Raquel Byrnes (30 page)

“Simon, please think about this. What about Lala?”

“I meant what I said. She will be safer at the school, away from me.”

“Then don’t leave me,” I said, my eyes tearing. “I-I don’t know who to trust.”

He looked at me, his eyes taking in my tears, and then his expression softened. He pulled me to him.

“You found her,” Sheriff Levine said as he ran up, his face shocked. “Where were you? Do you remember what happened?”

“I had a—”

“We were on the shore,” Simon interrupted. “She got turned around.”

“At this time of night? You’re liable to get mugged.” The sheriff shone his flashlight on Simon. His face registered alarm. “You look like you already did, in fact. What were you two doing down there, anyway? Do they have something to do with O’Shay’s stabbing?” Sheriff Levine called to his deputies and the other searchers on the radio and told them I’d been found. “You had us all scared, Ms. Ryan.”

“I’d like to get her home,” Simon said. “She’s shaken and cold. I obviously need to change.”

“Yes, well, we’re still squabbling with the Seattle guys about the O’Shay situation. I guess it won’t hurt to take her statement later. Seeing as how she’s fine.”

“Thank you, Sheriff.” Simon led me to a squad car. “Can we get a lift?”

“Yeah, I’ll take you.”

The sheriff dropped us off in front of the house.

Phillip met us on the porch, his jaw dropping.

“You found her.” He stood staring, his eyes wide with surprise. “Where was she?”

“I-I got a bit turned around out there,” I hedged.

“For hours?” Phillip asked.

“Yes, and if you don’t mind, I’d like to get her inside where it’s warm.” Simon pushed us past Phillip.

“Oh, yes, of course.” Phillip walked with us through the foyer and into the library.

Simon led me to the couch and then crouched at the fireplace. He started a fire while Phillip sat in a nearby wingchair.

“Well, are you going to tell me why you look like you just had a knife fight?” Phillip asked.

“Because I had a knife fight,” Simon said without looking up. He lit the logs, and the flames lapped at the wood, growing to a blaze in seconds. “I found Rosetta, and then I tried to talk to the gypsies. As you can see, it went as expected.”

“You invaded their camp at night, Simon?” Phillip asked. “Why?”

“Because I needed to. That’s all you need to know.” Simon rubbed his temples. “Where is my father?”

“You haven’t grown out of it, have you?” Phillip asked, the anger there as well.

“Out of what, Phillip?” Simon asked.

“Your temper.” He cleared his throat. His gaze flitted to mine.

“You talk to me about temper?” Simon let out a bitter chuckle. “That’s rich.”

“The idiocy of our youth is excusable.” Phillip reached out, snagged Simon’s bloody shirt with his finger. “But what you did tonight, with Rosie in tow, I wouldn’t have done it.”

“We both know there are a great many things I have done that you wouldn’t,” Simon said, his voice low. “Aren’t there?”

The mood in the room shifted. Shadows danced across their silent glares.

“Where’s Lavender?” I said suddenly and stood. “I—I want to hold her.”

“She’s asleep, Rosie, it’s nearly two in the morning.” Phillip was the first to break their standoff. He looked at me, gave a tense smile. “Are you sure you’re all right? You look dizzy.”

“I’m just a bit thirsty,” I said.

“I’ll get you something.” Simon headed for the door. He looked back, spoke over his shoulder. “Wait for me here, love.”

Phillip and I watched him cross the foyer to the kitchen before turning to face one another.

“Love?” Phillip asked. “This is new.”

“We’ve become close.” I remained vague, not sure what Simon and I had become, really.

“I’m sorry to hear you got lost in the woods,” Phillip said. “You must have been terrified.”

I rubbed my temple, not knowing how to answer without lying. “It’s been a long night,” I said instead.

“You really ought to have Dr. Fliven take a look at you, Rosie. What with all you’ve been through tonight it’s no wonder you’re feeling a bit off.”

I went to answer but stopped. Several crashes from the kitchen pulled me to my feet and towards the door. Phillip followed behind, and we pushed through to the kitchen. Simon stood at the sink, pouring out the coffee. Dishes and containers filled the counter their contents in the sink. The fridge stood open, the shelves bare. The trash can held bottles of condiments with some of the jars broken.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I’ll go and get his father,” Phillip said and pushed back through the door.

