“But what’s he saying?” Penny demanded.
Mrs. Flynn hit replay once more, then turned up the volume making everything about the recording seem more ominous. My breathing turned shallow and erratic as I waited for the moment when the ghostly voice would hiss out its blaring message. When it finally came, my heart all but stopped.
SSSSHHHHHEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSSKUMMMMMMMMMNN.
“Did he say cheesecake?” Cassandra asked. “That actually sounds good right about now.”
Penny rolled her eyes. “Why on earth would a ghost ask for cheesecake?”
“Maybe he’s hungry?” Cassandra said with a mischievous, glowing smile.
“Did they even have cheesecake in Victorian times?” Lynne asked her twin.
“I don’t think that second part is the word cake,” Mr. Dale said. “It sounded more like come.”
Cassandra snickered, her green lips twitching at the corners. “Cheese come? Well, of course. That makes perfect sense. If you’re hungry.”
“It’s not cheese come,” I said in a small voice.
Everyone turned to look at me in surprise. I wrapped my arms around myself, rubbing my hands nervously up and down for warmth. My heart slammed about inside my chest like a load of bricks on spin cycle.
“Then what does it say?” Darcy Flynn asked me gently.
I could barely rasp the words out of my dry throat.
“She’s coming.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
She’s coming.
Those ominous words had to be important if Xavier went to the trouble of getting himself recorded just so I could hear them. Was he warning me to beware of the bride doll’s return? Or was the danger something else entirely? I needed answers. Fast.
After breakfast early the next morning, I set out to hunt down Xavier’s spirit. I stood in each room of the house with my eyes closed—my inner senses reaching outward, feeling about for him. But the peaceful presence I’d felt so often was nowhere to be found. Heaviness settled itself behind my heart as each area came up empty. I tried looking in the basement and I even went so far as to softly call out Xavier’s name as I wandered aimlessly downstairs. One lady and her preteen daughter caught me at it and hurriedly exited the Dollhouse Room so fast I was completely embarrassed.
Where was Xavier?
I looked up at the grape vines carved into the ceiling of the Dollhouse Room above my head. This was where I’d dreamed of dancing with Xavier. Where he’d spun me in his arms across the ballroom floor. I breathed out a soft sigh as I desperately longed to return to that dream, just for a moment. I paused suddenly, a new line of thought seizing hold of me.
The music box!
Xavier Kensington loved music.
Somehow, I managed to drag myself back upstairs and made my way over to my bedroom closet. Drawing the violin case carefully out of hiding, I placed it gently on the bed. Popping open the catch, I peered cautiously inside.
There was so much pain.
All the bone marrow transplants, all the emergency surgeries—I’d poured every ounce of that suffering into the violin. Even as my hands shook beneath the weight of physical agony, my desperation and yearning for life had created music that was tender and poignant—a frantic cry of hope deep inside that refused to give up.
My music teacher once told me that my music overwhelmed audiences with its emotion. When I played, there was never a dry eye in the house. The sheer beauty of it was a testament to one of life’s greatest tragedies. The power of pain.
When the cancer stopped responding, all my hopes and dreams for the future withered away inside me. Soon only warped and discordant cords of sorrow and grief came out of the violin. My music twisted around on itself like a wounded animal, mad with pain. It wasn’t long before I gave up playing altogether.
I stared silently down at the violin, my hands trembling with the mere thought of attempting to play it. I didn’t even know if it was possible for me to perform the way I had before the cancer won. What if I couldn’t find the healing melodies inside me anymore? What if there was only misery and despair left?
I had to try. For Xavier
I needed to draw his soul out of whatever dark and forlorn place he’d stolen away to hide. For a hundred years, Xavier had haunted this place—alone, abandoned, and ignored. I had to find a way to make him hear and understand. I needed him to come back.
