A Cold Legacy

My heart started pounding harder—why was he able to read so much about me in a single look? Was it foolish to be here, when I knew there was no science to fortunes? Soft voices came from the woods, where a man and woman—two of the carnival performers—came back to camp with their arms around each other. My face flushed to think about what they must have been doing in those woods.

Jack Serra traced a long finger down my palm.

“A child can never escape her father,” he said, repeating his words from before. “You told me your father is dead, and yet you follow me to a cold field away from your friends because he isn’t dead to you at all, is he? His spirit lives on.”

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” I said, though my voice shook.

He scoffed. “Ghosts? Neither do I. Far scarier to know we carry the ghosts of our parents within us. Every decision we make, every mistake we make, is them working through us. One’s father is like the stream, from which comes the river. The river cannot set its own path. The stream runs downhill and so the river does, too. They both end in the same place—the ocean.”

Around his neck he wore at least twenty charms on twisted leather thongs. He removed one now and pressed it into my palm, a small iron charm in the shape of swirling lines like a river.

I stared at the charm, transfixed. “The ocean? Is that a symbol for madness?”

He smiled. “The ocean is merely the ocean. As far as symbols, it is what you yourself make of it.” He placed the charm around my neck, letting it fall against my chest, where it glistened in the moonlight like real water.

“I don’t understand. You’re saying it’s useless for me to try to change course?”

Amusement flickered in his eyes. He extended a hand toward the bonfire. “Your friends will miss you, pretty girl, if you do not join them soon.”

I had so many more questions to ask of him. A voice in the back of my head told me fortunes weren’t real, yet I was desperate enough to believe anything. But Jack Serra only held his hand up, a clear direction that it was time for me to leave.

I left, hiding the charm beneath my dress, and returned to the bright lights of the bonfire. I took a few deep breaths, reminding myself that fortunes weren’t real and that he was only a charlatan after a few coins—never mind that he hadn’t asked for payment.

Across the fire, Lucy had taken over teaching Balthazar a dance step, with Montgomery following along to offer Balthazar tips. Balthazar stepped on his toe, but he just laughed and clapped him on the back. I couldn’t help but smile. Such a good heart, and still the most handsome man I’d ever seen. I hoped more than anything that one day, after we were married, there would be no more secrets or tension between the two of us.

One of the older girls, Moira, approached him shyly and tugged on his sleeve to get his attention. He leaned down so she could whisper something in his ear.

“They want him to dance with them,” a voice said next to me.

Valentina stood at my side, wearing a dress with long sleeves, a Woodbine cigarette between her fingers. I stiffened, wondering if she hated me for being named heir. Her gloves were gone now, and I had a closer look at her pale hand. No one could naturally have skin such a different shade from the rest of her body. I surreptitiously looked for signs of bleaching, but there were no discolorations. Her fingers were delicate and petite—too petite, in fact, for someone of her stature.

Curiosity shivered up my spine.

She took a puff of the Woodbine. Her sleeve fell back, revealing a glimpse of puckered flesh. A scar. A terrible idea entered my head. Could her hand not be her own hand at all—but someone else’s? Elizabeth said she had performed transplants …

“After all, there aren’t many young men out here,” Valentina continued, pointing to the girls dancing with Montgomery.

I cleared my throat, barely able to tear my eyes away from her wrist. “Why is that, exactly? The lack of male staff, I mean.”

“I doubt there’s anything intentional to it. Elizabeth has a reputation for being able to cure ailments and illnesses, but only women are brave enough to come. The men think she’s a witch. All except old Carlyle. He wouldn’t believe in witches if one sat on his head.”

She tapped the ashes from her Woodbine cigarette, and my eyes lingered on her sleeve. “What type of ailments, exactly?” I pressed.

She smiled knowingly. “Rare illnesses. Even—sometimes—missing limbs.”

Curiosity blazed in me, and I forgot my distrust of her. My eyes were riveted to her hand, so small and white. I said hesitantly, “If you’ll forgive me, I can’t help but notice your hand is a peculiar color and shape compared to the rest of your arm.”

She laughed, deep and rich. “Miss Moreau, you’re practically drooling. You must have the heart of a scientist. No wonder Elizabeth made you her heir.”

Her voice hardened around this last word, and uneasiness curled in my insides. Elizabeth had told me that she spoke to Valentina about the situation and that Valentina bore me no ill will, but her resentment now seemed as thick as smoke. Was I the only one who could see it? Perhaps she was different when she was around Elizabeth, trying to win her favor. She had no reason to win mine. Quite the opposite.

Valentina took another long puff on the cigarette. “When you first came here, I thought there must be something remarkable about you for Elizabeth to choose you, but for the life of me, I haven’t seen it. You haven’t expressed an ounce of interest in the management of the manor. You haven’t visited the outer fields, nor sat in on my educational sessions with the younger girls, nor gone with Carlyle on one of his supply runs. So tell me, why do you even wish to be the mistress of Ballentyne?”