Chapter 22
Jordan had trouble keeping up. Marjorie flew so quickly over the hills to the forest. He had a feeling she didn’t have a clue what was going on and he certainly hadn’t done a good job of explaining. He was grateful she could understand him since Sophie had warned that if he spoke of the curse within hearing of the castle residents, they would hear something completely different. But since Marjorie was so closely linked to it, it made sense she would understand.
He puffed a little, practically running full out now. The trees were in sight, the moon rising above their dark outline. She was several feet in front of him, not turning back to make sure he was following. Had she forgotten he was with her? His vision still hadn’t completely gone back to normal after the blows she’d—no, Lyra, had given him. He thought Marjorie would have been relieved to know she wasn’t going insane. But now that he really thought about it, being possessed by a ghost wasn’t any better. God, he hoped destroying the dress would get rid of Lyra once and for all. He suspected it was wishful thinking to expect it to end the curse. It was most likely he still had to obey the rules on that one.
He had to stop and catch his breath. The spot where he’d been hit on his shoulder throbbed and he held his arm close to his body, trying to give it a break from the jostling. Marjorie must have been keeping tabs on him because she stopped, turned around, and hurried back to help him. With her arm around his waist, and a slower pace, he soon got his wind back. And he liked Marjorie’s arm around him. He still didn’t feel up to walking on his own, but if he had he might have faked his weakness just to keep her that close.
How did it take him so long to figure out he loved her? He recalled thinking she was as gorgeous as any movie star the first time he met her, but she’d been Lyra’s puppet then. And then his sister and Fay had continuously squawked at him about not getting too close to Marjorie if she was the one who’d called down the curse on the castle and the surrounding lands. No, it wasn’t cool to want to live the same year over and over and it was less cool to drag other people into it. But he couldn’t help but think there hadn’t been malice behind any of it. Perhaps he was blinded by his feelings, but he could never make himself either hate or blame Marjorie. He couldn’t imagine anything changing his love for her.
Except for the fact that she might not love him back. She hadn’t exactly answered his multiple proclamations. But then, she had only just recovered from a ghost witch possessing her body. Whether she loved him or not probably wasn’t the highest on her list of things to figure out. But he hoped she did. She liked him, he was positive of that. If she didn’t love him yet, he’d make her fall in love with him. He’d copy all the flowery things Sir Harold said to Anne at supper. He’d trade his twenty-first century belongings for whatever kind of jewelry ladies of this time liked. He’d learn how to be a chancellor and beg Sir Walter for a position. He’d even beg Leo for a job if it came to it. He’d start winning her heart right now, in fact.
“You’re really pretty, Marjorie,” he said, his voice coming out in a rough croak.
She didn’t pause in her steps, didn’t falter in holding him up. “You’re addled by the blows to the head,” she said crisply. “I’m sorry for it.”
“Don’t apologize again,” he said. “And I’m not addled. I thought it the first time I saw you, er, by the gate.”
She stopped and turned so she could look him straight in the eye. “You didn’t say a word to Batty or me,” she said. “I thought you were simple.”
“I was made simple by your beauty.” He thought Sir Harold would approve of that line.
She laughed. “What a conversation to be having at this time. I’m under a curse, you know. We should be more somber.”
“I like that you don’t sound so scared anymore,” he said, starting forward again. He realized he had no idea where to go but Marjorie put her arm back around him and pulled him along.
“I’m well past it, I suppose. Whatever we have to face in life, we have to face.”
“It’s that kind of thing that made me love you,” he said. He ducked to avoid a tree branch that turned out to not be there. Knowing Marjorie wouldn’t let him run into anything, he closed his eyes and let her lead him.
“Lord Jordan, perhaps we should return and let Edgar see to your head.”
“No, I’m fine. We have a dress to destroy. And don’t put Lord in front of my name. I’m not really a lord.”
