Paper Tigers (12 page)

A deep, husky voice said, “There's still so much to see.”

Her left arm broke out in goosebumps, but she smiled as the words echoed themselves away.

“I want to see everything,” Alison said. Her words shattered the music into tiny fragments that vanished with a soft whoosh, taking the scent of lavender with them.

When shadow and hush wrapped the neighborhood, Alison grabbed her scarf, but once she had the fabric knotted under her chin, she paused and glanced at the album. What if the paper world opened when she wasn't home? Would the tiger wait or would it clamp its jaws shut tight? She twined her fingers. Maybe she'd wait another day. Deep below her skin, her muscles still ached, and the streets would be there tomorrow. Her chance to be whole might not.

What if the album never let her back inside? Her hands clenched into fists and a tiny coil of scarlet gathered weight in her chest. It wouldn't do that. George said there was still so much to see.

She stared at a crack in the ceiling of her bedroom for hours with the album open beside her and eventually fell asleep with one hand tucked under her cheek, the other atop the open pages.

The album didn't open its door to her the following night either, but she stayed home. Just in case.

Alison made breakfast and sat down with the photo album open to the new picture. A whisper of voices drifted from the pages. Her spoon clattered to the floor. The swirl of fabric in the corner swished once, twice, and exited the picture, leaving behind a tiny sound of shoes tapping on the floor. Her food forgotten, she lifted her hand. Set it down on the photo.

The tiger opened its mouth; she slid down and down—

CHAPTER 13

—and down.

She was in the foyer once again, crouched with her head down. Music brought her to her feet, soft strains of music flickering through the shadows and the dizziness in her head, and under the music, an odd buzzing reminiscent of cicadas in a summer tree. (But no fire, no smoke, no crying children.) The dust took on a luminous quality, sparkling despite the lack of light. Cold air caressed her cheek. She gasped and an airy laugh broke free. She already knew there were ghosts, but they couldn't hurt her.

A wisp of color flashed in the corner of her eye. She whirled around. Saw translucent figures in the room. Dark suits, full skirts, a figure walking with a cane. The edge of a piano. The shimmer of light bouncing off a crystal sconce. She staggered back. Her eyesight blurred. Then the house shivered, a rumbling of wood beneath her bare feet, and the figures melted into nothing. She blinked. Swallowed hard.

The room was empty of everything but ruin. Dark patches marred the tattered wallpaper at regular intervals. She ran her finger down the nearest one, leaving a lighter trail behind. The sconces from the photo were gone. She stared down at the dark grey mark on her finger. Soot from the candles?

She scrubbed her finger on her pajama pants. Plain blue, no monkeys. She crossed the room to a window, leaving behind a trail of footprints, and pushed the curtain aside. Long strands of pale mist passed by the window; beyond that, darkness. In the corner
of the room, a square-shaped smudge, a little larger than a child's wooden block, marked the floor. She traced the shape with her fingertip. Three more shapes marked a wide rectangle. Working her way to the front of the rectangle, she found four smaller marks. She nudged one with her big toe, and the floor shuddered under her feet.

Piano notes swam out of the silence, a crescendo lifting higher and higher. An image flickered in the gloom—a long expanse of black lifted at an angle to reveal the wood and metalwork within. Transparent black and white keys took shape, moving in time with the music. Then a hand, an arm, a shoulder, a head bent over the keys. A long swish of skirts draped on the floor. A pale outline of someone not quite there. Voices gathered behind her back, and she turned, her fingers trembling.

A shoulder here, an arm there, the curve of a cheek, the tailored cut of a jacket, the lace-trimmed edge of a bodice. Three-dimensional paper dolls made of cellophane. Colors swirled past: rose pink, navy blue, black, sea green. The music took a mournful turn, all somber notes and dramatic pauses.

Visible through the shapes and colors, a suggestion of furniture came into view. A low bench with curved feet. An armchair. A crimson settee with tasseled pillows. The sparkle of crystal decanters atop a dark wood cabinet. The amber glow of the liquor within. And the scents: flowery perfume, hair oil, the sharp tang of brandy.

The colors around her intensified. Features and forms sharpened. Three people, no, four. Now five. There, but not there. Could they see her, too?

She stepped forward, into an icy chill, and a strangled moan caught in her throat. A hazy dark mist was gathered around her legs. The ghost of the piano.

