I remembered that occasion, because I'd visited the music room only once. Liszt had played through those headphones, and I'd cried for hours, envisioning Moira as she'd wanted to be. The experience landed me in the ER with the only migraine I've ever had and Kit hovering, so worried that even she threw up.
My relationship with music changed after that. Already it'd been months since music had come to me as a new song, since I'd sunk my saxophone in the bay. I recognized then that music might be poison for me. And while I knew melody and song would always be there--in stores and in elevators, on TV and blaring through other students' earphones--I wouldn't immerse myself in it if I could help it.
Not long after that, sounds churned in me again; but it wasn't my music, the music I'd once heard on the wind. These notes were piano, and I felt them like thorns thrust in my temples. I shut my mind against them, the same way I used to block my sister. It drained me in the same way, too.
"That was a complicated time," I said on a shiver.
"I thought it might be. What I'm trying to say, Maeve, is that I'm not afraid of your complexity. Just the opposite. But I can't deny my complexity anymore. I'm more than a nice guy. I'm a man who's attracted to you." His voice lowered. "I'm a man who wants you."
I pulled the covers higher, then realized he might read that the wrong way--or the right way--and put them down a little. Frankly, I didn't know what I wanted anymore. His lips twisted as he watched me.
"Do you get these nightmares at home?" he asked.
I nodded, relieved at the turn of subject. "They've been worse lately. More intense."
"Do you think they're tied with that daydream, for lack of a better word? You know, with the bus?"
"Maybe." I wove my fingers together and stared at my blanket-cloaked knees. "Kit wants to open my cranium and make sure everything's properly oiled, all gears in place, you know. The complexity you mentioned, there might be more to that than you bargained for. Things happen with me, crazy things sometimes. I'm pretty much a mess."
"I've always liked a good mess."
I raised my eyes to see that his emanated sincerity. How many times had I walked into his studio to find him in madman mode? Sketching. Painting. Sculpting. Paint all over his hands. Why had I wasted so much time?
"Still cold?" he asked as my molars rattled together.
"Freezing."
"Do you trust me?"
I paused. "Yes."
"Then lie down. Come on," he said when my eyes widened.
I did, though my heart skittered like a live fish on the bottom of a boat. He walked away, and the light cut out from the other room. He returned with blankets, put them over me, around me. I felt a depression on the bed.
"Noel?"
"Trust. Show that you can." He urged me onto my side, then lay behind me. Though covers clumped between us, he wrapped an arm around my middle. I shifted, shook.
"Kit told me about shivers and fevers once," he said.
"I'm not sick."
"She said you shiver when your body needs to raise its core temperature. With a fever, the body needs to cool down, but because of the sickness, signals get crossed and the message is that the body's too cold. Effed-up signals equal shivers, see?"
"But I don't have a fever. I'm not sick. I'm freezing."
"Yes, we've already established that." He rubbed a hand over my arm. "Tell me more about these dreams."
I told him about the ever-present door and water. I even mentioned Ermanno's role in my most recent nightmare. Mistake.
"Guy's getting to you, Maeve. You need to stay away from those apartments."
Any thoughts I'd had about revealing Ermanno's actual presence at the jazz club vanished at the tone of Noel's voice, the way his arms spasmed around me. A fantasy duel was one thing, but helpless damsel in distress was not a role I'd ever be comfortable with in reality.
To derail him, I talked more about my dream, added each remembered detail--which ended up derailing me, too.
"Being left by all those other skulls wasn't what bothered me so much." I stared into the darkness. "This will sound dumb."
"Go ahead and sound dumb. I'm too tired to notice."
"I had no light. It was like something Garrick said once about soul bonds--"
"Here we go."
"--and my soul was smothered. I had no soul."
"You're right, it's dumb. You definitely have soul."
"But I was just a head, you know? I was trapped with no way out, like being buried alive and--"
"Maeve--"
"--like the dark, dank, cold covered me at some point--"
"Maeve--"
"--and I didn't even scream, because I'd pulled the dirt down on myself."
