Текст книги "The Retribution of Mara Dyer"

Автор книги: Michelle Hodkin

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

“That’s . . .” I didn’t even know what to say, except, “Fucked up.”

“It’s okay,” Stella said, squeezing my hand.

No, it wasn’t. I looked down at myself. I was a mess, outside and in. “Thank you,” I said to Stella. “For everything.”

Her brows drew together. “Thank you. I know I freaked out in the truck after . . . after. But I heard what he was thinking. He would’ve murdered us. If you hadn’t . . . ”

Killed him. Butchered him.

“I wouldn’t be here right now.”

I wanted to tell her she didn’t have to thank me, but the words tangled on my tongue.

“Can I—can I have a second?” I asked hoarsely. “I can’t stand these clothes anymore.”

She braced herself against the tub and quickly stood. “Of course. Do you want me to stay outside? If you need me?”

If I needed her. If I needed her to help me bathe. We barely knew each other, but without her help, who knows how long I would’ve been out?

“I think I’m all right. But thank you. Really.” I heard the door close behind her.

I stared blankly at the beadboard wall, huddled in the bathtub. The water had started to cool. I pulled the plug with my toe and drained it, stripped off my clothes and took a real bath. Without help.

When I was done, I looked up at myself in the mirror shakily, wondering who would be staring back. But it was just me. My eyes looked wide and round in my pale face, and my collarbones were sharper than I’d remembered them. The heat and steam brought some color to my cheeks and lips, and I looked better than I had at Horizons, but still. I didn’t really look like myself. I didn’t really feel like myself. It hit me then that this was the first time I’d really been alone since Horizons.

Wrapped in a white towel, I stepped out of the tiled bathroom and into my room, the old wooden floorboards creaking under my feet. Noah’s bag, still open, sat on the lace-covered four-poster bed. My sketchbook was next to it. Closed.

I approached his bag cautiously, staring at it like it might lash out and bite. I sat down on the bed and ran my fingers over the black nylon fabric. I needed to look inside. There might be something that could help us figure out where Noah was, why he wasn’t with us, whether he was really—

I closed my eyes and bit my lip to stop myself from thinking it. I didn’t open my eyes; I just let my hands wander over his things, feeling his clothes, his laptop . . .

He would’ve taken that with him if he could have, wouldn’t he? Which meant he couldn’t have, which meant maybe he—

Stop it. Stop it. I let go of the laptop, but my fingers caught on something else as I withdrew them. It was his T-shirt, the white one with the holes in it. I filled my hands with the fabric and brought it up to my face.

I caught the barest, faintest scent of him, soap and sandalwood and smoke, and in that moment I felt not loss but need. Noah had been there for me when I’d had no one else. He’d believed me when no one else had. He could not be gone, I thought, but my throat began to hurt and my chest began to tighten, and I curled up in bed, knees to chest, head to knees, waiting for tears that never came, and sleep that did.

20

BEFORE

London, England

MR. GRIMSBY WAS FORCED TO HIRE a tattered, worn carriage driven by two old mules and an old man to match, after teams of horses refused to bear us. He huffed as he climbed in and extended his hand to help me up. When I took it, he shivered.

Neither of us spoke as the carriage wound through the streets. I bit my lip to keep it from trembling, and the smell of rot invaded my nostrils until we were far from the docks, when it was replaced by the sting of smoke. I coughed several times.

“It’s the coal fires,” Mr. Grimsby said. “Takes a bit of getting used to.”

I peered out the window and watched my new world unfold before me, the slow pace of the mules allowing me to take everything in. Every person we passed was white, their skin the color of fish bellies. The men dressed in tight coats and pants, while the women were swallowed by voluminous fabrics in every color. That must have been how they kept warm. I held my arms across my chest.

Soon the stink and crowds gave way to gardens dotted with trees, and rows of grand buildings that towered above our heads, made of stones and bricks. The shoddy carriage stopped before one of the grandest.

