Illuminate (12 page)

I just nodded. But she saw through me.

“I can tell you’re not sure you agree.” She nibbled on her scone.

“I guess I’ve spent too many years working at a hospital. I’ve seen my share of daredevils, people who’ve taken too many chances, thought they could beat the odds and do anything—driving too fast and crashing, falling out of everything you could possibly fall out of, doing ungodly harm to each other. It’s enough to make you very content to live a safe life.”

She considered what I said. “I can see your point. But don’t tell me you haven’t had the occasional reckless feeling from time to time.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“You’re so sweetly young, Haven.” She flashed a wide grin that she might give to a child, and a child might believe to be sincere. “Have you never been consumed with greed or passion or emotion enough that you felt you could do something unseemly to get what you wanted?”

I thought about it. I wasn’t one for instant gratification. My life had been structured to postpone enjoyment in favor of working hard to get where I wanted to be. A good school, a good life, a good career—I wanted to be something important. I did, suddenly, feel very young. Aurelia would probably think these were naïve, pedestrian desires.

“Is there nothing you want in life? Are you really so happy all the time?” Her voice had an edge I couldn’t place and one I didn’t think I deserved. My blood coursed to a low simmer, even though I knew, intellectually, it wasn’t appropriate to feel this angry this quickly toward my boss.

“Of course I want things. I want so much that I surrender entire parts of my existence to get there.” If I cared less I wouldn’t have been sitting in this empty hotel right now. I would be going to school, I would have friends there, I would go to the mall after school and football games, instead of having tunnel vision about the future.

“at some point, you’ll find that your morals only get you so far and that it can be a good bit of fun to loosen them on occasion.”

“I suppose that might be true.” I felt it might be best now to say as little as possible. As Aurelia poured her second cup of tea, I tried again with my first. The second sip burned less, but I may just have been numb.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if even you found within you the tiniest lust for danger. It’s human. There’s nothing wrong with flying too close to the sun on occasion. Wouldn’t you like to try?”

I knew Greek mythology. I knew of Icarus and his waxen wings that melted when he soared too high and had left him dead in the sea. But I couldn’t for the life of me understand what she wanted from me. “I. Um. I’m sorry, I’m not sure I understand.”

“You will.” Her lips curled in a smirk, knowingly.

Before I could find a way to ask again, the kitchen door pushed open once more, but it wasn’t Celine this time. I saw the chef’s hat and uniform and wished it could be Dante—because I needed him then—but instead found a man that I knew instantly, in that way that best friends know, would be Dante’s
type.
He certainly looked young enough to be one of us, and had smooth, perfect skin, but he was taller and more filled out and buff than Dante, and from what I could tell, had a shaved head. With his stony expression and serious eyes, his features lacked warmth but he carried himself like he was much more accomplished than someone our age. He reached our table and didn’t even look at me, but faced Aurelia, addressing her instead.

“Mademoiselle, I hope you’ve been enjoying the traditional tea selections from the menu you requested,” he said in a reverential tone. He held his hands clasped together at his waist, his head cocked to the side waiting for her reviews. “Please let me know if you’d like more of anything.” He was all polish and perfection, just like everyone else around here. A spark of color crept out at the wrist of his chef’s coat, catching my eye. He reached to refill Aurelia’s teacup and I got a full view. On his wrist, he had that same eye tattoo I had seen so many times. He must have felt me staring. As soon as he finished pouring, he turned around to face me. I saw that his coat read “Etan” in an embroidered red script.

“Hello, I’m not sure we’ve met. I’m Etan D’Amour.” He pronounced it AY-tahn and stretched out his hand for me to shake. The tattoo pulsed in the process. His smile, now that he had chosen to turn it on, was full of mystery. “I’m the chef here. Pleasure to have you in the Parlor.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Nice to meet you. My friend Dante is going to be working with you.” I almost couldn’t suppress my glee. I couldn’t wait to talk to him about this.

“That’s right, he is. I’m looking forward to meeting him today. He left me some fresh cookies he baked.”

“Yeah, that sounds like him.”

“I like him already.” Etan turned back to Aurelia. “Generally, our guests will be taking their tea service between the hours of two and five in the afternoon, but I know you have a busy day and wanted to sign off on it all this morning. It is to your liking, I hope?”

“Excellent.” She nodded firmly. “And Haven, what did you think?” They both looked at me.

“Delicious and really beautiful too.” My eyes darted quickly to both of our nearly undisturbed tiered trays.

“Thank you. Well, don’t let me keep you any further. I’ll let you finish. Bon appétit, mesdemoiselles.” He bowed slightly and strode off to the kitchen.

Aurelia leaned back in her seat, folded her arms, and said, “He’s just lovely and so talented.”

“He seems it.”

“But, now, where were we?”

I didn’t say a word; I just poured more tea for myself, the leaves collecting in the mesh of the tea strainer. The pot was still so hot that the handle burned me. She leaned forward now, looking right into my eyes. I folded my hands in my lap and straightened my back, prepared to receive whatever she would tell me.

“If I were a person who read these,” she said, pointing to the wet black leaves collected before me, “I fear they might say that you could very well be eaten alive here.” I felt my heart drop. My jaw dropped too. “But it doesn’t have to be that way. Not at all.” She smiled, and with that she folded her napkin into a precise isosceles triangle and rose from the table. “Thank you so much for joining me. I’ll be looking forward to seeing your work.”

She breezed out. I watched her until she disappeared out of sight. And then I let my head fall over the back of the chair and my breath rush out of me. So much of what she said, those disorienting questions I couldn’t sort out, echoed in my mind. I had the sense that my life would always be divided into the pre-Aurelia and post-Aurelia eras.

The only silver lining of the encounter this morning was that for the hour or so we were together, I had managed to forget the strange warnings of that mysterious book that lay in my room.

8. What’s with the Book?

The gallery was a welcome hideaway for me, and I fired up the computer and my giant TV monitor prepared to get lost in work. The photos shuffled past me, no clunkers to speak of from the Outfit. I could probably let the thumbnails fill the screen, close my eyes and point randomly, and I’d get a stunning group of shots with which to impress Aurelia tomorrow (if she was capable of being impressed at all). It was too easy, and it didn’t engross me the way I needed it to. I decided to camp out in the library instead, scanning the shelves for more history tomes until Lance appeared.

“Hey, morning, how’s it going?” He sounded surprised to see me. “Did you get breakfast yet? I’m starved and thought I’d check out the kitchen in the—”

I wasn’t listening. A thread hung loose at the bottom of my sweater and I pulled at it, twisting it around my finger. If I wasn’t careful I would end up unraveling the whole thing. I couldn’t hold back: “Hi. Yeah, so what’s with the book?” It came out hostile to my ears, but he seemed to hear differently.

“Good stuff, right? Thought you’d like it. There’s another one here too.” He scanned the long table, littered with stacks of books. “Did you get to the part about the vault?”

“Yeah. No. Not that book. The other one,” I whispered. I don’t know why—it was as though if I said it too loud then it would definitely mean it was for real.

“Whaddya mean?”

“Just promise me you’re not playing a joke on me.”

“What? What are you talking about?” He looked at me like I was losing it. I searched his face for any flicker that he might be on the verge of fessing up to having written it, but there was nothing there.

“Forget it.” I shook my head. “Maybe it was the Outfit or something weird.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind.” I thought for a moment. “This is crazy, but can you show me again where you found that book with my name on it?”

“Sure, yeah,” he said, confused. He waved me over to the side of the table. “I’ve emptied almost all of the boxes, but it was toward the top of this one here. Knock yourself out.”

“Thanks.” I stood over it looking down, like it was a well that might just throw coins back up at me. Then I knelt down, shuffling through and finding only more history books, more old classics. I don’t know what I expected.

Lance had resumed shelving books but must’ve heard me stop rustling. I realized he was watching me from behind those glasses.

“You okay?” he asked finally. “You’re acting kinda weird.”

“Yeah. I know,” I said. “Sorry. Fine, thanks.” It wasn’t my most convincing performance. I actually would have liked to tell him, to get it out in the open, about these creepy threats. Maybe it would sound less scary if I said it out loud. But it seemed safest not to just yet. “Thanks again.”

