I stopped just short of the altar. Bellanger and I looked at each other. His expression was entirely unreadable to me. I didn’t know what he’d do. The decision hung there between us. I held his gaze and I thought: I could do anything to you right now. I could do anything.
For the briefest second, Bellanger’s eyes flicked past me, to the people waiting. The faithful friends, loyal followers, whoever the hell they were. Now that I was close, I paid more attention to the door right next to the altar. I wondered if it led to the outside, and if I could still make a run for it. The impulse came over me quickly, not so much fear as an instinctive desire to remove myself from this impossible moment. Then Bellanger looked at me and smiled like he’d been waiting for this: looking into a crowd and recognizing an old friend. “Josephine,” he said. “Girl One. My oldest daughter.”
I couldn’t answer. I had so much to say to him. It was pushing against the back of my lips. It was filling me up entirely. Years and years of things left unsaid. One-way messages that I’d absorbed into the echo chamber of my heart, no way to reply. A life spent communicating with him only through dreams and daydreams.
“Dr. Bellanger,” I said finally.
He opened his arms and I stepped forward. My breathing steadied as if my body responded to his unspoken command, the authority of its true creator. It was comforting, obeying him on the molecular level—it was a sick shock. Both.
Bellanger pulled me close. I stiffened, unable to move. I smelled an unexpected trace of that old cologne, a sharp, lemony bitterness. Eau Sauvage. It brought along a memory so strong I was dizzy with it. Being so small I fit inside his arms. Staring up at him—way, way up. The safety of him. My stomach twisted. Over his shoulder, I saw that Fiona watched me. She seemed drowsier now, out of it, but I caught the edge of something strange. A dark cloud, swift-passing. I thought of the way that bird had seemed to welcome us here with its death.
“Today, we have the gift of unexpected guests,” Bellanger called to the room, not letting me go. “I am sure you all recognize these three Girls. They may not be fashioned from the same cloth as our Fiona, but they are the ones who preceded her. The ones who made Fiona possible. With these Girls returned to us, our horizons have expanded yet again. It’s a true gift. The very best of omens.”
Something was wrong here. He was surprised, but it wasn’t the pure shock wave of seeing three women from his past walk into the room. Bellanger had known we were coming.
I stood there in the candlelight, upended again. The past few weeks, I’d been brimming with rage and frustration that I’d never have a chance to express. I’d felt cheated. But now, staring him right in the eyes, I didn’t know where to begin. Until I did.
“I’m here,” I said, “for my mother.”
He leaned in close, his breath hot against my ear. He whispered, “I know.”
47
Bellanger’s office felt disorienting. Timeless. Like it could have been early morning, or the middle of the night, or June of 1977—everything held in suspension all this time. No windows, the single halo of yellow lamplight in one corner. Overflowing bookshelves, tables with papers, notebooks scattered widely, some cracked on their spines. If everything else on this desert compound felt functional and impersonal, this space was all Bellanger. I was surprised to see my own adult hands folded in my lap, pressed between my thighs to stop the shake. I felt myself turning back into a six-year-old kid, moony-eyed and hungry for love.
We’d been ushered here, still dusty and tired from the road. Bellanger sat behind his desk with his hands clasped. “My first three daughters.” He nodded at each of us in turn. The light from the lamp caught the sides of his face. “Do you know, I remember each of your births? All these years and I can still recall the distinct sound of each of your cries, nine times in a row. Each one a clarion cry. The very world changing.”
Cate was brisk and firm, speaking before his last syllable had faded. “We need to see Margaret Morrow.”
Bellanger leaned back, a glimmer of surprise, or displeasure, or both. “Of course you’ll see your mother, Josephine,” he said, addressing me as if I were the one who’d spoken. “Of course. You’ll have to forgive us if we aren’t exactly prepared for company at this moment.”
“What is this place?” I asked, softening my question, making sure he had a choice in responding. I was careful not to overplay my hand.
“This? This is home.”