It was a magnificent chamber, the doors that would normally have connected the two oversized rooms having been removed. And even though dust had settled thickly over every inch of surface, the faded
Richie Tankeisley Cusick
whiteness of its walls and floor reflected softly in the gloom, giving the whole room a radiance that was almost ethereal.
Olivia stood entranced, unable to move.
Sheer white curtains hung at the windows . . . white Corinthian columns stretched from floorboards to ceiling. There were friezes and medallions, archways and hand-carved moldings, all of them white, and a white marble fireplace with a gilded mirror above, the room lying hushed and secretive deep within, frozen like time in the shining glass.
Olivia walked to the mirror and gazed long, long into its pristine stillness.
Behind her she heard the doors to the hall shut softly.
She heard footsteps coming toward her, slowly, across the floor . . .
The faint sound of music in the air . . .
Gasping, she turned around to an empty room . . . then back again, puzzled, to the mirror.
The footsteps paused in back of her.
The soft pressure of a hand rested lightly on her shoulder.
Olivia stared wide-eyed at her reflection.
But nobody else was there.
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ing, no one at all—but the voice was so soft, so polite, smiling in the air just beside her, and she knew she hadn't imagined it, couldn't have imagined it, but it was impossible—she was alone and the room was deserted.
Whirling back to the mirror, she gripped the mantel with both hands, leaning forward until her face practically touched the glass. And "May I have this dance?" he whispered again, and somehow she knew that no one else could hear him, that she was the only one, don't be frightened . . . don't be afraid . . . and his soft warm breath brushing her cheek, the touch of his hand shy and persuasive upon her shoulder . . . "May I have this dance . . . may I. . ."
And she could see the room reflected behind her, shimmering with a brilliant white light, caught for an eternity between his silent question and her answer . . .
And "yes," Olivia murmured, "yes ... I'd be so delighted . . ."
Music flowed through her then, sweet and full, whirling her out into the room, around and around, in a dizzying dream. She spun and she twirled, and there was girlish laughter and clinking crystal and the deep, deep echo of men sharing stories . . . gliding past windows, and lace curtains blowing, warm gentle air and magnolias flowing in from the soft, damp night . . . and oh, the joy as she floated past that mirror, the faces reflected there, the smiles, and the glorious future—and him, tall and gallant in his ruffled shirt and black coat, boots gleaming at his knees, dark hair glowing in candlelight— but his back's to the mirror, I can't see his face, the deep fierce love in his eyes . . . burning in my heart, pressed against me, promises — and "will you meet me . . ." his voice urgent and
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longing, "will you . . ." and "yes," she murmured, over and over again, "oh, yes. . . yes . . . tonight. . ."
"Tonight," Olivia whispered, and she opened her eyes.
Her hands were pressed against the mirror. As she pulled them back slowly, she saw the dusty imprints of her fingers left there upon the glass. She stared for a moment at her dirty palms, then wiped them on her skirt. She leaned forward once more and studied her pale reflection.
She'd been crying.
There were long, wet streaks down her cheeks, and her hair was wet where it lay against the side of her face.
Olivia whirled from the mantel, her heart racing.
The ballroom lay empty and white and still.
The doors were standing open, and she could see shadows in the hallway beyond.
"Yoly?" she whispered fearfully. "Skyler?"
She'd called to them before, she knew . . . but when?
How long have I been in here . . . I must have dozed off or fallen into some daydream . . . just like I used to do — days and nights gone by — losing track of time — of waking — of sleeping —/ don't remember, I don't quite remember . . .
Trembling, she hurried from the room and down the passageway, trying the parlor, the library, the dining room all over again.
"Miss Rose! Yoly! Somebody!"
Where was everyone? The house was silent as a tomb, everyone disappeared, everyone gone— or maybe they're all dead — maybe they died while I was sleeping, someone killed them, one by one by one, creeping from room to room, quiet as shadows, but they
didn't know about me, they didn't kill me, because I wasn't here, I was in some other place, not home like the others — nobody home, Olivia, nobody home — but I am home now, I am home and why can't I remember —
In panic, Olivia raced from the dining room and threw herself at the last door directly across the hall.
