Fiona (13 page)

He groans and buries his head in his hands. “I feel like I'm acting. Like I'm just pretending to be a good father figure for Poppy when really I have no idea what I'm doing. I'm terrified I'm going to mess everything up and everyone's going to see right through me—”

“Hey,” I interrupt. “You're doing a great job, even if it feels like pretending to you.”

He doesn't lift his head. “I thought things between Blair
and me were over. I hurt her so much when we were together—that's why I broke it off with her. I told her I didn't want to be that guy anymore and that being alone was the only way to start fresh.”

“You don't seem like that guy to me.”

“Yeah, well, you didn't know me then.”

I nod, knowing I probably wouldn't have liked the Charlie he was then. “No, but I know you now,” I say. I don't know if it's the whisky coming on sudden and strong or just that it's been such a long, hellish day, but the words keep pouring out. “And just like you said, you've changed. You're not a
boy
anymore. You're a man. And you're the type of man who would never hurt someone he cared about.”

He looks up at me with a tortured expression, but then drops his eyes back down to his glass before I can react. “Thank you,” he says quietly.

I take another deep swallow, and it burns less now as it goes down.

I hate that he doubts himself so much. I hate that he can't see how much he's changed, how good he is to Poppy, how much he cares. Does no one tell him that? Does Blair not tell him that?

“I told you a secret,” he says, his voice lower. Deeper. “Now you owe me a song.”

Just when I thought we were done with games. “No piano in here,” I point out.

“Then you'll have to tell me a secret of your own.”

My eyes widen in shock and nervousness, and he laughs. “It's only fair,” he says.

A secret. Which secret could I tell him? This predicament definitely makes it seem easier to play the piano instead, to open up to him that way, rather than to say something out loud.

I consider telling him something small and unimportant, like the name of my favorite song (the “Skye Boat Song” that Mom used to sing to me whenever she felt haunted by the memories of her homeland) or my earliest memory (climbing the stairs up to the Austin apartment with my mom, her voice bright and encouraging as I eased myself up the tall steps).

But I don't. I find that I actually want to tell him something real. I just don't know what.

“What do you want to know?” I ask finally.

He thinks for a second. “What do you want from the future?”

His question is deceptively simple, but for me it's a minefield. Because what I want most from the future is something I can't reveal: that I don't want to end up like my mother. I don't want her disease, her sadness, her fragile, breaking mind.

So I give him the less dangerous answer.

“I want a family,” I say. “I want people around me who are
part of my blood and part of my heart. I want to be part of a unit that looks toward the future together.” I pause, wondering if what I'm saying is making any sense to Charlie, who grew up with all of these things as givens. But when I look at him, I see a mix of sorrow and admiration in his eyes that lets me know he understands. And I think I see something more in his gaze, too. Something so wonderful I'm afraid to hope for it. “I just don't want to be so alone anymore,” I say anyway, looking right into the wonder in those eyes.

“Fiona,” he says. I blink, trying to stave off the tears I feel coming.

Everything before me is swimming in a blur, and I realize my tumbler is nearly empty. Charlie notices it, too, and he grabs the decanter and stands up. He walks to me, and I don't break my gaze from his. He stands over me for a long moment, the intensity in his eyes reflecting onto mine, then pours a bit more whisky into my glass. “You're too easy to talk to,” he says. He kneels in front of me, and the change in perspective makes me see stars at the edge of my vision. Somehow, I've forgotten to breathe. “It must be your eyes,” he says. “They invite all sorts of secrets.”

He brings his hand up to my face, and the stars at my periphery burn brighter.
I need to breathe
, I scream to myself and take one shaky breath, in and out. His hand cradles my chin, his thumb brushing my cheek. He catches a tear in its tracks.

“You're crying,” he says. “Why?”

I couldn't answer him even if I wanted to. All I can do is stare as he brushes his thumb over my mouth, pressing gently on my lower lip. When I part my lips, I hear him take a harsh breath in.

Suddenly he stands and walks back to his chair, as if that moment—that wonderful and dizzying moment—never happened. But I can still taste the salt of my tear on my lips.

My head is spinning as I look down at my glass. I finish the rest of my drink in one gulp and stand, swaying only slightly. “I should let you get back to work,” I say.