Mr. Grimsby got out and exchanged coins with the driver, who gaped and stared after us as we walked up to the gate. A uniformed man nodded at Mr. Grimsby and opened the gate for us without looking at me, and Mr. Grimsby led me up to the house.

The house was the color of stone, the front of which seemed to be held up by white columns. It towered several stories into the air. Mr. Grimsby gracefully ascended the front stairs and stopped before a gleaming wooden door. It opened immediately, as had the gate.

Mr. Grimsby held out his hand. “After you, young Miss.”

I stepped in. The lamps were lit, though it was only midday. Mr. Grimsby led me down a short dark hall, then showed me into a large room.

Dark gray light filtered in through the windows, which were skirted by heavy drapes the color of cream. A magnificent fixture hung from the center of the ceiling, dripping with crystals and lit candles. Flourishes curled in the plaster around it, and a white stone fireplace so tall I could step into it anchored the center of the room.

A woman holding a candle appeared seemingly out of nowhere. She was dressed in brown, her gray hair tied loosely at her neck. A strip of black cloth encircled the upper sleeve of one arm.

“Ah, Mrs. Dover.” Mr. Grimsby nodded at her.

“Mr. Grimsby,” she said. “You’ve returned with the ship’s cargo, I see.”

He cleared his throat. “Is the lady in?”

“She is not yet returned from church,” Mrs. Dover said, examining me. “Let me get a good look at her. Step forward, girl.”

I looked at Mr. Grimsby. He nodded. I took a step toward Mrs. Dover.

“Pretty,” Mrs. Dover said approvingly. “Though in dire need of new clothes and a good washing up.”

“Please prepare the young miss for the lady’s arrival.”

“Yes, Mr. Grimsby,” she said, and beckoned to me. “What’s your name, girl?”

I hesitated.

“She’s a bit shy,” Mr. Grimsby said.

“Of course,” Mrs. Dover said. “I’ll have one of the maids set your things in your room. Come then. Let’s get you washed up.”

My shoes thunked on the wide-planked wooden floors. She walked me to the back of the house, where a hound of some sort stood at the foot of the stairs, baring its teeth at me.

“Dash,” Mrs. Dover scolded. “Shoo.” She waved her hand at the dog. The dog did not move.

Mrs. Dover looked at me queerly, then called out, “Miss Smith!” A harried-looking young girl with soot on her cheeks appeared, brushing her palms on her skirt.

“Yes, Mrs. Dover?”

“Take Dash outside, please.”

“Yes, Mrs. Dover.” The girl reached for the dog’s collar. He snapped at her, but she didn’t flinch. She just fixed a grip on the dog’s thick scruff, and he yipped as she ushered him away from the stairs. Mrs. Dover went up them, and I followed behind. I glanced behind me. The dog watched me as I ascended the stairs.

At the third landing Mrs. Dover led me down a hall bracketed by carved woodwork. “Each room’s named for a color—the blue room, the red room, the lavender room, the gray room, and so on. The green room belongs to the lady. The blue room is to be yours, I believe.” She showed me into it. It was precisely the same color as the clothes Uncle used to always wear. I nearly gasped at the familiarity of it. A large copper basin waited for me in the corner. Steam curled from the lip.

I let Mrs. Dover undress me, let her scrub me without mercy in the scalding water. I gritted my teeth and did not make a sound, even as she tore a comb through my knotted hair.

When she finished, she dressed me and opened my trunk.

“Hmm,” she said disapprovingly as she picked through the clothing I had purchased for myself in India. Then she lifted up my doll with her thumb and forefinger. “What’s this?”

“It’s mine,” I said.

“So she speaks, does she.” Mrs. Dover looked amused. “Well, we can wash it, though there might be no saving it, I’m afraid.”

I snatched my doll from her hand.

“Mrs. Dover,” a crisp, brittle voice said from behind me. “Is there a problem?”

A look of surprise transformed Mrs. Dover’s face. “No, of course not, my lady.”

