Part 20 (1/2)
”Agatha is useful in helping me ... sustain myself.”
”Like Rowena is?” I ask. He inclines his head thoughtfully in an awful parody of a professor considering a question from a student.
”In a different way.”
”And what will happen to them? If I bring you what you want? Will you free them?”
”Whatever there is left to free,” he adds softly, and this time I can't keep the shudder from traveling across my face.
”Time is running out for them, Tamsin. And when time runs out for them, be sure that there are others on the list” He steeples his hands, eyes the clock pointedly, andsmiles at me.
”I think your young man out there is perhaps becoming a tad anxious.”
”How long do I have to bring you what you want? And why can't you just get it yourself if you're so powerful?” The edge of a frown crosses his face and I feel that even though I haven't accomplished much during this interview, there's that at least.
”It appears that someone of your special Talents is required” And in the little silence that follows, I almost laugh at the sad fact that I once wanted so badly to be Talented and now I would trade anything not to be. But all laughter, hysterical or otherwise, vanishes at the sound of a clock chiming the hour.
Turning, I locate the source of the sound: the clock that was once the Domani, in the corner of the office.
”A keepsake,” Alistair murmurs.
”And it does prove useful,” he adds, and I jerk my head back toward him just in time to see him unstop the decanter and pour out some of the murky liquid into a gla.s.s. He holds the gla.s.s aloft, letting it catch the light so that it sparkles brightly.
”To your ... success,” he says with a horrible politeness and drains the contents in one long swallow. I watch the muscles of his throat twitch and then he smiles at me, his lips s.h.i.+ning wet. Agatha! I turn and flee the room, knocking past my sister, who is curled up outside the door, her eyes closed. Alistair's laugh follows me all the way down the hall.
TWENTY.
”ARE YOU SURE you want to do this?” Gabriel asks me again through the partially open door that connects Aunt Rennie's and Uncle Chester's dressing rooms.
”What choice do I have?” I mutter miserably, sliding into the dress that I s.n.a.t.c.hed from my closet back in my dorm room. Gabriel and I drove there after I'd managed to explain in between mostly incoherent gasps what Alistair had said. Agatha was asleep, and maybe it was my imagination, but it seemed unlike her usual deep coma. As I moved around the room, gathering up everything I thought I needed, she tossed and turned and murmured. Once she had cried out, ”No, please!” I debated waking her and then decided not to. Instead, I stood over her for a minute while Gabriel waited outside, and I pressed my hand against her forehead. But she twisted away from me and turned toward the wall, and that's when I saw the cuts on her arm that were barely crusted over. I had to run away then before I started hyperventilating again. Now I try to take comfort in the silky fabric of the dress, but even that reminds me too much of Agatha and her squealing excitement when I had come out of the dressing room of that East Village thrift shop. She convinced me to buy the dress even though I couldn't afford it and even though I didn't have one single place to wear a full-length rose-colored evening gown from the 1930s. Last month I thought stupidly that I would wear it to Rowena's wedding.
”Maybe I still will,” I whisper to myself now as I twist the dress into place.
”How's it going in there?”
”Okay,” I gasp.
”I can't really breathe, but other than that, okay.”
”Breathing's overrated,” Gabriel advises me.
”I'm discovering that right about now with this d.a.m.n tie.” I trip across the room to stand in front of Aunt Rennie's huge mirror. The dress says 1930s, but my hair gives it away. I search through my stack of hairpins, settle on a few crystal bobby pins. So what that they're from the chain store Claire's? How many people are going to be peering that closely at my hairpins? How long are we going to be stuck in 1939, anyway? Just long enough to apparently wreck Aunt Beatrice's life and get out. And before I can confront that uncomfortable thought, Gabriel walks through the adjoining door. I catch sight of his reflection in the mirror as I attempt to twist my dark curls into something resembling a 1930s hairstyle.
”You look great,” I exclaim just as half my hair falls out of the knot I'm attempting to pin it in. I sigh.
”I give up.” Gabriel, wearing one of Uncle Chester's charcoal suits, advances toward me.
