward, she patted my wrist. “Oh I am, Girlie Girl, I am.”

  Her reply didn’t convince me. “You’re worried, too.”

  “I’m gonna go lay down, but wouldn’t mind a bit-a company—if ya got the time.”

  I nodded.

  The scent of lilac filled my nose when I pulled the round-top wood door to her bedroom closed. Two porcelain flower-patterned lamps cast a soft glow on the dark wood ceiling and reflected off the diamond panes of her windows. A gas lamp flickered in the garden. Her breathing, more labored than usual, finally slowed when she settled on the bed. I sat next to her.

  “Aunt May, what is it? I know something’s wrong.”

  She smiled and put her glasses on the dark wood nightstand. “Got a lot on my mind.”

  “I love you and I respect you, but I know when you don’t want to tell me something.”

  “Am I that obvious?” She chuckled softly and rubbed the bridge of her nose.

  “No, I’m just an expert at hiding my emotions. You wear yours like a hat.”

  She snorted a laugh that settled into a crooked smile. “S’pose I do. So yer Air inclined as well?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She exhaled slowly, noisily. “It’s prob’ly nothin’, Maggie girl, but I just feel I should … enlighten ya ‘bout a few things.”

  In a moment, the tick tock of the big wooden clock on her wall fell silent, as did the rest of the sounds of the night—the katydids and crickets stopped chirping, and the birdsongs went quiet. The faint rasp of her breathing was the only sound remaining in the still room.

  “Maggie, there’s somethin’ that all Stewards learn, one way’r another. Bein’ inclined ta more’n one element draws attention, unwanted attention,” she said in a whisper.

  “Why are you whispering? Are you afraid they can hear us? Afraid they’re listening?”

  She opened an old leather bound photo album with black and white pictures mounted in small black paper clasps on dark felt pages—some had come unglued and poked out of the binding. “They can’t hear us right now, but it’s best ta look like we’re just reminiscin’. So focus on the pictures while I tell ya this.”

  She pulled the picture of a beautiful woman with short, curly hair and impeccable lips out of the clasps. Even in black and white, her pale eyes were hauntingly beautiful. “This is yer great, great, great Aunt Lola at about twenty, I guess. ‘Bout the time she had this cottage built. When she took the trials she caused quite a stir—passin’ the first two just like you.”

  “The Unseelie?”

  “Yeah, them, all of ‘em, actually. There’s somethin’ different ‘bout ya, Maggie, somethin’ that has their attention already. Were there many at yer trial?”

  “Yes, a lot.”

  She shook her head and rubbed the bridge of her nose again. “I was afraid
-a that.”

  A chill ran down my spine, though I didn’t know why. Sara and Gavin had passed it off as though I were a bit of an attraction. They didn’t seem to act like it was a problem, or anything out of the ordinary.

  “Lola told me bits and pieces ‘fore she passed away—wanted me ta pass it on.”

  “Pass what on?”

  “The message ta be careful. The Fae lost interest in her when she failed the Fire trial. Nothin’ ever happened ta her, but she did say that the Unseelie were a constant source-a aggravation ‘til then—watchin’, followin’. She always thought they were afraid she’d be inclined ta all four elements. I’m guessin’ ya’ll get extra attention for a while, but I suspect the same’ll happen—that they’ll lose interest in ya eventually…”

  She doesn’t think I’ll pass all four trials—that’s a relief. I don’t want to pass all four either.

  “…but until then, Girlie Girl, don’t be takin’ any unnecessary risks. It ain’t worth it.”

  “I’ll be careful,” I said, putting my head on her shoulder.

  “I need ta ask ya somethin’ else … need ta know for sure…”

  “Sure, anything.”

  She cleared her throat. “Do ya plan ta stay here—become the next Steward?”

