Lux (16 page)

M
y mother’s
rooms are as lavish as the rest of the house. There are no childhood posters taped to the walls here, no teenage heart-throbs, no pink phones or plush pillows.

The suite is carefully decorated, with heavy off-white furniture and sage green walls. The bed is massive, covered in thick blankets, all sage green, all soothing.

But it’s not the room of a child, or a teenager, or even a young woman.

It lacks youthful energy.

But I still feel her here.

Somehow.

Sinking onto the bed, I find that I’m surrounded by windows.

All along one wall, they stretch from floor to ceiling. They let in the dying evening light, and I feel exposed. Getting to my feet, I pull the drapes closed.

I feel a little safer now, but not much.

My suitcases are stacked inside the door, and so I set about unpacking. I put my sweaters away, my toiletries in the fancy bathroom, and while I’m standing on the marble tiles, I envision my mother here.

She loved a good bath, and this bathtub is fit for a queen.

I imagine her soaking here, reading a good book, and my eyes well up.

She’s gone.

I know that.

I pull open the closet doors, and for a moment, a very brief moment, I swear I catch a whiff of her perfume.

She’s worn the same scent for as long as I’ve known her.

There are shelves in this walk-in closet, and on one, I see a bottle of Chanel.

Her scent.

I clutch it to me, and inhale it, and it brings a firestorm of memories down on my head. Of my mother laughing, of her baking cookies, of her grinning at me over the top of her book.

With burning eyes, I put the bottle back.

This isn’t helping anything.

I hang my shirts and my sweaters.

There’s a knock on the door, and Sabine comes in with a tray. A teapot and a cup.

“I brought you some tea,” she tells me quietly, setting it on a table. “It’ll perk you up. Traveling is hard on a person.”

Losing their entire life is hard on a person.

But of course I don’t say that.

I just smile and say thank you.

She pours me a cup and hands it to me.

“This will help you rest. It’s calming.”

I sip at it, and Sabine turns around, surveying my empty bags.

“I see you’ve already unpacked. These rooms haven’t been changed since your mother left.”

I hold my cup in my lap, warming my fingers because the chill from the English evening has left them cold.

“Why
did
my mother leave?” I ask, because she’s never said. She’s never said
anything
about her childhood home.

Sabine pauses, and when she looks at me, she’s looking into my soul again, rooting around with wrinkled fingers.

“She left because she had to,” Sabine says simply. “Whitley couldn’t hold her.”

It’s an answer that’s not an answer.

I should’ve expected no less.

Sabine sits next to me, patting my leg.

“I’ll fatten you up a bit here,” she tells me. “You’re too skinny, like your mama. You’ll rest and you’ll… see things for what they are.”

“And how is that?” I ask tiredly, and suddenly I’m so very exhausted.

Sabine looks at my face and clucks.

“Child, you need to rest. You’re fading away in front of my eyes. Come now. Lie down.”

She settles me onto the bed, pulling a blanket up to my chin.

“Dinner is at seven,” she reminds me before she leaves. “Sleep until then.”

I try.

I really do.

I close my eyes.

I relax my arms and my legs and my muscles.

But sleep won’t come.

Eventually, I give up, and I open the drapes and look outside.

The evening is quiet, the sky is dark.
It gets dark so early here.

The trees rustle in the breeze, and the wind is wet. It’s cold. It’s chilling. I can feel it even through the windows and I rub at my arms.

That’s when I get goose-bumps.

They lift the hair on my neck,

And the stars seem to mock me.

Turning my back on them, I cross the room and pull a book from a shelf.

Jane Eyre.

Fitting, given Whitley and the moors and the rain.

I open the cover and find a penned inscription.

To Calla. May you always have the courage to live free, and the strength to do what is right.

The ink is fading, and I run my fingertips across it.

A message to me? It’s almost like my mother knew I would be here, and she left this very book for me on these very shelves in this very room.

I slip into a seat with it, pulling open the pages, my eyes trying to devour the words my mother once read.

But I’ve only gotten to the part where Jane proclaims that she hates long walks on cold afternoons when I hear something.