I turned to face a figure draped in black. Her face was veiled by black fabric that reflected no light, the same fabric as her gown. It rustled with each tiny, delicate step she took toward me. She seemed to be floating, gliding over the floor.

“I should have a look at the girl my husband brought from across the world,” the woman said, and swept the veil from her face.

My memories of her husband painted him as old and frail, but this woman was neither. She had ash blond hair that was braided in a crown around her face. Jet-black earrings dangled from her ears. The stones glittered in the dim light.

“You are older than I thought you would be,” she said. “How old are you, child?”

I lowered my eyes to the floor. “I do not know, Lady.”

The woman clapped her hands together. “How darling! You speak as if you were born and raised in the West End and not in the jungles of India. My husband purchased you a fine education, it seems.”

I thought of Uncle and Sister. “Yes, Lady.”

“If only he had lived to see it,” she said queerly. “He wrote a great deal about you in his papers.”

I did not know what to say to that, so I remained quiet.

“Well, you are in my care now, and I will treat you as if you were my own daughter. I would have insisted Mr. Bray draw up the paperwork to officially make you my ward, as my husband desired, except you would then be expected to mourn for him as well, and I would not mar your arrival with such darkness.”

I bowed my head.

She looked at the room we stood in. “My husband instructed me very clearly to place you in the blue room, but I think a different one would be more suitable. Come, child.”

I followed the woman in black, and she led me to an even larger room. The walls were painted a pale mint color, ornamented with gold candleholders in the shape of flowers. A cream-colored bed with a full canopy and skirt stood in the center of the room. No wonder I’d been scrubbed so harshly.

“Yes,” she said, looking around. “This room is much more suitable for a young girl. So much lighter! Mrs. Dover, the curtains?”

Mrs. Dover busied herself about the room, throwing them open. Dozens of arched windows emerged, broken up into wavy panes of glass. The lady smiled.

“You can see the gardens from up here. Come, dear, look!”

I followed her, and peered out the windows. The gardens were brown with the season, and one of the leafless trees was choked with blackbirds.

“Before supper I shall introduce you to everyone in the household. The boys, Elliot and Simon, are with the nanny at present, but I shall have Mrs. Dover send word to the cook that they are to dine with us tonight so they might meet you.”

Mrs. Dover inclined her head. “Yes, my lady,” she said, and left.

The lady approached me and smiled. “And tomorrow your new tutor shall arrive, at my husband’s direction. I admit that if he had not asked it of me on his deathbed, I wouldn’t think of it, but I will honor his wishes, no matter how unorthodox. No one must know, however. Do you understand?”

I nodded at her.

“Good girl. Everything has been arranged, and the tutor is eager to meet you.”

“Yes, Lady.”

She smiled. “I should like you to address me as Aunt Sarah. We are to be family, after all.”

“Yes, Aunt Sarah.”

“Clever girl,” she said. “And yet I find I still do not know how to address you. Strangely, my husband never mentioned your name.”

Because when he knew me, I had not yet chosen one.

“And neither did Mr. Barbary,” she finished. “Tell me, dear, what shall I call you?”

Before I could answer, the flock of blackbirds scattered, screaming, into the air, diverting Aunt Sarah’s attention.

I took a moment to think.

“There is power in a name,” Sister had said. I did not want to give out the one I’d shared only with her and Uncle, so I’d given anyone else who had asked a different one instead. The name I had given to my doll, before I’d known what it meant. I decided to give Aunt Sarah the same one.

“Mara,” I told her as we watched the birds disappear into the sky.

21

I WOKE UP WHILE IT was still dark. I dressed in Noah’s clothes—his T-shirt, which hung loose over my narrow shoulders, and his jeans, which I had to roll up before I could walk. I didn’t care how I looked; wearing his clothes made me feel closer to him, and I needed that for what I would have to do today.

My heart pounded against my ribs as I opened his laptop and powered it on. There might have been something on it that would give us some clue, some hint that would help me find him, and no matter what else I found on it, I needed to find that. I needed to know he was okay.

