"I was told I would find you here."
Natalie moved through a doorway of colorful beads. In an arm chair by a table full of burning incense sat the middle person Eloise, draped in a dark violet cloak. The single window in the small room was closed, and Natalie suppressed the urge to cough as she swiped her hand around the sweet smelling smoke.
"Sometimes we can overcome the darkest of times, even when it feels like we shall remain trapped in our own withering rosebuds forever," Eloise mumbled, and continued with her nonsense, but Natalie had stopped listening. Her stomach turned. She was not sure what compelled her to come here so late into the night, alone. Perhaps it was Piper's absence or Peter's abandonment; a little spite left after their argument a few days ago. Perhaps it was her own curiosity, at last burning straight through her. Whatever the reason, she was at least glad not to spend another frightfully long evening alone. She had reread most of her books. Updated all of her book keeping. Cleaned more often than needed. And even trailed through the streets of Coldton a little tipsy. She had plenty of time to think about this and come to a decision. So why did she hesitate before stepping over the threshold?
"Sit, Gorman," Eloise said, pointing to the uncomfortable wooden stool opposite her.
"How do you know my last name?" Natalie asked, brushing her skirt down and taking the seat.
The middle woman made a dry noise of amusement.
The mind weaver did not bother asking any more questions, but simply waited.
Eloise never seemed to look Natalie in the eyes, and Natalie in turn refused to look into hers. They were almost like milky blue mirrors. Like Natalie could slip and sink into them.
Taking a deep breath, she asked, "Do you see my parents? Would you be able to contact them for me, if I wished to speak with them?"
Eloise started to light a few candles. "It is your choice, Gorman. If you wish to disturb their slumber."
"But I think they need to tell me something. The dreams I have... They try and communicate but I never understand any of them."
The middle woman told her to close her eyes and think of nothing but her parents. She started humming, speaking in-between, looking so far up that her eyes were mostly white, sending chills down the mind weaver's back.
"Speak to them in your mind," the middle woman instructed, then hummed. "Ask them the questions you need the most." She continued to hum, in no particular melody or octave. She was all over the place, lighting matches and holding the flame to every candle in the room, which sat on every flat surface, from shelves to book stacks, tables and even the carpeted floor. Soon the room was too hot, too cloudy to even see, and Natalie shut her eyes mostly because of this.
When she reopened them, the smoke in the room had contorted, making no particular shape. A chill had formed, as though Natalie blinked instead into Coldton's mist. She felt goose flesh rising on her arms and neck, even beneath her coat sleeves and collar. The smoke had loosened further, and what remained continued to shape itself, memorizing the mind weaver, making it impossible for her to look away, as though an invisible hand had clamped onto her chin.
A hand appeared, and then shoulders, a face. Even though Natalie had many photos of her parents, in frames on the walls of her apartment, she still did not recognize the face looking back at her for quite some time, too startled to even breathe. Tendrils of smoke danced around the room, continuing to weave the rest of the woman's body. Her neck and chest appeared, and then her hips and most of her legs, but that it where the tendrils stopped and just curled in place like the snuffed flames all around the room.
Dark blonde hair cut to her chin, cloche hat on her head, long plaid coat, Natalie's mother smiled at her, every color dulled by the smoke, as though Natalie watched her from behind a veil. She did not speak, but turned and watched as the smoke built her father, from his black trench coat to the fiddler hat on his head, dark hair pushed behind his ears.
He smiled widely, taking her mother's hand, and together they turned toward Natalie. The mind weaver felt the room tremble, unable to realize it was not the room at all, but indeed herself. She slipped from the chair, knees hitting the floor, and buried her face into her hands. She felt alone and never alone both at the same time.
For all of Eloise's attentiveness, eyes closed, lost in a trance, she was not even in the room at all. Natalie did not notice her, either way. She blinked up into her parents' faces, the room so cold, she felt the tears on her cheeks like frozen rivers. When they moved, it was not unlike a movie projector, and their voices seemed to come from all corners of the room, as well as in Natalie's very own head. Her mother said, "We are proud of you, Natalie. Keep doing what you do."
The mind weaver could hardly speak. "I see you in my dreams. You are always holding something... What are you trying to tell me?" Her mother moved closer, and Natalie's breath left her lips in clouds.
"You lost yourself along the way, my dear," she said. "And I wanted to remind you that what was lost can be reborn even in this mess."
"What do you mean?" Natalie nearly cried. "What can be reborn?"
