by Sarah Kleck
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © Sarah Kleck
Translation copyright © Michael Osmann and Audrey Deyman (AAD Abies)
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by AmazonCrossing, Seattle
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ISBN-13: 9781503947801
ISBN-10: 1503947807
Cover design by Laura Klynstra
To my parents, who gave me life, and to my husband, with whom I may be who I am.
CONTENTS
START READING
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
—William Shakespeare, Sonnet 116
PROLOGUE
They say time heals all wounds. I am still waiting . . .
For as long as I have lived, I cannot remember a winter as cold and harsh as this. An ice-cold wind blew around my ears the day I climbed the snowy hill with difficulty and closed the jagged wrought iron gate behind me with a metallic clank. The sound startled a crow, which, after a few excited flaps of its wings, settled cawing on a snow-covered treetop, eyeing me malevolently. Snow had fallen so heavily these last few days that even the mighty linden trees lining the area came close to collapsing beneath their white burdens. Now it was only snowing lightly. Small, weightless flakes floated from the steel-gray sky, caught in my hair, and melted on my face. I wandered among the rows and let the silence sink in. Apart from the crow, not another living soul was around.
I finally stopped in front of a rounded, white stone, breathed in deeply, wrapped my arms around myself, and closed my eyes. This usually helped me tune out the chaos in my head and the pain in my heart—giving me a temporary reprieve for a clear thought—but it didn’t work this time. I felt an overwhelming despair rise inside me, pour down over my cheeks in a flood of tears, and burn inside my throat. Sadness and anger nearly set me trembling. I wrapped my arms ever tighter around my body so I would not shatter.
Why did you leave me behind all by myself? Don’t you see I can’t do all this alone? Tell me what to do!
Please tell me what I’m supposed to do without you! Please! I miss you so much!
CHAPTER 1
An endless stream of mourners followed the brown wooden coffin borne by six men in dark uniforms to the top of the hill. I trudged along through thick fall leaves behind the coffin. It was unseasonably cold for late October, and my frozen hands fiercely clutched the white lilacs she loved so much. It hadn’t been easy to get the lilacs at this time of year, but it was a small comfort for me to be able to offer her favorite flowers to her one last time.
I continued on, despite not feeling my legs beneath me as they carried me forward. When the six men abruptly halted, I stumbled. A deep, black hole gaped at my feet. As I looked down into it, I began to shake, not because of the biting cold but because of the feeling of helplessness that overwhelmed me. I no longer felt my body, and almost had the sensation of floating over myself, watching from above as they lowered the coffin into the black earth. Despair gripped me, took possession of every fiber of my being, and forced me back into my tormented body. A searing pain shot through my chest, making me cough. A bloodcurdling cry rang out in the distance and made every one of my hairs stand on end.
That’s her voice!
Where is she? I must go to her!
Turning, I looked for help but realized from the looks on the pitying faces of those in attendance that I was the one who had screamed.
A terrible, dull emptiness engulfed me and would not release me.
I bowed down with my last ounce of strength and placed the white lilacs on the coffin in which my sister would sleep forever.
Almost three months later. I opened my eyes and read the inscription on the rounded white tombstone:
ZARA LAKEWOOD
BELOVED SISTER
WONDERFUL HUMAN BEING
I wiped the tears and snowflakes from my face and concentrated on why I had returned here. I had not come back since the funeral—I probably wouldn’t have survived if I’d come any sooner. But now the weight in the inside pocket of my black coat reminded me I wanted to tell my sister that something had happened. I pulled the heavy letter out and looked it over. It was addressed to Evelyn Francis Kathrin Lakewood.
Careful not to trample the flowers still decorating the grave under a thin crust of ice, I placed the envelope on the stone and took a step back.
“I was accepted by Oxford—what do you say to that?”
After completing my A levels, we had started searching for a good university for me, and, at Zara’s urging, I had applied for psychology at Christ Church in Oxford—though I did not give myself much of a chance and I had no idea how I’d pay for it. As it happened, I’d just been offered admission to the Hilary, or winter, term in January because some fool had dropped out after the first trimester, and my name was apparently at the top of the waiting list. I wanted Zara to be proud of me. I owed everything to her . . .
When our parents died in a car accident when I was little, Zara fought like a lioness to gain custody of me—and she won.
She saw to it that we stayed together and I wouldn’t have to go to a foster family. Since our parents left us almost nothing, Zara got a job in addition to her police training duties. It was my responsibility to focus on school and do the chores. She usually came home after midnight from her shift at the restaurant, leaving again for her classroom at the police academy a few hours later. Zara had barely turned eighteen, only to be burdened with a household and a seven-year-old schoolgirl. She had looked after me for the past twelve years as if I were her own child, not just her little sister. She had seen to it that the bills were paid, there was food on the table, and I always had clean clothes. She never let it show when we were broke again, and whenever I needed money for a school trip or something, she only said, “I’ll figure it out, don’t worry.” Somehow she always found a way.
