by Cross, Amy
Still, I think maybe my body is trying to send me a message. I should take a short break, even if it means that the pain in my broken leg will come back.
Turning, I see the painting of the bride hanging on the opposite wall, next to the door. For a moment, I almost feel as if she's watching me.
“Maybe you're my good luck charm,” I mutter under my breath, starting to feel a little drowsy. “Maybe I should -”
Suddenly a figure walks past the room. I look over at the door, but she's already out of view again, and a moment later I hear Bob barking furiously in the kitchen. My heart is pounding, and I already know that what I saw in the corner of my eye couldn't possibly have been Charlie. It was definitely a woman in a wedding gown, with her face covered by a veil.
And Bob sounds panicked, barking louder and louder.
“Who's there?” I call out.
I wait, but all I hear is Bob barking and snarling.
“Charlie, is that you?”
No reply.
“This is ridiculous,” I continue, flexing my fingers a little in the hope that I'll mitigate any damage from all the typing. “Come on, just -”
Suddenly Bob lets out a pained cry, accompanied by a distinct crunching sound, and then he falls silent. A moment later, I hear a soft thud, as if something was dropped onto the kitchen floor.
I wait.
Now the only sound is the continued crackling of the flames in the fireplace. Other than that, the house is completely silent.
“Bob?” I call out.
Nothing.
No whimpering, no barking. No sound of paws hurrying along the corridor.
Only silence.
“Bob! Come, boy! Heel!”
I sit completely still for a moment, convinced that Bob will come running through. He has to. I might have only had him for a few days now, but I've started to enjoy having him around, and I swear I'm going to play with him later. Telling myself that he's fine, I turn back to the screen and get ready to type again, but suddenly the lack of his barking makes me worry that something's seriously wrong. I type a few words, but I can't stop thinking about the dog and finally I wince as I slowly and stiffly get to my feet.
At least the painkillers are half-working.
Hobbling around the desk, I make my way unsteadily to the doorway, and then I head out into the corridor.
“Bob?” I yell, trying to stay calm. “Come here, boy! Come on, you're starting to worry me!”
Silence.
“Bob?”
Limping like an old man, I feel a flash of pain in my leg with each step, but I'm starting to get really worried about the dog. I've been ignoring him for hours, focusing on my work, and now suddenly he seems to have disappeared. I keep thinking back to the sound of that final, pained whimper.
“Bob, are you here?” I call out as I get to the kitchen door. “Bob, are -”
And that's when I see him.
He's on the floor, over by the table, and I can immediately see that his neck has been twisted at an impossible angle.
“Bob!” I shout, pushing through the pain as I hurry over to him. At the last moment, I stumble and fall, landing on my knees, but I quickly crawl toward his motionless body.
His eyes are wide open, but I can already tell that he's dead. There's something not right about his position and, when I start to pick him up, I realize that the bones in his neck have been crushed.
“What the hell?” I whisper, with tears in my eyes as I turn him over. Even though I know it's too late, I still search for any hint of a heartbeat.
Finally, realizing that there's nothing more I can do, I feel a surge of anger in my chest. This time a week ago, I never even thought about wanting a dog. Now there are tears in my eyes as I hold the little guy in my arms.
“What did you do to him?” I shout, looking around the kitchen, convinced that I'll see Charlie lurking somewhere. “What the hell did you do to my dog, you asshole?”
Shaking with rage, I get to my feet, ignoring the pain in my leg as I hobble over to the kitchen table. I grab a cloth and set it down, before gently resting Bob's body on the fabric. For a moment, I can only stare in disbelief at his corpse, but then suddenly I hear a faint bumping sound nearby and I turn just in time to see a hint of a shadow retreating into the corridor.
“Why did you do that?” I shout, stumbling toward the door but tripping, crashing against the counter. Filled with anger, I push a pile of dirty plates off the edge, sending them crashing to the floor. I stumble around the mess and over to the door, stopping to look along the corridor, but the coward is nowhere to be seen.
I wait a moment, but all I hear is the sound of the fire still crackling in the study.
“Where are you?” I yell. “Come and face me, you coward! If you've got a problem with me, Charlie, then take it out on me! Not on a defenseless animal! He never did anything to hurt anyone!”
Again I wait, but again the pathetic asshole refuses to even show his face. Just as I open my mouth to shout at him again, however, I hear footsteps in the study.
“You're despicable!” I hiss, limping over to the doorway, only to find that there's still no sign of him. With only one way in or out of this room, I don't even see how he managed to escape, but suddenly I see that once again my whiskey glass has been refilled.
I turn and glance around, briefly looking at the painting of the bride, before hobbling to the center of the room.
“I hate you,” I stammer, feeling a kind of rage I haven't felt for a long, long time. “I know I did something awful, I know you blame me for it all, but that doesn't mean you get to take it out on somebody else! Bob was just a dog, for God's sake! What kind of monster are you? What -”
Suddenly something bumps against my shoulder. I spin around, but somehow he's managed to hide again.