“I’ve wracked my mind, Rosetta.” Simon grabbed the cookie jar. He poured the cookies out, crumbling them in his fingers. “We don’t share the same food. You eat here. I eat at the workshop. How could—” His gaze landed on the pitcher of tea. He grabbed it, pulled off the lid, and sniffed. “Hand me a bowl.”

“But, Simon…” I reached for a glass bowl in the cabinet. “That’s not the same tea you drink. It’s from a bag.”

He snatched the bowl, poured the tea into it, and stuck his hand into the bottom. He froze, showed me. Small seeds, teardrop in shape, peppered his fingers.

“This tea is supposed to be chamomile. I made it myself.” I stared at him, confused. “There are no seeds.”

“Do you know what they are?”

“They’re Turbina seeds.” My stomach tightened.

“What do they do?”

“They can cause memory loss, but only in great concentration. I don’t think I drank enough—”

“Do they grow here?” he asked.

“I—I…” Dread knotted my stomach. I couldn’t get the words out, worried at their consequences.

“Tell me, Rosetta.”

“No,” I said. “They’re not native to Washington.”

He tossed the pitcher down, it broke in the sink. My hands to my mouth, I watched him, worry spreading.

“Are they bitter?”

“Yes.” I thought about his tea. The one I hated so much. “But if they were there all along, why are we just noticing them? I never saw them in your tea at the workshop.”

“Did you look?” He gripped the counter, his knuckles white, not looking at me. “Did you ever look in the pot?”

“No, but I didn’t drink it either, Simon.”

“I found a glass of tea on the counter earlier. When I saw the blood on the floor. Was it yours?”

I clenched my eyes, trying to remember. It had been so hot, muggy. I was cutting strawberries and grapes for Lavender, standing by the window… “Yes. I had tea, but not yours, Simon.”

“But you didn’t have to. A handful in this pitcher, and you end up on the cliff tonight.”

“This doesn’t make sense. I would have to drink so much. I’d notice the taste.” I shook my head, mind racing. The headache pounded, clouding my thoughts.

“Then explain this,” Simon said. “Why are these here if you didn’t put them there?”

“I—I can’t,” I said at a loss.

Phillip and Davenport pushed into the kitchen. Davenport’s eyes widened at the mess, his gaze on his son. “Looking for something?” he asked.

“This,” Simon said and showed the seeds. “Rosetta didn’t put them here.”

Davenport shot Phillip a look of concern. He stepped closer, put his hand on Simon’s shoulder. “Son, this day…”

“It’s not just the day,” Simon shouted, and Davenport backed up. “It’s not that Amanna died today.”

“Simon.” I touched his arm.

He looked at me, his eyes swimming, and alarm shot through me. He was pale, sweat glistening across his brow.

I pulled him to face me, the bottom of his shirt was soaked with blood. The gash from the knife fight ripped open with his exertion. “Help me!”

Davenport reached out and grabbed Simon as his knees buckled.

“Get Dr. Fliven,” I shouted to Phillip. “Hurry.”

He ran out, and Davenport helped me get Simon to the chair. I grabbed a towel, shoving it against the wound. Simon’s eyes looked out of focus, his lids low.

“Lala,” he muttered. “Rosetta, don’t let…” His words trailed off.

“Simon,” I shook him, made him look at me. “Simon, stay awake.”

“What is happening?” Davenport demanded. “Why is he bleeding?”

“He was in a fight down on the beach.” I ran my hand across Simon’s forehead. He felt clammy.

“A gypsy did this to him?” Davenport shouted.

“Please, Mr. Hale.” I pulled on his sleeve. “We need to help Simon.”

“Well, what do we do?” His voice filled with worry. He pulled the phone from the wall, dialed it. “The phone is working.” He let out a relieved sigh. “For once.” Davenport spoke to the dispatch, told them what was happening, and then hung up. “They’re on their way.”

“Help me get him lying down,” I said, grabbing one of Simon’s arms.

We eased him to the floor, and I knelt beside him, sick at the sight of blood. Pressure. I remembered that you need a lot of pressure to stop blood flow. Gritting my teeth, I put my hands across the blood soaked cloth and leaned my full weight on it. Simon moaned, his head lolling to the side.

“I know, Simon,” I said through tears. “I’m so sorry. I have to make it hurt to help you.”

I stayed that way, fear shaking me as I kept my gaze on Simon, silently praying. After what seemed like hours, I heard the siren. Glancing at the clock, I realized it had been nearly ten minutes. Footsteps in the foyer sent a trill of hope through me. Paramedics burst through the door. Phillip came in after them followed by Dr. Fliven.