I was prompted for a password, and I guessed wrong once, twice, four times, then eight. Nothing I tried worked—no variations of his name, his pets’ names, his birthday, even my birthday. I slammed the laptop shut, threw it into his bag, and knocked on Stella’s door before the sun rose. She answered it blearily.

“Y’okay?”

Not really. “I want to go as soon as we can.”

She stood there for a minute, as if she were trying to translate what I’d said, but she finally nodded. “Ten minutes.”

Jamie didn’t answer the first or second time I knocked; I stood there for what felt like hours before he finally woke up.

“What?”

“Pack up. I want to go.”

“Why?”

“Because we have to find Noah.”

Jamie blinked, and I thought he would argue, but he said, “Five minutes.” And then he shut the door on me.

We walked out of the bed-and-breakfast without breakfast, and, as Stella complained, without much bed, either, but it would be a while before we reached Miami. Stella could nap in the car. On our way out we managed to steal—sorry, “borrow”—a car belonging to an early-rising guest, thanks to Jamie. It was comfortable and roomy, but Jamie warned us not to get attached to it—we’d be ditching it as soon as we reached Miami. After that we would borrow another one, and pay a visit to Noah’s parents, then ours.

Stella’s mouth hung open when we crossed the bridge that led to the gated island Noah lived on. The farther in we drove, the more extravagant the houses became. Noah’s parents’ house (mansion) towered over the center of a sprawling green lawn dotted with Greek fountains. Palm trees framed the driveway, which was blocked by an iron gate.

The video camera swiveled in our direction. I’d already told Jamie what to say.

“Hi,” he said, as if reading from a script. “I’m here to see Noah? I’m a friend from school?”

There was a click, and then a voice on the intercom. “No visitors are to be admitted at present, I’m afraid.”

I knew that voice. “Albert?” The Shaws’ butler. He’d met me before. I prayed that he would remember. “It’s Mara Dyer—I have something of Noah’s—”

“He’s . . . he’s unavailable, miss.”

Unavailable. Unavailable dead or unavailable alive?

“Where is he?” I asked.

There was a pause. “I’m afraid—” My heart lodged in my throat. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say.”

I tried to stay calm. I had to stay calm, or we would be thrown out of there with more questions and fewer answers than we’d arrived with.

“Can I give you something to give to him?”

There was no answer, but the gate swung open. I leaned my head back against the seat in relief as Jamie drove forward.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” Jamie said. He’d said that before. Every time, actually.

Watching him exercise his ability was sort of fascinating. He worked himself up into an anxious, nervous frenzy, wondering out loud if he could do it, mumbling to himself about the consequences. It reminded me of something I’d read once, about divers making themselves hyperventilate before they dove, to force more oxygen into their lungs or something. Since we were triggered by stress and fear and possibly pain, Jamie freaking out about whether or not he could work his magic made it more likely that he could.

Albert was waiting for us at the front door when we drove up. His hands were tucked behind his back. I fleetingly wondered how he would react to Jamie vomiting in one of the mammoth potted boxwood urns when he finished with him.

“You can do this,” I whispered to Jamie. And then he did.

“Hi, Albert,” Jamie said in that calm, confident, crystalline voice. “My name is Jamie Roth, though you’re not actually going to remember that, or the fact that we had this conversation, once we’ve had it.”

“Of course, sir.”

“So here’s how this is going to work. I’m going to ask you questions, and you’re going to give me honest answers, all right?”

“All right.”

“Okay, what’s your middle name?”

Stella and I shared a glance.

“Eugene.”

“Do you have a driver’s license?”

“Yes.”

“Give me your wallet, please.”

Albert did so. Jamie checked it. “His middle name is in fact Eugene. Great. Okay, Albert. Now this is where it’s going to get a little weird. Are you ready?”

“I’m ready for weird, sir.”

“Is Noah Shaw alive?”

It took an eternal, agonizing second for Albert to answer.

