Music Box (The Dollhouse Books, #4) (7 page)

Now I knew—I knew how the castle people had come and gone from here in ages long past.

Metal objects were scattered on the rocks—pieces of dark ivory, swords... weapons. I stared into the water. Under the bright moonlight, I could see coins of gold and silver and bronze—all dulled with rough edges.

My attention was captured then by a dark object that stood at the edge of the rock platform. I braved the incoming waves to walk toward it. Sea water drenched my body. Made of marble, the object seemed to be some kind of pedestal, or monument—coming up to my shoulders in height. A deep, oval indentation on top of it was its only feature. Was it a symbol of worship? A grave? I couldn’t tell. All I knew was that I wanted to get away from it. It gave me the same creeping sensation I had when I looked at Balthazar.

I stepped back, exploring the rest of the cave.

In a large crevice behind a rock outcrop, a large platform of wood sat upended and stuck fast inside a crevice—a crude raft, tied together with different pieces of rope. Someone, at some time, had tried to escape from here. The moonlight picked out a dull glint of metal. I peered inside the crevice. A small metal box had been tied to the mast of the raft—but with the mast firmly wedged, it would be impossible to fit my arm in and get the box out.

Snatching up a long sword, I climbed over the rotting boards of the raft and cut at the ropes. The raft moved free of the crevice—the mast falling out with it. I sawed at the rope that held the box in place. The lid was rusted tight to the box. Shivering, I stood in the water, using anything I could find that was small enough and strong enough to lever beneath the lid and pry it off. Finally, the lid flew loose. Inside was a letter and a key.

Climbing on top of the ship’s hull, I sat and opened the letter. Though it had been kept mostly dry, pinpricks of water had still seeped in and caused rust marks. My mouth went dry as I read the name that the letter was addressed to. The letter was in old French, but I could understand enough of it to figure out what it said:

My Etiennette

The day is come. Thou canst at last be gone of this foul chateau.

Should I meet with trouble, thou must continue on. Take our bairns and sail. Do not fear for our children as they wilt be safe until thoust reach the waiting ship. God smiles upon us. The seas be at rest this morn.

My mouth dropped open.
Bairns
was an old English word for babies. The children—they were not Balthazar’s. Who was this man who had tried to rescue Etiennette? I knew now that it was Etiennette’s dress in the cave. She must have come to see this man during her time outside Balthazar’s chambers. Perhaps it had been he who had hammered the iron rings into the cliffside—trying to reach her. Somehow, their plan had been foiled. The raft had never sailed from the castle. And if Etiennette had killed herself, perhaps her rescuer had been killed, and she’d known that.

This man—or boy—had loved and lost, centuries ago, and I felt his sadness and grief at Etiennette’s fate. I couldn’t guess at Balthazar’s reaction if he read this letter. The children were not his. None of his descendants were his blood.

I dropped the key inside the bodice of my dress—I’d keep it hidden in the chambers to remind me of freedom when all else seemed lost.

Squinting, I tried to read the name at the bottom of the letter. But the letters were faded, mottled by time and rust—and the moon didn’t cast nearly enough light. I didn’t know why it was so important to me to see the name at this moment—all I knew was that I must see it. I must know the name of the one who had died trying to save Etiennette.

Leaning back, I watched the moon and the ocean, letting time slip away.

The first strains of a greyish dawn appeared low in the sky. Quickly, I unfolded the letter again. Angling the brittle piece of paper, I could just make out enough of the letters to see the name. I allowed the sunrise to dimly light the page.

Thine for eternity,

Reed McAllister

My eyes filmed with moisture.
McAllister
. There must be so many McAllister family lines in the world. But was it possible that Ethan was a descendant of this person? A stillness entered me. It was as though I had sat here in this cave before, reading his name out aloud, as I had just done. It was as though I’d already known his name.

The dawn shone weakly on my face. I could wait here no longer.

My breath squeezing in my lungs, I fitted the letter back into its metal casing, and tied it to the raft. Turning, I raced along the passages. My feet and hands were wet as I grasped the chain. I stared back at the clothing inside the crevice. A sadness bled through me at the sight of Etiennette’s tattered clothing. Perhaps, like me, she had walked the ocean passage every night until she had almost gone mad.

