Page 56 of Persephone's Curse
“When did she tell you that?” Bernadette asked.
“In Vermont.”
“And you kept it to yourself?”
“There’s been a lot going on,” I said, gesturing down at the Ouija board.
“Fair,” Bernie allowed.
“So you can see them and Esme could see them…” Clara said, and we could practically hear her brain whirring over this new information.
“What’s the correlation?” I asked.
“Esme was the youngest,” Clara said.
“But I’m not the youngest,” I said.
“The youngest ofthree. The third.”
“Oh. And I’m the third.”
“Could just be a coincidence,” Bernadette said.
“Did Persephone have siblings?”
“Almost certainly,” Clara said. “Each source says something different.”
“So she could conceivably have been the third daughter,” I mused.
“Conceivably,” Clara allowed.
I took the book from her and thumbed through it. It was written by Edith Hamilton. It had beautiful and scary illustrations. I felt a little bit like I had fallen down a rabbit hole, like Alice, just trying to sulk in peace and ending up in another world altogether. It all felt more real to me in that moment than it ever had before. Persephone. Us. The children of the in-between.
We had always believed the stories, believed Aunt Bea without reservation, but now, when presented with what could potentially beevidenceof the truth…
Well, it was a lot to consider.
We had believed the stories, when we were children, but we had also believed in the Easter Bunny.
I handed the book back to Clara. She set it carefully back on her lap.
“Okay, so I’ll, um, just ask a question…”
“I hopetonight,” Bernadette mumbled.
“Sure, um, well. Put your hands on the planchette.” We did. “And, then… Hello… spirits.”
“Hello, spirits,” Clara repeated dutifully, her eyes screwed shut.
“We’re trying to reach Henry. He lives in our attic. This attic. Well, lived. And we’re just trying to reach him. So… Henry? Are you there?”
Bernadette had closed her eyes by then, too, so I closed my eyes, and I tried to concentrate on keeping my thoughts pure and empty, but instead I kept remembering that scene inPractical Magicwhere the sisters stand on either side of the dead man, their hands over him much like ours were over the Ouija board now, tiny pins in their fingers as they prepared to pierce his eyeballs and complete the magic spell.
I cracked my eyes open. Nothing was happening with the planchette. The way the candles were flickering made my sisters look ghastly and strange. I felt scared, stupid, incredibly stupid. I closed my eyes again.
“Henry… can you hear us? Please let us know if you’re there. Please, Henry. Are you there?”
I didn’t think I imagined it, the slight tingling in my fingers, the slightwhooshof air through the room, the slight increase in light I could sense even behind my closed eyelids, like the candle flames had grown somehow stronger.