“Fiona?” he says. He stands up, but before I can find out why, I skirt around the couch and practically hurl myself out of the room.

I go upstairs and curl up in bed, trying to clear my head of anything at all, hoping to fall into a dreamless sleep, uninterrupted by any strange noises or whispers.

It doesn't work. I sleep in fits and bursts, stirred awake every few minutes by every creak and crack of the floorboards and walls. By every loud, garbled whisper, words I can't make out.

But despite all of that, the loudest sound I hear is the echo of my own voice telling Charlie that I don't want to be alone anymore. And all I can feel is the echo of his thumb pressing against my lip.

Over the next few weeks,
Alice proves that she's a girl of her word. When we pass each other in the hallways, she smiles and says hello to Poppy, but she hardly even looks at me. It's like I'm a ghost. Like I don't even exist to her.

The house feels a lot colder now.

Poppy and I spend a lot of time in her room, gearing up for midterms. She's in good shape for every subject except math, so we do equations for hours until we both want to curse whoever came up with algebra. I try to stay positive and enthusiastic about her progress, but I'm pretty sure she can see right through me.

One afternoon, Poppy's tackling yet another worksheet when I wander over to the window and see Blair, flung across the stones of the courtyard below, as if thrown. I have to press my palms against the window and get super close against the
glass before I realize that she hasn't fallen to her death but is just lying there, relaxing. Even though there's no sun on this early November day, with its overcast skies and temperature that has crossed over from chilly to definitively cold.

The image of her lying there, her limbs at such violent angles, sends a shiver through me so strong that it feels like my blood has frozen under my skin. I blink a few times, as if she's a delusion that I might make disappear.

But no, she's there. She's real, and I'm just tired. Between the disembodied whispers and the persistence of my own black thoughts, I haven't had a real night's sleep in ages. The circles under my eyes are growing darker every day, and I have to drink cup after cup of coffee just to stay awake. This constant cycle of being both caffeine-wired and exhausted is taking its toll.

But who is this girl who lies outside on cloudy days and knows my grandparents? What does she do all day? She has to be doing
something
when Charlie's working; her weekly doctor appointments certainly don't take up all her time.

“Done!” Poppy calls.

I tear myself away from the window and the unsettling sight below and try to focus back on Poppy.

But it's no use. I pore over Poppy's careful work, but I can hardly make anything out.

A harsh copper taste, like I'm sucking on a penny, floods my
mouth, and I feel like running fast and far away. Adrenaline. I remember reading about it in a psych book that I snuck out of the public library back home, too embarrassed to check it out. A hormone that courses through you when you when your fight-or-flight response has been triggered.

For a moment, I think about running. Quitting and going back to Texas. I could get back my old job at the Buffalo Head Café and work with Hex. I would be back among the familiar, living in some tiny, horned-toad-infested apartment with my friend, broke and directionless but relatively happy.

I linger in the fantasy for only a few seconds, but then forget it. I can't let Blair win. I can't let her drive me away. And then there are all the questions I have about my mother's past, about my grandparents. I can't leave before I find out what happened to my family and why they don't want anything to do with me.

So if I'm not fleeing, I might as well fight. Now I just have to plan how.

• • •

The next morning, while Poppy's at school, I decide I'm going to figure out what Blair does all day.

I find her in a first-floor sitting room that I've barely spent any time in. It's a grand, formal space, with ornate, centuries-old furniture, decorative baubles on every surface, and walls full of more portraits of dead kilted guys.

Blair lounges on a cushy crimson couch, staring at her laptop. She looks up at the sound of my creaking footstep in the doorway, and I try not to cower at the sudden venom in her gaze, which she quickly replaces with a look of indifference.

I step inside the room, determined not to retreat.

“Good morning,” she says. There's a hint of a question in her tone, as if what she really wants me to do is say what I'm doing there and then get the hell out.

“Good morning,” I say as casually as possible. I clasp my hands together to hide their shaking. “I was actually hoping to run into you. I wanted to thank you for the shopping trip this weekend.”

She brightens, putting on her fake friendliness. “Of course! I had so much fun. I love getting to know Poppy better. She's such a special girl, you know?”

