Feather: Book One

  I sighed, the notion of death rising inside my soul, preparing it for the end, “This is how it all happened last time isn’t it?” My voice was cracking.

  He squeezed my hand hard, his eyes meeting mine and blazing a deep sapphire blue that glowed brighter than they ever had. I knew there were likely two reasons he was refusing to let go of me, one was in hopes of making me remember my past, and the other was so that he could gain strength, as though planning for a coming battle.

  My hair had also taken on a new sheen. His constant grasp was mystifying and it had begun to change me back into my former angelic self. In his attempts, I was also ceasing to age, my skin becoming a radiant pale pearl and my eyes beginning to reflect the light like a creature of the night.

  He touched my face, brushing his warm fingers across my chin. “Yes, this is how it happened last time,” he exhaled, “But he was more powerful and more dangerous then.”

  I nodded, “But now he’s hungrier, and you can’t underestimate that.”

  A sudden frustration flooded his face and I could tell that these were all grim facts he already knew were true, but also infuriating. Since the morning the spies came, Edgar had seemed drawn and distracted. His mind was now crowded with thought and his blue eyes were storming almost non-stop. His cold demeanor frightened me, making me wary of the world around us as though it was all out to get me. Despite his motives, the constant touch was nice and I felt complete for long periods of time. I was afraid to tell him that it wasn’t helping, at least not like he wanted. There were no new memories coming back to me, still just the few faces flashing across my mind.

  I sighed as I dropped his hand. He gave me a look of surprise and I just shrugged, “Sorry Edgar, I just need a break for a second. It’s all very hard to handle, I’m sure it is for you too.”

  His face was gloomy. “Yeah,” he tilted his head down, leaning against the copper counter in the kitchen, “I’m exhausted.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I reassured him, “I’ll keep working on it. I just need some space.” My eyes were locked on his, begging for him to understand.

  My familiar gloominess slowly seeped over me and the house seemed to grow even colder. I walked away from him down the hall. I missed Scott. There was something about the simplicity of his life, even Sarah’s. I missed their childish smiles and playful cheery lives, so naïve. I envied the fact that all they had to fear was life, sweet and short.

  Though I had been prepared to dig deep and find my life, I had at least figured it would be somewhat traditional, a mother, a father, maybe even some brothers and sisters. I was hoping that in finding that, I would also find what my soul had been missing. I never expected I was actually missing my soul, and my other half. It pained me to think I’d never have a mother, never have siblings, and also friends. Scott and Sarah would eventually age, and in time, die. I would be forced to leave their companionship behind out of fear they would discover my true self.

  When I thought about Edgar’s life, I knew that he was frustrated also. All the friends he had ever made, Mr. Benz, Edgar Allan, and numerous others were all lost in history now, never to return to their former selves. There had surely been a time in Edgar’s life where he thought this would be easier. There was probably a day, after my death, that had felt like he could heal and move on like humans often could.

  I saw how inwardly upset he was when he found I remembered nothing about my former life. His eyes fade when he thinks of it, and to him, it’s probably like holding onto a dying flame. I used to be something amazing, but now I just pale in comparison. He hides it though, out of his love for me, and when you share a soul that’s certainly something you can feel, each others deepest pains.

  I can see how I’ve improved him though, and I can see my purpose in his life. His energy was so low before I came, but even since I’ve been here, I’ve noticed a change in him, and a strength returning. At night, he still lays away from me, safely distanced in his undying fear of killing me by taking his anger too far. I often stay awake for hours, just listening to him as he murmurs in his sleep. Sometimes he says my name, other times he speaks in Italian or French and I can’t understand.

  It’s strange to imagine that all of the anger in our soul resides in him. I often wonder what he acts like when he’s not around me, and I wonder if he’s any different. It is clear that of the coupling, I was the most important, but alone I would be weak and vulnerable, unable to accept dangers in a way that could be fought. In this I felt scared.