One of her mother's hands disappeared, reappearing finger by finger. "I handed you a letter. Flowers. A basket of butterflies. I lit a candle in the wind." A sad smile appeared on her face. "You will see, Natalie."
"Can you tell me who haunts me? The dark shadow? It led me to some flowers, I think, on my desk! Perhaps it was one of you?"
Her father moved across the room, breaking and reappearing with each step. "It was not. Be careful with your gift, Natalie. Not all memories are in your control, no matter how much you think they are. Fate is."
"Fate won't let you forget," the mind weaver whispered, then looked desperately at them. "They say mind weaving can skip the generations. Did neither of you truly have this gift?"
Her father shook his head, and her mother continued to smile sadly, then said, "It is not that we were mind weavers, dear, but that we watch out for you. We wanted you to know that everyone in your life carries an honest heart, even in your doubtful moments. We did not like to see your heart broken." She looked toward Natalie's father, then back. "But we do not want you to forget."
"Forget what?"
Slowly, her mother started to fade, and Natalie reached out, but her hand met only air. She repeated, louder, "Forget what, mother?" She turned, thrashing around the room where they had just stood only a second before. "Father?"
The candles relighted themselves like they had not snuffed out at all. The smoke faded away. Natalie Gorman sank to the floor, unable to stop shaking. She pulled the hat off her head and wrung it like a wet rag, then hung her head and cried.
***
After Natalie had finished stamping the wax seal on the last letter to a list of waiting clients, she sat as straight as she could, trying to stretch out her sore back, and then picked up the smoky pink vial Piper had given her, uncapped it, and drank the whole thing, as instructed. She was not feeling so stressed, but did not want to risk tumbling back into the black abyss of self pity. Curiosity had certainly burned through her the night she took a carriage into Willow Haven to see her parents, and she had risen from the ashes as a new person. A woman with answers and renewed determination.
After having talked with her parents, she felt a sense of relief, even if she had no clue what it was they were talking about. She was not alone. They watched her day after day, well enough that they knew Piper, able to sense her loyalty. Her true heart. And the heart of Peter Sheinfeld, as well, no matter what any other middle person said about his heart of ice. No matter what he thought of himself.
Peter.
She had asked Eloise about Peter.
"He believes his heart is made of ice. I am not sure what he means."
Eloise turned with that permanent frown, and said, "No, but you would have, if your heart was not made of ice, as well."
***
Natalie rose from her seat, deciding she would not think about him. Not today. She had much work to do. Clients to see. And she would force a smile, do the best she could. If Peter chose insanity, despite her adamant warnings, then what else could she do? She told him so in the letter, that it was much too late to stop the mind weaving. She had called him a fool.
Perhaps she even mentioned that no matter how many times she told herself she did not, she felt something blossom more and more in her chest every time he was near. It was too late to take it back, even if she wanted to. Her feelings were out there. All she had to do was wait, and see what fate would do, like her father had told her.
So when an invitation to the ball in Willow Haven's manor showed up at her door that day, a pressed flower inside, and the words 'Let's find each other' in familiar handwriting, she clutched it to her chest, trying not to spin around the room, dress hems flouncing. But as she closed the door and put her back to it, her smile faded as the pressed flower slipped from the invitation and landed by her shoes on the floor. It was blue, like the ones that kept showing up randomly. Like the ones the shadow had taken her to. Like the ones her mother held in the dream. Like the ones Peter put in the woman's hair on the boat. Like the one she had ripped apart the day before Peter walked into her life and changed everything.
What did it mean?
***
Through the pointed black iron gates, people from all around Cape Colette's villages strolled up the stone path that snaked toward Willow Haven's manor. Under the darkening sky, thick with storm clouds, its pointed roof tops looked like shark fins in smoky water, its windows like lanterns held aloft by ghouls in the smog. Natalie stopped by a gas lamp on the path, which flickered, and then spurted out, blanketing her in shadows. Women gripped their thick, sparkly dresses so the hems did not drag on the ground. Men adjusted their masks and chatted to each other. One of them looked in Natalie's direction. He wore a mask with a curved beak, and she turned away, startled.
The sky lit up for a brief half a second, and then rain began to patter down. She waited for Piper, who promised she would be able to spot her even in a mask, but so far, the mind weaver could not. A large group of women walked by, laughing obnoxiously. They definitely were not middle people, but normal villagers, most likely from Winter Wells.