“Face me!” I shout. “Come on, you goddamn coward, face me and -”
Before I can finish, I'm struck on the side of the face by something hard. As I pull away, my whiskey glass smashes against the wall, and I watch in horror as the pieces of glass drop to the floorboards. Whiskey is dribbling down the wallpaper, but I turn and see that there's no sign of anyone next to the desk. Still, it felt as if someone grabbed the glass from my hand and threw it across the room.
This is impossible.
I limp to the desk, convinced that an explanation has to present itself at some point. There's nowhere for Charlie to hide, but somehow the coward is managing to torment me. Spotting the bottle of whiskey, I see that it's already almost empty, and then I turn and look at my laptop. I've written a lot over the past few days, but none of it matters now that Bob is gone. In fact, I'm starting to feel as if I've become too consumed by my writing. I take a step forward, before tripping and falling forward. When I land against the desk, I accidentally send the laptop sliding off the edge until it clatters to the floor.
I take a moment to steady myself, and then I take a limping step forward. Then, just as I'm about to rescue my laptop from the floor, I glance at the window.
I see my own reflection, but there's somebody else there too. A woman in a bridal gown, her face covered by a veil, is standing right behind me.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Katinka - 1859
“You are so much more beautiful than me,” I whisper, kneeling before the painting and staring up at my own portrait. “In the time since I posed, I have aged so terribly.”
Reaching to touch my own face, I feel the faintest hint of bags under my eyes. There are no bags under my eyes in the painting, so I can only conclude that they have developed recently. I suppose I should not be surprised, not since Mother and Charles and Pippa have given me such headaches, but I feel certain there is something I can do to fix the problem. Some balm or cream, something to make my cheeks glow in time for the wedding. So far, I have used only paraffin, which has left my skin feeling oily. I as quite certain that I need something else.
Running my hands around to the side of my face, I can
not help wondering whether the flesh around my jawline has become a little weak. Sagging, even. My first thought is to take a knife to myself and tuck the flesh tighter, but I quickly realize that the idea is absurd. It is one thing to shave a little skin and meat from one's waist, creating a wound that can easily be covered by one's dress. It is quite another to start performing surgery on one's own features.
I shall have to find some other way of firming up my face. Paraffin alone is not doing the job.
“Did you hear a word I just said?” Mother asks suddenly.
Startled, I turn and find her standing right behind me.
“You were in a world of your own, weren't you?” she continues, with a hint of shock in her eyes. “I was nattering away, peppering you with questions, and you didn't even notice. Instead, you were sitting here in front of this painting, touching your own face.”
“I was merely pondering my wedding,” I reply, feeling a little troubled as I get to my feet. “It's one week from today, Mother. Am I supposed to let myself become distracted?”
“Your sister is dead,” she points out, rather unnecessarily.
“I know. I hope they catch the monster who murdered her.”
She stares at me for a moment, before looking over at the painting.
“That thing ,” she says finally, with a hint of disgust, “cannot hang in here. You can put it in your bedroom, Katinka, but I will not have something so garish and modern hanging on display like this. Why, visitors might see it! What will they think?”
“They will think that I am beautiful.”
“I want it moved immediately!”
“Whatever is the point?” I ask, trying to stay calm. “It'll only be brought right back down next week.”
“It most certainly will not!”
“The house will no longer be yours,” I point out. “Once I am married, Father's property shall become mine, and by extension it shall belong to Charles. All of it. You'll no longer have any say in the matter.”
“This is still my home!”
I stare at her for a moment, seeing the bubbling anger just beneath her surface. Still, I have seen Mother before when she is angry, and her anger is as nothing compared to mine. I must put her in her place, however, since she evidently feels that she has the right to challenge me.
“I was going to let you and Pippa live here after the wedding,” I tell her finally. “I had thought to have an annex constructed. But now that Pippa is gone, I think it might be better for all concerned, Mother, if you find alternative lodgings. Perhaps you can go and live with your spinster sister in Goostrey. There, you would be free to live out your remaining days in whatever manner you see fit. Until the day you die.”
“Are you -”
She pauses, as if she can't quite believe what she's hearing.
“Are you threatening to throw me out of my own home?” she stammers.
“It won't be your home in one week's time,” I reply. “Think, Mother. Be sensible. Do you really think Charles and I shall want to have you knocking around the place? Why, for anybody who values life and beauty, you're a rather off-putting presence.”
“What -” Again, she hesitates. “What is that on your face?” she continues. “Your face is shiny, Katinka. You look ridiculous!”
“It's paraffin, Mother,” I say with a sigh. “Please don't be tedious. Paraffin is well known for soothing wrinkles and improving the complexion. Although since it's so modern, I'm not surprised you haven't heard of the notion.”
“Where in the name of all that's holy did you hear such a foolish idea?”
“It's known by all intelligent young ladies,” I reply, rolling my eyes. “I want to look perfect on my wedding day, so I am adding paraffin each day and massaging it into my skin.”
“That's the most stupid thing I've ever heard in my life,” she mutters dismissively. “Oh Katinka, sometimes you do believe some awful rot. Go and wash that stuff away at once. You're liable to break out in hives.”
