Verum (10 page)

“
W
e must host
an event at the end of the week for Savage Inc. I want you to be there. I think being among people might be good for you.” Eleanor looks down her nose at me, and I squirm under her gaze. “That is all.”

I nod and scramble to my feet, heading for the door.

“Oh, and one more thing.”

We wait.

“Dress appropriately. The event will be formal.”

Oh, perfect.

I hurry out and when I’m down the hall, Finn is waiting for me.

“I’m sorry about last night. It’s not my business what you do.”

But his eyes are still hurt and it makes me feel awful.

“No, I’m sorry,” I tell him. “You were just being nice and I was being a bitch. I wasn’t feeling well, but that’s no excuse. I’m sorry, Finn.”

He nods and all is forgiven, because he forgives me too easily. “Are you feeling better now?”

I nod. Because I am and I have no idea what was wrong with me last night.

“I was, until I heard we have to attend some formal party with the wicked witch.”

“Ahem.”

We whirl around to find Eleanor behind us. Her face is impassive despite the fact that she heard me call her a witch.

“I wanted to tell you that Jones will take you to London to be fitted for a gown. Who are you talking to, Calla?”

Her eyes meet mine, and for the briefest of moments, there’s something almost human in hers. Something… concerned, maybe even hurt. But then she blinks and it’s gone, and I must’ve imagined it.

“No one,” I stammer. “Just myself.”

She’s unconvinced, I can tell. But she hesitates before walking away.

“You look very much like your mother, Calla.”

She leaves now, her spine stiff and her posture completely rigid.

“Do you think Jones puts that rod up her ass every morning, or does she do it herself?” Finn snorts and I laugh at him, and the weird mood is broken.

I don’t tell him that I have to stop thinking about him soon.

Thinking about him isn’t helping me, it’s pulling me into the past. It’s something I know, even though I don’t like it. I’m here at Whitley to get better, not regress.

But I’ll address that a different day.

There’s no reason to ruin today.

After breakfast, Jones takes me into London.

As we pull through the crowded city streets, I lean forward. “Do you have any suggestions on where to buy formal clothes, Jones?”

I’m thinking of my bank account nervously. The last I checked, it only had $237.26 in it.

Jones meets my gaze in the rearview mirror.

“I have orders from Mrs. Savage about where to take you, Miss Price. She’s got it all arranged and has an account in the store.”

Well, that’s a relief.

I settle back into the seat.

“I’ve never had a tux before,” Finn muses. Grief slams into me, because I know he hasn’t. And now he’ll never have the chance.

“You’d look amazing,” I assure him. “Everyone looks stunning in a tuxedo.”

The limo glides to a stop on the curb, and Jones is opening the door for me, his hand extended to help me out.

“Here you are,” he says politely, motioning toward the door of a glitzy shop. “I’ll be waiting for you.”

I nod, and I’m greeted at the door by women in black uniform dresses and perfect red lipstick.

“Welcome, Miss Price,” they tell me. “We’ve been expecting you.”

It’s a bit overwhelming as they usher us in and press warm drinks into our hands. One of them pulls me over to a tufted velvet sofa and settles me onto it.

“My name is Ginger,” she tells me. “I’ll bring out the gown Mrs. Savage ordered for you.”

She turns on her high heel and disappears into a room, and I’m astounded. Eleanor ordered me a custom dress? When the heck had she done that? When we arrived?

Ginger returns after a mere moment with a demure pink silk gown draped in her hands.

She holds it up and I eye it.

It’s long, with a sweetheart neckline and delicate hem, the palest of pinks.

I shrug. “Can I try it on?”

I’m not overly impressed and Ginger seems surprised.

“Of course, miss,” she tells me, and leads me into a dressing room. She begins to undress me and I freeze.

“I can do this myself,” I dismiss her.

“Are you sure?”

“I’ve been doing it all my life,” I assure her.
Do rich people really let people dress and un-dress them?
Holy cow. This isn’t what I thought I was signing up for.

I pull the whisper-soft fabric on, and it drapes against me, fitting like only something expensive can. It’s an innocent dress and it’s beautiful, but to me, it washes my coloring out.

“I… um.”

“Can I help?” Ginger calls over the door. I turn the handle and step out.

She eyes me.

“It fits you perfectly.”

I can’t argue with that. But it also does nothing for me. It’s a dress for a twelve-year old, and it doesn’t complement my coloring.

As I’m turning in the mirror, trying to like it, a swatch of crimson red catches my eye, and I gravitate it like the earth toward the sun.

Ginger trails behind, and I run the red satin beneath my fingers.

“This one,” I say uncertainly. “It’s beautiful. May I try it on?”

