We wind through a maze of pathways, ducking in and out of shadows, my heart quickening, wondering which shadows hide the Dark Legion. Pax seeks the correct row, the correct headstone, for Julia. Number 104. He finds it, and we stand in silence, looking at the simple marker.
Julia Mila Princip
Beloved Daughter, Sister
Pax drops to his knees, touching the headstone gingerly. He slides the red carnation from the buttonhole of his catering uniform and lays it at the base of her stone, his eyes iridescent.
I need to confess something…
I must confess…
I have a confession to make…
“I have a confession to make,” I echo.
Because here? Looking at Julia Princip’s headstone, these voices peppering me with their regrets, their guilt? It cuts too close, too deep. Especially tonight—the veil is thin. The others turn to me.
“I’m the one who killed Daisy. I killed my sister.”
The shadows roar. They are here to feast on my guilt.
I droop to sitting in the dewy grass, my head in my hands. I’m not crying; I suppose I’ve cried every tear I can over this.
Pax furrows his brow. “No. She died in the Shirtwaist Fire.”
My voice is like sand. “Daisy and I, we conned a lot of people out of a lot of money. With my readings, I mean.”
William eases toward me. “Stella, if you tell people the things you actually hear, you aren’t conning them. You have a gift.”
“People keep calling this a gift, but I’m not so sure. Reverend Jenkins and those folks think I’m evil. And sometimes the voices I hear scare me so much that I think I might be. And so…”
Help me, Stella!
I need you!
I have so many regrets!
“I talked Daisy into that job. I wasso tiredof doing readings. Of those terrible zealots. Of hearing frightening confessions from the Other Side. Of seeing terribly vile images. Of my scared and mourning clients. Of moving from boardinghouse to boardinghouse… all of it. But mostly…”
Can I tell them? “The darkness around me kept growing stronger. More powerful. Moretempting. So I did it. I begged Daisy to let me quit. She agreed, and two days later, she took a job at the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory. She only worked there six weeks.”
As I confess this, the shadows tighten, harden, transform into—what is that? Ravens. Hundreds of ravens, screaming and swooping at our heads. I gasp, crouch.
Pax grabs my hand. It is soft and warm and firm. But maybe a bit too firm, like there’s an undercurrent of anger.
No. He’s not allowed to share my anger here. Not on this. These truths are all mine.
Can I tell them the rest?
William nods as if he can hear my question. I swallow hard. The ravens dive at us with sharp beaks and sharp talons and sharp yellow eyes, screeching. Nirav crouches, covers his head. But William and Pax see nothing.
“Daisy didn’t get a proper burial,” I sob. “I was fifteen when she died, and she was my only living relative. I wasn’t sure what would become of me if I went to identify her body—”
Ravens shriek. I wince, curl into myself. These birds see me as prey.
My voice grows colder, harder. “I was a coward. I never went to identify my sister’s body. I don’t even know where she’s buried, because I was too damned afraid.”
I draw a deep, shaky breath. “They would’ve put me in a home. So I didn’t go.”
