Madam was behind this; somehow she had attacked Marina through the medium of her old cradle, and sent her here. The only question in her mind was—was this “here” real, or a construction of her mind? And if it was real—was it solid, everyday real, was she, body and all, sitting in this blighted garden? Or was this her spirit only, confined in some limbo where Madam’s evil magic had thrown her?
She was inclined to think it was the second—not because of any single piece of objective evidence, but because she didn’t think that Madam was powerful enough to have created anything magical that could and would successfully hold up physically for any length of time. Why? Because if she had been able to do so, she would have done something to eliminate her niece on the journey to Oakhurst. And if Marina just vanished, there would be a great many questions asked now, questions which could be very uncomfortable for Madam.
Marina also didn’t think she was dead—not yet, anyway. Elizabeth had taught her all about the magical connection of spirit and body, the thing that looked to some like a silver cord. Although she had not yet made any attempt to leave her own body, Elizabeth’s descriptions had been clear enough. And now that she was calm enough to look for it, that tie of body to spirit was, so far as Marina could tell, still in existence; a dim silver cord came from her, and passed through the gray wall without apparent difficulty.
Well, there’s my objective evidence, assuming I’m not hallucinating the cord. “Here” isn’t “real”
So somehow Madam had separated spirit from body and imprisoned the former here.
Marina felt her heart sink. That would suit her very well. My body is going to live for a while—for as long as she can get doctors to keep it alive. And why shouldn’t she? That would neatly eliminate any suspicions that she had anything to do with what has happened to me. There probably won’t be a sign of what she did. It will all be a terrible tragedy, and of course, in a few weeks or months, when—well, she’ll inherit everything, with no questions asked. She moaned; after all, there was no one here to hear her. I suppose there’s no chance it would be Andrew Pike she calls. No, it will probably be some high-fee London physician, who’ll get to make all manner of experiments to see if he can “wake” me.
Marina was able to think about this with a certain amount of calmness, in no small part because she was already exhausted from what must have been hours of sheer panic, followed by more hours of rage, followed by more of weeping in despair. There was, of course, no way of telling time here. And although she was exhausted, when she lay down in the withered grass, she was unable to sleep, and in fact, didn’t feel sleepy. Another point in favor of the notion that she was only imprisoned in spirit. The evidence at this point was certainly overwhelming.
She had never been so utterly, so completely alone. She had thought that she felt alone when Madam had first taken her away from Blackbird Cottage—but at least there had been other people around, even if they were strangers.
If I am just a spirit—maybe I can call for help? The cord that bound her to her body was able to penetrate the shell around her—maybe magic could, too.
The trouble was, there was no water here; not so much as a puddle. And search though she might, she could find no well-springs of Water energy, nor the slightest sign of the least and lowliest of Water Elementals. Small wonder the vegetation was dying or dead.
So all that remained was—thought, and whatever magic she held in her own stores. Which was not much.
And I was appallingly bad at sending my thoughts out without the help of magic. On the other hand, what choice did she have? Perhaps I can use the cord, somehow.
She concentrated on a single, simple message, a plea for help, trying first to reach Margherita, then Sebastian, then Elizabeth, then, for lack of anyone else, Andrew Pike. Last of all, she sent out a general plea for help, from anyone, or anything. She tried until she felt faint with the effort, tried until there were little sparks in front of her eyes and she felt she had to lie down again. But if there was any result from all of her effort, there was no sign of it.
There was no change in the walls holding her imprisoned, no sense of anyone answering her in her own mind. The only change might have been in the cord—was it a little more tenuous than before? A crushing weight of depression settled over her. She gave herself over to tears and despair again, curling up on her side in the grass and weeping—but not the torrent of sobs that had consumed her before. She hid her face in her hands and wept without sobbing, a trickle of weary tears that she couldn’t seem to stop, and didn’t really try. What was the use? There was nothing that she could do—nothing! There was no magical power here that she could use to try and break herself free, nothing of her own resources gave her strength enough, and she was as strong now as she was ever going to be. As her body weakened—and it would—the energy coming to her down that silver cord would also weaken. Until one day—
She would die. And then what would happen? Was it possible that she would be trapped here forever? Would she continue to exist as a sad, mad ghost here, hemmed in by thorns, driven insane by the isolation?
“Oh, my dearest—she cannot hold you then, at least—”
The sound of the strange female voice shocked her as if she’d been struck with a bolt of lightning. Marina started up, shoving herself up into a sitting position with both hands, although the unreal grass had a peculiarly insubstantial feeling against her palms.
A man and a woman—or rather, the transparent images of a man and a woman—stood at the edge of the thorns. When had they gotten there? How had they gotten there? Had they come in response to her desperate plea for help?
She had no trouble recognizing them, not when she had looked at their portraits every day of her life for as long as she could remember.
“Mother?” she faltered. “Father?”
With no way to measure time, not even by getting tired and sleepy, Marina could not have told how long it took the—others—to convince her that they were not figments of her imagination, not something sent by Madam to torment her, and were, indeed, her mother and father. Well, their spirits. They were entirely certain that the “accident” that had drowned them was Madam’s doing; that made sense, considering everything that had followed. And if Madam had sent a couple of phantasms to torment her, would she have put those words in their mouths? Probably not.
Perhaps what finally convinced her was when, after a long and intensely antagonistic session of cross-questioning on her part, Alanna Roeswood—or Alanna’s ghost, since that was what the spirit was—looked mournfully at her daughter and gave the impression of heaving an enormously rueful sigh.
“After nearly fifteen years of rather formal letters, I really should not have expected you to fling yourself into my loving arms, should I the spirit said, wearing an expression of deep chagrin. “It’s not as if I wasn’t warned.”
Marina held her peace, and her breath—well, she had lately discovered that she didn’t actually breathe so she couldn’t really hold her breath, but that was the general effect. Perhaps being dead gave one a broader perspective and made one more accepting of things.