The Firebird's Vengeance Read online

  The

  Firebird’s

  Vengeance

  Sarah Zettel

  a division of F+W Media, Inc.

  To Tim and Alexander, with all my heart

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also Available

  Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  The author would like to thank those superlative grandparents Len and Gail, as well as the tireless Aunt Julie, without whom, literally, this book would not have gotten written. She would once again like to thank the Untitled Writers Group for their valuable help and unending patience. Special thanks to Sifu Genie Parker, Si Kung (Eddie) Wu Kwong Yu, and the International Wu Style Tai Chi Chuan Federation for their inspiration.

  You can hound me, now you’ve found me,

  But I’m far more cunning than you.

  I’m a shy fox, I’m a sly fox,

  And I’ll teach you a lesson or two.

  —Peter Knight, “The Fox”

  Prologue

  Bayfield, Wisconsin, 1899

  “Grace, Grace. Have you heard? Oh, it’s too awful.”

  Grace pushed back the curtain that separated her spartan back room from the heavily furnished parlor. Hilda Rudiger closed the door and shook a sprinkling of snow off her grey shawl. Cold and exertion had turned her round cheeks red, and gossip shone in her eyes.

  “What on earth, Hilda?” Grace dried her hands on her towel. She had just finished dressing for her appointment and now wore her best emerald-green skirt, loose white blouse, and heavy gold jewelry. The gypsyish attire helped make up for her distinctly non-gypsyish blond hair and blue eyes. She glanced at the gilt clock on the shelf above the parlor stove. Mrs. Hausman would be here in half an hour, and she still needed to draw the drapes, light the lamp, and make sure she was settled and composed at her prepared table. Seeing a medium attending to domestic details ruined the atmosphere.

  “You haven’t heard?” Hilda trotted forward, both of her hands out to grasp Grace’s. “Poor dear. It’s just such a shame.”

  Grace gently disengaged herself from Hilda’s chilly grip. “I haven’t been out this morning,” she said, glancing meaningfully at the clock, hoping Hilda would take the hint. “What’s happened?”

  The shimmer in Hilda’s eyes dimmed just a little, and a little genuine concern showed through. “Bridget Lederle’s gone.”

  Grace stared. “Gone?”

  “Gone,” Hilda repeated, with a nod for emphasis. “With that fisherman who was staying at the lighthouse with her. Francis Bluchard went round with the tug to pick her up because the light was closing down for the winter, but there was no one there. Mrs. Shwartz—her husband, you know, he works at the bank—she says he had orders to pay off the housekeeper, and that Bridget had pulled all her money out … Oh, dear, Grace, you’ve gone quite pale. Do sit down.”

  Grace dropped onto the settee with an undignified thump, but she could not seem to control her knees. She couldn’t focus on the room in front of her. She could only see Bridget as she had been when they last met—tall, auburn-haired, stubborn, and looking far, far too much like her mother, Ingrid.

  I shouldn’t be surprised, thought Grace stupidly. He spun her a pretty story and she went. Just like her mother.

  Ingrid Loftfield was Grace’s older sister. Almost thirty years ago, Ingrid had also vanished with a stranger, leaving Grace, and their entire family, ashamed and furious. Ingrid had returned a year later, however, pregnant with Bridget. She gave birth and she died, before Grace could say another word to her. Grace had never found out where she had gone, or what had happened to her there, if she had been happy or frightened on her mysterious journey. If she’d missed Grace as badly as Grace had missed her.

  Something curving and cool pressed against her palm. Grace started and looked down. She held a cup of water. Hilda stood anxiously in front of her. Hilda must have brought the cup from the jug on the washstand. Grace hadn’t even been aware that Hilda had moved.

  “Thank you,” Grace said reflexively and took a long swallow.

  “I know you and Bridget weren’t close …” said Hilda, sitting next to her, settling in to give consolation and gather news.

