 
### The Painted Room

by Tina Mikals

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this free ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. If you enjoyed this book, please return to Smashwords.com to discover future works by this author. Thank you.

Copyright 2010 by Tina Mikals

Rev. 11.20.15

2015 Edition, Revised November 20, 2015

Also by Tina Mikals, the sequel to this novel, available at smashwords and other ebook retailers:

Spelled Out in Paint

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

This book is dedicated to my family

### Chapter 1

### Gin and Lobster Dinner

May rapped twice on the shell of the boiled lobster on her plate with the back of her fork. "Aren't these really just cockroaches that wandered into the sea millions of years ago?"

Her older brother, Charley, smiled at her and nodded.

"That's quite enough, young lady," said her father. He drew in a queasy breath and rested his fork down on his plate.

Charley grabbed the two sides of his lobster's body cavity and cracked the shell open. It spurted some green stuff.

"Can I be excused?" asked May.

"What's the matter, dear?" said her mother, handing Charley a napkin. She pushed her plate away and picked up her drink.

"I don't like lobster."

"Since when?"

"Since whenever. Like every time we have it."

"She never likes it," said Charley.

"For heaven's sake, May. You're from Maine and you don't like lobster?" Her mother gave her an indignant look.

Sucking on a spindly lobster leg, Charley said through his teeth, "Personally, I think it's appalling. I'm reporting you to the tourist board."

"Nazi," said May.

Charley put the lobster leg down with a look of disappointment. He eyed May's lobster, picked up his nutcracker and clicked it together in his hand several times.

She nudged her dish towards him, and he took the lobster off her plate.

May's father, who wasn't listening to the conversation around him whatsoever, exclaimed, "Just what was your team thinking today, Charley? Why do you even bother to wear baseball uniforms? I'm surprised you don't all just wear high heels and miniskirts."

"I'm not really sure Charley has the legs for it," May said, poking at some rice which looked suspiciously like it had absorbed lobster water. She picked up a few rice grains on the tines of her fork, sniffed them with a sour look then dumped them back onto her plate.

"I can actually say that was painful watching that today," continued her father. "Does that idiot of a coach do anything at all? Can't any of you hit? It's deplorable. And you, Charley. What was the matter with you? You kept looking in the stands. I could swear you were just thinking about a girl out there. It's like you weren't even trying."

"The season's almost over, Dad. Last game's tomorrow," said Charley.

"That's a relief!" And since her father still wasn't done expounding on the terrible state of his son's baseball team, and with Charley in no mood to fight him this evening, he appealed to May. "What did you think?"

"What did I think? What a big bunch of sallies. They sucked big-time."

"What did I tell you?" said her father before giving May a scowl of disapproval at her word choice.

"She wasn't even there," said Charley.

"Oh?" said her mother, with an edge of suspicion in her voice, returning from the kitchen with another full glass. "Where were you?"

The ice cubes in the glass clinked sharply as her mother sat down. Number three, thought May, watching the new wedge of lime bob at the top of the clear liquid. Her mother drank gin and tonic and always got nastier by the glassful. "At Sheila's."

"And what did you do there?"

"Painted our toenails. Girl stuff."

"Oh, really?" Her mother lifted a disbelieving eyebrow at her before turning to Charley. "I'm sorry I missed the game, dear. I got tied up at the bank again. What a complete waste of time. You can usually tell as soon as they walk in the door whether it'll be worth it or not." She took a long sip of her drink. "Anyhow, tomorrow's a Saturday. I have only one quick appointment in the morning, and then I'll pop right over to your game, okay?"

"Don't worry about it, Mom," said Charley. "I know you're busy."

May's mother rubbed her temple and winced.

"How is your migraine, dear?" asked her husband.

"Better now, thank you. No thanks to that hairdresser, though. Is there some unwritten law which states that all hairdressers must have bitter fights with their ex's which they're required to tell you about when you're trapped in their chair for over an hour?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact," said May, inspecting her mother's shortly cropped hair, unable to tell any difference from the day before.

"Does it look that bad?" asked her mother.

May shrugged. "Nah, it's fine."

Lynn Taylor's sharp features looked even sharper than usual when she said crisply, "I got it frosted." She turned to her husband. "I ran into Bonnie at the grocery store when I was getting the lobsters."

"Oh? And how is Bonnie?" asked her husband.

"On the pursuit of some new love interest. She must have redone her living room again."

"Oh come on, Mom," said May. Bonnie Hazelton was the mother of her best friend, Sheila.

May's mother winked at her. "Last week, May said that Bonnie changes her man every time she changes her wallpaper. I thought that was funny."

"Is ...?" May's father let his voice trail off and gave his wife a questioning look.

"Bonnie's latest divorce final? No. You know what I really don't understand? Her cart was piled high with Yums-Yums and Chip-a-Roo's and then right on top was about ten of those frozen diet meals. Does that make any sense? She's always complaining about her weight. It's no wonder when she keeps so many snacks in the house. It's just a matter of time before her daughter has the same problem."

May's father cast a look over at his daughter's barely touched meal. "Lynn, I wouldn't call Bonnie fat—by any stretch of the imagination."

"I didn't say she was fat, dear. Though she certainly could lose a few pounds in my opinion, but I appreciate your input." She gave her husband an icy smile.

He shut up and stabbed his salad.

"May, weren't you the one who said Sheila was starting to get a little—what do they say now—junk in the trunk?" said her mother.

Dipping a forkful of lobster meat in melted butter, Charley raised his eyebrows in thought and gave an appreciative tilt of his head.

"Well, if Bonnie doesn't want her daughter to have the same problems as she does, she ought to be setting a better example. And I'm not just talking about her weight. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, if you get my drift."

"What are you implying?" asked May.

"Sheila's been your friend for a long time. I like Sheila. You know I do but ...." May's mother let her voice trail off in an aggravating singsong way.

"But what?"

"Well, she's going to be sixteen next week and she's a very pretty girl. She's at an age when she needs to start thinking about not making the same mistakes as her mother."

"I think Sheila's capable of making her own decisions."

"Well, if thinking were all there were to it then it would be as simple as that, wouldn't it? Unfortunately, the signs are accumulating."

"What are you—the weather channel? The signs are accumulating? Exactly what does that mean?"

"Well, first of all, let's talk about the way she dresses—"

"What's wrong with the way she dresses?"

"Oh come on, May. Even you've said it's a bit revealing. And didn't she just get her tongue pierced?"

Charley looked suddenly at May.

"It was her navel," May said to him. She crossed her arms and glared at her mother. "You know, that is so narrow-minded. That is just so typical of you."

"Believe me, May, no mother wants to see her son walk through the door with that on his arm."

Charley let out a sigh, the source of which was only half understood by May, only partly understood by his father, and understood not at all by his mother.

May threw her fork loudly into her plate. "I'm going for a walk. I could use some fresh air." She didn't ask to be excused. She pushed her chair away from the table and left.

"What the hell was that all about?" said her father.

"I wouldn't worry about it, dear," said Lynn Taylor, before taking a sip of her drink. "You know how moody teenage girls can be."

### Chapter 2

### The Very Noisy Painting

Saturday morning came clear and crisp—too crisp, in fact. May hadn't been able to locate her sunglasses, and the late September sun as she biked over to Sheila's house at a brisker pace than usual was searing into her brain like the heated end of a fireplace poker.

She was used to Sheila's dramatic episodes but the desperate sounding instant messages she had sent May the night before weren't the usual rundown of Sheila's latest new crush. They were about some old painting Sheila's mother had just hung in their living room.

Sheila was so creeped out by the painting that she couldn't sleep. Unfortunately, she didn't want May to sleep either. May called it quits around two in the morning—not by choice. She woke up with a kink in her neck and a patch of square indentations on her cheek from falling asleep on her computer keyboard.

Sheila's mother, Bonnie, bought prints and paintings at estate sales and sold them on one of those online auction sites. She was extremely good at it, which baffled May to no end. Bonnie Hazelton, by her own admission, knew absolutely nothing about real estate, and even less about art, yet managed to make a tidy living from both. When most real estate agents had crashed along with the housing market, Bonnie had gone into foreclosure auctions, cleaning up on antiques and artwork along with the houses. It was amazing what people left behind when they had to downsize from a four bedroom dream home to a studio apartment a few states away.

May arrived at Sheila's house out of breath and parked her bike on the path. Sheila must have been watching out the window for her because the door flew open before she could even knock.

Sheila dragged her in off the porch, pulled her through the foyer and into the living room without even giving May the chance to take off her sneakers—a criminal offence in Bonnie Hazelton's house. Luckily, Bonnie was off at a house auction that morning.

After pulling her arm away from Sheila's clutch, May looked over the large painting in front of her. A winding gravel path wove its way through a partially open wrought iron gate up to the front door of a castle in the distance. With strong, textured brushstrokes, the artist had transformed the castle into something menacing; it looked ready to break free of its foundation and devour everything else on the canvas.

"So this is it?" she said. "This is the painting that's got you so spooked? It just looks like a castle to me." She felt suddenly hot and faint. Plucking at her heavy sweatshirt, she said, "Jeeze, your mother must keep it on fricken ninety. Let's get out of here. I promised Charley I would at least see his last game."

"But it's not just any castle, it's—"

"Carlisle Castle? Give me some credit, Sheila. It's not like I haven't lived in this lame town my whole stinking life."

Everybody in town knew Carlisle Castle. It was the local landmark, singlehandedly responsible for keeping the sleepy town of Masobesic Bay, Maine on the state tourist map.

"If your mother wanted a picture of it, why didn't she just go and buy a t-shirt down at the Gas 'n' Go?"

"The company that bought the old place had an estate sale yesterday." Sheila pointed to another painting on the wall just to their right. "She bought that one, too. It's Cora Carlisle."

May glanced at the picture. A young, elegant dark haired woman sat on a bench in a rose garden. She wore a long white gown with a green sash.

"Isn't she beautiful?"

"I guess so," said May, shrugging. "Your mom should have an easier time unloading it anyway."

"You never know. She says people are funny; the castle here is the last one he ever painted."

May snorted. "Did he kill himself?"

"They don't know for sure. They never found him."

"Too bad. It'd probably be worth more." May squinted at the illegible crimson scrawl at the bottom of the painting. She could only make out an enormous 'C' or maybe it was a 'G'. Apparently whoever-it-was painted better than he wrote.

"It's hard to read," said Sheila.

"You think?"

"It's Carlisle, the guy who built the place."

"He painted? I thought he was just some crazy old railroad tycoon. What do you mean they never found him? He killed himself after his wife kicked the bucket." There wasn't anyone in town who hadn't heard the tragic story at least a hundred times.

"That's what I always heard, but I guess he just went missing."

"Missing? Are you sure?"

"Well, yeah. The newspaper ran a story about him a while back. That's how my mom knew about the art sale."

May looked skeptical.

"She saved the article. It's just on the kitchen island."

"Show it to me later," said May, taking her cellphone out of her pocket and looking at the time. "We should go. We'll be late for the game."

"I'll go get it," said Sheila, leaving the room and returning almost instantly with the top half of a page of newsprint in her hand.

May had known her friend since second grade and had learned over the years that if Sheila really wanted you to do something, she would usually get you to do it one way or another. It was a trait she had no doubt inherited from her mother. May set her cellphone down on a little table next to the wall and took the newspaper clipping.

The article had been neatly cut from the business section of the Masobesic Sunday Times. At the top was a photograph of the stone front of Carlisle Castle with broken and boarded up windows. Next to it, there was a black and white photograph of a man with dark wavy hair. The caption below it read, "A picture of Francis Carlisle taken in 1885".

May had seen this same photograph before at the town library. Francis Carlisle had a long face; closely set black eyes overshadowed by thick, straight eyebrows; and a crooked nose. It wasn't the most intelligent looking face she had ever seen. Even the man's attempt to look solemn in the photo, after the fashion of the times, had failed. By furrowing his brow in an attempt to look serious, he had only succeeded in making himself look confused. May began reading the article that followed:

THE HIGH PRICE OF RESTORING A LEGEND

It's been tough going for Eurocorp Development, the German company trying to transform Carlisle Castle into a luxurious hotel and spa. Purchased for $3.4 million three years ago, Eurocorp has faced unforeseen difficulties and exorbitant expenses in its dream turned nightmare, much in the same way that Carlisle himself was bankrupted by the stone behemoth. In a desperate effort to raise funds, Eurocorp will be auctioning off much of the estate. The railroad magnate was also a little known painter and many of his art pieces will also be included in the sale.

Francis Everett Carlisle erected his ill-fated edifice on a twenty acre plot of land overlooking Masobesic Bay. Work abruptly—

May was about to read further when a noise stopped her. The noise wasn't particularly loud, but it was a sound that didn't belong in Sheila's living room: the grate of metal on metal, a high pitched screech. She glanced around the room, trying to find the source.

She could have sworn she'd heard a rusty swing set or a metal box creaking open but there weren't any metal boxes in the room, and there certainly weren't any swing sets. It was early September and the first real cold snap of the season. The heat was on and the windows were shut, so the sound hadn't come from outside. She looked for any doors that had opened or closed; none had. Unable to make any sense of it, she went back to reading the article:

... Work abruptly stopped on the castle when Carlisle's wife, Cora, died tragically of tuberculosis in 1887 before completion of the castle towers. The despondent thirty-six year old disappeared shortly thereafter under mysterious circumstances. His body was never found, and he was presumed to have drowned himself in the bay according to sources at the time. The estate fell into probate and eventually was auctioned. After a succession of various owners, each of whom managed to find themselves impoverished by the unlucky estate, it was purchased two years ago by Eurocorp Development.

