The Lark Taps Twice

Chapter 10: The Horrible Alternative and a Declaration

Two sets of feet thumped and clumped, their cacophony receding until it was barely audible, The hum of low male voices further tempered the noise, and Miriam slumped over, dropping her burning face into her icy palms.

How did I get into this conundrum, and what does all of it mean? What do I do now that I found the museum and this room full of evidence of my undeniable-yet-impossible gifts, and more? What about this "soulmate" business? Argh! Why did I go on this wild-goose chase, anyway? I should have stayed home and enjoyed my long weekend; I have that new book to read and -

An owl cooing pulled Miriam from her thoughts, and she lifted her head to search for the source. At first she couldn't find it, so she rose to her feet to see better. When the coo came again, she ignored the soft echoes and twisted her head to face the sound.

The lark was perched, mouth open on the frame of another painting. Strange that I have never heard him make that sound, but it is so familiar...

He closed his mouth, cutting off the owl noises and their echoes.

TAP TAP

The rap of beak on antique wood pressed her body into motion. She intended to shoo the bird from the picture frame before he could cause any more damage that she should surely have to pay to repair, but a few feet from the wall, her steps slowed, and horror sank icy fingers into her brain.

The painting beneath the lark was the evil twin of the one she'd admired earlier. No lark graced the weathered and cracked windowsill, and the broken glass had let in drifts of snow. The dreamstone, covered in cobwebs and dust, lay abandoned in the corner formed by the window frame and the remains of the closed sash. The bundle of the not-columbines had crumbled into a pile of black dust, a few dirty red threads the only remnants of the ribbon that bound them together.

Outside the window, the fence was missing several slats, and one support post had snapped off at the ground, causing two sections to lean and sag. The blackened tree was smaller than in the other painting, and cracked bark on the trunk told her it was dead. The gray snow was sprinkled with black specks, and in the background, a group of people crouched low, leaning together to avoid being touched by the gang of shadowy wolves that encircled them.

Is this the fate of my home if I had chosen to stay home this weekend? I would do anything in my ability to make that other painting reality, rather than this! What is a lost relaxing weekend when millions of lives are at stake?But what can I do, and why me?

Warmth flooded her torso as hands settled lightly on her shoulders.

"I see you found the alternate vision. My grandfather said this would be the fate of your world, should ours fall into eternal darkness, emphasizing again to me the importance of finding you. Tell me, my lady, how did you come to this place? Was it rumors of a handsome curator?"

Miriam's mood lifted with the amusement in his voice. "Nothing so purposeful, though if I had heard such rumors before this week, perhaps I would have come sooner." She pointed to the lark, still gripping the top of the painting's frame. "This little guy has been visiting me for years, bringing me birthday gifts. Two days ago, I met a woman who knew all about his presents; she even knew about the one I had in my pocket that day, the one I didn't open until last night. She insisted that I come here as soon as possible and bring the gifts with me, that I would need them all to 'return everything to the way it should be' or disaster would -"

The handsome stranger spun her around to face him, his grip on her shoulders tightening to the edge of painful. "This woman, what did she look like?"

Miriam forgot to keep her focus on his chin and met his intense stare. Willing herself to stay present in her own mind, rather than plumb the depth of his galaxical irises, she replied, "Like my mother, but much older. Like me, but with platinum blonde hair and dark chocolate eyes. Do you know her?"