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes, Noah’s alive?”

“Yes, he is.”

I wanted to do cartwheels on the lawn. I wanted to fly. I wanted to rocket into the sun.

“Where is he?”

“At the Horizons Residential Treatment Center, sir.”

No. No.

“Are you sure, Albert?”

“Yes, sir. I drove him there myself.”

“When?”

“Three weeks ago.”

That was shortly after I’d been dropped off myself.

“Do you know if he was there just for the retreat or if he’d been admitted long-term?”

“I’m not sure, sir.”

“Aren’t his parents worried about him?”

“Not particularly, no.”

No surprise there.

“Are they home?” Jamie asked. “Can we speak to them?”

“I’m afraid they’re in Europe at the moment.”

“What about Katie?” I asked. Jamie repeated my question.

“Her as well,” Albert answered.

Jamie looked at me and shrugged. “What next?”

I didn’t know. But at least we had one more answer than we’d had when we’d arrived; there had been no funeral. Which meant his family believed he was alive. But they also thought he was at Horizons. Noah had gotten himself thrown in there for me. To be with me. And now—

Now he was nowhere. Because of me.

22

JAMIE AND STELLA TRIED TO cheer me up when we got back into the car. “It’s not hopeless,” they said. “We’ll find him.” But I began to feel hopeless and doubt that we would find him. I had nothing to hold on to, so I held on to myself. My arms crossed over my stomach, pressing his clothes against my skin as I tried to think about what he would have said if he’d been there. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine him, what he would have looked like, sounded like, if he’d been in the seat next to me.

I pictured his face, careless and unworried, his hair a tousled mess as he reminded me that his parents were idiots. That they never knew where he was, even when he was home. He would tell me not to believe something unless it could be proven. Once, I would’ve said that just because you couldn’t prove something didn’t mean it wasn’t real. But I wouldn’t say that today. Today I needed to believe he was right.

Jamie came up with the implausible explanation we would offer to each of our respective families when we showed up on our respective doorsteps. We’re still at Horizons. Everything is fine. We’re going on an extended wilderness retreat up north, where we can sing with all the voices of the mountains and paint with all the colors of the wind. I’d seen Jamie work miracles, but this was my mother I had to convince. I did not have high hopes.

But we didn’t end up visiting my house first. My mother and father would have been out working, and Joseph would have been at school. Stella’s mother worked the night shift, and her dad had left when she was little, so it was just her and her mom. Jamie talked to her mother, which seemed to go well, and then he went to talk to his own parents. I have no idea how that went because he didn’t invite us into his house. He walked out carrying a bigger duffel bag with “provisions.” For what, I didn’t ask. On his way back to the car (our third), he wiped his mouth and gave us the thumbs-up. I started the car. “Shotgun,” he said to Stella.

“But I’m already sitting here.”

“But I’m the one who got us the car. And the one messing with our parents’ memories. Come on,” he whined. “It’s hot in the backseat, and I don’t feel well.”

“How did it go?” I asked him.

Jamie shrugged. “Okay? They were surprised to see me at first, obviously, but I fed them the bullshit and they swallowed it.” He snapped his fingers. “Like that.”

“Like that,” I repeated. “You’re proving to be quite handy.”

“Yeah, I am. And you’re next.”

I was, finally. The afternoon light filtered through the palm trees and oaks that dotted the cul-de-sac we lived on, and I did a quick car check when we drove by the house. Mom’s, Dad’s, and Daniel’s cars were all there, which meant Joseph would hopefully be there too. Jamie said that would make this all easier—feed everyone the same lines at the same time, and there’s less chance that an inconsistency will crop up later and conflict with what they remember.

But for this visit both Jamie and Stella would need to join me. Because it wasn’t just my parent problem we needed to fix; we needed to get New Theories in Genetics from Daniel too. While Jamie was talking, Stella would entertain my brother, and I’d fetch the book. Lemon squeezy.

I realized when I walked up to the house that I didn’t have my key, and my parents didn’t keep a spare in any obvious places, like under the doormat or a decorative rock or something.

I looked at Jamie and Stella. “So what, I just knock?”

“I’d suggest it,” Jamie said.

“And then?”

“And then I’ll tell your family what I told my family, and Stella’s mom.”

Stella put a hand on my shoulder. “It’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

It sounded easy enough. But my hand still shook when I lifted it to knock on the door.

My mother answered it. Her eyes went wide when she saw me. “Mara! What are you doing here?”

I don’t know why, but my eyes began to fill the second I saw her. I wanted to throw my arms around her and hear her tell me she loved me. That everything would be okay. But I couldn’t move, and I didn’t say a word.

Jamie did, though. “Everything’s okay,” he said smoothly as my mother ushered the three of us in. I watched her face as he spoke to her, told her the fake story of what had happened to us, why we were there, and why we’d be leaving again soon. My mother looked completely untroubled by all of it. Relaxed, even. She urged Jamie and Stella to sit at the kitchen table while she made us something to eat, and Jamie continued to talk. It all seemed so normal, except for the fact that it wasn’t, at all. I knew why we had to do this, but I still felt the urge to take my mother by the shoulders and scream that everything was not okay, that I was not okay, and that I would probably never be okay again.

When Joseph and my father walked into the kitchen, Jamie went to work on them, too, repeating the story word for word. He made Horizons sound like camp. He left out the fact that I had killed the counselors.

I braced myself for my suspicious, questioning mother’s reaction, but she didn’t find Jamie’s explanation at all strange. His words cut through any resistance my parents might have had, erasing my future absence from their future memories like it was nothing. More than anything else I’d seen, that unsettled me.

Jamie excused himself barely two minutes later. It was Stella’s turn now.

“So where’s Daniel?” I heard her ask. I realized I wasn’t even looking at my family anymore. I’d been staring at nothing for who knew how long.

“New York,” my father said.

That got my attention.

“He went to visit a few colleges,” my mother added, reaching for sandwich stuff from the refrigerator. “I think he’s deciding between Columbia and Princeton?”

“I thought Columbia and Yale?” my father said.

“When’s he coming back?” I asked, trying not to sound too anxious.

Dad shrugged. “Next week, maybe? Or the week after?”

Mom looked like she was trying to remember. “He said he might go visit Harvard and Brown, too—”

“And Dartmouth, I think,” my father said. “I remember something about Dartmouth.” It wasn’t like my parents to not know where all of their children were. My mother especially. Something wasn’t right. Jamie returned and picked up a sandwich.

Was what he’d told them screwing with other memories? I felt a kick under the table. Jamie was trying, poorly, to indicate with his eyes that we needed to talk alone.

“Be back in a minute,” I said to my parents. “Stella?”

“Still eating,” she said, popping potato chips into her mouth. She’d sat down next to Joseph on the floor and was watching him play a video game. I led Jamie into my room and closed the door behind us. As soon as I did, he spoke.

“So we have a problem,” he said. “I haven’t done this much, but I do know that Daniel’s going to notice that something’s messed up when your parents tell him the bullshit about you, and why they aren’t worried.”

“What do you mean?”

“You think your parents would believe that you’re going on a wilderness retreat, without checking on it, if I weren’t here to make them believe it?”

Point. “Is there anything you can do about it?”

Jamie looked doubtful. “Doubtful. I thought about maybe trying to talk to him over the phone, but I don’t know if my mind thingie works like that? Especially when I’ve never really talked to him before. It could get weird . . . and if he doesn’t believe me, he might be able to poke holes through what I told the rest of your family too.”

“So we just have to go, then, and hope he’s busy, and that my parents don’t mention anything strange.”

“I think we do.”

“Not ideal,” I said.

“Not ideal.”

Just then my bedroom door opened, with Stella behind it. “We have a problem.”

“We know,” I said. “Daniel’s not here.”

“Right. Daniel’s not here. And neither is the book.”