Fiona

by Meredith Moore

  We’ve come to a dead end, and I stop, turning toward him. “I’m sorry,” I say, looking up at him. “I’m so sorry about the baby.”

  “Thank you,” he says softly.

  I should keep walking past him. Pretend to find my way through this maze alone. But I can’t move.

  Until he steps closer to me, and I step backward, pressing myself into the dense row of hedges at my back.

  He stops, and I don’t think either of us is breathing.

  “What are your New Year’s resolutions?” I choke out.

  His eyes trace a path from the top of my forehead down to my lips. “To stop wanting things I know I can’t have,” he whispers.

  My lips part in surprise, but before I can say anything, he turns and walks off, leaving me lost in this stupid maze. My knees are shaking too much to follow, and I sink down to the ground, trying to catch my breath.

  He’s engaged, I tell myself. He’s just lost a baby.

  I don’t care. I don’t think I can ever stop wanting him.

  I have to try. Or I might lose control of my mind. I can’t torment myself like this.

  I just don’t know how to stop it.

  • • •

  I go to bed early, before midnight marks the New Year, sleeping as soundly as I can in this house. I’m up hours before the sun the next morning, determined to eat breakfast before anyone comes down to the dining room. I’m just passing through the kitchen when I see Mabel, hurrying around with a bushel of burning tree branches under her arm.

  “What are you doing?” I call out in alarm. The whole downstairs is filling with smoke, choking with its sticky sweet scent, and I cough violently in its wake. Is she trying to set the house on fire?

  I’m looking around for water and am reaching for a pitcher on the counter when she stops me, sneering. She looks me up and down, and I wonder if she’s going to mention anything about yesterday, when she saw Charlie and me steal away.

  “It’s the saining,” she says finally. “A New Year’s tradition to cleanse the house. You fill the house with smoke from the juniper branches and then throw open the windows to let the fresh New Year air in.” She frowns down at the branches. “I didn’t do it last year, and look what happened. We need all the luck we can get.”

  She looks up, as if suddenly remembering to whom she’s talking, and scowls before pushing past me.

  I can’t help but remember the time I watched her sink down into the darkness of the room below the tower, the room with the tree. Does she truly believe in this magic? That this ritual actually exerts power over this house?

  What secrets does this strange woman hold?

  CHAPTER 25

  Next Friday, it’s the day of the ball, and the whole household is scurrying around like it’s preparing for an invasion.

  Poppy is supposed to be working on a paper for English class, due after the holiday break ends this coming Monday. The assignment is to write about her favorite book, so of course she chose David Copperfield. But she can barely get through a single sentence without looking up and asking me if I think the dress she picked out will be pretty enough, if there will be anyone her age at the ball, what is she supposed to do if a boy asks her to dance?

  I finally leave the room, hoping that without me to distract her, she can get at least a little work done, but I don’t have much confidence.

  I can’t blame her. I’m not even going to the ball, but I can’t focus on anything else either. I can’t stop thinking about Charlie, how he’ll be dancing with Blair all night. He’ll hold her close and kiss her in front of everybody and be the loving, devoted husband-to-be that she wants him to be.

  When guests start arriving, I shut myself up in my room with a stack of books from the library, hoping at least one of them will be able to distract me. But before I can choose one, there’s a frantic knock on my door.

  I open it to find Poppy, standing there in her pale blue dress, her blond hair expertly curled and pinned up by Blair’s stylist.

  “You have to come with me!” she insists before I can ask her what she’s doing here.

  “What?” I say with a laugh. She stares at me, her eyebrows raised, and my laughter fades. “Wait, you can’t be serious?”

  “I don’t know anyone down there, and Charlie and Blair are going to be too busy to pay attention to me.” She pauses. “Please?”

  “Poppy, I don’t know anyone down there either. And I’m an employee here—I’m not invited.” No one ever told me not to come, of course, but Blair certainly didn’t invite me either. Regardless, it’s pretty clear that I’m not wanted down there.

