“Really, this again?” George says, and Beas shows her loyalty by poking him in the side with her stick.
“Yow,” he says, rubbing his shirt. “Don’t get sand in your eye. I just mean—?why are you so stuck on the Shakespeare thing?”
“Because she’s found every single Disappearance there . . .” Beas says proudly. “And all the Variants. And a seven-year connection—?well, really I found that one. But she might have told you earlier if you hadn’t been so quick to shut her down the first time.”
“All right, all right,” George says, throwing a stick into the catching fire. “So catch me up. You really found them all?”
I nod, and they both look at me expectantly, settling into their seats. The fire catches hot and bright, throwing shadows onto their faces.
“It started because I wanted something of my mother’s,” I tell them, remembering my last day in Gardner all those months ago. “I ended up taking this book.”
I open the cover. “She’d written all over it,” I say, showing them the pages. “She was planning to send it to someone she grew up with in Sterling. I actually found her old ring hidden here—” I slip my fingers into the fold of the back cover. That first day, I’d felt only the smooth surface of the stone. But there is something else in there now. Something I’d missed before.
My fingers graze the edges of a small folded envelope.
I fish it out.
“Go on. So what’s that?” George asks. But I don’t answer him. I see the name “Stefen Shaw” written as the sender, my own familiar Gardner address scrawled across the front.
My hands betray the smallest tremor as I open it. There are two items folded inside: a handwritten letter and a sketch page that’s old and warped with creases.
I’m vaguely aware of Beas and George coming to stand over my shoulder.
“Dear Viola—” the letter starts, and I think, Why Viola? again—?the same name Mother had used in her letter to him.
Some time has passed since your last letter, which I’ll admit has me curious. Phineas and I have been very eager to hear from you.
Well, perhaps this will inspire a response. I have a riddle for you, for old times’ sake. Something I’ve been working on, similar to the Variants. Something big. I’ll give you a hint as to what it is. Find it within the pages of “our” play.
“What does thou mean? . . . I did think, by the excellent constitution of thy leg, it was formed under the star of a galliard.”
I pause. My mother has solved the riddle. She’s scrawled next to it, Our play ? Twelfth Night. ? Missing line: Is it a world to hide virtues in?
And then she’s written: ? Virtues???
If you send me your guess, I’ll tell you if you’ve gotten it right. Maybe you could send it along with the ring you promised. Phineas is growing quite anxious for it. Just for sentimental reasons. It reminds him a great deal of our mother.
You should know, Juliet, that he isn’t well.
So please follow through on your word and send it soon. Or I can come get it in person if that would be more convenient. I could meet your family. Perhaps Phineas could even come along, too, and meet his grandchildren. Although it might not be possible with his worsening condition. I think seeing the stone would greatly help his spirits.
Very eager to put all of the past behind us. Sending the ring would go a long way. Please be in touch as soon as possible.
Your Sebastian
My eyes flit over to the drawing, which is terribly faded, as though Mother has had it for a long time.
It’s dated 6/11/1923, and it shows two birds. One is healthy, with wings stretched across the width of the page, so wide that it almost obscures the other. The half-hidden bird is cowering, and looks sickly, as though it is wasting away.
“The rarest of occurrences,” the caption reads: “the egg with two yolks. A fight to the death; in most cases, one embryo outcompetes the other, and only one survives to hatch.”
In tiny, almost illegible letters at the bottom, the same hand has written a chilling promise: “Someday you will hurt like I hurt.”
The hair on my arms prickles. This drawing of the two birds. Just like what Miles had seen in his nightmare.
“Aila?” Beas asks, putting her hand on my arm. “Are you all right?”
My mind is firing, making connections, but they’re branching off in directions so quickly that I almost can’t grasp what is right in front of me.
