Waking (4 page)

Beauty raised an eyebrow. "You have been out with a lot of guys since you got here. Any juicy details?"

Luna tossed a sock at her. “No. It's not like that. I just don't really believe in monogamy.”

“You don't?”

Luna shrugged. “Not really. I hate the whole jealousy thing. It makes people do stupid things. But regardless, I was only trying to make friends. I've always had more guy friends than girl friends.”

“Well, Clare and her friends would rather you cower in

“Well, Clare and her friends would rather you fear when they walk the hallways. It's their thing.”

Luna made a face. "Not going to happen. Who does she think she is, Marie Antoinette?"

Beauty laughed. “You say the weirdest things.”

"Guilty. I was homeschooled for a long time before this current rotation of schools."

“Was it hard?”

“I loved it. I just decided I wanted to meet more people my age.” She stopped, folded her arms with a wicked, troublemaking smirk. “Can I ask you a question?”

Beauty groaned. “I smell danger.”

“Maybe. You like Poe, don't you?”

Beauty shot up into a sitting position and stared at her like a deer caught in headlights. "No!" she said quickly.

Luna lifted her eyebrows. “I won't tell, I promise.”

“I barely know him.” It wasn't a lie exactly.

“What if I tell you a secret in return?”

Beauty chewed on her lower lip and then squinted as if she were caught in a horror movie. "Okay. You first."

“I have a crush on Kennedy.”

Beauty watched her start to pace again. “Really?”

Luna nodded. “I got it bad, girl. He's just so…cool.”

"Kennedy? Long blond dreads, chatty, so laid-back he might as well be a rug?"

Luna giggled. “The very one. Does he have a girlfriend?”

Beauty shook her head. “If you're going to fall Briar, he's probably your best choice. He's nice.”

“Think he'll go out with me?”

“Have you been turned down yet?”

Luna stuck out her tongue. "Ha, ha." She rolled her shoulders back. "Wow, that feels better. Your turn."

Beauty swallowed. “Uh.”

“You promised. Now spill it.”

"There's nothing to spill," she said finally. "You have no idea how boring my life is."

Luna rubbed her hands together. “I can fix that.”

Beauty groaned. "Just let me lust from afar." She shud–dered. "This feels weird. Isn't he like your ex or something?"

Luna rolled her eyes. "I told you I don't work that way. Besides, we're just friends. Although he is a great kisser." She burst out laughing. "Beauty, you're bright red."

Beauty tried to stop herself from blushing but with little success. She sighed. "He's so yummy."

Luna nodded. “He is that. You should talk to him.”

Beauty stood up, pushed her hair back. “Please, one life-altering moment a day.” She felt suddenly jumpy and jittery, like she wanted to twirl in circles all day. It was the happiest she'd felt in months. She glanced at her watch. “I've got to get home; I'm late for dinner.”

Luna followed her down the stairs to the front door. Piano music trailed after them from one of the back rooms. Luna rolled her eyes when the singing started, high and loud and just a little off.

“Beauty?” Luna asked, leaning against the door.

“Yeah?”

“I'm glad you came over.”

Beauty smiled, touched the Victorian mourning brooch on her jean jacket. "Me too."

4

I'm on a path
,
in front

of a small cottage. The gardens are wild and full of roses, some blooming and fat, some withering on their stems. The sun rises slowly in a wash of lilac and orange. Night falls away behind me, and the stars wink in the indigo sky. I smell wood smoke and wine and something sweeter, like sugar burning.

The stones under my feet are wet and lead up to the cottage. With its thatched roof and stone walls, it's like something out of a fairy tale. Frogs croak as I make my way up the path. My breath hangs in the air. I'm wearing a simple long dress woven of ruby-hued linen, and my hair is loose down my back.

Candles burn behind the diamond-paned windows. I go to knock on the door, but it creaks open before I can touch it.

“Hello?” I call out tentatively. This is the point in all those horror movies when you think the heroine is stupid for going down into the basement or into the abandoned shack. I know if I was watching myself right now, I'd be throwing popcorn at the screen. But movies just don't convey the stubborn need to be strong or the curiosity I feel.

