The Wager - chapter 6

He had known the risk, and here he was: no closer to finding out how to help Giles; with no information about these spirits tormenting them. And he'd lost control; he was again a debased creature, he disgusted himself. And it would happen, again, so long as he remained here. And he would remain, until they accomplished what they'd come to do. They: Julia, she had seen; how she must loathe the idea of...He sighed. There was no help for it. They would go on.

He appeared at her side, bent and picked up May. He tried to explain, before she asked: "She, it...I struck her, but...there was nothing there."

"Could it be an illusion, a projection of some sort?" Julia asked, as they started walking, toward the mansion.

"I don't know. I don't understand any of this." This wasn't Angelique. There was no sign of Blair. Petofi's hand was not in this, so far as he could tell.

"Well, once we've returned May back to Collinwood, we should be getting back to the mausoleum." She hadn't wanted to remind him; but he had shown little inclination to plan ahead.

"Yes." He walked ahead of her, carrying May. He didn't want to look at her, didn't want to see her looking at him, not with that mixture of pity and disgust she must feel.

He walked ahead, trying to decide what to say, how to say it. He began to stammer out an apology, when he stopped short. It stood suddenly ten feet in front of him, a being cloaked in dark gray, but more beast-like than human, red-furred, ursine featured. He heard Julia gasp behind him. And he took a step back, blocking her way, so she would not proceed further toward it.

"Have you a wish?" It spoke to him, a sibilant voice, but quite clear, quite...feminine.

"Who are you? What...why are you doing this?"

"Have you a wish? I did not ask if you have questions."

Julia stepped to the side, although she stayed behind Barnabas she wanted to see clearly this figure: "But will you answer our questions?"

"Vera and Lily are right. You are foolish. Take what is offered."

Julia prepared to protest. They had a right to know. But Barnabas cut her off: "Very well: we wish for you to remove from Giles Stokes whatever spell you or your friends have placed on him, and for you then to give us your word, he'll be left in peace."

"And that is all?"

"If you will not tell us why you have done this, that is all. Will you make it so?"

By way of answer, Bethea closed the gap between herself and Barnabas. He stood still, as Bethea neared, and waved her hand over May's head. He stood, his arms still held out, as May disappeared. He stood, as Bethea stepped back and pointed to a boulder.

There appeared in the boulder a scene: Giles' home. May appeared. The image changed to show May, walking in toward Giles' chair. They could see Giles rise, and walk toward May and embrace her. And there the vision ended.

"It is as you wished." Bethea appeared to smile, her voice taking on some warmer tone. "Alma will be pleased. You have won her wager."

"What wager?" Barnabas spoke sharply. They were  being toyed with, like flies to gods; only, these were no gods.

"That this one would not desert you; and you would not harm either of them; and it would be so, whatever Vera might devise." Bethea nodded, slightly: "And now payment must be made." She started to fade. "Oh, you may go now". And then, she was gone.

"Barnabas?" Julia knew he would not simply leave.

"Yes, to Stokes' house." He offered her his arm as he turned to head back to town, on foot.

"It is getting late." he could make better time, traveling without her.

"I won't leave you here. Come. It will be all right."

Julia bit back the retort that came at once to mind: How can you be so certain?

But they did make good time getting back into the village, and Giles greeted them, standing in the doorway of his home. "I don't know what you did," Stokes conceded, "but I know you are responsible. I don't know how to thank you."

"May," Julia had to know: "where is she?"

From the parlor, May Collins emerged, wind-blown but otherwise appearing none the worse for her experience. "I'm here." She stared at Julia and Barnabas, as if trying to remember who they were, where she had seen them before. "I know you, don't I? Where do I know you from?"

Giles gathered her to his side: "They are friends of ours, May. You will forgive my fiancé. She fainted earlier, and is still recovering." Julia was about to question, but stopped. Giles' expression was easy to read: this story works, do not test it. Barnabas bowed, polite: "In that case, we will be on our way. Please, accept our congratulations and best wishes."

Once outside, Julia looked up at the sky: "We can leave this time now, Barnabas; can't we? Stokes is recovered."

"But we do not...what role did Trask play in this? Julia, we still don't know."

"And we may never know. But I think we'd best return to our own time, and make certain Eliot is well, and nothing there has been changed."

"Yes, I suppose you're right." He would agree; they could return, if need be.

It was shortly before sunrise. They recited the incantation in reverse. Julia felt the pull at once. She was being drawn back to her self, her astral self spiraling upward, faster and faster until the point of deceleration. It was as if she'd slammed into a wall, head first. There was the pain, and there was blackness and no pain. And then she was standing there, on the widow's walk. And he was beside her, holding her arm, supporting her weight, holding her up.

"Are you...is everything all right?" His concern would have been more touching, if her head didn't hurt so much, if she wasn't so thoroughly nauseated by being hurled through time and space.

"Not yet," she managed, "but I will be. You? Are you..." she reached out to take his hand, found his pulse, slow but present.

"Yes. I am...alive, for now, at least." He stood, waiting for the first rays of dawn. "Julia, shall we call on Stokes?"

"I suppose we should. Perhaps he can answer some of our questions. I don't know, Barnabas, certainties of time and space are no longer certain. It makes me wonder, what can we count on."

Together, they walked toward Stokes' home.

She took his arm as they walked: "Barnabas, you know what you were risking, when we went back?"

He held his breath: where was this going? "I did."

"Explain it to me, Barnabas."

"Explain what?" now, he was simply puzzled.

"Explain why you're prepared to take such a risk, take any risk, except one."

Was she saying what he thought she was saying? Did she really wonder if she could count on him? hadn't he proved to her, that she could? "There is that which I will risk; but there are those things, people, that I can't...won't risk."

"People?" Julia was tired. Her head hurt. How much more could she, they, take, without something more being offered, given. It was there, it had to be. Yet, he could have asked for it, and didn't. What had he asked for instead...for whom. Yes, she was tired. Those creatures had wagered, one had won, and one had lost. But they had taken the chance. Was it her time to place her bet, put it all in play? "People?"

Her tone, her meaning, were clear enough. But, how he should respond, that was not clear, not clear enough. But she was waiting for his response. He had to say something. What? What had he been thinking? What did he fear, more than losing her friendship, losing...her. "Julia," he stopped, turned to face her, looked at his hands, then into her eyes. "I am what I have been. You saw, back there, what happened. That is what I am, a creature, pretending to be a man. There was a time, when it ...when I thought the curse...but I can't be certain. If all I love are doomed, how can I..."

As he stammered, she took his hands and placed them on her waist, placed her hands on his arms. "Take one more risk, Barnabas, risk something for your own sake."

He looked down at her, seeing in her eyes no disgust, no pity, only acceptance, hope, and something else, something he had never thought to see there after all he had done to temper it, reduce it to what he could handle without fear. She knew, and it didn't matter. She knew, and she cared, and she loved him still. He knew the risk. And he took it: "You wonder, what can we count on. There is one thing that I know, that is certain, fixed, though time and space may be altered, one thing. I see it shining there," he touched lightly her eyelids: "our love. My dearest love."

As his lips met hers, and a kiss at first tentative deepened, Julia no longer cared if she ever learned any details of the wager that had brought them to 1870. She had won the wager that mattered.

And above the widow's walk, high above, Alma, who would have been the first born child of Giles, with May, their love child, settled herself among the clouds, content at last. For two had wagered, and won.