"Without arms, too. And, yeah, you screamed."
"Now he laughs at me." I elbowed him as well as I could through the blankets.
"No laughing," he said. "It's just that you're alive and free. You're here, not stuck at all."
I tried to look at him but couldn't, mummified as I was in covers. "I am so stuck. Help me." His arms lifted, and I shifted around until I faced him in the shadow. "You think I'm being overly dramatic. I am." I nodded. "It's one of my flaws."
"Flaws, charms, whatever."
"Noel."
"Here's what I think. You do have legs--I've seen them, petite and gorgeous. So kick the dirt off. Be what you want to be. Be whole."
"How do you kick when it's all in your mind?" My voice caught, and Noel maneuvered me until my head lay against his chest. "I'm not weak," I said.
"I know you're not."
"And I'm not afraid. Not of most things."
"You're one of the strongest women I know."
"Will you still think that if I ask you to stay here tonight? Maybe you'll keep the nightmares away."
"I'll always think it," he said, and kissed my head.
I flashed on my mother for a moment. What would she say if she knew her daughter--her twenty-five-year-old grown woman of a daughter--slept huddled beside a man? You're a disgrace! How could you do it? How could you? She wouldn't believe it was with a wad of blankets between us. I almost wished she could see.
Noel's arms loosened as the minutes passed, and then I recognized in him the first deep breath of sleep.
"I need you, Noel," I whispered. "You're my shore."
Even though this truth frightened me, I embraced it. And when another tremor shook me, I smiled and welcomed that, too. Because I knew I'd grown warmer at the core and that my light burned a little brighter because of it all.
I WOKE TO Noel watching me from my bed's close counterpart, propped on one arm. I didn't even feel self-conscious about that or what had transpired the night before. Progress.
"Good morning," I said, and he smiled, right before a crack of thunder shook the air. My heart leaped. "Wow."
"You slept through the worst of it."
"Really?"
"Tired girl."
"I must've been." Lightning filled the room as I sat up. "No sightseeing today, huh?"
"The forecast's bad for the next five days. I thought that maybe ..."
"What?"
"Listen, Maeve, about your empu. I was there again yesterday--that makes four trips for me. Whatever I think, and whatever Ermanno's problem is, Putra's never there."
"I was told that he's dealing with an illness," I said, remembering. "He must be at his apartment sometimes, though--he's left those notes."
Noel grunted. "If he'd wanted to meet you, don't you think he would've contacted you by now?"
"Maybe so." Though he never would if Ermanno told him I'd sold the keris. Why had I found it necessary to confront the empu's brother and lie like that? Stupida! I rose and stared out the window, at a black sky.
"So I was thinking you should take a break," he said.
"A break?"
"Abandon the empu hunt for now. Come with me to Paris."
I spun around. "Paris?"
"I have things to take care of before I can g
o back to New York. You can meet Ellen and humble me with your French. I'll show you the sights and introduce you to that mannequin. You'll have more to tell your students. You can--"
"All right, already, I'll go with you to Paris if I must!" Could cheeks crack from smiling too wide? "But let's see the Pantheon today. It's supposed to look incredible in the rain."
"The Pantheon, in the rain, with the red woman. I think I can handle that."
My face warmed. I was the red woman, all right.
"We'll have to take a cab," he said. "Are you up for it?"
I considered. "Can we pay him extra to drive slowly?"
"We can try that." He took my hands. I stepped on tiptoes and kissed him. Gently. He wrapped his arms around me. I sensed a shiver.
"Do you feel cold?" I asked.
"No," he said. "I feel hope."
NOEL LEFT LATER THAT morning to make arrangements, and I packed. It didn't take long to fill my bags, and then I reached into the safe for my keris. My hand met only chill metal.
I reopened every dresser drawer. Empty. Empty. Empty except for a Bible. I remembered my search at home during my father's visit, when the keris had been in my saxophone case, but this disappearance couldn't be blamed on some mysterious mental lapse. I hadn't risen in the middle of the night and retrieved it from the safe. Not when Noel had been with me, his arms around me, the entire time.
