Fiona (16 page)

Charlie comes back
just in time for Christmas. The castle grounds are covered in a generous layer of snow, and fires are lit around the castle, making the air swirl with the scent of burning wood and Christmas trees.

Christmas was my mom's favorite holiday. Every winter she would fill our apartment with cinnamon, nutmeg, carols, and Christmas stories. We would stay up eating shortbread and singing until midnight on Christmas Eve, when we would exchange presents: homemade cards and poems from me, shoes or clothes or something else that I needed from her. She had this way of making everything about that time of year, about our little family and our ordinary home, so special and magical.

At Fintair Castle, most of the servants go home for the holiday. Only Mabel, Albert, and Gareth have stayed, and Albert
tells me he has no family to go home to. “This place is my only home,” he tells me after I ask him about his plans. “Has been for fifty years now. I don't plan to leave it anytime soon.”

He goes to fetch Charlie from the train station the night before Christmas Eve, and I try to read a book in my room. But I can't keep my eye off the clock, and when I see that they'll be back soon, I creep downstairs to the kitchen, put the kettle on the stove for my nightly cup of tea, and pretend to be very interested in a cabinet of small knickknacks and photographs near the front door as I wait for the kettle to whistle.

I hear Charlie arrive just as I'm peeking my head into the entry hall, and I watch from the shadows as he shrugs his coat off his broad shoulders and looks around the room at all the decorations that have been carefully and sumptuously hung up in his absence. Suddenly he turns toward where I'm standing, and I sink back into the shadows before he can see me.

I'm not ready to face him yet.

Both of us are surprised when Blair comes running from the opposite hall, straight into his arms. “You're back!” she squeals as he hesitates a moment before wrapping his arms firmly around her, pressing her to him.

Of course I've seen them together before, but never in a private, unguarded moment like this. And I can't look away.

“Poppy's going to be so excited to see you,” Blair says,
still holding him close. “She's been going on and on about Christmas and how much fun it will be to spend it together.”

I haven't heard Poppy say anything like that, to me or to Blair.

Charlie smiles, steps back out of her embrace, and places a hand gently on her stomach. “And how are
you
doing?” he asks. I can hear how soft and full of love his voice is. But is it love for Blair or for the baby she's carrying?

Blair places her hand over his as they both look down at her stomach. It's still flat. How far along is she now? She's been here two months, so probably at least three. Wouldn't she have started showing by now, even if only a little bit? The sweater she wears is tight and unforgiving, and there's no hint of a bump.

The hazy form of the idea that she's just faking all this has been floating around in my head for days. But now that I've actually let myself think it, clearly and with her flat belly right in front of me, it sounds ridiculous. It would be too elaborate, let alone virtually impossible. To pretend to go to regular doctor's appointments, to spend all that time picking out patterns and toys for a nursery. No, there's no way even someone as petty as Blair would do something so drastic. She's skinny; she's probably just not showing yet.

“I'm fine,” Blair says. “I just can't wait, you know? To feel it. Kicking or moving or . . . I just can't wait to meet our baby.”

He leans down and kisses her, and I have to turn and walk away, back to the boiling teakettle. I've seen enough. I take my tea and go upstairs.

I lie awake all night. I'm restless, and I can't tune out the whispers. Usually it seems as though the whispers come from the other side of the walls, but tonight it feels like someone's in the room with me, mumbling nonsense into my ear. If I could only focus on it, if I could only understand . . .

I can't keep living like this. I'll have to find some kind of sleeping pill, I decide. But I don't know if there's a sleeping pill strong enough to knock the image of Charlie kissing Blair out of my mind.

• • •

Morning comes, Christmas Eve, and Poppy hardly says a word all day. Despite the cozy cheer of the warm, decorated house, we're all in a somber mood. It's their first Christmas without Lily and Lord Harold, and I can plainly see the ache and fresh grief that it causes Charlie and Poppy.

Poppy has a few papers to write over the holidays, so I spend some time with her on those to get her mind off her parents. But after a couple of hours of sitting next to her while she stares blankly at her computer, I suggest a movie marathon instead. We pass the rest of the day watching mindless romantic comedies and soapy period-piece dramas until she falls asleep.