  I traced my hands against the velvet stamped wallpaper in the hall as I walked its length. I stopped at the library where I rested my hand on the doorframe, digging my nails into the wood with boredom. The lofted room was intimidating and filled with shelf upon shelf of books that spiraled up to the second level and the vaulted gold leaf ceiling. One wall gave way to large arched windows that reached two stories, pouring an ominous light onto the already faded books. Straight ahead, there was a ladder that took you to the separate upper level, and my treacherous heart was now desperate to climb it.

  I shuffled in and put my cold pale hands on the mahogany wood of the treads. Hoisting myself up, I placed my feet on each ancient rung, careful not to get Edgar’s attention from the other room. The previous time I had tried to climb up here, he had warned me that the ladder was old and somewhat unstable, and he ultimately forbade me from climbing it. I remember thinking that maybe under his weight it was, but I was so light, I knew it was fine. Rung by rung, I silently ascended into the overhead space, my rebellion pulsing hot blood through my veins.

  Once on the second level, I placed my hands on the iron railing and looked down on the warn leather couch and Thomas Edison lamp Edgar had received in 1879. It was the only light bulb in the entire house and with just cause. Edgar had explained his reasons for resulting to candle light beyond its simple beauty. He had argued that if all light bulbs were made like the original, then he would use them, because like Edison and Humphrey Davy, theirs would never burn out.

  The second level platform was narrow and angled at a ninety degree angle from where I stood toward the right around the square room. I touched my fingers to the dusty volumes on my left, there were old dictionaries and encyclopedias, surely all much too outdated with today’s technology. I tentatively tiptoed as I rounded the corner and I noticed something I’d never seen before, perhaps because of its obscure angle to the room below.

  There was a small archway tucked back in the corner, about the size of a regular doorway but with no door. I balanced myself against the wall, peering around the corner with a rueful eye. I twisted my head where I looked to the ground floor, making sure no one was there. I blinked as I turned back and walked toward the archway without hesitation. The residual reflection of my eyes was able to adjust to the darkness as I took in its depths. My breathing was shallow as I slid into the small nook unnoticed and the sound of my breath quietly echoed off the cold stucco walls.

  As my feet crossed the threshold, candlelight fell upon the space, shining on a chair that was pushed into the back corner and reflecting off a large gold frame on the wall. The room was no bigger than a pantry and I found myself mildly disappointed, a part of me had been hoping to find more than just a small sitting room. I threw myself down into the leather armchair and closed my eyes in defeat as dust flew up around me.

  Despite the disappointing discovery, I felt I’d found a place to hide, a place Edgar wouldn’t think to look. There was one lit candle and it flickered against the walls, making me feel like I was in a cave. I slouched down and put my hands across my chest as I looked at the very large painting that stretched from knee to ceiling, clearly not designed to fit the space. The subtle layers of paint beneath the thick dust tickled at my memories, catching my attention as I stood, brushing some cobwebs from the surface as I recognized the signature, Vermeer 1667. As I slowly uncovered the layers of age, the scene began to fall together like a puzzle. The overall theme was of everyday life, a group of people gathere
d in a sitting room for a party.

  I brushed more of the deep dust away and looked closely at each face. My eyes scanned with delight until I was shocked to recognize the familiar features of Edgar, staring out from the scene with blank eyes of boredom. His jaw was poignantly clenched and his hair was tousled. I noticed that his eyes were a deep blue, like they were now, like the deepest ocean. I tried to smile slightly but found my efforts muddled by my cold dark soul.

  I followed his arm with my hand where I saw it was placed on the shoulder of a beautiful blonde in a familiar sapphire blue gown. My eloquent and balanced features gazed out at me with a knowing stare as though telling my current self a secret that only I would understand. My skin was young and smooth, just as it was now, and my eyes were a light and striking crystal blue as they beamed from the canvas with life and happiness. My lips were rosy red, glimmering in the filtering light from Vermeer’s attic window. The artist’s ability to create the opulence of fabric and the life of skin was breathtaking against the expensive choice of colors that were richly rewarding.