When I cried at night, she took me in her arms and comforted me until I fell asleep again. She was my mother, father, friend, and sister all in one, depending on what I needed at the time.
She was the best person I’d ever known. I still loved her above all else. I missed her so much it almost killed me.
CHAPTER 2
“Congratulations!” Mrs. Prescott said, p
ressing me so tightly against her chest I was almost breathless. I had come this afternoon, as I did every Tuesday and Thursday, to the Prescotts’ to look after little Timmy. Apart from my job at Beamen’s, the local liquor store, where I worked as a clerk during the week, I also babysat five-year-old Timmy. I’d just told Mrs. Prescott I would begin studying psychology at Oxford in a few days, and after separating myself from her and gasping for air, I saw she had tears in her eyes.
“After what happened to your sister . . . ,” she said and swallowed, “a change of scenery should do you some good.” Thick tears rolled over her powdered cheeks.
“Yes,” I said, my voice trembling. “I think so, too.”
“Do you know how you’ll pay for it?” asked Mrs. Prescott, concerned.
“Well, last week I was granted a partial scholarship. That should at least cover my tuition and housing. Together with Zara’s life insurance, I should be able to get by for now.”
Mrs. Prescott nodded. “We’ll miss you very much,” she said, tears coming to her eyes again. “Especially Timmy.”
“I’ll miss you all, too,” I admitted, bending down to lift up Timmy, who had clasped my leg. When I picked him up, he slipped his slender arms around my neck with a firm grip—a sight that set his mother’s lips quivering again.
“I’d better leave now,” she finally said, wiping the tears from her eyes and smudging her carefully applied eye makeup in the process.
Dana Prescott worked at the reception desk of a luxury hotel. I watched Timmy until her husband, Jim, a successful attorney, who usually worked late meeting clients or attending business dinners, came home. The Prescotts became parents late in life—both were over forty—and both dearly wanted a child but were unable to conceive for a long time. When they had finally given up hope, Mrs. Prescott became pregnant with Timmy, whom she lovingly called her “little miracle.”
“What do we want to play today, Timmy?” I loosened his iron grip from around my neck.
“I can see something you can’t see,” he answered, full of excitement, and squirmed when I set him down again.
I smiled. There may have been nothing to hold me in this place, but I would truly miss him.
A few days later I was nearly finished packing when my gaze caught the framed photo on my nightstand. A smile crossed my face when I grabbed it to take a closer look. Zara and I had been to the fair that day and rode the huge roller coaster three times in a row, until we’d nearly gotten sick. Happy and lighthearted, we’d laughed into the camera. A shiny object was hanging around my neck in the photograph and caught my attention, so I looked a little closer. On its own, my free hand wandered to my neck and felt for the amulet under my sweater. I pulled it free and looked at it for the umpteenth time: an equilateral, downward-pointing triangle made of a blue-green mineral, dangling from a fine-linked silver chain, two superimposed waves engraved into it.
My mother found it one day at a flea market when she was almost due with me. The vendor demanded a steep price for it. Though she’d liked the amulet, she was about to put it down when I began to kick inside her—she’d told me the story at least a hundred times. It was as if I was destined to have this ornament. So she bought it. For me.
On the evening of my sixth birthday, she had come into my room and sat down beside me on my bed. She had carefully taken the blue-green amulet from her neck and put it around mine.
“It will protect you,” she had whispered as she lovingly ran her fingers through my hair and kissed my forehead. “Never take it off.”
I felt a lump rise in my throat and swallowed hard. Pull yourself together! There wasn’t time now to melt from self-pity. If I didn’t hurry, the train would leave without me. I carefully wrapped the picture frame in a towel and set it in my suitcase.
When I looked up again, I started with a fright. For a moment, I thought someone had appeared out of thin air and was standing across from me. But a second later, I saw I was standing in front of the long mirror on my cabinet, looking at my own frightened face. Dear God! My heart was pounding. I’d become terribly fearful lately, probably because of that creepy guy I’d first noticed at Zara’s funeral. He had stood somewhat off to the side and watched me the whole time. At first, I thought nothing of it because lots of unfamiliar people had attended. But I had come across him again and again over the following weeks. The first time was a few days after the funeral. He stood as if petrified on the other side of the street and openly stared at me. Soon after, he got in line at the same register at the grocery store but only bought a pack of gum. One evening, after I had babysat Timmy, I even thought he had followed me home. As if to confirm it, he rode in the same bus I took daily to Beamen’s. There, he skulked around the parking lot for hours and looked through the windows of the store. I was tempted to call the police, but when I headed for the bus stop after closing, he was gone, and I hadn’t seen him since. However, I still half expected him to be standing there every time I turned a corner, his hands in the pockets of his gray wool coat, his sparse hair combed back, and the same frozen expression on his face, as if he were a spy from the thirties. It made sense that I would find this guy creepy—but it was strange that my own reflection frightened me.