She jerked her body free from the cold. Her footprints on the floor were half-hidden beneath a rug with a swirl of flowers along its length. Through it, the floorboards appeared as slashes in the nap,
dissecting the flowers mid-bloom. The floor quivered beneath her feet, and the colors sharpened once more. The music changed again. Faster, more insistent.

A woman in a green dress sat on the bench, her hands moving across the keys. Alison touched the space where the woman's shoulder should be, but her hand met only cold air. The woman's hands paused. She gave a small shake of her head and resumed playing.

Alison froze. A few inches above the woman's hem, a dark spot marred the satin fabric of her skirt. Like a water stain. She squeezed her eyes shut and counted to three.

The mark meant nothing.

The spot glared, an eye accusing her of tampering with the paper world. She backed away from the piano, and cold passed over her shoulder and caressed her cheek. Her vision swam with dark and pale. A man's jacket, his cheek above a well-trimmed beard, passed by,
through
, her. She stumbled toward the archway, one hand to her throat.

The music stopped in mid-note, the house trembled under her feet, one quick shudder of wood, and then everything vanished. Alison sagged against the wall outside the room, breathing hard. Then cold grazed her arm again, a finger light touch running from shoulder to elbow.

A masculine voice spoke in her ear. “So much to see.”

The cold returned, gentle on her arm.

“Stay and see,” George said.

Of course she knew it was George, just as she knew it was his real name, not one of her constructs. The paper world was real and not-real at the same time, but it had secrets to reveal and stories to tell.

“Show me,” she said. “Please.”

This isn't right. You don't need to see anything. Stay and leave without your scars. Nothing more.

But why shouldn't she stay for a while? What harm could it do? Until the house

let her out

opened the door back to the real world, what else did she have to see other than empty rooms? If it could show her more…

George gave a low chuckle.

The floor lurched and the air cooled. A little girl's laughter flowed by, but the little girl was nowhere in sight. In the foyer, another elegant rug lined the floor, a small table sat in the center, topped with a vase of flowers, and a dark framed mirror hung on the wall. Yet the grime peeked through it all, a hazy afterimage.

Alison took another step into the foyer. The colors deepened, dark green vines twisting into shape on the rug, the wood top of the table gleaming with a mahogany shine, as the flower petals bloomed a deep merlot.

She held out her hand. Wood warmed beneath her hand. The sensation passed and her hand slipped into the table that was no longer there. Children's voices rose in the air, singing numbers and tigers and bites, oh my.

In the next room, shapes overlaid the dust, hiding her prints, hiding the sickly pallor. A long, rectangular table surrounded by chairs, the wood dark and carved. Another chandelier. A sideboard. And on the wall, a large painting of water and trees, but when she extended her hand, her skin met wallpaper, cool and puckered with air bubbles.

She pulled back with a hiss. The scars on her hands were gone. Lines of pink and white on her forearm crept out from under her pajama sleeve, but a line of healthy skin cut across below her wrist, as though her hands had been dipped in a magical healing elixir. She still had eight fingers, but when she curled them toward her palm, the slightest tension in the muscles gave the suggestion of a whole hand. When she touched her face, she winced at the scar tissue
pressing against her skin; the wince turned into a smile at the feeling in her fingers and palms, no longer limited to the real world, but somehow part of the paper world as well.

She skirted the table and chair shapes, and cobwebs stuck to her fingers when she fingered the dark curtain at the window. The nap of the fabric in her hand still retained a touch of softness, despite the damage of time. A transparent image of drapes in a deep navy blue sat atop the real curtains, remaining even when she pushed the old fabric aside. Outside, the grey mist swirled and gathered, but beyond…

The hint of a green expanse of lawn bordered by tall trees. Stepping stones. The edge of a white gazebo, the pillars capped with a domed roof. Small figures moving in the distance. Then the grey billowed back in, obscuring everything.

The floor trembled under her feet again; back in the foyer, the table shaped illusion was gone. A single musical note danced in the air before the house swallowed the sound. She wandered in circles through the empty rooms, waiting for a sign, a glimpse of color and shape.