  My focus fell to the other attendants of the party, each face flashing through my murky memory, each someone that I had been trying to recognize for weeks. I squinted as I brushed at the canvas with a brisker hand, now intrigued. The pearly skin and finery of each couple was eerily familiar and I deduced that they had also been like us, eternally locked in longing and alive for what they’d hope would be eternity.

  All the men were dressed in black, their coats and vests dark as night with matching black silk ties. Their white shirts were the only difference, but the monochromatic ensemble accentuated the pearly reflection of their eyes, allowing the colors to show with greater brilliance.

  One couple was adorned in velvety green, the gentleman’s eyes glowing like a forest of evergreens, deep emerald and heavily faceted. The lady’s hair was a deep radiant burgundy, the color complimenting the luminous greens of her dress and eyes, making her pale skin and blushing cheeks blaze like the sun. She had a small black cat perched on her lap and her delicate hand was placed on its head as its eyes also seared a shocking green.

  Another lady wore a brilliant bronze, and as such, her partner’s eyes flashed like gold coins. Her hair cascaded in curling gold strands down her back and her cheeks also appeared to be lightly flushed. They both stood, the gentleman shadowing her to her left with two large English greyhounds at their sides, the dogs hair wiry and rough.

  The last couple leaned casually against the wall, the lady draped against the lapel of her partner’s coat and her hand resting on his chest where I noticed her fingers were crowded with diamonds. There were strands of pearls dangling from her neck and she was the only one smiling other than me, the only other attendant enjoying the afternoon.

  Her white gown was radiant, gleaming like a perfect silver pearl in the sunlight and her hair was a billowy platinum blonde, as though she were my perfect twin. My attention flashed to her partner’s face, deeply hallowed and disturbed and his jaw clenched as his silvery white eyes stood out like diamonds against his pitch-black hair. There was a white owl perched on the lady’s shoulder, much like the owl Edgar had in his office, and for a moment, I wondered if that was exactly what it was.

  In sudden revelation, my jaw fell open as I remembered the face of the man with the silvery stare. As I squinted into his eyes, however, the face in the painting was much more youthful and alive but the blistering eyes were unchanged, and just as lethal.

  “Matthew,” I whispered, my heart beginning to pound in my chest. I struggled to make sense of it all. According to this painting, he had been an acquaintance, our friend. My eyes darted again to his beautiful partner, angelic in her love toward him. I felt sorrow tug at my heart as my mind willed me to remember her. A warm sensation bristled against my bones and in that subtle response, I knew I had adored her like a sister.

  I felt my heart shatter into a million shards of sharp glass as I fell back into the chair. Putting my head in my hands, I tried to calm my breathing, tried to forget the horrible fact I had just realized. In a flood of anxiety, I dashed from the tiny room as the candle flickered out behind me with a tiny gust of wind. I carefully bustled down the ladder and ran into the hall, skidding on the floor as my thick wool socks struggled to find traction.

  I heard Edgar’s voice somewhere in the distance as I heaved my body up the stairs, “Elle? Are you all right?” he yelled.

  I froze, calming myself midway up the steps. “Yeah, I’m fine!” I yelled back as I stood there for a moment, but he didn’t reply. In a few swift movements, I threw myself the rest up the way up the set of steps and through the colossal doors and into my room. As fast and quiet as I could, I lightly tiptoed to my shelf of journals that Edgar had helped me categorize after my explosion a few weeks back. I struggled to keep the floorboards from squeaking, figuring Edgar was the equivalent of directly below. I laced my finger into the thick spine of the journal marked 1667; gingerly squeezing it out from between ’68 and ’66.

  Exhaling with deep concentration, I flipped through each entry as my breath rose hot and quick in my chest and my heart drummed against my ribs. At last, I caught a glimpse of my flagrant handwritten “V” on a page about halfway in. With haste, I held it open and whispered the words under my breath.

