Spirit Read online

  Was this the same person she used to loathe? Okay, they had established that he didn’t hate her, but was he actually actively protecting her?

  “Grazie,” she murmured, and Alvise gazed at her. Their faces were very close, and suddenly in Alvise’s eyes she looked very young and very vulnerable. Like a dark-haired, olive-skinned version of his own sister.

  Something stirred in the darkness not far from them, a tall, wide-shouldered shape silhouetted against the starry sky: Nicholas. They watched him trail off and disappear into the night. Even in the darkness Micol could feel his black aura. She shivered.

  “What is he up to?” she whispered.

  “God knows. Micol . . .” Alvise began, and then he buried his hands underneath his jacket. He fumbled around a bit, took something from one of the pockets, and slipped it into her hand. “This is for you.”

  She opened her palm. At first she couldn’t make out what it was, but then she realised it was the golden brooch he wore as a symbol of his family. It was shaped like a lion crowned with flames.

  “Why?” she breathed.

  “I know you hate the Vendramin, but you have nobody left. So this is my offer. To be one of us.”

  You have nobody left. Alvise’s words stung, but they were true.

  She was alone in the world.

  “Thank you, but I can’t be one of you. I can never be anything but a Falco.” Alvise bowed his head. “But I’d love to be a protetta of the Vendramin.” Protetta was the Italian word that signified a charge, a foster child entrusted to a Secret Family. The Secret equivalent of an adoption.

  “You’ll be our protetta. You might not be our blood, but you’re like our own, Micol Falco,” he said solemnly. Back home there would have been a ceremony – but here in Shadow World, words whispered in the night had to do.

  “I am like your own, Alvise Vendramin,” she responded.

  Alvise nodded and fastened the brooch to her coat.

  Maybe she wasn’t completely alone after all, Micol allowed herself to think.

  “And by the way, I heard it’s your birthday. It’s a good age, to be sixteen,” said Alvise with a smile.

  “Oh, yes. My life is just great.”

  “Mmmm. I take it back. I suppose when I was sixteen my mother died. Not the happiest of times either. You don’t look sixteen, anyway. Thirteen at most,” he added, and spoiled the moment.

  “You’re a pain, Alvise.”

  Alvise laughed. “Happy birthday, Micol.”

  25

  The Message

  We found so many ways to speak

  and still

  We cannot touch

  Winter spent most of her days in Lucrezia’s room. Often Conte Vendramin sat with her, and they had long conversations about the Secret Families. They were learning much from each other and developing an unlikely friendship, strengthened by a common bond: both had someone whom they loved dearly lost in the Shadow World. Often they discussed whether to ask Lucrezia to try to contact Alvise and Niall, or wait until Lucrezia decided it was time.

  “She decides what to tell us and when,” Conte Vendramin explained again. “It’s like she can speak to us, or something speaks through her, but she doesn’t really take in what we say unless it’s information important to her task: the hunt or otherwise. It’s hard to explain unless you’ve observed her behaviour for as long as we have.”

  “I think I understand. But we can always try. The worst that can happen is that she ignores us,” Winter replied. “We wouldn’t be forcing her or upsetting her, surely?”

  “No, of course not. E va bene. Let’s try.” Conte Vendramin’s eyes were anxious. Winter could see he was beside himself with worry for Alvise, the heir of the Vendramin Family, and for what Lucrezia might reveal to them if she decided it was time. With Lucrezia in such a state, Alvise was Conte Vendramin’s only hope to keep the family going. Without Alvise, Vendramin would have no one left.

  “They’ll be okay,” she reassured him.

  Vendramin smiled faintly. “Si. He’ll be fine.”

  Now there they were, in the gilded room, breathing in lilies and decay. Lucrezia was whispering nonsense, words they couldn’t understand. Because of the incredible acoustics of the palazzo, sometimes Winter could hear her whispering at night, and it broke her heart to know that the poor girl had no rest. As horrible as it was to listen to, Winter had become used to Lucrezia’s babble. It had transformed into a strange lullaby for her.

  She sat on Lucrezia’s bed softly, carefully. She brushed Lucrezia’s hair away from her forehead, and then clasped her own hands on the sleeping girl’s.

