“A gardening project.”
“What kind of gardening project?” He stepped closer. My heart was beating too quickly.
“Birdhouse,” I said without thinking.
Jesus, Robin. A birdhouse? This is what you come up with?I was so nervous that the word just escaped before I had a chance to assess its plausibility.
He eyed the shovel in my hand. “You want to build a birdhouse with a shovel?”
I stared down at it. “No. The shovel is for a hole I need to dig.”
He took a step closer. “Why do you need to dig a hole?”
I took a step back, edging ever nearer to the back wall where those billions of spider eyes were waiting.
“For the birdhouse.”
“If you need tools, there are plenty in the apothecary garden. There’s no reason to invade my shed.” He glared down at me, the tips of his canines showing, and I suddenly became very aware of the size difference between us. Cautiously I started toward the door, still gripping the shovel tightly.
“I’ll bring this right back, I promise.” Quickly I pushed past him and barged out the door. When I had made it safely outside, I turned around and saw that Jim was still staring at me, and if I wasn’t mistaken, suspicion burned deep in those eyes. The pure intensity of it actually made me shiver.
“Latecomers dig,” he said ominously.
“Excuse me?” I asked, taken aback by his odd turn of phrase.
But as if not hearing me, he turned and went inside the shed. When he closed the door, I noticed a hint of gold on his wrist peeking out from under his sleeve—an expensive-looking watch.
My run-in with Jim the Impaler had left me deeply unsettled. I even checked over my shoulder when I reached the pathto make sure he wasn’t following me. I had no idea what was going on with him or what could have led to such an abrupt change in demeanor, but Jim was now on my list of people to stay the hell away from.
Moving as fast as I could, I hurried to the mouth of the woods. The shovel felt heavy in my hand as I entered the forest, and once under the cover of the trees, I raced along the path until I reached the small clearing where I’d found the grave. Locating the two birch trees, I walked between them until I was exactly lined up and then began digging. It didn’t take long.
When my shovel struck something solid, I cleared off the top layer of dirt until a length of burlap shone clearly through. I set down the shovel and swept off the top until I could see the whole of it. It was at most a foot in length and maybe seven inches across. Whatever it was, it wasn’t a person, thank God. I thought it would be difficult to pry the package from the ground, but the task was remarkably easy. Hesitating only slightly, I lifted it up and set it before me. My hands moved quickly through the material, unfurling what lay hidden within. When I stripped back the final layer, I saw two glassy blue eyes staring back at me.
I screamed and stumbled back, horror rippling through my body. I don’t know how long I stood there convinced that I’d unearthed a dead child, but then I studied what I’d found more carefully. It was just a doll, an old-fashioned baby doll.
“Jesus,” I gasped, laughing now as I held a hand over my heart.
Gingerly I lifted the doll and examined it. It was a ratty old thing, with scraggly orange hair missing in patches as if it had been haphazardly cut by a child. It was also missing an arm, and half of its face had been sun-bleached. Yet there was somethingabout it that looked almost human in the way that dolls can look only when they have been poorly treated—as if the pain of being loved and then abandoned is the only thing that can infuse them with the necessary dose of humanity. What, after all, was more human than suffering?
When I turned it over, I thought I heard something shift inside. Listening closely, I jiggled it again, and indeed, something rattled just below the doll’s head. There was definitely something in there. Carefully, I twisted off the head and peered inside the hollow cavity. Something metal glinted there. Turning the doll upside down, I shook it, and the treasure wedged itself within finger’s reach, just inside the opening. Fishing it out, I saw that it was an ornate brass key with a bow at the top that resembled a peacock feather. A piece of paper was rolled up and slipped through a space in the filigree.
I pulled out the tiny scroll and read:
Dear Robin,
Welcome to the threshold. What you seek is here on the grounds. I left it for you. But you must be careful. Ceci n’est pastriVial. Good luck and safe passage.
Isabelle
What the hell was this? I looked around, suddenly worried someone might be watching. Was it some kind of sick joke? For a while I stood completely still, in shocked silence, and in that silence, the forest seemed to come to life around me. Birdsong sounded especially beautiful, the colors were more vibrant, and I was unexpectedly shocked by the brightness of light shafts cutting through breaks in the trees, illuminating passing dust particles like fairy dust.
I began to understand. I had stepped through a veil of sorts. Hildegard wasn’t like other places. There were rules here I didn’t understand. There were puzzles and clues and mysteries, and even though I felt an almost immediate and palpable sense of danger, some part of me was excited. I’d spent my entire life waiting for something to feel real, to feel important. I’d always wanted to feel at the center of something truly grand. And though I couldn’t say definitively that what was happening to me was necessarily grand, at least it was something. And moreover, I no longer needed to call the police. Isabelle Casimir’s disappearance had transformed from being a thing of horror to being a stark and haunting mystery.
I slipped the note and the key into my pocket, picked up the shovel, and then headed out of the woods.
2.2WHISPERS FROM BEYOND: SCRYING, DIVINATION, AND CARTOMANCY
In ancient Ireland, the choosing of a new king involved the sacrifice of a sacred bull, on which a Druid gorged until he fell asleep. During sleep, incantations were recited over him, and he would receive “revelation” of the rightful claimant to the throne.