  By anyone except the very stubborn eleven-year-old girl standing in front of me. “I’m inviting you,” she declares, shrugging. “Please?”

  She looks so nervous and worried that I know I won’t be able to stand my ground on this one. I can just pop down with her and then disappear when she inevitably finds someone else to chat with. “Fine,” I say. I run a hand through my hair to smooth it, and gesture her out the door.

  “You can’t go like that,” she says, her expression a cross between concerned and bewildered.

  I look down at my gray pants and forest green sweater. Right.

  “You need a dress,” she says, rolling her eyes dramatically, perfectly playing the role of a typical tween. She opens the door to my closet and starts rummaging through it until she finds what she’s looking for.

  “This’ll do,” she says triumphantly as she pulls out the dark plum cocktail dress I bought in town that day with her and Blair. “Put it on, quick!” she says, hurrying out the door and closing it behind her.

  The thought of putting on this dress and walking down among all those people, as if I belong, makes a fluttering feeling rise in my stomach. Still, I pull the dress over my head and fumble with the zipper. I look at my face for a moment in the mirror, and before I can change my mind, I swipe on some blush and a bit of lip gloss. And then, because I’m getting into the spirit of things, I twist my hair back into a quick chignon, securing it with an army of bobby pins. It looks a little less messy that way, at least. I slip on the low black heels Poppy insisted I buy on that same shopping trip and try not to stumble as I fling the door open.

  “Much better,” Poppy says, and I almost roll my eyes at her to see how she likes it. Instead I just bite the inside of my lip and follow her down the stairs to the second floor, where we wind our way out of the medieval part of the castle and into the wing built in the seventeenth century, when the Moffats decided they needed a grand ballroom.

  A grand ballroom that is currently packed with strangers. No wonder Poppy didn’t feel like facing this crowd alone.

  All the women are in long, formal dresses, some with poufy ball-gown skirts. I’m definitely underdressed in my knee-length skirt, but I there’s nothing I can do about it now, so I straighten my shoulders and move forward into the room. I’m just here for Poppy, I tell myself over and over. I shouldn’t care what anyone else thinks of me. But as soon as I enter the room, I start looking for Charlie. Will he see me? What will he think?

  But instead of Charlie, I spot Blair. She’s holding court near the center of the room, just before the dance floor. She’s wearing a voluminous, billowing gray ball gown, the color of an approaching storm, which I only get peeks at through the crowd.

  And then I see Charlie, standing right beside her.

  I watch as his eyes go wide and his lips part just slightly as he notices me and takes me in. I exhale a shaky breath through my teeth and try to break my gaze from his, but find that I can’t. And I can’t disguise the pain—the aching need—that courses through me. He sees it all, as he always does.

  The crowd closes in around us, and we’re hidden from one another again. I turn to Poppy, who’s now happily talking and laughing with a girl who looks to be around her age. “I’m just going to step outs
ide for some air,” I say, and Poppy smiles and nods, now apparently quite content to be left alone.

  I push myself as politely as possible through the swell of people blocking the way until I’ve almost made it back to the entrance, but before I get there, I feel a hand on my arm. I know that it’s him before I even turn around.

  “Dance with me,” Charlie says.

  I want to refuse. I want to slip my arm from his and escape out that doorway and out of this castle into the cold winter air I need so desperately, but I can’t think straight with his hand on me, when he’s wearing a tuxedo that’s tailored so perfectly. So I let him lead me out to the dance floor. The band is playing Waltz no. 2 by Shostakovich, an epic and beautiful piece. The couples around us are a mix of old and young, some of them dancing the proper steps, some of them just swaying together to the rhythm. I try to focus on them as Charlie puts his hand on the small of my back, drawing me in until my body is pressed against his. My breath comes in shallow gasps. We’re much too close, I know it. I look at the other couples, trying to tell if they’re pressed as closely together as we are, while Charlie takes my arms and wraps them around his shoulders. Suddenly my focus is on him alone. We start moving together to the music, and I close my eyes. One of his hands stays pressed to the small of my back, and the other slides up into my hair, scattering a few of my bobby pins until my curls threaten to break free. My chest is pressed to his, so close that I can feel his heartbeat, racing just as fast as mine. I cling to his shoulders, pressing him even tighter to me.

