Amber House: Neverwas (18 page)

Her mouth formed unuttered words; her fingers tightly gripped the pen
she carried.

She turned into a bedroom with pale lavender walls and sat low on the
farther side of the bed. Then she started to scratch at the walls with
the pen, shaping letters, forming words. She whispered as she worked:

“Sorrows. . . . Bruised. . . . Myssss-tery. . . . Past and future. . . . Fate is
in thy hands. . . . Heal the wound. . . .”

She scribbled faster, whispering a little louder. “Hast thou . . . a
chance . . . to choose it all . . . again . . . then take . . . the path . . .

that leads to . . .”

I woke as I spoke aloud the missing word. “.Otherwhen,”

CH A P T ER NI N E

K

I opened my eyes to the same gray light that had filled my

dream. Darkness bleeding into day. The longest night of the year

was over.

For a moment, the confusion of waking in the wrong place

dominated my thoughts, until I remembered falling asleep in the

chair in Sammy’s room. I forced myself to sit still so I could hold

on to the fragments of my dream. A mad woman walking.

Scribbling on the wall. Red hair —
Fiona?
I could picture her clearly then, and the rest of the dream took shape around her.

Writing a poem in a lavender room.

I rose, following my dream, my bare feet padding, oblivious,

over cold floorboards. Across the compass rose, into the west

wing. Finding the door on the right that
she
had entered. Turning its handle.

But the room was not lavender.
Of course not
, I thought.
It’s
white, all white, except for the wallpaper’s pattern of tiny sprigs of
flowers.

I went to the stretch of wall where Fiona had written, low

down and next to the double window letting in the rising light.

I ran my fingers over it, wishing I might somehow be able to feel

the words right through the paper. I needed to see what was

there. I needed to know if my dream was true.

A curl of paper beneath the window snagged my eye. Seeping

moisture must have eroded the glue, loosening a patch. I peeled

it back. Saw that there was indeed lavender wall beneath it. And

marks. I peeled a little more, bent closer. They were handwritten

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words. Slightly smudged, but still legible. Repeating, over and

over, a poem.

We chase the turnings of a maze confused,

Drawn on by hope, pursued by history.

By fortune we are soothed, by sorrows bruised,

We stumble on, purblind, toward mystery.

Yet Time hies round thee, hushed, on unshod feet,

Lest hearing, thou should wake to Her, and rise

To seek the point where past and future meet.

Though choice seems chance, though happenstance belies

Intent, learn thou that fate is in thy hands.

Discern the joint that shatters Time, that bends

Her flow, her heedless whim, to thy commands.

Thus heal the wound; thus make all good amends.

Hast thou a chance to choose it all again,

Then take the path that leads to otherwhen.

The final word settled into my brain like an explosion waiting

to happen.

My thoughts whispered, one on top of the other, building,

until a wind wailed inside my mind. My hand ached in the center

and I felt spread thin — so thin I might disappear. I remembered

a gold dress, too beautiful to be real, and running through the

maze, twigs clutching at the silken gown like fingers. A boy was

there, at the maze’s heart, waiting for me. I knew him. I could

almost see him.

I covered my face with my hands and tried to recover that

sight. The wind whipped all around me, a funnel of noise. Like

a train coming at me. Like a flood rushing, rising. Unshaped

memories speaking with voices that echoed one over the other,

roaring, building, pulling me in, pulling me under.

Then the sudden mercy of stillness when a pebble hit the glass.

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I lifted my head, opened my eyes, almost surprised by the

daylight falling through the window. I looked out.

She was standing in the snow under the oak tree, her little

feet bare, her gauze dress all she had to keep her warm. But I

understood the cold couldn’t reach her.

It was Amber. My imaginary friend. And she was staring up

at my window.

N

I ran for the nearest stair — the spiral steps in the conservatory.

My feet beat the rhythm of the phrase from the poem:
the chance

to choose, the chance to choose
.

What did I feel? Not fear. Something more avid. A hunger

that had terror in it. Whatever Amber was, she was my only

hope for answers.

I shot out the conservatory door, my bare feet screaming at

the cold stone beneath them. Dashed around to the front of the

house, my feet saying less and less, growing numb. When I got

to the tree, she wasn’t there anymore.

Movement.

She was at the far edge of the front porch steps. When I spot-

ted her, she started off again, running toward the kitchen,

disappearing past the front corner of the main house.

I tore after her. I saw, as I raced across the light snow on the

flagstone walkway, she had left no footprints.

I took the turn and continued on to where the path bent again

along the front of the east wing. And found myself alone.

No trail. No little girl. No answers.

I felt the cold, suddenly. Like freezing water outside and in. I

stumbled on numb feet through the nearest door, the one to the

kitchen.

Jackson was inside, writing something at the table. “I was just

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leaving a note saying Gran can’t come to —” He glanced at me,

broke off. “What on earth?” He took his coat off and wrapped

me in it, then led me to the built-in bench seat by the fireplace.

I sat unmoving while he put the kettle on the stove, got out a

mug and tea bag, sugared it slightly, then brought me the tea to

warm me from the inside out.

“Drink it,” he said, and I obeyed.

“Did you see her?” I asked dully. My feet were burning with

the rush of returning blood. I could feel a flicker of heat spread-

ing from my center.

He crouched beside me, taking my hands in his to warm

them. He looked up at me cautiously. “See who?”

“The little girl,” I said. “Amber.”

He shot to his feet abruptly, bumping his head hard against the

mantel. He lifted his hand to his temple and brought away fin-

gers wet with blood. Then his head jerked backward as he

crumpled to the floor.

“Jackson!?”

He gasped as his spine arced up off the ground. The cords in

his neck stood out. His left arm and leg began to shake, and a

trickle of blood oozed from his nose.

