Sword- Part Two Page 4

  ‘Have you ever been in love?’ My words flew like stones against a windscreen, radiating cracks. They ricocheted in the stillness of the hallway against the walls, the ceiling, the floor, leaving me shamed.

  There followed a lengthy moment of silence.

  ‘Yes,’ Barak finally said, his voice restrained. There was a flash of some indefinable emotion in his hooded eyes. ‘I have. But it was a long time ago. Another world.’

  Somehow, I had sensed this. And felt his loss. I nodded, unsurprised.

  ‘It was so long ago, I barely remember.’ He smiled ruefully as he told me a white lie. ‘It’s like experiencing a phantom limb. Sometimes I can still feel that it’s attached. Sometimes I can still feel the pain. But the limb was amputated long ago.’

  I shivered. Carrying loss around for so long was unimaginable to me.

  ‘Is it “better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all?”’ I asked inaudibly.

  He barely hesitated. ‘I can’t tell you. But once you have loved and lost, it’s impossible to go back or forget.’

  We walked to the front door, collecting my jacket on the way, and outside into the spring sunshine. It was brighter out here than in the house and I squinted into the glare with eyes red-rimmed and stinging from crying. Unnoticed, Fi stepped back from the gate and slipped away some distance down the street, giving me room and time to make my goodbyes.

  I hesitated.

  ‘St. John is being poisoned by Belladonna. He’s dying – or, at least, the part that makes him St. John is dying,’ I blurted out of the blue.

  He just nodded in response.

  ‘And you? How are you, Wise One?’ he asked, his handsome dark face expressing his concern.

  I shrugged half-heartedly, not knowing how to answer. ‘I’m ... still alive.’

  Barak smiled, displaying straight, white teeth which seemed to catch the sunlight. ‘Then there is still hope. Do not give up on Elijah.’

  I started in alarm. Then I realised Barak must have meant St. John and not St. John’s father, referring to him in the same manner as Père Henri. But with Barak’s wise words, I suddenly recalled Finn’s cautionings ... and knew what I had to do.

  AN AWKWARD AFFAIR

  CHAPTER THREE

  It was around lunchtime when we made it back to the Manor House.

  Fi propelled the motorcycle round the corner fast, coming off the motorway and dropped back to the speed limit on entering suburbia. She seemed to be concentrating hard on controlling the beast under us as the Ducati suddenly felt heavy and clunky and not quite as smooth a ride as when we were on the motorway – which I guessed was part of the thrill when the biker could experience such freedom at speed.

  Slipping through the front gates to glide down the circular driveway towards the rear of the house, the rumble of the bike’s engine broke the solemn stillness of a lazy Sunday afternoon. We cruised past the disused outbuildings and Indy’s kennel to sidle up to the side of Mum’s studio and I sighed deeply at the familiar sight of the encroaching wasteland that Mum hoped to landscape, believing it to have been caused by the freak electrical storms this area had been experiencing of late. Luckily, the damage was covered by insurance. But I could have told her that nothing would grow on this barren and infertile land ever again and she was wasting her efforts in trying to restore order to it – though I also knew that synthetic grass wasn’t quite Mum’s style or what she considered best for the environment and she wouldn’t consider using it.

  The Ducati was hidden from view and it seemed as if we hadn’t called as much attention to our entrance as the last time I had been on the back of this beast fleeing from the demons at Satis House. Looking up, I thought I caught a glimpse of the Anakim guardians keeping watch on my family and the house in the distance through the tunnel vision of my visor – a constant, vigilant presence though mainly keeping out of sight. I gathered that their decision to reveal themselves to us was meant to reassure Fi and me that my family was under their increased protection since the attack.

  Fi hooked out the kickstand and I took off the annoying helmet which had served its purpose and handed it over to my sister with a word of thanks. Without the helmet, the world took on distinct dimensions and I was able to recover my muted senses.

  The powerful and enticing aroma of Sunday roast lamb and Mum’s asparagus custard tart wafting from the open kitchen window reminded me that I hadn’t eaten anything at all that day. Fi must have been thinking the same thing as she made a comment about taking a quick shower before joining the family for Sunday lunch. I agreed – there was no way I could enter the Manor House and turn up at the dining table looking for all the world as if I’d had an all-night bender and was now making the walk of shame.