May merely scanned the rest of the article which was an in depth look into Eurocorp's various setbacks, including a rewiring of the old mansion that short circuited and a still unexplained cave-in of a newly installed roof.

This time when she heard the shrill, metallic grating noise, the hair prickled on the back of her neck. She looked around the room and caught Sheila staring at her.

"You heard it, didn't you?" said Sheila.

"Yeah, I heard something. What is it?"

Sheila nodded toward the painting. "I think it might be the iron gate. I heard it last night and drove myself crazy trying to find out where it was coming from. No one else seemed to notice it and I thought—" She shook her head. "Well, I don't know what I thought. But you heard it too, didn't you? You did, right?"

May just stared at her. "Well, I heard something, but I'm sure it's not from that. Did you sleep at all last night? You look awful." Sheila Hazelton—her hair and make-up usually fussed over for upwards of an hour—looked disheveled and exhausted.

Sheila tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear self-consciously. "No, I didn't."

"Looks it."

"Thanks," Sheila said quickly.

"You know what I mean." May waved the newspaper clipping in the air. "Why don't we just forget about this and go to the game." She folded the news article and slipped it into the back pocket of her jeans. "I think you should get out of here for a while, and away from—"

The noise screeched out again shiveringly, sending out goose bumps over May's body and making her grimace. At least this time she was able to figure out where the sound was coming from. Unfortunately, the problem was that it really did seem to be coming from the painting—and that just wasn't possible.

Now May was annoyed. "Oh, I get it. You're a little early, aren't you? Halloween isn't till next month. It's a trick, right?" she said, though she couldn't remember Sheila ever having played a trick on anyone in her life.

May pulled the frame away from the wall slightly and peeked behind it. The heavy painting was suspended by a thick wire draped over two sturdy picture hooks. The back of the canvas was sealed with faded brown paper, intact and darkened around the edges with dried up glue. It looked eons old.

She let out an irritated sigh, set the painting back gently against the wall and was in the process of examining the ornately carved frame when a painted brown leaf fluttered by her fingers.

She drew her hand away and swore.

"Did you just see that leaf flutter by?" cried Sheila.

May gave a small laugh. "Oh, please! Leaves just don't flutter by in paintings!" she said as she watched another dry brown leaf tumble through the slightly open iron gate then heard it click clack rustle as it blew down the gravel path toward the castle. The leaf seemed to liquefy the paint as it skittered over the stones until gradually the whole of the canvas was moving and alive.

Next, the wind picked up in the painting—and not just there—but somehow in the house as well. May's hair whispered softly against her face.

The wind shifted suddenly and in the painting, the dry leaves on the trees turned, showing their tan colored undersides. She heard them scraping one another and tapping manically together.

May didn't want to see what she was seeing. "Let's go. Let's get out of here," she said, backing away from the canvas.

But Sheila was mesmerized.

"C'mon, let's go," she insisted.

Sheila lifted her hand to touch the shifting scene in front of her.

"Are you crazy?" May yelled, reaching out to grab her arm.

Sheila's body jerked forward, and May's hand closed around air.

Only the tips of Sheila's white fingers and her meticulously painted pink nails remained in the living room, clinging to the edge of the picture frame. The rest of Sheila was inside the painting, with her body extended in the violent wind like the tail of a kite. She was screaming.

May froze. Behind her, knick-knacks and porcelain figurines clattered and fell on the shelves. The rapid change in air pressure made her ears pop, and the small, sharp burst of pain brought her back to her senses and set her in motion again.

With a sudden sick feeling, she realized that the painting was too high to pull Sheila back in. She would need to be taller. May scanned the living room in a frenzy.

Normally she wouldn't have even put a water glass on Bonnie Hazelton's coffee table, but May found herself dragging it over. It wasn't as heavy as she expected, and it slid fairly easily across the rug in front of the sofa and then bumped and screeched the last few feet along the wooden floor.

She got the coffee table into position under the painting and jumped onto the top, quickly kicking off the television remote and a stack of glossy magazines.

May had a better view now. She lunged forward and grabbed both of Sheila's wrists and immediately felt a nauseating pulling sensation in the pit of her stomach.

All at once, Sheila let go, and May was yanked forward through the picture frame. She felt her body tumble end over end through space.

### Chapter 3

### Carlisle Castle

May landed flat on her back. For a frightening second she could neither breathe in, nor breathe out, but lay stunned, staring up at a sky which was unlike any she had ever seen. More of a ceiling than a sky; it was claustrophobically close and a murky grayish brown. A sudden spasmodic gasp brought her to sitting and set her to choking and coughing.

"Are you okay?" Sheila asked her.

"I'm fine," May said hoarsely, "just need a second." She coughed again, filled her lungs and exhaled. Her ears were humming as she got unsteadily to her feet and looked around.

Whatever ill wind that had brought them to this place was completely gone. Only an occasional screeching from the gate punctuated the extreme silence, though not even the lightest wind stirred it.

Down the gravel road, the gloomy stone face of Carlisle Castle watched them with black window eyes. At its back, was the sea, still and glassy. May shivered. Though the air wasn't really cold, it was unpleasantly clammy, and she zipped up her sweatshirt.

The lawn and gardens of the estate were overgrown and unkempt and were surrounded by sickly looking forest to both sides. A tall stone wall, which the gate was fixed to, encircled the property all the way to the ocean. Tumbled down and in disrepair, the wall was overcome in places by forest reclaiming land once cleared and left long untended.

She was surprised by a sudden, warm gust of air that knocked her back a pace and made the gate groan loudly.

Sheila pointed out over the bay to a bank of leaden clouds rolling in at an amazing speed. Directly below the clouds, whitecaps were forming instantly on the water.

"It looks like a storm's brewing," said Sheila.

Brewing? thought May, more like a storm was boiling itself into existence, and it was headed right for them! They were going to need shelter as soon as possible.

May was angry; she hadn't had any time to think. The improbability of the events they had just gone through, and now the need to keep moving, left her head muddled. She had no desire to go to the castle—and to whom or what they might find inside.

Sheila broke in on her thoughts. "Can we try to go back through the gate? We got here through it—maybe it's the way back home."

May was annoyed she hadn't thought of it herself. "Let's give it a shot but we had better do it fast. Come on."

Sheila got to her feet and grimaced.

"Oh, great! What did you hurt?" yelled May.

"My ankle. I think I just twisted it, that's all. And I didn't exactly plan it, May!"

She didn't need Sheila going all pouty on her right now. May attempted to sound more sympathetic. "That came out wrong, okay? Can you walk at all? We need to hurry."

Sheila made a few faltering steps.

"See? You just need to walk it off. You're doing great."

She went ahead of Sheila to the gate, which didn't even budge when she pushed it. Looking around, she saw that it was rusted ajar and the bottom corner was buried in years of sand, piled leaves and gravel. She backed up and gave the gate a violent kick with her foot; the rusted metal let out a nerve shattering squeal, but the gate only moved about an inch. She kicked the gate over and over again, swearing at it the whole time until she had made a large enough opening for them both to squeeze through. She waved Sheila forward, and they walked through the gate together.

Only nothing magical happened.

She looked down the gravel road which seemed to stretch on forever into the distance and bit her lip. "Okay, let's just stop and think. Our homes can't be more than five miles from here. Yours is probably closer—"

"Don't you remember, May? They boarded up the castle last summer because all the windows were smashed."

May turned around and saw the glittering black window eyes of Carlisle Castle staring back at her. Their homes weren't anywhere near where ever or whenever this was.

Sheila hobbled down the path. "Anyhow we can't make it far with my ankle like this. The storm is almost here. If we hurry, maybe we can make it before the downpour starts. Even if we can't get inside, it looks like there's a place by the front door where we can get out of the rain. Aren't you coming?"

May felt a few icy drops sting her face. She looked down at the gravel at her feet. Burnt out weeds and grass were sprung up amidst the stones as if the way was hardly ever traveled—maybe not ever—and that meant, hopefully, that there was no one inside the castle.

She caught up with Sheila on the path. "Cripe, is that as fast as you can walk?" she said then noticed that Sheila's face was white. May grabbed her friend's arm and put it over her own shoulder. "You should have said something."

"I thought I did."

By the time they reached the castle door, May's shoulder was on fire. The fact that Sheila was taller and about twenty-five pounds heavier wasn't helping matters, and May had to practically drag her friend up the last few steps of the stone stairway.

At the top, she leaned against the door with her chest heaving then backed up and banged loudly three times with her fist. Her hand flew to the old-fashioned handle mechanism, and she tried the lock.

Unexpectedly, May heard a loud click. She paused a moment, then pushed on the door. There was a brief flash of an inky black interior before the shifting wind caught the door and sent it creaking back on its hinges again, causing a cold burst of musty castle air to rush at her.

She stopped the door from shutting completely and gave it a shove just as she and Sheila entered. But May underestimated the height of the threshold. She caught her foot on the doorjamb; stumbled forward, pulling Sheila down with her; and they both ended up sprawled on the cold tiles of the entryway. Behind her, she heard the door slam shut in the wind.

May blew hair out of her eyes and saw that the foyer was no longer dark. From somewhere above her head, an oil lamp cast down its flickering rays. On the floor tiles directly in front of her face, she saw a large pair of black square-toed shoes.

They moved.

She sprang back instantly, scrambled to get her feet under her and felt Sheila at her back, attempting to do the same. Her eyes followed striped gray pant legs up to a white linen shirt and leather suspenders. The glare of the oil lamp in his hand prevented any view of the stranger's face, but she could see that the wrinkled white of the man's shirt was moving up and down rapidly. Whoever this was, he was breathing quickly and shallowly.

Well, at least he wasn't a ghost.

The light fluttered as the stranger pushed the lamp toward her, and she noticed that his hand was shaking.

No, he certainly wasn't a ghost—but he should have been—for she could now see clearly the distinctive face of Francis Everett Carlisle.

The painter was ghastly pale and looked as though he hadn't shaved in weeks. He had long, untrimmed sideburns and a mop of unruly dark hair. A heavy boned man with slouching broad shoulders, Carlisle was too thin for his already considerable height—a fact which made him appear that much taller than he already was.

But this optical illusion May would only discover later. Right then he looked unbelievably huge to her, and his shadow on the far wall, advancing and retreating in the inconsistent light, was more enormous still.

The lamplight flickered again as he brought the lamp down closer to her face.

"Why it's just a girl!" said Carlisle, smiling with surprise and relief.

May scowled.

### Chapter 4

### The Keeper of the Castle

Carlisle moved his mouth awkwardly in an effort to say something to May. What it was, she never found out, because all at once his black eyes widened, and he looked beyond her. "No, please don't," he said, in a pleasant voice that seemed out of place with his wild appearance.

May heard something fall behind her and spun around.

The something turned out to be Sheila. She was passed out on the tiles with her arm tucked elegantly under her head. With her face bloodless and her lips a purplish hue, she could have been carved out of ice. Leave it to Sheila to fall gracefully, thought May as she felt Carlisle brush past her.

"Is she alright?" May asked him.

"It doesn't look like she hit her head," he said, thrusting the lamp into May's hand. "Would you mind carrying the lamp, miss?"

"The lamp?" she repeated dumbly. Then she saw that Carlisle was preparing to pick Sheila up. "Oh, no, no. That won't be necessary. I'm sure she'll come to in a second."

"On the cold floor?" he said, dismissing the thought. He scooped Sheila up in his arms and stood with her. "Would you mind following—"

"Like glue."

He studied her face a moment. "Good. I'll need the light."

May followed him down a hallway, through a room lined with suits of armor displayed on stands, and finally into a door decorated above the archway by two crossed swords.

The room turned out to be a study of some kind, decorated in a masculine fashion and which, after the forbidding darkness of the foyer, was surprisingly warm and well lit. Directly opposite the door, there was a continuous row of windows that let in light from the outdoors. The room had several oil lamps and a roaring fire in an ample, unadorned hearth.

Carlisle looked down at Sheila's face as he placed her on a burgundy leather couch against the wall. "Your friend looks like an angel," he said, putting his hands in his pockets. He turned to May with an uncertain look on his face. "Is that what you girls are?"

"Are we what?"

"Angels?" he asked again, looking more uncertain now as he searched May's face.

"We'd be pretty poor angels, falling in your front door and passing out and all, don't you think?"

He gave a small smile, inclined his head to the side and scratched his neck with a bony index finger. "Right, I guess you have a point."

"Besides, she always looks that way. Everybody says so," she couldn't help adding.

He walked to a small table at the side of the room and clinked around with some glassware, nearly knocking over a green decanter of liquid. He caught the bottle quickly before it toppled, righted it, then carried on smoothly as though nothing had happened. "You, on the other hand, look like you've seen a ghost," he said.

"I have."

"Do I look as bad as all that?" he asked casually.

May didn't know what to say. Underneath the beard and ragged appearance, he still looked to be not much older than his photograph in the paper. Was he unaware of how much time had gone by? She didn't know how to tell someone they'd been dead for over a century.

He turned and held out a tiny green cordial glass to her. "I'll take your silence as a 'yes'."

