At the great estate at Collinwood, voices from the past echo everywhere. In the halls and corridors of the Great House, in the unused bedrooms of the Old House, in its cemetery, voices call out their laments to the living. Even the estate's farthest corners are not beyond their reach. On a fair day that belies the estate's inherent darkness, Maggie Evans has discovered yet another corner that conceals a secret past.
Maggie felt a blast of cool air rush from the open cellar doors. David rocked back on his heels and dropped to his seat. "What was that?"
Maggie went to close the doors, but as she crouched down she heard something … a voice below in the cellar. The voice seemed to whisper her name.
"Wait here," she told the children.
"Maggie, what are you doing?" David asked.
"I heard something. I'm just going to take a peek," Maggie said. Looking inside, she said, "There's a ladder."
"No, Maggie. Don't go down there," came Amy's worried voice.
"I'll be fine," Maggie told her. "I'm just going to take a quick look around—that's all."
As she unhooked the ladder and started lowering it to the cellar floor, David echoed Amy's anxious tone, "The ladder could be rotten, just like the floorboards in the house."
It was reasonable, yet Maggie felt compelled to go on. "I'll be careful," she said. "You two wait here." Maggie took two tentative steps down the ladder. The daylight shining through the open doors provided ample light as she descended, but as reached the bottom rung, the doors slammed shut above her. "David!" Maggie cried out.
"Maggie!" David called her name and pounded on the cellar doors.
The room was silent. Only a sliver of light reached the floor. Maggie stepped off of the ladder and felt a chill envelope her. "Maggie Evans," a voice said.
"Who are you?" Maggie demanded. "Show yourself."
"Maggie Evans, I choose you."
The voice was so familiar—like an echo or a thought that escaped into the open air. "Who are you?" Maggie asked this time rather than demanding.
"I choose you, Maggie. You must help me."
"Who are you?" Maggie asked as squinted into the darkness. Her eyes could only make out pieces of broken furniture and bits of torn fabric. "Why do you need my help?"
"You must trust me, Maggie. You must help."
Another wave of chill air swept over her, lifting her hair and swirling it around her face. Just then the cellar doors flew open, flooding the cellar with daylight. Maggie heard voices from above, "Maggie, are you alright?"
Maggie carefully ascended the ladder and climbed out into the afternoon sun. "Of course, I'm alright. But I'm not happy about that prank! Closing the doors like that. What were you two thinking?"
"We didn't close the doors, Maggie. Honest," Amy cried, running to Maggie and throwing her arms around her governess. Maggie stroked the trembling child's hair.
"She's right, Maggie. It should be impossible, but they blew shut!" David joined in. "Didn't you hear me banging on the doors?"
"No," Maggie released Amy. "No, I didn't."
"What happened down there?" David asked.
"I … I don't know. Nothing, I guess," she said. In truth, she couldn't remember. All she could remember was standing in the darkness, and then the doors opened. What if this was like her dark time all over again—the missing memories, the vague sense of fear. "It's getting late. We should be getting home."
"I don't think we should tell Aunt Elizabeth about this," David said, picking up the basket, ready to leave. "She won't let us go adventuring again if she thinks something bad might happen."
"I don't like keeping secrets," Maggie began. "But I see no need to worry her, and nothing actually happened." Then looking at Amy's pale face, she added, "But we all have to agree—even you Amy."
David spoke preemptively, "Amy will keep our secret. Won't you, Amy?"
"Oh, yes," Amy said. "I'm good at keeping secrets."
Collinwood 1897
Barnabas spent two hours companionably in the company of Timothy Stokes. Each man found the other fascinating. Barnabas, for his part, was interested to learn what had become of Ben Stokes, the man who had once been his servant; and Stokes was intrigued by the man he knew to be a vampire. His ancestor's diary had given him the belief that, in spite of being afflicted with a curse, Barnabas was a man of honor and principles. Though his arrival with the sorceress was disconcerting, in the end, Barnabas convinced Stokes of his good intentions. He had given assurances that the wands would not be used for ill, or in service to Angelique's desires. In exchange for the wands, Barnabas had agreed to be interviewed by Stokes—to round out his knowledge of vampirism and the history of Collinwood. Though it entailed some risk, it was small relative to what he stood to gain—the I Ching wands.