I took a step closer. Was that really me? When had I last looked into a mirror? I barely recognized myself. I looked haggard and my cheeks were sunken. When had I last eaten a proper meal? I couldn’t remember. I’d completely lost my appetite in the last few weeks. I’d noticed from my loose-fitting clothes that I’d lost weight, but I didn’t want to waste time thinking about food, so I’d simply tightened my belt and left it at that. I’d always been slender, but now I seemed downright fragile.
My long, medium-blonde hair, which reached halfway down my back, was uncombed and loosely knotted together. It used to have a golden sheen but now looked dull, colorless, and unhealthy. I stepped up to the mirror to look more closely at my face. I was so pale my skin almost appeared transparent. Heavy shadows showed under my eyes. Zara had marvelous, beaming green eyes. Mine were a few shades darker green with a hint of blue. They’d lost their shine and now appeared empty and lackluster. My eyelashes, too, were not as dense and long as they used to be. My once-full lips had almost taken on the color of my skin. I could have passed for a corpse, and the black clothes that I’d taken to wearing enhanced that impression. I gladly looked away from the frightening apparition in the mirror and turned my attention back to packing. Then I took one last look around the small apartment to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything. I was glad that the next tenant was willing to take the furniture, especially the heavy leather couch; otherwise, I’d have had to deal with it myself. I locked the door one last time and dropped the key, as arranged with the new tenant, into the mailbox. Then I took my bags and walked away without looking back. My entire life, or rather what was left of it, fit into two suitcases.
The Prescotts’ silver minivan waited in the street. “Here, Evelyn, here,” Timmy excitedly called at me as he waved. As I expected, they’d all come to say good-bye. My substitute family, I thought with a touch of sorrow. After all, these three people were the closest thing to a family that I had. And if I was really honest with myself, they had a piece of my heart. They were the only ones I liked being around. The only ones I spent time with. I had no friends. I’d never mixed well with people my age. That’s why I was always a loner at school, always a bit more grown-up than my peers. I was never able to get excited about childish pranks, so I mostly kept to myself and watched others play, goof around, and go through puberty. My childhood had suddenly come to an end with my parents’ death. If Zara had not taken care of me, I would have . . . oh, I don’t know. I probably would have gone through an orphan’s usual life: being passed around from one foster family to another, finishing school with mediocre grades just to do some job I’d hate for the rest of my life. But thanks to Zara, I was on my way to Oxford, one of the best universities in the country,
maybe the world.
Gentleman that he was, Jim Prescott stepped out of the car to take my suitcases and stow them in the back of the van. I helped him by pulling open the van’s sliding door to sit in the backseat with Timmy, who tried with all his might to free himself from his booster seat so he could climb on my lap.
“Did you really think this out?” asked Mr. Prescott as he settled back into the driver’s seat. “Our offer still stands. The house is large enough and—”
I interrupted him to assure him for the hundredth time that I was certain. I wanted to get away from this place that reminded me every second of what I had lost.
Mrs. Prescott apologetically smiled at me from the passenger seat.
“I called Ruth last night, my cousin in Oxford—do you remember her?”
“Yes, she’s a taxi driver there, isn’t she?” I said.
“Exactly. She’s promised to pick you up from the train station tonight,” Mrs. Prescott said. “Don’t worry, I only told her that you’re Timmy’s babysitter and starting school at Oxford. After all, you’re going there to begin a new life, and you should decide on your own who, what, and how much you tell.”
“Thank you,” I said. I would have assumed one did not tell a stranger one’s entire life story.
For the rest of the twenty-minute drive from Fleetwood to the Blackpool train station, everyone except for Timmy, who was still wiggling in his booster seat, seemed lost in thought. When we arrived, I released him from his seat. He thanked me by leaping onto my lap. Now came the moment that I’d dreaded since I told the Prescotts that I was moving away: parting. Dana, always very emotional, bordered on a nervous breakdown. Sobbing, she buried her face in her hands and blew into a tissue until it almost tore apart.
Oh boy! I’d always found these situations awkward. I never learned to handle them well and was more than relieved when it seemed to be over and everyone had calmed down.