When May didn't take the glass from him, he crossed the room and placed it on an end table of the couch by Sheila's head. "You can give her that when she wakes," he said, pointing at the glass.

Carlisle walked to a leather chair that faced the fire, turned it around and stood in front of it. He gestured to a seat across the study by the table on which he had put the cordial glass. "I don't often get guests. Will you at least come in and sit down, Miss ... ?"

May was silent.

"Miss ... ?" he repeated more insistently, adding a smile.

"Turner," said May.

"Ah, now we're getting somewhere. And is there any more to it? Do you by chance have a Christian name, Miss Turner?"

"Lynn." What was the matter with her? Lynn? Why couldn't she have said something interesting like Moira or Phoebe?

"I'm honored to meet you, Miss Lynn Turner. And I am—"

"Francis Carlisle—I know."

His dark eyes appeared to search his memory. "You have me at a disadvantage, Miss Turner. Should I know you?"

"I don't see how you could."

Seeing his face in a jumble of confusion, she entered the room, placed the lamp on the table by Sheila's head, and sat down on the edge of the chair. She picked up the cordial glass next to her, sniffed it then raised an eyebrow.

"It's just a little water," he said, watching her. "I'm sorry. I don't have any brandy."

She set the glass back down. It made a clicking noise on the tabletop, and Sheila sat up suddenly with a loud gasp. May jumped out of her skin.

Sheila pressed the heel of her hand to her temple. "Ow," she moaned.

Carlisle asked, "Are you dizzy?"

Looking miserable, Sheila nodded her head.

"You got up too fast. Lie back down for a while and you'll feel better."

In no condition to argue, Sheila did as she was told.

"Miss Turner and I have already met. My name, which Miss Turner appears to know already, is Francis Carlisle. May I ask what yours might be?"

"I'm Sheila Hazelton," said Sheila, still with her hand on her temple, managing a thin smile.

"I'm honored to meet you Miss Hazelton. Would you and Miss Turner—"

"Taylor," corrected Sheila.

May glared at her.

"Excuse me?" he said.

"May's last name is Taylor," Sheila said in an apologetic tone.

May continued to glare; Sheila caught her look. "Well, sometimes you do mumble, May. I can't always understand you myself."

Carlisle passed his hand over his mouth and sat down. His eyes flicked to the doorway. After a moment he said, "Now where are my manners? Are you girls hungry? Perhaps we could sit down together over a bite to eat and get to the bottom of all of this. It would just take me a moment to prepare the dining room."

May wasn't the least bit hungry, but if he left the room, she would have a chance to talk to Sheila. "Yes, I'd like that," she said, a little more quickly than she wanted.

"Great," he replied, getting to his feet. "If you'll just excuse me, I'll be back in a few minutes." He bowed slightly and was about to take the lamp he had been carrying earlier, but noting its close proximity to May, left with another.

She waited a full count of five then shot to the far door of the armor room in time to see Carlisle in the foyer. Horrified, she watched him take the front door key out of the lock and slip it into his trouser pocket.

He glanced her way briefly and she ducked back from the archway, clumsily knocking a black and white striped shield from the grip of a rather formidable looking knight. She lunged and caught it before it fell to make some horrible jangling noise on the floor.

May let out a breath. As quietly as she could, she laid the shield against the wall.

The next time she peeked out, Carlisle was nowhere in sight.

Returning to the study, she collapsed into a chair and bit the nail of her thumb. She was trying to think, but nothing was coming to her.

Sheila propped herself up on her elbows. "That's Francis Carlisle? The poor guy! He looks awful." She groaned and lay back down.

"The poor guy just locked the front door," hissed May.

Sheila frowned. "Well, he's probably just afraid we'll leave. Maybe he's all alone here." This was just like Sheila. She even felt sorry for the dead mice her own cat, Misty, left littered on the stone walkway in front of her house. "I wonder how long it's been for him. You don't think he's lived here by himself for a hundred years, do you?"

"More like a hundred and twenty, and I doubt it. I admit he looks a little crazy—he could definitely use a shower—but after that long, he would be like stark raving mad, and I don't think he'd be able to hide it either."

"Oh, the poor man!"

"Are you listening to me at all? He locked us in, Sheila! This is bad. Bad! Just how long does he plan on keeping us here? We need to get home!"

Suddenly May became aware of the loud, regular ticking of a clock in the room. Her eyes found it on the mantelshelf. Quarter to six? It didn't make any sense. She had arrived at Sheila's at eleven in the morning which couldn't have been more than an hour ago.

Okay, so time didn't make any sense here, but why should it? After all, nothing else made any sense either. Time was probably different here. But what did she know? After all, she'd never been in a painting before. Maybe over a century hadn't really gone by for Carlisle. Although he looked terrible, he really didn't look to be much older than his photo in the paper.

The other possibility that occurred to her, was that over a century really had gone by for him and no one ever aged in this place. She didn't like that thought. Maybe it was okay if you were thirty-something, but she didn't like the idea of being fifteen forever.

Then she pictured Carlisle. It didn't seem to be doing him any good either. Maybe it didn't matter what age you were.

With that sober realization fresh in her head, May popped up from the chair and made her way to the long bank of windows that overlooked the bay.

She passed a cherry wood desk. It was a wasteland of papers on top. Her eyes picked out a few charcoal sketches: an ocean scene, a human figure; both unfinished, scratched through. There were more, but she didn't have the time to make out what they were.

May looked out one of the windows. The waves in the bay were calm now. The sky was still close and low, but the wind had died down completely, and the water was once again like glass. The storm must have passed them by.

She tried to open one of the old-fashioned casement windows, but the clasp was rusted shut. She jiggled the clasps on a few of the others, but those were all rusted shut too.

Pressing her nose against one of the window panes, she saw a sheer drop all the way down to jagged rocks being swallowed and disgorged by the waves, the ocean leaving trails of whitewash to drain back into the sea. Through the thin glass, she could hear the muffled sounds of the breakers as they crashed.

That was only a one way trip for anyone getting out by that route.

She strained her eyes to the left and right. All the windows on this side of the castle looked out over this picturesque, deadly shoreline. May closed her eyes and gave out a frustrated sigh.

Sheila was at the desk now, exploring the sketches on top, like she hadn't a care in the world— like she hadn't just been locked into a creepy castle by some disheveled nutter who probably hadn't seen a woman in over a hundred years. Sheila held up one of the sketches. "He's really talented, don't you think? You know art, May; you do stuff like this."

"I used to. Didn't seem to be much of a point. Dad wants me to go into law. Family business and all." The drawing Sheila was holding was of an angry looking old man with big bushy eyebrows. He had a large X drawn through his face. May raised her eyebrows. "He doesn't seem to be very fond of his own work."

"Well, I think it's wonderful. Just look at this one. It's a picture of his wife."

"Right now I'm not really interested in admiring the man's artwork and if you had just a little more sense than a gumball, neither would you." Leaving the desk, she said, "Besides, I wouldn't go pawing through his stuff like that. He'll probably freak out. I know if I touched anything on my mother's desk, she'd skin me alive." May stopped short on her way to the door. "I thought this room was a study. Where are the books?"

The built-in bookcases were piled with clothes and aside from the drawings on the desk, there were no other papers in the room.

"Not everyone has their nose buried in a book all the time," said Sheila.

"Weird," said May, continuing to the door. Poking her head out into the armory, she heard footsteps coming fast. Carlisle must have been afraid his newly arrived visitors would vanish, because it sounded like he was practically running.

She rushed back into the study and sat down. At the door to the armor room, she heard Carlisle slow his pace to a walk.

He stopped in the threshold and propped his elbow against the doorjamb. There were beads of sweat on his forehead. He was out of breath and trying to hide it. He gasped at them, "I've prepared a fire in the—ah—the ... " He took a huge breath and just stared at the sketch in Sheila's hand as though he had forgotten what he was about to say.

"I—I'm sorry," stammered Sheila, putting down the drawing. "I hope you aren't mad, Mr. Carlisle, but these are absolutely beautiful."

His face went from stark white to crimson in the space of a second. At first, May thought he was about to yell at Sheila, but when he shifted his gaze to the floor, she suddenly realized that he was blushing.

With that one act, May realized that he had done the worst thing possible if she had ever hoped to get Sheila to see her side of things.

Sheila sent her an I-told-you-so look as she came from behind the desk and limped to the door.

Carlisle darted forward and supported her elbow with his hand. "Miss Hazelton, are you injured?"

May rolled her eyes.

"It's my ankle. I think I just twisted it."

"Never-the-less, you really shouldn't be—"

May got up quickly, grabbed Sheila's arm and draped it over her own shoulder. "I told her not to become a cheerleader; they're always getting injured. I've got her. You go ahead and we'll follow you."

Carlisle led them down the hallway, through a reception room, then into an enormous dining room which housed a long mahogany table. Above it, two sparkling crystal chandeliers hung suspended. Neither was lit.

In an immense fireplace, engraved with grapes and bearded old men, a hastily started fire struggled for life. Carlisle excused himself and went over to nurse the flames.

The walls of the room were adorned with paintings of satin clad people on a raucous, seventeenth-century French picnic. On a side table were several statues of women in togas, three galloping horses, and a boy with a fig leaf over important parts of his anatomy that Sheila made a face about. Even under the circumstances, May couldn't help stifling a laugh.

"I can't say I ever cared for that one myself, Miss Hazelton," said Carlisle, pulling out a chair near the head of the table for her. His low voice reverberated in the enormous dining room. He slid out another chair, placed it right next to the first, and patted the seat cushion. "For your ankle," he said.

Sheila hobbled over and sat down while he pushed the chair in for her.

He went to the other side of the table, pulled out a chair directly opposite Sheila and said, "Miss—ah—Taylor, is it?"

May sauntered over and plopped down into her seat.

"I'll be back presently, girls," he said heading towards a door at the side of the dining room. Before he went through it, he stopped at the fireplace to throw another log on the fire which was finally showing signs of life.

And throw the log, he did! Sparks flew out of the fireplace in all directions. He spotted one smoldering on the rug, patted it out with his hand, then muttered to himself and sucked on one of his fingers.

As he got to his feet he somehow caused the stand of fire implements to fall over with a crash. After glancing in the direction of his guests to see if they had noticed, he hastily picked up the scattered fire implements, and placed the stand upright again. When he was done, he finally left the room.

"That was graceful," said May, wrapping her hands around her shoulders and rubbing them.

Even with the fire roaring now the place was still like an icebox.

From the other room, which she began to suspect was some kind of kitchen, there emanated sounds of clattering dishes and a few muffled exclamations of masculine aggravation.

She leaned over the table and whispered harshly, "I don't want you saying too much, Sheila. We don't know this guy. He could be a complete weirdo." Her hiss echoed back to her from the cold stone walls.

Sheila looked surprised. "But you read the newspaper article!"

"Like that means anything."

"Well, he just seems kind of sad and sweet to me," said Sheila.

"Sheila, everyone seems sweet to you. You trust everybody."

"And you don't trust anybody, so I guess that makes us even." Sheila crossed her arms and put her nose in the air.

"That doesn't make one darn bit of—"

Carlisle emerged from the side door suddenly with three plates balanced precariously in his hands. A few moments later, May found herself sitting in front of a dish of sliced cheese, three rubbery gherkins and several spoonsful of lukewarm baked beans.

The rest of dinner was as cold as the dining room itself. Carlisle attempted some small talk but was met only with stony silence from May and a sympathetic smile from Sheila. Twice, Sheila opened her mouth to speak, Carlisle had looked to her hopefully, but luckily May had been able to shoot her daggered looks both times, so Sheila had sulkily clamped her mouth shut again.

May doubted she could reach far enough under the table to kick Sheila without making it completely obvious, so she had settled for glowering instead—but she didn't think she could keep her quiet much longer.

Now, the only sound in the room was the impatient click, click, click of Carlisle's black onyx ring against his wine glass.

### Chapter 5

### The Artist's Story

The room was freezing. The food was disgusting. The awkward quiet was almost unbearable. May's only solace was that Carlisle hadn't touched anything on his plate, and he was working on his third glass of wine. Hopefully, if he drank enough, they might somehow manage to get the door key from him.

She only hoped he was as dumb as he looked.

"I'm sorry it isn't much," Carlisle apologized about the food. "This room is always cold, too. I don't use it often—never actually."

Getting no response again, he sat back suddenly, took in a loud breath and let it out in an irritated sigh. He rubbed his forehead with the back of his thumb in a gesture of frustration. His patina of Victorian gentility was proving to be no match for his own native curiosity.

His loud voice cut into the silence, startling the both of them. "Could I ask how you girls got here?" he said in a tone that demanded an answer.

"W—Well ... " said Sheila, dodging a deadly look from May, "we were in my living room standing in front of your painting of this place—you know, the castle here and—I don't know. May, what would you say? It like, sucked us in?"

"I suppose you could say that," May responded flatly, glaring at her.

"I guess that's the right word," mused Sheila, avoiding May's fixed gaze.

"You got sucked into a painting?" said Carlisle.

Sheila nodded delicately.

"One of my paintings?" He touched himself lightly on his chest.

"Yes," said Sheila, nodding again. "Your painting. It like ... came alive or something, and the wind started howling and the next thing I knew I was hanging onto the frame."

Carlisle took a sip of wine and drew down his thick eyebrows.

"May here grabbed my hands to pull me back into the living room, and then it like, just sucked us both in."