"Miss Rose! Mathilde! Helen!"
The door wouldn't move, and she banged on it with her fists. Then, without warning, it flew open, spilling her roughly inside.
She managed to catch herself before she fell.
And then she stood in surprise and forgot about being afraid.
Olivia hadn't expected to find a bedroom down here on the main floor, but as the gloomy interior came into focus, she saw that it was a grand place—much grander than any of the rooms above. The whole thing was done in shades of purple, from the satin comforter on the bed, to the draperies at the round-headed French doors, to the crushed velvet of the chairs and footstool and the bench tucked discreetly beneath the dressing table. Even the wallpaper was patterned with violets, the mosquito netting the same lacy lilac as the canopy, and there were lavender rugs, plum-colored slippers on the floor, and a dressing gown of pale orchid.
Olivia walked through the room in a daze, gliding her fingers over the coverlet on the bed, picking up a pearl-handled hairbrush from the dressing table, sorting through dainty handkerchiefs and hair ribbons and amethyst combs. She paused beside a table and glanced at the tiny silver frames so carefully arranged there, and that's when she saw the picture.
It had obviously been taken somewhere on the
grounds, for the chimneys and ornate entablature of Devereaux House were just visible in the background, looming up between mossy trees.
Olivia picked up the photograph and studied its faded black-and-white details.
Two women were looking at the camera—the older one regal and beautiful, the younger tense and unsmiling. As Olivia stared hard into their faces, a painful twinge of recognition cut through her, and she gripped the frame tightly.
Mama . . .
And yet it was Mama with a face Olivia had never known, had never seen—so young and so pretty—no years and years of hate and hardness carved into her face, into her eyes—Mama before the bitterness, before the demons had come—Mama before the torment, the torture, the anguish . . .
Olivia held the photograph closer, overcome with sadness. Mama's face was so innocent, and yet at the same time, there was already an unhappiness showing there, deep and hurting, as if something had just upset her whole world.
So the other one must be Grandmother.
Olivia frowned at the contrast. Grandmother looking so happy, and Mama looking so . . .
Desperate.
The word came to her so unexpectedly that she glanced around in surprise, as if some age-old spirit had whispered in her ear. Mama did look desperate— so much more than just unhappy—
Olivia ran one fingertip carefully along the dusty glass. The images in the picture were so faint she could hardly make them out, yet there seemed to be crosses showing in the air and at different heights along the ground just behind where the two women were stand-
Richie Tankeisley Cnsick
ing. A cemetery? And there—in one corner where the shadows gathered—it looked almost as if a single, taller shadow was easing away from the others.
A shadow . . . or a person?
Olivia shook her head uncertainly. It was impossible to tell ... the quality of the photograph was poor, and there were spots along its surface that had darkened and distorted with age. She turned it slowly in her hands, trying to study it from every angle, then jumped as the floor creaked behind her.
No one was there. As her eyes swept along the walls, she could see that she was still quite alone, and her breath came out in a rush. She hadn't meant to trespass and poke around in private belongings. She felt sure that this was Miss Rose's bedroom, and she felt guilty for having stayed so long. She put the picture back on the table and glanced toward the row of tall windows where the purple curtains had been drawn against the outside world. Then she went quickly back into the hallway and let herself out again at the rear of the house.
There still didn't seem to be anyone around, and the heavy silence was eerie and unnerving. As Olivia followed the veranda to the back staircase, she fought down a wave of panic and tried to reassure herself that she wasn't truly alone, that everyone was merely off attending to separate duties and that soon she'd hear the sound of voices again. She paused at the foot of the steps and took a long, slow look around If everyone really is dead, then I'm the mistress here now, I'm the only one alive at Devereaux House, this is my world and I can manage it however I please.
The thought appealed to her.
She stopped on the walkway, breathing in deeply of the air, thoughts flowing free, thick as mist.
