Fiona

by Meredith Moore

  Instead, I moved to the middle of nowhere with an aunt I’d never met, who only took me in out of obligation. She kept me fed and left me alone, and I know I should have been grateful. But every now and then, I would catch her watching me, her eyes piercing my skin as though she could see the darkness within me. Waiting for the crazy to come out.

  Because I know I’m at risk for the same disease my mother had. And that if I have it, the symptoms will start to show up soon. It’s why I was so terrified when I started hearing my mother’s lilting Scottish voice in my head, years after she died.

  But that voice is a product of grief, not schizophrenia. I don’t have any other symptoms. I don’t see or hear things that aren’t really there. I don’t have delusions of grandeur or paranoia. I straighten my shoulders and take a deep breath, the habit I developed to pull me out of my darker thoughts. It’s the same ritual I perform before I play the piano, and it makes me feel calmer. Peaceful. Normal. I’m not my mother. I’m not going to become schizophrenic. I repeat that over and over again. Maybe someday I’ll truly believe it.

  I stare at the photos in front of me, the only images I have of my beautiful, once-joyful mother. In my favorite one, she has her curly red hair flung over her shoulder, her head tipped back in laughter, one hand resting on her hip and the other on her heart as happiness overtakes her. I can’t remember what I said to make her laugh like that, but I can remember the sound of her laughter, deep and rich and irresistible, as I took the photo.

  I press my eyes closed, trying to stop the tears, but it doesn’t work. It never works.

  I unfold the note, the one she wrote me during one of her last lucid spells. I’ve read it so many times that the edges of the paper—the blank side of an order slip from her café—are soft and frayed.

  I love you. Always remember that I love you.

  I fall asleep clutching that note, willing myself to dream something happy.

  • • •

  I try to get to know Poppy better over the next few days. I help her with her homework, discussing the Hundred Years’ War and Ivanhoe with her and quizzing her on math problems that I barely remember how to do.

  She still makes sure to let me know how very unwanted I am. Along with the constant eye-rolling, she typically refuses to respond to any of my attempts at friendliness. I ask about their family vacations, about her horseback riding, about her school friends, and all I get is silence.

  I don’t blame her. But she needs someone to talk to. She needs an outlet for all that anger and grief I know she’s got bottled up inside her.

  When she’s at school, the hours seem to drag on. I make cautious friends with the gruff cook, Mrs. Mackenzie. She doesn’t seem to like me, exactly—she doesn’t seem to like anybody. She’s too busy for anything resembling small talk, and whenever I walk into the kitchen, she fixes me with this look that demands I spit out whatever request I have and then get out of her way. But when I ask her to recommend some kind of tea that will help me sleep, she brews a cup of her special heather chamomile tea and shows me the tin, so I can make myself a cup of it every night.

  During the day, I tend to secret myself away on the window seat in the library, where there are soft pillows and books to distract me from the memories that bombard me when I’m alone. There I can hide myself away from the rest of the world behind a thick curtain and look out over the back of the house. The land slopes down below me, and I can barely see the stable beyond the hedge maze and the trees. It’s magical.

  But after about a week or so, as the chill of early October begins to take over, I’m restless for something new. Poppy rides Copperfield every afternoon after school, so she doesn’t return until dinnertime. There are too many hours and not enough to fill them with in this old, damp castle.

  One morning, I decide to follow Alice around like a lost puppy, helping her with her housework in exchange for information.

  We’re cleaning one of the dozens of spare bedrooms when I finally ask the question I’ve been wondering about most.

  “What’s Charlie like?” I say as she hands me a feather duster.

  She raises her eyebrows, then sighs. “That’s—well, it’s complicated.”

  “Why?” I’m trying not to sound too interested, but I can tell from her quick, hard glance that I’m not successful.

  “Because he’s changed so much since his parents died. He used to be something of a playboy, a partier. The lord and lady managed to keep his antics out of the papers, but he spent most of his time at university getting into trouble. Only graduated this year because his parents kept donating money. He had a girlfriend at St. Andrews for a while, Blair. But he’d cheat on her every time he came back home, with whatever local girl he could find. They all fall all over him.” There’s a hefty amount of disgust in her voice that catches my attention.

  “Did you and he . . . ?” I ask.

  She scoffs. “Not on your life. He’s broken a few of my friends’ hearts, though.”

  “You said he’s changed since his parents died?”

  Alice nods. “He had to. He couldn’t be the irresponsible spoiled brat anymore, not when he had to take care of Poppy and his father’s company. Now he’s serious all the time, a completely different person.”

  “No more cheating on his girlfriend?” I ask.

  “No more girlfriend,” she answers, taking the duster from me and cleaning the mantelpiece and the antique dueling pistols hanging on the wall above it herself. “Or at least she didn’t come to the funeral.”

  “And he’s in Glasgow now?” I ask.

  “He left the day you arrived. Had to show the board that he was ready to take over as CEO.”

  I nod, throwing the used dust rags into a basket and picking it up.

  Alice stops me before I can walk out of the room. “When you meet him, just be careful, okay?” she says, her eyes intent on mine. “He has this way of sweeping girls off their feet, but once a heartbreaker, always a heartbreaker.”

