Part 20
Miranda watches the expressions shift like water on Andrea's face. Stunned surprise. Disbelief. Shock. Confusion. Concern. But what she doesn't see is more important. There's no scorn, mirth, or mocking. And even more important, Andrea remains by her side and though her eyes are huge at Miranda's words, they're focused on her with the same warmth as before.
"1761." Andrea's voice is without infliction.
"Yes." Miranda's not about to get into the 'I know it sounds crazy and unbelievable, but I swear I'm not insane…' litany. If Andrea is about to take a leap of faith, she will have to do it without Miranda begging her too. It's the only way and Miranda knows the chances are infinitesimal for this to happen.
"Are you saying that this list of names, they're not just some witness protection program, having tons of passports, thing? That you've actually been living the lives of all these people?" Still not raising her voice, Andrea looks down at the ledger and back up again. "Miranda?"
"In a nutshell, yes." Miranda is cold now. She's shivering and she wants to close the ledger and just be done with it. The risk of Andrea merely walking out the door and leave her obviously delusional boss in the dust is great. Why not get it over with?
"Tell me more. Just…tell me more." Andrea strokes an unsteady hand across her forehead, messing up her bangs. Miranda absentmindedly lifts her hand and comb them down with her cold fingers.
"You're freezing." Andrea reaches behind her and tugs at a blanket. "Here." She wraps it around them both, effectively creating a cocoon of them and the ledger.
Grateful, Miranda tugs it closer and closes her eyes for a moment. When she opens them, she has steeled herself against the onslaught of fear. "My family, my mother, father, sister, and I, were among a large group of people who left Liverpool for Plymouth in 1769. It was a horrible journey where old people and children died in the middle of the Atlantic. I, to this day, don't know what illness spread among the most fragile on the ship, but the adults called it a plague. In retrospect, I think they named it that because of how fast it spread and how quickly people died." Miranda reaches for her drink, making sure she takes enough to burn her throat. She needs the sting to focus as she's taken back in time by her own words. "Our small corner below deck is right next to the McLeod's, Rosalee's family. She's the first to get sick among them, and she turns into a shell of herself, wraith-like. I'm not allowed to visit with her, but it doesn't matter. I get ill as well. My sister, Corinne, is sixteen, almost an adult. She and my parents are unaffected."
Pausing, Miranda quickly wipes at her eyelashes, feeling as if her pent up emotions are right there, ready to burst through her skin and make her bleed. Andrea hasn't said a word, but she also hasn't cringed, winces, or made any sort of disdainful face at Miranda's words. Now, she slips her arm around Miranda's back, holding her. How incredibly strange this is. How unexpected.
"Among all the children that get ill, nine come through it, and they're all girls. The affected boys and old people were not so lucky." Miranda snorts unhappily. "Lucky. Well, I suppose that's one word for it." She tips her head back against the couch. "By the way, what's with us and couches, Andrea? We seem to have a propensity for advancing our, eh, relationship on couches."
"Where else do you think we should sit? The floor?" Andrea gives a tremulous smile.
"You have a point." Grateful for the reprieve, Miranda turns her face into Andrea's neck, so grateful that she's not rejected yet. Yet. She shudders.
"Just take your time. I can tell how hard this is for you." Andrea kisses the top of Miranda's head. "When you're ready, I'm listening."
Which of course isn't the same as believing, but that's too expect too much of anyone.
xxxxx
Andy watches how Miranda straightens and turns a few pages in the ledger before she continues her incredulous tale.
"We arrived in Plymouth and my parents were thrilled to have reached our first destination. So was Corinne, but I was distraught over leaving Rosalee and the other little girls I met. It was as if we shared a bond after having lived through that plague. Little did we know what it might mean for us.
The upcoming years were hard. My father had a small capital he saved for the purpose of starting over in this new land. We settled in Maine. After a few years, we were joined by others we knew from the ship, including the McLeod's. Mrs. McLeod had then passed and Rosalee's father was alone with the children. My mother helped take care of them as they lived close to us."
The details of Miranda's story are minute and the emotions in Miranda's voice, retrained and yet so raw, it grates on Andy's nerves, are compelling.
