Riley Clifford (3 page)

The tiles were too slippery to stop him; his sweater caught but it just tore beneath him. He tried to grab at something, but his hands couldn’t grasp anything at all. His toes hit the gutter, which jolted under the impact. The intruder landed beside him. Ian tried to grab a black-garbed arm, but the gutter groaned again, and snapped.

They continued to fall. Ian grasped the gutter like a climbing rope, his clothes scraping down the side of the stone façade. He would have kept swinging — likely until the gutter broke completely free of the roof — but there was a tree growing close to the house and he got tangled up in the branches. The intruder skidded across the wall in the same way, but ended up near a downspout. He jumped over to it like a squirrel and began to skitter down to the gardens.

Ian kicked at the tree, trying to find a branch thick enough to stand on. He’d chased him that far — he’d not let him just get away now. He let go of the gutter with one hand and grabbed at a mess of sticks and leaves, hoping they would hold him as he pulled himself as quickly as possible into the tree.

Branches whipped at him as he scrambled down — he was going to look an awful mess whenever he caught up to this intruder.

There was movement beneath him, and Ian jumped, rolling into the person in black. They both toppled over, but both were soon back up on hands and knees. Ian lunged, grabbed a foot, and pulled. The person in black went down flat on his stomach. Ian snatched at the mask and ripped it off. And then he flung himself backward.

Isabel smiled at him and pushed her hair back from her face.

Ian felt as if he had been doused in ice water. His mother was there. There, in front of him. Isabel picked herself up from the ground and smoothed her black clothes with her hands. He shivered; his skin prickled up and down his back, and the first twinges of a headache crept over his brain.

Both sets of amber eyes flickered to the garden gate. It was old, made of damp, weathered wood and great iron bolts. The wall around the garden was a good ten feet high. There would be one way out. One little door stood between Isabel and freedom. He shot to his feet, and he and his mother raced to the gate.

Ian beat her there, barely. He pressed his back against the wood and covered the latch with a hand.

“Step away from the door, Ian,” said Isabel. She leveled her gaze at him, and Ian thought he might drop dead on the spot. It pierced him like a poisoned dart, like he would never stop bleeding.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. “You’re supposed to be in America.”

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to, darling. Though I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other soon,” said Isabel. “Now, stand away from the door, Ian. I won’t ask again.”

He knew that he shouldn’t. He knew that he should find some way to restrain her; he should get the police; he should send her back to jail. He should do that much for Amy and Dan, for himself and Natalie.

She looked at him in a way that made his throat close and his eyes water. Ian Kabra did not
cry
, but he thought in that minute he might. She was steel and he was paper and she tore right through him.

But if he stopped her, she’d go back to prison. There would be no more parole, no more Isabel loose in Boston.

Amy would be so happy. She’d be so proud.

He’d never have to worry that Isabel would show up again.

She’d never show up again. For a birthday, a polo match . . . anything.

Perhaps his conscience was too new; he hadn’t used it enough yet to know how to use it properly. Perhaps he just wasn’t good at doing the right thing.

Ian stepped away from the door.

Isabel smiled again, and swept past him. “Thank you, darling.”

She opened the door, stepped through, and shut it behind her.

Shame swept over Ian like a tidal wave. He stared at the garden door, and it was hard to breathe. The realization of what he had done smacked him in the face and it was cold, like a block of ice. He jerked the door open and stumbled out into the street.

But there was no one there. Isabel had gotten away.

No. He’d let her go.

Ian looked back at the house. For the first time in his life, he didn’t feel worthy of living there. He didn’t deserve it.

Ian Kabra would never cry. But he did sit down on the ground, something else he thought he would never do, and put his face in his hands for just a moment. Somehow, he remembered to breathe. It was funny, how you could keep breathing when you just made the biggest mistake of your life.

In the mansion, he found Natalie in the library.

“What on
earth
happened to you?” she gasped. “Your trousers!”

“I went into the . . . the Lucian wing.”

Natalie’s head jerked backward like he’d just told her he’d be wearing flannel and denim from now on. “Why?” she asked.

“I thought I heard someone in there.”

“Did you?” she asked, gripping the arm of the chair she sat in. Natalie could be a nuisance; she could be tiresome and petulant. But she looked so small and scared, like an actual little sister, that he couldn’t bring himself to let her know that her nightmares were coming true.

“No,” he said. “It was nothing.”

“Then why do you look like that?” Natalie asked.

Ian looked down at his clothes. He was covered with tiny bits of glass dust. The toes of his polished leather shoes had been reduced to unintentional suede. His sweater was gashed through across his stomach, and his polo shirt was stained an ugly greenish brown.

“I took a walk in the gardens,” he said.

“All of that happened from a walk in the gardens?”

“You know I’m not the outdoorsy type. Good night.”

He left the library and wandered to his room.

He could never tell Amy, and he couldn’t go to America. It would be too much to bear, a secret too heavy for the airplane to lift across the ocean.

And the more he thought about it, the angrier he grew with himself. Making the right choice — the good choice — should have been so easy. He could see that now. All it would have meant was saying no to Isabel.

Stand aside
, she would have said. And Ian would have said no.

I’m not asking again
, she would have said. And Ian would have said no.

But he hadn’t said anything at all. And, worst of all, his mother hadn’t even expected him to. Isabel had known how weak he would be.

