Holly tells her the code to the locked refrigerated safe in the office, reminds her the cream is in her bag, then hurries to the storage closet. She slides her fingers through the lining of her suitcase and pulls out the picture of her daughter.
“Here,” she says, once she’s in front of Eden again. In her hand is the photo she’s kept all these years. It’s faded and creased, but in the center, sitting on a low tree branch, is Eden. Her face is a soft blur, because she’s in motion, the way she always was, but there’s no one else it could be. Even with the distortion, anyone can see that her expression is one of pure glee.
“You were two,” Holly says. “We were in Cornwall. Jack was sleeping on a blanket in the sun. It was a good day. I’d turned around for a moment, and when I turned back, you were sitting in the tree. I don’t know how you got up there, but you were so proud of yourself. You made your own joy. You made mine as well.”
“I remember,” Eden says, staring at the photo. “Why did I never remember before?”
“Sometimes it’s easier to remember sorrow than joy,” Holly says. “Sorrow doesn’t hurt as much.” A lifetime of memories stir, just beyond her reach, walled off for more than a decade and with enough power now to overwhelm her: Robert’s large, gentle hands on the steering wheel. The twins shrieking with laughter in the back seat, the windows down. Eden smiling at her from a low tree branch, the hem of her blue dress dancing in the breeze.
These memories prick at Holly, they pierce her, but the pain they cause is nothing compared to the ache of looking at her daughter. It’s almost unbearable, knowing that she has so little time left, just enough to make one more memory. So she makes it the best possible memory she can. She reaches out in an embrace. And when Eden hugs her back, she realizes that her heart, frozen all these years, still has life in it after all. She knows because it is breaking.
Chapter Forty-Two
They stand that way for a long time, only releasing each other when Jane returns. She’s holding a tray with three crystal glasses.
“This will only take a moment,” she says in response to Holly’s look. “And you both must have some. It’s a special vintage I’ve been saving. We may not be together again for a long time, and I’ve some things I must say.”
Holly knows her mother, knows how implacable she can be. There will be no leaving until the drink is gone. So when Jane hands her a glass, she accepts. It’s whiskey, neat. Holly looks at Eden and shrugs. Now, with all that they are facing, does not seem to be the time to worry about underage drinking.
Jane raises her own glass high, and Holly and Eden follow suit.
“To the Darling women. The stars are not only above us, they are in us. May we shine brightly, dream deeply, and fly high all on our own. I am terribly proud to know you both, my darlings,” she says. “Now drink up.”
She tilts her glass and drains it, motioning for them to do the same. The clear liquid is bitter in a way that most of Jane’s vintages are not and burns Holly’s throat. Eden coughs.
“The vial!” Jane says. “My goodness, I left it in the library.”
Holly steps toward the door, but Jane shoos her away. “No, no. Take this moment. I’ll be right back.” She hurries away.
Now that it’s almost time, Holly can’t bear to let her daughter go. Even for Jack. She wraps her arms around Eden again and holds her tight.
“I can’t let you do this,” she whispers. “I thought I could, but I can’t.” The thought of losing Eden makes her dizzy, makes her weak at the knees.
“There’s no time,” Eden says. “You have to trust me.”
“I do. I do. But . . .” Holly’s having trouble finding the words for what she wants to say.
“You’re wrong, Eden dear. There’s all the time. For you and your mother both.”
It’s Jane, at the door. Holly blinks and blinks again. Jane looks . . . She can’t describe it. Different somehow. Golden. Holly rubs her eyes. Why is her vision blurry?
“Are you feeling well? You both look a bit peaked. Come here. Sit for a moment,” Jane says, patting the beds.
It’s true. The weakness in Holly’s legs has increased. Her tongue is numb. She staggers to the nearest bed, reaches out a hand for Eden, who collapses next to her.
“Mother?” Holly whispers. There’s something happening to Jane’s face. As Holly watches, it morphs, changes. Time runs backward. Wrinkles smooth and disappear. Age spots vanish. Jane’s face swims in and out of Holly’s vision until she’s not certain if she’s looking at her mother or her daughter.
“What did you do?”
“I’m sorry, my darling. What I had to. Or did you think you were the only parent willing to risk everything for her child?”
Only then does Holly see the empty syringe clutched in Jane’s hand.
“Sleep,” Jane/not Jane says. “Just sleep.”
Fatigue is pulling at Holly like a tide, dragging her down no matter how hard she fights. Jane pulls the sheet up, presses cool lips against Holly’s cheek. She kisses Eden too. Then she leaps onto the window seat with cat-like grace. At the edge, she pauses.
“I never told you,” she says conversationally. “But I did see him. Peter. Only the once. He came to the window when you were a baby. Looked right in at me, waggled his finger as if I were a dog and he the master. You were in my arms, fast asleep. I could have laid you down in your bed, slipped into the sky, and you never would have woken. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.”
Her voice dips even lower, a whisper. “He only came the once. But I’ve never regretted it. You should know.”
She looks back at them for a moment, taking them in. Her eyes are damp and shining. Then she straightens. “Now, my darlings. What is that abysmal saying? ‘Faith, trust, and pixie dust’?” She leans out the window and whistles, a long, piercing sound Holly wouldn’t have believed her mother could make if she hadn’t heard it. “This is the faith part, I suppose.”
There’s a swirl of wind, a flash of feathers, a glimpse of something—of someone—no longer bloated and stretched. Someone small, sparkly, and gold. Bright bird eyes meet bright bird eyes in perfect understanding. The wind picks up. Jane/not Jane leaps.
And then Holly can’t keep her eyes open any longer. The world turns black, and she slides off the edge.
Chapter Forty-Three
Someone is shaking her. Someone is calling her name. She hears it as if from a long way away, at the end of a very black tunnel.
“Holly,” the voice says. “Do try and wake up. Decisions must be made. There’s not much time.” There’s something cold on her forehead, on the back of her neck. A biting and sharp scent under her nose. Holly groans.
“Please,” the voice says, more urgently. Holly opens her eyes and promptly shuts them again. The room is spinning and she fears she might be sick.
“What did you do?” she whispers hoarsely.
“We can discuss that later,” Jane says. “Right now we have bigger problems.”
With an immense effort of will, Holly forces her eyes open again and trains them on her mother. Jane is no longer a child, but her face is still youthful in a way it hasn’t been since long before Holly was born. And then she sees the rug beyond her mother. Jack is there. His face is white, his lips pale. And she can’t tell if he’s breathing.
“The vial!” But even before Jane shakes her head, Holly knows it’s gone. She tries to run to Jack, but it’s like the nightmare she used to have—her legs won’t support her, won’t let her rise. Her mother heaves her up, and together they stagger to his side. Holly collapses next to him, checks for a pulse. It’s faint and thready, but it’s there.
“Call an ambulance,” Holly orders. She’s scrabbling across the room on her hands and knees to reach the phone.
“They won’t get here in time.”
At the voice, Holly turns. It’s Eden rising from the bed, looking and moving much better than Holly herself.