Kristin Cast Read online

  “Come now,” Violet says, her tiny, cold hand pressing against the small of my back. “I’ve made ye a nice supper and some tea before bed.”

  Bed?

  I stop, my eyes seeking a window, but they’re all covered by thick, heavy drapes. Wondering why she’d say such a thing when I know for a fact it’s still light out—still morning, for that matter.

  “Ye traveled a long way, ye did.” She nods, as though she’d made the transatlantic journey sitting right alongside me. “Must be a bit jet-lagged, no?”

  And just as I’m about to say no, that I’m not at all jet-lagged, that I’m completely wide awake and ready to explore until the other students arrive, she turns to me, watery blue eyes meeting mine as I hear myself say, “A bite would be good. I really am rather tired, come to think of it.”

  All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.

  —Edgar Allan Poe

  Two

  It’s cold. Frigid and bitter and cold. But it’s not like I feel it, so it doesn’t really affect me. All my awareness is focused on the insistent pounding of my heart as my feet cross the polished stone floor. Pushing through a mist so thick, so dense, it practically pulsates with life—as though it’s a real, living thing.

  It won’t stop me, though. No matter how bad the visibility gets, I’ll just keep moving forward, making my way toward that glowing red light. He’s in here…somewhere…and he needs me to hurry….

  I flip the switch, squinting as the room fills with shadow and light. Noticing a thin layer of mist hovering all around, and wondering how it found its way in when the door is closed and the windows are covered with heavy, fringed drapes.

  I toss my sheets aside and slip into the robe that was left at the foot of my bed. Pausing to run my fingers over the soft, silky feel of it, so different from the scruffy flannels I usually wear, and tying it snugly around my waist as I take in the large space before me—the dressing table covered with delicate lace doilies and silver-handled brushes and combs, the crystal chandelier hanging overhead, the stone hearth with embers still glowing from the fire Violet set, the small velvet settee just off to the side. And an easel that awaits me—all set up and ready to go with a fresh, new canvas just begging for me to bring it to life.

  “Paint your dreams,” I was told, and so I do. Wondering briefly if I should try to call home, let them know I’ve arrived, but just as quickly abandoning the idea. Now that Nina’s moved in, my father’s too busy for me, has probably forgotten all about me. Besides, I’d rather paint. I need to paint while the images are still fresh in my mind.

  I retrieve my bag from the bench at the foot of my bed, glad I was smart enough not to check my very best brushes and paints along with the rest of my luggage. Squeezing color from the tubes marked black, white, and red, knowing that for this particular dream, a dream I’ve had before, but only in pieces, fragments, never as vibrant as this, it’s the only palette required. And I’m so immersed in my subject, I hardly notice when Violet peeks in.

  “Sorry fer disturbing ye, miss, but I heard ye moving about and thought you might like somethin’ to eat?”

  She comes toward me, placing the tray on a small table beside the velvet settee, as I frown at my painting. I’ve been struggling with the mist for over an hour, and it still doesn’t feel right. In my dream it felt so alive, but here, it’s just a blotch of white static.

  “I say, I’m no expert, but that seems to be coming along just fine, miss. Just fine indeed.” She comes up alongside me and squints.

  I shrug, twisting my lips to the side, wishing I could agree. Even though I’ve always been my worst critic—the fact is, it isn’t quite there yet. Not even close.

  “Maybe just a touch more…red. Right ’ere, miss.” She points toward the center, the only place where any real color exists. “If ye don’t mind me sayin’ so.”

  I glance between her and the canvas, noticing how she looks so much younger than she did earlier—her face rounder, fuller, with a spot of color on each cheek. Blaming my earlier impression on a combination of dim lighting and jet lag, I focus back on my canvas and do as she says, then the two of us stand back to scrutinize it.

  “As I said, I’m no expert, but it looks better now, doesn’t it? Gives it a bit more…life—wouldn’t ye say?” Her blue eyes light up as her cheeks flush bright pink, and for a moment she’s so transformed I can’t help but stare.