When none surfaced, she took the stairs, her feet tracing new marks in the dust. The house had erased all the signs of her previous passages. On the second floor, the sconces held their places, silent and watchful, and the sound of her footsteps disappeared into the carpet. Something about its scrollwork pattern gave her pause, like a word held on the tip of a tongue, yet refusing to take shape.

The door to the last room on the left stood ajar. Her footsteps had been erased from the floor in this room as well, but a handprint marred the wallpaper next to the window. The dark spots to the left of the doorframe glistened. She touched one finger to a spot the size of a quarter. Under her skin, it felt slick and sticky, but no residue remained on her skin.

Back in the hallway, she rubbed one bare foot back and forth on the rough, matted nap of the carpet. Then her vision twisted. Her
stomach gave a lurch. She pressed one hand to her forehead and her knees buckled. She hit the carpet with a small thud, brought her legs to her chest, and closed her eyes. Her toes dug tiny grooves into the rug as she waited for the world to right itself.

There was something about the carpet, something
wrong
, but she couldn't open her eyes to look, she couldn't—

—leave without having a glass of wine. Please, I insist.”

Alison touched her chest. “I…”

“Everything all right?” George asked.

“Yes, I think so.”

“I'm so glad you joined our little soiree,” he said in his husky voice.

Piano notes lifted and fell. Flames danced in the wall sconces; elongated shadows flickered on the walls.

George pressed a glass into her hand, the liquid within deep and dark. She took a small sip. Her mouth flooded with the rich taste of berries. The music stopped and everyone clapped.

“Bravo!” George called out. “Play another song, dear.”

The woman at the piano, her pale hair shimmering down her back, flexed her hands, bent over the keys, and began again. The song began with a somber note and spiraled down, each note speaking of sorrow and dread.

George walked away. A woman with high cheekbones and grey streaks at her temples sat on the settee and spread out her rose colored skirts. The toe of one satin shoe peeked out from beneath the sea of fabric. She was elegant and striking with strong arched brows and wide-set eyes.

Next to a liquor cabinet, a bearded man with deep creases cutting across his forehead lifted a monocle and looked Alison up and down, his eye large and owlish through the glass. The woman in the
rose dress tittered. Alison trembled and lifted her fingertips to her cheek. Smooth skin welcomed the touch.

The music changed, speeding up to a lively tune and conversation turned to whimsy. Laughter floated into the air. But a steady hum lingered in the room, hidden under the music, under the voices.

“Encore, encore,” the man with the monocle called out when the song ended.

“Yes, do give us an encore,” George said.

The new song held a sweetness in its solemnity.

Alison headed for the piano, but George stepped in her path, took her arm, and led her over to the liquor cabinet.

“Here, let me refill your glass,” he said.

“Oh, no thank you. I should go.”

He gave a low chuckle and poured more wine. “But we've been waiting for you for such a long time. Do you want to go back so soon?”

A woman wearing a dress of pale gold entered the room, followed by a tall, clean-shaven man. George clapped him on the back, gesturing toward the liquor cabinet with his other hand. The newcomer poured brandy into a small glass and downed a large swallow, caught Alison's eye, and ambled over.

“I haven't seen you here before. Are you having fun?”

Her fingers tightened around her glass. “Yes, thank you.”

He put a hand to his forehead. “Where are my manners? My name is Thomas.”

“I'm Alison.”

“What a lovely name. I believe Madeline is quite envious of you,” he said, nodding to the woman in pink.

“Of me?”

“Quite so. She absolutely despises Josephine. She dislikes any woman younger or prettier than she is, and you are as lovely as your name.”

Alison's cheeks warmed.

“Dance with me,” Thomas said,

He didn't wait for her reply, simply guided her across the room. Everything became a soft blur as they swayed in time to the music.

Thomas spoke close to Alison's ear. “You need to leave.”

“What?”

“Shhh. Keep your voice low and a smile on your face. He's watching us.”

“George?”

“Yes, now smile, for both our sakes.”

She forced her mouth back into shape but her hands were trembling. “I don't understand.”

“He doesn't think I remember,” Thomas said.

“Remember what?”

“Who I was before. I don't always. It,
he
, won't let me, but sometimes—”

The music stopped yet again, and the room broke out into applause. She caught George staring. “Before? I'm sorry. I still don't understand.” Thomas lifted her hand and pressed a kiss on her skin. She dropped down into a clumsy curtsy.