Sadie Madison and the Boy in the Crimson Scarf

27 | The Penny Whistle

The three women paced outside the door. Oliver hardly dared breathe. He prayed Sadie would remain dormant long enough for the danger to pass.

"She was there," shrieked Edith. Her voice rang clear and crisp inside the maintenance closet. "Right there. In my head. The dirty little rat was poking around in my thoughts."

"Sadie Madison—?" Dorothea and Genevieve said together.

"Gah!" Edith croaked her disapproval. "The girl—? Hell's teeth! Are you joking?"

Dorothea and Genevieve fell silent.

"She has no power," Edith went on. "Sadie Madison...the firstborn, of the firstborn, fallen from the highest? Pah! A whiny careless child, obsessed with bedtime stories, adventure. Always playing the hero rather than truly being one. I see no greatness in her."

"Then who, Sister? Who was in your thoughts?"

"Her," Edith seethed, the word sounding like a curse. "The Living."

"If the Living has come to her aid, Sadie Madison must be the child of the Foretelling," Genevieve said.

"Falsehood!" Edith snarled. "I touched her myself. Do you think these hands would lie to me?"

"No, Sister," Dorothea replied. "But my hands have touched her too and they told me a different story. They showed me a strong child, with willingness, guile, potential. She is one of the Candidates. I have no doubt. After that, things were unclear."

Edith coughed wretchedly. "And you, Sister? Do tell. What did you see?"

Genevieve quietened. "I saw it all. Everything she will become. I saw her standing over the world—before a dying red sky—glaring down on every living soul. I saw her fingers stretched out, plunging into man, woman and beast, destruction and desolation pouring from her like blood from a wound. She is the one. My doubts on this matter—albeit contrary to yours, my Sisters—are unwavering."

"How can this be?" Edith replied. "Her future is so unclear, muddled. Even among us."

"She is yet to turn thirteen, Sister," Genevieve added. "There are some hours yet."

"Hours? What will hours change that millenia cannot?"

"We must find her," Dorothea said. "We must read her again."

"We should take her before...Him," Genevieve said, her voice vanishing to a whisper as the last word spilled from her lips.

"We cannot trouble Him with this," Edith told her sternly. "He is abroad—a masquerade—he must not be disturbed."

"Let us find her. Stow her away until she is of age. Then we shall read her, once and for all."

Edith croaked her approval, adding, "Search every room in this forsaken building until the girl and the Living are found."

"Agreed," Genevieve said. "I'll start here." In the gloom of their hiding place, Oliver could see the handle turn. A crack of lamplight slashed Rhiannon's face. She turned her eyes away, burying them in shadows.

"No," Edith rumbled. "We need to secure the perimeter. Genevieve, make your way to the southern entrance. Dorothea, the western doors. I shall bind the northern entrance and then make my way to the east. We'll convene there and conduct a sweep."

Three pairs of footsteps became mighty wings.

The door to the closet remained open, just a sliver. There was no sign of the three women. No sign of anyone. Not one soul.