by Karen Kincy
I type out a text.
Are you still working in London? I’m down in East Sussex and I need a favor. We’re planning to renovate Wolfenwold Hall into a business retreat, but it’s a beautiful old house. Would you be willing to take a look?
“Mr. Winterbourne.”
I glance up from my phone. “Doctor Kapur.”
“I’d hoped not to see you so soon.” She frowns at her clipboard. “But here we are.”
“What is it this time?”
“Another MRI. Are you ready?”
I pick at the needle in my vein. They pumped me full of meds to stop me from having another fit. “As I’ll ever be.”
“Great.” Doctor Kapur speaks in a monotone. “Let’s get started.”
A nurse pushes a wheelchair to my bed and I stagger to my feet. My legs feel leaden, but I’m strong enough to walk.
Lying in the MRI, I stare at the white curve of the machine.
It whirs, chirps, and starts its deafening drone and clank. It’s the magnets. Just the magnets. I close my eyes.
Thirty minutes. That’s how long this will take.
Maybe then I’ll see Cassia again.
38
Cassia
Is it surprising I hate hospitals? The stink of piss and disinfectant, the buzz of fluorescent lights, the doctors and nurses trying reason with you like you’re an idiot that can be calmed down with facts and statistics.
Bram hasn’t woken up yet.
I don’t know when he will, but I’ll stay outside until then. It’s raining, the sky as gray as dirty laundry. I lean against the wall of the hospital. A white-haired man with a cane hunches on a bench, squinting as he smokes.
“Fag?” he says.
I stare at him before realizing he means a cigarette. “Thanks.”
The old man gives me a light. I take a drag and swallow a cough. I was never a smoker while Spencer was still alive.
But sometimes you need to take a break from yourself.
“Cassia.” Grace walks to me, her heels clicking, and waves away the smoke.
I blow another lungful away from her. “You got my text.”
“I did.” She folds her arms across her navy blazer. “How bad is it?”
“I don’t know yet. Bram was sleeping when I left.” I grind the cigarette on the pavement. “He might be awake now.”
“Let’s find out.”
We’re halfway to the ward when a woman in a tailored dress advances on us. She has pewter hair and striking blue eyes.
“You’re early,” Grace says.
The woman arches an eyebrow. “This isn’t the kind of thing one wastes time on.”
I clear my throat and catch her eye.
“Lavinia Chancellor.” She shakes my hand in an iron grip. “You must be Cassia. I appreciate you monitoring my son.”
This is Bram’s mother? Damn. She makes this sound like a business transaction, and like I couldn’t possibly have feelings for him. Without waiting for me to reply, Lavinia marches down the corridor to the ward.
Bram’s bed is empty. My stomach somersaults.
“Where is he?” Lavinia flags down a nurse. “Take me to Bram Winterbourne.”
“Ma’am, please check with the front desk—”
“Find me someone who knows.”
The nurse lets out little defeated puff of air. Shaking her head, she walks away.
Lavinia’s phone rings in her purse and she answers it. “Hello? Speaking.” A pause. “Then try harder next time.”
Grace purses her lips. She looks a lot like her mother, but softer around the edges.
“Bloody hell!” Bram stops at the edge of the ward. “Grace, you told Mam?”
Lavinia’s nostrils flare. “I’ll call you later.” She chucks her phone into her purse and looks her son over. “How have you been?”
A muscle in his jaw twitches. “On holiday. In Aruba.”
“Don’t be facetious, darling.” His mother straightens the collar of his paper gown. “You look absolutely terrible.”
“Thank you.” Bram looks over her shoulder. “Cassia, where were you?”
I shrug. “Out for a smoke.”
He raises his eyebrows. Lavinia’s mouth tightens like I’m a filthy hussy.
“Where were you?” I say.
“MRI.” He says it like he has one every month. Maybe he does. I’m afraid to ask.
“How did it go?”
He slouches on the bed and kneads his forehead. “I won’t know until tomorrow.”