  Thankfully, Lady Luck was on our side.

  Managing to creep up the backstairs unnoticed, avoiding the squeaky fifth step, I was able to shuck off the designer dress – and hope the dry cleaner might be able to salvage it from being placed in a charity bin – and throw myself under a much needed shower. Fifteen minutes later, I emerged from the bathroom freshly scrubbed and revitalised. Grabbing the first hanger that came to hand out of my wardrobe, I donned a pretty floral dress that hadn’t seen the light of day in over eighteen months – which flowed to mid-calf, covering most of my cuts and scrapes – and teemed it with a silk scarf to hide any bruising around my throat – though I couldn’t find any evidence of the Fravashi’s fingermarks – and a pair of slingback flats. After brushing my hair back into a ponytail and dabbing on a little lip gloss, I made my way downstairs to the dining room.

  I hadn’t even made it through the door when Jasmine, dressed in her Sunday best, cried out, ‘Happy Easter! We waited for you!’ and I realised that I’d forgotten all about it being Easter Day.

  How could I have forgotten with the Ostara Festival so prominent in my mind all week? How could I have been oblivious to the paper cutouts of bunny rabbits and Easter eggs that Jasmine and Alex had crafted at school which were proudly displayed on the refrigerator? How could I have ignored the dyed hard boiled eggs that Mum had taken such trouble to decorate as she did every year? Where had I been?

  But, of course, I knew the answer to that.

  My conscience whispered to me that I shouldn’t forget about my family and our traditions just because I was the Wise One – and, plastering a smile on my face that wasn’t completely insincere nor guilt-ridden, I made my way over to the table where all the members of my family, including Fi, were already gathered.

  As usual, Mum had cooked up a feast that could feed an entire regiment – roasted salmon and spring onions with mint caper pesto, apricot bourbon glazed ham, slow cooked lamb with lemon and oregano, caramelised fingerling potatoes, peas and carrots, and asparagus custard tart. Taking my seat, I let the animated conversation flow around me as I flicked out my napkin onto my lap and Dad began pouring the wine. I was just about to make a comment on the beautifully laid out table when the doorbell’s heavy chime made me jump in my seat.

  ‘Well, who on earth can that be?’ My dad asked, his tone slightly exasperated at this unwelcome intrusion, as Indy immediately began an overexcited barking and spurted towards the front door from where he had been begging for food from the one person he knew to be a soft touch, my sister Jasmine.

  ‘Just answer the door, dear.’ was all that Mum serenely replied and, though his brows contracted in confusion behind steel-rimmed glasses, Dad did as he was told.

  Secretly, beyond all reason, I was hoping it was St. John.

  St. John, my beloved, my own, whom I had last seen in the arms of that bitch, Isabella Donnatelli. I clamped down hard on that thought, refusing to succumb to grief and anger.

  But a few moments later we could hear the familiar silky accented voice of Gabriel and the welcoming geniality of my father flowing down the hallway. My heart rate wildly accelerated and my palms were suddenly clammy as I felt equal parts relief that Gabriel was unharmed by the Fravashi, somehow managing
to get away, and dread for St. John, recalling all my worst fears.

  Squirming unnoticed in my chair, I damped down all thoughts of the past twelve hours in order to behave normally and have a pleasant meal with my family on this festive occasion, trying hard to ignore the fact that St. John was absent. And seated across from me, I could see that Fi felt almost exactly the same, as she quickly masked her feelings behind a façade of happiness.

  Our efforts must by some means have been working. Even Jasmine, who was probably the most sensitive to the moods of others, failed to notice the odd vibes emanating from her big sisters as she was consumed by curiosity at Gabriel’s arrival. And, as the two men entered the dining room, Gabriel effusively called out greetings to all.

  ‘Bonjour mes enfants!’ he cried out to my siblings, sporting an attractive grin, as he bore in his arms the largest Lindt gold bunny I had ever seen, which brought forth an ecstatic chorus of exclamations from Alex and Jasmine. Behind him, Dad, in a somewhat bemused state, carried what looked to be a large basket filled with French wines, soft cheeses, fresh fruits and freshly baked breads. ‘I hope I am not intruding, Rose. You did mention that if I was – how did you put it? – at a loose end, to drop by for lunch. Euf. It seems that I have, most fortuitously, found myself at a loose end since my brother is away.’

