Okay, maybe he wasn’t making this up.
“Not that it mattered,” Matt said, lowering his voice. “Xavier was dead within a few months after Emily’s body was found.”
Okay, call me gullible, but I was really into this story by now. It had been so long since I’d found anything interesting enough to penetrate the thick fog of tired apathy that seemed to hover around me. The story of Xavier Kensington wasn’t just fascinating, it was also possibly true. An unsolved mystery that happened to real people over a hundred years ago. I was about to ask Matt how Xavier died when Aunt Victoria and Gabrielle came bustling into the room loaded down with boxes of my stuff.
“Wren, here you are,” Aunt Victoria said. “I sometimes forget how gigantic this house really is.” I noted my violin case in Aunt Victoria’s right hand and puffed out my breath softly.
The women’s sudden appearance caused Matt to bob to attention like a marionette whose strings were jerked upward with a snap. He nodded awkwardly to Aunt Victoria and Gabrielle in silent greeting. He had the anxious look of a fifth grader sent straight to the principal’s office for flicking boogers in class.
“What did the plumber say about the leak in the basement? This is the second time it’s happened. We can’t keep doing this,” Gabrielle said to Matt in a sharp, clipped voice that sounded way too professional given the circumstances. I mean, it was after hours—and how was anyone supposed to take her seriously when she stood there holding a huge box with the words “BATHROOM STUFF” scrawled on the side of it for the entire world to see?
Matt stared at Gabrielle without saying a word. The charmingly enthusiastic man I’d been talking to had completely vanished. Matt’s shoulders slumped, watching Gabrielle with a closed expression on his face. He’d stopped blinking altogether. Gabrielle waited for him to continue. Nothing was forthcoming.
“Did the plumber say it would take a couple of days?” I could tell Gabrielle was trying not to lose patience, but Matt was not exactly helping the situation.
“Leak is fixed. Wall’s gonna need repairing, though,” Matt mumbled, running a distracted hand through his shaggy curls. I tried to picture him with a haircut, but there imagination failed me.
Glancing heavenward, Gabrielle gave a frustrated hiss between her teeth. Aunt Victoria shifted the load in her arms and shook her head with a smile.
“Don’t worry, Gabrielle. I’ll send for a repairman to fix the wall next week. It’s not like the basement is open to the public, anyway. No one will even see the hole.”
“I’ll call the repairman,” Gabrielle said, quickly turning her attention to Aunt Victoria. “You and Wren have a lot of catching up to do these next few weeks. I can handle things until then.”
“Are you sure?” Aunt Victoria asked in the same tone she uses on me when she suspects I might not be playing completely straight with her. I swear the woman swallowed a lie detector as a child.
“What are you paying me for if not to handle this kind of thing for you?” Gabrielle’s gaze shifted briefly to each of us as she spoke. When she got to Matt, she hesitated a moment as she realized he was still staring at her with the same vacant expression plastered to his slack face.
“Isn’t it about time for you to do another security run around the building, Matt?” she suggested, glancing pointedly down at her watch.
Matt finally blinked, coming out of his temporary coma with a start. “I was just—I mean—work,” Matt jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Back to work.” He turned and walked quickly through a doorway at the far end of the room, his tool belt jangling in retreat. Gabrielle slowly shook her head.
“It’s like that kid isn’t there half the time,” she sighed, hefting the “BATHROOM STUFF” box to get a better grip on it.
“That ‘kid’ is a year older than you, Gabrielle,” Aunt Victoria said with a low chuckle. “And he’s only like that when he’s nervous.”
“He’s always like that when I’m around,” Gabrielle said.
“That’s because you make him nervous.”
Shaking her head to herself one more time, Gabrielle turned to go, her platform heels clicking firmly across the wooden floorboards. “I’ll put this box in Wren’s room,” she said over her retreating shoulder.
With an amused smile flirting about her lips, Aunt Victoria watched Gabrielle walk away.