Lavinia perches by him and pats his hand. “There’s no need to worry. Grace will handle everything at Wolfenwold Hall.”
“What?” He looks up. “I’ll be out of hospital in a day or two.”
Lavinia pats his hand again. “You shouldn’t trouble yourself with the stress.”
He pulls away. “This is absurd.”
“Bram, we all know how bad it was,” Grace says.
“What’s a little amnesia?” He forces a smile. “I’m all better. I remember everything.”
When he looks at me, I wonder if he means me, too.
Lavinia shakes her head. “You aren’t yourself. We can hardly burden you with the same responsibilities as before.”
“I have this well under control.”
“And what do the doctors say?”
His shoulders stiffen. “The typical tripe. Unexplained epilepsy.” On the table by his bed, his phone buzzes. “Excuse me.”
“What is it?” I say.
He frowns at his phone. “Nothing.”
That wasn’t nothing, but I doubt he’ll tell me the truth with his mother and sister hovering like hawks.
A bark breaks the silence. A black-and-white collie bursts into the ward, claws scrabbling, before jumping on me and licking my face.
Grimacing, I push his paws off my shoulders. “Down, boy!”
The dog barks and wags his tail so hard his butt wiggles.
“Ma’am!” A nurse zeros in on me. “No animals are allowed in—”
“He’s a service dog.” A man walks into the ward and gives her a million-dollar smile. “Bram, he’s yours.”
Bram’s jaw drops. “Dad. No.”
The dog sniffs my hand like I’m hiding a treat. It doesn’t seem trained to be a service dog, or trained to be anything else.
Bram’s dad shakes my hand. “You must be his girl.” He winks. “I’m his father, Fitzgerald Winterbourne. Call me Fitz.”
I force a smile. “Cassia.”
This has to be one of the worst ways to meet the parents. Ever. I’m wearing a black T-shirt that says, “The Devil Made Me Do It,” my hair still stinks like smoke, and Bram keeps staring at me like I’m a timebomb.
“A service animal?” The nurse stares at the dog. “Do you have proof?”
Fitz digs in his wallet. “Sorry, sweetheart, I meant to buy him the little jacket, but I was in a hurry.” He hands her a card.
Bram stands and crosses his arms. “Dad, Jesus Christ, I don’t need a service dog.”
Fitz scoffs. “Sure you do.”
“Does he really?” Grace says.
“Sherlock can detect a seizure before it even happens.” Fitz scratches behind the dog’s ears, and Sherlock’s tongue lolls out.
“Take it back,” Bram growls. “And what is this? A fucking family reunion?”
“Language,” Lavinia says.
“I’m sorry.” Bram speaks through gritted teeth. “Thank you all for coming.”
Lavinia arches one eyebrow. “We didn’t drive all this way to abandon you.”
“I’m rather boring company right now.” He works his jaw. “Seeing as how I’m trapped in this hospital for another night.”
Fitz slaps his son on the shoulder. “You look well enough to leave. What’s keeping you?”
Bram grimaces. “I had a breakthrough seizure. They upped my medication, but it’s still too early to tell if it will work.”
With a grunt, Fitz jams his hands into his p
ockets. “How’s life otherwise?”
“Busy.”
His dad looks sideways at me and winks, which makes Bram blush.
Lavinia glances heavenward. “God.”
Sherlock barks and itches behind his ear.
“Are we done?” Bram winces. “Can I sleep? The MRI was more peaceful than this.”
Lavinia stands, her purse tucked under her arm. “Get some rest, Bram. Ring if you need me.” She touches his shoulder before leaving.
“Good luck.” Grace follows at her heels.
Fitz ruffles Sherlock’s fur. “Is there a bar around here?”
“Dad.” Bram stares at him. “This is a hospital.”
Fitz laughs in a fake hearty way. “I’m staying in Hastings. You owe me a beer when you’re out of this place.”
“Sure.” Bram smiles. “See you then. And Dad? Keep the dog.”
