Verum

by Courtney Cole

  I offer her my hand, but she grasps it instead of shaking it. Stooping over, she examines it, her face mere inches from my palm. She grips me tight, unwilling to let me go, and I feel my pulse bounding wildly against her fingers.

  Startled, I wait.

  I don’t know what else to do.

  The little woman is surprisingly strong, her grip holding me steady as she searches for something in my hand. She traces the veins and the ridges, her breath hot on my skin. Her face is so close to my palm that I can feel each time she exhales.

  If Finn were here, he’d be laughing so hard right now.

  But he’s not, and so there’s no one to share this hilarity with, because even though he wishes it weren’t true, Dare fits in here. He’s one of them and I’m not.

  Abruptly, Sabine drops my hand and straightens.

  Her eyes meet mine and I see a thousand lifetimes in hers. They’re dark as obsidian, and unlike most elderly people, hers aren’t cloudy with age. She stares into me, and I feel like she’s literally sifting through my thoughts and looking into my soul.

  It’s unsettling, and a chill runs up my spine, putting me on edge.

  She glances at Dare, and nods ever so slightly.

  If I didn’t know better, I would almost think he cringed.

  What the hell?

  But I don’t have time to ponder, because Sabine starts walking, leading us into the house.

  “Come. Eleanor is waiting for you,” Sabine tells us solemnly over her shoulder as she uses much of her strength to open the heavy front doors.

  Dare sighs. “I think we’d better freshen up first. It’s been a long flight, Sabby.”

  The nanny looks sympathetic, but is unrelenting. “I’m sorry, Dare. She insists on seeing you both.”

  Dare sighs again, but we obediently follow Sabine through lavish hallways. Over marble floors and lush rugs, through mahogany paneled halls and extravagant window dressings, beneath sparkling crystal chandeliers. My eyes are wide as we take it all in. I’ve never seen such a house in all my life, not even on TV.

  But even as it is opulent, it’s silent.

  It’s still.

  It’s like living in a mausoleum.

  We come to a stop in front of massive wooden doors, ornately carved. Sabine knocks on them twice, and a woman’s voice calls out from within.

  “Enter.”

  How eerily formal.

  Sabine opens the doors, and we are immediately enveloped by an overwhelmingly large study, painted in rich colors and patinas, encircled with wooden shelves filled by hundreds and hundreds of leather-bound books.

  A woman sits at the heavy cherry desk, facing us with her back to the windows.

  Her face is stern, her hair is faded, but I can see that it used to be red. It’s pulled into a severe chignon, not one strand out of place. Her cashmere sweater is buttoned all the way to the top, decorated by one single strand of pearls. Her unadorned hands are folded in front of her and she’s waiting.

  Waiting for us.

  How long has she been waiting? Months? Years?

  For a reason that I can’t explain, I feel suffocated. The room seems to close in on me, and I’m frozen. Dare has to literally pull me, then pull me harder, just to make me move.

  I feel like I can’t breathe, like if I approach her, something bad will happen.

  Something terrible.

  It’s a ridiculous thought, and Dare glances at me out of the corner of his eye.

  We come to a stop in front of the desk.

  “Eleanor,” he says tightly.

  There is no love lost here. I can see it. I can sense it. I feel it in the air, in the formality, in the cold.

  “Adair,” the woman nods. There are no hugs, no smiles. Even though it’s been at least a year since she’s seen him, this woman doesn’t even stand up.

  “This is your grandmother, Eleanor Savage,” Dare tells me, and his words are so carefully calm. Eleanor stares at me, her gaze examining me from head to toe. My cheeks flush from it.

  “You must be Calla.”

  I nod.

  “You may call me Eleanor.” She glances at the door. “Wait outside, Sabine.”

  Without a word, Sabine backs out, closing the door. Eleanor returns her attention to us.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” she tells me stiffly, but her voice lacks any sign of emotion, of sympathy or sadness, even though it was her daughter who was lost. She didn’t know Finn, so I can understand that, but her own daughter?

