Jac had felt as if he were a magnet and she were a heap of helpless slivers of iron. She’d never before met someone she was drawn to so swiftly, and her response surprised her.
She was fourteen, with raging hormones and an overactive imagination. Primed for a boy to come along and stir her up. Especially one who aesthetically fit her image of the young Greek heroes she read about in mythology classes.
Jac, like so many girls her age, was not quite sure of herself. Meeting a boy, she became self-conscious and more aware than ever that she wasn’t really pretty, not in a traditional sense. Like her mother’s, her auburn hair fell around her face in Medusa-like waves. Her neck was too long. Her nose too strong. Her eyes were green, an underwater jade, not sparkling but brooding. Jac looked old-fashioned, unlike the girls she saw on television or in the pages of magazines. Jac only recognized herself in Pre-Raphaelite paintings in the museums she visited with her mother. Found resemblances in the heavy-lidded women in nineteenth-century compositions of medieval subjects done in abundant detail and intense colors.
But Theo hadn’t looked at her as if she was out of fashion. He’d stared with curiosity. And as he did, Jac saw heat flush his cheeks that was matched on her own. Unused to feeling desire, caught off guard by it, she turned. And ran.
Jac and Theo had spent the next two weeks dancing around each other-flirting with looks but not ever really talking. They were like any two high school kids, attracted to each other but too shy to do anything about it. Except they weren’t in high school but at a psychiatric clinic in the Swiss Alps that dealt with cases of borderline personalities, schizophrenia and mood disorders.
Patients at Blixer Rath were not locked up. No one was under guard. Only young adults who were highly functional and not deemed dangerous were admitted. The patients were encouraged to make friends with each other and engage in social activities. If they were doing well and had permission during daylight hours, they were allowed to check out to take hikes, go swimming or play tennis with each other during free periods.
Romantic liaisons, however, were not allowed. Alcohol, cigarettes and recreational drugs were prohibited. Packages were inspected and contraband was removed.
Breaking one rule merited a stern talking-to. Breaking more than one meant privileges were curtailed. Theo broke all the rules. But for a long time no one but Jac knew.
He said rules made him feel like a prisoner. So instead of checking out, he’d sign into the library then leave via an open window in the back of the stacks where no one ever went. He had smuggled drugs in with him when he arrived, somehow managing to escape detection. Mostly marijuana but some more potent illegal substances. He bribed the kitchen help with exorbitant sums of money even they couldn’t resist, and had a steady supply of cigarettes and wine.
Until Theo arrived, Jac had been a model patient. She’d never even thought about breaking the rules. Once she met him, that changed. Because she’d been at Blixer Rath for several months and was trusted, her initial infractions, staying out later than curfew, didn’t alarm anyone.
Not at first.
Dear Jac,
It’s been a long time since that summer we first met. And what a strange summer it was. My biggest regret about my time at Blixer Rath has always been that I left without getting my friend’s surname or any other information about you. For years, I wanted to find you but didn’t know how. In some of my bleakest moments, I even wondered if you were real or a figment of that very confusing time.
To bring you up to date, quickly. I live on the Isle of Jersey, in my ancestral home, with two great-aunts. I own and run a local art gallery I inherited from my mother. I was happily married until six months ago. Sadly, tragically, my wife died in an accident. We were childless.
It’s been a period of unspeakable grief for me. In my search for solace, or at least a way to cope with and try to understand my unrelenting state of mourning, I turned to reading. I’ve been spending my time in the overflowing library here at Wells in Wood and at the local bookstore.
Which leads me to this letter.
It was in that store that I stumbled upon the book you’d written and learned of your work with mythology. It was a wonderful book and brought back so many memories about our summer at Blixer Rath. It also provided me with that missing clue-your last name. But even with that, I wasn’t able to find out where you live or an address. So I’m writing to you care of Malachai. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that sooner. Perhaps because my need to find you wasn’t as important then as it is now.
Two weeks ago I found a letter in a nineteenth-century book in our family library. The letter, written in 1855 by a well-educated gentleman of note, suggests there is proof here of the Druid myths you mentioned in your book.
And I have reason to believe that the drawings we did at Blixer Rath are connected to this mystery. Do you remember? The circle of rocks? Impossibly, this gentleman drew a very similar circle in his letter.
And so… this invitation. Would you like to come to Jersey and help me search for the proof? It would-
Four
“Are you all right?”
Jac looked up, jarred out of the letter.
Malachai stood in the doorway. In his trousers, silk dressing gown and velvet house slippers, he looked elegant. Not at all like he’d been sleeping in an armchair.
“I woke up,” he said, “and you were gone.”
Jac nodded. “I… I couldn’t sleep.”
There was no reason to mention the cramps. If he were a medical doctor maybe… but even then probably not. She hadn’t been far enough along to require immediate medical attention unless she was bleeding excessively. And she wasn’t. Forcing herself, she put it out of her mind. There was time enough to deal with it when she was alone again. Now she had to find out about the letter from Theo.
Looking at her mug, then at the decanter of brandy pulled out of line on the bar, he asked, “Do you mind if I join you?”
“Of course not.”
Malachai always spoke in an oddly formal manner, and while it was unusual, it was also reassuring. His old-fashioned ways comforted her. Reminded her of her grandfather, who was responsible for both her name and her love of books. When she was born, he’d brought Jac’s mother a large bouquet of freshly picked hyacinth. Audrey had been so taken with the flower’s scent-one of the few that couldn’t be extracted for perfume-she’d borrowed its name for her daughter. Jacinthe, French for “hyacinth.”
Malachai poured an inch of the amber liquid into a crystal glass and sat down on the other side of his desk, facing her.
“Now I think the house was built for nights like this, but when I stayed here as a child, storms at night scared me. There are tombs beneath the foundation and I was obsessed with the image of the rain loosening the dirt and letting the dead escape,” Malachai said.
Jac had been ready to confront him about the letter but was too curious not to ask whose tombs.
“Family crypts going all the way to Trevor Talmage and his brother Davenport.”
“Directly under the house?”
“In a subcellar, yes. I’ll show you tomorrow if you like. It’s a beautiful underground stone garden complete with marble benches and a working fountain. It’s actually a lovely place to sit and meditate.”