I feel something.

I feel a growl in my bones.

It’s low and threatening, and it vibrates my ribs.

I startle upright, looking around, but of course, I’m still alone.

But the growl happens again, low and long.

My breath hitches and the book hits the floor, the pages fluttering on the rug.

A sudden panic overtakes me, rapid and hot.

I have to get out.

I don’t know why.

It’s a feeling I have in my heart, something that drives me from my mother’s rooms out into the hall, because something is chasing me.

I feel it on my heels.

I feel it breathing down my neck.

Without looking back, I rush back down the corridor, through the house and out the front doors.

I’ve got to breathe.

I’ve got to breathe.

I’ve got to breathe.

Sucking in air, I walk aimlessly around the house, over the cobblestone and down a pathway. I draw in long even breaths, trying to still my shaking hands, trying to gather myself together, trying to assure myself that I’m being silly.

There’s no reason to be afraid.

I’m being ridiculous.

This house might be strange and foreign, but it’s still a home. It just isn’t
my
home. It’s fine. I’ll get used to it.

I look behind me, and there’s nothing there.

There is no growl, there is no vibration in my ribs, there is nothing but for the dim twilight and the stars aching to burst from behind the clouds.

The house looms over me and I circle back, only to find myself in front of a large garage with gabled edges.

There are at least seven garage doors, all closed but one.

To my surprise, someone walks out of that door.

A boy.

A man.

His pants are dark gray and he’s wearing a hoodie, and he moves with grace. He slides among the shadows with ease, as though he belongs here, as though Whitley is his home too, even though I don’t know him, even though I feel like I do. I feel it I feel it I feel it.

“Hello,” I call out to him.

He stops moving, freezing in his tracks, but he doesn’t turn his head.

Something about that puts me on edge and I tense, because what if he’s not supposed to be here?

“Hello?” I repeat uneasily, and chills run up my spine, goose-bumps forming on my arms once again.

I back away, first one step, then another.

I blink,

And he’s gone.

I stare at the empty space, and shake my head, blinking hard.

He’s still gone.

He must’ve slipped between the buildings, but why?

I’m too nervous to find out, and so I turn to walk back to the house. As I do, two enormous shadows bound out of the trees and race toward me, panting and skidding to a halt in front of me.

I’m frozen as I stare at two of the biggest dogs I’ve ever seen.

“It’s okay,” I tell them, as they examine me with dark eyes. “I’m supposed to be here. I’m not an intruder.”

They stare at me.

I stare back.

Then one steps forward and nudges my hand, sliding his massive head beneath my palm like he knows me, like he’s not going to attack me.

“Castor!” Sabine yells from behind me. “Pollux!”

The dogs stand at attention, and when she yells Come, they do.

She looks at me. “I’m sorry if they got you muddy,” she tells me. “They’re the estate dogs. And as you can see, they aren’t always graceful.”

I follow her gaze and she’s staring at muddy paw-prints on my legs, and when did that happen?

“They’re fine,” I tell her, because they didn’t hurt me. In fact, even though they’re enormous, they have such sweet faces. Sabine acts like she knows what I’m thinking.

“They wouldn’t hurt anybody,” she tells me. “It’s their size that is intimidating.” She pauses. “They’d protect you with their lives, though.”

Me?

Before I can ask, she returns to the house and the dogs go with her. Down the path a ways, one of them pauses and turns to look at me, but then he continues on his way and I try to put my uneasiness to rest.

Why am I uneasy?

They’re just dogs.

And the guy I saw was just a gardener or something.

Nothing to be unnerved about.

Yet I’m still unsettled as I wash my face, so when I’m finished, I poke my head out into the hall. There’s nothing there.

With a sigh, I lock my bedroom door and I’m chilled from the wet English air. Glancing at the clock, I find it’s only six thirty. I can rest for a few minutes more, and I’m thankful for that.

Because clearly, jet lag has made me its bitch.

