Extraordinary

  How had this happened? How in the world had this happened? She had loved Mallory so much, so recently. Mallory had loved her. No, no, that wasn’t true. Mallory had only pretended.

  Phoebe left the garage, but couldn’t bear to go back into the house yet. She stood on the stoop and breathed in the crisp Nantucket air and closed her eyes.

  What if she didn’t give Mallory up? They had this week together. What if she told her about Ryland, not in a mean way, but explained everything openly? What if she told Mallory how hurt she’d been by her last week? What if they tried, really tried, to talk things out, to repair their friendship?

  Phoebe nibbled on the inside of her cheek. Could that possibly work? Maybe. Maybe Mallory had even come because she too hoped they could salvage things.

  Suddenly Phoebe felt a strange alertness on her skin. And she thought: Ryland. He’s here.

  Which couldn’t be.

  Still, Phoebe’s throat went dry. She took a step forward, down, so that she was standing on the ground before the two steps of the cottage stoop. With her eyes closed, she felt herself slip helplessly into a weird waking dream state. And in it, she could sense Ryland; it was as if he had just come up behind her, on the step above, and was standing so close that she could feel the heat off his body through his clothes and hers, even though he was not actually touching her.

  This had to be another hallucination. What was wrong with her?

  “Hello.” It was a whisper in her ear.

  It was Ryland’s voice.

  Phoebe couldn’t stop herself from responding, from acting as if this were real. “Hi,” she said, and it came out like a croak.

  And now she actually felt his hands, both hands, solidly on her shoulders, cupping and kneading them deftly, warmly. It felt real. But it couldn’t be. She thought of wrenching herself forward, of whipping around to look, but she didn’t. She wanted this to be real. She kept her eyes closed. Her mouth opened to say something—anything—but what came out was a sigh.

  Unconsciously, she stepped backward and sank against Ryland; felt his body all along her back. It was solid; he was solid. Then he put his arms around her—touched her—held her—yes, oh—like that—

  Then his hands and arms tightened, hurting, and Phoebe heard, like an echo, a sound that had actually happened a full second earlier in the quiet night. It was footsteps just behind her, on the wooden floor inside the cottage.

  Then the small sound of a sharply indrawn breath.

  “That was my sister,” said Ryland’s voice. His arms around her had relaxed. “She just peeked out at you. She’s gone now.”

  “Could she—”

  “See me? Now, how could she? You’re imagining me. Aren’t you, sweet Phoebe-bird? You’re an imaginative girl. You imagine many things.”

  This time it was a soft kiss on the base of her neck that stopped Phoebe from talking.

  “Shh,” said Ryland. “Shh. Forget Mallory. She doesn’t care about you. I do. You know that, don’t you? Good girl. Such a good girl. So sweet. So mine. It will all be so good, Phoebe, so good, as long as you do just exactly what I tell you to do.”

  The words whispered in her ear somehow turned her knees to liquid. And then Byland—his presence—was gone, and Phoebe was left shivering, hardly able to stand up, and filled with an indescribable longing and confusion.

  But...

  What—what—what . . . ?

  It took her quite a few minutes before her legs were steady enough to let her go back into the house.

  chapter 21

  In the living room, Mallory had taken over a big overstuffed chair and sat curled up in it, with a mug of hot chocolate cradled in her hands. Phoebe’s parents were on the sofa together, also with mugs. And Benjamin, who was still glancing at Mallory from time to time like he’d seen an angel, had settled on the rug before the fireplace.

  Benjamin had the poker and was minding the fire. Its logs crackled softly and its light cast a soft glow on the room. Benjamin had already stayed far longer than he normally would have, especially on a night before getting up early to go birding. But as far as Phoebe could tell, he was showing no sign of going home.

  She felt annoyed, but only dimly. She was so confused. Was she going crazy? But if only Ryland would hold her, like he just had, if he would only be with her, she wouldn’t care. Why wasn’t she with him now, the way she had intended to be? Why was she here instead? She couldn’t remember how it had happened. She didn’t belong here; she belonged with him. To him.