  She looks at me again. “While you are here, Whitley will be your home. You will not intrude in rooms that don’t concern you. You may have the run of the grounds, you may use the stables. You won’t mingle with unsavory characters, you may have use of the car. Jones will drive you wherever you need to go. You may settle in, get accustomed to life in the country, and soon, we’ll speak about your inheritance. Since you’ve turned eighteen, you have responsibilities to this family.”

  She pauses, then looks at me.

  “You’ve suffered a loss, but life goes on. You will learn to go on, as well.”

  She looks away from us, directing her attention to a paper on her desk. “Sabine!” she calls, without looking up.

  Apparently, we’ve been dismissed.

  Sabine re-enters and Dare and I quickly follow her, jumping at the chance to leave this distasteful woman.

  “Well, she’s pleasant,” I mutter.

  Dare’s lip tilts.

  “She’s not my favorite.”

  Understatement.

  We share a moment, a warm moment, but I shove it away.

  I can’t.

  I can’t.

  Sabine stops in front of double wooden doors.

  “This was your mother’s suite,” Sabine tells me. “It’s yours now. Dare’s room is across the house.” After she says that, she waits, as if she’s expecting a reaction from me. When she doesn’t get one, she continues. “Dinner will be at seven in the dining room. Be prompt. You should rest now.”

  She turns and walks away, shuffling down the hall on tiny feet.

  Dare stares at me, tall and slender. “Do you want me to stay with you?”

  “No.” My answer is immediate and harsh.

  He’s startled and he pulls away a bit, staring down at me.

  “I just… I need to be alone,” I add.

  I’m not strong enough to resist you yet.

  Disappointment gleams in his eyes, but to his credit, he doesn’t press me. He swallows his hurt and nods.

  “Ok. I’m wiped out, so I’m going to take a nap before dinner. I suggest you do the same. You must be tired.”

  I nod because he’s right, I’m utterly exhausted. He’s gone, and I’m left alone in the long quiet hallway.

  I take a step toward my bedroom, then another, but for the life of me, I can’t seem to turn the doorknob. Something settles around me, dread, I think, and I just can’t do it.

  The look on Eleanor’s face emerges in my head, the way she was examining me, and I can’t breathe. Something crushes me, that dark thing that I felt in the driveway. It feels like it’s here, pushing on me, lapping at me.

  I know it doesn’t make any sense.

  Something pulls me.

  It pulls me right into my mother’s old rooms.

  And there, I sit, surrounded by her memories.

  Chapter 4

  My mother’s rooms are as lavish as the rest of the house. There are no childhood posters taped to the walls here, no teenage heart-throbs, no pink phones or plush pillows.

  The suite is carefully decorated, with heavy off-white furniture and sage green walls. The bed is massive, covered in thick blankets, all sage green, all soothing.

  But it’s not the room of a child, or a teenager, or even a young woman.

  It lacks youthful energy.

  But I still feel her here.

  Somehow.

  Sinking onto the bed, I find that I’m surrounded by windows.

  All
along one wall, they stretch from floor to ceiling. They let in the dying evening light, and I feel exposed. Getting to my feet, I pull the drapes closed.

  I feel a little safer now, but not much.

  My suitcases are stacked inside the door, and so I set about unpacking. I put my sweaters away, my toiletries in the fancy bathroom, and while I’m standing on the marble tiles, I envision my mother here.

  She loved a good bath, and this bathtub is fit for a queen.

  I imagine her soaking here, reading a good book, and my eyes well up.

  She’s gone.

  I know that.

  I pull open the closet doors, and for a moment, a very brief moment, I swear I catch a whiff of her perfume.

  She’s worn the same scent for as long as I’ve known her.

  There are shelves in this walk-in closet, and on one, I see a bottle of Chanel.

  Her scent.