“What?” I asked, glancing at Gabrielle.
“Nothing,” Aunt Victoria said.
I raised an eyebrow to let her know what kind of load I thought that was.
“Nothing I wish to share at this moment,” she quickly amended.
I’d been in this place less than ten minutes and already I’d stumbled onto more mysterious secrets than you’d find airing on PBS during Gothic Mystery Week.
“Let’s go upstairs and get you unpacked,” Aunt Victoria suggested.
As we headed back to the stairway, I stopped to retrieve my bag from where I’d left it by the welcome desk. As Aunt Victoria mounted the stairs, she turned briefly toward a three-foot-tall doll standing at the bottom.
“Hello, Fiona,” she murmured to it as if it were a real child, rather than made of porcelain and cloth.
I glanced at the doll in curiosity. “Her name is Fiona?
“That’s what her papers say.” Aunt Victoria paused halfway up the stairs to look back at me.
“These dolls have papers? Does that mean they’re worth a lot of money?”
Aunt Victoria smiled at me. “If you knew how much, you’d be afraid to breathe near some of them.”
“So which dolls are most expensive?”
“Those would be the ones Mr. Evans is trying so desperately to hold on to.”
“Mr. Evans. Was he the one you talked about out by the van?”
Aunt Victoria nodded. “When I bought this house, the contract specified that all of Kensington’s doll collection would be included as part of the sale. Mr. Evans kept the most valuable dolls in a secure vault in the city. He has yet to surrender them into my custody.”
The guy owned an entire museum full of dolls—so why was he hiding away the best ones in a vault instead of putting them on display?
“You think Mr. Evans is having second thoughts?” I asked.
“And third and fourth thoughts as well.”
That was it for me. Somehow or another, I had to lay eyes on these mysteriously mesmerizing dolls who seemed to have the power to turn otherwise mature grownups into something that seriously resembled children squabbling over toys. Were they studded with diamonds or something?
“These dolls Mr. Evans doesn’t want to give you, are they the ones you originally came to the museum to see?”
Aunt Victoria gave me a catlike grin from five steps above. “Buying the whole museum was the only way I could get my hands on those dolls. If he ever does finally surrender them, it will be worth every last penny I paid.”
“Those must be some pretty amazing dolls,” I muttered.
“You have no idea,” Aunt Victoria said in deadly serious tones. “No idea at all.”
Chapter Four
We’re on the way to the doctor.
Dad is driving with me seated behind. My little brother sits beside me in the back seat, earbuds in, iPod cranked to full volume. He’s dressed in his soccer gear so Dad can take him to practice right after dropping off Mom and me at the doctor’s office.
Mom’s in the passenger seat, calmly discussing her busy schedule with Dad. We come to an intersection just as the light turns green. Dad hits the gas and speeds up.
An explosion of shattering glass and the shriek of buckling metal echoes through my mind. The whole world spins round and round, end over end.
Someone starts screaming. I think it’s me.
The nightmare shattered as a crack of thunder rattled the glass windows and shivered its way through the very timbers of the west wing. I clutched at the stiff, unfamiliar blankets around me, fighting against them. The black sweats I slept in were moist with—well, s
weat. My sprained wrist throbbed, and my fingers tingled like they weren’t getting enough blood. I knew the bandage wasn’t too tight. It was just my head playing games with me again, trying to focus on smaller issues in an attempt to avoid dealing with the big things.
Like the accident.
Or the funeral.
Nighttime was always the worst because I was too tired to fight. Memories washed over me like a flash flood with no place to go but down, crashing and splintering through anything that got in the way. The storm didn’t help. Each blaze of lightning made me jump. Each rumble and crack of thunder made my overwrought muscles tense. Unable to disengage my tumbling thoughts, I pressed my good hand to the side of my head in a useless attempt to slow them down.
The wind outside howled and hissed as it tore at the roof overhead, filling my mind with its screeching. I threw off the covers and jumped out of bed. The floorboards beneath the area rug creaked and popped in protest as I paced the length of the room.
