Page 45 of Magpie

T he voice startles me so thoroughly I nearly drop the key. Looking up, I see an outstretched hand in front of my face, and I trail my gaze up the arm until I’m looking into the face of—

“Margaux?” I say, my mouth hanging open.

The youthful girl with the bubblegum-pink hair, dressed in a witch’s costume, is kneeling in front of me, smiling broadly, her eyes shining as she takes me in. She is blinding in the hushed gray fog around us.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, holding my key closer. Alister got to her, trapped her, too allured by her vibrancy. But he’s gone—she shouldn’t still be caged within these walls.

I look around wildly, just to ensure we’re still alone in the gray wasteland, that he won’t rise from his final grave and claim us both. To my shock, the dense, ashy fog is beginning to lift, but it does not reveal the glassy walls of Alister’s private study.

I’m sitting on a lush, clover-covered floor in the middle of a dense forest. Dim evening light cuts through the thick branches of the mossy trees, the quiet evening chorus of birds and insects filling the once silent world.

I turn my head slowly side to side, taking in the verdant, serene landscape.

“Where are we?” I whisper.

“This is my home,” Margaux answers, still smiling at me as I look around, bewildered.

I turn back to her at last and study her, peering into her eyes and finally recognizing that the light inside of her is tinged with darkness.

The same stolen darkness I have felt inside myself for so long.

It’s not the aching, gnawing dark that infested me, the mockery of her true self.

It’s pure and honest, black as night and somehow bright as day.

She is Death, and I have only ever been a forgery.

“My key,” she says, indicating the one still clutched tightly in my hand.

Of course it’s hers. It never belonged to me, not really. Without hesitation, I hold my hand out to her, opening my fingers to reveal the key. She gingerly picks it up, turning it over in the dying evening light.

Standing, she grins down at me, offering me a hand. “Walk with me, Maggie.”

I accept her hand, and she hoists me up off the forest floor. Looping her arm through mine, she begins to lead me through the twilit forest. Insects continue their gentle chorus around us as we move through the dense woods. She holds me tight, unspeaking, but glancing pleasantly at me often.

“I should thank you for returning Alister to me,” she says, breaking our silence.

I don’t look at her, focusing only on the clover at my feet as we move steadily on.

“He wasn’t the first person to run from me, and he won’t be the last,” she muses, her voice blending effortlessly into the calming symphony of the forest. “Every now and then someone gets the idea in their head that they can outsmart me, find some loophole to avoid me for as long as possible.” She turns to me, beaming. “But I greet them all in the end.”

We walk along the pillowy-soft clover path, the dying light of the sun never waning, but never brightening, remaining in stasis. I only lift my head when she stops us and I see a massive archway in the middle of the woods.

The columns are made of the purest white marble, etched in scrollwork.

Beyond the archway is not the forest, but a midnight-wreathed field of heather.

Lilies twine and crawl over the arch, and winking bugs light up and dance around the field.

A peacefulness like I have never know drifts out from the archway, and I find myself yearning to step through its marble barrier and rest.

“You didn’t try to run from me,” she says, and I peel my eyes away from the moonlit field to study her. “But you tried to flee my sister.”

She holds up the luna key.

“I was scared,” I say. Not because it’s an excuse, not because I think it will make her understand me more, but because it is the deepest truth in my soul. I was scared of life. Terrified of it. So utterly petrified of the very idea of it that I ran into the arms of a monster to avoid it.

She doesn’t placate me, doesn’t try to soften the blow with some practiced speech. She only smiles at me with a face that is both youthful and entirely ancient. “I know.”

She turns to the field of heather and breathes deeply, her eyes fluttering closed for a heartbeat.

“I should take you with me,” she whispers.

And all at once, I realize I don’t want to die.

As if she was waiting for it, waiting for me to fight to live, even at the bitter end, a smile bursts across her face like the first rays of dawn. She turns to me, grinning.

“Instead, Maggie, I want you to go back.” She takes both of my hands in hers and draws close to me.

“But this time, Maggie, actually live. Don’t run from the dark, and the hurt, and the pain of life.

Embrace it and find the light in the midst of it.

Meeting me doesn’t mean a damn if you haven’t actually felt, if you’ve never actually lived. ”

She drops my hands, walking into the moonlit field, the dancing bugs surrounding her in an effervescent glow. Turning to me, she waves again, her friendship bracelets jingling along her wrist.

“I’ll see you later. Oh, and Maggie…I wanted the rest of them to live, too.”

I furrow my brow, confused, but there is a sudden weight in my hand, like something being dropped into my palm. Looking down, I see the Cadillac keychain with the bright purple puffball attached. Laughing, I look up to call out to her, only to find myself standing in Alister’s study.

His body is gone.

The keys are gone.

She is gone.

The ashy fog, the remains of the snapped keys, may have lifted, but I’m still covered in caked blood and soot.

A grim reminder of the bloody events of the night.

Closing my hand around the keychain, I turn and step undeterred over the painted barrier of my cage.

Grabbing my backpack, I sling it over my shoulder and leave the room.

The attic seems smaller as I step into it, musty and subdued.

