The Cloisters(47)

My dearest daughter. I have sent to you a set of cards that I have had in my possession for some time. They will, I hope, give you the illumination they have given me. With these cards you may see more than you like. You may believe that we have been granted free will, but these cards will remind you that our fates are written in the stars. Be warned, my daughter, that I send these cards along to you, fearing, as I do, that they will not only show you the future but will ensure that it is so. You must be prepared, be accepting of this. And may your desires align with the will of the cards, for only one will reign.





CHAPTER FOURTEEN


We were so exhausted from the night that we slept until noon. And then, when the sun was overhead, we finally pulled ourselves out of the bed in my room, where we had fallen asleep together surrounded by notes and books. We lay in chairs on the lawn, letting the sun warm our bodies while we watched the breeze work the lake into stiff whitecaps.

There was a joy to being in a place where we could speak openly about the discovery, where no one like Moira or Patrick or even Leo could overhear our wildest theories about the card and its origin. What was clear, at least, was that we had found it—I had found it—the tarot card, the deck that proved divination had been an original purpose of the cards. What we didn’t know, however, was where the deck had come from, or when. The document in Lingraf’s hand had no attribution, no notes. The illustration on the card was almost certainly Renaissance—everything from the subject matter to execution testified to that fact. But it could have come from anywhere—Milan, Rome, Florence, Venice. The only evidence we had was the partial seal, the wing and beak of an eagle in black-and-white photocopy. Even Stephen saying the cards had come from Mantua meant little, so many centuries later.

But it was okay. We were, for a moment, deliciously happy in our discovery. And there was a security in sharing it with Rachel, a lessening of my vulnerability: we were together in this secret.

I stood up from the lawn and stretched. “I’m going to get something to eat. Do you want anything?”

Rachel simply shook her head, never looking up from her book, which cast a long shadow across her face and into the grass. The ring she wore, the ram that matched my own, glinted in the sun.

Rachel was lighter, more relaxed here. The past two days had been the only time I had seen her truly enjoy herself, except, perhaps, for the day we sailed on the river. Around Patrick she was always watchful, professional. I wandered into the kitchen through the wood-paneled library to find Margaret filling a ceramic vase with blooms of white hydrangeas.

“From the farmers’ market,” she said, trimming a few stray leaves off the stems with a paring knife. “Can I help you find anything?”

Growing up, there had never been anyone to help me navigate the kitchen, just foiled-over remainders of residence-hall dinners my mother would bring home after her shifts at Whitman. It was always my own trial and error, opening cupboards and drawers, trying to piece together a meal before and after school. There were never labeled containers of cut fruit and sliced vegetables. And there was certainly never a Margaret, a motherly figure who would put down her own work to help you.

“I don’t want to bother you,” I said. “I was just going to get a little something to eat.” We had never managed to adequately feed ourselves after waking, neither of us wanting to make the effort to pry ourselves off the lawn. Rachel had lit a cigarette, declaring it good enough.

“What about a sandwich?” Margaret said, looking in the fridge. “I picked up some bread from the farmers’ market this morning.” She started pulling ingredients out, stacking them on the counter.

“I can do it. I don’t want to put you out.”

“I know you can do it. But wouldn’t you rather I do it?”

Already, the way she expertly cut the loaf in half, with a firm hand and an assured thrust of the knife, made me realize she was right, I would rather have her do it.

“Thank you,” I said, sliding onto a stool.

“It seems like you girls have been enjoying yourselves, sunbathing and reading.” Margaret dipped a knife into a marbled jar of mustard. “It’s nice to see Rachel enjoying herself again.”

I wasn’t sure if I should mention anything that had happened between us in the brief time we had been there. That Rachel had saved me, that I knew about her parents, but something about Margaret made me want to confide in her. Maybe it was the way she spoke, as if every sentence were confidential, a communication just between us.

“She told me about her parents’ deaths,” I ventured.

“She did?” Margaret looked surprised, almost resigned. “I thought she would give up this place forever after it happened.”

I wanted to know the details. I had found details helped give a solidness to the event, a body to the horror. Even if, for me, the details of some of my own worst days were still elusive. Margaret looked at me from across the counter and wiped her broad hands on the smock she wore before picking up a head of lettuce and plucking a few leaves.

“Rachel’s parents liked to sail north in the evenings,” she said, “and have dinner at this little restaurant on the water. It’s still open today. And then, afterward, they would sail home. Those little sailboats”—she shook her head—“well, they’re barely big enough for two people, but that night, all three of them decided to pile into the boat and head out. The wind wasn’t that strong. In fact, I watched them tack back and forth up the lake, but of course, that happens a lot around here before the thunderstorms move in and the winds come. After dinner, the wind was starting to gust. I still don’t know why they got into that little boat, but they did. All of them, and they sailed back to the camp. When they hadn’t arrived by ten, I sent Jack out on the motorboat to see if he could find them. After a few hours he found the boat. Flipped over in the middle of the lake. No sign of Rachel or her parents. Well, of course, he radioed the Hamilton County sheriff—”