The invitation was stuffed in the pocket of Natalie's coat, not because she felt she might need it, but for a sense of confidence. Beneath it she wore an black gown embroidered with red rose patterns, something she had picked up while in town a few days before, when she had scouted out Eloise. Her mask matched her dress, black with red patterns, and artificial roses embellished one side. She had braided her hair into a bun and applied some red lip stick. When she had peered into her mirror before leaving, she admitted to herself that she looked quite mysterious, and wondered if Peter would even recognize her.
Along the path, willow trees began to sway in the wind, and women shrieked as they stumbled past everyone, covering their elaborate hair styles braided through with flowers and crystal clips. Men hurried after them, trying to pop open their umbrellas. Natalie could not wait any longer for Piper. She turned and followed the rest of the guests up the weaving path. Thunder rattled the lamps on their posts, and in the thumping winds they creaked on their hooks back and forth, the flames snapping until they burned out. The closer she made it to the manor, she could at last hear the accordions, smell roasted meat, and see the doors held open by sallow-eyed butlers. They were tall, thin, and hunched over, reminding Natalie of wilted flowers.
The inside smelled of old wood and stale perfume. The second floor wrapped around the top of the wide open foyer off a set of carpeted stairs. Chipped portraits mounted the walls, the red and black striped wall paper frayed and discolored from perhaps leaks or decay. The mind weaver observed the wooden tables and porcelain vases, wondering how old it all was. Somewhere in a room close by, accordionists continued their vibrant, eerie tune as silk dresses caught the glowing shafts of the candelabra and voices carried over like it all came from deep within a day dream.
Natalie moved her curious gaze up toward the wrap-around railing. She blinked and looked back after thinking she had seen a person standing there, but they had dissipated into thin air, sending shivers through her whole body. She supposed the rumors she had heard about the spirits out and about at these balls, ready to steal someone's soul, were true. She secured the mask over her eyes and turned away from the top of the stair case. Mason jars full of who knows what were being passed around, not by the butlers, but young middle people dressed like witches, in fish nets and beads. A woman not much younger than Natalie herself, with hair bleached white, wearing a revealing corset, offered her a jar of dark blue liquid, which she refused. The woman sauntered away, her dress hem so short, it may as well have been only a bit of lace around the bottom of her corset, which was so tightly buttoned, Natalie wondered how she could breathe properly.
Others dressed very similar to her dotted the room, their lips painted black, elaborate masks depicting cats, or were they demons? Others sported top hats, lacy floral gowns spattered in what Natalie hoped was only red paint, their faces powdered whiter than usual, as though to mimic their ghostly companions.
In the next room, lit with blue tinted lights, everyone danced to the accordions and drums with their palms hardly touching, spinning around each other, some in fits of laughter, others caught up in each other's eyes. The walls were taken up by tall, narrow windows side by side, shelves of candelabra in between, shadows shaking the walls as though the room were laughing.
The mind weaver peeked around the arched threshold, but refused to wander in further. Her friend Piper was nowhere to be seen. She felt the letter in her pocket, thinking of Mr. Sheinfeld having suggested they find each other.
Suddenly, Natalie decided she would not worry too much about it. If Peter felt for her what he had implied, if he cared about anything he had started at all, he would come to her. She did not want to admit it so soon, but she felt that the potion Piper had given her really was working. It had never been easier to dust away a worry. Natalie Gorman did not want to search anymore, at least for this evening, so when the next middle person offered her sweet-scented liquid in a mason jar, she accepted it, and drank the whole of it down just before a hand clasped onto her shoulder.
***
Nobody stood there.
Ball guests maneuvered around her like she was a boulder stuck in Pemawick Cove's shore. She met the eyes of a few, who scanned her from head to toe before turning away, uninterested.
Natalie always had the nagging suspicion witches and middles did not particularly care for mind weavers, thinking them arrogant because they were more popular with the people, their gift so rare, bringing in a lot more money, not to mention because the villages were named after their queen. Unfortunately, she was not entirely wrong. Rumors of her own kind flew across dinner tables like salt and pepper shakers. Apparently mind weavers were seductive, callous, and compulsive liars. Middle people especially did not care for them, even before the incident that had separated their kind from Natalie's.