Stokes had retrieved the wands from a primitive wall-safe in the small office that adjoined the library. He held the small velvet bag containing the wands in his large hand for several long moments, as though reluctant to part with them.
Seeing this, Barnabas asked, "Perhaps there is something more you require in exchange?"
"It's not that," Stokes replied, still holding the bag. His eyes fixed on it. At last, he held it out and allowed Barnabas to take it from him. "Goodnight, Mr. Collins. Until we meet again." The latter he said half to the vampire, and half to the wands.
Taking the wands, Barnabas returned to the Inn. Angelique was nowhere to be found. He checked the dining room, and then the sitting room. Finally, he sought out the night manager.
"Miss Bouchard took a room and retired for the night," he told Barnabas then added, "She said her bags would follow tomorrow."
Barnabas knew it would be unseemly to seek admittance to her room at such a late hour, especially given that she had arrived with no luggage. The night manager would likely assume the worst. So instead, Barnabas asked the night manager to deliver the message that he would return for Miss Bouchard the following evening. He watched as the manager slowly wrote it down, and then folded it and placed in the small cubby for Room 12, which he assumed was Angelique's room. "Please be sure she receives it first thing in the morning," were Barnabas's parting words.
"Sir," the night manager eyed him narrowly, but gave him a small, formal bow.
Barnabas left the Inn and stood just outside in the cool night air. It would be easy for him to transform into a bat and materialize in Angelique's room, but he thought it unwise both on a personal level and for her reputation in the small, inquisitive town. On the personal level, he'd been so lonely during his time in 1897. He felt desperate for the companionship of someone who knew him for what he was, but was not under his thrall. In short, he wanted to be himself with someone—and no one knew him better than Angelique—except perhaps Julia Hoffman. He knew Angelique well too though, and thus knew the vulnerability—danger even—of giving in to such longings. Giving into Angelique's allures had led him to his current state. Though it was long in the past, and her harder facets had softened, she was Angelique still. He must remember that.
Setting his misgivings aside, what he proposed to do next might be better done without her being present. So he returned down the main street toward the Collinsport Road. From there he would walk through the woods to the Great House, then employ the expediency of turning into a bat to reach Quentin's apartment undetected.
By then it was getting late and yet he did not want to wait until the next day. He could only imagine and extrapolate from his own experience, Quentin's sense of hopelessness. He was determined to intervene and offer some hope for the future.
He materialized outside Quentin's apartment in the west wing. It was so quiet and still. He put his ear to the door, but heard nothing. Yet there was illumination shining from under the door. He knocked. There was no answer. He knocked again, and said, "Quentin—it's me, Barnabas. I must speak to you. Open the door, please." He waited and then tried again for what must be the final time, "Please Quentin—I must speak to you."
At last he heard his cousin's voice through the door. "Not now, Barnabas. It's late."
"I know it's late, but I wouldn't have come if weren't important."
The door opened suddenly, and Quentin stood before him in rolled up shirtsleeves, pants held up by suspenders, and seemingly little else. His feet were bare, and his hair was in a state of disarray, and yet he did not seem to have been asleep. Behind him, Barnabas could see an open bottle of brandy on the table, but his cousin seemed clear-eyed. "As I said, Barnabas, it's late, and I'm not in the mood for company," Quentin said flatly.
"I wouldn't have come so late if it weren't important," Barnabas repeated.
"Very well, Barnabas, if you insist. Come in," Quentin said, stepping aside and allowing his cousin to enter his rooms.
Barnabas began, "Now that I'm here, I hardly know where to begin." They sat at the small table in his sitting room.
"Would a drink help?" Quentin asked.
"It's that that I've come to speak to you about."
"If you're here to tell me that I can't live the rest of my life in a state of inebriation …" Quentin began.
