Page 108 of Once a Villain
The guard gazed back with clear blue eyes. “Eleanor isn’t the only one who’s been searching for you.”
What? “Why?” Joan said. “What do you want from me?”
Above, on the staircase, a tread creaked. Joan looked up. A new woman was standing at the top of the stairs, silhouetted against bright afternoon light from an open doorway. “We don’t want anything from you,” the woman said. “We want to help you.”
Joan’s breath stopped in her throat. It was Gran’s silhouette, Gran’s voice—slightly distorted by the space so that it sounded more resonant than usual.
Then the woman took a step down, and the light hit her face. And Joan’s heart was suddenly thundering. The woman’s features werealmostGran’s, but her cheekbones were higher, andshe had soft freckles over her nose that reminded Joan of her own. Her dark hair fell in curls around her jaw.
And Joan had never met her before, but sheknewher. She’d seen that face in photographs every day growing up. Dad had filled the house with them. Joan had learned every feature of her in two dimensions.
Joan opened her mouth. For a second, she couldn’t speak. When she found her voice, it was breathless. “Mum?” she said.
“Hello, Joan,” her mother said. “I’ve been looking for you for averylong time. I’m so glad to have found you.”
Thirty-One
Joan stared up at her mother, haloed by the light at the top of the stairs. She’d lived in her mother’s house all her life, among her mother’s photographs, her mother’s things. Dad had talked about her all the time. But, standing in front of her, Joan realized that she’d only ever known her filtered through other people’s perceptions and stories, through the photographs other people had taken. Joan had never even seen a video of her mother; had never seen her move or heard her speak.
The woman above her was nearly twenty years older than she’d been in any photograph Joan had seen, with new strands of silver in her hair and creases at the corners of her eyes. Joan’s chest spasmed out of nowhere. Mum had had so much life left when the King had killed her. Joan could have had so many years with her.
Mum searched Joan’s face, her expression echoing the ache inside Joan. Her own Joan had died as an infant, and Joan knew she was looking for her baby in Joan’s features.
“Shall we go up?” her mother asked. Her voice sounded so much like Gran’s that Joan’s throat tightened. “I can make us some tea.”
The guard had wanted tea, Joan remembered. But when Joan turned back to her, the guard shook her head. “I really shouldgo,” she said—it was soft, as if she didn’t want to intrude on the moment. “No one knows I was driving that van; I made sure of that. And the tear in the timeline was already closing by the time I got to you, Joan. Only a few people actually saw it. With luck, no one will connect it with your wanted poster.”
“Thankyou,” Joan said to her. The guard was risking her life, and Joan didn’t even know her name. She hesitated. “I feel like I almost know you....”
The guard glanced up at Joan’s mother, a hint of sadness in her eyes. “My name’s Fern. Our mothers are sisters.”
“We’re cousins...” Joan had an aunt on her mother’s side. A cousin named Fern. In the true timeline, she must have known them both. And from the feeling of familiarity—the warmth that came with it—they’d all been close. It was another glimpse of what the King had stolen when he’d murdered the Graves.
“Thank you, Fern,” Mum echoed. “For everything. Just please be careful when you return the van. My other daughter will be on alert after the assassination attempt. And she’ssmart.”
The mention of Eleanor sent a chill through Joan. They were all in danger, even here.
Joan followed her mother up the stairs. There was so much that she wanted to know about her. But, at the same time, this wasn’t really her mother—any more than Marguerite had been Aaron’s. This was Mum’s counterpart.
Aaron’s hand brushed against Joan’s comfortingly. He, more than anyone, knew how strange this felt. Joan wished she couldstill reach for him properly. She wanted to step into his arms like she had last night. But that didn’t seem possible now.
Her stomach churned at the thought of the unfinished conversation. She was sure this was just a moment of respite before things ended between them all for good.
They emerged into a wood-paneled grand hall smelling sweetly of rose water and warm with natural light. They could have been on a boat again; there were sweeping views of the river to the east and west.
A grand four-story mansion made completely of wood—not an iron nail in it, Eleanor had said once. The wood had been softened by mist-gray rugs embroidered with silver roses, and soft sofas set out in small groups of twos and threes, where people could eat and talk.
And at the center of the room was a single table that could have seated fifteen people or more.
Joan didn’t consciously remember ever walking into this room, and yet this space was achingly familiar. She touched a support beam, running her thumb over the hand-hewn tool marks. She didn’t just know this room, she knew the house. Knew the size and scope of its interior like she knew the shape of her own mouth. There were nearly twenty bedrooms across four floors, three halls, three kitchens, and two cellars.
“Listen to that water,” Nick murmured.
Joan pictured rapids rushing through the bridge’s arches below.The daring and the drunk used to fly through the rapids in rowboats, Eleanor had said,surfing the rising tide. The never-ending rush of water was like a hundred waterfalls.
Here, protected inside the hall, the sound wasn’t as loud as Eleanor had described. It was more like a constant white noise, and Joan found it soothing—a lullaby to fall asleep to.
“This room is usually full of people,” she said slowly.