Ginger’s hesitant. “This gown… it was made for someone else,” she says slowly, but when I’m so obviously disappointed, she quickly adds, “But of course you can try it. We can always create another for Miss Aimes. I don’t want to upset Mrs. Savage.”

I don’t correct her… I don’t tell her that I would never say something bad about her to Eleanor, because she’s so quick to try and keep me happy and I don’t want to make her uncomfortable. It’s clear that she’s very intimidated by my grandmother.

She helps me out of the pale pink gown, and hangs it up while I put on the red.

As I turn around, she sucks in her breath. “Miss Price, you look stunning.”

And I do. I examine myself in the mirror in surprise, because there is a stranger looking back. A woman with perfect curves and flushed cheeks, sparkling eyes and a stunning gown. The gown is strapless and although the top is just a smidgeon big, everywhere else hugs me just exactly right.

I am a woman in this dress.

If Dare could see me in this dress….

He has to see me in this dress.

“I wouldn’t have thought the color would work with your hair,” Ginger tells me. “But it’s perfect.”

“Can I have this one?” I ask hopefully, and Ginger nods.

“Of course. We’ll create something new for Miss Aimes. This gown was clearly meant for you. We’ll take in the bust about a half-inch, and it will fit you like a glove.”

We pick out shoes and jewelry, and Finn is waiting for me in the car.

“I like being fancy,” he decides, and he says it in a British accent. I giggle and start to reply, but I see something that gives me pause, a little café on a corner.

A dark-haired man sits in the café window.

Dare.

His face is intense, focused, and he’s staring at the man across the table from him. He’s not happy, far from it, in fact.

I can’t see the other man, not clearly, even though I crane my neck. I can only partially see his face, the rest of him is hidden.

But he’s firmly middle-aged, maybe fifty-something? Dark haired, and the one cheek that I can see looks flushed, a scarlet red flash of color.

Why are they upset?

Dare must feel me staring at him, and he turns, his dark eyes meeting mine. There is surprise in his, then dismay. I see it, I feel it, and then he looks away.

He’s trying to pretend I didn’t see him, and I wonder if I should do the same?

But he doesn’t give me the chance.

After dinner, while Eleanor and Sabine are engaged in a quiet conversation in the library, Dare approaches me with his black slacks and his light cashmere sweater.

He’s overwhelmingly handsome, and I struggle to pretend like he’s not.

“Forget you saw me earlier,” he tells me, and his voice is a little bit hard.

“What?” I ask in confusion, staring into his face, ignoring his chiseled jaw. He gazes down at me, so easily able to fluster me.

“You didn’t see me in town.” It’s a directive and he means it.

I nod, not sure what else to do. Why is this so important?

“Ok,” I agree. “I didn’t see you. What were you doing that’s such a secret?”

He glares at me now and I almost regret asking, but I don’t. What
was
he doing?

“You can’t know right now,” he snaps, his lips lush and his tone ugly. “Trust me, you can’t know yet.”

“Why?”

He pauses, then looks at me, his eyes sincere and open and mine. “Because you would be lost.”

As he walks away with the millions of hidden things in his eyes, I wonder if I already am.

I
’m reading
a book alone in the library when Sabine finds me, a cup of steaming hot chocolate in her hand. She sets it next to me, then sits in the adjacent chair.

“Dare is worried about you,” she tells me.

“He told you that?” I ask doubtfully, because he was so annoyed with me earlier. She shakes her head.

“No. But I can see it.”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “Don’t worry about it. If he’s truly concerned, he’ll tell me.”

Maybe.

But maybe I don’t know anymore.

“I don’t know that he would,” Sabine answers. “You’ve pushed him away. He has no idea how to reach you now.”

My chest hurts at that, because I know it’s true.

“I don’t want to talk about it,’ I answer stiffly.

She nods and changes the subject.

“Your grandmother knows you changed your gown.”

“Was it a secret?” I ask in surprise. “I didn’t like the one she picked, it looked terrible on me. I chose a better color.”

Sabine stares at me, humor in her old eyes. “She’s not pleased,” she tells me, but somehow, I feel like Sabine might be.

“You remind me of your mother,” she adds.

“Everyone keeps saying that. Is it a bad thing?” I ask hesitantly.

She smiles. “No. It’s a good thing. So curious and kind. I hope Whitley doesn’t change you.”

“It won’t,” I reply stoutly.

Sabine cocks her head, but doesn’t answer. She stares out the window across the hall, and makes no motion to leave. I stare at her over the top of my book.

“Was there something else?”

I don’t want to be rude, but I really want a minute alone, and something about this woman puts me on edge. She knows things better than I do… she knows Dare better, and she might even know
me
better. It’s unsettling.

She turns her gaze to me, wise and old, and I fight the urge to flinch.

“We should read your cards again,” she suggests. I do flinch now, and she chuckles.