”You give up? You give up your foolish resistance to my undeniable charms? I knew you'd cave eventually. They always do.” I stick out my tongue at his mirrored reflection. Holding up my collection of hairpins, I say, ”I give up on my hair, idiot.” He holds out his hand.
”Give them to me,” he says and sets to work.
”Ow,” I say as he jabs my head with a pin. But it didn't really hurt. I just said that because he's standing so close.
”Sorry,” he murmurs, his breath whispering across the bare nape of my neck.
”It's okay,” I say through gritted teeth, hoping my goose b.u.mps aren't visible.
”There. What do you think?” He takes half a step back and I look at myself in the mirror again. Somehow, he has managed where I failed to roll my hair and pin it low on my neck. The curl that keeps escaping has now been positioned behind my ear.
”Not bad,” I say.
”You know, if the musician thing doesn't work out, you could always be a-”Behind me Gabriel makes a stabbing motion over his heart and I grin at him in the mirror.
”Lipstick,” I say in a rush. ”Nah, you don't need it. Why do girls wear that s.h.i.+t anyway?”
”It's 1939. I can't not wear lipstick,” I say and search through what I've brought before settling on Agatha's tube of Rev Me Up Red by L'Oreal. But my hands are shaking, and as a result I end up scrubbing lipstick off my front teeth.
”Okay,” I say at last.
”Ready, I think.” Gabriel pulls a picture from inside his voluminous jacket pocket and studies it. In the attic I found an old photo alb.u.m covered with a layer of musty grime. Thank the elements that Aunt Rennie never seems to throw anything away.
”Do you always need something like that?” I ask now.
”Like the painting or this photo here? You know, to help you ... Travel?” Gabriel studies the photo for a minute longer.
”I think it helps. I've never been able to do it without some sort of ... guide like this or the painting. Concentrating?” I nod, staring at the photo of the girl in a swooping hat. Her face is tilted up and she is smiling widely. In one hand she's holding a cigarette encased in a long holder, and in her other hand she's cradling what looks like an old-fas.h.i.+oned champagne gla.s.s. She's looking at something outside the borders of the picture. Beatrice, 1939 is written in spidery letters across the bottom of the photo. Gabriel's fingers tighten around mine and suddenly we're whirling through s.p.a.ce and I feel the dress slipping and swaying against my legs. I have time to wonder distractedly if my hair will stay put and then music is blaring in my ear and what feels like hard stone is wedged up against my shoulder.
”Ow!” I say, peeling myself away from a brick wall. I blink and let go of Gabriel's hand.
”Sorry,” he says sheepishly.
”I did tell you that this isn't an exact science.”
”Where are we?” My eyes adjust to the dimness until I can make out rows and rows of bottles and jars all containing what looks like dried herbs or oils. Sniffing the air experimentally, I encounter a familiar earthy scent.
”The stillroom,” I say, taking a step forward, and as if to reward me for my guess, something cool and feathery splays across my face. I reach up to bat away a hanging bouquet of lavender, the flowers silky against my fingers. A crack of light s.h.i.+nes along the far end of the room and I think back to the configurations of Aunt Rennie's house. The stillroom opens onto the garden, and judging from the music on the other side of the door, that's where the party is.
”I think-”
”Quiet,” Gabriel hisses.
”Someone's coming.” I whirl toward where I know the second door should be, the one that leads into the kitchen, and sure enough, right outside it are heavy, dragging footsteps. We sidle into the farthest corner of the room as this door is flung open. I can just make out the outline of a large woman, her hair skinned tightly in a bun that is cemented to the back of her head. She rattles along the shelves, muttering, ”Morehoney syrup, Bertha. More hyssops for the punch, Bertha. The guests are thirsty. Don't dawdle, Bertha, Bertha, Bertha! And all the while my bones are aching for a sit-down” She stomps into the center of the room and reaches up toward the ceiling. The second before she snaps the light on, I realize what she intends to do. Careening into Gabriel, I pull his face down onto mine, my hands artfully splayed across his cheeks to hide as much as I can. Just as his lips crash into mine, bright spangles of light burst against my closed eyelids.
”Oh!” I hear Bertha gasp.
”Beg your pardon,” she stammers. A wheel of heavy boots, a slam of the door, and she's gone.