"And I would have got you, too, if you hadn't let go of the edge like that," May said to Sheila, then finished to Carlisle, "I can tell you that was a nasty surprise!"

There was silence as his eyes traced a path from May to Sheila, then settled on his wine glass. He scratched his scraggly chin, looking even more dumbfounded than he usually looked.

May realized that Carlisle didn't believe them. Well, why should he? May could hardly believe the story herself now, and it had happened to her. It hadn't occurred to her that he might not know where he was. She said, "Where in the hell did you think you were?"

He pursed his lips as he poured another glass of wine. This was his fourth glass by her count, and he must have drunk nearly the whole bottle now. But when she looked at the decanter in his hand, it was still full.

She had only been concentrating on keeping track of the glasses he was pouring himself. After the first, she hadn't even looked at the bottle, so she hadn't noticed that it wasn't emptying.

The other realization that hit her was that Carlisle was still as sober as a Baptist on Communion Sunday.

"Where did I think I was?" he repeated with a wry smile as he contemplated the contents of his untouched plate. After a few moments he said to the plate, "Dead, I suppose. I guess you could say I thought I was dead. The truth of it is, Miss Taylor, you are not so far from wrong—I thought I was in hell."

"Then how did you get here?" May asked.

At the question, he looked up at her with his eyes focused on some internal sequence of events. "Let me think. How did I get here? Well, I recall I was working in my art studio. I had just finished a painting of this place." There was disgust in his voice as he gestured vaguely with his hand around the room. "I don't even know why I painted it. I remember thinking at the time, how my wife never liked it here." He picked up his wine glass and added, "She hated it really. She preferred the tiny cottage we lived in when we first got married."

Looking at his left hand, May noticed he wasn't wearing a wedding band. All at once, she was aware of a sudden silence in the room and glanced up to find his black eyes directly on hers.

"The late Mrs. Carlisle, that is," he said in a tone that registered her intrusion.

May's thoughts trailed back to the painting of Carlisle's wife. She had hardly glanced at it, but she now remembered she had seen a small white house in the background. There had been a serenity to that painting as though Cora Carlisle had been happy there. Moving her here from that sunny, warm place to this damp, freezing castle was as good as a death sentence for a woman with tuberculosis. Any fool would have known that.

By the look of him, this was an idea she felt certain had occurred to Carlisle as well.

May was leaned back in, what she had decided, was the most uncomfortable chair she had ever sat in. She poked a few beans with her fork and glanced at Sheila who looked for all the world like she had just found a lost puppy.

Carlisle had stopped talking and gazed into his wine in a brooding fashion, watching the dark liquid as he swirled it around the bottom of his glass.

May left off prodding her beans and decided to prod Carlisle instead. "Go on. So what happened next?" she said loud enough to stir him from his trance.

Her voice jarred him awake. "I'm sorry, where was I?"

"You had just finished the painting of the castle," prompted Sheila.

"Thank you, Miss Hazelton. That's right, I remember now. Next I went to the window. I'd heard the casement bang. There was a storm out at sea and the wind had been wailing for hours. In all honesty, I had been meaning to fix that window clasp for ages but ..." There was a sheepish look as he shrugged an explanation. "Anyhow, I can only think that the casement must have blown in and struck me, because after that I woke up on the castle grounds by the gate with one very enormous egg on my head and the worst headache I've ever had in my life."

Watching him pour himself another glass of wine, May snorted and said, "I'll bet it was a real doozy then."

He slid her a look out of the corner of his eye as he replaced the crystal stopper on the wine decanter. "Well, Miss Taylor, yes. As a matter of fact it was a—what did you call it?—a real doozy." He rolled the word around in his mouth and smiled as though he liked the sound of it.

"You got knocked out?" she said more seriously.

"Yes, I think so."

"You must have stumbled back into the painting. Is that possible?"

He considered. "I suppose I could have; it was just behind me."

"Then what happened?"

"Well, at first I couldn't understand how I could have wandered so far from the house. I thought maybe the bump on my head had given me ... uh, given me ... " He searched for a word and gave up with a small shake of his head. "I thought it had made me forget things. But then, when—"

"Amnesia?" interrupted May.

"Excuse me, Miss Taylor?"

"Amnesia. You mean you thought you had amnesia."

"Right. Yes, that's it. Thank you, Miss Taylor. Anyhow ... " His voice trailed off. He had lost his train of thought again.

"You had just got a bump on your head!" said May, annoyed.

"Right, right. Thank you, that's right. Anyhow, when I got back to the castle, at first, everything seemed normal, but then I began to notice that little things weren't quite right. Some things had moved from one room to another, for instance; other items were gone altogether. My entire art studio is simply gutted. There's nothing left there now. It's just empty." He swirled the wine in his glass again, then stopped abruptly. A little of the liquid swished out and formed a bright red puddle in the center of his plate.

He leaned into the table and hushed his tone. "Even worse, there's more that doesn't make sense. The pantry is always full no matter how much I take from it and, as you've already noticed, Miss Taylor, the bottles never drain no matter how much I drink."

May bristled. Was she that transparent?

He added with a shudder, "And it's horrible stuff, too." He pointed with his thumb to the hearth. "Even the firewood never diminishes."

May looked at the stack of firewood behind him. Carlisle had placed several logs on the fire since their arrival and yet the amount of firewood next to the hearth was exactly the same.

"And there's absolutely no way out. At least none that I've found. I haven't even bothered to look of late. I finally decided that the knock on my head must have killed me and here I was in hell."

"You've been here all by yourself, Mr. Carlisle? No one here at all?" inquired Sheila.

"Not a soul, Miss Hazelton."

"For how long?"

"I don't really know anymore. I've lost track. Several years? I couldn't say." He took up the glass in his hand and tossed back the rest of his wine. "Years anyway. Two? I don't know—maybe three." He said this as if it were a matter of small consequence which May highly doubted if it were true.

Carlisle had the look of someone who had spent too long with only his own uninterrupted black thoughts to accompany him. Regardless of his attempt at a matter-of-fact manner, his depression clung to him like a gray veil.

"But now here you girls are. Don't get me wrong, I'm pleased, but I'm also at a loss. You were sucked into a painting of mine, you say?" He gave a small, crooked smile.

May felt that the dining room had become darker somehow. Maybe the fire was fading or maybe Carlisle was dragging them into his bottomless well of guilt and self-loathing that had probably caused the vortex into this God-forsaken nightmare in the first place.

She dropped her fork as loudly as she could into her plate and pushed her meal away. "Well, I can't vouch for you, but I'm sure I'm not dead. And I don't think I've done anything awful enough to go to hell for—especially not your private hell. Besides—" May thrust her hand into her back pocket and pulled out the newspaper clipping, "they never found your body." She crumpled up the paper and threw it at him. It hit him in the chest and bounced down onto the table.

Stunned, Carlisle only stared down at the wad of paper by his plate. May couldn't decide whether he was shocked by her rudeness or simply unwilling, or unable, to explore the contents inside.

She finally decided it was both. She picked up the paper then flattened it out on the table. In an elaborate gesture, she moved his plate to the side and slid the news article in front of him.

He cleared his throat and murmured, "Thank you, Miss Taylor," as he began scanning the page. He pointed one long pale finger at the dateline and not looking up, he said very quietly, "And can I take it that's the—that's the year you—two thousand and—"

"That's right," said May.

Still looking at the paper, he nodded and said, "And I didn't think anything could surprise me anymore. At least now I know why you're both dressed that way." Without looking up, he said in a distracted manner, "I'm sorry. I don't mean to offend."

He picked up the paper, squinted at it, then shifted back in his chair to catch the gleam of the fire behind him. With his thumb against his jaw, he rubbed the knuckle of his index finger against his lips.

May watched his face. For a man who was reading his own obituary, he was taking it surprisingly well.

Darkness had fallen outside in the space of time they had listened to their host's story. From the corner of her eye, May caught a flash of light outside the window and less than a second later an earsplitting crack of thunder sounded. She and Sheila both looked at one another.

Folding the newspaper article, Carlisle said, "I'll return this to you in the morning, Miss Taylor."

"The—ah—morning?" stuttered May. "I don't think so. Thank you for the simply delicious food and sparkling conversation and all, but we really need to get going."

Through the window panes, an instant shock of blinding white light took a picture of them in the oversized, underused room. May blinked as her eyes readjusted to the darkness again.

"You're not going anywhere tonight," said Carlisle. "Not in this weather."

A long low rumble of thunder shook the castle to its foundation.

Sheila sent May a queasy half smile and shrugged.

### Chapter 6

### A Night in the Castle

Carlisle squinted as he immersed the end of a long strip of kindling wood in the fire. A candelabra from the side table of the dining room was in his other hand, and he lit the three tapers it held.

The castle was pitch black now and colder than a dungeon. Both Sheila and May hugged their hands about their shoulders, and in the pathetic light of the candles, watched their breath turn into vapor before their eyes.

Carlisle led the girls upstairs to the second floor where the bedrooms were. Sheila's ankle was still tender, and May helped her along, secretly glad for the excuse to stay close. She had no desire to be left out of the small circle of light that Carlisle was holding and sent into the unremitting blackness that existed all around them.

On the landing of the stairs, Carlisle paused to retrieve a set of keys from a hook hidden behind a painting of two jousting knights. The light from the candelabra in his hand swept across a painting on the opposite wall. In it, May recognized Carlisle holding hands with a young woman. They seemed hardly more than children.

"How young did you get married?" she sputtered.

"Excuse me, Miss Taylor?" he said, turning around.

"I'm just saying, you got married kind of young."

"That's not my wife in that portrait, that's my cousin," he said.

"Oh. Well it's just that you look kind of chummy together."

He blinked several times but didn't respond.

"Oh, I see," she said, nodding slowly, reading into his silence. "Then why didn't you marry her when you got older? I thought all you guys married your cousins back then."

Carlisle said in a cool tone on the edge of huffiness, "Not all of us, Miss Taylor. Besides, we practically grew up together."

"Oh, I see." Then after reflecting on the ambiguity of his answer, she said, "Wait. No, I don't see."

"Look, Miss Taylor, do you usually approach people in this way?" he asked.

"What way?"

Sheila piped in, "Yes."

"Well," said May defensively, aware she had breached some rule of etiquette known to everyone but her, "if you didn't want people to ask questions, you shouldn't have hung it here for everyone to see."

"I didn't," he said. "That painting was here when I arrived. I don't even remember sitting for it when I was a lad." He turned to go up the stairs then said over his shoulder, "Are you coming?" It was more of a demand than a question. His tone said he was finished with the conversation.

"Just one more thing," said May.

"Frankly, Miss Taylor, that depends on what it is."

"She died, didn't she? That's why you didn't marry her. What did she die of?"

She felt Sheila hit her arm softly.

After a few moments, he said quietly, "Measles. She died of measles."

"How old was she?"

"Twelve."

"Did—?"

"Are we done here?"

May paused with her mouth open. "I suppose so."

"Splendid," he said, going up the stairs.

On the second floor, a musty smell came from the damp stone walls, and she gave out a small cough.

"Stay close. It's pitch black up here and the corridor ... " he scratched his head, " ... well, it meanders a little," said Carlisle.

Artwork and tapestries slid by on the walls as they made their way down the hallway. From out of the shadows, a suit of armor seemed to jump at them, and May suddenly understood what Carlisle had been trying to tell them. The hallway wasn't in a straight line at all, but made an unpredictable weaving path along the second floor.

Hardly any of the doors to the rooms they passed were open. Of the few that were, May saw a vase of roses in one; a twisting design on a coat of arms in another; and a billowing, sheer white curtain in yet another. This was as much as the modest light from the candelabra and an occasional bolt of blue-tinged lightning revealed.

From just behind them she heard a sharp bang ring out. Remembering the billowing curtain in the last room they passed, she said, "I think you've left a window open. You should close it or the rain will get in."

"No, it won't," said Carlisle, not bothering to turn around.

"Duh! Of course it will."

She saw his back tense up. "Do you hear any?"

May listened. There was only the creaking—almost silent, yet never completely silent—sounds of a building being buffeted by the wind and also, more felt than heard, waves smashing against the rocks far below. Another crack of thunder rumbled, this time, from farther away. She shook her head. "No, I guess not."

"And you won't, either. It always threatens, but it never comes. Let's go."

"Well, you should close it anyway. You can't just leave it like that."

He turned around. "It bothers you that much?" he asked with his voice cracking, as though she had exceeded all reasonable limits of fussiness.

The window slammed shut again, punctuating his sentence.

"Yes. How am I going to get any sleep with that racket? If you won't do it, I will." She went back before he could stop her.

The casement window banged again as she entered the room. The sheer curtain, glowing in the moonlight, was sucked smooth against the frame of the window for a moment, then released by the wind to billow inward again.

The room echoed her rubber soled footsteps as she crossed the stone floor. At the window, she drew aside the silky curtain, leaned out and felt a warm burst of humid air. Out in the bay, moonlight shimmered on the waves and reflected upward, illuminating the undersides of the still pregnant storm clouds scudding away in the night sky.

She heard Carlisle enter the room behind her. He took one sharp step over the threshold and stopped short, causing the keys in his hand to jingle loudly. "Be careful, Miss Taylor!" he breathed out urgently in a whisper.