"Only indirectly," Barnabas interjected.
"It helps dull the pain, Barnabas."
"What if there was another way?" Barnabas asked. Quentin raised his eyebrow, tacitly inviting Barnabas to continue. Quentin sat and poured himself another drink. "May I join you?" Barnabas asked.
"Please do." Quentin gestured to a second glass on the mantle.
Barnabas retrieved it and sat opposite Quentin at the small table. Quentin filled the glass as Barnabas began, "Did you ever wonder about my interest in Rachel?"
"Well, yes and no. I mean it's obvious why a man would be drawn to someone like Rachel," Quentin said, puzzled by Barnabas's train of thought.
"It was more than that. She very much reminded me of someone else—someone from another time," Barnabas said.
"I don't understand," was Quentin's impatient response.
"You see, Quentin, I have traveled through time." Barnabas took a long, slow sip of brandy. "I was cursed in 1795. It was Angelique who placed the curse on me. At that time, I was in love with a young woman, Josette DuPres. Perfidy led me to Angelique's arms. Our tryst meant more to her than it did to me. When I told her I could never love her—that I was and always would be in love with Josette—she turned me into the creature I am today. Later that year, my father discovered what I'd become, and had me chained in my coffin, but not before I'd done a great deal of damage, including setting in motion a series of events that led to Josette's death. I stayed, chained in my coffin, until the year 1968, when I was inadvertently freed."
"Now I really don't understand," Quentin said, though this time with interest.
"I traveled here from 1968 to help a friend. A young man trapped by the werewolf curse, as you were. In my time—in the future, we tried everything to break the curse and its hold on my young friend, but to no avail. In desperation, I summoned Angelique to help me. She helped bring me to this time and place.
"When I saw Rachel, I nearly forgot my purpose for being here. She looked so much like my long dead love, Josette. And in my time—in 1968 that is—there is another young woman named Maggie—Maggie Evans—who also looks very much like Josette. I have chased Josette through the ages. I tried to remake Maggie into Josette, and I nearly broke her. And then I thought to do so again with Rachel. But when I saw the two of you together, I saw how it was between you—perhaps before you saw it yourselves. It was then that I realized that neither one of them—neither Maggie nor Rachel—would ever be Josette. She is dead and gone and I must accept it." He went on, "I am at last ready to accept that Josette is gone forever. I do not want this same fate for you Quentin—to live with unceasing regret. To see the object of your unabated affection, in every woman who bears a resemblance to her. It has been my torment. But you Quentin, I believe it can be different for you. You still have a chance for happiness with Rachel. You must seize it."
"What are you talking about Barnabas? She's dead. Rachel is dead," Quentin sobbed, suddenly overcome.
"Yes—in this time, she is dead. But you can go to her—in the past," Barnabas said. "You can go back and prevent what you now know is to come. You can intervene to prevent Trask from harming her."
"But how, Barnabas. How can I go to her?"
"With these," Barnabas answered and from his pocket he drew out the small velvet drawstring bag.
Quentin took the proffered bag and opened it. From it, he partially drew out several lacquer-finished wands. "What are these?" he asked, fixing Barnabas with an inquisitive stare.
"I Ching wands—used in an ancient rite of divination," Barnabas told him portentously. "A set of wands similar to these brought me here from 1968."
"How do they work?"
"You focus and concentrate on the problem to be solved, or the objective to be gained then throw the wands. They form a hexagram. Each hexagram opens a door to discovery and understanding or transformation or resolution. A guide can help you enter the trance and return safely. In 1968, Angelique is my guide."
"But she's here." Quentin was clearly confused.
"Because I summoned her to this time to help me lift your curse. Angelique is a creature untethered to time and place. I am relying on her to return to 1968 ahead of me and bring me safely out of the I Ching trance state.
"All that remains before I return is to help you find some measure of peace and happiness—with these. If I had had the power of the I Ching in 1795, I believe that I would have used it to save Josette."
"If I understand you correctly, you still can," Quentin told him.