“Yeah, she is.”

“She's so trusting. She believes whatever you tell her. And she clearly adores you.”

Her words freeze me in place, and I just stand there, staring at her.
What does she mean by that?

Her calm expression and bland smile give nothing away. “Oh,” she adds, as if she's just remembered. “I need to tell Mrs. Mackenzie to send some of her chicken soup to the Cavendishes. I promised their housekeeper I would. They've been sick, poor things.”

I can feel my eyes widen and the blood drain from my face. Does she know she's talking about my grandparents? Is she taunting me?

I study her for another moment before saying an awkward goodbye and excusing myself. Once I'm beyond the doorway, I hurry down the hall until I'm sure my footsteps are out of earshot, then lean against a wall and try to breathe. I can feel my pulse racing in my throat.

I can't get rid of the strange, sickening feeling in my gut. I don't know why, but I think that Blair is planning something . . . bad. Something that would affect not only me, but Poppy.

She wants Charlie all to herself, that much is obvious. But how far will she go to make that happen?

I try to keep a discreet eye on Blair for the rest of the day, but I don't want to do anything that would antagonize her further. All I gather is that she spends most of the morning on her laptop and then eats lunch in front of it in the dining room, alone.

After lunch, she meets Albert in the entry hall. “Ready?” he asks.

She hitches her purse up onto her shoulder, nods, and then they walk out the door together.

I should be upset that so far my efforts to figure out her game have been a bust. But the castle feels brighter as she drives
away. All I want to do is take a nap, but I can't waste this rare opportunity to enjoy the rest of the day with a clear mind. I decide to brave the fierce November chill and swirling, pre-storm clouds and take a walk out to the woods.

I put on the rain boots that Poppy picked out for me—black with white polka dots, “Adorable
and
practical!” Poppy had exclaimed—and clomp through the bracken, muddy pine needles, and wet, dead leaves.

I pass by the entrance to the hedge maze and then skirt past the stables as quickly as I can. I'm still not ready to face Gareth, though I know I need to at some point. I need to apologize.

Later. For now, I just want to enjoy the afternoon. I wander out beyond the stables and the paddocks into the forest that the Moffats have purposefully left wild. The trees here are tall, some like overgrown Christmas trees and some with thick, soft-brown trunks that stretch up for a hundred feet before sprouting any branches. The air is fresh, with scents of soil and spicy pine swirling around me.

There's a hush in the air, a waiting quality. Mom used to tell me about the way nature likes to stop and hunker down when a storm is coming. She said she always knew she should get inside when the birds stopped singing.

Right now, I don't hear a peep from them. I shouldn't wander out too far.

The rain starts so gently that I hardly even notice it at first. But it builds steadily, and the wind picks up, stirring into a fury as I turn back for the castle. A few minutes pass, bringing lightning flashes in the sky, the boom of thunder responding.

And for the first time in weeks, I hear my mother's voice, shouting in my head:
Run, Fiona! Run! It's coming!

I gasp, my feet stumbling into a run. What does she mean? Of course I know a storm is already here—so what else is coming? What's out here with me?

My boots feel heavy, and I stumble a few times, scratching my palms on the tree trunks I grab to brace myself. I'm soaked through, my clothes weighed down with water. The rain is now pouring sheets, and I can hardly see anything.

Am I going the right way? Or am I lost forever in this forest? All I can hear is the howl of the wind and the rain, angry as it pelts into me.

Something that feels almost like a human hand grazes the back of my head, and I nearly drop to my knees, suddenly dizzy. Was that a falling branch? I shake off my dizziness and sprint forward as fast as I can.

Limbs grasp at my coat, at my arms and legs, pulling at me, as if trying to drag me backward. They're just tree branches, I know this, but still I fight and shout and keep running. Everything out here is harsh, even harsher than my reality. Time
seems to slow down, and as hard as I push forward, I feel like I'm not moving, as if this forest is pulling me back in.

I'm sobbing, terrified, scrambling wildly, until I'm finally out of the woods, back at the stables.

I'm so relieved that I'm crying, my tears mixing with the rain sliding down my cheeks. I don't stop running until I charge through the back door of the castle.

It's only when I'm inside that my pulse finally begins to slow. What just happened?