  Leaning close, she whispered, “Lucrezia. Please. Tell us if Alvise and Niall are alive. If you can speak to them, let Niall know I’m okay.” Winter squeezed the girl’s hand, cold against her warm seal skin.

  Lucrezia showed no signs of hearing what Winter had said; she continued her constant whispering.

  “Tell him . . . tell him I’ll see him soon,” Winter continued. She didn’t know if she believed those words herself – Niall was in so much danger – but she had to hope.

  Yes, she had to hope.

  “Please tell him that we’ll be in the sea together soon,” she whispered, embarrassed that Conte Vendramin should hear such private words, but if there was a way to communicate this to him, she wanted Niall to know what was on her mind . . . and be comforted by that.

  “Tell Alvise we think of him all the time. That we are so proud of him,” Conte Vendramin interjected. “That we—”

  Suddenly, he was interrupted by a strangled sound coming from Lucrezia’s throat. Lucrezia squeezed Winter’s hand so tight it hurt. Her whispering became a torrent of words in a language Winter didn’t recognise. Then, she began to speak in English.

  “Winter is here. She is safe,” Lucrezia said clearly, then paused. “Palazzo Vendramin. She’s safe and well. I have a message for Alvise. I tried to reach him but you are the only Dreamer among them strong enough to hear me. Tell him his father is proud of him. Tell him his sister is proud of him too,” she said, speaking of herself in the third person. She paused for a moment, then: “Winter wants you to give a message to Niall. She says she’ll be seeing him soon. That they’ll be swimming in the sea soon.”

  A soft sob escaped Winter’s lips.

  Lucrezia was silent for a moment, and then she spoke again. “Listen to me, Sarah. I saw your path. Your destiny is preparing. You must be ready . . . Oh . . .”

  Winter jerked her head towards Conte Vendramin. He was listening intently.

  Suddenly, Lucrezia seemed upset. “No! Lasciami andare!” She began to toss her head back and forth across the pillow, as if she were in pain. “He wants you. He needs you, Sarah. Don’t let him take you!” She yelped, and then grew still.

  “Lucrezia! Figlia mia!” Vendramin kneeled at her side and took her by the shoulders.

  Lucrezia was screaming, shouting, begging. “Sarah! Listen for me! I’ll return—” She took a sharp, ragged breath and stopped breathing altogether. Her face began to turn blue.

  “What’s happening?” Winter asked the count.

  “I don’t know!” came his reply. “This has never happened before. Lucrezia!” Conte Vendramin called again. The sharp clicking of heels on the floor announced Cosima’s arrival. She barged into the room.

  “Lucrezia! Stella mia!” she cried, joining Winter and the count at Lucrezia’s bed. She wasn’t breathing – she was purple – and then, slowly, she returned to breathing normally. Her hands were twitching and her whispering frantic.

  “Is she right? Mio Dio. You right, stella mia?” Cosima’s English was very broken. Lucrezia was still, whiter than before, but breathing. Conte Vendramin rested his head on her chest to check her heartbeat. It was feeble, but it was there.

  “She spoke to Sarah Midnight. She was trying to tell her something, but something happened. She was interrupted,” he murmured.

  “She gave her our messages, though,” said Winter. �
��Does that mean that both Niall and Alvise are alive?”

  “I don’t know. We won’t know until she tells us herself.” He pressed his daughter’s shoulder. “Is Alvise all right? And Niall? Are they alive?” Vendramin asked in vain.

  But Lucrezia’s eyes were closed. She was drained, and said no more.

  26

  Voice of the Seal

  I call you every night

  In my dreams

  Little yellow lights danced before Sarah’s eyes, her cheek resting on soft moss; the lights’ cheerful dance was surreal in the night of the Shadow World, tight and tense with danger. Sarah felt a small ripple of joy, and it was weird, like that feeling could not possibly belong to her. It couldn’t be her, smiling in the darkness, the ghost of a smile that danced on her lips for a few seconds only, but still it happened. A strange sense of peace filled her, coming from somewhere inside her, a place she had forgotten. Images of Sean danced before her closed eyes, the scent of him, the feeling of his arms around her, his lips on hers, as she drifted into sleep.