  Why doesn’t he seem to care who sees us? Where is Blair? Shouldn’t she be running over here to separate us? Why hasn’t everyone else around us stopped to stare?

  “Fiona,” he says quietly. “Look at me.”

  I take a breath and lift my chin. I know my eyes are full of my desperation, and his gaze is only reflecting all of that right back at me.

  There’s no denying it now, not after his confession on New Year’s Eve, and now this. He wants me just as much as I want him. I should feel elated, but it’s as if my body doesn’t have the room right now for any more emotion.

  We sway together for a few moments, our eyes locked. With every breath, I’m fighting the urge to press my lips to his. I can’t kiss him. Not here in the middle of the ballroom.

  Then his eyes drop to my lips, and I have to tighten my grasp on him to keep from stumbling on my shaky legs. We’re torturing each other.

  I bury my head in the crook of his neck, nuzzling there. At least now we can’t see each other—or each other’s lips. I breathe into his neck, now feeling as if I might cry. Because this is it. This is the one moment we’ll have, I know it. It has to be. After this song, he will go back to Blair, and I will go back to being just a governess. And then all I’ll be left with is the memory of how it feels to be pressed here against him, to feel his heartbeat, to know how perfectly my body fits into his.

  I press my lips to his neck again, just above his collar. One kiss. One soft kiss. I feel his fingers tighten on my back, on my neck, and I know he felt it.

  The music fades, and I stumble to a stop.

  It’s over. I have to let it be over.

  I push my hands against his chest to break free of his embrace, and, before he can react, I am threading a path through the crowd until I’m finally out in the corridor again. I find an out-of-the-way spot where I can catch my breath before retreating back to my room.

  Before I can, though, I look up to see a tall figure right in front of me. Gareth, standing in my way.

  “Are you okay?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” I say quickly, wondering if he saw me dancing with Charlie. “Just not really my type of crowd.”

  “Fair enough,” he says. He’s dressed up, I realize. Not in a tux, but in a button-down shirt and slacks, a huge change from the rough flannel shirts and jeans that he usually wears.

  He catches me looking curiously at his clothes and laughs. “Mabel asked all the staff to dress up for the night. The whole house has to look the part, apparently.” He smiles at me again, more gently this time. “You look nice.”

  “I’m not really dressed up enough for this, though,” I say, looking down at my dress and gesturing toward the ballroom. Mabel didn’t tell me to dress up, probably assuming—or maybe hoping—that I would stay up in my room all night.

  “Fee,” he says, stepping closer. His easy, flirtatious tone is back, and he bends down to whisper in my ear, “You’re the only girl worth looking at in this entire party.”

  I shiver. It feels wrong to hear someone else’s whisper. I’m just about to step back, to end this stupid flirtation, when I see a figure approaching us out of the corner of my eye.

  Gareth must hear the catch in my breath, because he turns around to see Charlie there.

  “Gareth,” Charlie says with a nod. His voice is polite enough, but then his eyes fasten on mine with a flash of intensity.

  I watch Gareth look from Charlie to me and back again, and his entire body tenses up. “I should go check on the horses,” he says, his voice low, almost angry-sounding. I can’t even look at him before he walks away.

  I can’t look at anything but Charlie.

  My lips are still buzzing, as if I can still feel the warm skin of his neck on them.

  “Gareth was just joking around with me,” I say, though I don’t know why I’m explaining myself.