How could feelings be this complicated? He liked Amy; she was so simply good. So smart, and so sweet, and so pretty, for someone with such a limited wardrobe. But, strangely enough, he loved his mother.

Amy wouldn’t like him anymore after this. What would she think if she knew? That he was a Kabra through and through, just like they’d all always thought. That no good could come of him. But what right did she have to think ill of him? She didn’t know how hard it was to have a mother like Isabel. She didn’t know the pressure, the pain, the constant expectations.

She didn’t have any idea of what it was like to be a Kabra. She and that brother of hers just stumbled in and out of life’s biggest challenges, making it out alive because of a bit of luck and the kindness of others — like himself.

He doubted that she could so much as say her own name without stuttering, or tie her shoes without being racked with uncertainty. It was pathetic, and just another example of how far removed from his world she was, monetary wealth or no.

And he knew that none of that was true, at all.

He grabbed for the phone. It was a miserable thing, to be responsible for breaking your own heart.

Amy was having a great afternoon. She’d made up the bed in the guest room and painted her nails, and now that all of her tasks for the day were done, she found that she couldn’t sit still. She perched on the couch, but then wandered to the kitchen, and then outside, and then back to the living room. It was as if a tiny motor had kicked on behind her stomach and it was powering little wheels that ran all over her arms and legs, gears turning and turning and making energy that needed to be used.

She wondered if this was what it felt like to be Dan.

Back in the kitchen, Nellie was whipping up a batch of macaroons while jamming out to her iPod. Sometimes, Amy thought Nellie forgot that there were other people around. Every now and then she’d stop in her stirring to use the spoon as a guitar, and she’d wail out a few licks.

Dan wandered in and took a good look at Nellie. The buzz from her music could be heard across the kitchen. “Nellie,” he said, “Atticus and I are going to eat Doritos and Pixy Stix for dinner. Cool with you?” He shot her a thumbs-up.

“And you used my heart as a Kleenex,”
Nellie sang.
“But you’re the one full of snot!”

“Awesome,” Dan said, pulling out a bag of chips — only for Nellie to smack him in the chest with a carrot.

Amy’s cell phone buzzed in her back pocket and she answered it quickly.

“Hello,” she said.

“Amy.” It was Ian. Amy grinned, biting her lip when her stomach flopped over. He really did have a great accent.

It’s Ian,
Amy mouthed to Nellie. Nellie, still dancing, gave her an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

“
OooOOoooh
,” said Dan, squeezing his carrot tight.

Nellie grabbed for Amy’s hand and tried to dance with her while she was on the phone. It was so silly, but Amy couldn’t help but to give in. She held the phone with one hand, letting Nellie spin her around with the other. “All — all set to come over and visit? I’ve Dan-proofed the whole place.”

“Dan-proofed. Is that supposed to be clever?”

Amy stopped dancing, and she let go of Nellie’s hand. Nellie took her earbuds out and gave her a funny look, but Amy blushed and looked away.

“Ian, is everything, uh, okay?” she asked.

“Of course,” he said quickly. “I’ve decided to stay in London. Everything is perfect.”

Amy’s stomach dropped. “You’re staying — you’re . . . you’re not coming anymore?” Dread crept over her like a swarm of beetles. She was acutely aware of Nellie and Dan watching her from the other side of the kitchen.

“Is that disappointment I hear, Amy Cahill? How very quaint. I’d no idea you were so attached to the idea of playing house.”

“Wh-why are you saying —”

“What is that? I can’t understand you.”

“Ian, I — c-can you come some other time? Maybe?”

As soon as the words came out of her mouth, she hated herself for it. Ian was being a jerk, and she still wanted him to come? How pathetic could she get?

Ian paused, and Amy bit her lip. Why would he change his mind the day before he left?

“No,” he said, finally. Amy’s face fell. Her shoulders slumped in and she turned away from Dan and Nellie.

“Oh,” said Amy. She didn’t want to sound disappointed. She didn’t want him to know how sad she was. But Amy really wasn’t a very good liar. “Well, okay. But, Ian, if something is wrong —”

“Why would I tell
you
if something were wrong?” he snapped. She felt the sting from an ocean away. “What makes you think that you know anything about me at all, Amy? What makes you think I would tell you anything?”

This was not what she had been practicing since she found out he was coming. She’d even learned to make tea the real way, not by heating up some water in the microwave and dropping in a tea bag and then forgetting about it.

“I’m going to hang up now,” she said quietly.

“Fine.”

“Good-bye, Ian,” she said.

He paused again. She thought she heard something like a sniff or a choke, but it was probably the sound of him tearing up his plane ticket. “Good-bye, Amy.”

She hung up the phone. Dan and Nellie were quiet.

“Well, think about it,” said Dan. “Did you really want Natalie Kabra as a sister-in-law?”

“Okay, take the Doritos and go,” said Nellie, taking her carrot back and throwing the bag of chips at him. Dan caught the bag, looked between Nellie and his sister, and decided that any other place in the world was better than that kitchen. “What did he say?” Nellie asked.

“He can’t come,” said Amy. “He didn’t say why. He wouldn’t say why.” She shouldn’t have been so upset. She shouldn’t have felt like someone had jabbed a pin into her feelings and deflated them all over the kitchen floor.