A light drizzle fell as I reached the balcony. I stood with my face turned upward, thanking the sky for the rain. It would explain the state of my clothing and hair and wash the smell of the ocean from me.

Voulo appeared behind me. “Thou art giving thanks to the skies?”

I stared at him fiercely. “Yes. The rain gives life to the plants and trees. Even though I can no longer see them, it gives me joy to know they still exist and grow and live out there.”

He shrugged his shoulders—the rain not drenching a single hair on his head. “There art joys to be found in many a thing. I prefer the still things. Things are more beauteous when they are stilled, like a frozen flower in the ice. Thou doth need to train thy mind to appreciate such beauty.”

He took me back to the chambers, and I was locked away yet again.

~.~

As soon as Voulo left me on the next midnight, I again climbed the balcony and ran into the passages. I couldn’t wait to journey back to the ocean cave, and lose myself in the place where Reed McAllister had come to rescue his Etiennette.

But my mind was not at rest. A sense of being
between w
as thick in the night air. The heaviness lay around my shoulders like a shroud. Always, there was a
désorienter
at the start of each season and I could sense that everything was building up to one.

The days were drawing toward the end of summer.

An overwhelming desire overtook me. I needed to see Molly, even if for just one last time. Even if just to say goodbye. Before Balthazar woke. Before Molly died. Before I died.

Surely the upward passage—the one blocked by tree roots—led to the castle grounds? I had to try, but I needed a way of getting through.

I dashed down to the ocean. Thrashing black waves surged in—the tide was at its highest. Splashing through chest-deep water, I half-fell, half-dived in and swum across to the ship. My fingers grasped a metal blade. I rose, gasping. The sword I held was too rusted. I plunged in again, swimming inside the ship. Taking another sword, I swum up and inspected the blade. It seemed strong enough. I looked again—for axes—or anything that looked like it could do the job.

With the sword and an axe, I blundered back to the passage that was blocked with tree roots. Lighting a candle that I’d taken from Etiennette’s things in the small cave, I knelt and then fixed the candle to the floor by dripping some hot wax. I hacked and sawed at the roots—yelling and grunting my fear and anger with abandon.

It took three nights to saw enough of the tree away to be able to break through.

Breathing deeply, I crawled in. The rough edges of the splintered roots scraped and scratched at me. But I made it through to the other side.

Reaching back for the candle, I began my journey upward.

The passage continued forever—it had to be going all the way through the cliff to the castle grounds. I lost track of time as I followed the winding path.

Moonlight lit the walls ahead. The passage was coming to an end. I had to take care—I had no way of knowing what lay beyond the exit. I blew the candle out.

Moving up to the craggy opening, I stole a glance outside. A curtain of rain streamed down. I was not yet on the castle grounds. Steep steps led to a wide ledge on the side of the cliff, where the steps rose sharply—beaten smooth and precarious by the ocean weather. There was no one to see me. Stepping outside, I tilted my face to the warm rain, watching the stairway disappear around a corner in the cliff face. Above the cliff, a tower loomed. A hard lump formed in my throat.

The tower.

The downpour drenched my face and body as I stood in silent witness.

My fear urged me to go back. Whoever the occupant of the tower was, they would not take kindly to me trespassing. And they were sure to alert Balthazar. They had seen everything—from my walking down the chapel aisle to marry Zach to my marriage at Balthazar’s side. They had coldly watched my every anguish.

There was no other way to go forward except through a gate that led to the tower—and that was a path I could not tread.

Dr. Verena’s words came back to me. She had taunted me that there was something here at the castle that I sought, and that was why I was here. I had sensed the castle’s secrets the first time I had seen that high, dark window. And now, I felt the force inside the tower overwhelm me, swamp my every defense.

A chill fear rattled inside my chest.

Whatever the tower held was my deepest, darkest nightmare.

Turning, I fled back to the passage.

