Mistress of Souls: A Prophecy of the Sisters Novella by Michelle Zink Page A
Authors: Michelle Zink
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the birth of Lia before her.
She could not allow it. Could not allow their interference. The Dark Room was her refuge. It was not simply that it had been her mother’s chamber, nor that it was the room in which her father had died, a terrified scream frozen on his face, less than a year before.
Here, she could feel her mother’s presence. Not the Adelaide Milthorpe who stared down at her from the oil painting over the fireplace in the parlor. No. That Adelaide was too much like Lia, too vulnerable, too kind.
It was another Adelaide who lurked in the shadows of the Dark Room. The Adelaide who had joyfully traveled the Plane, who preferred the Otherworlds to this one. It was a predilection Alice understood well.
Samael had told stories of her mother’s wild abandon on the Plane, of her desperate desire to give in to her role as Gate and let go of the physical world for the Otherworlds. As Alice sat in her spell circle—muttering words to summon the Lost Souls—it was as if she were conjuring her mother. As if she could see the free-spirited, wild-eyed Adelaide who had once done the very same thing, who had so wanted release from the struggle between this world and the others that she had thrown herself from the cliff overlooking the lake.
Alice found solace in her presence. Here, at last, was someone who understood her struggle, and Alice had spent as much time as possible in the Dark Room, fending off Aunt Virginia’s questions, ignoring her insistent rapping on the door until she finally gave up, leaving Alice to the Souls and the Plane.
But it could not last forever.
One day after Alice had missed three weeks of school, Miss Gray came to call. Alice heard her speaking to Aunt Virginia in the parlor.
“Miss Milthorpe, I do understand the difficult time Alice has had. And with Amalia gone…”
“Please,” Aunt Virginia had said, and Alice had heard the impatience in her voice, could picture the look of barely disguised distaste on her aunt’s face, “say what you’ve come to say about Alice’s status at Wycliffe.”
“Certainly. As you know, Wycliffe is a prestigious school.”
Alice had almost laughed aloud from the stairs where she was eavesdropping. The only place Wycliffe was considered prestigious was in town, a town so small there were no other alternatives for affluent young ladies. In fact, her father had schooled his children at home, not trusting Wycliffe to do a proper job with Lia and Alice, both of whom were more likely to learn how to set a tea table than to read and analyze Aristotle, as their father made them do. Wycliffe had been a form of socializing, a way to ensure that the girls explored life and society, if only two days a week, beyond the stately walls of Birchwood.
“While we would like to maintain Alice’s position,” Miss Gray had continued, “we do have other candidates on the waiting list, and—”
“I understand,” Aunt Virginia interrupted amid a rustle of skirts that could only mean she had risen. “You may remove Alice from your roster immediately. We will see to her schooling here.”
“Oh! But…are you certain…?” Surprise was evident in Miss Gray’s voice, though Alice could not see her face.
“Quite,” her aunt said. “Now, while I appreciate that you took the time to call, I imagine you have quite a busy schedule.”
That had been the end of the matter. Aunt Virginia had informed Alice that she would resume the curriculum Father had arranged before his death, and Alice made an effort to do so, at least for a while.
But without the structure of school, she found it increasingly difficult to maintain the appearance of normalcy. She began skipping supper, locking herself in the Dark Room and refusing to answer, even when Aunt Virginia’s knocking managed to break through the barrier of her Spellcasting. When she forced herself to walk the grounds, as once had been her pleasure, she was not fully there. Her body was numb in this world, her soul
She could not allow it. Could not allow their interference. The Dark Room was her refuge. It was not simply that it had been her mother’s chamber, nor that it was the room in which her father had died, a terrified scream frozen on his face, less than a year before.
Here, she could feel her mother’s presence. Not the Adelaide Milthorpe who stared down at her from the oil painting over the fireplace in the parlor. No. That Adelaide was too much like Lia, too vulnerable, too kind.
It was another Adelaide who lurked in the shadows of the Dark Room. The Adelaide who had joyfully traveled the Plane, who preferred the Otherworlds to this one. It was a predilection Alice understood well.
Samael had told stories of her mother’s wild abandon on the Plane, of her desperate desire to give in to her role as Gate and let go of the physical world for the Otherworlds. As Alice sat in her spell circle—muttering words to summon the Lost Souls—it was as if she were conjuring her mother. As if she could see the free-spirited, wild-eyed Adelaide who had once done the very same thing, who had so wanted release from the struggle between this world and the others that she had thrown herself from the cliff overlooking the lake.
Alice found solace in her presence. Here, at last, was someone who understood her struggle, and Alice had spent as much time as possible in the Dark Room, fending off Aunt Virginia’s questions, ignoring her insistent rapping on the door until she finally gave up, leaving Alice to the Souls and the Plane.
But it could not last forever.
One day after Alice had missed three weeks of school, Miss Gray came to call. Alice heard her speaking to Aunt Virginia in the parlor.
“Miss Milthorpe, I do understand the difficult time Alice has had. And with Amalia gone…”
“Please,” Aunt Virginia had said, and Alice had heard the impatience in her voice, could picture the look of barely disguised distaste on her aunt’s face, “say what you’ve come to say about Alice’s status at Wycliffe.”
“Certainly. As you know, Wycliffe is a prestigious school.”
Alice had almost laughed aloud from the stairs where she was eavesdropping. The only place Wycliffe was considered prestigious was in town, a town so small there were no other alternatives for affluent young ladies. In fact, her father had schooled his children at home, not trusting Wycliffe to do a proper job with Lia and Alice, both of whom were more likely to learn how to set a tea table than to read and analyze Aristotle, as their father made them do. Wycliffe had been a form of socializing, a way to ensure that the girls explored life and society, if only two days a week, beyond the stately walls of Birchwood.
“While we would like to maintain Alice’s position,” Miss Gray had continued, “we do have other candidates on the waiting list, and—”
“I understand,” Aunt Virginia interrupted amid a rustle of skirts that could only mean she had risen. “You may remove Alice from your roster immediately. We will see to her schooling here.”
“Oh! But…are you certain…?” Surprise was evident in Miss Gray’s voice, though Alice could not see her face.
“Quite,” her aunt said. “Now, while I appreciate that you took the time to call, I imagine you have quite a busy schedule.”
That had been the end of the matter. Aunt Virginia had informed Alice that she would resume the curriculum Father had arranged before his death, and Alice made an effort to do so, at least for a while.
But without the structure of school, she found it increasingly difficult to maintain the appearance of normalcy. She began skipping supper, locking herself in the Dark Room and refusing to answer, even when Aunt Virginia’s knocking managed to break through the barrier of her Spellcasting. When she forced herself to walk the grounds, as once had been her pleasure, she was not fully there. Her body was numb in this world, her soul
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