“You called them,” Phillip remarked, his face ashen. “I had to…I had a hard time finding the doctor.”

“You need to move,” a paramedic said to me and held up a black bag. He pushed me aside, lifted the cloth. “I need some room.”

“I’m staying with him,” I said, not moving.

“Rosie, let him work.” Phillip stepped around the table, lifted me away. “Come on.”

“I’ll make sure he’s OK,” Dr. Fliven said and nodded reassuringly.

I let Phillip lead me out of the room, the fear suffocating me. I pulled away from him once we were in the foyer. Leaning against the wall, I stared at the pictures behind him, the grisly photos of gutted carcasses, and I couldn’t stop the sobs from coming.

Davenport pushed out of the kitchen, stood and looked at me, then Phillip with a lost expression. He pointed at me with his cane. “Maybe you should go and wash up, Ms. Ryan.”

I looked down at my stained hands, and a shudder rocked me. Nodding silently, I walked to the bathroom. Letting the faucet run, I rubbed Simon’s blood from my skin, watching the pink water swirl around the drain. My breaths came in hitches. He looked so pale. So close to death. A knock at the door made me jump.

“Are you OK in there?” Phillip’s voice came through the crack.

I looked at myself in the mirror—my hair ratted, smudges of dirt on my face—and sighed. No. I wasn’t OK. Drying my hands, I opened the door.

“Simon?”

Phillip stepped aside. The paramedics were wheeling a gurney through the foyer. I ran out, caught up to them, and grasped Simon’s hand. He looked up at me, a weak smile on his face.

“Stay with Lala?” he rasped.

“I will.” Bringing his hand to my lips, I kissed his knuckles, and nodded. Fear flooded my chest. What would I tell her? “Come back to me.”

They wheeled him out to the waiting ambulance. I hugged myself on the porch, pushing back the cries threatening to escape. The plaintive wail of the siren started up, and I turned, worried for Lavender.

She stood at the foot of the staircase, her eyes wide and her lips trembling. “Daddy?”

37

I rocked Lavender in my arms, praying and humming to her the songs of my childhood. We sat next to the cheerful mural on her wall. Lavender held onto me, her little hands knotted in my blouse.

“Rosie,” she said quietly.

“Hey, silly,” I said, looking down at her. “I thought you were asleep.”

“Will he be OK?” she squeaked.

“I think so.” I rubbed her back.

She sat up, faced me with her brow furrowed. Taking a lock of my hair in her hand, she twirled it with her fingers.

“Is he hurt because the things got lost?”

“What things, sweets?”

“The stuff from my backpack.” She sighed, a long ragged breath that broke my heart. “I’m so sorry.”

I remembered her backpack filled with the trinkets she’d taken from us. Josif said it was old magic, something he hadn’t seen since his childhood. How, then, would Lavender know about it?

“Lavender, this is really important. Where did you learn about taking people’s things to protect them?”

She looked at me for a moment, her gaze holding mine, as if she was debating something. Then she nodded, slid from my lap, and went to her dresser. She reached underneath and pulled out a book. She handed it to me, climbed onto her bed, and hugged knees to her chest.

I held the book in my hand; the cover was old and it had no title. There was a symbol on the front, a circle with faded symbols I couldn’t make out. I flipped through the thick pages, understanding flooding me. Page after page of drawings of strange diagrams. There was a picture of the circled candles, the scene I’d seen in the greenhouse. Flipping the pages, I found instructions for binding hair together. I looked at Lavender. Her eyes were brimming.

“I think my hair was cut.” She held a section of her raven locks out in front, and I saw a clean cut across.

Dread crept its icy fingers down my spine. What was going on here? I shut the book.

“Lavender, whose book is this?”

She shrugged.

“Well, where did you get it, honey?”

“If I tell you, will you promise not to get mad?”

“Why would I get mad, Lala?”

“Because I didn’t ask.” She squirmed, avoiding my eyes.

“That’s OK, Lavender. Where did you find this book?”

“I think Lucien left it for me.”

The hairs on my arms stood on end. “Why do you think that?”

“Because it was on my bed. It was open to the picture, and all the things I stole were right next to it.”

I looked at her, my heart tumbling. Someone had used this poor girl. Someone who knew she had a penchant for taking trinkets. They set her up to believe that her brother was helping her. I fought back tears of anger. What monster could do this? More importantly, how could they pull it off?