  A voice resounded in her mind at once, a voice she didn’t know. Words in a foreign tongue, and then in the Ancient language. The voice began calling her, and Sarah’s heart sank even in her sleep – she had wanted that moment of peace to last forever, and not turn into another brutal dream. She whimpered in the darkness.

  “Sarah Midnight,” called the voice, and Sarah found herself standing in a room flooded with golden light, white silk curtains floating around a window open to reveal a sun-kissed sea. It was warm, so warm, and she enjoyed the feeling – she’d been cold for what seemed like forever. There was a familiar scent in the air – the same scent as Islay.

  Seaweed, that’s what it was. Water and seaweed and the sea. And sunshine, sunshine filling her eyes and her mind and her soul.

  A shape took form in front of her – long hair, a floating dress – the shape of a girl. Her heart beat faster for a moment. She’d had a vision of her mother after her death, and in the vision Anne had her long black hair loose around her shoulders and was wearing a long nightdress. Was it her? Was her mother back to help her once more?

  “Mum?” she whispered.

  “No, I’m sorry,” said the figure, in English. She had a young voice, almost childlike. “I’m not your mother. I miss my mother too.” As soon as she finished the sentence the girl started whispering again, a stream of words in the Ancient language.

  As Sarah’s eyes adjusted to the golden light, she could make out the girl’s face, her body. Straw-coloured hair, nearly white, hung down past her shoulders, and pale-blue eyes bore into her. She wore a long, pale-blue dress in shimmering silk. Her arms were thin and white. Was she human? A ghost? She certainly wasn’t a Surari. And then her scent hit Sarah’s nostrils, stronger than the smell of the sea. Lilies, sweet and with a hint of decay, like a bunch of flowers left in the heat for too long.

  “Winter is here. She is safe,” the girl said. Her words had a strange echo, as if they were coming from far away.

  “Winter!” Sarah repeated. “What do you mean by ‘here’? Where is ‘here’?”

  “Palazzo Vendramin. She’s safe and well.”

  Sarah couldn’t stop herself from smiling with relief.

  “I have a message for Alvise,” the girl continued. “I tried to reach him but you are the only Dreamer among them strong enough to hear me. Tell him his father is proud of him. Tell him his sister is proud of him too.”

  “I’ll tell him.”

  “Winter wants you to give a message to Niall. She says she’ll be seeing him soon. That they’ll be swimming in the sea soon.”

  “I’ll tell him.” The apparition nodded.

  “Listen to me, Sarah. I saw your path. Your destiny is preparing. You must be ready . . . Oh . . .”

  “What’s happening? Are you okay?” Sarah took a step towards the girl and reached out to her.

  “No! Lasciami andare!” she exclaimed, her tone pleading, and she brought her long, thin fingers to her temples. Sarah had no idea what those words meant, but she could see the girl was in distress. She extended her hands to hold the girl’s, but instead of meeting solid, warm flesh, she felt nothing. Sarah’s hands went through the girl’s body, as if she were a ghost. As if she weren’t really there.

  “He wants you. He needs you, Sarah. Don’t let him take you!” Her words were lost in a golden glare that blinded Sarah and silenced all noise.

  She woke with a jolt, opening her eyes in the night of the Shadow World, and someone was calling her name.

  “Sarah!”

  “Sean?” She blinked for a few seconds, finding herself again, and then she remembered the message she was to give. “Niall! Where is he? Niall!”

  “What . . . wait,” said Sean, and rummaged in his sleeping bag. He found his torch and switched it on, illuminating his friends’ sleeping forms until the beam of light enveloped Niall. Sarah followed the beam on her hands and knees until she was close enough to him to whisper in his ear.

  “Niall . . .”

  “Yes! Surari?” He sat upright, his dagger unsheathed at once.

  “Shhhhh! No, no attacks. I had a dream. I had to tell you! Winter is fine,” she said.

  “Winter?” he whispered.

  “A girl told me that Winter was with her in a place called . . . Vendramin? That’s Alvise’s home, isn’t it?”