  I laugh, shifting the bin from one hip to the other. “Players really aren’t my type. Don’t worry about me.” It hits me how ironic it is that she’s lecturing me about staying away from players when she’s dating the flirt from the stables. But Poppy said it was supposed to be a secret, and I don’t want to betray her tentative trust.

  Alice nods, but there are still traces of doubt in her eyes as we leave the room together.

  I think of the guy from the pub with the red-brown curls and the icy green gaze, wondering how he could cause Alice such concern. He must have been much more charming before his parents died, I decide.

  Half the boys in my high school thought they were insanely irresistible, so I’m used to players and their practiced charm. When I was a sophomore, a senior boy named Matt spent the better part of fall semester hanging around my locker, asking me to parties and dates and football games. He used honeyed, well-rehearsed words and clichéd moves—tucking a lock of hair behind my ear, taking my books from me and walking me to class before I could protest. I would have been tempted, because he was undeniably cute, but I’d watched him use those same moves on three other girls in my grade, making them go all soft and giggly and then breaking their hearts once he’d grown bored with them. I refused to turn into one of those girls, and I rejected him every time, but he wouldn’t take the hint, and finally Hex told me I needed to “woman up” and grow a backbone. So the next time he tried to grab my books from me, I gave him a flirtatious smile and told him, sweetly, “Not a chance in hell.”

  The memory makes me smile. Both of us were so embarrassed by the whole thing that we spent the rest of the year hiding from each other.

  My smile fades when I hear stomping behind me, and when I turn around, I find Mabel bearing down on me, her eyes flashing. I assume she’s mad because I’ve been helping Alice, who scurries off without even a goodbye.

  “Where’s Poppy?
” she demands.

  I stare at her for a moment, frozen. “It’s not four yet, is it?” I sputter out. “She’s still at school.”

  “The school just called. Poppy has been missing classes for the past week, and today she didn’t even show up at all.”

  “But—Albert and I dropped her off this morning. I saw her walk into the building.”

  Mabel points her finger at me. “She’s not answering her mobile, and no one knows where she is. It’s your responsibility to make sure she’s where she’s supposed to be. You need to find her. And if she’s hurt because of your negligence, you will find yourself fired immediately.”

  Her voice is nearly shaking with anger. She marches away from me, and I watch her go, my mouth open in shock.

  I try to think. Where would Poppy go? I don’t know anything about this girl. I don’t know if she has a favorite place on campus to escape to or has friends who do this kind of thing.

  I need help. I sprint out to the garage, a separate building several yards from the side of the castle. Albert lives in the apartment above, and I climb the rickety spiral staircase and knock on his front door.

  He opens it, a napkin tucked into his shirt collar and a questioning look on his face.

  “Poppy’s missing. She didn’t go to school today,” I say in a rush before he can ask what’s wrong.

  He sighs, as if he’s not entirely surprised. “Where do you think she’s gone?” he asks, pulling the napkin out of his collar and gesturing me out the door.

  “I don’t know,” I say, grasping the bannister tightly as I descend. “She couldn’t have gone far from the school, right?”

  “Unless she had a friend’s parent drive her someplace. She’s friendly with a couple of other day-student girls.”

  I look back at him as we hurry for the car. He must see the growing horror on my face, because he smiles reassuringly. “Och, lass, I’m sure she’s fine. Not much trouble to get up to in these parts.”

  I can think of plenty of trouble someone could get up to anywhere, but I don’t say anything as we buckle up and head for the school. Poppy’s young and grieving, but she seems pretty smart. I can’t see her shoplifting or smoking a pack of cigarettes or something crazy like that.

  I pick at the cuticle of my left index finger, bouncing my knees as we wend our way through the hills to the school. I can’t keep still. I can’t focus on anything out the window. All I can see is Poppy’s face, the grief and hurt always present underneath the surface. I see her in the back of a stranger’s car, lost in the woods somewhere, her broken body at the bottom of a cliff.

  I tell myself to stop, but the images keep coming.

  I’m out of the car before Albert even comes to a full stop in front of Bardwill, Poppy’s school. It’s two in the afternoon, and all of the girls are still in class. Safe, where they’re supposed to be.

  You’re not going to find her, I think, and then I freeze. Because my mind did not create that thought. It seemed to come from a voice in my head. A stranger’s voice, like the ones my mother used to complain about, two hands pressed against her temples like she could squeeze them out. It’s the first time I’ve heard a voice that wasn’t my mother’s.

  I close my eyes, straighten my shoulders, and take a deep breath. It’s just me. Just my thoughts. I’m worried about Poppy, that’s all.

  The guard at the front recognizes me from drop-off, and he takes me to the headmistress’s office while Albert searches the grounds outside the school.

  The hallway that I step into is ornate, beautiful. Nothing like the cold linoleum and buzzing, harsh fluorescent light of my Texas public schools. Paintings and photos of distinguished-looking women line the hallways, their knowing countenances radiating confidence and superiority. I keep my head down as we climb the stairs to the third floor.