  “It is better.” I nod, glancing between her and the painting. “I thought I’d get dressed and head into town, have a look around and pick up some stuff to tide me over until my luggage arrives. Can you lend me a map or something? Or at least tell me where the shops are located?”

  She bites down on her lip and narrows her eyes. And for a moment she seems upset by the question, but it’s soon erased by her words when she says, “Sure, miss, I’d be happy to. But now’s probably not the best time. Best to put it off for a while still, yes?”

  I tilt my head, paintbrush dangling by my side, wondering what she meant by that.

  “Well, in case you hadn’t noticed, ’tis still dark out, and a long ways from morning.” She heads for the window, drawing the drape in one quick move, showing a flash of pitch-black landscape before closing it again. “Oh, and you might want to watch yer paints there, miss.” She points toward my feet. “A lot of work went into the restoration, and we’d hate to mess it up so quickly.”

  I lower my gaze, gasping when I see what looks like a pool of thick, red, viscous fluid swirling around me. But as soon as I blink, it’s gone, and all I can see are the few small drops she promptly cleans.

  “I’m sorry—I—” I shake my head, still stricken by what I know I saw just a second ago.

  “No matter.” She heads for the door. “Just—” She pauses, eyes surveying me as she grasps the shiny black pendant hanging from her neck. “Just mind yerself, that’s all.”

  The moment she’s gone, I put my painting aside and decide to get dressed. I mean, even though it’s the middle of the night, the fact is, I’m so wide awake now, I may as well do some exploring and check out the rest of the house. So after shivering under a weak spray of water that never really ventured anywhere past lukewarm, using some kind of weird, oddly scented, handmade soap that made me long for my nice, sudsy body wash back home, I sit at the dressing table, comb through my wet hair with one of those silver-plated combs, and dab on a little perfumed oil from an old-fashioned glass bottle, hoping to kill some of that soap stench. Then I go searching for the clothes I arrived in, since, thanks to the airline losing my bag, I have no other option.

  But after checking the armoire, the chest of drawers, and just about anywhere else you could stash a black V-necked sweater, faded jeans, and a navy blue, hand-me-down peacoat, and coming up empty, I ring for Violet, only to be told they’ve been sent out for cleaning.

  “But now I don’t have anything to wear,” I whine, realizing my voice has risen a few octaves louder than planned. But hey, I’m an only child, I’m not used to people messing with my stuff.

  “Sorry, miss.” She averts her gaze in a way that makes me feel this big. “Just trying to keep things runnin’ smoothly.”

  I sigh. Knowing that to say anything further would just peg me as a spoiled American brat. Besides, wasn’t the whole point of coming here to improve my art and experience something different from my suburban L.A. condo community? Not to mention, enjoy some time away from Jake, Tiffany, and Nina? And now that I’m here, maybe it’s time I embrace it.

  “Sorry.” I shrug. “I didn’t mean it like that—it’s just—”

  “I’ll check on them come morning.” She nods. “I’m sure they’ll be returned to ye in good time. But for now, why not pick something from this here armoire to wear?” She smiles encouragingly. “There’s some beautiful gowns in there, miss. Real antiques they is. It’s all part of the restoration. Every last detail was noted and attended to.”

  I tilt my head and scrunch my nose, not near as convinced as s
he. I’m not really into fancy vintage gowns. I’m much more of a peacoat-and-cargo-pants girl.

  And I’m just about to say it, just about to ask if she could possibly find something a little less fussy, when she says, “Don’t really know which type ye are until you try a few, right?”

  I squint, wondering if I voiced the thought out loud, though I’m pretty sure that I didn’t.

  “Besides,” she adds, “it’s not like you’re goin’ out or anyone’s comin’ in—at least not anytime soon. So if it’s bein’ seen that’s got ye worried, forget it. Even though it’s still dark out, I’m afraid the mist has rolled in so thick now, he won’t be burnin’ off fer days, maybe even a week. Everything’s been delayed because of it, so you may as well enjoy the free time.”

  “But what about the other students?” I ask, wondering who I feel worse for, them or me? I mean, yeah, it’s kind of cool to get a head start and poke around on my own, but a little artistically inclined company wouldn’t hurt either.