I reached out and gingerly lifted the instrument free of its red velvet lining. Its weight lay heavy and familiar within my hands. As my fingers I touched the glossy, wood surface, every nerve prickled in response. Lifting the violin by the neck, my fingers settled instinctively into the first chord, pressing tight against the taut strings. Settling my chin resolutely against the rest, I took the bow in my hand.
I had never learned “Moonlight Sonata,” so I decided to share one of my favorite songs with Xavier instead. A melody I’d played so many times, my fingers knew it by heart.
The first notes of music came out deep and slow, vibrating through the violin’s wooden frame. “Pachelbel’s Canon” began like a dirge at a funeral, heavy with the weight of the world on its shoulders. I knew that weight. I’d staggered beneath its crushing influence so long I could no longer remember life the way it had been before the cancer.
Just when it seemed there was nothing more to the song, the high, sweet notes of a gigue broke through the monotony. Like a single ray of sunlight bursting through a storm darkened sky. The first beam of light was joined by another, and then another, until there were many sunbeams, all of them dancing about one another. Over and over, faster and stronger. The song broke away from stately dirge of the ostinato and took to the heights, soaring into the heavens mounted on elegant wings. I’d forgotten how the sadness and the happiness played against each other in “Pachelbel’s Canon.” How perfectly those two emotions worked together, creating something greater than the sum of their separate parts.
Was the crippling sadness of my life nothing more than a mere ostinato in a much bigger symphony? Despite everything, was there still greater beauty and joy waiting ahead for me? How would I ever know when I’d long since given up trying to play my part?
Something hot and wet silently coursed its way down my cheeks as the song of pure, unfettered beauty continued to pour from dark dredges of my soul into the violin. I continued to play, not bothering to wipe the tears away.
Faster and faster, higher and higher, the music soared. My bow danced and played along, building the beautiful melody toward its climax. The unrestrained melody penetrated the roof above and sank deep into the wooden frames of the halls in Kensington House.
Somewhere, hidden within the passionate storm of the music, came the peace. Creeping into the room while my mind was still reveling in the heights of my inner opus. It was only when I allowed my thoughts to turn outward for a second that I happened to notice the groom doll, still sitting where I’d left him on the vanity that morning. I stopped playing mid-note. The whole museum fell into breathless, waiting silence.
The doll’s face had changed somehow. I moved closer and bent down to eye-level, trying to place my finger on the difference I saw in him. His expression was the same, devoid of emotion, and yet—the doll’s features seemed softer, almost relaxed, as his green eyes gazed back at me.
Creeeeeek.
I spun toward the sound behind me with a gasp. Only the sight of the empty bedroom doorway greeted me. In a few quick steps, I burst into the outer hallway just in time to catch someone in the act of sneaking away.
“Gabrielle?” my voice carried up one octave too high. “What are you doing here?” She must have just returned from her trip into town to mail the bride to the doll restorer.
Gabrielle turned slowly back to me. Her cheeks were a furious red, as if she’d been running up and down the stairs too much.
“As curator, I have a key to the east wing, of course,” she said hesitantly. “I came up here to tell you that your music could be heard down in the museum.
I thought you might not realize how loud it was.” Gabrielle glanced over my shoulder. I followed her gaze in the direction of Aunt Victoria’s bedroom and the rec room at the far end of the hall. It was empty.
I glanced back at Gabrielle in confusion. She bit her lip as if she wanted to say more but wasn’t sure she should.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t think about the music carrying downstairs,” I said. “I’ll stop playing immediately.”
“No!” The word burst out of Gabrielle so suddenly it made us both jump. Putting one hand in the air, she paused a moment, silently asking me to wait as she swallowed down whatever emotion had caused her to shout out. When she had control again, she looked up, her eyes full of unexpected gentleness.
“I had no idea you had such talent, Wren,” Gabrielle’s voice was barely more than a whisper. She blinked at me a few times in silence and then, ever so slowly, a smile crept over her face, softening all her beautiful features.
“From now on, you will play any time you like, day or night.” Gabrielle placed her hand firmly on my shoulder. “Music that lovely will only lend itself to the museum’s atmosphere.”