I take our empty popcorn bowls down the main staircase, yawning as I head toward the kitchen. When I pass by the sitting room, I see Charlie and Blair sitting on that cushy crimson couch in front of the gigantic Christmas tree. The overhead lights are off, and the little white lights on the tree glint through the glass ornaments, creating a soft glow. Orchestral Christmas music plays from the old record player in the corner near me.

I freeze and tuck myself against the wall, peeking my head out to watch them. They are whispering intently, though I can't make out what they're saying above the music. Are they fighting? A butterfly of ridiculous hope flutters within me, then dies when I see her press her hand on top of his.

And then he swings himself off the couch and falls to one knee, still holding her hand.

I feel my mouth drop open, and I want so much to close my eyes, to pretend this isn't happening, but I can't help but watch as she hugs him tightly to her, her face a picture of triumph.

I slip as silently as I can down the hall and fling myself into the library, closing the door with the quietest click I can manage. He's going to marry her. Of course he's marrying her. I knew he'd propose eventually, I did, but actually seeing it happen . . .

She'll have his baby, and they'll be one happy little family, and then she'll kick me out. I'll move back to Texas and wait
tables for the rest of my life, and I will never, ever see him again.

I cover my mouth to muffle the wild sob that leaps out of it.

I'm pacing the room frantically, hurrying from one side to the other.
Don't you realize what you're doing?
It's my mother's voice, soft but insistent in my head. I stop so suddenly that I nearly fall over. This is exactly what my mother used to do. She would rave and pace through the night, captured by some delusion.

I press my hands to either side of my forehead, squeezing hard, as if I can push these thoughts right out of my mind. But the voice keeps coming.

You're turning into me. You always knew you would.

What if I
am
turning into her? What if I have to live like my mother did at the end of her life, never knowing what was real and what was a delusion? She was so confused all the time. So scared. How can I live like that?

It takes every ounce of strength for me to ignore that voice, to press down the horror that it brings with it. I force myself to take a deep breath. I'm just stressed out and upset, that's all. Perfectly normal. And her voice in my head is just a reasonable manifestation of that.

I settle myself down on the piano bench and focus all my emotion and confusion and turmoil onto the keys.

Tchaikovsky's
Swan Lake
finale pours from my fingers, a melody of grief and regret filling the room.

I hear him open the door behind me, but I don't look up. My fingers keep flying over the keys, letting the swan breathe out her final breaths. The song is not as enchanting as it would be with a full orchestra, but the beauty of it still overwhelms me as it rushes from my fingertips. It still makes me want to weep. And with Charlie's almost tangible presence at my back, all my emotions are heightened. Everything in me is as tense as a bowstring.

I hear him step toward me slowly, until he's standing right behind me. Until I can nearly feel the warmth of his skin on mine. I close my eyes and breathe deep. Rain and wood fire, his scent.

A soft touch on my neck shocks my eyes open, and my fingers stutter on the keys. He runs the side of his finger slowly, sensuously up my neck and into my hair, then holds a long curl between two fingers and caresses it.

I've stopped playing, and the only sound in the room is our heated breaths, shallow and fast. And then he lets go, and all I hear are his footsteps as he walks away from me. He's gone, as if it were all a dream.

I don't move for the longest moment, trying to hold on to
the memory of his hand in my hair, of his breath rising with mine. I couldn't have imagined it.

I should be angry. He just proposed to another girl, to the mother of his child, and then he came to me. He can't toy with me like this. I'm not his to tease.

I push myself up off the bench and hurry for the back door, my anger rising with every step.
I'm not his
, I tell myself.
I'm not his
.

I'm still repeating those words in my head when I bang on the door to Gareth's cottage. He opens it, his chest bare and his eyes muddled with interrupted sleep and confusion. I fling myself into his arms, my hands pulling his face close, and I capture his lips in a kiss.

He's stunned for a moment, motionless. Then he's gently pushing me away and stepping out of my arms. “Fee,” he says, his voice pained. “What are you doing?”