  “Oh, I’m afraid I don’t know about that, miss. But I will say, they won’t be coming by today, that’s fer sure.”

  She heads for the armoire and removes a red silk gown with a deep plunging neckline, tight bodice, and full, trailing skirt. Gazing at it in such an admiring, covetous way, I’m about to suggest she wear it herself when she turns to me and says, “Didn’t you ever play dress-up, miss? In your mum’s clothes?”

  I squint, thinking about my mum, a no-nonsense, no-frills, hardworking third-grade teacher who didn’t really have many occasions to dress up for, or anything to really dress up in—unless you count cotton cardigans and pleated khakis, that is.

  “No,” I say. “Not really.”

  She looks at me, her eyes glinting with excitement. “Well then, I’d say now’s as good a time as any.”

  Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.

  —Alexander Pope

  Three

  “Now normally, I’d be slipping you into a corset and pulling the strings so tight you’d be screaming for mercy, but nowadays, you’re all so skinny and muscled from athletics, a corset’s no longer necessary, at least not in your case.”

  “Nowadays?” I turn to look at her, wondering if I need my eyes checked, as she appears even younger than she did a few minutes ago. Shaking my head as I gaze at the mirror, knowing I’m somewhere on the side of thin-ish, but not skinny. Definitely not skinny. Nor sporty, for that matter.

  She bites her lip tighter and fastens the long row of tiny, covered buttons that line all the way up the back. Her fingers moving so quickly and nimbly, you’d think she did this sort of thing all the time. “So, what do you think?” She pushes me before the full-length mirror as she stands off to the side, just out of view.

  I gasp, astonished by the way my normally way-pasty complexion is practically transformed, providing a lovely contrast to the deep, gorgeous red of the gown, and the way my chest practically heaves, appearing far more abundant than I know it to be, thanks to the ultra-low neckline. And as I run my hands over the severely nipped-in waist and soft folds of the extra-full, bustled skirt, I can’t help but think how it suits me.

  Even though I never thought of myself as this kind of girl—the shiny, fussy, sparkly kind—even though I’ve always preferred neutral colors and clean, simple lines, maybe I’ve had it all wrong. Maybe this is who I really am. And it took just one day at an art academy in England to discover it.

  I turn from side to side, unable to stop mirror gazing. Wondering if it’s possible to really start over, start fresh, and completely reinvent myself.

  Wondering if it’s possible to wipe away the memory of Jake and Tiffany and Nina, simply by discarding my old look for this dazzling new one.

  I gaze at my hair, admiring the way it dries in soft, wavy tendrils that curl around my face, and the way my normally unremarkable brown eyes now seem to sparkle with life. “I think—I think I’m looking at someone else!” I say, my fingers lost in the deep, silky folds of the skirt as a smile widens my pink, flushed cheeks.

  “Maybe ye are?” Violet whispers, her gaze somber, far away, as though lost in another time and place. Then, shaking her head and returning to me, she adds, “But you’re not through yet.”

  I cock my head, taking in my reflection and counting so many jewels, ribbons, and special effects, I’m wondering what we could possibly add that wouldn’t send this dress straight over the top. Then I turn to see her heading for the dressing table and lifting the lid off a silver-plated jewelry box, retrieving a beautiful velvet choker with a gorgeous, shiny, black-beaded pendant hanging from its front that’s very similar to the one she wears.

  “It’s made of jet,” she says, answering the question in my gaze, as she fastens it around my neck. “The fossilized remains of decaying wood often found right here in these very cliffs.” She nods, grabbing a few more pieces she secures in my hair before standing back to survey her handiwork. “The Queen often wore it as mourning jewelry.”

  “Mourning jewelry?” I raise my brow. “That seems a little…grim, doesn’t it?”

  But Violet either misses the comment or chooses to ignore it, because a moment later, she just claps her hands and says, “You’re perfect, miss. Just perfect.”

  The dress is gorgeous. Totally and completely gorgeous. And even though I decide to go with it, and all the jet jewelry Violet foisted on me, when it comes to the shoes, well, that’s where I draw the line.