Fitz grabs Sherlock’s collar. “Just until you have no nagging nurses about.” He drags the dog away and leaves us alone.
“Is this my cue to exit stage left?” I say.
“Stay.” Bram grabs his phone. “And listen to this.”
39
Bram
I read Jeb’s latest message out loud.
Good to hear from you, Bram. I fly out of London tomorrow, but I can pop down this evening. Five o’clock works?
“Works for what?” Cassia says.
“That’s from my old roommate, Jebediah, from Oxford. He’s a location scout now.”
She stares at me. “What does that mean?”
I rub my sweaty fingerprints from my phone. “Jeb finds places for films. Wolfenwold Hall would be perfect for an historical.”
“Five o’clock?” Her mouth hardens. “Today?”
“It’s only four thirty. We can make it if we leave the hospital now.”
“But Bram, you shouldn’t leave. You could have another—”
“This might be our last chance to save the gardens.” I look her in the eye. “Would you be my getaway driver?”
“Fine.” She laughs with a desperate loudness, like she’s almost out of hope. “Fuck this hospital and fuck their food.”
I grin. “Amen.”
I trade my paper gown for clothes and check out of the hospital. We’re through the sliding doors when I remember.
“Right.” I jingle my keys. “I left the Audi at Wolfenwold Hall.”
“Shit.” She hangs her head. “And I always wanted to be a getaway driver.”
After I call a cab, we wait outside under the awning.
“You smoke?” I say.
She shrugs. “Once in a blue moon.”
“Between the cigarettes and the tattoos, I’m surprised my mother didn’t faint.”
She twists her mouth. “She doesn’t seem like the fainting type.”
“You’re hardly the type of girl I bring home.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
I meet her gaze. “I don’t think so.”
She looks away as a taxi pulls up to the curb. When we climb in, the cabbie twists around and stares at my black eye.
“Upper Dicker,” I say.
The cabbie fakes a smile. “Sure.” He gives the cab some gas.
Cassia scoots closer to me. “Sherlock was cute.”
“Who?”
“The dog. You should keep him.”
I lace her fingers with mine. “I don’t need a dog.”
“What if Sherlock can help?”
“Sadly, I think he’s too stupid to help.”
“Poor puppy! You don’t mean that.”
I snort.
It’s fifteen minutes to Wolfenwold Hall, and I’m not sure how to fill the silence. “While I was in the MRI, I had time to think.”
She inhales, a soft intake of breath. “Oh?”
“I remembered more.”
Her fingers tighten. “Everything?”
“Cassia, I don’t know what I’ve lost.” I slide my thumb over her knuckles. “But I remember our first kiss.”
“God, really?” She hunches, her hair shadowing her eyes. “The whole thing?”
I laugh. “It wasn’t what I expected, but I’m not complaining.”
“What else do you remember?”
I bend by her ear and drop my voice to a whisper. “Our first night together.”
“And?”
“I’d like to remember more.”
She shivers. “Maybe I can help you jog your memory.”
The cabbie coughs and rubs under his nose.
“Maybe.” I force a smile and check the time.
“Are we going to make it?”
“I think we will.”
We arrive at Wolfenwold Hall. The sun breaks through the clouds like a cracked egg spilling its yolk over cream. The outside of the manor house looks almost imposing, if you ignore the cracks in the façade.
“I need a change of clothes.” I hold the front door. “These stink of the hospital.”
She glances at her phone. “Four forty-five.”
“We have time.”
I bound upstairs to my bedroom, Cassia following. I rummage through my wardrobe and toss some clothes onto my bed.
“You might want to brush your hair,” she says.
“Right.”
“And...”
“What?” I peek at myself in the mirror. My black eye has halfway faded from purple to yellow. “God, I look like rubbish.”
She leans behind me. “I have some concealer in my purse.”
“I’m not wearing make-up.”
“It might help.”
“No, thank you.” I strip off my shirt.
Her sharp intake of breath startles me. “Bram.”