  She could feel Mallory’s gaze on her.

  The others had been talking, but they stopped as Phoebe came in. They said something to her, but she wasn’t sure what it was. She put one hand up to her neck and brushed her hair off it, aware only as she did this that she was perspiring as if it were summer. Her forehand was damp too.

  “Are the bikes okay?” Benjamin asked.

  “Oh,” said Phoebe vaguely. “The bikes. Right.”

  “They’re okay? The bikes?” said Benjamin.

  “Yes.” Phoebe’s voice now sounded too loud even in her own ears. And also somehow uncertain.

  “You checked the air level in the tires?”

  “Yes.” She gathered herself together. “The bikes are in good shape. We’re all set to go after the bunting at six a.m.”

  Phoebe felt Mallory’s very steady gaze on her still. In avoiding it, she found herself inadvertently catching her mother’s worried eyes.

  The sweet longing she’d been feeling faded, and the real world came into abrupt focus around her. She stumbled and sat down quickly on the rug near Benjamin.

  There was a little silence. Then Mallory said crisply, “Phoebe, we’ve been talking about fairy tales. I want to tell one.”

  “What? You want to tell us a fairy tale?” This was strange, Phoebe thought.

  “Yes.”

  “It will be fun, Phoebe,” said Drew. “Mallory’s already told us just enough to intrigue us. Do you want me to get you some hot chocolate first?”

  “Oh. No. I don’t want any.”

  Benjamin tossed a big seating pillow at Phoebe; she caught it and used it to lean more comfortably against the wall.

  Maybe this was good news. If Mallory was going to tell a story, nobody would expect Phoebe to do more than sit and listen. Or pretend to listen.

  “Are we ready?” said Mallory.

  “Yes,” said Benjamin. “Go ahead.”

  “Very well,” said Mallory. “Listen.

  “This is a story that takes place nearly two hundred and fifty years ago. It is the story of a man born poor.” Mallory’s voice suddenly had the cadence of a born storyteller, warm, low, inviting, and irresistible.

  “But poverty was not his worst disadvantage. He was also born into a social caste scorned and despised by other people. People from this social caste could have every personal advantage, but none of it would do any good. At best, his people were ignored; at worst, they were persecuted and murdered.

  “The most that this man could hope for was a life in which he would be allowed to scrape a living at one of the few jobs he had access to, and that he would be lucky enough to marry and raise children in peace.”

  “Like the Untouchable caste in India,” said Drew. “Hey, Mallory, does this story take place in India? Or Japan?”

  “Drew.” Catherine blinked owlishly over her half-glasses. “Let Mallory tell it. It doesn’t matter where the story is set. It’s a fairy tale.”

  “Actually, this is a story with a European setting,” Mallory said. “And the setting does matter, because, well, as you’ll see, the story is about European faeries.” She spelled the word. “Phoebe? Are you listening?” she said sharply.

  Phoebe’s mind had been wandering to Ryland—his warm hands on the skin of her throat and shoulders—but Mallory’s tone pulled her back to the room. “Yes.”

  “All right. Back to our hero, the young man of low caste. He was not only intelligent and ambitious, he was extraordinarily
so. And those weren’t the least of his talents. Although he would never have been permitted to join the military, let alone rise to an important rank in it, he had the kind of mind that excelled at tactics, at strategy, and at long-range planning. From when he was a very young child, he was unbeatable, for example, at chess.

  “And of course he knew of his own intelligence. Now, because of his father’s small business as a money lender—”

  “A money lender?” interrupted Catherine.

  “Yes. It was one of the few professions open to members of this caste. The actual handling of money was felt by the upper classes to be dirty, though having wealth was as important as ever to them.”

  A smile curved Catherine’s lips. “Mallory, sweetheart, you interest me strangely.”

  “What am I missing?” said Drew. “Benjamin? Phoebe?”

  “I don’t know,” said Benjamin, and Phoebe shrugged as well.

  “You’ll catch on soon, I think,” said Catherine. “Go ahead, Mallory.”

