The Changeling (18 page)

“I met her,” she said. “Doug’s going to be so pissed at me…he’ll never forgive me.” Her eyes misted over again.

“Rachel, what’s going on?”

“Promise me you won’t mention this to Doug.”

“I promise.”

“Swear it! He made me promise…he’s going to be so pissed.”

“Rachel, I swear, I won’t say a word. Now spill.”

She studied my face, obviously engaged in some internal struggle. Her face contorted in pain. “A week ago, when I left your house, I saw Doug coming down the driveway. I stopped to be friendly—you know, to say hi. He didn’t want to see me. I asked him if he was coming to visit you.”

“A week ago? That can’t be. He hasn’t been to the Weald in several weeks.”

“I’m sure. It was last Sunday.” She was telling the truth—I knew by the look on her face.

“He didn’t come to see me, not on Sunday. Maybe he changed his mind and left.”

“No,” she said, “He wasn’t there to see you. I asked him about, well, that doesn’t matter…he didn’t want to answer me. I was going to leave when she, Cassandra, walked down that old path at the top of the driveway—the one we never take. I introduced myself…she’s a nasty person. Doug got so nasty…he told me to get away. He said I was a…” Rachel turned red—she was embarrassed, angry. “It doesn’t matter. He was a real asshole…she just laughed at me.”

Oh, what the hell?
I was afraid for both of them. “What did you do?”

“He made me swear…I promised him I wouldn’t tell you that I saw him there, and I left.”

“Did Doug leave?”

“No, they were still there when I left.”

Doug was at practice each day this week and he acted like he always did—way too interested in me—but there was nothing out of the ordinary. “Thank you for telling me.”

“I felt like I needed to. Candace and Ronnie agreed.”

Oh, crap, Rachel,
you’ve got a big mouth.
I fought the urge to scream at her, but managed instead to simply ask, “You told them?”

“Well, yeah. I had to tell someone. But it’s okay, they promised not to say anything.”

To avoid screaming at her, I choked down a huge bite of my salad. There was no saliva in my mouth.
Is there any way to fix this? Billy, I need you!

***

Two days passed while I made preparations to get into the Seoladán. I’d elicited the aid of Candace, Ronnie, and Rachel to help me with Doug. They didn’t know the real reason that I was going to sneak up to the caretaker’s cottage, but they were eager to help.

The morning before, I had drawn energy from the steady wind blowing across the cottage garden and tracked Cassandra from the kitchen. She had left at nine o’clock just as Aunt May had said she would. In her Naeshura form, she darted to the southwest and I followed her with my mind until she moved out of my extended range. Then, just as Aunt May had said, Cassandra returned to the
Seoladán
sixty-three minutes later. The plan would work, it seemed.

In the morning, I set the pieces in motion. Mom and Dad were going to take my grandparents to the hospital around 9 o’clock. Opting out of a trip to the hospital, I’d called Candace and Rachel to come over using the cover story of going out boating. Doug and Ronnie were supposed to meet us at the dock. I’d called each one knowing, hoping, Cassandra would be listening to our conversations. Doug was all too eager to spend more time with me, even with company along. He was going to be angry, but that didn’t matter—I had backup.

Candace was perfectly happy to run interference with Doug. I was her safety blanket from Rhonda, who’d grown more hateful and distant, and she was mine from Doug. I think Candace considered it a fair trade, even if Doug was less than receptive to her being around all the time. Though she didn’t say it, I think after she learned how Doug had treated Rachel, Candace was ready to exact a pound of flesh.

At 8:45, I heard Doug motoring down the cove toward the boat dock. Candace and Rachel were content to dawdle on the path, gossiping and laughing, so I joined them in an effort to stall our departure. The entire time, I concentrated on Cassandra, who was at the
Seoladán
above us
.

At 9 o’clock
,
I felt her leave, zipping almost directly overhead. It was time. I sat down on the dock and put my head between my legs.

Almost on cue, Candace said, “What’s wrong, girl?”

I replied as sheepishly as I could. “Nothing
,
I guess.”

“Don’t give me that.
Spill it
.
A
re you feeling bad?”

“No, Candace, I’m not sick or anything—I just feel guilty
,
I suppose.”

“Why?” Doug asked testily.

“It’s Mitch—my family is going to see him today and here I am planning to run around on the lake.”

“It’ll be good for y
ou
,” he tried to encourage me.

“I know
.
M
aybe you’re right. It’s just that I didn’t go to see him yesterday
. H
e’s so sick.”

“Maggie,” Candace interrupted. “You go right back up the hill and catch your family.”

Doug huffed and appeared agitated.

“Shut the hell up, Douglas,” Candace snapped, as if waiting for an opening. “And get that pathetic look off your face—you’re not helping.”

He shot Candace a dirty look and turned his back.

“I wouldn’t want to ruin your day…I mean you came all the way out here.” I tried to sound genuine.