She sensed a gaping void beneath her and looked down. Here was another sheer drop—this time even worse than before. She saw the surf several hundred feet below, crashing against rocks which seemed to grow and shrink in turns as she watched them. Feeling suddenly ill, she swore under her breath and resisted the urge to pull back quickly and give Carlisle the satisfaction of seeing her flinch. She inhaled, steadied herself, caught the casement window as it flew back at her on the wind, then pulled it shut and secured the clasp.

Her heart was pounding and she was dizzy, but she smiled as she turned into the room and said easily as she walked to the door, "There, that's better!"

As she was dusting off her hands in the hallway, Carlisle reached behind her and slammed the door to the room.

"What's his problem?" she said to Sheila, watching him walk away.

He led them a little farther down the hall, then stopped at a small round table outside a door and set down the candelabra. He inspected the keys on the large brass ring in his hand one after the other in the candlelight. "I try to keep most of the doors open. It's a devilish nuisance having to unlock them when I need something, but I could swear the rooms lock themselves and move around on me. I'm not often up here. The truth of it is, it gives me the creeps. Usually sleep downstairs in the study." He held up a key and squinted at it. "It's this one I think."

Placing the key in the lock of one of the doors nearby, he fumbled with the doorknob a few times, then pushed the door open. May caught a brief glimpse of a violet colored, gold fringed bedspread and matching canopy curtain before he pulled the door shut again.

"That isn't right," he said, turning around with his eyes searching the darkness for another door. "Most unexpected. I could have sworn this one was across the hall. I seem to have misplaced a room. Most embarrassing. Well, over there then."

He picked up the candelabra, darted across the hall and tried another door which opened easily. This time he thrust the candelabra inside and checked the room thoroughly before exclaiming, "Ah! This is it. I think we'll all find this chamber to be much more comfortable."

Immediately on entering the room, Carlisle went to the hearth and set about lighting a fire. And he was right, after the dampness was eclipsed by a roaring fire, the room was actually cozy.

There were two small beds with pretty white coverlets for each of the girls. The walls were covered in pink and cream colored wallpaper. There was a huge rocking chair by the fireplace and several frosted glass oil lamps which gleamed painted pink roses when lit. Under different circumstances, May would have liked the room very much.

Right now, she hated it.

In one of the dressers were two linen nightgowns which had the lace and frill of a bygone era. Nothing was dusty or showed signs of disuse, but seemed to have been placed there just moments before.

Carlisle bowed, turned to go then stopped suddenly at the door, staring down at his own hand on the doorknob. From where May was, she could see there was something bothering him, some internal debate making him hesitate, and her worst fears suspected what it was.

He was deciding whether or not to lock the door.

She said to him, "Oh sir, please don't lock it. We won't go anywhere, we promise. Please! It's too dark out there anyway, where would we go to? But don't lock us in here. I'm begging you, please don't."

He didn't look up from his hand still on the knob. He shook his head and said, "I'm sorry." Then he left very quickly, and she heard the reluctant click of the lock as he turned the key on the far side of the door.

May had never felt so wretched. Even Sheila, who up until that point had strongly defended Carlisle, viewed his actions through a dim glass.

Later, when they had blown the lamps out; when only the orange glow of the fire remained, and she heard the regular breathing of Sheila asleep; only then did May allow herself to cry softly, her hand cupped over her mouth so that not a single sound might escape.

She had tried everything to pick the lock, but it had been no use.

May had never been so worried, so at a loss as to what to do next, so homesick, in her up-till-then humdrum life. She pictured her parents and her brother, confused at first by her not coming home at the correct hour, then worried, then perhaps frantic in their own reserved way.

Were they concerned for her? Would they miss her? Would they always wonder what had happened to her? These questions haunted her until finally she fell into an exhausted sleep and woke again when it was still dark and only embers glowed in the hearth.

Unable to sleep, and with the room regaining its earlier chill, she got out from under the warmth of the covers. Shivering, she crossed the room to place another piece of firewood into the hot coals.

May sat in the large wooden rocking chair, hugging her legs over which she had pulled the nightgown for warmth. With her chin on her knees, she watched the new log ignite with a great puff of flame and burn fiercely.

### Chapter 7

### The Silver Edge

Sheila woke shortly after the sun rose, disconcerted to find her friend looking like she hadn't slept at all, disgruntled to find herself without a shower and a blow-dryer. She washed her face with cold water from a pitcher and bowl on top of a dresser in the room. Inside one of the drawers of the dresser she found a length of blue satin ribbon that matched the color of her eyes perfectly and tied back her long blond hair with it.

May dressed in silence and rebuffed all of Sheila's attempts at optimistic chatter.

Not long after they woke, there came a soft rapping on the door, followed by an unintelligible murmur in Carlisle's low voice and an unmistakable click as he fitted the key into the lock.

Sheila took her sweatshirt off the end of the bed, put it on over the lacey tank top she wore and zipped it halfway up.

May pointed to Sheila's full cleavage and said, "Sheila, the guy's from the Victorian era. He's going to think you're a slut."

Sheila pursed her lips, thought a moment then zipped her sweatshirt all the way up.

After a minute or so of waiting, they decided that Carlisle wasn't going to open the door, so Sheila pulled on the knob herself.

In the hall, Carlisle was in the process of deciding whether he should knock again. When he saw the knob turn, he straightened quickly, backed up and stood with his hands stiffly at his sides. He was dressed in a clean white shirt with a collar that met together in two neat, sharp triangles; a dark gray wool vest with matching jacket; pinstriped gray trousers; and at his throat, a green silk tie.

In his clean clothes, and with his beard shaved off and his sideburns trimmed, he no longer looked completely wild. At the very least now, he looked human; though admittedly, a lot more uncomfortable. He had a small red gash on his cheek where he had nicked himself shaving. His hair had defiantly resisted any attempts at civilization; it still stuck out in various places.

He cleared his throat. "I hope you girls have passed a pleasant night," he said cheerfully, trying to smooth over Sheila's cold look. "How is your ankle this morning, Miss Hazelton?"

"Much better, thank you," Sheila said primly.

He took this possible loss of his only ally with a painful swallow, but continued on in a buoyant tone, "I'm delighted to hear that. I've made some breakfast downstairs." He smiled and stepped back, gesturing for them to proceed down the hall ahead of him.

Breakfast was more appetizing than dinner had been, but May had little appetite. She did however, have a dull headache. She attempted a bite of a tasteless biscuit and took a few small sips of strong tea from a delicate teacup with tiny flowers encircling the rim.

Carlisle slid the crinkled newspaper article across the table to her. "Thank you, Miss Taylor," he said.

Ignoring him, she left the paper where it was.

If May looked as though she had spent a sleepless night, Carlisle looked the same. Only the lack of sleep seemed to have ignited his spirits somehow. Sheila's cool reserve had dissolved within a short time, and she chatted with him amiably.

May only felt numb.

Carlisle watched her sulky demeanor out of the corner of his eye. "Miss Taylor," he said as he buttered a biscuit, "I fear we have got off on the wrong foot. Can we put this behind us? I'm sorry about locking the door, I truly am, but I feel that you left me no choice. I suspect you would have snuck out, dark or no dark, as soon as you could. It was for your own protection."

Staring at her teacup, May stated flatly, "I want to go home."

He appealed to her, "Miss Taylor, I want you to know that I mean you no harm. You and Miss Hazelton were deposited on my doorstep, and I feel a sense of responsibility to help you both get back to your homes and families."

"Whatever."

His tone changed. He made an announcement. "In the absence of your parents, I intend to help you girls in your quest to get back home. I would be honored if you would view me as ... as a temporary uncle ... as it were."

It sounded rehearsed. What a pinhead, thought May.

Carlisle felt around his plate. Spotting his napkin on the floor, his head disappeared beneath the table.

May said, "Thank you and all but we don't need any help. Sheila and I can find our way home on our own."

There was a loud bang from the underside of the table. The teacups rattled against their saucers.

May rolled her eyes, grabbed the newspaper clipping off the table and stuffed it into her back pocket.

Carlisle rose slowly from below the table with his hand on his head and his eyes smarting.

"Are you okay?" asked Sheila.

"Fine, thanks," he said, taking his hand away quickly and reaching for his tea. "May, how old are you?"

"Eighteen."

He looked askance at her over his teacup. "May!" he said, smiling at the boldface lie. He focused beadily on Sheila. "How old are you, Sheila?"

"Sixteen?" said Sheila weakly.

Carlisle considered her answer silently as he drank some tea.

"Okay, alright, fifteen," admitted Sheila. "But my birthday's in a week."

He broke out in a broad smile. "Happy birthday." He weighed the answer with a tilt of his head back and forth. "Yes, I can believe fifteen. Though, mind you, I'm giving you both the benefit of the doubt. I promise I will try my best to see you both safely home. You have my word on that. We'll start our search by going back to the edge."

"The edge?" said May.

He put his teacup down. "Yes, the edge. I'm sorry—I thought you must have seen it already." He began searching around his plate again. As he searched, he said, "The truth of it is, I thought last night that you must have come from it."

"No, we didn't. Can we go?" asked May.

As he buttered a biscuit with the back of his spoon, Carlisle said, "Well. It's not terribly far—a half hour's walk maybe. If your ankle is up to it, Miss Hazelton, we'll leave after breakfast." As he brought the biscuit to his mouth, he looked up to see both May and Sheila watching him with expectant looks.

"Oh, I see. Right, well, let's go then," he said, shoving the biscuit whole into his mouth.

A little while later as he helped Sheila over a break in the stone wall, Carlisle said, "You girls must bring me luck. I have never seen such a glorious day since I've been here." He held out his hand for May.

"I'm good," she said, waving him off and scrambling over the wall.

The morning haze had burned off, and the sun shone brightly—so brightly that Carlisle removed his jacket and swung it in one hand as he walked.

After about a half hour of trekking through the yellow leaved woods; tripping over brittle, fallen branches; swatting at mosquitoes (lord only knew where they were breeding); and dodging poison ivy vines, which seemed to be the only green plant to be thriving in the on-going drought; he said, "There it is. Right up ahead."

"Right where up ahead?" said May, who could see nothing more but the same sickly woods going on ahead of her. Somewhere near her ear a mosquito buzzed. She whisked it away, annoyed.

May thought she had seen movement about ten feet in front of her. Something had stirred between the trees. The mosquito returned, and she whisked at it again. Once again she saw something move ahead of her.

And that's when she saw _herself_. It was she that had moved ahead of her—or more accurately—her reflection.

For she saw now that everything ahead of her was a reflection—the trees, the woods, Carlisle, Sheila and herself—everything was being reflected back from a continuous silver wall that stretched on endlessly in both directions.

Her own face stared back at her—pale, pinched, freckled, worried. She saw the familiar mousy brown hair and matching eyes. There was no contrast here; no dark eyes and light hair, or blue eyes and black hair; no, nothing like that at all. She was tone on tone; so utterly indistinct in every way, she thought.

She shifted her gaze and looked at Sheila's reflection. The unusual events of the previous day and this morning must have agreed with her. Sheila's bright blue eyes had taken on a sparkle of excitement. Whatever Sheila's apprehensions were about returning home again, there seemed to be a part of her that was enjoying this adventure, as well.

Carlisle's transformation was the most remarkable. While on the previous night he had exuded a palpable feeling of despair, today, the warm air seemed to have breathed new life into him. The color was up in his face and his eyes, which had looked coal black in the dim light inside the castle, were actually a warm chocolate brown.

May concentrated beyond their three reflections to what was causing them. The mirrored wall ahead appeared completely seamless. She approached it and pressed her fingers against it. Her fingers sunk into the surface a few millimeters before encountering something hard and smooth underneath. It was like a thin layer of water over a silver pane of glass.

She pulled her hand away and the image of herself shimmered then settled. She rubbed her fingertips together and found that they were dry. Her reflection frowned back at her, confused.

Carlisle began speaking from where he was, leaned back against a thin birch tree, his jacket suspended from his hands clasped in front of him. "I keep trying from time to time to find an opening, but it's ..." He shook his head. "I've tried to cut it, crack it, break it ... it's just ... for heaven's sake, I even tried to burn a hole in it ... it's just—"

"Impenetrable?" she finished for him, exasperated.

"What? No, it's just no use," he said with a mixture of resentment and disgust. "I rowed a skiff all along it in the bay until I found myself back on land on the other side. It's just the same out there, too."

May was baffled. This would take some thinking about. It was so completely different and unlike anything else she had ever seen that she had nothing to compare it to. She could draw on no precedent for tackling it. She had certainly never seen anything like it.

At the bottom and top of the mirrored wall, there existed no right angles. The liquid silver plane curved gradually until it faded into forest floor at the bottom and forest canopy and sky at the top. May wasn't sure where the real ended and the reflection began or even where they met exactly.

Sheila was about ten yards away. Like May, she was inspecting the glimmering surface as well. "What's this?" she exclaimed, opening a mirrored door.

Carlisle slipped off the tree.

### Chapter 8

### Beyond The Mirrored Door

For a while, all Carlisle seemed capable of saying was, "The devil!"

He took the clear crystal doorknob out of Sheila's hand and swung the mirrored door back and forth. First his eyes focused on the top of it, then at the bottom. Then he fingered the sides of the doorframe, if any doorframe could be said to exist at all. He scrutinized it completely and examined it for hinges.

"The devil!" he spat out again, fuming.

The door was cut from the surrounding surface much like an entrance is sliced out of a large cardboard box in which children have decided to play. It had no hinges, but folded out from the surface on one side. The three cut edges of it blurred as Carlisle swung the door back towards the wall and stood out sharply as he pulled it away.