"To make this story short, the years went by and our lives unfolded the way lives back then often did. My sister got married at eighteen. So did I. We worked hard. And it was five years into my marriage, that I noticed how Rosalee, who was married too by then, and I seemed to live parallel lives. No children. If we were injured, we healed fast and never succumbed to infections. And we looked a lot younger than our peers. Our husbands were frustrated with us not providing sons, and Rosalee's husband abused her daily. Having a body that hides the bruises in a day was a blessing and a curse. Eventually, she ran away from her husband. I was forty years old, already a widow, and looked eighteen. Words like 'witchcraft' began to circle and that's when my mother urged me to follow in Rosalee's footsteps and leave our settlement in Maine. She and my father had saved up to give me enough to start over. So, I did. A first of many start-overs. I never married again."
Andy looks down at the ledger, where someone, in small, ornate handwriting, has entered dates, names, locations. She turns the page. More dates and notes. Her eyes fall upon a longer entry.
New York, December 22nd, 1809 – I miss my family the most at Christmas. I envision my mother and Corinne, in their respective homes, preparing the food and helping at church. Mother will provide for the less fortunate whenever she can. I try to follow her example and God knows the need here in New York is great. Owning a restaurant makes saving scraps of food quite easy and it can mean the difference between life and death for a child living on the street.
Andy's eyes fill with tears. She uses the blanket to dab them away and turns more pages. Sarah, and later, the new names show up, as the years go by. Andy notices that there is a pattern. Usually, there are about thirty or forty years between the changes.
Trying to think critically, Andy regards the pages with the art restorer's point of view. The pages are fragile and the large book is clearly old. Leather bound, it shows cracks where the leather has gone dry, or become damaged. The ink changes throughout the pages, and so does the handwriting, to a degree. The choice of word changes as well, going from very formal to more casual. If Miranda has forged this document, she's done it in an ingenious way. Of course, as an expert art restorer, she would have the knowledge. But why? What motive could a person possibly have to create such a ruse—and then keep it a closely guarded secret? That part simply doesn't make sense.
"I can practically see your thoughts spin," Miranda says quietly. She looks drained where she clutches her half-finished Bloody Mary. "You can probably guess why I never share this with anyone…at least not anymore. It's not an easy pill to swallow. It's an impossible pill."
It was. But Andy homed in on the 'at least not anymore' part. "Who did you tell?"
Miranda flinches and returns the glass to the coffee table. "My second husband. He adored me and he was ahead of his time when it came to his outlook of life. Just not that ahead. I told him my true age, I was seventy-eight, and about being barren, and he laughed it off. Called me his eccentric angel, of all things. When time went by and he aged, and I did not, he was not amused. When people started pointing it out, he ended up doing what my parents had done—paid me off to go away." The pain is evident in Miranda's voice. "I left with my ledger," she continues and strokes the pages of the large book, "and enough money to take me to Philadelphia."
It is of course an impossible tale. And yet… Andy groans and takes Miranda's hands in a firm grip between hers. Miranda's are still ice cold. "Are you saying you're an immortal?"
"The title of my ledger would suggest that, wouldn't it?" Miranda's smile is more of a grimace. "Amaranthine. It means, among other things, undying, a flower that never fades, and a red, burgundy color." She shakes her head. "The Amaranthine Law is something I, Rosalee, Iris, and the other six girls established in 1855. We all agreed to a set of rules to keep each other safe."
"So…not immortal?" Andy persists, needing to hear Miranda say it, no matter how unfathomable such a statement would be.
"No. I have aged. I no longer look to be in my early twenties, do I? I look at the age I try to be. I can pass for anything between forty to sixty. That's the best span for me right now, that and modern times allowing for nips and tucks that make seventy-year-olds look decades younger."
"What does the Amaranthine law state?" Andy watches Miranda pale.
"It really doesn't matter what it says. We have broken against several of the paragraphs anyway, starting by my meeting with Rosalee. We've become exposed. People have died. The Amaranthine Law that was supposed to protect us is crumbling around our feet. "Miranda yanks her hands free and stands up, rigid arms and fists at her side. Her blue eyes are nearly colorless and yet they sear like white flames. "I think this is the endgame and...oh, God, Andrea—you're caught in the middle of it all."
xxxxx
Continued in part 21