  Gabriel was able to charm the birds out of the sky with his refined Gallic manners and elegance, and my mother was not immune, simpering like a sixteen-year-old schoolgirl with a crush.

  ‘Of course you’re welcome to join us! You know that you’re family, Gabriel! After all, not only are you St. John’s brother, you’ve given Safie a job and you were kind enough to take care of the kids when I was in hospital, so you of all people don’t need an excuse to come visit ... anytime! And just what is this? You’re spoiling us! You shouldn’t have brought anything–’

  Looking to Fi as Mum replied, I saw her roll her eyes in disbelief and disgust and I could barely suppress a gurgle of laughter. It was a struggle I gave up on after Mum decided to rearrange the seating and place Gabriel right next to Fi on her right, in an obvious attempt to throw them together.

  This was made clear to everyone present when Mum tactlessly pried, ‘So ... is your girlfriend busy over Easter too? I suppose there’s some fashion show in Paris or New York or Milan that she might need to attend ...?’ Fi was making signals with her hands to get Mum to quit it and her horrified expression was priceless. But Mum blissfully ignored her and continued, ‘It must be nice to date a designer ...’

  Gabriel’s brows puckered in astonishment. ‘Tiens! I am no longer seeing Vianne.’

  Now it was my mother’s turn to raise her eyebrows.

  ‘Oh-h-h.’ Her response came out on a single long note – not quite a question, not quite an expression of surprise, but something in between that held curiosity and speculation. I could already see the cogs in her head turning, making plans, designing the future – and if I could see it, so could Fi.

  ‘Yeah, well, she was a real piece of work. You’re better off without her,’ Fi muttered under her breath with an undertone of animosity.

  ‘Safie!’ Mum chastised my sister for being rude.

  Gabriel leant back in his chair and said nothing, his fair eyebrows higher than usual and a smirk dimpling his face.

  ‘Say what you like, but she’s high maintenance. She was only dating Gabriel because he’s a wealthy banker,’ Fi snapped, turning to the rest of the family, her hazel eyes sparking defensively. ‘Don’t worry, she didn’t like me much either. So it’s a good thing Gabriel broke up with her because I can’t imagine Vianne as part of our family.’

  Fi used Mum’s own words of a moment earlier deliberately and seemed about to say a whole lot more when Jasmine interrupted her with a precocious toss of her honey-coloured curls.

  My youngest sister’s childish voice, high-pitched and earnest, cut in, ‘Gabriel wouldn’t have married her anyway because he’s marrying me! He’s just waiting for me to grow up!’

  At her adamant declaration, we burst into laughter and the tension in the room dispersed – but throughout the rest of the afternoon, I caught my mother’s assessing, speculative eye on the prickly couple and I was seriously hoping she would not interfere in my sister’s “complicated” love life.

  Lunch then proceeded convivially – Dad proposed a toast translated from some ancient Viking saga, followed by Gabriel’s ‘Salut!’, and Jasmine’s demand that he say grace because he was an angel and had to bless our Easter meal, which Fi took great delight in teasing him about and getting her own back. And, hours later, we were still seated at the dining table which was enough to have Alex almost in tears, demanding to start the Easter egg hunt before it was too late; fearing that Mum would insist upon clearing the table and Indy would sneak out to eat all the eggs – which, in turn, got Jasmine upset because chocolate was poison to dogs.

  And that immediately brought to the fore all my suppressed woes, reminding me – as if I could ever forget – of St. John’s poisoning and subsequent deterioration, and absence from this family gathering when he should have been here with us. With me. And it was then, most uncharacteristic for me, I opened my mouth and out flew the words without me even thinking it through first, uttering the most terrible falsehoods, and disregarding anyone’s feelings on the matter.

  ‘Are we doing anything next week?’ I asked my parents, ‘Because you know that St. John went to Italy to meet up with his father and I thought I’d like to surprise him as I’m still on sick leave at the museum. It’ll only be for a few days. And Gabriel has kindly offered to escort us there – I mean, both Fi and me.’