  Wow, you’re not pulling any punches are you, Aunt May? I hadn’t told her yet, told her that I’d made that decision on one of the many mornings I’d met Gavin for sunrise training by the lake. Yeah, sunrise—me, the antithesis of a morning person—the poster child for sleeping in—the consummate hater of alarm clocks. But I’d learned sunrises on the Weald were beautiful. I’d grown especially fond of the glow of morning in the split seconds before the sun came over the eastern mountains—the golden halo on the treetops—of how on some mornings the fog on the lake filled the space between the mountains like white cotton candy in a bowl. Eh, who am I kidding. It’s all about Gavin.

  “Yes, Aunt May, I intend to stay.”

  She was quiet for a moment, looking at the picture of Lola in her withered hand. The quiet sob in her throat caught me off guard, as did the clear, perfect tears that ran down her tired face. I gently took her hand as she cried. Until that moment, I hadn’t realized how much my decision meant to her. Swallowing my own sobs, I wiped her face.

  “Ignore me,” she choked, “I’m just-a sentimental ole fool.”

  “No you’re not.”

  She nodded her head, still not looking at me. “It’s true, child, it’s true, but I ain’t ashamed of it. Knowin’ that an O’Shea will live on this land a little bit longer means everything ta me.”

  “And continue working with the Fae?” I added.

  “No, Maggie. I love Sara’n Gavin, I love Sherman n’ Victoria—a lot of ‘em, but I love this land more. I’ve spent my entire life here an’ I can’t imagine another family on this place. Ya see these people?” she asked, pointing to the patinaed pictures, her voice cracking, “They’re all still here—a part-a this place, just like I am. Whether in the plants’n the garden, the buildin’s, or in the breeze that blows through the trees. Each’n everyone’ve ‘em are a part-a this place. A hundred’n eighty-four years of sweatin’, livin’ an’ lovin’—that’s the family legacy. Long as there’s an O’Shea walkin’ the Weald, we’re all still here. My boy, my beautiful boy, yer keepin’ his memory alive by stayin’ here.”

  She pulled a picture out of a drawer in her nightstand. Worn edges and faded, she handed it to me with a shaking hand. Two boys, who looked like older versions of Mitch, stood side-by-side with their arms around each other’s shoulders. Kyle and Dad. My eyes teared up as I listened to her sob and whisper something inaudible to Kyle. Blinking away the tears from her big brown irises circled in red, she finally looked me in the eyes. “Long as yer here, a part-a Kyle is, too. Ya’ve no idea how happy that makes me.”

  I couldn’t say anything, so I hugged her and held her for a while.

  “Maggie, now that I know yer gonna stay, I gotta tell ya somethin’ else.”

  I let go of her, backing away several inches. A goofy smile crossed her face as she wiped her eyes. “I’m havin’ my will changed, and I’m havin’ the O’Shea family trust altered. I’m leavin’ everythin’ ta you, like Lola did for me.”

  “Are you sure that’s what you…”

  She cut me off. “I’m leavin’ it ta ya on the condition that ya’ll do the same when yer my age—leave it ta tha next Steward.”

  In January, I’d regretted making the promise to take the Earth trial, but I had no reservations about making this one. “I promise, Aunt May. I promise.”

  * * *

  After another hour with Aunt May, I let her sleep, and joined Mom and Dad in the living room. We talked about Aunt May and Uncle James, and for the first time ever, Dad talked about living with them after my grandparents died—how they’d been like surrogate parents to him. After battling yawns, they made me say goodnight. Well, I was ready.

  Just as my head hit the pillow, my phone went off. Someone was texting me. I debated getting up—it felt so good to lie here—but I sat up and ran my thumb over the screen. It was Candace, and the only thing she wrote was, “Well?”

  I didn’t have any other unread messages, so I texted her back, “Well what?”

  A few seconds later she sent another message.

  “Hey didn’t U get my texts?”

  “Just the one.”

  I went through my inbox, and found several from her:

  7:15 p.m. I think we need 2 talk—very important

  7:25 p.m. We really need 2 talk about your CT—

  I have new 411

  7:28 p.m. Call me when U get this

  8:01 p.m. Dying here, call me!