I open my mouth to answer him, but I can't think of anything to say.

“What happened?” he asks, crouching a bit so he can look into my eyes.

“Nothing,” I lie. “Nothing, I'm sorry.” I'm backing away, reaching behind me for the door. “I'm sorry,” I say again, finding the handle and rushing outside.

What was I thinking? I was angry that Charlie was using me, so my perfect solution was to go and use Gareth? How on earth had I thought that was a good idea? Was I thinking at all? Alice was right, he deserves so much better than that.

I'm going crazy.
The thought stops me in my tracks before I've reached the back door of the castle.

I gulp in a bracingly cold breath of fresh air and keep walking. I won't think about my mother now. Won't let myself remember how she'd grow increasingly irrational as she ramped up to each new breakdown. I can't.

I force myself to slow down, to move deliberately and methodically through the castle and up to my room. Once I'm there, I make myself go through my normal bedtime routine before I curl up in my sheets and do my best to go unconscious.

Voices wake me up
in the middle of the night. My eyes are startled open in the darkness. I hear murmuring on the other side of the wall right next to my head. The outside wall.

These are different from the usual whispers, the garbled mess pouring forth in the same tone of voice every night. Tonight I hear two distinct voices, two women, like I did the night before the shopping trip.

I still can't make out any words, but from the inflections, the tones, I conclude that it's an argument.

I peel off the covers as quietly as possible, straining to hear. I place my bare feet on the cold wood floor and tiptoe over to the door, pressing my ear against the wall. The voices definitely aren't coming from the hall. They are, like I thought, coming
from outside. From right outside my wall, six stories up in the free air. Maybe there are people up on the roof?

A floorboard creaks underneath my foot, and the voices stop for a moment. As if they heard me, as if
I've
startled
them
. And when the voices rise again, I can finally hear what each of them is saying, the lines they repeat over and over:

“Go away, little bird.”

“You're not wanted here.”

They chant it again and again until they're nearly shouting.

My mouth falls open in a gasp, and I back away from the wall. I pinch my arm, but I don't wake up in my bed, safe. This is real.

It doesn't make sense. But I have to figure out what's going on, once and for all. I grab my coat, shove on my rain boots, then hurry out the door.

I make it downstairs and sprint out into the freezing rain, rounding the house until I'm on the side the whispers came from. But there's nothing here. Nothing but gray stone.

The roof above my room is shingled and steeply sloped and obviously clear of anything except for the December snow. Of course. Because why would there be a couple of people perched above the sixth floor of a castle? Why am I even out here?

My adrenaline fades, until all I am is tired. I'm so tired of all this. I can't think. I can't focus. And I can't keep living like this.

“Are you okay?” someone asks behind me. I whirl around with a small scream.

It's Gareth, his eyes concerned as he stares down at me. Rain streams down his face, darkening his hair and highlighting his cheekbones.

“Yes,” I say, too loudly. “Yes, I'm fine. I just thought—nothing. I thought nothing,” I finish in a mumble, looking back up at the bare wall outside my room.

“Look, Fee, I wanted to talk to you about earlier tonight,” he says finally, shifting his weight from one foot to another. “I'm sorry I pushed you away. It just seemed like—”

“It's fine,” I interrupt. “I'm sorry I, uh, attacked you.”

He almost smiles. “I didn't mind, really. I was just worried about you.” He pauses. “Still am.”

“I'm okay. It was just—I don't know, it was stupid. And the last thing I wanted to do was confuse you.”

It's as if a curtain falls over his expression, closing him off from me. “Right,” he says.

“I'm sorry,” I repeat once more. It's the only thing I can say.

“I'll see you around, then,” he says, turning away. He turns back to face me before I can say good night. “You should get back inside. You're freezing.”

It's only now that I notice how I've wrapped my arms around my body, that my teeth have started chattering. My wet hair is
plastered to my head. I must look like a drowned kitten. Or a crazy person.

“Thanks,” I say through numb lips before heading back toward the relative warmth of the castle.