I climb quickly down the ladder and walk resolutely down the hallway.

Patrons are walking out of rooms, crowding the hallways in confusion.

They’re muttering about the House, about the lack of atmosphere, about how it seems so…

normal. I walk by them all. A few nudge their friends, pointing me out.

With the inky blood covering my arms, I’m sure I look like an actor to them.

“Hey, what gives? Is this place still open?” someone shouts at me as I stroll through the wide-open front door.

“No,” I call over my shoulder, not breaking my stride. “This place is finally dead.”

The noise of the murmuring crowd fades behind me as I walk down the path from the old barn to the cars. Her old beat-up Cadillac is parked exactly where we left it. I throw my backpack in, sliding into the driver’s seat. I situate myself, glancing in the rearview mirror.

I freeze.

I see myself. I see, and I remember.

The hue of my eyes, the tone of my skin, the color of my hair. It all stays firmly in my mind.

I exist.

I twist the key in the ignition. The engine roars to life, drowning out the noise of the droning crowd. Pulling the car out, I navigate easily onto the dirt path leading to the main road, leading away from the House.

I roll the windows down, letting the night air drift in and whip my hair around my face.

I click the radio on, picking up a local station.

A sugary sweet pop song is playing. I drive on, content to be directionless and free.

The sun is just beginning to brighten the sky, the first budding rays chasing away the darkness of the night.

Smiling, I turn up the volume and begin to sing.

The bell chimes above the diner as I open the door.

Mildred looks up, her eyes flashing in vague recognition as I step inside.

I’m glad I decided to stop at a gas station and scrub myself clean.

Something about watching his black blood swirling down the drain, knowing that the last traces of him were finally scrubbed from this world, made me feel like the blood was finally off my hands.

I threw away the black teddy, the one that belonged to Magpie, and changed back into the old clothes in my backpack.

I offer Mildred a cautious wave. I do not move to the far corner booth, but rather sit down front and center at the diner counter. She saunters over, pulling her order pad from her apron and clicking her pen.

“What’ll it be, hon?”

“A slice of chocolate silk pie,” I say, smiling, the expression easier than it has been in decades. “I’m told it’s the best.”

She cuts me a slice, setting it down next to a paper napkin and fork, giving me a brief nod before walking off. I’m glad she leaves me, glad she’s not near me when I pick up my fork and take a bite.

I’m glad she doesn’t see when I start crying.

I sob long into the night, but I eat every single bite of that pie, because Death is right. It is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.

“Are you sure I can’t convince you to stay on for the summer?

The pay only gets better with the tourists,” Paul says, leaning over the kitchen counter as I set the last of the dirty dishes in a bus tub.

He beat cancer—a miracle, I’m told—but he and Mildred continue to live every day like it’s their last.

I smile, already pulling my apron off as I say, “It’s only a few months. I’ll be back in the fall.”

“Let her live, Paul,” Mildred chides, coming up behind me and bumping my hip with hers. “She’s got a grand road trip planned, which is far more exciting than the life this tiny diner offers.”

“Believe me, this life is more than enough,” I laugh, zipping up my backpack and tossing it over my shoulder. “I’m just visiting an old friend.”

Mildred sends me away with a bag full of food and a hug that borders on rib-breaking. Before long, I’m in the driver’s seat of my Cadillac and speeding down the road.

I’ve worked at the diner since the night I cried into a chocolate pie.

Mildred sensed a lost soul in me and refused to let me leave when I admitted to having nowhere to go.

She and Paul adopted me like the child they never had, which I suppose is fitting, considering I didn’t exist for a large part of my life.

But still, I find myself craving this freedom. The feeling of the wind in my hair, like air currents moving under my wings as I speed down the road. I don’t allow myself to hope on these trips, these constant quests, but I enjoy the quiet serenity they provide nonetheless.

Night has fallen by the time I’m pulling into a roadside bar.

I’m not afraid of it anymore.

Killing the engine, I step out of the car, leaning against the driver’s side door as I stare at the scrawled script of the establishment name. The Skeleton Key flashes at me in bright neon lights as her words echo to me from the recesses of my mind.

I wanted the rest of them to live, too.

Those words stayed with me these last few years as I got my feet under me, as I learned to live again.

Or maybe, to live for the first time. Determined to not let a moment of life pass me by, determined to never let fear hold me back from a moment of happiness ever again, I push off the car door and walk into the bar.

Old rock tunes play over a speaker, filling the muffled quiet of the space. Low lighting shows a single pool table, a series of dartboards, and a bar nestled in the corner. A man stands behind it, his brown hair tousled as he polishes a glass.

“What’ll it be, love?” he asks, and I barely keep myself from crying at the sound of his voice.

Because it is his voice.

“Something to warm me up,” I say, sidling into a bar seat.

He freezes, like he’s hearing a ghost, a specter from his dreams. He turns, slowly, like he can’t stand to move faster, to let this moment pass him by.

Sean’s bewildered gaze, a bright brown so close to red, holds mine. We stare at each other. Strangers. Lovers. Friends.

He flashes me a crooked grin, and I return a bright smile of my own as I say, “I’ve been cold for far too long.”