A massive curtained bedstead dominated one wall near a blazing fireplace. Above the marble mantel was a vivid fresco of a vineyard, each vine bulging with ripe grapes.
Abernathy sat in a gilded chair, his grossly swollen feet propped on a fat purple cushion. He wore a heavy embroidered robe. On his balding head resided a crown of colorful flowers. A bottle of wine and a large goblet sat near him. He took a sip from the cup, using both hands to steady it.
Keats whispered, Apparently a devotee of Bacchus.
Alastair nodded, disconcerted. Providing death was expected, each Transitive determined the setting in which they died. This one was a bit more garish than usual.
Lord Wescomb caught his eye and delivered a solemn nod in acknowledgment. Clearing his throat, he announced, All are present. Abernathy gave a grunt of acknowledgement. Let us form the Circle and witness the Rite.
As they took their positions around the dying man, Alastair’s eyes skipped about the room. Besides Keats and Wescomb, there were four others present. He knew none of them. One in particular caught his notice, for he seemed out of place even amongst his peers. He was en mirage. Usually, the moment of change came later in the ceremony. Still, it wasn’t the use of illusion that struck Alastair as singular so much as the aloof manner in which he held himself.
Wescomb began, I stand as Inquirer for this most honorable Rite de la Mort.
Alastair racked his brain for the required response and joined in with the others, his baritone voice ringing out. We come to witness the End and celebrate the Beginning.
Elijah Abernathy, are you ready to meet your Maker?
Wescomb asked.
I welcome it, the man said, shifting uncomfortably on the chair, his color florid. Alastair’s practiced eye surmised some disease of the blood, no doubt secondary to the man’s passionate worship of the grape.
Come forth, the Designated One, Wescomb ordered.
A young woman moved shyly forward, head lowered. She appeared in her early twenties. Clothed in black, her armband was reversed: a thick stripe of crimson with a narrow band of black at the bottom.
Abernathy beckoned to her with a weak motion of his hand.
Come child, do not be afraid. She halted next to the chair, still looking down. Her body trembled, making her skirts rustle.
Declare your name, Wescomb said, his tone softened.
I am…Lynette, daughter of… Her eyes rose and she smiled lovingly at her father. Elijah Abernathy.
Do you understand what is to come? Wescomb asked.
Yes.
Then we shall bow to the one that finds Death’s release. The Seven stand ready to witness the Rite de la Mort.
On cue, Wescomb and the others dropped to their knees. The older man next to Alastair groaned with the effort.
With quaking hands, Abernathy uncorked a small bottle and poured the contents into his goblet. His grip betrayed him and the bottle fell to the floor. Ignoring it, he raised the cup to his mouth.
Grimacing, he drank until it was empty, then set it aside.
Abernathy whispered, Give me your hand, daughter. Lynette did as ordered, a tear escaping down her pale cheek. Close your eyes.
Alastair closed his eyes as well, though it was not required. He had no desire to witness the transition. He had lived through it, and it was not something he ever wished to see again. His beloved’s Death Rite had not taken place in an opulent home, but in a clearing in the middle of a Welsh forest with her family clustered around her. There had been no need to hasten her death with some lethal potion. At her passing, two Transitives had been created. To Alastair’s sorrow, he’d been one of them.
When he awoke from his nightmarish transformation, the man he knew was gone. Left in his place was an imposter, one who could change shape at will. Any form that he could visualize, he could imitate, even that of his dead lover. That had sickened him most.
Keats elbowed him, pulling him out of his past. The others had risen to their feet. He did so belatedly. Abernathy was dead. His daughter stood next to his body with an expression of utter incomprehension.
Alastair knew it well. No matter how someone tried to explain the sensation, it proved impossible to fathom. Her first few days would be unimaginable. Until the mind mastered the ability, the body would change at will with no discernable pattern. She would have to be hidden from view until she could control her shifts, until she understood the nature of what her father had bequeathed her.
Welcome to our community, Lynette, Wescomb said.
Each of the Seven, in turn, offered their own greeting. When they reached Alastair, he gave a bow. He had no words of comfort for her, none that would explain how much her world had altered.
One of her arms shifted abruptly into that of an older woman.
She stared at it in amazement. It changed back.
Now it begins, Keats whispered. God help her.
Alastair felt a frisson of apprehension rise within him as the others shifted into their particular forms. Lord Wescomb was as he’d seen him the night before, a younger version of himself. An elderly Keats appeared with a wise face and wrinkled hands. The haughty man gestured for Alastair to go en mirage. The doctor shook his head and stepped out of the circle.
I think not. With an apologetic nod to the new Transitive in their midst, he strode out of the room. No one came after him. It was his choice whether or not he shifted, and the decision would be respected.
For how long? he asked under his breath, descending the stairs at a brisk clip. He removed the armband at the front door and handed it to the maid, collecting his coat and hat in turn.
My condolences for your loss, he said. And for what was created this day.
Cynda’s left breast hummed repeatedly, dragging her from a deep sleep. She groggily pulled herself upright and rubbed her eyes. The room was in twilight. Had she missed breakfast?
The pocket watch vibrated again. She extricated it from underneath the ruffle on her bodice. Before she communicated with TIC, she’d best figure out what had happened. Swinging her feet over the side of the bed, she allowed the vertigo to stabilize.
The world around her was still red, like peering through a glass of cabernet.
Her mind clicked off events: arrived at boarding house, hit spider/doctor, slept, ate breakfast while dazzling the locals with her verbal brilliance. Then what happened?
She rummaged for the memory while buttoning her bodice.
After she’d talked to Annabelle, she’d retreated to her room. The bed had called to her, and so she’d curled up for a quick nap. What could an hour matter?
She moved to the window and cleaned a patch of glass. Below, a lamplighter toted his ladder along the street, visiting each lamp along the way. Her hour nap had become a full day.
Oops.