“It’s not a scary thing,” she assures me. “My family has been doing it for hundreds of years. My mother, her mother, her mother. And so on.”

“Only the women?” I ask, curious now. She nods.

“Only the women.”

“Why?”

Why am I asking? This is clearly all lunacy.

She doesn’t bother answering.

“Have you been feeling all right?” she asks instead. I hesitate. Did Dare tell her I’d gotten sick?

“Yes,” I finally lie. “Perfectly fine.”

“How about sleeping?” she continues. “Have you been sleeping well?”

No.

“Yes,” I lie again. “Fine. I don’t need any of your tea.”

She smiles again, her teeth ever grotesque.

“That wasn’t why I was asking. If you experience any… disturbances, do let me know.”

Disturbances?

She glances at me knowingly before she shuffles away and I wonder what exactly she knows about me, and
how does she know it?

I watch her disappear down the hall and it isn’t until she’s long gone that I realize that I have chills and that goose-bumps have lifted the hair on my neck.

I rub my arms and make my way quickly to the safety of my bedroom.

No one can see me.

I’m invisible.

There’s a sheet and blood and water.

There are stones and moss and sand.

SeeMeSeeMeSeeMe.

But they don’t.

Everyone bustles around, their faces turning into blurs.

“Help!” I scream.

But no one listens.

No one cares because I’m invisible.

I don’t exist anymore.

I want to scream and howl at the sky, but it would do no good.

The night is a prison, a prison, a prison.

But the morning will kill me.

I know it.

I feel it.

I am.

I am.

I am.

I am lost.

And no one can save me.

I
’m restless
.

So very restless.

So I get dressed in a modest outfit, something befitting of a Savage so that Eleanor can’t complain, slacks and a short-sleeved pink sweater. Afterward, I find Jones downstairs.

“Do you think you could drive me into town?” I ask him. His answer is immediate.

“Of course, miss.”

I wait out front for the car, and as we’re pulling away, down the drive, I have the oddest sensation… like I’m being watched.

The hair stands up on my neck, and I twist around to see out the rear window.

A curtain in the very top of Whitley falls closed, as though someone had been standing there.

As though someone
had
been watching me.

I swallow hard, and turn back around.

I’m in a car. No one can hurt me here.

That’s what I tell myself as we drive into town.

“Where to, Miss Price?” Jones ask me when we reach the outskirts.

I don’t know.

“Can you take me somewhere my mother used to go?” I ask hesitantly. Because I miss her. I want to feel close to her, even it’s just an illusion.

Jones meets my eyes in the mirror, and his are sympathetic.

“Of course,” he tells me, his gruff voice softening just a bit. “I know just the place.”

The car weaves among the streets, and eventually comes to a stop outside of a church.

With a plain brick Gothic Revival exterior, the church looms against the cloudy sky, sort of severe and imposing.

I’m hesitant as I peer out the glass.

“It’s the Church of St. Thomas of Canterbury,” Jones tells me. “Your mother used to come here frequently.”

That’s a bit hard to believe, seeing how she wasn’t catholic. I tell him so politely.

“She
was
catholic, miss,” he insists. “And she did used to come here. I drove her myself.”

I’ll have to take him at his word, and I open the car door, stepping outside.

“I’ll wait, miss,’ he tells me, settling into the seat. I nod, and with my shoulders back, I walk straight to the doors.

Once inside, the demeanor of the church changes, from severe gothic, to lavishly decorated, firmly in line with Catholic tradition.

It feels reverent in here, holy and serene. And even if I’m not a religious person, I enjoy it.

The statues of saints and angels hanging on the walls are gilded and full of detail, including the crucifix of Christ at the front.

His face is pained, His hands and feet are bleeding.

I look away, because even still, it’s hard for me to imagine such a sacrifice.

“Are you here for confession, child?”

A low voice comes from behind and I turn to find a priest watching me. His eyes are kind above his white collar, and it’s the first real, sincere kindness I’ve seen since I’ve been in England.

Dare is kind, but our relationship is complicated.

Eleanor is severe, Sabine is mysterious, Jones is perfunctory. They all want something from me.

This man, this priest, is kind simply to be kind.

I swallow.

“I’m not catholic,” I tell him, trying to keep my words soft in this grand place. He smiles.

“I’ll try not to hold that against you,” he confides, and he holds his hand out. I take it, and it’s warm.

“I’m Father Thomas,” he introduces himself. “And this is my parish. Welcome.”

Even his hands are kind as he grasps mine, and I find myself instantly at ease for the first time in weeks.

“Thank you,” I murmur.

“Would you like a tour?” he suggests, and I nod.

“I’d love one.”