A
s I step
into the grand foyer of Whitley, my feet have barely hit the floor when I feel the overwhelming sense of being stifled, of the coldness that permeates a person’s bones here. To put the feeling in perspective, my home in Oregon is a funeral home. Whitley is far, far worse.

Finn picks my hand, aware of my faltering steps. “You ok?” he whispers, his blue eyes searching mine. I nod.

Of course I’m lying. I’m not ok. Why would I be?

I stand in the foyer windows, staring across the moors. England has such haunting moors, such rolling, wet fields, such places that are conducive to melancholy. It makes me think of sadness, of Charlotte Bronte, of Jane Eyre.

I don’t know why I identify so much with Jane. She’s plain, and I know that I’m not. I have hair like fire, eyes like bright emeralds. I’m not being conceited in admitting that, because after all, physical attributes are things that we cannot help. I am pretty, but I didn’t earn it. I was simply born this way, a product of a beautiful mother. Internal traits though, they’re important and praiseworthy. Jane Eyre is fierce in spirit, and I like to believe that I am, too. Fierceness is much more commendable than my pretty face.

To be honest, I almost wish that I weren’t pretty. It makes me self-conscious. People tend to stare, and when they do, I always feel like they’re staring at me because they think I’m crazy.

Crazy

Crazy

Crazy.

Just like my brother.

It’s like a whisper, echoing through the rooms of Whitley, across the grounds, through the air. Everyone watches us, my brother and me, to see which one of us will crack.

“I’m going for a walk,” I tell Finn. His head snaps up.

“Alone? You’ll get lost.”

“No, I won’t. I’m just going to explore.”

“I’ll come too.”

“No. Go get something to eat. I just need a few minutes to breathe, Finn.”

He nods now because he understands that.

I slip outside, out the door, away from the doom of the house.

The breeze is slightly chilly as I make my way deep into the grounds. I’ve come to believe that it never truly warms up here. The rain makes the lawns lush, though. Green and full and colorful. It’s viridem. And green means life.

The cobbled path turns to pebbles as I get further away from the house, and after a minute, I come to a literal fork in the road. The path splits into two. One leads toward a wooded area, and the other leads to a beautiful stone building on the edge of the horizon, shrouded in mist and weeping trees.

It’s small and mysterious, beautiful and ancient. And of course I have to get a closer look. Without a second thought, I head down that path.

The closer I get, the more my curiosity grows.

I can smell the moss as I approach, that musty, dank smell that comes with a closed room or a wet space. And with that dark scent comes a very oppressive feeling. I feel it weighing on my shoulders as I open the heavy door, as I stare at the word SAVAGE inscribed in the wood, as I take my first tentative step into a room that hasn’t seen human life in what looks like years.

But it
has
seen death.

I’m standing in a mausoleum.

Growing up in a funeral home, I’m well versed in death. I know what it looks like, what it smells like, even what it tastes like in the air.

I’m surrounded by it here.

The floor is stone, but since it is deprived of light, soft green moss grows in places, and is soft under my feet. The walls are thick blocks of stone, and have various alcoves, filled with the remains of Savage family members. They go back for generations, and it makes me wonder how long the Savages have lived at Whitley.

Nearest me, are Richard Savage I, my grandfather, and Richard Savage II, my uncle.
When did he die?
And next to him is Olivia.

Olivia.

I run my fingers along her name, tracing the letters cut in the stone, absorbing the coolness, the hardness.

What do I know about her, other than she must have been Dare’s mother?

Why is she significant in my memory?

Did Dare have her eyes, or her hair? Was she the only spot of brightness in his world? Does he miss her more than life itself?

I don’t know.

Trailing my fingers along the wall, I circle the room, eyeing my ancestors, marveling at the silence here.

It’s so loud that my ears ring with it.

The open door creates a sliver of light on the dark floor, and it’s while I’m focusing on the brightness that I first hear the whisper.

Calla.

I whip my head around, only to find nothing behind me.

Chills run down my spine, and goose-bumps form on my arms as I eye the empty room. The only people here are dead.

But… the whisper was crystal clear in the silence.

I’m hearing voices.

That fact terrifies me, but not as much as the familiarity in that whisper.