I checked the floor, under the beds and covers. I'd nearly convinced myself the blade had been stolen when--
The pillow. Check.
Memories of skulls and frozen water and muddy hills assaulted me as I recalled Garrick's words: Put the blade beneath your pillow. If you have a nightmare, the keris is bad.
I swatted at the pillow, flipped it to reveal the keris beside its sheath, like a snake shed of its skin. Felt the convulsive swallowing of a fearful person and recognized the person as me.
It has an intention. A will.
A will to spur nightmares and make me question my sanity?
It removes inhibitions. That's how it works.
My convictions fell apart. Maybe I'd been manipulated by the keris from the beginning. Chasing an empu to Rome? I should be in my apartment, sorting papers with Sam on my lap and preparing for classes. I remembered my beloved sax and the kiss I'd delivered its Roman cousin last night in a fit of aggravated passion, and realized, yes, I'd lost control. And Noel ...?
My hand shook as I lifted the keris. It felt hot and gleamed dark in my grip, the blood line such an angry red it seemed the blade should drip crimson onto my sheets.
My vision overflowed with gray, then white.
Eling.
I smelled the earth, the must of our shed, as Moira pondered her scabs.
"Now we'll always be joined, no matter what."
I heard her laugh, felt her hand slip, and held tighter.
"Wait, we have to say the words."
Her eyes grew huge. "Till death do us part? This is silly!"
"No, it's not good enough." I pushed our small bleeding fingers together. "I know! 'Even if I die, I'll be with you for always.' Say it."
"Even if I die, I'll be with you for always."
Color returned as I came back to the present, though I doubt I had any in my face. I looked at my finger, healed for over fourteen years, and felt it throb.
I didn't think. Just stuffed the sheath over the blade, thrust on my shoes, left. I saw Giovanni in the lobby.
"Mio Dio!" he said. "What is the matter?"
I wished I knew the Italian word for pawnshop. "I need to find a place where they'll buy this from me. Someplace close. Anywhere but Trastevere, Giovanni." Anywhere Ermanno wouldn't get his hands on it--or me. The irony that I was now doing what I told him I'd already done was not lost on me. "Is there a place?"
"Si," he said after a moment. "There is a place."
Out of Time
Castine, Maine
NOVEMBER 2000
Moira and Maeve are sixteen
Moira stood frozen beside her bedroom window and watched as Maeve walked next door. Ian would be home soon, and he couldn't see Maeve just now--not after the argument.
Why did you blow me off today at school? Why didn't you just take my hand? You think you're too good for me, don't you?
Moira hadn't known how to react to that. He'd obviously walked up to Maeve and reached for her. Acid rose in her throat at the thought.
You still want to hide it all? It's been three weeks!
She'd called on the original excuse: My sister--
But Ian wanted no part of that tired line. Your sister will have to deal.
Kit emerged from her house and followed Maeve to the backyard, then sat in the hammock. Maeve paced before her, her hands flying through the air. She flung hair over her shoulder with a jerk of her head, then feigned ripping it out. When she stomped the ground, like she would the bleachers at a school rally, Kit laughed. Moira relaxed a little; Maeve must not have been talking about Ian and Moira.
Moira abandoned the window and stepped before the mirror. She arched her head and pretended to laugh. She tried to fling her hair over her shoulder, though it took three attempts to get it right. She used Maeve's hairbrush and noticed the rougher bristles made her strands more like her sister's, a little wild. She studied her reflection as she widened her eyes, lifted her hands, and made them flutter as Maeve did when she described an event. She paced, then stepped back before the mirror with flushed cheeks.
Passionate, she thought. I look passionate.
A car door slammed. She rushed to the window to see Ian stride up the drive. His last words rung in her head.
I'm sick of the game. I'll tell Moira myself, I swear it.