It doesn't matter
, I tell myself, shrugging off my coat and stepping out of my boots, which have completely filled up with water.
I'm back home, and perfectly fine.

I bend over, struggling to catch my breath, and then wring out my soaking red curls, careful to touch the back of my head gingerly. It's pretty sore—that branch struck me with surprising force—and I'll probably have a knot there by tomorrow. But at least it was just a tree, I'm sure of it. I shouldn't have let myself get caught in that crazy storm.

I'm almost laughing at myself, buzzing with relief, when I turn a corner and run smack into Charlie.

I yelp as he reaches out for my shoulders, bracing me. The heat of his hands travels through my sweater and into my skin before he pulls them away. “What happened?” he asks, looking me up and down.

I look down at myself as well, at my sweater and jeans that are now plastered to my skin. The sweater is black, so thankfully it's not see-through, but the way it clings to me doesn't leave much to the imagination. The texture of the lace of one of the new bras I bought is pretty clearly visible.

I cross my arms over my chest as he forces his eyes up to meet mine. “Are you okay?” he asks, his voice sounding almost . . . strangled, as if he's having a hard time focusing.

“I'm fine,” I say, even as my teeth chatter and rainwater drips from me onto the carpet. “I just got caught in the storm, that's all. A hot shower and I'll be fine.”

His eyes widen slightly, their green growing darker, and I feel the heat of a blush light up my cheeks. He backs away, nodding, as if he can't get away from me fast enough. “Okay,” he says quietly, before turning and striding down the hall in the opposite direction.

I bite my lip, watching him go.

• • •

After a long, hot shower, I go out to meet Albert at the car. He's just come back from his outing with Blair to take me to Poppy's school. “Where's Blair?” I ask him.

He raises his eyebrows, as if surprised by the question. “I saw you two driving off a few hours ago,” I explain as quickly and casually as possible as I slide into the backseat.

“She had a fair amount of errands to run in the village.”

“Errands? In Almsley?” I ask. There's only one store in the village, and I can't imagine needing to spend longer than fifteen minutes inside it.

“No,” he answers slowly. “Perthton.”

I meet his eyes in the rearview mirror. “Perthton?” I repeat.

With my grandparents?
I wonder. Is she there with them now, having tea while they coo over her and tell her she's the granddaughter they always wanted?

I close my eyes, trying to push down the sudden urge to throw something. Instead I pick at my fingernails until one of them bleeds as we start speeding away from the estate.

Albert must see me fidgeting with anger and stress, because he keeps glancing at me in the rearview mirror, his dark brown eyes examining me with curiosity.

“Anything you want to tell me, lass?” he asks.

“No,” I say quickly. When I catch his eyes in the mirror, though, I can tell he knows I'm lying.

I feel a wave of relief once we reach Poppy's school. Soon her happy chatter fills the car on the ride home, and I can avoid Albert's questioning gaze.

Back at the castle, Poppy changes into her riding clothes, and I walk with her to the stables.

The storm has passed, leaving only puddles and dripping
trees in its wake, but I can't help but tremble as I look out at the woods. I can still hear my mother's urgent voice in my head.

Gareth is out front saddling Copperfield as we approach, and I can tell the exact moment he sees me. His hands go still for a second, but only for a second, before he finishes tightening the saddle belt and comes around to help Poppy mount.

“Here for another riding lesson?” he asks me. His tone is easy and teasing, but he doesn't look at me. Instead, he focuses on adjusting Poppy's stirrups and hands her the reins.

“No,” I say quietly.

“It's muddy out there today,” he tells Poppy. “Be careful where he steps. And make the jumps smooth.”

Poppy nods solemnly and touches her heels to Copperfield's flank, guiding him over to the paddock where they've set up the jumps for her to train.

Gareth and I watch in uncomfortable silence as Poppy starts Copperfield at a trot, then brings him up to a canter. She expertly leads him over one jump, clearing two low bars. The next jump is higher and more difficult, two sets of three bars. My heart's in my throat as I watch her push Copperfield into a canter again, and then they soar over the jump in a graceful arc, Poppy's body melding into her horse's until they are one intention, one pure movement. They clear it easily, and I can breathe again.