I had to get out of here!
Escaping into the dark hallway outside my bedroom, I found my way to the door that divided the west wing from the rest of the house. Unlocking and opening it, I crept out into the main part of the museum. The outer corridor was a sea of black, but just beyond that I could see flashes of lightning at the end of the hall. Thunder muttered in the distance. I knew the solid floor was there somewhere beneath me, but each time I placed one foot in front of the other, it felt like I might step off into a great abyss of nothing. There was only that far-off square of pulsing light to lead my way. Moving toward it, I soon found myself on the landing just above the grand staircase.
Lightning seared through the many windows at the front of the museum, illuminating the second-floor landing like a ghostly stage. A lone actor in a tragic performance, I paced the length of that landing, up and down, back and forth, fighting the weariness and tight desperation trying to claw its way out of my body and take control of my sanity. Dripping rain patterns fell over my skin magnified by the lightning lit windows. Each furious flash made my body weep with shadows.
My throat tightened until I couldn’t catch my breath. My heart pounded against my ribs until it felt like it would batter itself to pieces in fear. Stumbling through the darkness, I plunged blindly toward the east wing. Aunt Victoria warned me that Richard, the night watchman, would be stationed on the first floor of the museum each night. Getting caught falling apart by a complete stranger would be the ultimate humiliation.
Groping blindly, my fingers found a door in the wall. Sliding my hands over its surface I quickly discovered the door handle and turned it. It gave way and I tumbled into the room. Thunder rumbled in the distance as I wildly scanned the wall of blackness before me.
There were no windows to let in the lightning. A small red light glowed on the far wall to the right—probably an emergency flashlight charging. I searched for a switch panel beside the door with trembling hands.
Hurry! HURRY! Where was it? There!
Light flooded the room, blinding me momentarily. Blinking and dizzy, I lurched toward a nearby armchair. Crawling into its cushiony, soft embrace, I tucked my knees against my chest and curled up tight, like a child who doesn’t want the monsters underneath to grab her ankles.
My fingertips were tingling again. I fumbled with the bandage around my wrist, ripping it off and throwing it violently onto the floor. It didn’t help.
The doctor warned me I might experience flashbacks of the accident. He said the mind wants to relive your most traumatic moments in an effort to understand and deal with them.
But they hurt so much!
Unbearable pressure built inside my chest. My body wanted to wail and scream and raise my grief to the ceiling, but I could not afford that luxury. I pressed my hands to the sides of my head, rocking back and forth, in an attempt to lock my emotions down, like payload bound with steel cables in the bed of a raging semi.
Mom.
Dad.
Benji.
Fight it, Wren, I told myself. Don’t give in. You’re strong. You can do this. Don’t. Give. In.
Just when I was sure I would lose all control—the music began.
A gentle, tinkling, melody so soft at first I thought it must be my imagination. It crept between my clenched fingers, slipping into my muffled ears. I drew my shaking hands away and the volume of the music swelled. A sudden lull in the thunder outside made the room seem eerily silent as the soft music played on.
It sounded like a music box. Only this was unlike any music box I’d ever heard before. Instead of a single plinking melody, the tune was made up of rich full cords. It sounded as if a whole chorus of music boxes all played together in perfect harmony, each performing their separate part. My mind was too muddled to recognize the tune at first, but it sounded extremely familiar—something I’d heard played at one of my many violin competitions, perhaps. A sad but sweet melody filled with loss and healing at the same time. It pierced my heart and drew out the pain, carrying it away in a swirl of exquisite, unhurried, lilting notes.
“Moonlight Sonata.” That was the name of the song.