If the knob slipped out of his hand (a distinct possibility where he was concerned), May was certain that the door would slam shut and disappear completely, lost again in the seamless silver surface. And who knew if Sheila would ever be able to find it again! A boiling pressure was building inside of May as Carlisle fiddled with the door. She felt ready to explode.

"The devil!" Carlisle cried again. Then seeing May's popping eyes, he quickly finished his examination of the door and held it open.

Now that she could be sufficiently sure she wouldn't be struck in the face, she ventured to look inside. She had hoped to see Sheila's living room, but disappointingly all she saw was yet more forest ahead of her. May was about to step over the threshold when Carlisle put his arm across the doorway.

"What are you doing?" he said. "It might be dangerous. I'll go first."

She stared down at his arm blocking her way. "Suit yourself," she said, inwardly rankling that there would be no getting rid of him now.

She let Sheila go through next and followed last to watch the door close behind her. As she had imagined, the flat mirrored surface, which was just the same on this side of the wall, reabsorbed the edges of the door entirely until only May's uninterrupted reflection stared back at her. The door had simply ceased to exist.

The forest on this side of the wall was noticeably different. They had left the thick, wild, buggy woods of Maine and had entered a woodland that felt older somehow and tamer. It smelled sweeter—less full of the acrid scent of pine. She could no longer smell the ocean and thankfully gone was the beastly humidity of the hot Maine day. The air on this side of the wall was cool and dry.

For several hours, the three of them pressed through the forest until May began to wonder if they would ever find their way out.

When they came to an embankment that dropped off sharply below them, she and Sheila walked to the edge and gazed down at a small stream in a sunny glade below.

Carlisle hung back. Crouched on his heels several yards away, he watched them as he poked at the ground with a stick.

"It's too steep to walk down this way. We'll have to go around," said May loudly.

"There's a break over there," said Sheila, gesturing to a point along the embankment where the land leveled out.

"Good," said May. It wasn't far and it beat having to skid down on their backsides this way at any rate. She hushed her tone and said, "Don't you think we should ditch him?"

"No," whispered Sheila. "Why? I think he's only trying to help us. I don't think he would hurt a fly. Is that what you're worried about?"

"Oh come on, Sheila," squeaked May. Sheila was funny about people. Irritatingly, she never seemed to have to go through the process of figuring anyone out—what made them tick, guessing what skeletons were in their closet. She either liked and trusted a person, or she didn't.

"Lighten up, May. If he was going to do anything, don't you think he would have done it already?" Sheila had apparently decided she liked Carlisle.

"We're better off without him," insisted May.

"You don't know that. And you know I'd be all for it if I felt like he was a creep or something but—" Sheila shook her head and shrugged, "I'm just not getting that."

From behind them, Carlisle cleared his throat loudly. They were taking too long.

"Fine," whispered May, roughly tugging down the bottom of Sheila's sweatshirt to cover her newly pierced navel. "I can't believe you're talking me into this. But fine. We'll keep him. But I don't know how much he can help us. The man is practically an idiot and, at the very least, a menace to himself and probably everyone else around him." She fixed Sheila with a pointed look. "And I'm not even going to mention his track record with women. You know he must have killed his wife with that castle, and ten to one he gave that cousin of his the measles. With any luck neither of us will end up another casualty."

Sheila leaned over, picked up a rock then offered it to May. "Here. You can whack him over the head with this if he starts acting funny. Then, if you like, you can whack me over the head with it, too."

"That's okay. I have the butter knife from breakfast in my shoe."

Sheila tossed down the rock and brushed off her hands. "I wondered where that got to. Okay, if he starts acting funny you have my permission to butter him to death."

After walking down the embankment to the stream, Sheila splashed her face with water and sat down. She took off her sneaker, removed her sock and plunged her swollen ankle into the ice cold water.

Carlisle had long ago become tired of carrying his jacket in his hands. He hung it on a branch then sat down on a large tree root. He put his elbows on his bent knees and leaning his head back against the wide tree trunk behind him, loosened his tie.

May had enough. They might be traveling in circles for all they knew. She untied the sleeves of her sweatshirt which she had knotted around her waist and slung the garment over a branch.

She looked up the enormous trunk that Carlisle was leaned against. The tree was plenty tall. If she climbed it she would be able to see far enough to figure out in which direction they should head. Some of the lower branches were a bit sparse, but up a short way, the limbs were more closely spaced and, by the looks of them, thick enough around to carry her weight easily. The top boughs could only be described as scrawny, but she would deal with them when the time came.

May was a few branches high already when she was surprised by an angry male voice. "What are you doing?" barked Carlisle. "Get down from there!"

She was so shocked by his low, loud outburst that she actually stepped down a branch. "I want to see where we're going. We've been traveling in circles for hours."

"Are you crazy?" he bellowed, getting to his feet. "Get down at once!"

"Well, someone's got to figure out where we're going. In case you haven't noticed, we're completely lost."

He licked his lips. "Then I'll climb up and see where we are. Now come on. Down you go."

She stared down at him from a limb several feet over his head. Her crazy? Even underfed as he was, he must weigh twice what she did. He simply wasn't making any sense. There was no way the tree branches would carry his weight. He'd either fall to his death or maybe just break a leg. Then Sheila would insist on carting him through the forest or one of them—herself probably, considering Sheila's twisted ankle—would have to run and get help—

Carlisle dropped his voice an octave. "May Taylor, get down from that tree at once!"

She did start to climb down then, staring icily at him and mumbling all the while under her breath. She glanced at her feet to get her bearings then sent him one last frosty look.

But he wasn't looking back at her—he was looking up the trunk of the tree, twitching his fingers against the palms of his hands. He had gone white.

She cast her eyes up and followed the trunk all the way until it burst through the forest canopy into a small patch of blue sky far above. So that's what all his yelling was about!

May smiled to herself. Innocently and unwittingly, she had backed him into a corner. Raised in the grinding mill of Victorian tradition, his conscience demanded that he climb the tree himself. Only Carlisle had one small problem—he was afraid of heights.

She and Sheila exchanged a look. Sheila approached him and then said casually, "Mr. Carlisle, May's a whiz at climbing trees. I've seen her climb like a hundred of them twice this tall. This is a piece of cake, believe me."

May watched his face. He wasn't looking at Sheila, but he was listening.

Sheila put her hand on his sleeve. "Mr. Carlisle?" she said softly, demanding his attention. Sheila was always more convincing face to face, and she knew it.

When he finally looked at her, she said, "May climbs pretty much any tree she can find. I'm surprised it took her this long. I've never seen her fall out. She won't get hurt. Honest."

From her bird's eye view, May observed his pulsing, tightly closed jaw relax just the tiniest bit. As much as he had no desire to watch her climb the tree, he had even less of a desire to do it himself.

"Really, she'll be fine." Sheila finished with a winsome smile.

She really was an angel.

May started up the tree again as swiftly as a lizard. Carlisle fumbled for words, only nothing coherent came out. What could he say, after all? He was outnumbered by two and a half people: May, Sheila, and half of himself.

As she climbed, May kept her feet close to the trunk, careful not to stray out onto the weaker parts of the branches that might break under her weight and send her tumbling back to earth. Just as she had thought, the boughs became sturdier and more closely spaced after she passed the lower growth, and she was able to climb them easily. The closer she got to the top, however, the thinner and more pliable the boughs became, and she slowed down, choosing each limb with more care.

May stopped for a moment, looked down, and saw the now tiny face of Sheila turned up at her. Carlisle had his arms crossed and was pacing in an arc around the base of the trunk with his head down. Momentarily, he glanced up. Even from this height, he looked nauseous.

She had gone about as far as she could safely go without the branches snapping or bending under her weight. Only just a couple more, and she would break out above the roof of the forest. There looked to be a good crow's nest several feet above her head made out of a branch that forked up at an angle from the trunk. She was reasonably sure it would hold her weight, and she would be able to wedge her body snugly into it to look out over the terrain.

Unfortunately, the only means of getting to the branch she wanted was to trust another scrawny limb that she didn't think could hold her for more than a few seconds.

At first, May tried to stretch past the piece of deadwood. Hugging the now spindly trunk, she extended her arm as much as she dared—even a little beyond what she dared—towards the thick branch of her crow's nest. Her fingers trembled short of it by no more than a centimeter.

She relaxed her arm and shook the muscles out. Aiming for the branch again, she tried to imagine her arm elongating just a fraction of an inch farther. May pushed her shoulder forward. She attempted to think _long_ thoughts. She lifted her weight slightly off her opposite foot. The tip of her middle finger tickled the smooth gray bark, but that was all.

Cursing in frustration, she gave up. The untrustworthy limb was knee high to her. Still clutching the trunk, May put her foot up and tested it. The dead twigs and leaves at the far end bounced up and down, rattling softly. It might work. She guessed it would hold her on the way up—she wasn't at all sure about the way down.

With no other tree limb within reach, she held fast to the trunk with one hand, stepped on the uncertain support of the dead limb briefly, and with her other hand hoisted herself into her crow's nest. She jammed her foot neatly in the angled crevice between the trunk and the limb, stood up and hung on for dear life.

It had been worth it. From her new vantage point, May looked out over a charming expanse of pasture land just beyond the forest. The fair wind blew fresh warm air into her lungs and rustled the leaves of the tree tops around her. Tall cotton candy clouds floated effortlessly against a pale blue sky.

She looked down from a great distance, and everything seemed delightfully smaller and less important.

About a half mile away was a white farmhouse with a thatched roof. A thin curl of smoke rose from the chimney. A glimmering snake of a stream flowed through a valley past the farmhouse and continued to points unknown. She could just make out a horse drawn cart making its way through the water. Somewhere she heard a dog bark.

She frowned. There was something familiar about everything, like she had seen it before, but she couldn't place where. The sense of deja vu hadn't left her as she began her retreat back to earth.

Climbing up a tree was never the problem. Getting down was always tricky. May regarded her descent as an unpleasant task and a sobering anticlimax after being up so high.

She slid down onto her bottom and sat in the uncomfortable crook of the fork. Clutching the trunk, she twisted her body around and put the ball of her foot on the dead branch that had been stubborn enough to hold her on the way up. Gingerly, she bounced her foot on it and listened to the dried leaves at the far end rattle. There was no use debating it—she just didn't have any choice.

She set her weight down and heard a gut sickening snap as the branch gave way. At that very instant, oddly enough, something snapped in her brain as well. A few seconds later, May found herself hanging from one of the branches directly below, with butterflies in her stomach and the underside of her jaw smarting. She spat out suddenly, "Constable."

From below she could hear Carlisle condemning himself loudly in religious tones, and Sheila encouraging May down the tree with a trembling note of anxiety in her voice.

May regained her footing and fairly flew the rest of the way to earth. She skipped the last few branches and jumped to the ground with an exaggerated flourish and a huge smile spread across her face. "Constable!" she exclaimed.

Sheila and Carlisle stopped grumbling in unison and couldn't have looked more confused than if she'd said her hair was on fire.

She said to Sheila, "Your mother—she has a picture of some men driving a horse drawn wagon through a stream. Do you know the one I mean? The painter's name is Constable—John Constable." She gave a quick nod Carlisle's way. "It's on the wall next to his painting."

A light was beginning to dawn for Sheila.

May continued, "It's called 'The Hay Wagon'."

Carlisle said, " _The Hay Wain_?"

"Yes, that's it."

"Your mother has the painting?" Carlisle asked Sheila.

"A print," May answered for her. "Just a print. It's a famous painting! The original would cost a fortune."

Carlisle nodded.

"The forest ends maybe two hundred yards that way," said May, pointing in the general direction of the farmhouse. "After that we should be able to find the other edge if we keeping walking."

"And then what?" said Sheila. "Onto the next painting? Is that what we're doing?"

"What choice do we have?" said May. "We don't know where it will go. Maybe to the next painting, or maybe it'll be the way back home. What else can we do?"

Sheila said, "We could always go backwards, back into Mr. Carlisle's painting."

"No, let's keep going forward," interrupted Carlisle. "I don't ever want to go back there. I'd like you girls to get home and maybe find a place for myself somewhere. Not there." He took his jacket off the tree branch. "It's settled. We'll head that way—the way you said, May. God willing, we'll find the edge shortly after that." Heading off in the direction she had indicated, he glanced back once and waved them forward, "Let's go!"

"Who died and made him boss?" said May, watching him. She turned back to see Sheila scowling at her.

"Nice work, May," Sheila scolded. "Why'd you have to go and say that for?"

"What did I say?"

"Why be subtle? Maybe you should have just told him my mom bought his painting at a yard sale for twenty bucks." And with that, Sheila set off after Carlisle, who with his longer strides, was a good ways ahead now.

Shaking her head, May grabbed her sweatshirt off the branch and ran after the both of them.

### Chapter 9

### Stuck

Oddly, the hay wain had made almost no progress in its journey up river by the time they got to the stream. On the bank, they came upon a man observing the hay wain and its occupants. He was smoking a pipe and dressed very neatly in a black wool suit.

"Hello, how do you do?" greeted Carlisle.

"Better than some, I'll wager," answered the man, tipping his hat then gesturing with it to the hay wain.

"What's the matter?"

"Stuck on the bottom. Horses can't seem to drag it out."

"How long?" asked Carlisle.

