The Haunting of Brier Rose (15 page)

"How could he know about the Bastyrs and you unless he is
somehow connected to them himself?"

"He just doesn't seem..." Her voice trailed off. Deep
in her heart she didn't feel a threat from Taylor, even though he had been
arrogant and rude to her. She had suspected him of being the one to hypnotize
her at night, but even that suspicion was faltering in the face of his kindness
earlier that morning. He hadn't once tried to touch her, even though she had
lain half-naked on his bed. The man who came to her at night surely would have taken
advantage of her in a similar situation.

If by some chance Taylor was not connected to the Bastyrs, and if
she could have just one or two more days, she could finish her scarf and all
would be well. But if she didn't finish, she would miss her deadline and lose a
most influential client, not to mention a tidy sum of money.

Her professional reputation was on the line. She didn't know
whether to stay or leave.

"My mother mentioned a list of instructions and an emerald,"
Rose ventured.

'"The same emerald I had a few moments ago." Bea turned
to retrieve the box from the floor. She raised the lid. "Your mother gave
this box to me to keep for you. I've kept it under my bed for fifteen
years."

Rose peered into the velvet-lined box and saw a piece of
parchment about the size of a paperback novel and a small ruby-colored pouch.
Carefully Rose picked up the pouch and placed it in her palm. The drawstrings
draped over her hand as she loosened the top of the sack. She could feel a hum
from inside the pouch, as if something of enormous energy lay within.

Her fingers felt a hard, cool object about the size of an
apricot. Rose drew it out.

"The emerald," she gasped, holding it up to the light.
It glinted a rich green in the lamplight and was full of shifting depths that
captivated her.

"Yes," Bea said softly, her voice full of awe.
"Just look at it."

"My mother says it has some sort of power." Rose looked
up at Bea. "That sounds like hocus-pocus to me."

"When it comes to the Bastyrs, Rose, you have to suspend
your belief system. They don't follow the norm, from what your father told me.
They have strange powers, strange ways. It's Seth Bastyr, the leader of the
family, who has the most powers. But your mother seemed to have had many
herself
. She must have inherited than from the Bastyr genes.
She could speak to animals with her mind. I saw it happen."

"Speak to animals?"

"Yes. She could call animals to her. They would bring things
to
her,
do things for her, as she was always doing for
them. She was a very gentle woman, your mother." She held the box closer,
so that Rose could put back the emerald. "Haven't you noticed you have the
same gift, Rose? With Edgar?"

Rose paused a moment. "Edgar and I are friends. But I've
never consciously tried to communicate with him. I've never asked him to do
anything in particular. He warns me, sometimes, that people are coming. Things
like that."

"He is usually with you, though. He sits on your wrist, goes
with you everywhere, and yet you've never trained him."

"I never thought twice about it. I thought he was
smart."

"No, Rose. You taught him, simply by thinking about what you
wanted of him. How do you suppose he came to Brierwood?"

"I don't know. Hasn't he always been here, Bea?"

"No. He came when you were six. He was hurt. You found him
on the lawn, don't you remember? You said you had heard him crying and crying
all night."

Rose smiled faintly as the memory resurfaced. "Yes, I
remember now."

"But I hadn't heard a thing. And neither had Donald, and he
had been trimming shrubbery in the area. Only you heard Edgar's cries."

"I'd forgotten about that."

"So you see, Rose, you do have certain gifts. Even though
you aren't a full-blooded Bastyr, you still have powers of your own."

Rose nodded and drew out the piece of parchment. She looked up at
Bea. "But what else is in my bloodline, Bea? My mother mentioned the
Bastyr practice of incest. Doesn't that cause birth defects?
Abnormalities?"

"Sometimes." Bea gave her shoulder a reassuring
squeeze. "But you seem to have escaped such problems, Rose. You aren't a
full Bastyr, after all."

"And my real father—what was he like?"

Bea's eyes softened. "You'll learn all about Will when we
get away from here, Rose. I have so much to tell you!"

