Crossing Over - Anna Kendall [102]
There was no time to lie with Cecilia in my arms, barely time for a quick embrace. I kissed her cold cheek, sat her down, and crossed back over.
Full sunlight struck my eyes, which had become accustomed to the dimness of that other country. Jee’s whistle played, stopping abruptly as I rose from my bedding. And Maggie stood looking down at me with accusing eyes.
“So you’re back,” she said.
“I was asleep—”
She gave out a single oath, one so filthy that even Hartah had used it only rarely. Jee’s whistling stopped. Maggie said without looking at him, “Go find water, Jee. Now. Fill the bag.”
The child went, eyes wide with fear.
Maggie said, “Nothing I did could rouse you. What you . . . what you . . .” All at once her voice dropped to a whisper, and the sudden terror on her face dwarfed Jee’s. “What you told me in the kitchen. It’s true. Isn’t it?”
I could not see anything to be gained by lying. Not anymore. Besides, she would not believe me. When Maggie made up her mind, not all of Solek’s army could change it.
“Yes. It’s true.”
“You can . . . you can cross over to the country of the Dead.”
“Yes.”
“You’re a witch.”
“No,” I said irritably. “There is no such thing as a witch. I am”—I knew only one word for it—“a hisaf.” So it was with your father, the old man’s voice whispered in memory, or you could not be.
Maggie said, “What’s a ‘hisaf’?”
“Someone who can cross over. Maggie, I did not choose this. I was born this way. But I am not a witch, and I swear to you on my mother’s soul that I am no threat or danger to you. To anyone.”
She considered this, her face still twisted with fear, but nonetheless considering. At that moment, fair-haired Maggie reminded me oddly of Queen Caroline, at least in expression.
“You go to her at night,” she said. “You go to Lady Cecilia. That’s where you went last night, isn’t it? I couldn’t wake you this morning but it was not illness, not even exhaustion, it was as if you . . . weren’t here. Because you were not. You were with her.”
“Yes.” Relief washed through me. Maggie understood, she accepted. I could stop hiding and running from her, because now at last there existed one human being who knew what I was but—unlike Hartah, unlike the queen—would not seek to use my “gift” for their own ends. Relief lightened my mind and, despite everything, I nearly laughed aloud. We were free of lies, Maggie and I, and everything from this point on would be so much simpler.
“I hate you!” Maggie screamed, and threw a roasted rabbit at me. Still warm, it burned my cheek and then fell onto the grass, a wet meaty slab. Maggie put her head in her hands and cried as if she would never stop.
“Maggie, what—what—”
“Don’t touch me!” she screamed, although I hadn’t tried to. “You don’t understand anything! You’re the stupidest man I ever met, and the most evil, and the—How can you go to her? She’s dead! Dead, dead, dead, and even when she was alive, she was silly and vain and stupid—even stupider than you are! And I followed you and cooked for you and risked everything for you—don’t touch me!”
“I’m not! Maggie—”
“Go! Get away from me! Or stay here with your dead and rotting whore—I don’t care! I’m going!” She ran down the uneven track.
Even without much sleep, I caught her easily and pinned her arms to her sides as she tried to hit me. Her face was streaked with dirt and tears, she smelled of days of travel, and she bucked in my arms like a captured boar. Then, all at once, the bucking stopped. She threw her body against mine and kissed me hard.
So at last I knew. The suspicion I had had on the island, the suspicion I had worked so hard to dispel, was true.
“Maggie,” I gasped, when I could tear my mouth free of hers, “Maggie, no. I—”
She let me go.
We stood there for a long time, not looking at each other, under a warm noon sun. I had no idea what to say, what to do. A few moments