The Story Sisters

At the next stop sign, Claire opened the door and ran.

ARNELLE WAS SO deep under the ground you had to descend more than a thousand steps. There were three sisters there, Elv had told Claire. They were beautiful and loyal, with pale eyes and long black hair.

“Like us,” Claire always said, delighted.

If they concentrated, if they closed their eyes, they could always find their way back to the otherworld. It was beneath the tall hawthorn tree in the yard, beneath the chestnut tree in Paris. Two doorways no one else could get past. No one could hurt you there or tear you into pieces. No one could put a curse on you or lock you away. Once you went down the underground stairs and went through the gate there were roses even when snow fell in the real world, when the drifts were three feet deep.

MOST PEOPLE WERE seized by the urgency of Elv’s stories, and her sisters were no exception. At school, classmates gathered round her at lunchtime. She never spoke about Arnelle to anyone but her dear sisters, but that didn’t mean she didn’t have stories to tell. For her school friends she had tales of life on earth, stories of demons she didn’t want her sisters to hear. A demon usually said three words to put a curse on you. He cut you three times with a knife. Elv could see what the rest of them never could. She had “the sight,” she said. She predicted futures for girls in her history and math classes. She scared the hell out of some of them and told others exactly what they wanted to hear. Even in Paris when she went to visit her grandparents, the city was filled with demons. They prowled the streets and watched you as you slept. They came in through the window like black insects drawn to the light. They put a hand over your mouth, kept your head under water if you screamed. They came to get you if you ever dared tell and turned you to ash with one touch.

Each day, the number of girls who gathered around Elv in the cafeteria increased. They circled around to hear her intoxicating tales, told with utter conviction. Demons wore black coats and thick-soled boots. The worst sort of goblin was the kind that could eat you alive. Just a kiss, miss. Just a bite.

“Don’t eat bread,” Elv warned these girls, who quickly tossed out their sandwiches. “Stay away from metal,” she whispered, and the girls who had mouthfuls of braces went home and begged for them to be taken off. “Be careful of ropes,” she warned, and in gym classes there were now troupes of girls who refused to climb the ropes, even if that meant detention or a call home to their mothers.

THAT HOT AUGUST four years ago when Arnelle began, late one inky blue night, the girls went into the garden after their mother went to bed. They drew a blanket over their heads. They cut them selves with a razor blade and held the wounds together so their blood would mix and their word would be true. Ever since, the girls had traded blood in August, including Meg, even though they never told her why they’d begun the ritual. They would creep out through the back door when their mother was asleep. That first time, Claire had cried at the sting of the razor. Elv had given her gumdrops and told her how brave she was, perhaps the bravest of all. Claire knew she wasn’t the brave one, but the next time she didn’t shed a tear. It had been Meg, always so rational, who suggested they stop cutting themselves and put forth the notion that what they were doing was nonsense. Besides, they might get an infection from this procedure, perhaps even blood poisoning. But she hadn’t been there when the demon pulled them into his car. She didn’t know what you might be forced to do to save your sister.

“Don’t worry,” Elv had said. “We’ll protect each other.”

NOW, AT THE window of the Plaza, as they brooded over the fate of the horses, Elv was telling her sisters about love. The Arnish were appalled at mortal love. It was a weak brew compared to true Arnish passion. Your beloved in Arnelle would do anything to save you. He’d be willing to be slashed by knives, tied to trees, torn into a bloody heap.

“What if you’re in love like Ama and Grandpa?” Meg asked when the rules of love were recounted. They had the comfortable sort of love where they finished each other’s sentences. It was impossible to imagine their grandfather tied to a tree.

“Then you’re doomed to be human,” Elv said sadly.

“Well, maybe I’d prefer that,” Meg offered. She was getting fed up with Arnelle. If she wanted to enter an otherworld, all she had to do was open a novel. “I don’t want to be among demons.”

Elv shook her head. There were some things her practical middle sister would never understand. Meg had no idea what human beings were really like. Elv hoped she never found out.

As for Claire, she couldn’t look away from the street. Now all she could see were the carriage horses’ ribs sticking out, the foam around their mouths, the way they limped as they trotted off. There was a spell Elv had taught her one night. Meg was up in their room reading, so it was just the two of them in the garden. Ever since the gypsy moth summer they’d left Meg out of their most intimate plans. The spell Elv taught Claire that night was to call for protection. You were only to use it when it was absolutely necessary. Elv took a trowel from their mother’s garden shed, where there were spiders and bags of mulch, and drew the sharp edge across the palm of her hand. She let her blood drip into the soil. “Nom brava gig,” she whispered. “Reuna malin.”

My brave sister. Rescue me.

All Claire had to do was say that and Elv would be there. Just like that terrible day.

“What if you’re too far away to hear me?” Claire had asked.