He doesn’t ask why I’m here or what I want, he just leads me around, pointing out this artifact and that, this architecture detail or that stained glass window. He chats with me for a long time, and makes me feel like I’m the only person in the world, and that he has no place else to be.

Finally, when he’s finished, he turns to me. “Would you like to sit?”

I do.

So he sits with me, and we’re quiet for a long time.

“My mother used to come here, I’m told,” I finally confide. “And I just wanted to feel like I’m near her.”

The priest studies me. “And do you?”

My shoulders slump. “Not really.”

“I’ve been here for a long time,” he says kindly. “And I think I know your mother. Laura Savage?”

I’m surprised and he laughs.

“Child, you could be her mirror image,” he chuckles. “It wasn’t hard to figure out.”

“You knew her?” I breathe, and somehow, I do feel closer to her, simply because he was.

He nods and looks towards Mary. “Laura is a beautiful soul,” he says gently. “And I can see her in your eyes. Why didn’t she come with you today?”

“She’s gone,” I say simply. “She died recently.”

I don’t mention that I killed her with a phone call, that it’s my fault.

He blinks. “I’m so sorry. She’s with the Lord now, though. She’s at peace. Did she receive Last Rites, child?”

My breath leaves me. “I don’t know. She couldn’t have, I guess. She died in a car accident. Is that bad?”

Father Thomas rushes to reassure me. “No. In that circumstance, it is understandable. Don’t fear, child. God in His merciful love isn’t bound by sacraments. He blesses his children and forgives them, and bestows everlasting life to the faithful. Your mother was faithful.”

I don’t want to tell him that she wasn’t a practicing Catholic, that I’d never even seen her attend a mass. Although now, the fact that she’d given Finn a St. Michael’s medallion makes sense. I feel it now, chilling the skin on my chest.

“You must be very sad,” he observes, and the way his face is turned in the light startles me, because I’ve seen him before and I didn’t know until now.

“You were with Dare in the café the other day,” I realize. “You were upset.”

Father Thomas’ eyes widen a bit, then he masks his expression. “It was nothing,” he assures me. “We were just chatting over coffee. Nothing to be alarmed about.”

But his eyes tell a different story.

The priest is lying, but why?

I pull away my hand and he notices.

“What is wrong, child?”

His demeanor is still soft, still gentle, still inviting, but I’ve been surrounded by secrets for so long that I can’t accept that from a man of God. I tell him that.

He’s pensive as he studies me.

“I understand, Calla. But you have to understand, too, that I’m told things in confidence. I have given my word, to God and to the members of my parish, that I won’t break those confidences.”

He’s so kind, and his eyes are warm.

“I see you pray to St. Michael.”

I hadn’t even noticed that I’d pulled the medallion out of my shirt and have been turning it over in my hands.

“My mother gave it to my brother. He died, too. It was supposed to protect him….”

Father Thomas nods. “St. Michael will protect you, Calla. You just have to trust.”

Trust.

That’s actually a bit laughable in my current circumstances.

“Let’s pray together, shall we?” he suggests, and I don’t argue because it can’t hurt.

Our voices are soft and uniform as they meld together in the sunlight,

In front of Christ on the Crucifix,

and the two Marys.

St. Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our defense against the wickedness and snares of the Devil. May God rebuke him, we humbly pray, and do thou, O Prince of the heavenly hosts, by the power of God, thrust into hell Satan, and all the evil spirits, who prowl about the world seeking the ruin of souls. Amen.

“Do you believe in evil?” I whisper when we’re finished, and for some reason, my goose-bumps are back. I feel someone watching me, but when I open my eyes, Christ Himself stares at me. From his perch on the wall, his eyes are soft and forgiving while the blood drips from his feet.

“Of course,” the priest nods. “There is good in the world, and there is evil. They balance each other out, Calla.”

Do they?

“Because energy can’t be destroyed?” I whisper. Because it goes from thing to thing to thing?’

The priest shakes his head. “I don’t know about energy. I only know that there is good and evil. And we must find our own balance in it. You will find yours.”

Will I?”

I thank him and stand up and he blesses me.

“Come back to see me,” he instructs. “I’ve enjoyed our chat. If you’re not catholic, I can’t hear your confession, but I am a good listener.”

He is. I have to agree.

I make my way out of the church, out of the pristine glistening silence, and when I step into the sun, I know I’m being watched.

Every hair on my head feels it, and prickles.

I turn, and the strange man is standing on the edge of the yard, just outside of the fence. He’s watching me, his hands in his pockets, but I still can’t see his face. His hood is pulled up yet again.

With my breath in my throat, I hurry down the sidewalk to the car, practically diving inside and slamming the door behind me.

“Has that guy been standing there long?” I ask Jones breathlessly.

“What guy, miss?” he asks in confusion, hurrying to look out the window.

I look too, only to find that he’s gone.