"Must be a little more than an hour now. That's how long I've been here," The gentleman pulled a gold pocket watch out of his vest. He looked at it then closed the lid smartly.

In the middle of the stream, the driver of the hay wain urged on the horses; while a young man, covered in wet mud from head to foot attempted to push the wagon from behind. After a few moments of useless effort, the driver called to him, "Awright, son. S'no use. Take a break fer a while."

"They should've planned better, really," said the gentleman, sliding the watch back into his vest pocket in an automatic gesture.

Having grown impatient with the chit-chat, May said: "Mister, do you happen to know the way out of this place? We just came from a strange border and we're trying to get out of here."

"Strange border, you say? Most peculiar. Live in that direction, myself. Don't know anything about a border. Don't travel much either, I'm afraid. Sorry."

"Maybe the man in the wagon can tell us something," said Carlisle. He stepped into the river, shoes and all. "Wait here for me," he called over his shoulder. He waded out to the cart and stood talking to the driver for several minutes.

The gentleman leaned on the gold knob of his walking stick and seemed amused by all the activity.

The load in the bed of the wagon was covered by a dirt-smeared tarp secured by a rope. There was a bumpy arrangement underneath the cloth. The whole of it was wrapped up as tightly as a sausage link. Whatever the rig was carrying, it was definitely not hay.

Carlisle and the driver laughed about something and the sound carried to May who was getting a headache in the heat. "What is he doing? Telling jokes? He's taking forever. What do you suppose he could be talking about for so long?"

"Who cares?" said Sheila, paying more attention to the driver's son, who was leaning lazily against the side of the cart smiling at her. His teeth sparkled pure white in his handsome mud spattered face.

"Why don't you just ask him to take his shirt off?" said May.

"Why would I want to do that? It's clinging to him so nicely as it is."

Carlisle finally finished talking to the driver but instead of returning to the bank, he went around to the rear of the cart, tossed his jacket on top of the canvas tarp, then got into position next to the driver's son to help push.

As soon as the driver yelled to the horses, the cart lunged forward, and both Carlisle and the young man nearly plunged head first into the stream. The driver cheered and called out his thanks as his son ran after the wagon and jumped in. The young man threw Carlisle his jacket, then found his own cap and waved it at Sheila before putting it on.

May caught the gentleman's eye next to her and raised an eyebrow at him. "I guess it just needed one more person to push."

The gentlemen took the pipe out of his mouth. "Right, right. Would have done myself, but ..." he lifted up a foot and tapped it with his pipe stem, "... new shoes."

Spotting a stranded rowboat in some reeds, Carlisle trudged back with it to May and Sheila, then held it steady while they got in. "Would you like to get across?" he asked the gentleman.

"That's most kind, but no thank you."

There were no oars. The stream being shallow and his feet already wet, Carlisle tugged the small boat behind him as he forded the shallow stream.

"What did the man in the wagon say?" asked May, looking after the hay wain.

He shrugged. "About the edge, you mean? He didn't know what I was talking about either. Says he travels up and down the river all the time, and he's never seen anything like it."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"What was the problem with the wagon?" asked Sheila.

"For some reason, it wouldn't budge. He told me he never usually has a problem here and figured the streambed must have changed. Well, whatever the problem—it took hardly a push to get it going again."

"What's he carrying, anyway?" asked May.

"I didn't ask," replied Carlisle.

"What the heck did you talk about so long then?"

"Oh, this and that. He has lumbago."

"Lum—what?" said Sheila.

"You talked to the man for ten minutes about back pain? Are you kidding?" said May.

"Well, I didn't exactly do most of the talking. He really ought to get a padded seat for that cart, if you want the truth of it."

They were at the opposite bank by this time. Carlisle held the boat steady and let the girls out.

"The man's gone," said Sheila.

"Who? The old, stuffy guy in the bowler hat? He said he lived around here," said May.

Sheila stared after the hay wain, now a speck disappearing in the distance. "Should we follow them? Where are they going to anyway, Mr. Carlisle?"

"I don't know. I didn't ask. No, I think our best bet is to head past the farmhouse and find the opposite side of this place."

"The shortest distance between two points is a straight line," said May.

"Excuse me?" said Carlisle.

"I'm just agreeing with you," May said to him.

"Oh."

A tri-colored mutt bounded up to greet them. Carlisle crouched down and scratched behind its ears while the dog licked his face.

May was thoroughly disgusted. "You don't even know where that mutt's been. Do you realize the germs you're getting?"

"The what?" he asked, closing one eye while the dog licked his temple.

"Just—will you please stop already?"

"Okay, okay," said Carlisle to the dog, chuckling. He gave it one final scratch behind its ears and then stood up.

The day was hot but dry. The dog followed them a small distance through the field, then made its way back to the farmhouse and an evening meal.

The farmland was flat and even, only occasionally rolling into a gentle hill here and there. After a short while, May began to make out several figures coming towards them—one tall, two shorter—gradually increasing in size—until she was sure that they must be approaching the mirrored surface of the edge and that the figures ahead were their own reflections.

For a while now, she had been trying to recall Sheila's living room, but she was drawing a blank. Sheila's mother had the habit of changing her decor around so much, it was always anybody's guess what the interior of the house would look like from one visit to the next.

This was compounded by the fact that Bonnie Hazelton was constantly buying and selling artwork and her walls were always in a state of flux from one sale to another. She would often hang on to a piece she particularly liked, then sell it when she became good and tired of it which, like her husbands, was usually within a remarkably short span of time.

Bonnie wasn't a bit like May's mother who had a more utilitarian style. In fact, it was so unusual to enter the Taylor house to find that anything had changed at all that May had simply stopped seeing it after a while. She knew her home like a mole knows its own burrow. She could navigate through it with barely a look up from a homework paper or a look out from an internal thought. There were never any unexpected coffee tables springing up to bang her in the knees, no furniture jutting out in previously empty corners to surprise her.

After a while all pictures at the Taylor's had stayed where they were just out of necessity, being that most of the white painted wall had yellowed around them over time. Any rearranging of artwork exposed unsightly rectangular wall patches. It was an unspoken agreement that all was better left undisturbed.

The discoloration of the wall probably wouldn't have mattered to the Taylors—they seldom noticed anything in their surroundings after it had been there for more than a few days—but it was on account of the neighbors, who already thought them a weird and reclusive bunch.

Not that they looked down on the Taylors; her father was a tax lawyer; her mother was a financial advisor. Charley was tall and good looking and valedictorian of the junior class. May had a reputation for being an oddball, a forgettable sort of girl who always had her nose buried in a book. That was fine with May, for when people actually did notice her, they would usually remark on how closely she resembled her mother.

She finally asked, "Sheila, what's the next picture on the wall? We must be going to the left around the room."

"I don't know."

"You don't know? How can you not know your own house?"

"How can you ask that? You know my mother is always rearranging things. She watches that home network nonstop. I can't keep track anymore of what stuff is where. It's a waste of time. Next week it'll be someplace else anyway."

They were standing in front of the mirrored wall now.

"Okay, okay." May began thinking out loud. "Well, we must have gone to the left around the room because—" she looked at Carlisle, remembering the picture of his wife which had been right next to his painting of the castle. He didn't need to know about that right now. "Well, just because is all. Which means the picture we're in now is over that half circle table, the one with the purple vase of flowers on it, and we're approaching the corner by the—"

"Purple? You mean blue?" said Sheila.

"Blue? Really? What the heck kind of—"

"Hush," ordered Carlisle harshly, holding up his hand for them to stop.

May stared at him with an expression of both surprise and pique.

Ignoring her look, he bent over a little and bowed his head while his eyes scanned the ground. She realized that he was listening to something.

Then she heard it, too. It was a barely audible, rhythmic drumming, emanating from the other side of the mirrored wall. There was a lazy quality to it, and she could hear an occasional scraping noise between the beats.

"That's weird," said Sheila.

Carlisle tilted his head to the side. His eyes shifted. "It reminds me of a boat hitting against the hull of a ship."

"The ocean, maybe?" offered May.

"Let's hope we can find out," he said. "Sheila, do you think you can find the door like last time?"

She shrugged. "I can try." She began walking down the length of the wall, drawing her finger along the liquid surface as she went, leaving a small wake behind her. All at once, Sheila seemed to clutch at something, and in the next moment, a blue-green crystalline doorknob glistened between her fingers.

"The devil," whispered Carlisle, but appreciatively this time.

Sheila waited for them to gather around her, then opened the door.

The tangy smell of salt water hit them immediately. From the frame of the doorway, they looked over the open ocean. In the distance, a large sailing ship loomed on the water. A wave splashed against the raised threshold of the doorway and sent up a cool spray at them.

Carlisle leaned out of the doorway with his hand on the jamb and looked to the left where the banging noise reverberated more loudly now. He took off his jacket and vest and threw them on the grass.

"I can see a rowboat about ten yards away down the side," he said, unknotting his green silk tie. Stuffing it in his trouser pocket as he stepped out of his shoes, he said to Sheila, "Please, whatever you do, don't let this door close."

"Don't worry, I won't."

He smiled at her then dived smoothly into the water.

"I wonder why he didn't ask me?" said May.

After reaching the rowboat, he lifted himself aboard. Luckily the oars were still in it, and he rowed back to them. Taking hold of the edge of the threshold, he said, "Who's first?"

"May is," said Sheila quickly.

Watching the boat bob up and down in the choppy surf, May sat down on the threshold of the door. Carlisle held out his free hand to her. She took it and stepped into the rowboat.

Sheila was next. She squatted down and placed Carlisle's shoes, jacket and vest in the boat, then grabbed his hand and hopped in.

"You aren't afraid of the water, are you?" he asked Sheila before he let go of her hand, wondering why she had volunteered May first.

May said, "Nah, she swims like a fish. It's me. I hate water." She added right away, "I love boats though. I never get seasick or anything."

"Oh," he said, smiling, "a sailor. We'll just have to make sure you stay in the boat then."

The sailing ship in the distance appeared to be at anchor. With its sails furled, it looked stark and barren against the clear blue sky. Squinting in the bright sunshine, Carlisle studied the vessel in the distance while he put his shoes back on.

"I only remember one ship scene of your mother's," said May. "A French galleon upstairs on the landing. She must have moved it to the living room."

Sheila shook her head. "Yesterday, I think I remember seeing some ships over that half-moon table."

"I only see one ship," said Carlisle, scanning the horizon. "Are you sure?"

"Pretty sure," said Sheila. "In the picture, there's a storm; the ocean looks almost black. I think the ships are fighting."

Transparent blue-green water gently slapped the sides of the rowboat. Above them, wispy white clouds floated in a turquoise sky. Carlisle looked puzzled. "A battle you say? Could you see the flags?"

"The flags?"

"On the ships' masts."

"Oh, right." Sheila thought for a moment. "Well, one was white and I think it had a red cross on it. In the middle, I mean. Not like a cross like you see in church, but more like a plus sign, so it had, like, four small boxes." She drew an imaginary cross in the air with her index finger. "One of the boxes at the top had some red and blue in it."

"British," stated Carlisle. He looked at the ship in the distance. "This one is French. What color was the other flag?"

"Black, I think."

He looked up sharply from tying his shoe. "Black?"

"Oh, and it had some white on it, too. An X—a white X, and a—a circle above it I think."

"A circle or a skull?" he asked.

"A skull? You know, now that you mention it, I think it could have been a skull."

"Are you quite sure, Sheila?"

"That can't be right," said May, cutting in. "I know the painting she's talking about, but I haven't seen it for ages. Her mother must have sold it a while ago. Look, there's not a cloud in the sky and the flags are all wrong."

"Sheila? Honey? This is very important," he said. "Are you sure you have the right painting?"

"Well, I—I think so."

"The one upstairs was a picture of a French ship," said May. "Her mother moved it downstairs is all. Look! There's no other boat for miles around. She has them mixed up."

Carlisle began rowing. "It sounds like it. Let's hope so, anyway."

### Chapter 10

### Captured

After about a half hour of rowing, Carlisle's face was flushed. Stopping to rest, he patted his shirt sleeve against his forehead. "Forgot my handkerchief," he explained apologetically.

The rowing looked to May like hard work, and with the light ocean breeze blowing, the sun was alright if you weren't doing anything, but otherwise, unbearable. If the sailing ship wasn't friendly, and they couldn't hitch a ride across, it would be a long way for him to do all by himself.

At this rate, she wasn't sure how long it would take either. Carlisle was petering out on them.

"What time is it? Do you know?" asked May, picturing her cell phone on the small table in Sheila's living room where she had left it.

"Ten o'clock?" said Carlisle, looking around for the sun.

"Let me guess—you forgot your watch, too, did you?"

He snapped back, "Does it really matter? What good is the time going to do you here? I thought it was afternoon. It looks like morning now." He made a quick, impatient gesture with his hand skyward, shook his head and started rolling up one of his full shirt sleeves with an annoyed flick of his wrist and a piercing glance in her direction.

Well, well, well, looks like someone has a short fuse, thought May. She smiled and asked sweetly, "Are you tired? Do you need us to take over?"

"Rowing? No," he said curtly, fumbling with his shirt sleeve which wasn't cooperating with him at all. He took in a long noisy breath through his crooked nose and bubbled down to a simmer.

"I could grab one oar and Sheila could grab the other. We could work as a team."

"Don't be silly," he said, dismissing her.

