Chapter 2 - The Visit
Lucien
Lucien had watched Penelope as the dream took her. He’d wanted to rush in and do what Callie couldn’t. The damned Council was interfering. Again. Though they’d have said the same about him. But Lucien knew Penelope experienced things intuitively, and this meeting should be no different. That’s what he’d told the Council when they first decided on their course of action. Instead, he’d observed her come out of the dream on her own and answer the phone. Good. Pressures are mounting, and she’s doing well. He was proud, but he could sense her unease. Her fear. He knew if he didn’t talk to her now, he might never get a chance again.
Lucien put back his shoulders, raised his chin, and entered the back gate. It was now or never, but would she believe leaving them had been for their own good?
He glanced through the window. She was on the phone. She didn’t look happy, but his visit couldn’t wait. He’d sent the feather first, his calling card, a courtesy to let her know of his impending arrival.
She hung up the phone, placed it on the countertop, picked up her mug, and sipped. She seemed lost in thought, as if contemplating the day or her next steps in it. He couldn’t help smiling a little as he imagined himself where she stood and came shimmering through the door.
Music spilled down the stairway, bathing the house in a steady drumming tempo.
“Stop frowning like that, Penelope. You’ll get wrinkles.”
Her cup crashed against the stone floor, and she whirled around. He knew wrinkles would never line her face, but she didn’t. Did she? He often wondered how much Sarah told her.
“How did you get in?” she asked, the spilled liquid untouched, running free between the grooves of the tile near her feet.
“Back door was open.” He lifted his shoulder. “I mean, the back gate. Well, the door, too, to put a finer point on it. You have a lot of doors in this world. Did you know that?”
“Your world has doors. Plenty of them,” she snapped.
Fair enough.
Her dark hair shone almost black in the sunlight, and her face had a few fine lines but that was genetics. He wondered when she had become an adult and why she’d changed her hair. Was she trying so hard to distance herself from who she was?
He’d been there for her and Callie’s birth. Watching. Sarah had smiled at him when she’d swaddled them in blankets. Thirty-plus years later, they were grown. He’d seen them from time to time, but Lucien had missed so many years.
Something inside him cracked, pieces of what might have been clouding his judgement. He had to focus. She was the only way to put the world back together. ‘These humans don’t know what nightmares are,’ he’d said to his friends, Annigan and Sundari. And then Sarah, and Callie … He shook his head. He didn’t want to think of that night.
He caught her leg mid-roundhouse. Good. She has a fighting instinct.
“Fine. Why are you here? Is that a better question?” Her gaze darkened as she held her pose of one leg in his grasp, and the other pressed against the floor. Her face changed to that of a child and back to an adult who would stand her ground against foe or friend. Lucien wasn’t sure in which camp he fell but feared it may be the first. He sighed inwardly. If it wasn’t important, I would never have put this burden on you.
“Well, it makes more sense for my purpose,” he said, still holding her leg. The feel of her was something he’d long since forgotten, and he didn’t want to let go. He put a finger to his lips as if she were a petulant child. Behind his long, thin finger, a smile teased his mouth, remembering the secret they’d shared when she was seven and the images they’d seen in the water at the lake house. Did she remember? Probably not. She’d lived a lifetime since then.
“Screw your purpose. And you didn’t answer my question.” Penelope scrutinized him, her countenance growing darker, , her face flushed, and if he hadn’t already had her in his grasp, she might have lunged toward him. His hold on her was firm, though she made fists, opened her hands, and shook the air in front of her. She finally crossed her arms.
“I can’t answer that question right now.” He thought of something he’d heard Sarah say once. ‘If looks could kill.’ Penny glared at him, her nostrils flaring, eyes wide. He’d never seen Penelope quite this vocal without saying a word.
“What do you mean, you can’t answer that question right now? I don’t have time for games. Look around.” Penny gestured to the dishes piled in the sink and the broken mug on the floor. “Do you have any idea what’s happened in the last year alone?” She huffed. Before he could answer, she added, “Does Callie know you’re here?”
He stiffened. Words meant to maim had met their mark. Of course, Callie knew. Lucien had heard them talking when he’d sent the feather. Was she trying to trick him? Distract him? Or was she looking for a fight? He didn’t have the energy and doubted she had the will. He’d been watching her for longer than she knew. Ever since the thread snapped.
He looked down at the spilled coffee and watched as it reversed toward the cup, which was putting itself together. “It’s a question of intent,” he said. “Focus.” He caught her sea-storm gaze and heard her silent plea.
Callie, if you are here and can hear me, do not come downstairs.
His heart sank. This was going to be so much harder than he’d imagined. He’d have to be gentle. Penny was on a knife’s edge and her face bore no resemblance to the child he’d once known.
“She can’t hear you, you know. Not the way she once could. And I know where Callie is. But she is neither home nor out. She is somewhere in between.” Lucien’s eyes roved heavenward. “Not you, though. You are like your mother.” He tilted his head and studied her. Penny did not twist or wriggle in his grip. She stood motionless, with one foot on the floor.
