I was determined to make Willow see that. I’m not hiding. The words were on the tip of my tongue, and yet I couldn’t form them. And my heart? My heart was a caged animal. I hadn’t been on speaking terms with it since my mother left.
“Willow…”
“Look,” she said, picking up her cards and depositing them into a leather bag. “Stop playing around and pretending to be a shitty medium. We have enough of those around here. You want a place in St. Hilaire? Earn it. Don’t turn your back on the things you already have.”
Then, as if for emphasis, she turned her back on me and stalked off, leaving me alone in the woods.
Chapter 9
Annie
I was used to being in places I didn’t belong. Cities where I did not speak the language, could not recognize the currency. Places where the local customs were baffling. I was never sure what foods you should not eat in India or whether you were supposed to walk with your eyes down in Japan. I had spent my life living out of a suitcase in hotel rooms without real friends or family, just the artificial grouping of my road crew. I always had someone to rely on to tell me what to do; my management company had even hired a consultant to make sure there were no gaffes when I traveled internationally.
But no one had prepared me for St. Hilaire, and it was already clear that this was someplace that did not embrace outsiders. That was not in the brochure Laura had given me, but it might as well have been. Every odd item I saw in Dec’s house—tambourines, glass balls, so many candles—told me this was not a place I knew how to navigate. Also, I was not sure what belonging somewhere would actually feel like, or if I would even recognize the feeling if I came across it.
“Old Man Morris lives there,” Dec said, pointing to a dilapidated ranch house that didn’t fit in with the beautiful Victorians I had seen when I arrived in town. He was pointing out all the local landmarks as we walked.
“The Guild, the town leaders, banned him from practicing as a medium after his wife died. He was just spending all day in the house drinking and trying to talk to her ghost. It was super sad.”
It was sad, so I nodded and tried to pretend it all made sense. But selfishly, I wondered whether he could tell me if I would win the Hull Prize. If I should even bother to try for it, given Dmitry’s death. My parents were counting on the money. They might not understand music, but the cash prize that came with the Hull was more money than they would make in years. Plus, it would solidify my career as it had done for Dmitry and so many others.
I could also ask Dec what would happen if I tried to honor Dmitry’s last wish to find the rest of the Prelude. Would I end up as frustrated and out of control as he had been?
Or I could ask if I would ever feel as though I was a member of my family instead of an outsider who simply paid the bills. Or if I would ever kiss a boy I really, really wanted to kiss instead of the cheeks of old men who funded orchestra halls and handed out trophies.
There seemed to be so many possibilities.
Dec continued. “And that house belongs to the Saeeds. Their daughter is five, and they already think she might grow up to be one the strongest mediums in town. I feel sorry for her.”
“Why?” I asked. “This does not seem like such a bad place.”
“It’s a freak show,” he said. “Once they get ahold of her, she’ll be stuck here until she grows old and dies.”
“Does everyone just stay here forever?” I asked. The concept was so unlike my life, I found it fascinating.
Dec stopped and looked up at the sky. “The Guild doesn’t really like it when people leave.”
We began walking again and as we passed St. Hilaire High School, Dec pointed out a sign, NO READINGS, SÉANCES, OR CIRCLES WITHIN FIFTY YARDS OF THE SCHOOL.
“Like I said, this place is just…” He left the sentence unfinished.
I felt sorry for him. It was easy to imagine that I might feel similarly out of place, had I stayed in Russia with my family. However, I could not quite put my finger on the reason for his discomfort, and I was not sure how to ask.
All my life, Dmitry had warned me about the boys who waited outside the stage door in their shiny cars and with their expensive Swiss watches. I had never been on a date because I had never had the time, and even if I had the time, I probably would not have been allowed to go. And that was fine, because what would I really talk about to a normal boy? My weeks involved flights that left late, rehearsals that began early, and greenroom meetings with local dignitaries. Not much that boys my age would be interested in or understand.
I watched our legs move in unison as we walked—Dec’s in black jeans strategically ripped at the knee, mine bare in a navy skirt layered with inches of gauze that I had picked up at my favorite boutique in New York—and I had the strangest thought. I will pretend this is my first date.
All my life I had heard, “Focus, Anastasia. Pay attention, Anastasia. You are a professional; you don’t have time for games.” I had tried to do my best and had pretty much succeeded at avoiding any sort of frivolous relationships that might take time or energy away from my music.
Now, no one knew where I was. And for the first time, I was standing next to someone who had nothing to do with music, who had no idea who I was, but who I wanted to get to know.
Dec pointed out a statue of one of the town founders who everyone believed could turn rocks into gold. Next to the statue was a wishing well, and Dec handed me a coin, saying, “I don’t really believe that it works, but since you’re here, you might as well.” I knew there was no way to wish Dmitry back and so I wished again, for a way to make some sort of sense of it all.
Then I followed Dec wordlessly along a back road that snaked through a wood and ended at a waterfall.
“This was my mother’s favorite place in St. Hilaire,” Dec said in a way that made it clear he did not normally talk about things like his mother or favorite places. Then he added, “It’s one of the few places I’m going to miss.”
It took me a minute to process his words. “Miss?”
I studied his guarded expression as he said, “Well, St. Hilaire isn’t the kind of place someone like me can stay forever.”
His words danced in and out of the sound of the waterfall. It was indeed beautiful. Not as large as one I had seen in Argentina last year, or Niagara Falls, but there was a dry space underneath where he led me to sit and watch the water flow from places unseen right above us, and that made it better somehow. It actually felt like just the kind of place someone could stay forever.
“What do you mean someone like you?” I asked, feeling brave. “Are you not a psychic like everyone else here?”
Dec stood and threw a pebble into the water, and we watched it skip along the surface before it sank. “Didn’t you read the brochure? We aren’t psychics. I mean, we don’t read minds and all that crap. We’re just ‘mediums’ here in good ol’ St. Hilaire. We talk to the dead and hope we can bring people closure.”