She sucked in a breath but didn’t slow her pace. “But Sir Leo … he wouldn’t lie. Unless you lied to him all along?”
“Leo was helping me out because I don’t belong here. I told you, I’m here because of the curse.” He wanted to stop talking, not overload her with new, confusing information, but it seemed important that she know the truth about him. “If you put on the dress, you end up here. I think it worked out fine for a while, but then Fay fell in love before the deadline. Or something. Then Sophie got mixed up with it and then me.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” she said. “From where did the dress bring you? And why? And are you telling me you put on that dress?” She took her arm away from his side, making him wilt both at the loss of support and her closeness. She put her face in her hands and pressed against the sides of her head. “I daren’t complain of a headache after I bashed you over the head with a rock,” she said, sheepishly peeking at him. He could barely make her out in the darkness, but he smiled reassuringly.
“It’s not exactly a where that I came from,” he said. “And yes, I had to put it on to get here. As for the why, I’m hoping you can remember.”
She gave a frustrated cry and stomped away. “There’s nothing to remember. This curse is not my doing. It can’t be.” No sooner were the words out than she faltered. He hurried to the one of her he was fairly certain was real and put his hands on her shoulders.
“Are you okay?”
She hissed and pressed against her temples. “I’m fine. Let’s burn the gown so I can be free of this agony. It only hurts when you speak of the cur—” she stopped mid-sentence and shook her head, crying out from the pain the quick motion caused. “But that’s not true. It isn’t only then.”
“When?” he asked, praying this might be a clue. “When do you get the headaches? Think. And don’t leave out even the slightest twinge.”
“When I think of my childhood,” she said slowly. “I had one only this evening, while speaking with Sophie. She helped me to bed and then I woke up …”
“What were you talking about?” He didn’t want her sidetracked with fresh self-recriminations.
“Anne. And Sir Harold. We were listening in on them, because Anne made me leave the room, so she was unchaperoned. And I admit I was curious.”
He squeezed her shoulders. “Keep thinking back if you can. And let’s get rid of that dress. It might be enough. That would be awesome if it was. And either way, it needs to be off the face of the earth.”
She nodded and turned. “It’s just over here a bit more. It’s near a tree with a lightning scar.” After a few more yards, she stopped and pointed at the ground, still churned up from when he’d hurriedly buried the thing. It seemed like an age ago. “We can take it back and toss it in the kitchen fire and then pray. We must pray like we’ve never prayed before.”
“Yes, agreed.” He dropped to the ground, hissing at the pain that shot up his shoulder. Reaching to dig, he missed the dirt pile by at least a foot and slowly felt his way around until he found it. “Now there’s three of everything,” he admitted.
She dropped beside him and pushed his hands away. “Rest,” she demanded. He loved her bossy voice. Surely it meant she cared. “We never should have come out here. I want this supposed curse lifted from me, but not at the risk of your life. It could have waited.”
He shook his head, instantly regretting it. Backing up until he hit a tree trunk, he sank against it. “Not if you’re—Lyra’s trying to kill me. The attempted murders always take place near the end, or so I’ve been told.”
Another frustrated yelp erupted from her. But this time, it wasn’t at what he said. “It’s not here,” she cried.
He squinted and saw she had dug a hole much deeper than the one he’d first shoved the box with the dress into. She started digging directly next to it, then on the other side of it. Dirt and leaf rot flew in every direction and he heard her praying under her breath. Realizing how unchivalrous it was to let her dig with her bare hands, he crawled forward, nearly vomiting at the pain the sudden movement caused.
“Let me help,” he said, falling onto his face in one of her dirt piles. He could feel a fresh trickle of blood seeping into his ear. She grew more distraught as she dug, but all he could do was turn onto his side. “I’m sorry,” he said, though she didn’t seem to hear.