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It was then that she caught a movement from the comer of her eye. It came from somewhere within the mass of shadows beneath the stairs.
Olivia leaned down, peering into the alcove. She could see weeds under there—dead plants and rotting wooden crates and stacks of flowerpots—yet as her gaze fixed on the cluttered darkness, she was sure there was something else . . . hidden . . . drawn far, far back behind a heap of old barrels.
She felt a prickle work its way up her spine. She felt her hand reach out for the railing as she moved slowly backward.
Something gave a soft, soft whimper.
Without warning the broken boards shifted and fell as something dislodged them.
And then Olivia saw the eyes . . . looking back at her . . . wide and full of terror.
slowly over her forehead, smoothing back her hair. The girl blushed and looked at the ground.
"I didn't know," Olivia said quickly, moving to the girl's side, hating the fear she saw there, the trapped look of helplessness. "I didn't know you were under the stairs—I didn't mean to scare you."
"She can't talk." Skyler glanced back over his shoulder. "She doesn't have a tongue."
"Oh, God ..." A cold shudder went through Olivia's veins, but she tried not to show it. "Is she hurt?"
To Olivia's annoyance, Skyler looked the girl thoroughly up and down, smiling as her blush deepened.
"My, my, Helen . . ." He ran one hand slowly down the front of her dress, as if to brush her off. "What a mess you are. But other than that"—his eyes turned back to Olivia—"she doesn't look hurt. She just gets . . . confused sometimes."
Spells, Miss Rose had called them. Half-wit, Mathilde had said. Again Olivia felt sorry for the girl. She saw Helen's half-frightened, half-shy glance at Skyler and was relieved when he finally let her go.
"Helen doesn't sleep well at night," Skyler murmured, stepping back from the girl. "She has dreams that scare her. Sometimes she can't tell if they're real or make-believe . . . not even in the daylight. Can you, Helen?"
As Olivia watched, Helen trembled slightly. Then she fingered her small, thin wrists where Skyler's hands had touched.
"I'm Olivia. I'm going to work here, too." Olivia moved forward, trying to get Helen's attention. "You were hurt in my room this morning. I hope you're feeling better."
"We have to watch out for her." Skyler's eyebrow
lifted. "We have to make sure she doesn't scare herself. When she imagines things." He turned his gaze back to Helen, his lips sliding into a smile. "Now wasn't that silly of you . . . trying to hide?"
Again the girl's eyes dropped . . . again her cheeks flushed with color. Skyler gently took her arm and steered her toward the yard.
"Go on. Yoly needs help with the wash."
Olivia watched as Helen went away ... as Skyler looked back with a thoughtful smile.
"Sweet," he nodded. "Very .. . sweet girl."
It had unsettled Olivia more than she cared to admit, seeing Helen's reactions, the blood on Helen's clothes, remembering how the poor girl had looked that morning hanging limp in Yoly's arms. It frightened her and confused her, and she tried to disguise her feelings with an apathetic reply.
"Compared to Mathilde, I couldn't agree with you more."
Skyler seemed to find that amusing. "And I was right about Mathilde, wasn't I? She hates you. Although it's nothing personal. She doesn't like Helen either."
"Is there anything she does like?"
He pondered a moment in exaggerated thought. "She has a strange affection for cold-blooded little pets."
In her mind Olivia could see the horrible black snake again, slithering down Mathilde's arm—and Mathilde, slithering up against Slater.
"Her snake?" she said coolly. "Or you?"
For a brief instant, Skyler's eyes sparked with some hidden emotion, but then his mouth relaxed into a slow grin, and he turned and walked past her, his chest deliberately brushing against her shoulder. Olivia's
heart pounded in a strange blend of excitement and dread. Instead of going upstairs as she had planned, she headed off in a new direction past the house, out into the overgrown yard at the side. Reaching an impasse of trees and shrubs, she paused and glanced back, just to make sure Skyler wasn't following. Then she took a deep breath and pushed her way through the moss.