Giving my shoulder a warm squeeze, she turned and slipped out the west wing door.
Slightly bewildered by the exchange, I returned to my room, wandering back over to Xavier’s doll. His eyes looked down and to the right, contemplating an empty space on the vanity’s wooden surface.
One segment at a time, an icy, cold chill trickled down the center of my spine. As I looked into the doll’s miniature face, I knew what it was about him that that had bothered me earlier. The doll had not been looking down and to the right as he usually did.
His handsome, green eyes had been gazing straight back at me.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I was afraid.
Not because I thought Xavier’s doll would hurt me—but because his spirit had, no matter how briefly, possessed the groom in an attempt to make contact. Penny said a ghost could get trapped if they did that too often, just like the unlucky spirit currently residing inside the bride doll. Once that happened, if the doll was destroyed, the soul inside would be lost forever.
Xavier’s soul.
To distract myself from thinking about this unsettling thought, I went to make arrangements with Aunt Victoria to give Cassandra and me a ride into town. Aunt Victoria was thrilled.
“Have the stores put a hold on any clothes you find,” she said as she dropped the two of us off in the middle of Kensington’s business district. “I’ll pay for them when I come to pick you up in a couple hours.”
As Aunt Victoria drove away, Cassandra raised an impressed eyebrow. “Somebody’s the family favorite,” she said in a singsong voice.
If she only knew.
But I was having way too much fun to let my life’s many disappointments slow me down. Something inside me was different today. Playing the violin again had thrown open the dark curtains, revealing all the sparkling facets in the windows of my weary life. Maybe there was still something more waiting for me out there. All I had to do was pop the catch and let myself go free. Today I would just be an ordinary kid.
Cassandra dragged me up and down the streets of Kensington, popping in and out of every store we could find. We laughed and giggled, and Cassandra even talked me into taking a spin on one of those coin-operated kiddy rides. Cassandra was really mad when the owner of the store chased us off. Secretly, I could kind of see his point. Two sixteen-year-olds really are too big to be riding double on a bucking mechanical horse built for preschoolers. I had the bruises to prove it.
My strength was lagging by the time we actually got around to trying on some clothes—but I didn’t care. I managed to hide my exhaustion from Cassandra by sheer force of will.
“Try this one, too. It’s your color,” Cassandra said, shoving a shimmery green blouse into my already overloaded arms. “Something other than black.”
“Why not black?” I stared down at the mound of clothing in a tired trance. All I wanted was to sit down and rest for a moment.
“I noticed you wear that color a lot.”
I glanced down at myself in distraction. Sure enough, I was dressed in a pair of black jeans and a matching t-shirt. I guess I did wear that particular color a lot.
“Not that I’ve got anything against black, mind you. It’s very Jane Eyre. Makes you look mysterious. Like someone with a secret in the attic,” Cassandra said.
Her observation was just a little too close to the mark for my comfort, so I stayed silent.
Cassandra wagged one finger in the air. “No Jane Eyre for you today. We’re going for life affirming and cheerful colors.”
“I don’t think my aunt meant for us to pick this much,” I said, trying to readjust my arms under the weight of clothing without dropping any of it on the floor. Knowing Aunt Victoria, she’d buy everything we put aside without a second thought. If I ended up getting sick any time soon—these beautiful clothes would all go to waste.
“Is there anything else you need to grab while we’re here?” Cassandra asked. “Like makeup?”
“Makeup?” I was mortified to hear my voice rise in astonishment. I’d never bought so much as a tube of lipstick in my life. There wasn’t much use for stuff like that in the cancer ward. I did own a slightly melted Chapstick, but I didn’t think that counted.
Luckily, Cassandra was too interested in a denim miniskirt she’d just pulled off the rack to notice my odd reaction to her question. I wrestled my voice back to normal. “I think I’m good in the makeup department.”
“Then let’s see how this stuff looks.” Cassandra took my arm and dragged me toward the back of the shop.