“It’s not here, Jordan,” she said, crawling to his side. “What do we do? I can’t go back to the castle if it means I may hurt someone again. How do we break the curse if we don’t have the gown?” She covered her face with her dirt-crusted hands. “Jordan, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
He smiled and reached for her, only managing to take hold of her skirt. “You’re calling me Jordan again,” he said. “We can still break the curse.”
If he hadn’t been so weak from blood loss and possibly a cracked skull, the dress being gone would have worried him far more. Had Lyra possessed her again, gone and dug it up already? Was it waiting to go back in its chest, or worse, was it already there, ready to bring back yet another soul from the future?
“How?” she sobbed hopelessly.
“You have to think.” He wanted to sit up and take her in his arms but found his arms were no longer taking orders from his brain. Maybe if he took a little nap he’d feel better. “You have to remember. Someone needs to prove true love and faithfulness are not a lie. It wasn’t Fay or Sophie or anyone who came before them. Was it you?” He got up onto an elbow, a major feat. Taking her arm, he pulled one of her hands away from her face. She looked down at him, dirt and tear-streaked, eyes haunted. “If so, I’ll try to make you happy, Marjorie. And I swear I’ll be faithful,” he promised.
She looked past him with such an empty, broken gaze he feared she might be possessed again. “True love and faithfulness?” she whimpered. Pulling her hand away, she clutched her head, letting out a yowl that tore at his soul. “Dear God, it hurts so much, so very much.”
She fell forward, her head landing across his chest. Her skin was ice cold, her mouth slack. Somehow finding the strength to sit up at last, he gently moved her head to the ground and leaned over her chest, praying to hear her heart beating. This couldn’t be the end, both of them dying in the forest. It couldn’t.
*
Marjorie was in hell. Drops of Jordan’s blood splashed onto her face as he leaned over her, desperately calling her name. She was powerless to move, being pulled away from him by something she didn’t want to face. She lay there, struggling to get back to him, knowing he wouldn’t leave her to get the help he needed. They would both die out here in the woods and she’d never admitted to loving him. It seemed the ultimate foolishness now, though her reasons for keeping it to herself seemed to make sense at the time. Would he know, or die thinking she didn’t care for him at all? No, she was sure she’d been at least a little obvious. Batty certainly teased her enough about it. She tried again to break free from the thing that squeezed her head like a vise, clawing her away from Jordan. His voice grew distant as her pain increased. She wanted to stay, but it was too insistent, the agony too white hot. She finally gave over to it, let it take her away.
The vicious pain in her skull was gone, replaced with a sorrow that was far worse. It felt like it might break her bones. She lay on a stone floor, her hands outstretched beseechingly toward a pair of leather boots. They turned and walked away.
“Father, don’t make me go. I beg you, don’t turn your back on me. I cannot, I cannot love him.”
“It is done. Please stop your histrionics. He’s a fine man with good standing.”
“Then let me grieve for Anne at least. Don’t make me leave so soon. It’s wrong, it’s cruel.”
There, that was the source of the bone-crushing sadness. Anne was dead. She was back in the nightmare. And her father—no, it couldn’t be him. She didn’t remember her father. She looked up and through her tears she saw Sir Walter looking down on her pityingly. His eyes were red-rimmed. He was heartbroken, too.
“Marjorie, my dearest child, your words wound me, but you will forgive me one day. It’s a good match.”
“But it’s not my match. It’s not the life I would ever choose. It was meant to be Anne’s. How can you make me steal it from her? How can that beast even want me so soon after she’s gone? He only wants to be aligned with you.”
She could barely get the words out she was sobbing so hard. She’d keep arguing, keep pleading. But in her heart, she knew it was futile. For some reason she couldn’t fathom, her loving father had turned callous. His silence was his final answer. She was to be sold, imprisoned, married to someone she considered so vile she could barely look at him. To think he’d cried at Anne’s grave and then not two days hence, turned around and proposed to her. It wasn’t happening, it wasn’t real. Surely her father would never allow it. But the day came all too fast.