She had no idea where she was going. This morning's incidents had left her tired and shaken, and she needed to think. She couldn't get the tragic picture of Helen out of her mind, nor the few remarks she'd heard about the girl's identity. Spells? No tongue? Maybe she was epileptic . . . suffered from seizures ... or maybe she'd met with some appalling accident in her early childhood that had left her scarred and feeble-minded.
Or maybe she had a mother like mine . . . or a father without a name, without a face, without a past . . . poor innocent Helen, you didn't ask to be born, you didn 't ask to be the way you are, maybe you 're just like your mother, cursed like your mother, or maybe like your father and you can't help it and you wish you could find out where you came from and who you really are, you wish you understood all the scary things pulling you deep deep inside yourself—you wish, you wish, you keep on wishing — poor Helen poor poor Olivia —
Throwing her arms around the broad trunk of an oak, Olivia rammed her forehead against it, letting the pain and dizziness wash over her in long, long waves, fighting back tears. Around her the fog curled and beckoned, and as she finally lifted her head again, she noticed a pathway worn into the soft ground at her feet, continuing on for another five yards or so, then
Richie Tankeisley Cusick
vanishing abruptly into the thick, lush greenery ahead. It seemed to be a rather well-traveled path, and after another look over her shoulder, she decided to see where it led. She pushed her way through the last barrier of moss and low-sweeping leaves and then stopped in wonder.
Nothing she'd seen so far at Devereaux House had prepared her for this.
There must be some mistake . . . / must be dream-ing.
Olivia pinched herself, but the vision remained. She stepped forward cautiously, half expecting it to vanish as she got closer.
She was in a clearing, large and cool and pleasantly green, but instead of waist-high weeds there was a manicured carpet of grass, and high trimmed hedges, and riotous bursts of color where flowers blossomed and grew. As she moved ahead she realized that she was entirely surrounded by trees—not only the ponderous oaks that guarded the house, but weeping willows and crepe myrtles, mimosas, elms, and ce
dars, beeches and poplars and dozens more she couldn't even begin to recognize. Rustling gently in the warm, soft breeze, they wove themselves together in intricate patterns of leaves and branches, forming a magical boundary between this unexpected paradise and the decay she'd left behind. Olivia had never seen such beauty.
As she followed the winding footpath, she noticed weatherworn figurines and oversized urns and crumbling statuary scattered among the plants. A broken stone cupid was poised atop a pedestal, his cherub head covered with ivy, his bow hung with spiderwebs. Pale, golden light filtered down from the leaves over-
head, speckling the folded wings of marble swans as they nestled along waterless, overgrown pools.
My God . . . he said he took care of the grounds . . . but I didn't believe him . . .
Looking up, Olivia saw a lustrous green dome against the sky, magnolias entwined with hickory and hemlock, and more tumbling green waterfalls of willows. She followed the pathway on and on beneath the trees, through openings in the overgrown hedges, each new discovery luring her on to the next, grove after grove, one wooded enclosure after another, like a maze of secret, enchanted rooms. There were elaborate beds of flowers and herbs, wrought-iron benches tucked back beneath stands of pecan trees, perfumed trails of crushed violets and rose petals. She saw stone ponds and silent fountains, the bright flash of fish darting beneath lily pads . . . she found sundials rotting quietly in nests of lacy ferns. The air was thick with the rich, wild sweetness of lilacs and magnolias, warm earth and honeysuckle, and as Olivia paused and lifted her face to the breeze, it occurred to her that she hadn't heard the sound of a single bird since she'd entered the gardens.
She had no idea how far she'd come, or even how long she'd been away from the house. Strangely enough, she felt no need to hurry here, for there was no concept at all of time or even of another world beyond this one. Totally and happily absorbed, she slipped through yet another break in the tall, tangled hedges, then stopped in dismay.
It was as if a gate had closed behind her, forbidding light—and life—to enter this place.
Olivia gazed in quiet horror upon the crumbling cemetery. She felt the serenity of the gardens fading
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