LITMIR.BIZ

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      Now I will believe

      That there are unicorns …

      —William Shakespeare,

      The Tempest

      PROLOGUE

      New York City, 1883

      “MAMA? Mama!”

      Portia Marron looked at Mariah the same way she had for the past week, her eyes slightly glazed and unfocused, as if she could no longer see the real world.

      But the world as Mariah knew it hadn’t been real to her mother for many years. Portia saw one much more beautiful, inhabited by wondrous creatures who sometimes crossed the barriers in her mind to whisper in her ear.

      “Mama,” Mariah said again, squeezing the frail hand. “Please come back.”

      Briefly, the faded blue eyes cleared. “Is that my little girl?” Portia asked in the croak of a voice seldom used. “Now, now. Don’t you fret none.”

      Mariah looked away. Mama had relapsed so far that she was living in the distant past, when Papa had still been working on the railroad with his own hands and muscle, and Mama had been a rancher’s daughter.

      Papa had tried to put that past far behind him. He’d done his best to buy his way into New York society, but his efforts had proved largely futile. Wealthy as he was, he was still one of the nouveau riche, without an ancient family name to open the gates.

      Not that Mama had cared. In fact, it had always seemed that the harder Papa pushed his family to enter a society that rejected them, the deeper Mama retreated into her realms of fantasy.

      Mariah patted the withered flesh stretched over the hills of blue veins. “Yes, Mama,” she said. “Everything will be all right.”

      The brief moment of coherence left Mama’s eyes. “Do you hear them?” she asked dreamily. “They’re louder now. They’re calling me.”

      It took all Mariah’s control not to squeeze too tight before she released Mama’s hand. “Not yet, Mama. They don’t want you yet.”

      “But they sing so beautifully. Can’t you hear?” Mrs. Marron rolled her head on the down pillow. “So sweet. You must hear them, my darling. They will be coming for you, too.”

      Mariah shuddered, knowing her mother wouldn’t see. “Perhaps someday, Mama.”

      “Someday,” Portia sighed, releasing her breath too slowly. Then she turned her head toward Mariah, and a strange ferocity took hold of her gaunt face.

      “Don’t let those doctors take me back,” she said. “Promise me, Merry. Promise me you won’t let them take me.”

      Sickness surged in Mariah’s throat. “No, Mama. I won’t.”

      “Promise!”

      “I promise.” She sketched a pattern across her chest just as she’d done as a little girl. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

      Mrs. Marron relaxed, the tension draining from her body. “You’re a good girl, Merry. Always have been. You never cared about them snooty harpies. The best of them ain’t as good as you.” She smiled again. “You remember when you was little, and I read you them fairy stories? How you loved them.”

      “Yes, Mama.” She had loved them: fairy tales and all the romantic adventure stories about lost princes and hidden treasures. She’d half believed they were true. Not anymore.

      Mama felt across the sheets for Mariah’s hand. “Don’t give up, Merry,” she said. “Sometimes the good things seem far away. Good things like love. But it’ll find you, my girl. Sooner or later, you’ll have to believe in something you can’t see.”

      That was the old Mama. The one who had been less and less in evidence as the months and years passed. The one who never would have survived in the asylum if not for her invisible companions.

      The one Mariah missed so terribly.

      She leaned over to kiss Mama’s cheek. “You should sleep now,” she said. “When you wake, I’ll bring you a nice cup of tea and a few of Cook’s fresh biscuits.”

      “Biscuits.” Mama slipped away again. “I wonder if they have biscuits there. I’ll have to ask.…” She closed her eyes and almost immediately sank into a deep sleep.

      Mariah’s legs were trembling as she rose from the chair beside the bed. All her efforts had gone for nothing. She had been the one to insist that Mama be brought home, so she could care for her. But she’d failed. She was certain that Mama was dying for no other reason than that she wanted to go to that other place.

      A place that wasn’t heaven. It wasn’t even hell. It didn’t exist at all and never had.

      Mariah trudged down the stairs, hardly bothering to lift her skirts above the floor. The idea of dressing for dinner was repellent to her, but Papa would insist. He would not abandon the life he’d fought so hard to achieve, not even with death so close in the house.

      “Miss Marron?”

      Ives bowed slightly, always proper, as only an English butler could be. “Mr. Marron requests your presence in his office.”

      “Yes, Ives. I shall be there presently.”

      “Very good, miss.” Ives bowed again, passed her and continued up the stairs. Mariah wondered if Papa had sent him to check on Mama. He still loved the woman he’d married, though in truth she’d left him long ago.

      Mariah continued on to the office and knocked on the door. Papa let her in, chomping furiously on an unlit cigar. His big bear paws hung

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