  Never mind the fact that, just like the dress, they fit so perfectly we both gasp in astonishment. Never mind the fact that I can’t help but feel just the tiniest bit Cinderella-like when I perch on the velvet settee and slip that elaborate velvet pump right onto my waiting foot. Because the fact is, there’s something integral left out of that particular fairy tale: The truth about glass slippers is they don’t make for comfortable footwear, and the same goes for these.

  “But you have to wear them,” she says, voice raised and urgent, eyes wide and fixed on mine.

  Her gaze so convincing, so compelling, I’m just about to fold and give in, when I force myself to look away. Finding my voice again when I say, “You like ’em—you wear ’em.” I shrug ’em off, replacing them with my trusty Doc Martens that fell under the bed. “Seriously, go ahead, knock yourself out. I’m sticking with these.” I nod, clicking my heels together and smiling when the rubber soles make a dull thud as they bounce off each other.

  She shakes her head and presses her lips so tightly together they’re lined by a thin band of white, and I’m not quite sure how to take that. I mean, it’s just a game of dress-up. What’s the big deal? Why’s she so invested in it?

  “And yer breakfast, miss?” She pulls herself together, rubs her hands down the front of her apron, and motions toward the barely touched tray she’d left earlier. “Shall I take it?”

  I gaze at it for a moment, about to let her have it, when I spot two of those delicious sausages I remember from the night before, and find myself overcome by a sudden craving for more.

  “No, leave it,” I say, my skirts swishing around me as I move toward it. Figuring I’ll sit down and enjoy a quick bite before I set out to explore. “I’m actually pretty hungry,” I add, already stabbing a sausage with my fork and enjoying the warm, savory flavor that explodes in my mouth as she quietly lets herself out.

  Any relic of the dead is precious, if they were valued living.

  —Emily Brontë

  Four

  I’m surrounded by mist—thick, white, viscous mist. My hands held before me, cupped, as though I can scoop it out of my way. Only I can’t. It slips right through my fingers and re-forms again. But no matter how indomitable it may be, it can’t keep me from the glowing red light that leads me to him.

  He needs me—and strangely, the closer I get, the more I realize I need him, too.

  Just a few more steps and I’ll be there—able to grab hold of the hand that’s managed to pierce through the haze—grasping, reaching, beckoning for me to come
closer—closer still—until—

  At first it appears disembodied—obscured by the vapor—but the closer I get, the more I can see. A vague and shimmering outline of a tall, strong, darkly handsome guy, with sleek black hair, straight nose, squared jaw, determined chin, high cheekbones, strong brow—but the eyes—the eyes are elusive, something I can’t quite distinguish just yet—

  When I wake, it takes a moment for me to place it—the gown, the room, the tray of cold tea, untouched toast and eggs, and a half-eaten sausage lying diagonally across its plate. None of it making any immediate sense until it slowly starts to creep back—who I am, where I am, and why I’m dressed like this.

  I raise my hands up high over my head and stretch from side to side. Amazed by how I could just fall asleep like that, right in the middle of eating, but then, that’s what jet lag does—whacks out your body clock and throws you completely off balance.

  But none of that’s important, what matters is the dream. As I stand before my canvas, I’m amazed at how easily it flows, how these new images fit so perfectly into the scene I painted earlier. I’m just finishing up the last stroke of my subject’s shiny, slicked-back hair when there’s a knock at my door.

  “Hey, Violet,” I say, still focused on painting. “You can take the tray if you want. I guess I was more sleepy than hungry. I totally passed out.”

  “Great! Only problem is, I’m not Violet.”

  I turn to find a guy about my age leaning in the doorway, his voice containing just the slightest hint of a British accent, one that’s been heavily Americanized, when he says, “I’m Bram.”

  I lift a brow. Not really a name you hear all that often these days.

  “My mom’s a goth, what can I say?” He shrugs.

  “And your dad? Is he a goth too?” I ask, taking in the dark, skinny jeans, the gray hoodie, and the black blazer he wears over it, thinking he looks so normal this apple must’ve fallen miles from that particular tree.