Rose smiled. A whole new life lay before and behind her, a life
full of people with whom she was connected. She felt a glow inside and out, and
wondered if holding the emerald had contributed to the warm feelings that were
blossoming inside her.

"Look over the instructions, Rose," Bea urged.

Rose picked up the parchment and scanned the writing. The
instructions included sitting at the foot of a fir tree and concentrating on
the inner self.

"On your birthday, you must follow the instructions to the
letter. Your mother made that very clear."

"I've never seen anything like this," Rose said,
shaking her head. "It seems pretty weird."

"I'd take it seriously, if I were you, Rose. Seth Bastyr
killed your father. He would kill again to get to you."

"This Seth—" Rose replaced the parchment in the
box "—what does he look like?"

"Unfortunately, I don't know. I’ve never seen him. I've been
told he spent the daylight hours sleeping and the night hours keeping pretty
much to
himself
."

Rose felt a chill race down her back. She remembered her dream of
the previous night, when she had faced Seth on the other side of the
iron gate
. She hadn't seen his face, either. But she
remembered him as being tall, lean and dark-haired. Was Taylor really Seth in
disguise? Then she remembered the narrow shoulders and dry voice of Seth
Bastyr. Taylor had a well-developed physique and a voice full of rich baritones.
Could they be the same man? Or were they two completely different people? And
if Seth went abroad only dining the night, he would have had to change habits
in order to appear as Taylor, who was quite visible during the day. To make
matters more complicated, Seth Bastyr could have sent a courier in his place.

Rose frowned, uncertain of her own logic. Her intuition—her
heart, if she truly admitted it to herself—told her that Taylor was not a
Bastyr. But could she listen to her heart? She had no experience in such
matters.

Yet could she trust the fantastic story of the Bastyrs? The man
who came to her at night told her that everyone had fed her lies. Could Bea
still be lying to her? The letter could be false. The emerald could be glass,
for all she knew. Who was telling the truth? Whom could she trust?

"What's the matter, dear?" Bea questioned. "You're
as white as a sheet."

"I—I— This is all too strange!" She stood
up and brushed a stray strand of hair off her forehead. The glow she had felt
only moments before had suddenly shriveled to a cold flicker of distrust and
doubt.

"I know it must be hard to take all this in at once, but you
must."

Rose turned at the doorway. "I must finish the scarf. That's
what I must do.''

"But, Rose, you can't!"

"My birthday is Saturday. That gives me two more days. If I
work all day today I can probably finish. Then we can leave."

"No, Rose!"

"You said yourself that nothing will happen to me until my
twenty-first birthday." She put her hand on the doorknob. "Besides,
we have my mother's emerald and her instructions. If what you've told me
is true, we are safe."

"Not necessarily. They've never been put to the
test—"

"One more day, Bea. That's all I'm asking." She opened
the door and looked back at her grandmother. Bea's face was full of doubt and
worry, which deepened the lines around her mouth.

"One more day, Bea."

Bea sighed heavily and clutched the box to her chest. "All
right. But I don't like it."

By the time dinner was over, Taylor was in the mood for companionship.
His books had arrived that morning. He had spent the entire day reading about
the human eye and had discovered some odd information in one volume. He was
eager to share his news with anyone but Bea Jacoby, who made an art form of
avoiding him and cutting off all conversation with a hard stare. He really
wanted to tell Rose what he had found out about his eyes, but she had been busy
all day, and he hadn't had a chance to talk to her. Maybe she was avoiding him
because of the morning fiasco, when Bea Jacoby had found her in his room. She
might be too embarrassed to face him. Yet he couldn't imagine Rose hiding from
anyone, not with her spirited streak. He smiled slowly as he finished his
coffee. He liked that streak in her. In fact, there wasn't much about Rose
Quennel that he
didn't
like.

Taylor rose and pushed back his chair. He was going to find Rose
and talk to her, no matter what objections Bea Jacoby raised.