Candace smiled, knowingly. “
We
can still go, if that’s all right with you
,
Doug
.
” She turned to stare at him. His expression was filled with contempt until he made eye contact with me.

“It will make me feel better, Doug, if you all go enjoy yourselves. Please?” I smiled at him and he grinned.

Ronnie, who
had
been leaning against the dock, found an opening to d
e
fuse the tension. “Douggie
?
”

Doug
looked
at him and stifled a laugh when Ronnie lifted his t-shirt, grinning, and slowly ran his hand down the deep ravine
between
his
muscular
abs. “Yes?”

“I know I’m not your type and all, but if you play your cards right, I’ll let you talk dirty to me.”

Rachel began snorting, trying not to laugh,
which made
everyone
else start
laughing.

“Can I tou
c
h your abs?” Candace asked.

He lowered his sunglasses to the tip of his long
,
elegant nose
. “
Sure. Five dollars.”

“Five dollars?” she protested.

Ronnie nodded. “Nothing this pretty is free.”

Doug shook his head, unable to keep from laughing. “Okay, okay, let’s go.”

God, I love
you,
Ronnie.

I waited until they were past the point before I began climbing up the hill toward the empty caretaker’s cottage. It was 9:20 when I got to the greenhouse. The entire garden was in full bloom, just like the one below. It was stunning, but as beautiful as it was, it didn’t
assuage
the fear that kept bubbling up in my chest.

Drawing energy from the breeze again, I stretched my senses to their max: Cassandra was gone, Billy and Sara were gone, and there were only a handful of Fae in the Weald, most more than a mile away. The guards in the garden were unmoved
,
and I hoped they were ignoring me.

I ran to the tiny cottage and used my mind to unlock the front door. Even before I reached the stoop, the door creaked open an inch, but I didn’t touch anything. Instead, I nudged the door with a tiny burst of Air. My invisible fingers were more dexterous than ever.

Just as it swung open, I checked my watch: 9:23.

The air inside was slightly warmer, but it smelled stale and musty
.
It
remind
ed
me of the antique shops in town, except more pungent. A worn and faded pink sofa with yellowed doilies on the arms sat in the middle of the darkened room. It was flanked by pale green wingback chairs and a dusty floor lamp. I closed the door without touching it
,
and the room grew even darker. Weak beams of sunlight filtered though the small grimy diamond paned windows on the east side of the room
.
The beams
glowed in a large rectangle on the floor
,
highlighting the dust motes that floated in and out
of
the darkness. The room was smaller than my bedroom and the flowery wallpaper, neglected and stained, peeled at the seams. Small ornate side-tables with curved legs stood against the back wall
,
and were cluttered with old pictures and knicknacks.

A ghostly black and white photo in a tarnished si
l
ver frame caught my attention. The woman in the picture,
appearing to be
in her twenties, donned a permanent smile. She had to be my Great, Great Aunt Vita—the resemblance to her sister, Lola, was unmistakable. The grim
-
faced man standing next to her
,
with his hair parted down the middle and slicked back
,
had to be Uncle Frank. It was odd seeing their things lying about in the cottage, untouched for the last fifty years. It was sad, too. They never had children, so their mementos had remained up here completely unappreciated for decades.

A narrow hallway
led from
the back of the room
,
past a staircase
,
and into the dark chambers at the rear of the cottage.
I began scanning the shelves and tables for Pete’s journal. An old clock here and a forgotten trinket there—I didn’t see a journal.

The floorboards creaked under my weight as I checked the tiny kitchen at the back of the cottage. Plain cupboards, neatly arranged with dust covered dishes and cups, lined two walls on either side of an apron sink that hadn’t held water for half a century. I felt a tinge of sadness when I noticed a neatly folded dish cloth draped over the edge of the sink.
A t
iny clover print was visible on the side that hung down vertically, but the top was faded to yellow from exposure to countless sunsets. There wasn’t a journal in
that
room
,
either.

I checked my watch: 9:36. I needed to hurry.

There were two small rooms off the hall. The first one I checked was a sitting room. Were it not for years of neglect, it would have been quite comfortable. Four small armchairs and ottomans circling a petite coffee table were backed by
a
bureau on the north wall. Across the hall was a small dining room with an old breakfront that still contained several pieces of china, silver and crystal. An oil lamp hung from the middle of the plaster ceiling, which was stained by soot and laced with cobwebs.

There was no book of any
kind in the dining room
,
and the drawers on the breakfront contained delicate serviceware and utensils but nothing else. I moved quickly back across the hall to the sitting room and opened the doors to the Victorian, chestnut-c
o
lored wood bureau. Inside was a writing desk with dusty, old
-
fashioned stationery and several fountain pens.
A
bove them on the wooden shelves were several books. I began scanning the spines: Poe, Thoreau, Dickens, Mitchell, Shakespeare, and Dumas
.
Then
,
the seventh book over
was
a brown leather journal with no name. I pulled it from the shelf and gently flipped the front cover open: