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“You’ve spoken to Edwin?” Jilo asked. From what she’d gleaned from Binah’s letters, Edwin had been out of touch with all of the Taylors.
“Of course,” she said, “he was here in February, for the drawing of lots. He didn’t have a choice. Family schism or no, the line won’t be denied. Of course,” she continued, as if Jilo had the slightest clue what she meant, “he didn’t remain for the investment ceremony.” Again she turned inward, “I wish he would have. I could have used his support.”
“And Binah?” Jilo couldn’t believe her brother-in-law could have come and gone without even a word. And Binah hadn’t mentioned Edwin’s visit in any of her letters. It was almost like she had been ignorant of her husband’s travels.
Jilo didn’t care whether it was fair or not. She let herself wonder if a visit from Edwin might have somehow changed the course of events. Maybe her son wouldn’t have been left without a father if Edwin had popped by, even for an hour, to spend time with his great friend, Guy. Maybe he could have somehow anticipate
d that fool Maguire’s machinations.
Ginny seemed almost surprised at the mention of Binah’s name. “Oh, no, she remained abroad. It wouldn’t have been appropriate for her to come,” she said, not bothering to justify the claim. Binah was Edwin’s wife. How could her presence at this gathering be inappropriate? Inconvenient, that was more like it, Jilo reckoned. “Besides, Edwin was only here for the day, and he didn’t travel by . . .” She paused, seeming to search for the right word. “. . . conventional means. I’m sorry”—her tone suggested she wanted to change topics—“but I can’t stay long, and I do want to answer your questions, as best I can. May we sit?”
Jilo cast an eye to the sofa covered with the toys Tinker had insisted on bringing for Robinson, and the battered chair whose gravity she’d barely escaped. “Of course,” she said, “come through to the kitchen. I’ll make coffee . . .” She choked on the word. She hadn’t even considered brewing a pot since Guy’s passing. “If you’d like.”
“Yes,” Ginny said. “Let’s settle wherever you’re most comfortable. But no need to play hostess. Lead the way.” There wasn’t much way to lead, but Jilo directed Ginny down the hall to her kitchen. “Truth is,” Ginny said as they entered the room, “I’ve never been much of one for coffee. Always preferred chicory myself.”
For a moment, Jilo felt an odd and unexpected sense of comradery with this woman. “I could—” she began, but Ginny held up a hand.
“No, please, I don’t want to be a bother. And our time is short.”
Jilo motioned to a chair at the table. “Have a seat.” Tinker had offered to replace the furniture, but these battered pieces had once belonged to her nana, and Jilo found it too difficult to part with them, even though she was tormented by the knowledge of her nana’s deceptions. Willy had cleaned the soiled table set, scrubbing it with bleach water and a wire brush before painting it with a fresh coat of lime-green enamel. Jilo had told him he could choose the color. He’d been so proud of his efforts, Jilo found herself proud of them, too.
Ginny placed her hand on the back of a chair and froze. “I’m sorry.” She jerked her hand away. “I can’t.” She traced a finger along the top of the backrest. “I can still sense them.” She looked up. “Yes, the bodies, but the forces that were connected to them, too. I can’t risk letting myself come under their influence.”
Jilo nodded. Perhaps she should let go of the pieces. Commit them to flames.
“I’ve asked about these entities,” Ginny said, “at least as freely as I can without arousing the suspicion of the others. All I’ve learned is that there isn’t much to learn. They’ve been around seemingly forever, lurking in the periphery. The one thing every source and contact I’ve found agrees upon is that they are tricksters, and tricksters are always dangerous, regardless of what their intentions might be.” Her tone turned sharp. “You do not want . . . we do not want anyone to learn you have been in contact with them, let alone that they have taken an interest in you. The Red King, your fellow in the top hat, is the most notorious of the quartet. He draws his energies from all—animal and human—who die through mishap or murder. He’s been giving his mark to those who kill for him as far back as anyone remembers. I wouldn’t be surprised if the story of Cain and the mark placed on him was a remembrance of an early pact between this king and a man seeking magic.
“This one. The one who sat here,” Ginny focused on an invisible point inches from her nose. “He calls himself the White King. He feeds from the leftover energies of those who take their own lives. He is the youngest. And the most loathsome.”
“He made himself look like me.”
“Of course, he would. The better to distort your true self.” Ginny’s eyes traced a path around the table. “The others. They, too, call themselves kings. The Yellow King, he was your fellow with the paper-thin skin, the Black King, your shadow. Like their brothers, they feed from the residual energy we leave behind when we die. It’s a bit like Jack Spratt, though; each can reputedly only digest the energies left by a particular type of death. Our ‘friend’ the White King would choke on the leftovers of a murder victim.”
“The bastard should choke.” Jilo felt her bile rise at the memory of his presence.
“Indeed,” Ginny said. “But as real as they may have seemed to you, they’re only doorways, portals to your Beekeeper, the source of this world’s first magic. Now, the Beekeeper, she is the stuff of legends among my kind.”
“Your kind?”
Ginny’s head tilted to the side. “Oh really, Jilo, by now you must have guessed. We’re witches, my brother and I, though your understanding of the word is without a doubt vastly different from its true meaning. I don’t mean to sound condescending when I say that. There are only a handful of those not of our kind who even know we exist. Even fewer know of our influence. The knowledge of how we came to be, well, that information is jealously guarded, even among witches. As a matter of fact, it was a bit above my own pay grade until Uncle Finnian’s passing.”
“Edwin is a witch?” This was the one point that stuck with Jilo.
“Yes, though Father has seen to it that his power has been greatly curtailed since he took off with Binah. My little brother has given up much more than you can guess for love.” She smiled. “But I suspect your sister’s love is worth any cost.” The smile drained away as quickly as it had arisen. “Listen, I need to be sure you have understood me regarding the Beekeeper. No one”—she pointed to Jilo as if she were reprimanding a child—“no one can learn of your connection to this force.” She lowered her hand, nearly placing it on the top rail of the chair before snatching it back. Stepping away from the table, she crossed her arms over her chest. “There are those who won’t judge you in terms of innocence and guilt. They’ll only see you as harmless or a threat. And you’ve been touched by a force we witches don’t understand. Witches are, in spite of our powers, still human, and humans tend to fear what we don’t understand.”
“But you don’t understand, and you don’t fear me.”
“No, I don’t fear you, but I fear for you. For a multitude of reasons.” She lowered her arms. “Now, I’ve answered your questions. I have one of my own for you.”
Jilo bit her lip, waiting to see where this was heading.
“The man, the one you’re trying not to think of, the one you don’t want me to know about,” she reached out and took Jilo’s hand. “Who was he?”
Jilo yanked back her hand and lowered her eyes.
“I know who he was already. Perhaps even better than you do. I just want to hear it from your own lips.”
Too much. Too much. Jilo began trembling.