Unsteadily, I sat up in my chair, searching for the source of the music. There across the room was a low wooden box about one foot high and two feet wide, with a window of glass set in the top of it. It had a hinged lid with a catch, suggesting the box could be opened. It was the largest music box I’d ever seen—a very old one, judging by the scratches and dents in its cherry wood casing. I must have jarred the thing loose as I thundered across the ancient wooden floorboards in my headlong flight to get to the chair. I lifted my gaze up a little further and caught sight of a painting hanging on the wall just above the music box.
It was a life-sized portrait of an extremely handsome young man—maybe eighteen years old. He wore one of those attractive, turn-of-the-century outfits that always made ladies of quality swoon with delight. He had gentle eyes, the same luminous green color as a canopy of leaves when warm sunlight shines through.
The young man was made of nothing more than carefully applied layers of paint and varnish—and yet my heart suddenly beat faster within my chest, as if he were a real boy, someone I might lock eyes with across a crowded room. A hint of a smile played about his lips, almost as if he found my childish admiration of him delightfully amusing.
“What are you laughing at?” I demanded. Now that the storm was passing, my unsteady voice sounded too loud in the still room. The music box had run down and stopped, but I’d been too busy ogling the Victorian eye candy to notice.
I took a moment to inspect the room. Shelves of books covered the wall to my right and a gorgeous antique desk sat in front of them. The room’s pleasant decorative scheme included dark cherry wood furniture and soft blue walls whose color made me feel inexplicably calmer. The feeling was strangely surreal, like the very air around me moved to gather me up in its comforting embrace, protecting me from the terrors that stalked me and stole away my strength. A new kind of warmth and weariness enveloped me—soothing, relaxing—a feeling I’d not felt since the accident. Or perhaps even before—three years before, in Doctor Carlton’s office. After that, nothing was ever the same again.
My eyelids were strangely heavy. Why was I so drowsy all of a sudden?
My muddled thoughts struggled a moment to make sense of what was happening to me, but every rational thought slipped away as I sank into the downy soft embrace of deep, restive sleep.
Chapter Five
Somewhere far away Moonlight Sonata plays its haunting melody on a music box. It winds through one full movement before an old-fashioned orchestra picks up the song, changing and shifting it into a new and livelier tune. The music swirls about my mind, entwining itself within my dreams.
I can see the orchestra players sitting in chairs at one end of a large ballroom. As they coax music from their fine instruments, I find myself swaying in time with them, carried away by the catchy rhythm. Of all the things I’ve missed out on in my life—I think da
ncing is the one I regret most.
Just thinking this secret wish is enough. In the blink of an eye I’m on the dance floor amid a flurry of other dancing couples. Dressed in a wide sweeping ball gown of apricot taffeta, I find that every time I twirl, my skirts flare outward. I like the feel of them swishing about my body as I spin across the polished wood floor. My hair is long again. Twisting in gorgeous bright, ginger-gold ringlets down my back. I’d almost forgotten how wonderful long hair feels. The gentlemen in the room all look very handsome in their dark waistcoats and tails, turning their ladies around and around. I smile to myself as my partner leads me through the dance, his movements graceful and perfect.
Jane Austen, Georgette Heyer, Charlotte Bronte—I’ve read about this stuff—but I’ve never experienced it.
Shifting gaslight flickers and glows within the center of a chandelier’s shimmering crystal dome, casting everything in warm, golden light. Laughing, I look up and notice that carvings of grape vines, loaded with ripe purple fruit, decorate the white and gold ceiling high above my head.
A woman’s scream tears through the room, drowning out music gone suddenly discordant.
I glance around in alarm and see all the couples quickly whirling to a stop as they look about them in confusion. A young woman in a stunning white dress breaks away from her partner and races across the dance floor, her long skirts clenched tight in both hands. She hurries to the side of a bent figure, a young woman dressed in royal blue, supporting herself against the open doorframe of the ballroom’s entrance. The young woman in blue is a wreck, with masses of dark hair cascading loose about her shoulders in an untidy mass. She looks wildly about, her gaze wandering and twitching with fear. She sways a moment, then falls into the open arms of the girl in white.
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