  Mallory nodded.

  “Because of his father’s money-lending business, which he would one day take over, the young man met many people from outside of his caste. They lived in a large city in the middle of Europe, and the business had many customers. These people were often a little desperate, a little vulnerable, the way that one is when in need of money.

  “But at the same time, though it might seem like a contradiction, the customers tended to be arrogant. Thus they were more revealing of themselves than they might otherwise have been. Our young man observed them, and assessed them—their natures, their capabilities. Especially he observed the people from the nobility and merchant classes. And by the time he was in his twenties, he believed, and in this he was quite correct, that he had never yet met a man who was his superior in mind.

  “And yet he was nonetheless fated his whole life to be condescended to and scorned—and, worse, to live his life afraid of yet another time when his people would be senselessly murdered. His father, whom our hero loved, told him bluntly that this had to be accepted. That comfort could be found in prayer and in belief in God, and also in marriage and children. The father had in fact already picked out for his son a lively, intelligent young girl of their caste. This girl, the father felt, had a firm enough personality to cope with his extraordinary son. She would make him an excellent mate and provide for him children and a peaceful, happy home. Life would be good in many ways, he counseled his son, if he was careful and if God was kind.”

  “These people were religious?” asked Benjamin.

  “Oh, yes. They placed their God at the center of their lives. In any event, our young man saw the wisdom of his father’s advice. He discovered that his father had been right about the joys to be found in a good marriage. In fact, our young man fell in love with his wife, for his father had picked wisely. He was happy.

  “And yet, he still could not help feeling frustrated. Sometimes he would slip away from the city—and this was not easy, for there were travel restrictions upon his caste—and take long walks in a large, ancient forest. He would stride along, scarcely seeing the trees around him, imagining how he might force change upon his world. But not even to his wife did he confess his burning longing. He chafed secretly. And secretly, though he knew it was useless, he planned what he might do, as if it were a game of chess.

  “Then one day his wife came to him, took his hand, and put it on her stomach. ‘This,’ she said, ‘is going to be our first son.’

  “The words our first son reverberated inside the young man’s mind and heart like the echo of an enormous bell. Until this moment, he had not known how the reality of children and family would make him feel, or how his ambition would suddenly find a new focus and direction.

  “And he had two thoughts. The first was this: that he must find a way to make his family invulnerable. Nobody should be able to hurt them, ever. And the second was that, in his sons, he might have allies and partners for his plans. If his sons could only be safely raised to adulthood, they could join him in changing their world, their prospects.

  “Our young man had a vision: that the sons that he and his wife would create together would be extraordinary. Like him.

  “In fact, for his plans to work, he would need his sons to be extraordinary.

  “Then despair filled our young man, because such a thing is up to God. No mere mortal can guarantee the character of children. So, as he clasped his wife in his arms and kissed her, all the young man could think was that he needed to go to the forest as soon as possible and be alone there. There, he would find a way to humble himself and give up the future to God. He would leave his fantasy in the forest, and would return to the city resigned.

  “He knew he must do this, or the reality of his life, and of his family’s life, would be poisoned by hopes that could never be realized.

  “So, that night, as his wife slept, he slipped out from home and city and went to the forest. It was a night in June. It was, in fact, Midsummer Eve. Do you know anything about Midsummer Eve?”

  Phoebe, who had to her own surprise become totally absorbed in Mallory’s story, was startled at the direct question. And Mallory was looking straight at her.

  “Yes,” Phoebe said. “It’s solstice.”

  “Right. But also, on Midsummer Eve, the faeries dance.” Mallory’s gaze paused on Phoebe, then Benjamin, then Drew, and then finally on Catherine.

  “Faeries appear in the human world on Midsummer Eve, in certain sacred places, to perform their rituals. These are sacred rituals that renew the earth and all the nature it supports. On that night, and only on that night, humans may see the faeries in those places.”

  “Oh, don’t tell me,” said Drew. “The ancient forest of our young man—does he have a name?—this forest contained just such a sacred place.”