"No," Barnabas responded sadly. "Too much has changed—I have changed. I know now that my love for Josette was selfish, that I wronged her in so many ways. Had I put her above my need to possess her, everything might have been different … well, I am trying everyday to put that behind me—to give purpose to what I've learned and what I've endured—in short, to help you, Quentin. You have a chance to go back and save Rachel. The wands will lead you to the proper time and place."
"And if I'm unsuccessful? What then?"
"I believe the I Ching will return you to your own time, and you'll be no worse off for trying."
"You believe, but you don't know for certain," Quentin challenged him.
In the distance, a cock crowed signaling the approach of dawn. "I know you have many questions, and we have much to discuss, but I must go now. I'll return this evening after sunset. We can speak more about it then." With that, Barnabas was gone, leaving the wands peeking out of the velvet bag on the table.
As the orange glow of dawn melted into early morning, Quentin was still pacing his sitting room, lost in thought. He turned the velvet bag and its intriguing contents in his hand. Could it be? Could the small bag he held in his hand contain the power to move through time? As unlikely as it seemed, he had witnessed many strange and powerful forces. Even before he himself was cursed, he and Evan had explored the mystical powers of the occult together. It was only after his return from his travels with Laura that he had distanced himself from it—only to be dragged back into it unwillingly by Magda's curse.
He opened the bag and looked at the wands. There was a knock on the door. Quentin placed the bag on the mantle and went to the door. Opening it, he said, "Good morning, Judith." He offered her admittance to the sitting room.
"Quentin?"
"You seem surprised to see me in my own rooms," he laughed.
"It's just that I've come everyday, and you never open the door," she explained.
"Yet you keep trying. How like you, Judith."
"Really, Quentin," she began to chastise him, but he interrupted her.
"You misunderstand me. I love you for it. When everyone else has given up on me, you still come everyday to check on my wellbeing—and I do love you for it." His tone was gentle—sentimental even.
Sensing this, Judith asked, "Quentin, what's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong, Judith. Can't I tell my big sister that I love her?"
"Of course," Judith said, tears forming in her eyes. How long had it been since he'd called her that. She went to him and fluffed his hair as she frequently did when he was a boy. Then she caressed his cheek. "You'll always be my baby brother—and I'll always look after you, just as I have since the day you were born." Quentin covered her hand with his. Taking it from his cheek, he kissed it lightly. Judith blinked back the tears, cleared her throat, and asked, "Why don't you join me for breakfast this morning? It will do you a world of good to get out of these rooms and have a change of scene."
"I'm sorry, Judith, not today. Tomorrow—I promise. I've been awake all night, and I'd like to rest now, but tomorrow …" He glanced at the bag on the mantle. "Tomorrow will be different—I promise."
"Very well, get some rest," she said. Then she left him, closing the door behind her.
Quentin went at once to the mantle and retrieved the bag containing the I Ching wands. He cleared the small table of the half bottle of brandy and the glasses. Then he sat down, opened the bag and removed the wands. He held them in his hand and examined them closely for the first time. There were six in all. Each was black lacquer; each had one side with a piece of white inlay. He could almost feel their power as he held them in his hand. He slipped the wands back into the bag and placed it on the table before him.
He stood and paced to the mantle. Resting his hands on the mantle, they came to frame Rachel's broach, still where he'd left it a few interminable days ago.
Barnabas had used the wands to travel through time—to go back through time to remove the curse—to help his friend. If Barnabas could use them to travel back through time, so would he. He would use the wands to go back and prevent Rachel's death as Barnabas suggested he could. All he needed to do was prevent her from meeting Trask that evening. Barnabas had given him the means to do so.
He turned back and his eyes found the bag on the table. Impatience flooded him. What would he do with himself until Barnabas returned? He should wait for Barnabas's return. He should wait for his cousin to serve as his guide. But, they practically beckoned him—they were too inviting. He returned to the table and sat. He took up the bag again. He worked the drawstring open with his fingers until the wands peeked out again from within. He drew them out once more.