  “Vendramin?” A sleepy voice beside them. Alvise. “What’s all this about?”

  “Sarah dreamt of Winter,” Niall began.

  “Not exactly. I dreamt of a girl . . .”

  Alvise stared at her in the light of the torches. “A girl? What did she look like?”

  “She had long blonde hair, like yours. She was very thin and she was whispering.”

  “Lucrezia. That’s my sister Lucrezia,” Alvise replied, his voice full of emotion. “Was she well?”

  “It seemed so to me. She told me that Winter was safe with them, that she wanted you to know,” she told Niall. Niall breathed in sharply. Sarah could see the emotions on his face, like the changing colours of a kaleidoscope – hope, relief, fear, and longing, a longing Sarah could only imagine. She and Sean were separated by a wall of belief and loyalty, but at least they were physically together.

  “She said Winter is fine?” Niall repeated slowly.

  “Yes. She wanted you to know. Lucrezia tried to reach you but she couldn’t, so she told me.”

  “Thank God!” Niall covered his face with his hands and sank back against a tree. “Thank God,” he repeated, and a muffled sob rising from between his fingers told Sarah that he was crying. Not long ago she would have been paralysed by his show of emotion and unsure what to do, but they’d been through so much together, she and Niall, and she cared about him more deeply than she could ever say, she couldn’t help throwing her arms around him, without embarrassment.

  “It’s all fine. She’s alive and well. You’ll see her soon,” she reassured him.

  Niall couldn’t speak. Alvise placed a hand on Sarah’s back. “Did she say anything else? Lucrezia?”

  Sarah freed Niall from her embrace. “Yes, actually,” she replied, and her eyes looked for Sean’s. “She said she saw my path, that my destiny is preparing and I must be ready . . . but she was . . . dragged away somehow. Yes, it felt like her mind was dragged out of mine. She couldn’t tell me anything more, but she said she’ll be back.”

  Sean’s face was tight, his forehead creased in worry. “Do you have any idea what she might have meant?”

  “No. Alvise?”

  “All I know is that my sister’s mind . . . travels. She knows a lot, she tells us a lot. She must be aware of something you need to know, Sarah. I can’t imagine what might have forced her to leave your mind. I don’t know of anyone that could do this to her. Did she say anything else? Maybe in Italian, or in the Ancient language?”

  “She whispered in the Ancient language, but the words were all jumbled up. She also spoke in Italian . . . something lik
e lasha-me andaray? Something like that?”

  “Lasciami andare,” Alvise said.

  “What does it mean?”

  “It means ‘let me go’,” a small voice piped from behind him. Micol, rubbing her eyes. “Someone stopped her from talking to you.”

  “She said she’ll be back,” Sarah whispered in the semi-darkness, the beam of the torch shining on the grass at her feet.

  Micol sighed in the darkness. “If whoever took her away today will let her.”

  27

  A Soul of Stone

  When you said you’d keep my soul safe

  You meant it would not be mine any more

  Unsteady and disoriented, the weakest he’d felt since his father used the brain fury on him, Nicholas walked a few steps away from the group, into the heart of the night. Not that it made any difference to him, as darkness was his constant companion. He used his other senses to guide him, walking with his arms extended to detect any obstacles, feeling the rough bark of the oak trees and the branches zigzagging ahead of him. He could smell the night, he could smell the frost and the trees, and the wind in the huge open sky, which he remembered covered in millions of stars – so many of them that they looked like silver dust. There were no other lights here in the Shadow World to obscure their light.

  He would never see a starry sky again. He would never see the moon again, he thought, and the realisation hit him so hard he felt like doubling over. There had been no time to grieve the loss of his sight, not with the rest of his life crumbling around him – and he was pretty sure he would not live long anyway – but every time he thought about what he’d lost, his heart bled. His father had chosen the most terrible of punishments.

  Finally he felt he was far enough from the group. He could speak with his father in his mind, but he always preferred to be alone when he did, in case something – a whisper, a grimace – gave him away. He stopped and listened for a moment. No twigs breaking, no branches swept by touch, no sound of footsteps, just the low song of the wind in the trees and the calling of night birds having a conversation on the branches above his head.