––––––––

E
THAN

I crowd out all thought of the family I’m walking away from. Jack and Deandra have forced my hand, and there is nothing I can do to convince them of what really lies in wait for them at the bottom of the hill.

Frozen wind blusters around my face. My body heats and chills at the same time and I realize I’m running a temperature. I can’t afford to get sick now—I’ve a long way to go to reach Miami and get back to Cassie.

Down in the camp, two boys shoot from behind a truck—racing away and up the hill. Their skin is dark against the white backdrop, their small bodies scrawny—they can’t be more than five and seven.

Three soldiers pursue the boys—two women and a man. No, not soldiers—rangers. I duck behind an abandoned car. The boys head in my direction, then run to the left, to a factory that looks like it was abandoned a long time before the serpents ever came. The rangers advance on the factory just as I see the boys race up a stairway on the second floor.

“You get ’em, Nance and Gina,” calls the male. “I’ll wait here in case they come out again.”

“You’re out of puff, fat boy,” one of the rangers replies—a woman with dark hair pulled severely back in a ponytail.

The other woman—with shoulder-length blonde hair—gives a hooting laugh.

The women are perhaps in their mid-twenties, and the man no older than twenty. He wipes his nose on his sleeve—his cheeks reddened by the cold. He reminds me of those oversize pumpkins they grow on farms. His chest and stomach look overgrown, his legs slightly knock-kneed. “Don’t see why we need to get ’em. They’ll come down again when they get scared enough. They’re just little kids.”

The dark-haired woman stops dead, placing her hands on her hips. “Little kids who heard their mummy and daddy talking. And saw them each take a bullet. We can’t have them running loose and causing trouble.” She pulls something from her pocket—a gun. “Okay, Nance and me are heading in. You make sure you watch and don’t damned fall asleep.  If you see them escape, you know what to do.”

He sighs with his whole body, like a soft, sad mountain.

“Rory?” she demands.

“Okay, yeah, I know what to do.” He digs into his pocket and retrieves a pistol.

She sighs loudly and shakes her head at the blonde woman. The two women head into the factory. I tell myself there’s nothing I can do here—these kids are just two more victims among millions. It’s just the way it is.

Turning, I head the other way. But something weighs on my shoulders and won’t let me take another step.

~.~

Making my way to the back of the factory, I scale the wall. Picking one of the broken windows, I hoist myself inside. The walls are covered in graffiti and tags, the spaces are mostly barren and littered with ceiling plaster and wall paneling—it’s hard to tell what this factory used to produce. A chemical smell fouls the air. Broken pipes leak some kind of dark yellowish substance into huge vats. To search this place will take forever—especially if the kids have been smart enough to hide themselves well. But the women followed them pretty much straight in—they must have an idea of where they went.

I listen for sounds. It’s not long before I hear heavy footfall on the floorboards on the level above. And a shrill voice. “This is getting exhausting. It’s cold in here. Just come out and I’ll take you back to the camp for some hot milk and cookies.” The woman makes only a feeble attempt to sound convincing.

I take the stairs to the next floor. Moving quickly, I make my way along the buckled flooring.

Nance and Gina are opening and slamming a long series of locker doors. Nance—the blonde woman with a scowling, pretty face—peers into a locker and moves aside a row of coats in annoyance. “Stinks to high heaven in these damned things.”

This part of the factory holds four aisles of locker doors. I edge around to the last of the aisles. At the end of the row of lockers, a door cracks open, and a set of eyes peer out. The kid seems to be trying to decide whether to stay hidden or break out and run. He catches sight of me and closes the door again.

I run as silently as I can manage to the locker door and position myself near the air vent.

“Kids,” I whisper, “they’re coming for you. You need to get out of there. Come with me now and I’ll get you away.”

Neither of them answer. I can tell they’re not going to move. They don’t trust me any more than they trust those rangers.

“I’m not one of them. You have to believe me. They’ll be here soon—you need to run.”

I jump as two figures appear at the end of the aisle.

Their expressions are fierce and questioning, and their guns are pointed straight at me. I need a reason for being here—or I’m going to get a bullet in me.