  ‘And me too?’ asked a buoyant Jasmine; the only member of my family to unreservedly accept this news.

  ‘No. Just Fi and me.’ My tone was unequivocal and depressed any hopes my little sister may have had in coming to Italy with us, even though it was her school holidays.

  It did not even occur to me that my father might know of St. John’s most recent return to London; I just stormed on with my fairy tale. To his credit, Gabriel did not prove me a liar or give me away to my parents, unlike Fi who almost fell off her chair in surprise.

  ‘Oui, oui, oui. Bien sûr. It would be my pleasure to escort these two lovely ladies to Rome,’ Gabriel effused disingenuously, ‘and they are welcome to stay at the guest suite we have permanently reserved for ITB clients at the Hotel Eden.’ He looked about him, assessing the situation with my parents. ‘At the bank’s expense, of course. After all, Saffron is now a hard-working ITB employee. And while she is there, I shall give her a tour of the facilities and introduce her to our branch staff in Rome. Perhaps I can even put her to some use in our Mergers and Acquisitions department.’

  ‘Why don’t you just lock me in a vault? It’ll be as much fun,’ Fi muttered under her breath.

  My mother frowned. Pretending to concentrate on clearing the dinner plates – the very thing Alex feared she would do – she said, ‘I’m not certain that’s a good idea right now. There have been too many attacks upon museum employees recently. It might be dangerous to travel under the circumstances ...’

  ‘I completely understand, Rose, but I can assure you that Sage and Saffron’s safety will be my top priority,’ Gabriel said, in his most respectful voice. ‘We often have high profile clients – royalty, celebrities, politicians – that we need to make special arrangements for, given their circumstances. Additional chaperones and bodyguards can easily be arranged when they are not at ITB or the hotel.’

  Mum frowned more deeply still. ‘I don’t know. What do you think, Robert? The girls are still only seventeen. I saw that film, Taken, and since these attacks began – no offence, Gabriel, I’m certain you mean to do the right thing, but I was a teenager once myself and you can’t monitor the girls all the time – it’s probably better–’

  I had not been expecting this overprotective and pessimistic attitude from my avant-garde mother. Of all people. Not in the least.

&nb
sp; ‘Mum! What are you saying?’

  Even Fi protested. ‘Are you kidding me? Seriously? That’s just a movie, Mum! It’s not real life! Neither of us are going to be kidnapped and sold as sex slaves! And it was filmed in Paris, not Rome! And as cute as you think Liam Neeson is–’

  I wanted to scream. Not helping, Fi!

  A torrent of words came pouring out. ‘Dad? Jump in anytime! Tell Mum, why don’t you? Can’t you convince her to stop overreacting? I don’t believe it! You don’t trust me? You wouldn’t let me stay in Sydney for university and now this. I’m turning eighteen in less than a month – I’m not a child anymore and I’m even engaged. It’s about time you started trusting me to live my own life.’

  ‘Safie. Sage,’ my father warned, ‘you’ll be amongst strangers–’

  ‘Honey, it’s not about trusting you!’ my mother protested, overriding Dad’s statements. ‘It’s about your safety–’

  ‘We’ve been amongst strangers most of our lives! You didn’t seem to consider our safety then! How many cities have we lived in? How many foreign countries and digs have we been to? How many new schools? And houses?’ Fi threw down her napkin, pushing back her chair in anger. ‘And now you’re worried that we might be attacked when travelling abroad?’

  ‘Safie!’ My father’s voice cracked like a whip sharply across the table. ‘That’s enough!’

  Fury seemed to burst from her – all the pent up resentment and anger at our parents’ unconventional lifestyle which had led to her eating disorder. ‘You’re right! It isn’t like you’ve been to Iraq in the middle of a bloody war! I’m tired of the hypocrisy! I’ve had enough!’

  Sucking in a deep breath, I didn’t know how the conversation had so quickly spiralled out of control. There was total silence at the table.

  Jasmine looked like she might cry, seeking comfort by silently stroking Indy’s fur where he sat with his head on her lap under the table. And Alex dug into what was left of his chocolate lava cake, eyes lowered to the plate, pretending we weren’t there as the best response to a volatile situation.