Between some of the guests, a shadow moved and flitted. For a solid minute, Natalie watched, thinking it was only the play of candle light. Then it rose up the stairs. The mind weaver started after it, unable to stop the shout of surprise that escaped her. Unheard and unnoticed by everyone, Natalie Gorman chased the figure in the cloak, its face covered beneath the hood. It stopped at the top of the stairs with its back toward her, as though it waited, and then floated away when she had climbed closer, holding the bottom of her dress up a little so she did not trip on her bulky shoes.
A large statue dominated the second floor's foyer. Despite her determination the catch the shadow, she felt frozen in place, mesmerized. The statue was as tall as Natalie herself, and appeared to be a middle person in a cloak and hood standing on a small mountain of spirits. While the middle person was constructed of painted resin, the spirits were of no particular shape and made of blown glass, as though to appear transparent.
To her right a door opened and she turned. Down the hall overlooking the bottom floor, the shadow slipped into a room. "Stop!" Natalie shouted, moving so quickly, the carpet folded under her shoes.
The shafts of lamplight broke around Natalie's silhouette as she rushed down the hall, following the shadow into the room. A man stood at the window with his back facing her, hands in his pockets. He turned at the sudden noise, and Natalie felt her breath hitch.
Peter Sheinfeld smiled, eyes gleaming in the room's dimness. His mask lay abandoned on the window sill, the pane dotted with specks of rain, and his hair looked ruffled, like he had run his hands through it more than once. She had seen him do that while trapped in a deep thought, like the time he told her he had chased the girl he loved, but could never seem to get to her.
"You found me," he said.
Natalie did not want to explain that it was an accident, that she was only following the cloaked figure she could never seem to reach. A little tug of annoyance forced her to put her hands on her hips and look away. "Shouldn't you be wearing your mask?"
He chuckled lightly. "I do not believe a spirit will steal my soul. And even if it does, I am not sure I really care."
At this she looked back at him. "Why would you say such a thing?"
He did not answer her question. "I asked you to meet me here because I owe you an explanation."
She thought of what Piper had said only a few days before, about how there was an explanation for everything. "Well, I am waiting."
"Dreams plague me. Not just at night. I left work sick these last few days, and I am almost positive my boss is thinking of giving me the boot."
"What are the dreams?"
"Just pictures... And I know what they must mean, but cannot recall where exactly they came from. But I know they are about her." He looked at the mind weaver with a hint of desperation. "I have not come to visit you in a while because I became obsessed with chasing her. She comes out of nowhere, in a cloak. At least, I think it is her. I went to a middle person, which I would never have dared to do, asking who it was and what it meant. She told me to come back to you. That there is unfinished business or something..." He moved across the room toward her and tried to reach for her hands, but she pulled away.
"What did my letter say, then?" she asked. "Did you not read what I wrote? I warned you this would happen! You did not listen!"
"I did not open the letter."
The mind weaver could not stop the flash of heat in her chest. How this man had stolen her heart, and poked holes in it, just to see the strings of light explode from them, to weave a heart for himself. She took a steadying breath and took off her mask.
"I can make her shadow disappear, if you would let me continue keeping your memories."
Before they clasped hands, a few scattered thoughts pieced themselves together in her head. The shadow he chased was the woman he was forgetting, but who did Natalie chase? And why did Eloise tell Natalie her heart had been robbed of its most precious treasure? Piper said a person's mind would never stop searching...
A sudden idea occurred to her, one she was too late to dismiss before a hand of stars had grasped her heart. How had she not realized it before? At that same moment, Peter turned to her. "Good. And when we are all finished, you should know that I have a gift for you."
***
Mr. Sheinfeld's memories came to the mind weaver's own mind like a flock of birds frightened by a loud noise. Natalie held open the door, and they flapped in, leaving no feathers behind. Peter gripped her hands in the darkened room, the window pane shaking from the storm that raged on outside. It all happened too quickly, only flickers of faces and noises and colors appeared in her mind's eye; Peter and the mystery woman climbed over rocks hand in hand, coats caught in the ocean breeze, happily soaked to the knees in sea water. A knitted book mark on a water stained table top. A kiss at an unlit fire place, so thirsty they rolled over the hearth, his lips across her collarbone. The mystery woman looking disheveled, throwing more rocks at an upstairs window, laughing, and then dropping to her knees. Peter slamming a door, "You should have told me!" echoing over and over. The woman lowered the hood of her coat and turned around to walk away, her cheeks red with winter's bite.
Her face.
She seemed to look straight through Natalie, and then the memory vanished, taking the mind weaver's fleeting hope with it.