“Hello?” I call out, desperate for someone to be here, for someone real to have spoken. But no one answers.

Of course not.

I’m alone.

I lay my hand on the wall and try to draw in a deep breath. I can’t be crazy. It’s one of my worst fears, second only to losing my brother.

A movement catches my eye and I focus on it.

Carnation petals and stargazers, white and red, blow across the floor. Funeral flowers.

Startled, I turn toward them, bending to touch them. I run one between my fingers, its texture velvety smooth. It hadn’t been here a moment ago. None of them had, yet here they are, strewn across the floor.

They lead to a crypt in the wall.

Adair Phillip DuBray.

My heart pounds and pounds as I race to the plaque, as I trace the fresh letters with my fingertips. His middle name is the same as my father’s.

And this wasn’t here before.

What the hell?

I gulp, drawing in air, observing the fresh flowers in the vase beside his name.

There is no moss here, because this had been freshly carved, recently opened, and very recently sealed. But there’s no way Dare can be here, because I just saw him last night. He’s fine, he’s fine, he’s fine.

As my hands palm his name, as I reassure myself, pictures fill my head, images and smells.

The sea, a cliff, a car.

Blood, shrieking metal, the water.

Dare.

He’s bloody,

He’s bloody,

He’s bloody.

Everything is on fire,

The flames lick at the stone walls,

Trying to find any possible way out.

The smoke chokes me and I cough,

gasping for air.

I blink and everything is gone.

My hands are on a blank wall, and Dare’s name is gone.

The flowers are gone.

I’m alone.

The floor is bare.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t breathe.

I’m crazy.

It’s the only explanation.

I scramble for the door and burst out into the sunlight, away from the mausoleum, away from the death. I fly toward the house, tripping on the stones.

“Calla?”

My name is called and I’m afraid to look, afraid no one will be there, afraid that I’m still imagining things. Is this what Finn felt like every day? Am I starting down that slippery path? It’s a rabbit hole and I’m the rabbit and I’m crazy.

But it’s Dare, standing tall and strong on the path, and I fly into his arms, without worrying about pushing him away.

His arms close around me and he smells so good, so familiar, and I close my eyes.

“You’re fine,” I tell him, I tell myself. “You’re ok.”

“Yes, I’m fine,” he says in confusion, his hands stroking my back, holding me close. “Did you think something happened to me?”

I see his name, carved in the mausoleum stone, and I shudder, pushing the vision away, far out of my mind.

“No. I…no.”

He holds me for several minutes more, then looks down at me, tucking an errant strand of my hair behind my ear.

“Are you ok? You’ve been gone for hours.”

Hours? How can that be? The sky swirls, and I steady myself against his chest.

I hear his heart and it’s beating fast, because he’s afraid.

He’s afraid for me because he recognizes the signs, he’s seen them before, he’s seen them in my brother.

“It’s ok, Cal,” he murmurs, but I can hear the concern in his voice. “It’s ok.”

But I can tell from his voice that it’s not.

Craziness is genetic.

I’m the rabbit.

And I’m crazy.

“Is your father’s name Phillip?” I ask him tentatively, and he glances down at me.

“Yes.”

“Mine is too.”

“I know,” he says. “But things aren’t always what they seem, Cal. Remember?”

That seems so silly. My father’s name is Phillip and his father’s name is Phillip and it is what it is. Dare’s arm is around my shoulders as we walk back to the house, and I can feel him glance at me from time to time.

“Stop,” I tell him finally as we walk through the gardens. “I’m fine.”

“Ok,” he agrees. “Of course you are.”

But he knows better, and he knows that I’m not.

Sabine is kneeling by the library doors, digging through the rich English soil, and she looks at us over her shoulder. When she sees my face, her eyes narrow and she climbs to her feet.

“Are you all right, Miss Price?” she asks in her gravelly voice. I want to lie, I want to tell her that I’m fine, but I know she can tell the difference. In fact, as she stares at me with those dark eyes, I feel like she can see into my soul.

I don’t bother to lie.

