Michelle Zink - Prophecy of the Sisters Book 1

The journey to publication of this book includes five unpublished manuscripts and more amazing people than I can name. Ill try, though, by first saying thank you to my agent, Steven Malk, the sincerest advocate for childrens literature I know. Your instincts and talent are golden. To my fantastic editor Nancy Conescu, who somehow manages to strike the perfect balance between hand-holding, vision, and editorial tough love. Its a gift. To Amy Verardo and the Subsidiary Rights department at Little, Brown for helping the Prophecy conquer the world (heh) and to the entire Little, Brown PR and Marketing team. A more enthusiastic and talented team of people does not exist. To readers and friends extraordinaire Madeline Rispoli, Beth Helms, Karen Barton, and Jackie Lynch. To my friends Karla Galazzo, Eileen Cole, and Kathy Strucker. Life would be so much sadder without sweet potato fries and crazy diner conversations. To Maddi Collier, my first YA fan who has a bright future as a poet and writer. To all the young people who so generously allow me to be a part of the magic and joy and humor and pain of adolescence; Morgan Doyle, Jake Marks, Mike Strucker, and Conner Raymond. Knowing you all is a privilege. A special thank-you goes to Anthony Galazzo, whom I love like a son. Im in awe of your intellect, insight, and creative mind. Your enthusiasm for life, reading, and writing is a constant reminder of why I love what I do. I cant wait to see what happens next! To my dad, Michael St. James, for the writing gene. And most of all to the hearts of my heart; Kenneth, Rebekah, Andrew, and Caroline Zink, who sacrificed uncomplainingly for my elusive dream. You inspire me every day.

Perhaps because it seems so appropriate, I dont notice the rain. It falls in sheets, a blanket of silvery thread rushing to the hard almost-winter ground. Still, I stand without moving at the side of the coffin.

I am on Alices right. I am always on Alices right, and I often wonder if it was that way even in our mothers womb, before we were pushed screaming into the world one right after the other. My brother, Henry, sits near Edmund, our driver, and Aunt Virginia, for sit is all Henry can do without the use of his legs. It was only with some effort that Henry and his chair were carried to the graveyard on the hill so that he could see our father laid to rest.

Aunt Virginia leans in to speak to us over the drumming rain. Children, we must be going.

The reverend has long since left. I cannot say how long we have been standing at the mound of dirt where my fathers body lay, for I have been under the shelter of Jamess umbrella, a quiet world of protection providing the smallest of buffers between me and the truth.

Alice motions for us to leave. Come, Lia, Henry. Well return when the sun is shining and lay fresh flowers on Fathers grave. I was born first, though only by minutes, but it has always been clear that Alice is in charge.

Aunt Virginia nods to Edmund. He gathers Henry into his arms, turning to begin the walk back to the house. Henrys gaze meets mine over Edmunds shoulder. Henry is only ten, though far wiser than most boys of his age. I see the loss of Father in the dark circles under my brothers eyes. A stab of pain finds its way through my numbness, settling somewhere over my heart. Alice may be in charge, but I am the one who has always felt responsible for Henry.

My feet will not move, will not take me away from my father, cold and dead in the ground. Alice looks back. Her eyes find mine through the rain.

Ill be along in a moment. I have to shout to be heard, and she nods slowly, turning and continuing along the path toward Birchwood Manor.

James takes my gloved hand in his, and I feel a wave of relief as his strong fingers close over mine. He moves closer to be heard over the rain.

Ill stay with you as long as you want, Lia.

I can only nod, watching the rain leak tears down Fathers gravestone as I read the words etched into the granite.

Thomas Edward Milthorpe

Beloved Father

June 23, 1846November 1, 1890

There are no flowers. Despite my fathers wealth, it is difficult to find flowers so near to winter in our town in northern New York, and none of us have had the energy or will to send for them in time for the modest service. I am ashamed, suddenly, at this lack of forethought, and I glance around the family cemetery, looking for something, anything, that I might leave.

But there is nothing. Only a few small stones lying in the rain that pools on the dirt and grass. I bend down, reaching for a few of the dirt-covered stones, holding my palm open to the rain until the rocks are washed clean.

I am not surprised that James knows what I mean to do, though I dont say it aloud. We have shared a lifetime of friendship and, recently, something much, much more. He moves forward with the umbrella, offering me shelter as I step toward the grave and open my hand, dropping the rocks along the base of Fathers headstone.

My sleeve pulls with the motion, revealing a sliver of the strange mark, the peculiar, jagged circle that bloomed on my wrist in the hours after Fathers death. I steal a glance at James to see if he has noticed. He hasnt, and I pull my arm further inside my sleeve, lining the rocks up in a careful row. I push the mark from my mind. There is no room there for both grief and worry. And grief will not wait.

I stand back, looking at the stones. They are not as pretty or bright as the flowers I will bring in the spring, but they are all I have to give. I reach for Jamess arm and turn to leave, relying on him to guide me home.

It is not the warmth of the parlors fire that keeps me downstairs long after the rest of the household retires. My room has a firebox, as do most of the rooms at Birchwood Manor. No, I sit in the darkened parlor, lit only by the glow of the dying fire, because I do not have the courage to make my way upstairs.

Though Father has been dead for three days, I have kept myself well occupied. It has been necessary to console Henry, and though Aunt Virginia would have made the arrangements for Fathers burial, it seemed only right that I should help take matters in hand. This is what I have been telling myself. But now, in the empty parlor with only the ticking mantel clock for company, I realize that I have been avoiding this moment when I shall have to make my way up the stairs and past Fathers empty chambers. This moment when I shall have to admit he is really gone.

I rise quickly, before I lose my nerve, focusing on putting one slippered foot in front of the other as I make my way up the winding staircase and down the hall of the East Wing. As I pass Alices room, and then Henrys, my eyes are drawn to the door at the end of the hall. The room that was once my mothers private chamber.

The Dark Room.

As little girls, Alice and I spoke of the room in whispers, though I cannot say how we came to call it the Dark Room. Perhaps it is because in the tall-ceilinged rooms where fires blaze nonstop nine months out of the year, it is only the un-inhabited rooms that are completely dark. Yet even when my mother was alive, the room seemed dark, for it was in this room that she retreated in the months before her death. It was in this room that she seemed to drift further and further away from us.

I continue to my room, where I undress and pull on a nightgown. I am sitting on the bed, brushing my hair to a shine, when a knock stops me midstroke.