Just outside the fitting room’s curtain, I whirled suddenly on Cassandra. “I’ll come out and show you the ones that look good, okay?”
Cassandra blinked at me in surprise. Obviously, she’d expected to be invited in. I had more hideous bruises covering my body than a near-sighted heavyweight boxer. Better for Cassandra to believe I was abnormally shy than have to deal with a lot of uncomfortable questions. Although hesitant, Cassandra sat down in a nearby chair without protest.
Once inside the dressing room, I pulled on a shirt and pair of jeans. The legs fit all right, but the waistband was too tight around my middle. The notorious leukemia belly was back with a vengeance. Muscle loss, years of chronic nausea and poor appetite made me skinny as a rail—except around my waist, where I swelled up like a balloon whenever I was out of remission.
Abandoning the jeans, I decided to try on a tunic top with a pair of leggings to cover the bruises. I checked the result in the mirror only to find that the plunging neckline gave the whole world an unobstructed, front-row view of my horrific seatbelt bruise. Not to mention my Port-a-Cath was showing. It was like a little, round alien creature burrowed under the surface of my skin. Seriously, not attractive.
“How’s it look?” Cassandra’s curious voice called from the other side of the curtain.
“Hold on. This top is the wrong size,” I said, forcing my voice to remain neutral. “I’m going to try another one.”
I picked out a red sweater dress with a higher neckline and hastily put it on. It barely covered the chest bruise, and only then because I tugged it hard in back first.
This shopping trip was going to be a total crash and burn, I could feel it in my bones.
“Let’s see.” Cassandra flipped back the curtain without warning. I stood up straighter, hoping like mad the neckline wouldn’t slip down at the wrong moment.
“Very nice. Especially with those leggings,” Cassandra said, nodding her head in approval. “But can you dance in it? Give it a try and see.”
I stared at her, both feet frozen to the floor. “You want me to dance around this dressing booth? Are you crazy?”
“You think a sane person would go touring with her mom’s group of midlife crisis ghost hunters every summer?”
She had a point.
“How else can you find out
if a dress works for clubbing?”
Clubbing? I thought to myself. It must have shone on my face.
“You’ve never been to a teen dance club before?” Cassandra asked in sheer amazement.
“I’ve never really been into that kind of stuff,” I admitted.
“What are you into?” Cassandra asked, squinting at me with great interest.
“Playing the violin.”
“Ah. A classic girl. That explains it,” she said, nodding thoughtfully.
What did she mean by that, exactly? She didn’t look like she was making fun of me.
“Are you good?” Cassandra asked.
“I guess so.” I shrugged. “I’ve won lots of competitions.”
“Cool!” She sounded like she meant it. “But branching out never hurt anyone. Try dancing in the clothes.”
“You dance in all your clothes before you buy them?” I asked, stalling for time.
“If you’re going to shell out fifty bucks for something, better to find out if it is comfortable before you hit the dance floor.”
I gave her a long, silent look. Was she really going to make me do this?
“It’s easy. Just put your arms up and work it. Like this.” By way of demonstration, Cassandra punched her fists into the air, gyrating her hips.
Right away I could tell two things about Cassandra: 1) Dancing in a public dressing room didn’t faze her a bit; and 2) She’d done a lot of clubbing.
She had the kind of moves most girls only dream about. She popped and swung her whole body to a silent rhythm with a grace and control that made it look way easier than it actually was.
“Come on, you can do it, Wren. Swing those hips. Feel the beat.”
I was trapped in a tiny dressing room with a mad, ghost-hunting, dance fiend between me and the only exit. Hesitantly, I put my hands in the air.
“That’s it! Now work it!”
I “worked” it as best I could, trying to imitate Cassandra’s silk smooth rhythm—twirling and snapping out her moves like some sensuous dance club diva. I, on the other hand, looked like a two-year-old who hadn’t yet realized that her hula hoop had dropped.
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