I just shake my head.

She nods.

“Come with me.”

She leads us both to the back of the house, to her room. It’s small and dark, draped in colorful fabrics, in mystic symbols and pieces of gaudy jewelry, shrouded in mirrors and dream-catchers and stars.

I’m stunned and I pause, gazing at all of the pageantry.

She glimpses my expression and shrugs. “I’m Roma,” she says, by way of explanation. At my blank expression, she sighs. “Romani. Gypsy. I’m not ashamed of it.”

She holds her head up high, her chin out, and I can see that she’s far from ashamed. She’s proud.

“You shouldn’t be,” I assure her weakly. “It’s your heritage. It’s fascinating.”

She’s satisfied by that, by the idea that I’m not looking down at her for who she is.

Her dark eyes tell a story, and to me, they tell me that she knows more than I do. That she might even know more about
me
than I do.

It’s crazy, I know.

But apparently, I’m crazy now.

Sabine guides me to a velvet chair and pushes me gently into it. She glances at Dare.

“Leave us,” she tells him softly. “I’ve got her now. She’ll be fine.”

He’s hesitant and he looks at me, and I nod.

I’ll be fine.

I think.

He slips away, and I don’t want him to go, but he has to. Because he’s part of this, I can feel it, and I can’t trust him. My heart says so.

Sabine rustles about and as she does, I look around. On the table next to me, tarot cards are splayed out, formed in an odd formation, as though I’d interrupted a fortune telling.

I gulp because something hangs in the air here.

Something mystical.

After a minute, Sabine shoves a cup into my hands.

“Drink. It’s lemon balm and chamomile. It’ll settle your stomach and calm you down.”

I don’t bother to ask how she knew I was upset. It must’ve been written all over my face.

I sip at the brew and after a second, she glances at me.

“Better?”

I nod. “Thank you.”

She smiles and her teeth are scary. I look away, and she roots through a cabinet. She extracts her prize and hands me a box.

“Take this at night. It’ll help you sleep.” I glance at her questioningly. She adds, “By night you are free, child.”

I don’t know what that means, but I take the box, which is unmarked, and she nods.

I glance at her table again. “Are you a fortune-teller, Sabine?” It feels odd to say those words in a serious manner, but the old woman doesn’t miss a beat.

“I read the cards,” she nods. “Someday, I’ll read yours.”

I don’t know if I want to know what they’ll say.

“Have you read Dare’s?” I ask impulsively, and I don’t know why. Sabine glances at me, her black eyes knowing.

“That boy doesn’t need his fortune told. He writes his own.”

I have no idea what that means, but I nod like I do.

“You’ll be ok now,” she tells me, her expression wise and I find myself believing her. She’s got a calming nature, something that settles the air around her. I hadn’t noticed that before.

“My mother never mentioned you,” I murmur. “I find that odd, since she must’ve loved you.”

Sabine looks away. “Your mother doesn’t have happy memories from here,” she says quietly. “But I know her heart.”

“Ok,” I say uncertainly. “Sabine, why did my mother leave here? Why does my father have the same name as Dare’s?”

Sabine is so knowing as she sinks back into her chair.

“Your father as you know him isn’t your father,” she says simply, and I gasp, my hands shaking as they grip the chair.

“What do you mean?”

“Phillip has raised you as his own. But you are the child of Richard Savage.”

My breath

My breath

My breath.

“My uncle?”

I can’t

I can’t

I can’t.

Sabine nods, and she’s unhesitant, as though this is just another face of life, as though it weren’t unnatural.

“Yes. It was necessary. Your mother did as she was told.”

“Necessary for what?”

I’m still appalled, and sickened, and Sabine hands me a basin and I vomit into it.

“Your mother and uncle came together, and you were conceived,” Sabine tells me. “Your mother fled to France with her lover, and she conceived again. She gave birth to twins… you and Finn. But you don’t share the same father.”

“Phillip,” I utter. “Phillip is Finn’s father? And Phillip is Dare’s father?”

Sabine nods, pleased that I have grasped it. “Yes. They are half-brothers.”