“Someday,” Mother promised, “you’ll be like me. Like Morgan. You, too, will Change. ” And even when she was only six, Cassidy had dreamed of that day.
But there was no one left now to show her how to Change. She had only this body that was too small and too weak. Clumsy, not graceful like her Mother’s.
If she were able to Change, maybe it would be easier. She would stop being so sad. She would know the secrets that Mother hadn’t had time to teach her. In a way, she would be closer to Mother than ever.
She sniffed and scrubbed her face. “You’re such a baby,” Morgan used to say when she cried. She’d been mad at him then, but now she wanted him back. She wanted him back so bad it hurt inside.
But she couldn’t cry anymore. She had to start the fire before it got dark, not even so much for the warmth as the comfort it brought. And she was hungry, always hungry.
The door to the cabin was still partly open, letting in the chill. She pushed her body against it to close it firmly from inside and went to the fireplace. Carefully she arranged the kindling, adding to it bits of paper Father had left in neat stacks about the cabin. Very few of them remained, because she would never burn the few books on the shelf in the corner. Before Mother died, Cassidy had been learning to read. She’d been good at it. Some of the books were too hard for her, but she kept trying, the way Mother and Father would have wanted.
And because the books and their words were like magic carpets to carry her away.
She picked up one of the last pieces of paper and was about to feed it into the small flame when she felt the difference in it. It was not just one big yellowing sheet with lots of small writing—newspaper, Father called it—but an envelope with an address on the front. An address in the city, the place called San Francisco, miles and miles away.
The address was in Mother’s writing.
Cassidy lifted the envelope to her nose. It still smelled like Mother. She opened the envelope slowly with a chipped fingernail and unfolded the sheet inside. One by one she picked out the words, crisscrossing the brittle paper in wavery lines.
My Dear Isabelle,
I pray that you receive this letter in time. Even as I write these words, I know that my hours remaining on earth are few, and it is my hope that this page will be in your hands before I depart.
Take a deep breath, my friend, and do not grieve. I have known for months that I am close to death, but I have tried to fight it for Cassidy’s sake. Forgive me my brevity.
Last year—only months after you left us—Aaron went to the Nevada mines. He never returned. Morgan followed, and he too has vanished. I can learn nothing of them. I know in my heart that Aaron is dead, and my soul has gone with him. It is the way of our kind when the bond is very deep.
No, my dear friend, I could not burden you with this—not when I know you felt so indebted to us for those happy years you spent here. There was never any debt between us, Isabelle. But now I must ask you to help me.
I have made what provisions I can for Cassidy, but there is none in these mountains I trust. None but you. Please come with all haste and take Cassidy to your heart and home. I do not care about your past, as you care nothing for my nature. We are sisters in all but blood.
I have enclosed papers which reveal the names of those kin in England my own dear mother wished to forget. They are people of wealth and rank. I wished never to go against my Mother’s desires, but they are family. They are my kind. Cassidy must know them if she is to understand herself and her gifts.
I know you have no wish to face England ever again, but I have no other choice but to ask your help. If you can bring yourself to so great a sacrifice, take my child to those who can give her what no human being can. I will pray with my last breath that this decision is the right one, and that Cassidy will find happiness and belonging as my mother and father never could.