As I woke, Mrs. Twiggs was still thumbing through the pages of the book she brought up from the basement. “No mention of Claire Renee but I know I saw that name before. The best way to find out more about here is to check out the other shops. Most of the business owners can tell you the history of their building,” I heard Mrs. Twiggs say as I yawned. “Some of the stores will be open late. We can walk around now.”
I stood up, stretched and followed Abigail and Mrs. Twiggs down the uneven cobblestone sidewalk. Some of the stones were sharp and cut into my paws.
We stopped at the first cottage, now home to a dress shop. Its exterior bore a similar resemblance to the Leaf & Page. While some design elements varied, all the cottages were constructed from brick, stucco pebbledash and wood timber so as to recreate Old World charm in this idyllic New World town.
Pixel and I waited outside the shop. Tracker followed Abigail and Mrs. Twiggs. Ashevilians allowed dogs complete access. I’ve never seen a community that valued dogs as much as Asheville. We walked up and down the block, watching them speak with each store owner. As it grew dark, Mrs. Twiggs sat down on a bench in front of the jewelry store. “I’m sorry, all. I’ve gotten a bit worn out. Perhaps we can start this over tomorrow.”
The jeweler stepped out on to the small brick porch about to close up for the night. “Just one more,” Abigail said, darting up the stairs to talk to him. “Excuse me?”
The old man turned around. “I’m sorry, miss, I’m closing up.”
“Actually I didn’t want to buy anything. I wanted to ask you a couple questions if I could.”
“About what?”
The old man peeked over Abigail’s shoulder at Mrs. Twiggs who was waving at him. He recognized her and waved back. “Have a seat,” he said to Abigail.
They sat on the small wooden bench on the front porch. “I wondered if you could tell me about this building, a little of its history.”
“Oh, of course. You know it’s one of the original cottages. The local doctor lived here. I’ve got some photographs and some of his medical journals we found in the attic when we were restoring it.”
“Could I see them?” Abigail asked.
He unlocked the door. Abigail waved to us to follow. They walked into a small parlor off to the side of the showroom. I laid down behind the sofa and listened in. Abigail paused to study the photos on the wall by the front door. Some depicted the construction of the village. She stared at one showing children gathered on the village green. The old man turned, “That’s from the day when Teddy Roosevelt came to visit. The man who lived here was Dr. Zachary Rytera. He moved here from Boston because his young son had breathing issues. They came for the clean air. After his wife died, he and his son lived above his office. The rest of the rooms were rented out to the construction workers.”
“I’m trying to find information about a Claire Renee or Randall Foret,” Abigail said.
He reached next to the couch and pulled out an old leather doctor’s bag. Inside was a notebook. “He kept very extensive notes on all his patients. If Claire or Randall lived in the village, more than likely at some point they were patients of Doc Rytera.“ He skimmed the handwritten pages. “Here’s a note about Claire Renee. The doctor treated her for burns.” He read silently. “Oh, oh dear. She died during childbirth. Complications from the fire at the Fillmore. I have some more photographs. Perhaps she is in one of them.” He placed a stack of old photographs on the coffee table and then he said, “Excuse me for a minute. I’ll be right back.”
As soon as he left the room, I jumped onto the coffee table and pawed my way through the photos until I found one of several people sitting around the dining room table. One of the men resembled Lionel. Sitting next to him was a beautiful young woman who was the spitting image of Elizabeth. I found another photo of her, a close up revealing a golden amulet around her neck, its entwined oaks scrolling around a full moon--Elizabeth’s amulet. It had been handed down to Elizabeth on her wanding day and she never took it off until she gave it to her newborn daughter. The old man returned to the room. “Did you find anything?” he asked.
“This is her.” Abigail held up the picture.
He looked in the doctor’s notes. “Wait a minute. I remember reading something about a young woman.” He thumbed through the pages and read aloud. “Mr. Vanderbilt has asked me to board her until her accommodations at the hotel have been secured and make her welcome. There is something peculiar about this young woman. Randall Foret has taken a special liking to her. It caused quite an uproar in the community whereas I have no ill will toward the freed slaves. In fact I find Mr. Foret to be a gentleman and I hold him as a friend. Others in the community, however, are outraged by the mere thought of these two being associated together. Talk has spread of Miss Renee’s condition and that association.”
“Is there anything else?”
“There’s a letter from Foret dated some years later.” He skimmed the letter. “It says he is established and of good health. He has recently married and his wife has born him a son. The girl, Claire’s daughter, Isabella, is living with him. It appears they moved back to Louisiana.” The old man took his glasses off and closed the book. “Many of the cottage owners took in boarders while the hotel was being completed, but they were segregated. Mr. Foret must have been an important man to be allowed to have lived here.”
The lights in the room flickered. I felt a chill, the fur on my back raised. Then the lights flickered again and then went out. One by one the streetlights exploded, sending shards of glass onto the cobblestone. I ran out to see Mrs. Twiggs covering her face. Pixel and Tracker hid under the bench. Every store on the block went dark. The only light was the crescent moon filtering through the gabled rooftops. From above the trees I could hear the flapping of wings and a bloodcurdling screech. Tracker ran to the porch and circled Abigail growling. Pixel leapt on top of me. “What’s going on?” Abigail screamed.
A burst of air flooded the street, sending off car alarms, snapping off side mirrors like they were twigs. The sound was deafening. Mrs. Twiggs covered her ears with her hands. Tracker howled. The storekeeper screamed above the roar, “It’s a tornado.”
But I knew different. The reckoning had found us.
We Become Nine
We spent the night huddled around the hearth in the cabin. Mrs. Twiggs joined us. I thought it safer to be out of town at least for the night. We were safe for the moment surrounded by the stream and the power of Agatha Hollows. She had known this day would come so she had fortified her plot of land with every ounce of magic she had in her. Abigail shook, not from the cold but from the realization that there was nowhere for her to run to. She finally understood what I had been trying to tell her. That we draw the battle line here in Asheville. Mrs. Twiggs was sound asleep with Pixel on her lap and Tracker lying across her feet. I felt no such comfort. Sleep eluded me. I recalled my last dream of Elizabeth. The dream I had a thousand times. I had learned through the centuries that dreams hold meaning. The meanings of this dream, however, eluded me. The images flooded around my head like wild finches feeding on thistle. Flashes of color and constant movement but always in the same sequence. My dreams followed a pattern of my life starting with the night of my turning and ending with the worst part; the snapping of Elizabeth’s neck. I did not need that dream tonight. I did not want it. I could see Mrs. Twiggs tossing and turning in her rocking chair. She, too, had uneasy dreams. Abigail stoked the fire and sipped her tea, a very strong ginger and nettle combination. We sat quietly throughout the night, staring at the fire, not saying a word.
It was now predawn. Darkness of night before the light. That time of morning where you sit and reflect on your life and the choices you’ve made. Then Abigail spoke, “Why can’t you stop this, Terra?”