  The headmistress’s assistant, a woman with a dark gray bun and a kind smile, ushers me right into the office. “Headmistress Callahan will be with you in just a few moments,” she assures me. “Let me know if you need anything at all.”

  She closes the door, and I’m alone. I sink into one of the chairs and bury my head in my hands. Albert isn’t too worried about Poppy, so I shouldn’t be either. She just wanted to ditch school. She’ll probably be home for dinner.

  I try to take a deep breath, but I keep hearing the echo of that strange voice in my head. The air feels stuffy, so I spring up out of my chair and move to the window, where I can at least see some open space. It looks out on the back of the school below, old brick dorms and the huge new science center, its metallic sides and modern lines standing out like a goth among cheerleaders.

  The door clicks behind me, and I turn to see the headmistress, who is much younger than I was expecting. She must be in her late thirties or early forties, and her dark brown hair is pulled back in a sleek ponytail.

  “You must be Poppy’s caretaker,” she says, shaking my hand. Her voice is high-pitched and nasally, discordant with her chic appearance.

  “I’m Fee,” I say and release her hand quickly. “Do you know where she might have gone?”

  The headmistress gestures me back to my seat, and I sit down reluctantly as she settles behind her desk. “Poppy is a very bright young girl who is going through a rough transition right now,” she says.

  A rough transition? One of the worst euphemisms for losing your parents that I’ve ever heard, and I’ve heard plenty. I resist the urge to clench my teeth. “I’m still getting to know Poppy,” I say, my words clipped, “so I can’t yet guess where she might have gone. But I would really, really like to find her.”

  The headmistress gives me this smile that drips with sympathy and condescension, and I understand immediately why Poppy would be eager to run away from this place. “I don’t know where she might have gone, but I do know that Poppy is a very special girl who needs a lot of attention right now. And we’re all worried about her here at Bardwill.”

  I stand up. “I’m worried about her, too. So if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go try to find her.”

  She finally seems to catch on to the fact that I can’t stand her, because there’s the slightest purse in her lips as she rises from her desk. “Of course,” she says. “But once this situation has been resolved, I’d like to talk to you about how we can best help Poppy going forward.”

  I nod quickly before hurrying out the door.

  Students have filled the halls, scurrying off to their last class of the day. I push my way through the clusters and out into the yard, more anxious than ever about finding Poppy.

  Where would I go if I were her? Nowhere within that claustrophobic building with teachers and other students looking at me like I’m suddenly different, like tragedy has stamped a tattoo across my forehead. Where would I go to be free?

  I realize exactly where I would go just as I spot Albert waiting by the car. “No luck,” he calls. “You?”

  I shake my head. “We should go back to the house. I think I know where she is.”

  We drive for what feels like hours until we’re finally heading back through the cathedral of trees and up the road to the familiar gray stone castle. As soon as Albert stops the car, I hop out and head straight for the stables.

  Gareth is shoveling hay into one of the stalls. It’s quiet, save for the soft nickering of horses. I peer around the stable, but there’s no sign of Poppy. Or Copperfield.

  “Can I help you?” Gareth asks, leaning on his shovel. I can’t help but notice the corded muscles of his forearms before I look away.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I thought Poppy might be here.”

  “Not for hours. She and Copperfield are out for a bit of a wander now.”

  “You’ve been helping her ditch school,” I say with a sigh, my suspicions confirmed.

  He shrugs. “She needed to get away. She needs space and time to grieve, and no one else is g
iving it to her.”

  “She’s eleven!” I say, stepping even closer to him so that he can see the exasperation in my eyes. “She can’t be traipsing around the country on her own!”

  “She knows this part of the country almost as well as I do, and she mostly keeps to the estate anyway. She’ll be fine.” He pauses, looking down at me seriously. “You need to let her breathe.”

  I want to keep yelling at him the way that Mabel yelled at me, but I know he’s right. All of the fight evaporates right out of me. “I don’t know how to get through to her,” I say, sitting down on a bench outside the stall he’s been working in.

  He sits beside me carefully, resting his back against the stall door and stretching his long legs out in front of him. “I think you’re doing a fine job.”

  I snort. “What makes you think that?”

  He catches my eyes. “She told me so. She told me that you lost your mother when you were young, too. She’ll open up to you, if you give her time to keep learning to trust you.”

  I lean back against the wall, my shoulder brushing against his. “I hope so,” I mutter.

  It takes me a moment to realize that he’s still watching me, and when I look over to meet his gaze, there’s an easy smirk on his lips, a spark in those dark brown eyes that makes me blink.

  I push myself up. “I should get back to the house. I’ve been helping Alice.” I didn’t mean to add that last part, but as soon as the words leave my mouth I know that I said them because I wanted to see his reaction to her name.

  “That’s nice of you,” he says simply. Those dark brown eyes don’t change, still intent on mine.

  “She’s very nice.”

  He finally reacts, dropping the smirk and raising his eyebrows.

  “Well, she’s not nice, really,” I amend, officially babbling now. “She’s not, like, the warmest person ever. But she’s the only one in the house besides Albert who doesn’t make me feel like I’m beneath them or that I’m bothering them or . . . or something.”