Please don't let him see her, Moira thought, but Kit sat alone on the hammock.
"What are you doing?" Maeve's face appeared near Moira's in the glass.
Moira whirled around, her hand over her chest. "How long have you been in here?"
Long enough, Maeve's eyes said.
"Are you ever going to tell me what's going on?"
"Are you ever going to lay off?"
Moira thought she sensed her twin's hurt feelings, the way she used to sense all her emotions, but that was impossible now. Maybe the sorrow was Moira's. She was sorry. Sorry for so much.
"You regret something you did," Maeve said. "I can feel it."
Moira threw down the brush. "How many times do I have to say this? You're not welcome in my mind! Leave me to my life!"
"I thought I was your life. I thought you were mine."
Tears pooled like a fast leak in Maeve's eyes. Moira thought she could count on one hand the number of times she'd seen her sister cry. She felt wretched to see it now, to know she'd caused it.
"I don't know you anymore," Maeve said.
"Don't say that." Moira swallowed her own tears.
"This is what you want, fine. I'll never come to your mind again." Maeve dashed tears from her cheeks as her features hardened. "You know, Moira, I think I figured something out about why you could never sense things like I do, why you never heard the music, and why you never would've been good at the sax. You're afraid of everything. We're supposed to be so alike, but we're not. Because I'm not afraid, Moira. I'm not afraid to let go."
Cold emptiness pervaded Moira's senses as Maeve walked away. She thought she'd been blocking her twin for weeks, but a bond must still have dangled between them, must always have been there. And she'd never meant for the distance to last forever. This, now, felt irrevocable. Unbearable.
She heard the front door open, close.
"Maeve!" November air stung Moira's eyes when she lifted the window. "Maeve!"
Ian stood in the grass with Kit, his eyes on Moira. For a second, she thought he recognized the swinging pendant she wore, but then he turned to her sister, who'd stepped onto the walk.
"Maeve!" he shouted.
But Maeve didn't turn. Not for Moira. Not for Ian.
"Leave me alone!" she said, and ra
n off. Kit followed.
Ian kicked at the fallen leaves, then went inside. The door crashed shut behind him.
Moira closed the window and wrapped her arms around herself; it hurt to breathe. Soon everything would come out, all of her deceptions. And at what cost? She removed the saxophone necklace and left it on the dresser. She used her own brush and pulled her hair back into a ponytail. And then she dropped her barriers against Maeve.
Come back to me, she thought. Come back.
She went downstairs and sat on the piano bench but couldn't summon the desire to play.
"I haven't seen you there in a long while." Her father leaned against the doorjamb. "Everything all right, sweetheart?"
"Not really, Daddy."
"Well," he said, "do you know how to fix it?"
She had broken the bond with her sister. Was there glue for that? She had lied to Ian. He would hate her when he learned the truth. Even her parents would despise what she'd become and that it had all begun with jealousy. Moira despised herself, too--for the choices she'd made and the damage she'd done, the damage her lies would still do. Maybe hating herself had made it easier, somehow, to do it all in the first place--actions that required no pride or sense of self-worth.
"I don't know how to fix this, Daddy."
He nodded. "I'm going off this weekend to fix the Hobsons' old boat. Need some stabilizers--wood and glue--and to find the weaknesses. I'll patch what I can, reinforce, and heed the leaks. That's important," he said. "Never ignore the leaks, Moira."
Long after Daddy left, Moira stayed in her room, thinking.
There'd been no sign of her sister or Ian, but she couldn't imagine facing them with what needed to be said anyway. Finally, she sat down at her desk and withdrew a sheet of stationery. She touched it--a fragile, thin serving of wood--unsure whether it could truly patch this leak, but ready to try just the same.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
ABIN BLOO
Drizzle spit at me as I strode over slick stone, past cars and people. I heard no music, not on the streets, not in my mind. Not then.
"Scusi," a man said, because I'd stalled before a brick facade. I stared at the sign. This was it--the pawnshop. The keris burned against my chest.
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