  I clutch it to me, and inhale it, and it brings a firestorm of memories down on my head. Of my mother laughing, of her baking cookies, of her grinning at me over the top of her book.

  With burning eyes, I put the bottle back.

  This isn’t helping anything.

  I hang my shirts and my sweaters.

  There’s a knock on the door, and Sabine comes in with a tray. A teapot and a cup.

  “I brought you some tea,” she tells me quietly, setting it on a table. “It’ll perk you up. Traveling is hard on a person.”

  Losing their entire life is hard on a person.

  But of course I don’t say that.

  I just smile and say thank you.

  She pours me a cup and hands it to me.

  “This will help you rest. It’s calming.”

  I sip at it, and Sabine turns around, surveying my empty bags.

  “I see you’ve already unpacked. These rooms haven’t been changed since your mother left.”

  I hold my cup in my lap, warming my fingers because the chill from the English evening has left them cold.

  “Why did my mother leave?” I ask, because she’s never said. She’s never said anything about her childhood home.

  Sabine pauses, and when she looks at me, she’s looking into my soul again, rooting around with wrinkled fingers.

  “She left because she had to,” Sabine says simply. “Whitley couldn’t hold her.”

  It’s an answer that’s not an answer.

  I should’ve expected no less.

  Sabine sits next to me, patting my leg.

  “I’ll fatten you up a bit here,” she tells me. “You’re too skinny, like your mama. You’ll rest and you’ll… see things for what they are.”

  “And how is that?” I ask tiredly, and suddenly I’m so very exhausted.

  Sabine looks at my face and clucks.

  “Child, you need to rest. You’re fading away in front of my eyes. Come now. Lie down.”

  She settles me onto the bed, pulling a blanket up to my chin.

  “Dinner is at seven,” she reminds me before she leaves. “Sleep until then.”

  I try.

  I really do.

  I close my eyes.

  I relax my arms and my legs and my muscles.

  But sleep won’t come.

  Eventually, I give up, and I open the drapes and look outside.

  The evening is quiet, the sky is dark. It gets dark so early here.

  The trees rustle in the breeze, and the wind is wet. It’s cold. It’s chilling. I can feel it even through the windows and I rub at my arms.

  That’s when I get goose-bumps.

  They lift the hair on my neck,

  And the stars seem to mock me.

  Turning my back on them, I cross the room and pull a book from a shelf.

  Jane Eyre.

  Fitting, given Whitley and the moors and the rain.

  I open the cover and find a penned inscription.

  To Laura. May you always have the spirit of Charlotte Bronte and the courage to follow your dreams. Your father.

  The ink is fading, and I run my fingertips across it.

  The message lacks tenderness, but it’s still telling.

  My grandfather supported my mother wanting to be independent. Somehow, I doubt Eleanor shared that same sentiment.

  I slip into a seat with it, pulling open the pages, my eyes trying to devour the words my mother once read.

  But I’ve only gotten to the part where Jane proclaims that she hates long walks on cold afternoons when I hear something.

  I feel something.

  I feel a growl in my bones.

  It’s low and threatening, and it vibrates my ribs.

  I startle upright, looking around, but of course, I’m still alone.

  But the growl happens again, low and long.

  My breath hitches and the book hits the floor, the pages fluttering on the rug.

  A sudden panic overtakes me, rapid and hot.

  I have to get out.

  I don’t know why.

  It’s a feeling I have in my heart, something that drives me from my mother’s rooms out into the hall, because something is chasing me.

  I feel it on my heels.

  I feel it breathing down my neck.

  Without looking back, I rush back down the corridor, through the house and out the front doors.

  I’ve got to breathe.

  I’ve got to breathe.

  I’ve got to breathe.

  Sucking in air, I walk aimlessly around the house, over the cobblestone and down a pathway. I draw in long even breaths, trying to still my shaking hands, trying to gather myself together, trying to assure myself that I’m being silly.

  There’s no reason to be afraid.