I know if Luna were here she'd waltz through the door and make herself at home. She'd probably even rearrange the furniture.

That thought is all the encouragement I need. I'm sick of myself
and dreaming seems to be the only way I can be someone else.

I walk through the open doorway and pause in the welcoming heat. The walls are whitewashed and plain, the fireplace carved of polished oak. Candles glow on the mantelpiece and a fire pops on the hearth. More candles burn on every available surface: slim raspberry-colored tapers in plain holders and silver candelabras, fat red pillars in clay bowls or on plates, and votives flicker like stars in a stream. Roses grow inside the cottage, creeping up the walls and winding around the windowsills. The tiny red buds, held in tiny perfect green-leaf hands, wait for the breath of summer.

I'm alone in the cinnamon-scented room, but it feels kind of like dawn is holding its breath all around me. It's like everything is frozen, a moment captured in perfect winter, even though there's no snow and the air is soft. I wonder who lives here and why everything is so quiet, so still.

The only furnishings inside are a hope chest painted red, a rocking chair and what looks like an old-fashioned spinning wheel next to a basket of red wool. I shiver when I notice it, but I don't know why. I approach the spinning wheel slowly, the way one might reach out a trembling hand to a strange dog. My heart stutters and my mouth goes dry.

I wonder why I feel as if I have no control over my surroundings. I keep drifting toward the spinning wheel as if I'm a ghost on water or mist blown through a field.

I stretch out my hand, pale and long-fingered, the red red cut at the base of my thumb, red as petals, red as berries, red as pomegranates.

I'm a breath away from the wheel and the spindle. The rocking chair creaks behind me. My heart pauses, then resumes its beat with a vengeance. A red bird exploding in my chest.

“We're not supposed to touch that,” a small voice says.

I jump and whirl around, yelping. I press my hand to my chest, try to keep my heart under its cage of flesh and bone. Some things just aren't meant to see the night. I notice the tiny cut has opened again and is weeping blood. It's the same color as my dress.

A little girl sits on the edge of the chair, swinging her legs. She's wearing shiny black patent leather Mary Janes and a red dress. Her dark hair is in two long braids and tied with satin ribbons. I remember those ribbons well. They'd been my treasure the summer I was seven. The shoes always pinched my toes. I'd hated wearing them.

I have to concentrate on my breathing before I can say anything.

“Why not?” I ask.

The girl shrugs. “Don't know. Not supposed to, that's all.” Her
eyes widen. “You're bleeding.”

I look at my hand, then hide it behind my back. “I'm okay,” I
look tell her.

“It makes Daddy sad.”

I bite my lip. “Sometimes.”

The girl keeps swinging her feet even as she pulls out a small jar and a wire wand. She blows bubbles into the warm air. They float and twirl like fairy mirrors. They make me smile.

“Do you live here?” I ask her.

The little girl shrugs again. “Sometimes.”

“Where do you sleep?”

“I don't like sleeping. I'd rather play.” She blows more bubbles, laughing when they burst over the candles in a shower like frost.

I turn back to the wheel.

She leaps off her chair and spins around in circles, still filling the air with bubbles. “Play with me!” she says. Her laugh is like cotton candy. I find myself laughing as well and spinning with my arms stretched out like branches. The room blurs around me and looks like a field of wild poppies. When I'm dizzy and out of breath I stumble to a stop. I'm still grinning. The cottage is a cottage again.

The little girl tilts her head and looks at me. “Dreams aren't
supposed to hurt.”

I blink. “What do you mean?”

“We didn't know, did we?” Her lower lip sticks out as she pouts. The jar of soap drops out of her hand and rolls across the rag carpet. “It's not our fault.”

Her eyes are huge and wet. I shake my head and through the narrowing and burning in my throat.

“Dreams aren't real.” It's the only thing I can think to say. It's what I'd always wished someone would say to me when I had nightmares. Instead, I remembered them and worried if they would come true.