He must know—now—not later. He would concentrate as Barnabas had said. He would focus—but he would focus on a time before Rachel's death. He held the wands tightly in one hand. He took one last look around the room. It would be different when he returned—everything would be different. He closed his eyes, and in his mind's eye he pictured Rachel, alive and well, happy and in love. He threw the wands on the table, and opened his eyes. He straightened them to form a loosely organized hexagram. He wanted to close his eyes again to focus his concentration, but found he could not. He could not look away from the hexagram. It seemed to spin around and around before his eyes—drawing him deeper and deeper in, until he no longer saw his room around him, only pitch blackness.
He was in a long dark hallway. He turned back, but there was nothing behind him but darkness. So he moved forward down the hall. There were no voices, no sounds. Moving in small cautious steps, he went forward down the hall. He lost track of how many steps or how far he moved. There was nothing.
Just as his hope was failing him, he saw something ahead. It was nothing more than a pinprick of light ahead. He moved toward it, cautiously at first then in long quick strides as it grew closer and closer. The pinprick grew to a long narrow ray of light. As he neared it, he could see that it was an opening—a doorway lay ahead. He reached for the doorknob. Looking back, there was nothing. The hallway had disappeared—there was only darkness—and only one way to go—forward.
He turned the knob, opened the door, and stepped into the foyer. He was at Collinwood at the doors of the drawing room.
She was pacing in front of the fireplace, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. Where was he? Should she go in search of her fiancé? He was late. And now time was growing short. She needed to leave. She could not wait any longer if she was going to make it to the Old House and back before their guests arrived.
Just then the drawing room doors opened. "Rachel? You're here!" There stood her errant fiancé. He looked quite wild. "You're here," he repeated, approaching her.
"Well, of course I'm here. I told you I'd meet you here," she started. "Look at you. You're not even dressed. Judith will be furious."
He took her in his arms, and kissed her—gently at first then with more passion. "Quentin, someone might see us," she said.
"I don't care. I love you, Rachel, and I want everyone to know it," he smiled.
"Presumably that's why you're marrying me tomorrow," she said, returning his smile, but with questions in her eyes.
"Tomorrow?"
"Yes, tomorrow. Why aren't you dressed? Go—you should go get dressed for dinner," she laughed. "Really, Quentin, what brought you downstairs half dressed?"
He looked down surveying himself—rolled up shirtsleeves as though he'd been doing manual labor, pants, and no shoes. "I …" He was at a loss to explain. He tried to remember why he'd come in such haste and urgency, but he could not.
"Anyway," she began, "I have to go the Old House to speak to Barnabas. I won't be gone long."
"The Old House?"
"Yes—I need to speak to Barnabas."
"Fine," he said. "I'll come with you. Just give me a few minutes to dress and I'll accompany you."
"I need to have a private word with Barnabas, Quentin. I promise it won't take long."
"No. You mustn't go to the Old House alone. Do you understand?" he told her firmly.
"No, I don't understand," was her perplexed response.
Nor did he. All he knew with certainty was that he was filled with an overwhelming sense of dread. "I forbid it!" he shouted at her. "I forbid it."
"You forbid it? I'll not be spoken to like that, Quentin. I'll not be treated like that. Is that how you intend to treat me once we're married?" she asked rhetorically. Her eyes were alight with indignation.
"Rachel, I'm sorry. I didn't mean …"
She cut him off, "I know what it's like to be treated like someone's property, and I won't go through that again." Tears formed in her eyes. She ran from the drawing room, and out the doors of the Great House—stopping only long enough to take her shawl from its peg by the door.
Quentin, wild-eyed with equal parts fear and self-reproach, ran upstairs in search of his boots. A short time later, he followed Rachel down the path through the woods that led from the Great House to the Old House. He knew that he trusted her—it was not that that drove him. And yet, there remained some unnamed fear, a sense of unmistakable foreboding. There was a fork in the path. One branch continued on through the woods and eventually to the cemetery; the other, like a small tributary, led to the Old House.