  Mallory nodded. “Yes, it did. And yes, our hero has a name. His name was Mayer.”

  Catherine laughed.

  “Just a minute,” said Drew. “Middle of Europe, two hundred-plus years ago, money lenders, ghetto. Mayer. And his wife’s name is Gutle, right?”

  “Exactly,” said Catherine. She and Drew smiled at each other.

  “What?” Benjamin said. “Phoebe? What are they getting that I’m not? Do you know?”

  Phoebe didn’t answer, though she could have. Anger had begun to brew in her as she understood what story Mallory was telling. She clenched her fists. But she contained herself because her parents were clearly not angry.

  “You’ll see in time, Benjamin,” said Catherine. “Go on with the story, Mallory.”

  “I will,” said Mallory. “So, soon our hero, Mayer, was walking deep into his forest. He saw little of what was around him, so filled was he with longing for his extraordinary sons, the sons who with his guidance would change everything and make all his dreams come true, and so hard was he struggling to give the vision up and accept instead whatever God brought him.

  “He walked faster and faster. Eventually he ran, crushing tender new plants and shoots underfoot and kicking small stones out of his way and noticing none of it. At last, however, a sharp pain in his side caused him to stop. He leaned against a tree trunk, and slowly he realized that he had come to a part of the forest that was unfamiliar to him.”

  And now Phoebe couldn’t help herself. She snorted. “Oh, please,” she muttered.

  Initially, despite herself, Phoebe had been irresistibly compelled by Mallory’s story and by the way in which she told it. The world had dropped away around her as she listened. But now that she recognized it, she was no longer enchanted. In fact, she was beginning to boil.

  The story was obviously a thinly veiled account of Catherine and Phoebe’s famous ancestor Mayer Rothschild. Mayer had been born in the Jewish ghetto of Frankfurt am Main, Germany, in 1744. He had married Gutle. They had five sons: Amschel, Salomon, Nathan, Calmann, and Jakob. These sons were later represented on the family coat of arms by a clenched fist holding five arrows, because Mayer had eventually
aimed his sons like weapons across Europe. And the word extraordinary did not even begin to describe Mayer, the five sons, and their effect on the world.

  The family money-lending business became an international banking business that served kings and princes. Four of the sons were elevated to the nobility. The family and their business had been marked by wealth and power and privilege ever since. Even Hitler had been unable to hurt the Rothschilds; and their position, power, influence, and wealth had helped ensure the survival of many other Jews in that time of terror.

  But it wasn’t a faerie tale, Phoebe thought furiously. It was history! It was the very real history of a very real Jewish family. Her family.

  And she thought she knew where Mallory was going with this, and if she was right, it was offensive!

  But a glance at her parents’ faces told Phoebe that they were still enchanted. Benjamin too. Everybody but Phoebe couldn’t wait to hear more.

  Mallory had already gone on, ignoring Phoebe. “Mayer was lost, but he would never have said so, or even have thought it. He knew how to orient himself using the sun and moon, so it didn’t matter that he didn’t recognize exactly where he was. I suppose you can guess what happened next?”

  “Mayer saw the faeries?” Benjamin said.

  This time, Phoebe really did roll her eyes, but nobody was looking at her. She looked again at her parents, but they didn’t even notice. They were holding hands and grinning at Mallory.

  “Yes,” said Mallory. “The sacred place, a large and open glade in the heart of the forest, was right before Mayer’s eyes. As he looked at it, holding his side and panting, the moon came out from behind the clouds. It illuminated the glade.

  “And dozens of shadows that a moment before Mayer had assumed to be trees came alive. They gathered silently into a perfect circle around a female who was taller than any of them. She wore a crown of flowers on her long hair, hair composed of dozens of colors that were all to be found in nature and yet would never be found there together. The yellow of a bee’s fur; the russet of a fox’s pelt; the white of a dandelion gone to seed; the shiny black of a songbird’s eye. Her unearthly hair fell in waves that looked alive against her skin; skin that glowed in the moonlight as green as the most tender leaf of early spring.