Marjorie turned her head to find she was no longer on her belly on Sir Walter’s chamber floor. She sat numbly on the edge of her bed, Batty assisting with her hair.
“You look lovely,” she said with a sniffle. Marjorie looked down at the beautiful teal velvet gown she wore. Anne had worked for a month to get that gorgeous color. It was Anne’s gown, she shouldn’t be wearing it. She felt suffocated as Batty pulled her to her feet. “It’s time.”
“This is wrong,” whispered Marjorie.
Batty shook her head, tears flying from her cheeks. “You must obey your father and I’m sure Sir Harold will be kind to …” her throat closed up and her loyal maid dissolved into tears. “Perhaps, they’ll change their minds and let me come with you,” she managed. “I’d much rather go with you than return to my own home. You’re more family to me than they are now.”
Marjorie sneered at the word family. Hers was gone, disintegrated by Sir Harold’s treachery. If he had abided by her wishes and never asked her father, then Sir Walter wouldn’t have had to turn against her. Batty, her one comfort now that Anne was gone, wouldn’t be torn away from her. All hope of happiness was gone. She was no longer a loved and cared for member of the Grancourt family. She’d be alone in a strange place with strange people she was sure to despise as much as she despised Sir Harold. And they would hate her in turn.
At the bottom of the stairs, Marjorie told Batty she forgot her rosary. She’d stuffed it under the bedclothes and it would take Batty a long time to find it. As soon as her maid disappeared around the first turn in the stairway, Marjorie ran.
She ran until she collapsed in the forest, no longer knowing where to go or what to do. But she couldn’t marry the man who had so easily betrayed her sister only days after her death. She could not. Her life was a cage now. One she wanted to break free from.
“Help me,” she cried to the trees, to Anne’s spirit, to anyone who would listen. She’d prayed so hard for her father to come to his senses, but those prayers hadn’t been answered. Her heart was so broken, all the pieces could do were grow hard. “I’ll do anything,” she begged, pressing her burning face into the leaves and moss on the ground. “Anyone, God or devil, please help me.”
“I’ll help you,” a soft voice said.
She sat up and pushed herself away from the stranger, but quickly realized it was a kindly-looking old woman. Certainly no danger to her. Marjorie had never seen her before, but it had been ages since they’d gone to the village.
“Who are you?” she asked, her throat raw from crying.
It seemed all she’d done for the last few weeks was cry. For Anne, for herself, even for Batty, who was being sent away since Sir Harold had plenty of servants already.
“I’ve come from very far away, and very close all at the same time. I can help you,” she repeated. “What do you desire?”
The woman had a calming, sing-song voice, but Marjorie didn’t want to be calmed. She’d grown sick of being sad the day her father betrayed her and turned her sorrow to anger. Righteous anger at the unfairness of her life. Of being forced to steal Anne’s dream.
“I don’t want to marry Sir Harold. It’s not only because I don’t love him, which I don’t. He betrayed my sister after swearing his love to her. I cannot be with someone so faithless, so untrue. Every word he ever said to Anne was a lie. And now I’m supposed to marry the fiend.”
“Ah, yes, that’s such a beautiful gown you’re wearing. It could only be for a wedding.”
“Not my wedding,” Marjorie said stubbornly, shaking her head. “Never. Not if it’s all lies.”
“So you want to prove love and faithfulness are not a lie?” the old woman asked.
“Not me,” she said. She didn’t think it could ever be proven, not now. Her hardened heart already hated and distrusted flowery words and proclamations of love. He’d said so many things to Anne to win her. All so beautiful. Every word a lie.
“Then who, child? Who must prove it?”
“I don’t care. Anyone but me.” She looked down at the dress she’d thought would look so lovely on Anne but now strangled her. “No one can make me believe it, never. Let anyone else come and try. If it takes hundreds of years, then bring them and let them try.” She started crying again, tearing at the side laces of the gown until she was only in her shift. “This gown should have been Anne’s. It should have been her happiness. Now it’s my doom. I don’t care if I become a beggar. I won’t be Sir Walter’s daughter anymore if it means I’m sold into such an empty life.”