  10:01 p.m. Well?

  I called her. “Hey, I see them now, but none of them showed up on my phone as unread—sorry, I wasn’t blowing you off.”

  “Oh, that’s okay, but what’ve you been doing all night?”

  “I was on the lake, boating around a little.”

  “By yourself—in the dark?”

  “Well, no, I was with Gavin and got back right at dark, but I didn’t come upstairs to check my phone until just now. So, what’s up?’

  She paused for a minute and I heard her exhale, “Gavin…”

  “Candace?”

  “Sorry, Mags, got lost for a minute, but seriously, we need to talk about Chalen.”

  Hearing her say his name sent a chill down my spine, and I became acutely aware of Fae just outside my window in the garden. I also realized what she had meant by CT—caretaker.

  “Not on the phone, please!” I said, unable to avoid sounding awkward. It occurred to me that our conversation might not be private—if Devin intercepted television programs, a phone call would be simple.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” I said. It sounded like a lie as it came out of my mouth. “I just want to talk to you in person, that’s all.”

  “Tomorrow after school? I have some stuff to show you,” she said.

  Stop talking, Candace!

  “Sure, let’s do it at your place, okay?” I have to keep her away from the Weald.

  “It’s a date.”

  * * *

  I took my usual place in Candace’s bay window and waited. She took a deep breath and exhaled loudly before handing me a stack of newspaper clippings and what looked like reports of some kind. The first was three years old. The headline read: Local Boy Lost in Tragic Boating Accident. The report said that Jonathon Sanderson, a student at Rogers High School, died when he fell out of his boat and drowned in Beaver Lake. I looked up at her, confused about why she wanted me to read it. With her lower lip clenched between her teeth, she sat beside me.

  “Maggie, he didn’t drown like the article says—he was chewed up by the boat propeller.”

  “That’s awful, but…”

  She shook her head, eyes closed. “His family hired my mom to sue the boat company—her last case. The Sandersons f
igured there had to be some kind of malfunction because of how mangled he was. There were just too many freak coincidences. The coroner said that the boat circled back and hit him fifteen times before it ran aground. Nobody could figure out how he got into the water, though. He went through the windshield as if the boat had hit something, like an underwater tree stump. But the boat didn’t have any damage. The investigators for the insurance company said the boat was in perfect working order and suggested that he was drunk. He wasn’t—the autopsy confirmed it.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  Candace turned red. “My mom still has her old files. I snooped.”

  I should have guessed.

  “Well, that’s really tragic, but what does it have to do with Chalen?”

  “It happened just off of your islands, Maggie—the second island is where they found the boat. There was a piece of his body, a finger, on shore.”

  An icy chill ran through my body. I knew exactly what that meant and I was afraid she did too. Play it off, play it off as nothing.

  “Okay, still, what does it have to do with Chalen?”

  She stared at me for a moment with a dour look and continued, “All of those articles are about accidents on or near your land. My mom has been collecting them for years. I think your caretaker is involved, Maggie. I think Chalen hurt those people and I think he’s been doing it for over a hundred years. And yes, some of those articles go back to the 1880s.”

  She stopped, and looked at me like she knew I was aware of it already. Candace had apparently been thinking about this conversation for a long time, and she caught me off guard. She’s smart, too smart. It scared me for her—she and her mother were much more involved than I’d imagined. I had to find out what she knew, or thought she knew, and do something to keep her from getting hurt.

  “I don’t understand what you’re saying. One hundred years? Chalen couldn’t possibly have hurt all those people. He isn’t that old,” I said, trying to fake it.

  She pursed her lips and gave me the look. “Maggie, I was on the lake last year with Phillip and Ronnie. We were tubing near the Weald when Phillip had a bright idea—he wanted to explore the island where the kid died. I told him not to, but he ignored me. When we got close, your caretaker, Chalen, appeared in the trees and just stared at us. He scared me, and by that, I mean I felt fear. All of us did.”