  She did not want to think about this. It hurt too badly to think of Bridget gone, vanished as her mother had vanished. Gone to her death too, to become another one of the ghosts that drifted through the landscape of Grace’s life?

  No. No. Surely not. Grace closed her eyes as if the gesture would guard her against that possibility. Not her too.

  I will not … I cannot think of this now. Grace struggled to regain her composure. “I have an appointment, Hilda.”

  The other woman drew back. “Grace, you’re not well. You’ve had a shock.”

  Yes, it is a shock, but it shouldn’t be. I knew in my heart she’d go. Knew when her man came here, knew when she turned away from me. “Yes. A shock, but as you say, we were not close, and after all …” She took a deep breath. “It is only to be expected, considering my sister also …” Vanished. Ran off with some man. Left me alone to face our father and brother and be thrown out of the house. Grace waved her hand, unable to finish the sentence. “Please, Hilda. I really must get ready for my client.”

  “Well.” In the pause following that one word waited a silent “I was only trying to help.” As Grace did not seem inclined to acknowledge this, Hilda wrapped the ends of her shawl fussily over her arms and stood, her face pinched tight. “If you’re certain, I suppose I had better go.”

  Grace touched Hilda’s arm and called on her great stock of social acting skills. “Thank you for being so understanding, Hilda, and so thoughtful. I’m sure I don’t know what I’d do without such a good friend.”

  That appeared to mollify her. Hilda patted Grace’s hand solicitously. “I’ll look in on you later, shall I?”

  “Thank you, that would be most kind.”

  Hilda’s pinched look relaxed and was replaced by a catlike satisfaction. “Well, I’ll just show myself out.” To Grace’s relief, Hilda also put actions to words, making a great show of closing the door softly behind herself.

  As soon as the latch clicked, Grace got up and set to work. Routine would smother thought. She hoped. She closed the shutters over the frosted windows and drew the ruffled pink curtains so that only a few thin rays of winter sun remained to set the dust motes sparkling. She added more wood to the stove. With some difficulty, for her hands were not as steady as they should have been, she lit the lamp beside her working table and replaced the fringe shade. She trimmed the wick quite low so it gave more a suggestion than the reality of light.

  All the while she saw Bridget’s face before her mind’s eye, proud and angry, and above all lonely.

  I should have told her. Grace bit her lip. I should have told her I understand all about loneliness. I should have told her there are worse things. Far, far worse and that I know about them too. I should never have let her go. I should have …
>
  Tears stung the corners of Grace’s eyes. She fought them back with a strength born of long years. Her mother should not have left me, she told herself. What happens to Bridget is Ingrid’s fault, not mine.

  Grace adjusted the long, flowered cloth that covered her worktable and disguised the fact that it was light wickerwork, easy to set rocking for dramatic effect, should that be necessary. Her crystal ball she kept covered on a separate, smaller table for when she needed to see the future or past, rather than just communicate with the spirits.

  Finally, she sat in her aging wingback chair, smoothing her hair down. The pale gold of it was fading into silver far too quickly. She wondered if she might try dye to go with the marcel wave that kept its curls fresh. Her hands, which had once been slender and were now just soft, she rested on the chair arms in order to assume a pose of regal calm. Appearance was everything in her trade.

  To Grace’s relief, a knock sounded on the door just as the little clock struck ten. Now she could get to work, and not have to think about Ingrid anymore, or about Bridget.

  “Come in,” she said languidly.

  Unlike Hilda, Mrs. Hausman did not bustle. She peeped in timidly, as if afraid of disturbing Grace in the midst of something socially unmentionable.

  Grace gave her most serene smile. “Do please come in, Mrs. Hausman. Sit down.” She gestured toward the chair drawn up opposite her. “I feel certain the spirits will be with us today.” The spirits were not always ready to come when called. Somehow, the uncertain nature of the sittings made them more real for many clients.