He hobbled up the stairs and knocked lightly on Rose's bedroom
door but got no response. Next he checked in the study, wondering if she might
be in there. But the room was empty. He glanced out a window that overlooked
the back gardens but saw no evidence of her there, either. Just as he had
decided to give up and go downstairs for another cup of coffee, he saw Edgar
soar up to the third story and through an open doorway.

"Ah," Taylor mused to himself. "The
workroom."

He limped up the stairs and passed over the threshold of the
workroom. The place was huge. It must have been the ballroom in the old days
when his aunt had entertained. A fairy-tale quality still pervaded the room due
to the festoons of hand-painted cloth that Rose had hung from the ceiling and
over the tops of the tall windows. Four tables, each at least twenty feet long
and covered with vinyl, made up her workspace. Wooden drying racks took up
another corner. Shelving filled with plastic gallon containers and a jumble of
glassware sat in the shadows of early evening. Rolls of fabric, more tables,
stacks of laundry baskets, a hot plate and an assortment of plastic utensils
lined the far end of the room. An old roll- top desk littered with papers and
books guarded the doorway nearby.

Taylor walked farther into the room and looked around the desk.
He found Rose standing at the end of another long table, her fingers curled
loosely around the shaft of a paintbrush. She wore a spattered bandanna to keep
the hair out of her face, but the rest of ha russet tresses tumbled down her
shoulders and back in a river of fire.

For a moment his eyes went out of focus and he heard a faint
whirring sound at the same time that a rainbow-colored shimmer appeared around
Rose's head. Startled, Taylor blinked, hoping his vision wasn't going to give
out on him again, and in an instant the shimmer disappeared.

"Mr. Wolfe?" she asked.

"Hi," he replied, relieved that the vision incident had
been so brief. He limped to the end of the table.

She looked at him expectantly and twirled the paintbrush between
her thumb and forefinger. An awkward silence stretched between them. To break
the tense moment, Taylor directed his attention to the fabric stretched over
the table by a series of staples. "This must be the scarf you
mentioned."

"Yes."

He moved down the side of the table in order to see the design
from a better position. The jumble of colors and lines suddenly took the shape
of an unusual mosaic in indigo and peach, a depiction of a man and woman
embracing, their robes falling together as one, much in the manner of a Gustav
Klimt painting. Tiny swirls of silver that reminded him of galaxies scattered
over the night sky decorated the robe of the man. Squares of salmon, peach and
the barest hint of lavender made up the robe of the woman. The indigos and
silvers shimmered in a fantasy motif that seemed utterly magical. Taylor lost
himself looking at it, captivated by the detail of the design and the graceful
nuances of color, and amazed that a woman as young as Rose could create such a
masterful work.

He knew how many years it had taken him to acquire the patience required
to build a model ship. To control dye in such intricate lines on a piece of
fabric must demand a steady hand and a concentration that would put his
accomplishments to shame.

Gradually Taylor became aware of Rose's gaze. He looked up to
find her watching him. She blushed again, which turned her blue eyes to
luminous pools of cerulean.

"Do you like it?" she ventured.

"It's incredible."

She rubbed the small of her back as she came forward. "It's
to be a gift for someone. That's why I have to get it done by the end of the
week."

"Ah."

She strolled up to stand beside him, apparently forgetting her
distrust of him. "I only hope my client will share your enthusiasm. He's
getting anxious to see it."

"He'll love it."

"Do you really think so?" She looked up and raised her
fine eyebrows.

"I have no doubt. Where did you learn to draw like
that?"

She shrugged. "I grew up here at Brierwood and spent a lot
of time alone. I filled my hours with drawing."

"Time well spent." He reached out to trace a silver
swirl with his finger. "Where did you get the silver paint? I've never
seen anything like it before."

"My client sent it to me, insisting that I use it. When I
asked him what it was, he couldn't tell me."

"It shimmers." Taylor wiped his fingers on his jeans,
trying to rub off the silver residue on his skin. His fingertips tingled from
the contact with the paint. "You sure it isn't toxic?" he asked.

"It could be." She picked up a jar from her desk and inspected
it. Taylor glanced at the jar, which looked old and asymmetrical, as if it had
been made by hand.