“
Oh, my God!
” I screamed. I pushed open the door to the hall and shrieked as loud as I could, “
Dad!
” Then I ran back to the fireplace.

Jackson’s body trembled and slowly stilled. I bent over him,

not knowing what to do. I heard running. My father, still in his

pajamas, slid to a halt in the doorway and swore under his breath.

He rushed to crouch beside Jackson, whose eyes opened slightly.

Jackson moved his head a little. He groaned softly.

“There’s so much blood,” I said with a pale voice.

My father gave me a stern look. “Everything’s fine,” he cor-

rected. “Everything’s just fine, Jackson. You have a little cut.

Head wounds bleed like the dickens, but it’s just fine.”

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Then why is he bleeding from his nose?
I wondered, but remembered not to speak it out loud.

Mom pushed open the door and stopped still, moaning a lit-

tle. Something about medical emergencies left her weak. “Go

back to bed, Anne,” my father ordered. “Sarah and I can handle

this. Everything’s fine.”

She nodded and let the door swing shut again.

Dad helped Jackson rise to sit in a chair pulled near the fire.

“Get him a glass of water.”

I jerked into motion and quickly handed a glass to my dad,

who held it while Jackson took a sip. Then he helped Jackson to

his feet, and led him to the living room couch. He pulled

Jackson’s boots off and made him lie back. “Get my bag from the

front hall,” he told me.

His doctor’s bag.
Of course. I stumbled to fetch it.

Dad started in on his medical thing, wrapping a blood pres-

sure cuff around Jackson’s arm. I went back to the kitchen to

give them some privacy.

Jackson’s blood had spattered the stones and wood all around

the fireplace. I fetched a bowl of soapy water and a rag to clean it up. I started with the mantel, then worked my way down the

stone face to the hearth. I worked without thinking, without

letting any sliver of acknowledgment of what had occurred that

morning to creep into my consciousness. The rock crevices

resisted giving up their stains, but I persisted methodically, stoi-

cally. I changed the water in my bowl and knelt again to get the

last of it — some stray marks Jackson had made with his bloody

fingers on the plank wood of the floor.

But when I bent over them, I thought that maybe they weren’t

stray at all. Maybe he’d
written
something. If I mentally filled in the places where the marks thinned — a curve here, a line

there — I could imagine letters.

J A N U S.
In the black-brown color of drying blood.

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The word settled inside me like a lump behind my collarbone.

I couldn’t bear the feel of it. I stared a moment more, then

scrubbed hard and made the marks go away.

Dad came back to the kitchen. “It’s half past eight. I’m going

to change and drive him to the clinic in town so he can get a

couple stitches in that cut and they can check him over a little

more thoroughly.”

“I want to come.”

“You should just stay here, honey. He’s going to be per-

fectly fi —”

“I want to come,” I repeated.

I hurried upstairs and threw on some dungarees and an over-

size sweater. When I went back down, Dad was helping Jackson

toward the front door, Jackson’s arm draped over Dad’s shoul-

ders. I stomped my feet into boots, pulled on a coat, and shut the

door behind us.

A pretty little vintage New English convertible was ripping

down the drive, with Richard Hathaway behind the wheel. The

top was down despite the cold. “Parsons!” he called, waving. His

brilliant smile faltered a little when he saw Dad supporting

Jackson.

“Stay and talk to him,” Jackson said thickly.

“I want to go with —”

“I don’t want you there,” he said.

It stung. He’d just been so kind to me, so gentle, I thought —

But I guessed I wasn’t needed. I backed away and let Dad drive

off without me.

Richard was leaning on the open door of his car, patiently

waiting for me. I remembered then that I hadn’t even combed

my hair. I must have looked insane. I
felt
insane. Running my fingers through my tangles and twisting them into a knot behind

my head, I made myself walk over to him.

“I’m sorry,” he said humbly. “I’m a git. I hate drop-in visitors,

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especially —” He looked at his watch. “God! It’s so early. I’m

sorry. I was just so excited and wanted to show you —”

I tried to smile. I touched a red-lacquered curve on his fancy

little car. “Nice wheels, Hathaway.”

“My first Christmas present. The dealer dropped her by,” he

said. “I’m taking her out for her maiden voyage and wanted to

ask you to come. But . . .” He trailed off. “Another time, huh?”

“Another time,” I agreed.

“He all right?”

“Yeah,” I said. “He just — hit his head really hard. Needs

some stitches.”

“Cuts on the head bleed like crazy,” he said. “He looked dizzy.”

“Dad said he’ll be fine,” I said firmly.

Richard’s face held a tiny frown of hesitation. “Can I —? That

was Harris, wasn’t it? Jackson Harris?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve got nothing against him — I’ve never heard a single

thing bad about him, but —” He broke off, then plunged ahead

to his point. “But I heard my mother once say she was warned

about him. That he presented a danger. I don’t know why.” He

looked embarrassed, apologetic.

“I’m not afraid of Jackson.”

He shrugged. “Like I said, got nothing against him. Just

thought you should know.” He put a smile back on his face. “So,

just to get this clear — you owe me a rain check, right?”

I nodded and tried to imitate his smile. “Yes. A rain check.”

“Go back inside,” he said. “You look a little dizzy yourself.” I

nodded again, the smile still pasted on my face. Richard folded

himself back into the tiny car, revved the engine, and shot away.

I let my face fall and climbed the front steps slowly.

My thoughts buzzed like hornets in my head, a thousand ques-

tions flying madly. And behind them, under them —
He didn’t

want me there.
He didn’t really like me anymore. Somehow,

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somewhere along the line, I had grown up into a person Jackson