  “Oh, I am glad to hear that.” Mrs. Hausman hung her coat on one of the pegs by the door. One could not expect a medium ready to commune with the spirits to do so mundane a thing as take a guest’s wrap. “I am so much in need of guidance. I’ve been having the most dreadful presentiments that something is going to happen.”

  Grace smiled gently as the respectable matron took her seat and laid her handbag on the nearby curio table. Grace was always glad of an appointment with Mrs. Hausman. The woman believed implicitly in the spirit world. Some comforting words and vague hints from “beyond the veil,” and she would go away satisfied. Grace would be left a dollar richer, all for a little acting, without even having to produce any spectral knockings or make her table levitate.

  “I am certain you will find the guidance you seek.” She gestured again. Mrs. Hausman, who knew the routine perfectly, pressed her gloved fingertips against the tabletop. Grace laid her own hands down and began.

  “We call on the powers of the World Beyond,” she intoned, making her voice resonate deeply. “We here are two seekers of knowledge. We ask that the Veil of Night be parted that we might see beyond. We ask that we may be permitted the presence of those who have gone before us …”

  Grace droned on, letting the familiar words spill forth while the greater part of her mind worked on what Mrs. Hausman’s dear departed would have to tell her this week. From under her lowered lashes, she surreptitiously watched Mrs. Hausman close her eyes and lift her sharp chin to show how hard she was attempting to reach the other side.

  Satisfied that Mrs. Hausman was well under the influence of the dim light and atmospheric surroundings, Grace closed her own eyes.

  Help me.

  Grace’s eyelids snapped open. The room had not changed. Mrs. Hausman still sat in her attitude of rapt concentration. No other human form disturbed the room.

  “… let us be in the presence of the spirits,” she continued, closing her eyes and striving to bring certainty back into her voice. “Let them speak to their daughter, Leah Hausman, who waits here before them for their guidance.”

  Help me.

  The voice was as clear as it was unbidden. It echoed through the privacy of Grace’s mind, robbing her of her concentration.

  She heard the rustle of cloth as Mrs. Hausman shifted her weight uneasily, uncomfortable with her medium’s sudden silence. This was not part of the usual program. Grace mentally shook herself, squaring her shoulders and pressing her palms hard against the tabletop. “We ask that we may be permitted the presence of George Hausman,” she began again. “His loving and ever-faithful daughter waits ready to receive …”

  Please, Grace.

  The sound of her name shot Grace to her feet. She stared wildly around the room, looking for the source of the voice. Startled, Mrs. Hausman threw herself back into her chair, her hand pressed against her chest.

  Grace stood where she was, hands knotted at her sides. Her name. The ghosts did not speak her name. They seldom spoke at all.

  “Madame Loftfield?” said Mrs. Hausman tentatively. “Are you quite well?”

  Grace tried to swallow, but her throat would not open, so she simply nodded.

  “What was it?” Fear and nervous anticipation filled Mrs. Hausman’s voice. “Was it a manifestation? A message? Is something wrong? Was my father …?”

  “No, no, this was not your father.” Grace shook her head and tried to gather her wits so she could make up a plausible story. The truth would not do. “When one travels on the ethereal planes, one occasionally meets with mischievous entities. Nothing truly malevolent, you understand.” She touched Mrs. Hausman’s sleeve reassuringly. Her comfortable patter drew her back to herself. “There is no danger in the work we do, but such encounters can be distracting, and occasionally the results can be dramatic.” She pressed the back of her hand against her forehead and her cheeks, just for show. She could already feel the alarm draining from her. “I am sorry if you were unduly startled.”

  “Oh, not at all, not at all,” said Mrs. Hausman breathlessly. She clasped her own hands in front of her, fear replaced by excitement as she realized she had witnessed a significant spiritual event. Grace suppressed the weary, ironic smile that threatened to form. She’d be the talk of the better front parlors for a month. Again.

  “I am sorry that we didn’t reach your father today, Mrs. Hausman.” Grace dropped back into her chair and assumed a further air of exhaustion. “If you were to come back tomorrow at this same time, I’m certain we would have better success.” At least I hope we will.