“Your feet are planted. That is good. You are the root from which many will grow.” He laid his hand on her shoulder. She twitched at his touch. “Sarah and Callie, among them.” He smiled. “Perhaps the hatchlings, too. Fluffy and Fido? Isn’t that what you call them?” There was an unspoken question in her eyes. “The hatchlings have their purpose, too.”
Lucien followed her glance to her leg in his hand.
“Released,” he said with an odd little bow.
“Take a breath, Penny. You’ve always been an observer, our little cloud watcher. You’re … it’s almost time.” He lifted her chin. “There will come a time—no, the time is now. Now is the time to stop watching and become part of the world. You have helped many in the Dreamscape, but there is a bigger part for you to play. So. Much. Bigger.”
“It’s almost time.” She found her balance. “Cryptic much?”
“You don’t understand.” He shook his head and sighed. “How could you, of course. Your mother spent all her time with Callie. And I—”
“Left.”
A world of hurt in a single word. Lucien opened his mouth and closed it again.
“You left.”
He shook his head again. Was there nothing he could say?
“You still haven’t answered my question. Why are you here?”
“I left to protect you. To protect you both.” He bowed his head. “All of you.”
“Great job. Mom is in the hospital. Callie is … I don’t know what Callie is, but she isn’t the Callie you or I remember. Something happened to her.”
“Yes, Penny. I know.”
“You know? Is that what you’re doing here? You’re going to what? Fix them? Fix us? We’ve done pretty well so far—”
“Stop.” He put his hand up. “Just stop. There is something much greater at stake, and you—” He swallowed, bent toward her, and took her chin in his hand. “I must go.” He released her and walked toward the door but didn’t open it. “But I will return soon. We have much work to do, you and I. Meet me in the cemetery tomorrow morning.”
Penny’s phone buzzed. As he faded away, he noted her text.
“Hey! It's almost time for what?” she called after him.
He felt her confusion, frustration, anger, fear, so many emotions that did not belong to her. She was their cloud watcher, peacemaker, and she would have to be the glue that brought their worlds back into the common dream. Without her, their worlds would fall and with them, everyone she cared about. She was tied to him and his world, too. Penny had been so young when he and their mother first told the twins about his world, and so happy for Callie when she learned of her sister’s role. Most likely, she hadn’t fully comprehended it, and Callie thought it meant she was to be a princess. Callie was of nobility, but not the kind she’d read about or seen in movies.
He'd told them stories of a golden land, its azure sky streaked with purple, orange, and yellow; warriors sent to guard the sleepers of the worlds. The wise ones set the mission, he’d explained, but it is our – he’d glanced at Sarah, and she tilted her chin for him to go on – responsibility to ensure the worlds in which they travel are safe for everyone.
Callie had asked, “And there were princesses?”
“Priestesses,” he’d replied touching his index finger to the tip of her nose. “Like you will be.”
“Are,” Sarah had corrected him, a gentle, knowing smile. One arm wrapped around each child. After a pause, she’d added, “You are a Princess and a Priestess. Does that sound better?
“Are,” Lucien had echoed as Callie bobbed in agreement with Sarah’s suggestion.
“It sounds nice,” Penny had said. “But I don’t think it’s what you want to tell.”
Lucien and Sarah had shared a look. He adjusted his shoulders and turned to Penny. “What do you mean?”
Penelope had shrugged, “To have peace, there must be battles, right?”
“That’s right,” He’d been slow to answer wanting desperately to avoid the dark side of his world, and the people in it. Penelope didn’t ask again, and she didn’t divert her gaze. She is old beyond her years.
He’d smiled. “Let’s save the rest of the story for another time, shall we?” He stretched his neck back and noted the sun, high overhead, had scaled back its heat. Clouds dotted the sky like dots and dashes of white paint. “Let’s just say,” he said, “It’s like stepping into a painting and being able to see what’s just outside the frame.”
When they were fourteen, he’d returned to help Sarah prepare Callie for what was to come, but the Council had demanded his attention, and before he knew it, fifteen, then twenty years had passed.
Penelope’s phone had read ‘Oscar Duncan. His offices. 3:30 pm shoot.’
He’d heard the name Duncan before. Though he couldn’t place it, his hands trembled, and his stomach seized.
©Lisa Rogers. This story has been written from my head by my hand for more years than I care to count. Completed December 2024. All Rights Reserved.
If you’re new to The Silver Feather, you can read Chapter 1 here.
Special thanks to
for the image on this and coming chapters.I have gone back-and-forth ad nauseum about whether or not to serialize this book and have decided to rip off the Band-Aid(tm) or plaster, if you prefer.
Disclaimer: it’s not going to be perfect, but it has been storycoached, developmental, and line-edited, any typos or similar issues are mine and mine alone