“Sure.” He shrugged and went back to work.

So did I. Sequestering myself in the gallery, I tied my hair back in a tight ponytail—always a sign I’m getting down to business—and decided not to leave until I’d made some headway. In no time, I had the entire Outfit finished and had printed eight-by-tens on the glossy photo paper loaded into the printer. I had lingered longer than necessary on the pictures of Lucian. My favorite ended up being the one of him walking toward me at the end. Maybe I was reading too much into that one, but I liked the movement of it. And that undone tie, of course. I considered printing one for myself. But it would be mortifying if anyone were to find out I had this picture in my room, like something I’d clipped from a magazine and taped in my locker. I stopped myself, attempting to refocus.

It was midafternoon, and I was in the process of Photoshop-zapping Dante’s barely there zit when a faint knock rattled the door. Gentle as it was, I still jumped up in my seat and yelped.

Lance appeared in the doorway with his hands up, surrendering. In one hand he held a white paper bag with the LH insignia.

“Sorry about that,” he said.

“No, no, it’s me.” I tightened my ponytail, pulling a few loose strands back from my face, and took a deep breath. “Just a little skittish today. What’s up?”

“Dante made us sandwiches.” He handed me the bag.

“That’s sweet of him.” I peeked inside. “He’s going to be a great mom one day. How’s his day going with the boss?”

“I don’t know. He just came by for a second. He wanted to come see you but he seemed anxious about getting back.”

“Yeah, he makes fun of me, but he’s capable of getting just as freaked out about everything. He usually just hides it a lot better than me.”

Lance nodded, hands in his pockets, leaning against the doorframe. He looked away for a moment and then back at me, and away again. Finally, he said, “So, I kind of have a favor to ask too.”

“Okay, try me.” I swiveled my chair to face him. “What can I do?”

He exhaled, ready to lay it on me. “Not sure if you noticed yesterday, you know, with the pictures. But I have this gnarly scar here.” He touched the spot just under his glasses, below his right eye.

“Oh. No, I mean, just a little, it’s hardly noticeable.”

He returned his hands to his pockets, looking away again. “I just wondered, if it’s not too much trouble, do you think there’s any chance you could . . . I mean, you have Photoshop and stuff, right?”

“I do.” I completed his thought for him. “And I will. If that’s what you want.”

He ruffled the back of his hair, like he had earlier, his relief slipping out. “That would be great, actually, if you could just get rid of it. It kinda bugs me.” He looked up. “Thanks.”

“Anytime. I understand,” I said, my voice solemn. I considered telling him about mine, but I just wasn’t sure. Maybe sometime I would.

“Thanks. Really appreciate it,” he said again. “I’ll, um”—he pointed to the door—“let you get back to it.”

Once he’d left, I pulled up his pictures. Just as I suspected, the ones without his glasses were the best by far. There were angles to his face you didn’t see in daily life, sharp lines along his jaw. His awkwardness didn’t come through in the photos. And the slight squint of his eyes—a deep, melting brown—as he tried his best to look where the camera was, where I was, made him appear concerned and serious, even protective. I decided I liked his clunky frames best when they hung on his shirt collar. They looked so much better there than shielding his face.

Photo chosen, I zeroed in on my target, enlarging his scar on my screen for a better look. I wondered how he had gotten it. Its texture was like mine, the quality of a burn, but his was much more faint and just one stripe, not an unsightly trio like mine. Don’t we always think we have it worse than everyone else? But his was on his face, and even covered by glasses, surely he felt its presence always. I tapped at that cut on my cheek. He had been polite not to ask me about it. Now I understood why.

A few taps shook the door softly and I jerked again, but my heart didn’t stop midbeat like it had minutes before. Progress.

“Someone’s getting high-maintenance all of a sudden,” I called out, my back to the door as my hand clicked at the mouse fast, fast, fast to minimize the picture on my screen—I didn’t want him knowing I’d been looking at his scar so closely. “So what else needs fixing now?”

“Well, for one thing, my manners. They could use a complete overhaul.”

It wasn’t Lance’s voice.

I whipped around in my seat. Lucian stood just inside the doorway. Suit-clad again, tie snugly knotted.