Page 75 of Fortress of Ambrose
“Nore?”
She exhaled. “There’s something I have to tell you.”
Thirty
Quell
Twelve sparrows. Twelve. Perfection, completion. There are twelve main stars. Twelve sparrows is twelve birds. Birds fly. Without a cage they are free. If they dare to be. Small birds with brown plumage. Songbird sparrow. They sing! Singing is joy. Unless it’s a lament. Sparrows are sorrow. Or are they hope? Sparrows mean protection. 12 Sparrows Circle…
My mind won’t stop. I tossed and turned for two nights. Jordan came looking for me, but I sent him away. When I went looking for him, he was not in his room or anywhere.
Just before morning, while it’s still dark out, I take my traveling coat and leave Chateau Soleil. I am here now with one foot wedged in my grandmother’s shoe and the other still on the ground. I need answers. I need closure.
There are five 12 Sparrows Circle addresses, or some variation of that street name, that I could find. Two are homes in Virginia and one in Pennsylvania. Another is the address of a diner in Washington. But it’s the fifth that pricks my senses. It’s in New Orleans and doesn’t show on a map properly. The address brings up an abandoned lot of land. But that same piece of land is where St. Louis Cathedral sits.
When I arrive at Jackson Square, the streets are silent and empty. The gentle rushing of the Mississippi can be heard in the distance. The cathedral towers over me. Why would this church be my grandmom’s greatest work?
There are no hidden symbols of suns, filled in or otherwise, anywherein the stone architecture. There is a tall clock tower with sunrays for clock arms. A small sign sticking out from the landscaping mentions a side entrance. I follow the sidewalk to a garden at the back of the church. My toushana flickers, and I hold it close, worried coming here makes me too exposed. I let shadows unfurl in my hands as I listen for footsteps to be absolutely sure I’m out here alone. The back of the church is as beautiful as the front, with its steep angles, colorful stained glass windows, and statuesque detail.
That’s when I see it.
The gable over the rear doors bears a beautifully carved fleur-de-lis, not unusual for this city. But it’s the Latin inscription beneath it that raises the hair on my arms.
Supra alios
A cut above the rest. The House of Marionne motto.My grandmother didn’t build this building. But she builtsomethinghere. The garden landscaping doesn’t give me any clues. There are statues of dead old men, but other than that, it’s an ordinary yard shrouded in greenery.But the fleurs.My toushana urges me forward. Once I’m up on the steps of the back side of the cathedral, I notice more ornate carvings on the church doors. The picture is familiar: a man is hunched over, holding a giant sun on his back. At his feet a younger person hugs his legs. Around them are crowds of people.Sola Sfenti and his apprentice, Yaque Paru, when the two discovered the magical sun stones buried in the earth.
I touch the doors, toushana still whirring in my hand.
The doors flutter like a veil before fading into a dark shadow.
Now, my magic tells me. And I trust it, stepping through.
The world beyond the magical veil is not the inside of a church. The world reappears in vibrant shades of blue. There is a narrow sandy road that leads to the ocean beneath a crisp, cloudless sky.A cloak veil, like in the airport. I’ve been transported.
Square houses with flat roofs and small windows run along the dirtroad. In the front of each house is a fenced yard. The front lawns are full of black roses interspersed among the plants. The beachy village is busy with people working in their gardens, sharing a meal, tossing a ball over a net, playing with small children, and sitting in the sunshine. Several are my age.
Closer, I notice most don black diadems or masks.
The hair on my neck stands.
What is this place?
That’s when I see the magic. Some use toushana to rip out weeds in their gardens. A few others work together repairing a fence with Shifting magic. There is an older woman who transfigures the face of a tiny little girl, giving her whiskers and furry ears. The child bounces off to play with someone else. All this magic. All kinds. All together.
But it is the next house, nearest the ocean, that stops me dead in my tracks. A woman in a long blue dress gathers flowers into a woven basket. Her gray-streaked black hair is pulled back in a low bun. I recognize the way her frame hunches over as she stoops to the ground. I move toward her, unable to stop myself, my pulse racing. Her profile is familiar. Specifically, her nose.
Which is the exact shape of mine.
My heart hammers. My hands are slick. The world sways.
“Mom?”
Thirty-One
Nore
Telling Yagrin the truth couldn’t be any worse than the torture he’s going through. Nore didn’t have him the way she wanted him now. And if she told him, she still risked not having him. She had to fess up and hope for the best.