  September 1667,

  The lot of us gathered today for a portrait. I had convinced them of Johannes Vermeer’s talents for texture and they agreed it was a lovely idea. Hazel was more than excited. She even bought a beautiful new silk dress in a magnificent bronze…

  I paused, noting the name of the lady with the gold hair, Hazel. It rang a strange bell inside my soul and I felt a fleeting sense of achievement. My eyes quickly darting back to the page,

  … Gloria was snottier about the whole thing. She wanted to look the best so she had a professional apply powder and blush to her face, making her burgundy hair stand out, and her skin more radiant then it already was. I couldn’t help but feel self-conscious near her, despite my naturally glowing features…

  There was another familiar click inside me, Gloria. I said her name over and over, locking it in my mind and my heart fluttered,

  … Only Margriete was truly poignant about herself. She and I spent the afternoon snickering in the corner at the other’s vanity. I should hope if I had a sister she could be it. We are eternally joined at the hip and I shall miss her greatly when they go away to London for the summer, but come spring, we will be right again in Rome…

  My heart stopped with a sudden thud and I put my hand to my chest, feeling the pain surging through my throat and stealing the breath from my lungs. A sudden illness overtook me and my mind began to fog as a memory flashed before my eyes, that of her laughing face that day. Though my soul could not feel the severed friendship, my body trembled from the loss, and the sorrow.

  He had killed her, killed us. The way his face curled in the painting looked so evil, so angry. How had we not noticed his deep secret, his internal burning desire? I remembered the way my face had glared out of the canvas, the glimmer of knowing a secret my past-self somehow knew. I gasped for air as I struggled to stay conscious, struggled to hold on to the feelings that now felt so real.

  We were all so innocent and careless, so flagrantly in love with ourselves and our world; but the promise of endless life and the power we held over everyone was too intoxicating to see the evil among us. We had ignored every sign, ignored the possibilities of treachery and greed that went beyond our own vanity.

  “Hazel,” I whispered lightly. My chest aching as her glorious face flashed across my mind, her soft laughter lingering in the echoes of my empty soul. “Gloria,” I whispered again as her tartness stung my mind and her vain existence tickled my nose with envy.

  There was an abrupt knock at my door and I looked up from where I knelt on the ground, the journal clutched in my angry hand. My arms were trembling as Edgar entered, his eyes falling on mine where they turned a solemn grey that was heavy with
concern.

  “Elle, are you ok?” he rushed toward me and put his warm hand on my back as I breathed hard, trying to catch my breath.

  Tears poured from my eyes like a sudden wave and my body began shuddering in a way I could not control. My eyes clenched hard as tears stained the pages of my journal, drawing ink down the thick parchment.

  Edgar grasped the book from my hand, prying it from my desperate grasp as he attempted to understand. His eyes glided across the page with rapid recollection, his breathing fast and heavy. He sighed, “You found it, didn’t you?”

  My throat was swollen with sadness and a familiar dread overtook me as the world went dark and I fell to the floor.

  * * *

  As I came to, I felt Edgar lacing his hands under my trembling body and hoisting me into his cradling arms where he carried me to my bed. He laid me down on the soft sheets as he brushed the hair from my face, the strands matted against my cheeks with thick tears. He was gently humming, trying to calm my hysterical state.

  “Shhh, Elle,” he cooed, his voice silvery and soft. “I’m so sorry, so sorry you had to feel this again.” He gently rubbed my back as I faced the window, snow falling from the sky in thick flakes. “I never meant for you to see that.”

  My eyes began to dry as I felt my body give out, the fear numbing my muscles. The same despair and guilt rushed over me and I began blaming myself, it seemed like the only logical notion. I had known what was happening back then, sensed the end nearing, but did nothing to stop it. Why? It was then I realized why I had the painting commissioned. Just as I had recorded our history in journals, I had also desired to record all of ours, to record that day so that I could look back, and recognize my own solemn stare.