  “Yes, yes, of course.” Mrs. Hausman fumbled with her purse, snapping the catch and pulling out a dollar gold piece.

  Grace let Mrs. Hausman lay the coin on the table before she demurred. “Oh, no, I couldn’t. Not when you’re leaving without answers …”

  “I insist.” Mrs. Hausman stood as if the gesture would add extra force to her statement. “Now, I must let you rest. Do not trouble yourself.” She waved at Grace to stay where she was. “I can find my way.”

  Do not trouble yourself. Why is that always said by the ones who bring the trouble? Grace did stay as she was, pushed up straight in her armchair while Mrs. Hausman retrieved her coat and saw herself out. The door closed and she was alone again.

  Except for the dead one who is here with me.

  She took the dollar piece over to her sideboard and locked it in the top drawer. Then she pushed open the shutters to let the daylight back in. For a while she just stood where she was, staring out through her pink gauze curtains at the shadows of the street below, one hand resting on the chipped wood of the sideboard. Fronds of frost framed the view of the winter street. The wind blew in harsh gusts down Second Street, causing men to clutch their hats to their heads and women to tighten their grips on their shawls and coats. A faint draft worked its way under the window sash to chill the back of her hand. People came and went from the apothecary’s shop below. She could hear the door opening, and the steps of shoes and boots on the bare wooden floor. Yet here she stood, apart from it all, alone with her dollar piece and a head full of things she did not want to think about.

  Grace was used to seeing ghosts. It wasn’t every day. Sometimes she could go up to a week without them. Then, suddenly, they’d be filling the streets—men, women, children, whites, blacks, reds. They were cold and translucent. Sometimes, they touched her, and when they did, she saw the future, or the past, so
metimes the long past. On her ghost days, she could even call up real visions in the crystal ball if she wanted to. Which she did not.

  But she had never before heard a voice without seeing a form to go with it, and none of those voices had ever called her by name. Not since … not since the first one. The one who’d tried to take her life to keep himself warm.

  This voice was not his, though. Even after all these years, she still heard that voice in her dreams and she knew it intimately. “Is it you, Ingrid?” she whispered to the winter windowpane. “After all these years, is it finally you?” Do you come to me now that your daughter Bridget is in the same trouble you got yourself into?

  What if it wasn’t Ingrid? What if it was Bridget who called her? Had Bridget died so soon?

  Should I have tried harder to keep her here?

  Grace touched her frosted window. The ice melted under her fingers, leaving them damp and tingling. She had only two choices—wait for the voice to come again, or go in search of it. She let her hand linger against the glass, using the cold as an anchor to the real world, the practical and the hard. She had learned to make and live with difficult decisions long ago.

  It had been almost thirty years. Thirty years of watching Bridget grow up, tall and distant. Thirty years of not being able to go to her, to tell her about Ingrid, because the ladies of the town from whom Grace made her living would look askance at such a thing. Bridget was illegitimate, which was reason enough for the disapproval of the respectable. Later, Bridget was brought to trial under suspicion of having murdered her own illegitimate daughter. This made it twice as impossible for Grace to speak with her niece. Bridget did not understand the difficulty, and Grace was sorry for that, but there was nothing she could do. It was not only inside her parlor that appearances mattered. Grace had learned that lesson slow and hard.

  She glanced back at her chair. It would not do to attempt to seek out a real contact here. Anyone might walk in. Her clients would only accept her as long as her eccentricity had carefully defined limits. Those who came to her did not want to know what “the spirits” really had to say. Not one of them had ever been touched by a cold, desperate ghost, nor did they want to know that Grace had. They wanted nothing to do with true second sight. She knew that all too well from Bridget’s example. As if her bastardy hadn’t been enough, nature had cursed Bridget with visions of the future. Her inability to keep quiet about what she saw had set her even farther apart.