“But we saw her in the bathtub in the garden. It's not fair,”
she wails, stomping her feet.

“It's not your fault,” I tell her firmly.

She stops abruptly, sniffles once. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Really and truly?”

I nod. The little girl smiles brightly and climbs back onto the chair, rocking and swinging her feet. The bubbles stay afloat, like pollen.

“Okay.”

I'm not sure if I want to laugh or cry. I turn back to the spinning wheel with its rungs tied with red ribbons. The wood is polished and smooth. It looks soft as butter. Baskets of wool grow at my feet like berries. I ignore the creaking of the rocking chair. I touch the wheel and hold my breath, tensing. When nothing happens, I laugh a little and spin the wheel. The ribbons tangle in the air. The wood sings as it moves. Firelight flickers and dances, shooting sparks into the chimney.

The edge of one of the rungs catches the tip of my forefinger, taking a delicate bite. I stuff the finger in my mouth, blood tasting like old pennies.

The little girl cries out. “She's here,” she says, voice trembling.

I can make out a shape on the other side Shadow Lady,” I whisper. I'm cold all over.

“She's going to hurt us.”

I shake my head. “I won't let her,” I promise.

The Shadow Lady moves away. The wheel stops and when I turn back to the rocking chair, it's motionless and empty. I'm completely alone in the cottage.

I look at my finger, bleeding and raw. There's a slim pale splinter under my skin, digging in like teeth, like the tip of a knife. Blood drips onto the floor. As it falls it shimmers and turns to roses, red and full, petals unfurling like fingers. They gather at my feet, thickening like a lake around my ankles and up my calves. Thorns snag my dress, tearing at the fabric. The roses are growing frantically along the walls and across the floor, reaching out for me as if I'm the sun.

I wake up when petals begin to fill my mouth.

5

Beauty woke to the

taste
of petals in her mouth and the cloying scent of roses on her pillow. She scrambled out of bed, heart ham
mering as if she was being chased. She pushed her tangled hair back and cursed when she caught a glimpse of her alarm clock. She'd slept through the annoying buzzer and wouldn't have time for a shower. She kicked the corner of her bed to make herself feel better, but only managed to stub her toe.

She fished out a long skirt that was crumpled in the back of her closet and threw on a tank top and her jean jacket. She twisted her hair back, stuck a couple of lacquered chop
sticks through it and decided that was all the attention it was going to get. When she looked in the mirror she was pleasantly surprised to see she didn't really look like herself. It was a start.

She raced down the stairs and nearly collided with her father in the kitchen doorway.

“Morning, honey,” he said, kissing her cheek. He was wearing his favorite pair of faded jeans and a denim work shirt. She knew the tool belt wouldn't be far away. She'd babysat for months to earn the money to buy it for him for his last birthday. And even when he was home from working at the hardware store, he still liked to putter around and fix things. “I was about to come and get you. Are you feeling okay?”

She poked her head into the fridge and rummaged for the juice.

“I slept through my alarm,” she explained. She tried not to snap at him. She was still feeling raw from her nightmare, but that was no reason to take it out on him. The dream felt as if it was thick in the air. She could still hear the creaking of the rocking chair, the crackling of the fire. And the blood.

“I made you some toast,” he said, nodding toward the table. A plate piled high with buttered toast sat next to a bowl of sliced apples and melon. She picked up the perfectly cut fruit.

“Dad, I could have done that myself,” she said, struggling to keep her voice even and mature. “I'm not a little girl anymore.”

He didn't look at her, instead fiddled with his tool belt, attaching it so it hung properly. “We've talked about this, honey.”

She rolled her eyes.

“You've talked, Dad, and I've had to listen. That's not exactly the same thing.” She wanted to make him understand, but she didn't know what else to say. He never wanted to talk about it. It was easier for him; he felt comforted, safe. She was the one who had to sneak into the locker room to shave her legs. She was the one who hadn't had her hair cut since it happened. She wasn't even allowed to work at her embroidery loom or make her own dinner anymore.