  “Yeah, well, I don’t like his kind of joking.” He steps closer to me. “I don’t like him near you.” His words are harsh, but his tone is full of hurt.

  I step closer to him, anger making me bold. There’s no space between us now. “Why?” I ask, challenging him.

  He clenches his jaw. “Let’s go to the library,” he says sternly. “You need to play me a song.”

  “What?” I ask, confused. “Why?”

  He leans down so that his lips are right next to my ear as he whispers, “Because I want to tell you a secret.”

  “No,” I say, drawing back, suddenly near tears. Angry tears—not the tears of pain that I’ve been crying these last few days. “No more games. You want to tell me something, then just tell me.”

  “Fiona.” He says my name like it’s a prayer.

  I close my eyes. Because if I look at him for one more second, I’m either going to slap him or throw my arms around him and press my lips to his, and there are too many people in this corridor for me to do either of those things.

  The feel of his hand on my cheek shocks my eyes back open. He says my name again, and this time it sounds like salvation on his lips. And then he’s leaning toward me, his mouth nearing mine, and I’m pushing myself up on my tiptoes to meet him, and—

  “What are you doing out here?” Blair’s voice cuts between us like a blade.

  I watch in horror as Charlie steps back from me, a mask of bored nonchalance falling over his face. “Nothing,” he says, turning toward her.

  She smiles at him. Smiles, as if she didn’t see us mere inches from each other, about to collide. I fall back onto my heels, my shoes clacking on the stone floor.

  “Well, come on, then,” she says to him. “There are about a million people waiting to meet you.” She holds out her hand, and, after only a moment of hesitation, he takes it, linking his arm with hers and leading her back to the ballroom.

  “Have a good night, Fee,” she calls over her shoulder, her face flashing with a grotesque smile, a pointed, victorious grin, before she glides on with her fiancé securely in place.

  He doesn’t look back at me. Not even once.

  I stare at the space where he just was, feeling like I’ve been drenched by a bucket of ice water.

  I’m done. I’m so done. I’m not staying here anymore. I won’t stand by and watch him choose her again and again. I won’t let him get my hopes up anymore, only to dash them right back down again, even if he claims he doesn’t me
an to. Even if he’s trying not to. I can’t bear it anymore.

  The guests in the corridor are watching me as angry tears finally start falling down my cheeks. I don’t even care. Those people can’t make me feel any more foolish than I already feel.

  I turn away from them, toward the wall, and realize that I’ve been standing under the portrait of the Grey Lady. The goddamned Grey Lady.

  I feel like I’m going to throw up. I spin back around and run for the staircase as best as I can in these stupid heels, the corridor now silent as everyone watches me run away like a madwoman.

  I run through the maze of rooms to the servants’ staircase, where I take the spinning steps two at a time, tripping and pitching forward with every footfall. I don’t care. I just need to get up to my room, pack my things, and get the hell out of this place before my heart can break any more. Before my mind can break any more.

  I’ve finally reached the top and am rounding the corner into the servants’ hallway when I hear it.

  Her laugh. My mother’s laugh. She’s here.

  CHAPTER 26

  I stand, frozen, in the empty hallway, her laughter right in my ear. That full-throated laugh, the one that poured out of her whenever she was overwhelmed with joy. I can almost see her, her head thrown back, her eyes wide with delight.

  And then it stops, and everything is so silent.

  “NO!” I wail, stepping forward, straining to hear her again. The best music in the world. But it’s gone.

  Keira pops her head around the corner, startling me. “Fee?” she says, looking around the hall, clearly surprised to find me alone. “Are you okay?”

  “She was just here,” I say, and the sound of my voice—so high-pitched and shaky—makes me cringe. There are new tears streaking down my cheeks, and I do my best to wipe them away. I can’t imagine what a mess I must look like.

  How unhinged.

  “Do you want me to get somebody?” Keira asks. She’s backed away from me the tiniest bit, and I don’t blame her.