It was there, just beyond the turn, that he found her. He went to her at once. Blood saturated her dress and shawl. He knelt to cradle and lift her. "No," she whispered. "It's too late."
"No, Rachel. I'll take you home, we'll call the doctor … you'll be alright."
She put blood stained fingertips to his lips. "It was Trask," she whispered. "I should have known he would never let me go."
"No, Rachel," Quentin said through tears. "It's not supposed to end this way." He cradled her tightly in his arms.
"I … I" was all she could eke out before her strength failed her. She was dead.
Quentin held her lifeless body in his arms. He closed his eyes and let the tears come.
Then his world went dark. He could almost feel a force take him by the shoulders and pull him back. His head snapped back. The wands winked up at him mockingly.
Quentin stood and stalked to the window. It had worked. Barnabas was right. The wands had allowed him to move through time. He had focused on Rachel—Rachel in love with him and he with her. It had worked—but the outcome was the same. He had not been able to save her. He had failed her. He'd returned with nothing to show for his efforts other than the fresh pain of losing Rachel all over again.
He walked back to the table and picked up the wands, destroying the hexagram in the process. Again, he felt their power like a spark in his hand. He must control them. He must master them and bend them to his will. He squeezed them tightly as though to communicate his dominance to the wands. He thought of Rachel—not the woman he loved, but the shy governess who first came to Collinwood. He pictured her quiet and reserved moving about the Great House, nearly beyond his notice.
He sat and threw the wands. They landed. He organized them—a different hexagram showed, but it was no less compelling than the first. He could not take his eyes from it. Again, it began to spin before him, drawing him in. He was caught in its slipstream and found himself once again in the dark.
He followed the dark narrow hallway once again. This time he walked with strong, confident steps—looking for the door and what lay behind it. He had a different sense this time—it was as though he was climbing. It was as though the entire hallway was on an incline leading upward.
At last he saw it—a pinpoint of light in the distance ahead of him. He picked up his pace. As it had before, it grew as he drew closer to it. It grew until it became a slim vertical beam of light. It was the door.
In a matter of a dozen steps, he reached it. He turned the knob and opened the door. He looked back. The dark passage was gone. Instead, Rachel stood there looking at him expectantly. They were on the landing at the top of the stairs just outside the Tower Room. He whispered, "I'll go in; you stay here. Let me know if anyone comes."
"I'd rather come with you," she whispered back. "You might need my help."
"I'll be fine and I'd rather you were out of harm's way."
Quentin tried a number of different keys on the ring before the lock clicked open. He stepped into the room. A few moments passed as he surveyed the small room. There were signs of recent occupancy, but no one was there now. He turned to the door, "You may as well come in. We're too late."
Rachel entered and looked around the cell-like room. The narrow bed against one wall drew her attention. One corner of the thin mattress was bent up, resting against the wall. She could see something pale pink poking out from under it. She went to examine it. "What's this"? she asked. Lifting the corner, she removed a baby-doll—its flesh was pink, its head was painted with auburn curls.
"One of Nora's?" Quentin asked.
"Maybe," she responded, "but if so, I've never seen it before. And what's it doing up here?"
"Quentin?" came a shrill voice through the open door.
He recognized it at once. "Jenny?" Shock and disbelief flooded him. "Jenny, you're …"
"Who is she," his wife demanded. "Why is she holding my baby?"
Jenny's eyes were wild; her hair was a tangled rust-colored mass. Her hands were buried deep in the pockets of a soiled, ill-fitting dress, and her arms were drawn in tight against her body. It was Jenny, but she was a pale imitation of the vibrant woman he'd married.
"She's Rachel," Quentin said soothingly to the madwoman who was his wife. "She's Jamison and Nora's governess."
"Is she here to take my baby away?" Jenny asked, eyes blazing.
Rachel stepped forward and held the doll out to her. "No—here it is. Take it. It's yours."