I avoid my reflection and lean over the bed for a clean shirt. She stands behind me and touches my back with her fingertips, lingering on my bruises, as if I don’t know they exist. As if I don’t feel the constant ache.
“Jesus,” she says, and her voice shakes. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself.”
I grit my teeth. “You think I penciled in another seizure on my daily planner? You think I decided to have epilepsy?”
“No, that’s not what I meant.” She retreats from me. “But Bram—”
“I’ll be fine.”
She folds her arms and stares at the floor, her hair hiding her eyes. I button my shirt, my heartbeat pounding, my hands unsteady.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
“Please don’t pity me.”
“I don’t pity you.” She flings her hair back, her eyes blazing. “But promise me you will go back to the hospital.”
“Cassia.”
“Promise?”
I sigh. “I promise I will do my best to get my medication worked out.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“Damn it, I’m not going to live in the hospital.”
She glares at me, her jaw clenched. “Don’t be so stubborn.”
I can’t help laughing. “You’re a fine one to talk.”
“I won’t leave you until I know you’re safe.”
My stomach plummets. “Cassia.” I reach out to touch her face. She blinks but doesn’t back away. “I can’t promise that.”
Tears glimmer in her eyes, fracturing my reflection. I hate to see her hurting. I catch her in my arms and kiss her cheek, her forehead, her lips. She clings to me, her shoulders shaking, her hands clenching my shirt.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m sorry.”
She releases a shuddering sigh. “I can’t even think of you—” Her voice breaks. Having another fit? Dying?
I don’t know what to tell her.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I back away from her to answer it. “Hello?”
“Bram! How are you?” Jeb sounds jittery, though he always was something of a caffeine addict. “I’m almost to the location.”
“Brilliant.” I force myself to inhale. “You’ll love this place.”
“Great!
See you then.”
Cassia tugs my shirt straight and combs my hair with her fingers. “There.”
“How do I look?”
“Handsome.” Her smile falters. “You always look handsome.”
I flick my eyebrows upward. “At least I have that.”
40
Cassia
We meet Jebediah at the drive. He hops out from a little blue hybrid. His black-rimmed hipster glasses and blond goatee wouldn’t be out of place in a Starbucks. When Bram and Jeb hug, they slap each other on the back.
“Bram!” Jeb looks him over. “Why do you look like you’ve been mugged?” His accent sounds uppercrust English.
Bram winces. “You know why.”
“Still haven’t sorted that out?”
“Not yet.”
“I see.” Jeb glances over at Wolfenwold Hall. “That’s really falling apart, isn’t it?”
I fake a smile. “It adds atmosphere.”
“Jebediah,” Bram says, “this is Cassia, my...”
“Colleague.”
Jeb tilts his head. “Pleasure to meet you.” He shifts his weight from foot to foot. “Let’s see this house then, shall we?”
Bram holds the door. “Watch your step, don’t trip over any of the electrical wires.”
Jeb stops in the foyer and stares at its grand sweeping staircase, battered oak floorboards, and mildewed ceilings with chipped gilding. He paces around the perimeter and twists his mouth. “What century was this built?”
“Early 18th,” Bram says. “Most recently renovated just before the first world war.”
Jeb grunts. I can’t tell what he’s thinking. “What’s next?”
“Upstairs or downstairs?”
“This floor works just fine, thank you.”
“Right.” Bram waves us onward. “This way to the dining room.”
Our footsteps echo in the nearly empty room. Sunlight stripes a walnut table with little luster in its finish. Cobwebs shroud the golden chandelier, and white rectangles on the walls mark where pictures once hung.
Jeb pauses at a window, running his finger over the ornately carved frame. “What’s next?”
Bram rubs behind his neck. “The drawing room.”
We cross the foyer to the drawing room. Furniture draped in dustcloths huddles like a herd of white elephants.
Jeb peeks under a cloth. “Are these the original furnishings?”
“I believe so,” Bram says.