things,” Emily said. She was thinking suddenly of the brown man, the Russian in San Francisco who’d given her the too-convenient train ticket. Then it had seemed strange. Now it seemed downright sinister.
“Have they been back?”
“No. They rode off, and they ain’t been back,” Pap said. “But it made me scared, Emily. It made me scared that I ain’t told you everything you need to know. Secrets don’t die. You can bottle ’em up, but they don’t die.”
Pap stood, dislodging the last of the grumpy cats, and felt his way to the locked cupboard. Emily knew it well; it was where Pap always kept his most dangerous and precious magical supplies. He fumbled for a key around his throat and unlocked the cupboard. He felt around within it until his fingers found a small bottle. He carried the bottle as if it were a poisonous snake that might bite him.
He gave the bottle to Emily. It was very heavy glass, cobalt blue, with an iron stopper. Around the bottle’s throat was tied a card. It was hard to discern in the half-light of the fire, but it was, she realized, a calling card like the ones the ladies in New York traded as a part of their mystifying rituals. On it was engraved four small words in thin, elegant type:
Miss Catherine Kendall. Boston
.
“What is it?”
“The card, that was your mother. The bottle … that’s you. It’s you at five years old, Em,” Pap said softly. “It’s all your memories.”
Emily swallowed hard, turning the bottle over and over in her hand.
“It’s called a Lethe Draught,” Pap said. “It’s memories distilled down. The light and sweet ones float to the top. The bitter and dark ones sink to the bottom. It’s everything I didn’t want you to remember. It’s all the nightmares you had, those first few weeks you was here. It’s all your fear, and all your misery, and—” He faltered, rubbing his hand across his eyes. “I had to do it, Em. Those memories, they’re all so bad. I don’t know the half of them and I never wanted to. I just wanted to see you happy. And you were once I took them away and locked them up. Then they couldn’t hurt you anymore.”
Emily held the bottle away from herself, looking at it with horror.
“I hoped you’d never need them back,” Pap continued. “But if these Russians … these Sini Mira … if they’re after you, and looking for you … you may have to know, Em. If you don’t know, then you might not know how to stay away from them.”
“If I drink this, I will get the memories back?”
Pap nodded.
“It was all right, you not knowing, while you was staying here in Lost Pine,” he said. “Bad things can’t hurt you if they don’t know where you are. But now they do. And even if they didn’t …” He paused. “Well, you ain’t back to stay. Are you?”
“I’m going to marry Mr. Stanton,” Emily murmured, still staring at the bottle.
Pap smiled. “Decided to fall in love with him, did you?”
“Afraid so,” Emily said, and Pap chuckled, nodding. He let his thumb play over the ring she wore on her thumb, the Jefferson Chair ring Stanton had given her.
“Tell me you forgive me, Em,” Pap said. “Tell me you don’t hate me.”
“I couldn’t hate you,” Emily said. “And there’s nothing to forgive. You did what you thought was best.”
But as she crouched there before the man who had been the only father she’d ever known, she was painfully aware that doing one’s best was never assurance that it wasn’t the wrong choice anyway.
CHAPTER FOUR
Dmitri
Mrs. Lyman returned a few hours later with a fresh-plucked chicken and some garden vegetables in a basket. She’d also tucked in half a pie, some biscuit dough in a cloth-covered blue bowl, and a bottle of whiskey. It was clear she meant to make a party of Emily’s homecoming.
And indeed, they had a merry afternoon, with the savory smells of the chicken stew on the stove—and Mrs. Lyman’s garrulous stream of
“Have they been back?”
“No. They rode off, and they ain’t been back,” Pap said. “But it made me scared, Emily. It made me scared that I ain’t told you everything you need to know. Secrets don’t die. You can bottle ’em up, but they don’t die.”
Pap stood, dislodging the last of the grumpy cats, and felt his way to the locked cupboard. Emily knew it well; it was where Pap always kept his most dangerous and precious magical supplies. He fumbled for a key around his throat and unlocked the cupboard. He felt around within it until his fingers found a small bottle. He carried the bottle as if it were a poisonous snake that might bite him.
He gave the bottle to Emily. It was very heavy glass, cobalt blue, with an iron stopper. Around the bottle’s throat was tied a card. It was hard to discern in the half-light of the fire, but it was, she realized, a calling card like the ones the ladies in New York traded as a part of their mystifying rituals. On it was engraved four small words in thin, elegant type:
Miss Catherine Kendall. Boston
.
“What is it?”
“The card, that was your mother. The bottle … that’s you. It’s you at five years old, Em,” Pap said softly. “It’s all your memories.”
Emily swallowed hard, turning the bottle over and over in her hand.
“It’s called a Lethe Draught,” Pap said. “It’s memories distilled down. The light and sweet ones float to the top. The bitter and dark ones sink to the bottom. It’s everything I didn’t want you to remember. It’s all the nightmares you had, those first few weeks you was here. It’s all your fear, and all your misery, and—” He faltered, rubbing his hand across his eyes. “I had to do it, Em. Those memories, they’re all so bad. I don’t know the half of them and I never wanted to. I just wanted to see you happy. And you were once I took them away and locked them up. Then they couldn’t hurt you anymore.”
Emily held the bottle away from herself, looking at it with horror.
“I hoped you’d never need them back,” Pap continued. “But if these Russians … these Sini Mira … if they’re after you, and looking for you … you may have to know, Em. If you don’t know, then you might not know how to stay away from them.”
“If I drink this, I will get the memories back?”
Pap nodded.
“It was all right, you not knowing, while you was staying here in Lost Pine,” he said. “Bad things can’t hurt you if they don’t know where you are. But now they do. And even if they didn’t …” He paused. “Well, you ain’t back to stay. Are you?”
“I’m going to marry Mr. Stanton,” Emily murmured, still staring at the bottle.
Pap smiled. “Decided to fall in love with him, did you?”
“Afraid so,” Emily said, and Pap chuckled, nodding. He let his thumb play over the ring she wore on her thumb, the Jefferson Chair ring Stanton had given her.
“Tell me you forgive me, Em,” Pap said. “Tell me you don’t hate me.”
“I couldn’t hate you,” Emily said. “And there’s nothing to forgive. You did what you thought was best.”
But as she crouched there before the man who had been the only father she’d ever known, she was painfully aware that doing one’s best was never assurance that it wasn’t the wrong choice anyway.
CHAPTER FOUR
Dmitri
Mrs. Lyman returned a few hours later with a fresh-plucked chicken and some garden vegetables in a basket. She’d also tucked in half a pie, some biscuit dough in a cloth-covered blue bowl, and a bottle of whiskey. It was clear she meant to make a party of Emily’s homecoming.
And indeed, they had a merry afternoon, with the savory smells of the chicken stew on the stove—and Mrs. Lyman’s garrulous stream of
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