  I’m being ridiculous.

  This house might be strange and foreign, but it’s still a home. It just isn’t my home. It’s fine. I’ll get used to it.

  I look behind me, and there’s nothing there.

  There is no growl, there is no vibration in my ribs, there is nothing but for the dim twilight and the stars aching to burst from behind the clouds.

  The house looms over me and I circle back, only to find myself in front of a large garage with gabled edges.

  There are at least seven garage doors, all closed but one.

  To my surprise, someone walks out of that door.

  A boy.

  A man.

  His pants are dark gray and he’s wearing a hoodie, and he moves with grace. He slides among the shadows with ease, as though he belongs here, as though Whitley is his home too, even though I don’t know him.

  “Hello,” I call out to him.

  He stops moving, freezing in his tracks, but he doesn’t turn his head.

  Something about that puts me on edge and I tense, because what if he’s not supposed to be here?

  “Hello?” I repeat uneasily, and chills run up my spine, goose-bumps forming on my arms once again.

  I back away, first one step, then another.

  I blink,

  And he’s gone.

  I stare at the empty space, and shake my head, blinking hard.

  He’s still gone.

  He must’ve slipped between the buildings, but why?

  I hurry back to my room, too nervous to find out.

  I’m still unsettled as I wash my face, so when I’m finished, I poke my head out into the hall. There’s nothing there.

  With a sigh, I lock my bedroom door and I’m chilled from the wet English air. Glancing at the clock, I find it’s only six thirty. I can rest for a few minutes more, and I’m thankful for that.

  Because clearly, jet lag has made me its bitch.

  I close my eyes.

  It all whirls around.

  I stand in the clouds and spread my arms and spinandspinandspin.

  No one can touch me here.

  It’s not real here, but it is there.

  Down there, it’s cold and wet.

  It’s uncomfortable there, silent and awkward and rigid.

  The eyes are the wor
st, each of them turned toward me… watching me, waiting for something. For what?

  My skin crawls and I scratch it til it bleeds because I’d rather not have it than let it crawl away.

  They can’t get to me.

  I won’t let them.

  I don’t know them.

  And I don’t want to.

  Chapter 5

  Dinner at Whitley is a formal, uncomfortable affair.

  I feel horribly underdressed as Eleanor sits at the head of the table in a tailored skirt suit and the same strand of pearls. I’m fidgety, a tell-tale sign that I feel out of place. If anyone knew me here, they’d know.

  “Tell me of your schooling,” Eleanor directs from far down the table. The gleaming table is so long, I feel the need to shout whenever I speak.

  I’m in the middle of explaining public school to her when the doors open at nine minutes past the hour. Eleanor watches in stern disapproval as Dare enters the quiet room.

  Thank you, God, I exhale. It’s like I hold my breath when Dare isn’t with me, and it’s a habit I need to change.

  Tall and elegant, he slides into a place next to me, dressed in slacks and a suit jacket, a cobalt shirt open at the collar. He looks just as at home in the suit as he does in jeans, and a bit of his dark hair drifts down over his eye. He tosses it back as he sits.

  Every tiny piece of my being is relieved that he’s here, and I try to ignore the feeling.

  He’s not my security blanket, not anymore.

  He can’t be.

  “How nice of you to join us,” Eleanor says stiffly, before returning her attention back to me. It’s as though she doesn’t want to be bothered by him, as though he’s an intrusion. But he clearly belongs here all the same.

  I can’t help but steal another glance at him and when I do, I find him staring at me.

  He doesn’t look away, and his eyes are a smoldering midnight sky.

  I swallow hard, and Eleanor notices.

  She clears her throat.

  “Adair, that isn’t your chair. You know your place is across the table.”

  Astonished, I stare at her. There must be twenty places at this table and only three of them are taken. Surely it doesn’t matter where he sits.

  “I’ll be sitting here tonight,” his answer is cool. My relief is immeasurable.