“What would you know about beauty?” I ask, stepping past her and heading to the door. “I must go and make other preparations, Mother. I shall head into town.”
Stopping, I turn back to her.
“While I am gone,” I continue, “perhaps you should write a letter to your sister in Goostrey. Tell her you'll be arriving to stay with her after the wedding. Charles and I shall send you a stipend, of course. Nothing immodest, but enough to allow you to live our your remaining years in comfort. And then Ashbyrn House shall be ours, and we shall make the place feel like a home again. I am certain that Father would approve.”
“This painting -”
“Stays!” I hiss. “The painting stays right where it is! I swear, Mother... When I get back from town, that painting will not have been touched. I cannot even begin to express how angry I shall be if I find that you have meddled in my business. I am to be the lady of Ashbyrn House. Not you. And I will not tolerate interference from any other woman. If that painting is ever moved, I shall not be responsible for my actions.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Owen - Today
“Three million, five hundred and sixty thousand,” I mutter under my breath, as I add my latest word count to the tally in my notebook. “Not bad.”
Leaning back in the chair, I take a moment to get my breath back. I've been typing since... I honestly don't know how long ago I started, but the pain in my hands is barely registering at all. My back spits up a flicker of pain, so I grab the bottle of painkillers and tip one out into the palm of my hand. I don't have many pills left now, but I'm sure I'll be fine, so I swallow the pill and then I take a sip of whiskey.
A shudder runs through my chest.
Okay, back to work. My fingers hurt as I place my hands back on the keyboard, but it's not as if I can stop. I blink a few times, trying to get the fluid from my eyes, and it takes a moment before I can see the screen properly. For a moment, everything seems to be flickering slightly, and it takes a few seconds before I'm able to focus properly on the flashing cursor.
And then, just as I'm about to type, I hear someone knocking on the front door.
I hesitate, wondering whether the sound was just in my head, but a moment later I hear it again. Someone is definitely banging on the door, although I have no idea what they could want. I've been meaning to order another month's worth of supplies from the website, but I haven't quite gotten around to placing the order yet, and I've certainly done nothing to encourage a visitor. Staying completely still, I figure that the intruder will give up and leave soon, but a few seconds later I hear footsteps coming closer across the gravel that runs past the side of the house. Finally, worried about being seen, I start to climb under the desk so I can hide, but my back sends a jolt of pain up my spine and I freeze for a moment, barely able to move at all after spending so long in the chair.
Suddenly I see a figure at the window. Wincing, I look over, but it takes a few seconds before I recognize the face.
Oh God. Why did she have to show up?
***
“It's certainly... interesting,” Vanessa says as she steps into the hallway and looks around at the walls. She pauses for a moment, sniffing the air, before turning to me. “What's that smell?”
“I don't smell anything,” I reply, already regretting the fact that I opened the door. “What are you doing here?”
“Owen -”
“What do you want?” I snap.
She stares at me with a hint of shock in her eyes. “What's going on here, Owen?” she asks finally.
“I'm trying to get some work done,” I continue, forcing myself to sound calm even though my leg is throbbing again. “Believe it or not, when I moved to the wilds of Cornwall, it wasn't because I wanted to be interrupted by visitors every five minutes.”
“And how's that going for you?” she asks. “How has your first month gone?”
“Month?” I shake my head. “I've been here a week.”
“It's the eighteenth of Novemb
er,” she replies.
“Nonsense.”
Taking her phone from her pocket, she holds it up for me to see.
“It's not the...” I start to say, before realizing that I don't want her to think she's got one over on me. “Whatever. The date doesn't matter.”
“You look like hell, Owen.”
“Thanks,” I mutter. “You look like -”
I catch myself just in time. To be honest, Vanessa looks as beautiful as ever, and just the sight of her is enough to bring an aching sensation to my chest. I know I can't succumb to those feelings, though, so I pull the door open wider and take a step back. Besides, she's tricking me. There's no way it's November already. Or December. Or whatever month she thinks it is, even though I'm not sure what month I think it is, and anyway my thoughts don't seem to be in quite the right order.
“I'm busy,” I say firmly. “I don't want to seem rude, but I'd like you to leave.”
“It stinks in here.”
“It's an old house.”
“And what's that noise?” She turns and looks along the corridor, before suddenly setting off toward the kitchen.
“Stop!” I yell, hobbling after her despite the pain in my leg. “This is my house and I don't want any disturbances!”
“Oh God!” she stammers as she reaches the kitchen.
“This is my house!” I hiss again, struggling to catch up. “Vanessa, my -”
I stop suddenly, as I see that hundreds of flies are buzzing all around the kitchen table, seemingly attracted by a patch of meat and fur. It takes a moment longer before I realize that I must have left Bob's body out. Still, I'm certain he only died a day or two ago, so it's not possible that he's already rotted away like this.
“There are flies everywhere!” Vanessa points out, waving some away as they try to land on her face. She takes a step back, before turning to me with a shocked expression. “What is that? A dog? A cat?”