The old woman’s lips curled up in a smile that might have shaken Marjorie’s resolve if she hadn’t been so furious. “Ah, I don’t think you’ll be a beggar, my dear. I can work something a bit better out.” She tapped her chin and laughed. It sounded like a cackle. “Oh, this one will be fun. Someone other than you has to prove that true love and faithfulness are not a lie. And you no longer want to be Sir Walter’s daughter.”
“He proved himself too cruel,” she said, fresh tears flowing at the memories of her kind, loving father. Why had he changed? She hated those memories now. Were they false as well?
“That can be arranged.” The woman kept tapping her chin, her eyes cast to the tops of the trees. “Let me just think how I want to do it.”
“Do what?” Marjorie asked. Her rage subsided a bit from getting her story out in the open. She couldn’t rail like that to Batty and she wouldn’t speak of it at Anne’s grave, lest her sister hear what a monster her betrothed had turned out to be.
“Ah, dear, didn’t I say I was a witch? Not exactly the devil you called for, but I have some skills.”
Marjorie gasped and crossed herself. “I didn’t, I wouldn’t,” she said, backing away, shivering now in only her underclothes. But she remembered she had called out for help. From any quarter. Could it be that this wasn’t a random stranger strolling through Sir Walter’s woods, but what she said she was? The help that Marjorie needed? “Can you really do it? Set me free from Sir Harold?”
“I think so. Still working out the details in my mind.”
Taking a deep breath, Marjorie blurted, “I want Anne back as well. It isn’t right she couldn’t find happiness. It isn’t right she died so young.” Oh, she didn’t dare to hope.
“So, you basically want a do-over?”
“I beg your pardon?” Marjorie asked, confused at the odd phrase.
“Sorry, dearie, from a different age. A long time from now. But your pain was so great, I heard it from all that distance and hurried to help you. Wasn’t that nice of me?”
“I suppose,” Marjorie said, crossing herself again. A niggling doubt gnawed at her.
“But what I meant to say was, you want to try again, make things better the second time around?”
Marjorie began to shake, truly frightened now. The woman was so serious, so assured of what she said. She should get away from this self-professed witch, but where could she go? She had nowhere else to turn. And if it was possible … “You can honestly bring Anne back?”
The woman rubbed her temples. “I can’t bring people back from the dead, no. But I could rewind … yes, that would work.” Marjorie realized the woman was mostly speaking to herself now. “How many chances do you want? Three? Three’s a good number. Wait, you said even if it takes hundreds of years, didn’t you? Oh, yes, this will keep me going for a long time.”
Marjorie’s heart beat with so much fear and hope that she felt dizzy. “Yes, I want as many chances as it takes,” she said, filled with a greed like she’d never experienced. “Anne gets to live and be happy. That’s certain, right?”
“It’s your curse, dear,” the woman said absently.
“But it can’t be a curse if it’s to make things better,” Marjorie mused, also more to herself than to the woman.
“Yes, sure, whatever you say.” The woman smiled at her, leaning close. Marjorie noticed something was off about her eyes. Unfocused, hazy. The woman crept ever nearer, holding out her withered hand until she placed her fingertip in the middle of Marjorie’s forehead. Marjorie squeezed her eyes shut, waiting. The woman let out a hot breath against Marjorie’s cheek and cackled again. “Now go to sleep, dear. I’ll work out the details on my own.”
All the air gusted out of her lungs and she jerked her eyes open, looking around wildly at the trees surrounding her. The woman was long gone. Jordan leaned against a tree nearby, his eyes half-closed.
“You’re back,” he said weakly.
She nodded, shaking off the dream she’d emerged from. No, it wasn’t a dream. “I remembered.”