But the madwoman rushed at her, drawing a knife from the pocket of her dress, and slashing at unprepared governess. Rachel staggered back as Jenny lunged for her. She cried out in pain as Jenny threw herself onto her, knife still in hand. Jenny wanted nothing more than to forcibly take the doll from Rachel, though she had offered the doll voluntarily. Quentin tried to restrain his wife. Desperately trying to wrap his arms around her and pull her away from the now helpless Rachel. Jenny grabbed the doll from Rachel. Quentin managed to pull his wife to her feet. All thoughts of Quentin, Rachel or the knife were vanquished from Jenny's disturbed mind. The doll was her sole concern. She ran from the room with the doll in hand—her cackling laughter echoing down the stairwell behind her.
Quentin went at once to Rachel. In the brief encounter, she had sustained a number of scratches and cuts—no doubt from Jenny's desperate attempt to secure the doll. Tears filled Quentin's eyes as he saw the handle of the knife still implanted in Rachel's chest. He cradled her gently. Blood flowed on unstaunched from the wound. His hand went to the handle of the knife. "No," she whispered. A few tears escaped her eyes.
It was inadequate, but he told her, "I'm so sorry. I should never have involved you. This was not supposed to happen."
He closed his eyes. This was not supposed to happen. She should have lived. This time, she should have lived.
Darkness enveloped him. His breath was rough and ragged; his face was wet with tears. He opened his eyes. The deceitful wands lay before him. He angrily scattered them across the table.
Perhaps he did not go back far enough. Maybe he should try to stop her from coming to Collinwood at all. If she had stayed at Worthington Hall, would she still be alive? Would she consider it living to be forever at the mercy of the Trasks?
He needed a drink.
Quentin stood for a long time looking at the liquid in his glass—its deep amber undertones and the ripples and eddies it formed as he swirled it to and fro. Then he set it aside untouched.
He returned to the table, and gathered the wands together. Then darkness welled up inside of him. It was as though the I Ching tapped into every misdeed he'd ever committed and sought to punish him for them by making him relive Rachel's death again and again—first at Trask's hands, then by Jenny's.
It was true that he had earned his place as the black sheep of the family. Even Judith, though she had of late rediscovered the affection she felt for him when he was a boy, saw the darkness in his soul. Every life he touched, he ruined—Jenny, Beth, and now Rachel, to say nothing of the acts he committed in his werewolf form.
Perhaps the I Ching was telling him that there truly was nothing left for him there. Perhaps, if he would allow it, the wands would lead him to a time and place free of his past—free of the mistakes and missteps—free of the lives he took—free from his pain and from the pain he caused others.
Perhaps, if he would allow it, the I Ching would free him. And while that would be more mercy than he deserved, he still resisted. He didn't want to … he couldn't surrender to what the wands tried to show him—that Rachel was truly lost to him—that losing Rachel and all she represented was his penance—the price he must pay for his misdeeds. If so, it was cruel justice indeed.
Maybe Barnabas was wrong and no guide was needed for the I Ching. Maybe the I Ching itself was the guide. The I Ching had offered Barnabas a chance to atone for his past. By bringing him here to lift the curse, perhaps it offered Barnabas some measure of peace, or perhaps Barnabas had yet to divine the I Ching's true purpose for him. It was hubris that convinced Barnabas that he could act as Quentin's guide. He could clearly see now that no guide was needed.
Suddenly, weariness suffused his entire body. All at once, the physical dissipation that characterized grief overtook him. He released the wands onto the table and tacitly yielded to their will.
The wands tumbled out gently before him. Almost of their own volition, they formed a hexagram. He stared at it for what seemed a long time, and yet nothing happened. He closed his eyes and he could picture the hexagram like an image seared on the back of his eyelids. There was only darkness and the image of the hexagram—and yet, he felt movement. It was as though the hexagram itself was carrying him forward. There was no pinprick of light, just the wands—just the hexagram. So he followed it on through a narrow corridor of darkness, until it was clear where it was leading him. There was a door—a double set of doors just ahead. And just as the doors came into view, the image of the hexagram came apart, as though it scattered itself across his mind's eye, just as he had scattered the wands across the table earlier. Then they were gone and all that remained was to open the doors.