Even when I'm back up in my bed, though, dried off and in fresh pajamas, I can't stop the shivers from running through me.

I try to push down the memory of those voices, ignore it, not think about it.
It doesn't mean what you think it means.

But it's getting harder and harder to ignore.

• • •

I must have only been asleep for a couple of hours when a scream wakes me up. The sound is wild and guttural, and for one terrifying and wonderful moment, I think I am a child again, back in Austin with my mother.

The scream comes again, and I snap out of that daze. I wrench my door open and run into the hall. The scream must be coming from the floor below me, where Poppy and Charlie sleep. I rush down the stairs and head right to their hallway.

Poppy's door flings open, and I see her running down the dark hall toward the scream. It's coming from Charlie's room.

I reach her just as she reaches his door, but before we can push it open, Charlie bursts through. The guttural scream is coming from behind him—from Blair.

“I've called an ambulance,” Charlie declares. “She's—there's something wrong with the baby.”

He's wild with worry, his eyes hardly able to focus on us. I place my hands on Poppy's shoulders and draw her back. “Let's give them some space,” I murmur.

She lets me pull her back and walk her to her door, but once we reach it, she cranes her neck around me and gasps. I turn to see Charlie, carrying Blair, cradled like a child, her arms hanging limply around his neck. She's wearing a fluttering white nightgown, and just before they disappear down the stairs, I see that the bottom of it is soaked red with blood.

Poppy looks up at me, wide-eyed. Her face is so pale, her hair so blond in this patch of moonlight streaming in from the window, that she looks as transparent as a ghost. “We should go to the hospital with them.” Her voice comes out strong, confident, despite the horror of what we just witnessed.

“Poppy, Charlie would want you to stay here at home. There's nothing we can do for them at the hospital. Blair will be fine, I'm sure of it,” I say, though I shiver as I remember that red, red blood. “We should get some sleep so we'll be rested enough to help in the morning, when they're back safe and sound.”

“No,” Poppy says firmly, raising her chin in determination.
“He's my family. He's my only family, besides the baby, who might be in trouble. We have to go to the hospital.”

Family.
The only family I've ever known was my mother, and I would have never let her go to the hospital alone. I would have fought to stay with her, too. “Okay,” I say finally. “I'll put on some clothes and meet you downstairs. Albert can drive us. Remember your coat,” I call, already hurrying for the servants' staircase.

By the time I make it down to the front door to meet Poppy, the ambulance is pulling into the driveway, the blaring lights and wailing siren especially jarring as they cut through the night's stillness. Charlie, Blair still limp in his arms, hurries to the back of it before the paramedics even have time to jump out and take Blair from him.

Mabel, Albert, Poppy, and I stand on the front steps as we watch the ambulance drive off with Charlie and Blair, the lights flashing through the dark hills until they finally disappear. Nodding at Poppy, I ask Albert for a ride, and he goes to get the car.

Mabel places a hand on Poppy's shoulder. “It's going to be all right,” she whispers, her voice softer and kinder than I ever imagined it could be. “Blair's going to be just fine.”

How are you so sure?
a nasty voice inside of me mutters.
What if she dies and Charlie is finally free?

The voice chills me, sending vicious trails of goose bumps up and down my skin. That nasty, intrusive voice. It's not my mother, and it's not me. I would never think something as awful as that. I don't want Blair—or anyone—to die. I close my eyes and swallow, sickened by the glee in that ugly little voice inside my head. I won't pay any attention to it. If I ignore it, it will go away.

Albert pulls the car around and jumps out to let Poppy and me in. “I don't think you should be taking her out of her bed at this time of night just to bring her to a frightening place like a hospital,” Mabel says to me, the usual bitterness restored to her voice. “She needs her sleep.” She glances at Poppy, her eyes full of concern.

“It's not your decision,” I say, sliding into the car. “It's Poppy's.”

Albert speeds us out of there before Mabel can reply.

During the long drive to the hospital, I can't focus on anything except Poppy's small hand clasped in mine—and on keeping the ugly voices out of my head. The three of us are silent as Albert drives, cutting through the dark night.