"I'm not being silly. Why's that silly?"

"It just is." He tapped himself audibly on the chest, his shirt sleeve flapping limply. "If there's any rowing to be done, I'll be the one to do it."

May sat back and crossed her arms, watching him. "Oh, I see."

"It's just a bad idea," he said, taking up the oar handles again.

"Huh. Well, I don't understand why it's such a bad idea. I think you're just being stubborn. How many miles do you think you can do this by yourself? I don't mean to be rude, but in all honesty—just sitting around that castle for three years—you might be a little ..." May sized him up and made sure he knew it, "... well, let's just say 'out of shape'."

"Out of—? I just need to get a second wind."

"My point exactly."

"Have you ever rowed a boat before?" he questioned with a look that said he already knew the answer.

"Yes."

"You're a bad liar, May."

"No, really I have, and Sheila has too. Haven't you, Sheila?"

Carlisle looked over his shoulder at Sheila. Her blue eyes were level. "No, I have not."

"Thank you," he said, turning back to May and looking smug.

"But I'd be willing to try," added Sheila. "You can't possibly do this all by yourself, Mr. Carlisle."

May smiled at him.

He was outnumbered again.

"Mr. Carlisle?" prompted Sheila.

He didn't even bother to argue this time. He got up and traded places with May as she and Sheila each took a place at an oar.

No sooner than he sat down facing them he said, "You're holding the oar wrong, Sheila." He removed and repositioned her hands on the oar again, "Like that."

He peered over the side of the rowboat like an old man reading a newspaper. "May, May! You're hitting the water too shallow. No, not like that. Too deep now. And you're going to have to coordinate with Sheila a little better."

He sat back suddenly, his hands twitching, itching to have the oars back.

"Will you just be quiet? I think we can figure it out," said May. "You were doing it. It can't be that hard!"

As the girls began to row in earnest, Carlisle pointed a few times, opened his mouth to speak then finally covered his mouth with his hand. With a twinkle of amusement in his brown eyes, he watched in silence as the rowboat turned around in a circle.

May and Sheila attempted to give the oars back, but Carlisle stayed where he was.

"No, you're not giving up that easy," he said, sitting back and picking up May's sweatshirt that she had discarded on the seat next to him. "You wanted to row, now row. Keep working at it. You need to work together a little better is all." He unzipped the sweatshirt, then examined the zipper near-sightedly as he zipped it back up again, looking almost cross-eyed in the process.

Bit by bit, May and Sheila improved, though the rowboat made remarkably little headway for the amount of effort they put in. When they were sufficiently exhausted, Carlisle took the oars back over with a look of relief from everyone in the boat.

Sometime later, as they approached the ship, May began to recount what she could see to Carlisle, who had his back to it as he rowed.

"There doesn't seem to be much activity," she said. "Most of the crew seems to be lying around on deck not doing much of anything. Talk about lazy." She could see about twenty men languishing on board, some dozing; others were sitting and talking, drinking, smoking pipes. Several times, the burst of a loud guffaw drifted over the waves.

"One sailor just got up," she said, finally seeing some movement aboard the ship. "He's stumbling to the side. He's—oh, never mind."

"What? He's what?" asked Carlisle.

"He's taking a leak." When Carlisle just stared at her, she said, "What? Didn't you guys say that back then? He's—"

"I know what you mean! Well, don't look!"

"Relax. He's already turned around. He's talking to his shipmates now."

"Have they spotted us?" he asked.

"I think so. They're starting to run around like ants at a picnic. A few of them just got into a small boat. It looks like they're coming out to meet us."

"Have either of you studied any French?" he asked suddenly.

Sheila shook her head. "I take Spanish."

May said, "I just started. How's yours?"

"Bad."

Three men from the sailing ship made their way out to them in a skiff. When the sailors were close enough, one of them said something incomprehensible in French. Carlisle stopped his work at the oars and turned to watch the small boat as it glided towards them.

May could see them plainly now. They were a sorry looking bunch of sailors. Every spot of them was covered with some form of grime or another. The sun had burnt them all to a leathery blackish-brown. There was not one of them that was clean shaven, but all had several days to a week's worth of ragged stubble growing out of their weather beaten faces. Their clothes were equally dirty and ragged as the rest of them.

"I don't like the looks of them," said May.

"Nor do I," said Carlisle in a low tone.

The wind shifted. "They smell awful," said Sheila, crinkling her nose.

"And drunk," said May.

Carlisle twisted around in his seat and surveyed the rangy silhouettes of the men standing in a row along the guardrail of the galleon like hungry crows. He slipped one of the oars in the water and attempted to turn the rowboat around, but it was too late.

The skiff with the three drunken sailors in it scraped the side of the rowboat. The sailors were even worse up close. A man with a round face and bushy eyebrows gripped the side of their rowboat with a grubby paw and held it. He said something in French to them again.

May asked, "Can you make out what he's saying?"

"He wants us to do something," said Carlisle.

"Well, I could have told you that!"

The bushy-browed seaman spoke in English this time, with a voice as gravelly and hard as the rest of him. "What I said was, 'If ye could be so kind as to 'company me to the ship, I'd be much obliged.'" He pulled a long revolver from under his dirty green velvet waist-coat and pointed it at Carlisle.

The pirate glanced at May out of the corner of his eye, then did a double take and looked her up and down plainly. He smiled wide, glinting a gold tooth. "And what do we have here?" He checked over Sheila in the front of the boat. "A couple of lasses? In britches, no less!"

The two other sailors in the skiff were suddenly agitated.

"What? Are ye daft or just stinkin' drunk? The captain'll keel haul us if we go bringing lasses aboard," hollered a Scotsman with a blond ponytail and bright blue eyes, made even brighter in contrast to the tan and dirt on his face. Had he lived a kinder life he might have been handsome, but as it was, he had a long red scar from the top of his face running diagonally through his straight features.

"He's right, Fowler," said the other, a sallow, pock marked man, the reminders of a disease fought years ago. "He'll kill us for sure."

"I'll take the risk and the blame if it comes to that," the pirate named Fowler yelled, droplets of spit flying out of his mouth. "Nothing but cowards. I'm surprised the captain hasn't thrown the both of ye overboard fer yer nothin' but women yerselves."

Fowler kept his revolver pinned on Carlisle while he climbed into the rowboat. He helped himself to the seat next to May, who had retreated backwards at the sight of the gun.

The men in the skiff, glad to be relieved of the burden of Fowler, lost no time slicing through the waves back to the galleon. Fowler hollered out his unsavory opinion of them as they left, and his former skiffmates responded in kind.

Fowler's attention shifted to Carlisle who was glaring at him openly. "Is it an engraved invitation ye'll be wantin', then? I suggest ye get rowin' unless ye'll want yer head blown off or are ye really as dumb as ye look?"

Without taking his burning eyes off the pirate, Carlisle started rowing again.

May heard the blood beat in her ears. Carlisle's face barely contained the hatred and contempt for the man sitting across from him. She was trying to judge if he was enough of a hothead to do something completely foolish and get them all killed.

Fowler was barrel-chested, with thighs as thick as tree trunks under filthy, green velvet breeches, the knees shiny where the nap was worn off. The stench of him was incredible. It was a nauseating smell of stale sweat, alcohol and filth, and May kept as far from him as the narrow rowboat allowed.

Fowler laughed heartily, feeding on Carlisle's daggered looks with obvious enjoyment. "Too bad. Ye're really not a very clever sort, are ye? Lettin' yerself and yer little friends get caught like this?" He finished with a sympathetic cluck of his tongue. "Ah, well. Brighten up. Ye know what they say—can't win 'em all."

Fowler reached around May and put his meaty hand on her hip. He pulled her to him along the bench. "On the other hand, share and share alike's what I like to say."

Carlisle forgot about rowing. "Let her go."

Fowler smiled as he turned the revolver on May. "Keep rowin'."

Carlisle clamped his mouth shut and started rowing again as the pirate put his greasy lips close to her ear. She felt the tip of the gun grind against her side. Fowler said in a whisper, "Yer father's got a bit of a temper, dear, but I daresay ye probably know that already, poor lamb. Though I think he just better get that look off his face if he knows what's good for him. Or for you for that matter."

Something squirmed on the huge green shoulders next to her. She strained her eyes and saw that it was a fat louse.

In an effort to make Fowler disappear, May closed her eyes. But his odor still remained, and the darkness only made her stomach reel with the rise and plummet of the waves. For the first time in her life, she felt seasick.

Fowler cast his eyes on Sheila. He leered and smiled with his yellow-scummed teeth at her, until she ducked behind Carlisle, away from sight.

"Yer other young friend's a bit shy. Oh, that's right. I meant to say—yer daughter?"

Carlisle looked to be calculating how much time it would take him to wrestle one of the oars free of its pivot and clobber Fowler over the head with it 'till he was dead, dead, dead.

Arriving at the galleon, they were forced up the rope ladder at gunpoint. The pirate went up last with the revolver pointed squarely at Carlisle's head.

It seemed to take forever to climb the ladder. When May was several rungs away from the top, she heard Fowler shout, "What in blazes are ye stoppin' for? Get going or I'll put this shot through yer head."

She looked below her. Carlisle was frozen on the rope ladder, not moving. He gazed up at her with a sick look that she had seen on his face before. She stepped down a few rungs. "You've got to get going."

"I know."

"Can't you just look up?"

"I am looking up."

Fowler was out of what little patience the man possessed. He fired a shot in the air. The blast of the report made her startle, and she nearly lost her grip on the ladder. Carlisle winced.

"Get going!" Fowler screamed. He wrapped an elbow around a rung, drew up a horn of powder at his waist and popped the top off with his teeth. Cursing to himself, he began to empty some of the contents of the horn into the revolver.

"What's he doing?" asked Carlisle, watching her face.

She swallowed. "Reloading."

Carlisle leaned his forehead on his white knuckles clutching the rung in front of him. Fowler closed one eye and took aim, and the cock of the revolver sounded loud as a cannon in May's ears. She screamed out, "Don't shoot! We're going."

Staring down at the top of Carlisle's head, she willed him to move. But the man was stock still, except for the ends of his hair, glinting reddish in the blazing sunlight, which trembled.

She looked out at the silver waves of the ocean and in her mind she saw rows of polished suits of armor. Perhaps if he couldn't summon the strength to save himself, an appeal to his overactive sense of chivalry might work.

In the most desperate tone she could muster, she pleaded, "Please don't leave us here by ourselves, Mr. Carlisle. Please! Not with these men." And after she said it, she realized she meant it.

She saw his shoulders slump. He said something that she couldn't make out.

"What was that?" she asked hopefully.

He lifted his head slowly and stared at his hand locked on the rung in front of him. He had the red imprint of the back of his knuckles on his forehead. "Nothing," he breathed out. She watched him uncurl one of his fingers from the rung.

"We're going!" she shouted.

"'Bout bloody time," yelled Fowler.

May continued up the last few rungs of the ladder and arrived on deck where she was greeted by a disorderly mob of more unwashed, brutal looking men of every color and race. She sank back against the guardrail next to Sheila as a hubbub of alarm rose up in a confusion of male voices.

The sallow, pock marked man from the skiff yelled, "It's not our doing. It's Fowler!"

Carlisle spilled suddenly over the side, pushed by the man in back of him.

Fowler burst up onto the deck next, "Coward," he screamed, his face red. Carlisle spun around and sprang towards the fat pirate with a murderous look in his eyes. A man, half a foot taller and three times as wide, grabbed him from behind and pinned his arms back.

In a voice like the rumble of a foghorn, the huge pirate holding Carlisle said, "Fowler, the captain'll kill us all fer havin' those wenches aboard. Better to throw 'em overboard and drown 'em in the sea."

May found herself expelling a breath she hadn't known she was holding.

Fowler smiled and slid the revolver into the holster on his hip. He said, "The captain isn't due back 'til tomorrow, and we're celebrating. What's the harm? How's he gonna know and who's gonna tell 'im? Are you, Murdoch?" He turned to the crew, "How 'bout any of you?"

The crowd of men, mostly drunk, gave a mixed response: afraid of the wrath of the captain and not altogether happy, either, to let their catch go. A skirmish erupted within the midst of them. Two men were pulled off one another.

"See what it brings?" cried Murdoch, wrestling with Carlisle who succeeded in kicking him in the shin with his heel. Murdoch cursed, then shouted out, "Someone get me a rope."

Three men rushed forward, one with a length of hemp and Carlisle was soon lost in a scuffle of filthy shirt backs. The bundle of men tumbled and fell onto the floorboards. A tangle of kicking and scrabbling ensued from the pile. There was one exclamation of, "Get hold of his hands, will you?" and another of, "Blast it, he's wiry as an eel!" At last, they set Carlisle back on his feet with a bloody lip, glowering, his hair in his eyes and his hands tied behind him.

"Get them all below fer now, 'til we sort this mess out," ordered Murdoch.

The pock marked man grabbed May by the wrist. She struggled instinctively until he squeezed tighter, and she stopped squirming. "I got this one. She's not too bad, but kinda school marmy. She could use some fattenin' up."

One of the crew shouted out something crude, and the crowd of men erupted into laughter.

A balding red headed man with an eyepatch latched onto Sheila. "This one looks like an angel," he cooed toothlessly, drawing her closer. "I bet she smells like one too, don't you angel?" When she twisted away from him, he caught her ponytail and pulled her back.

She screamed.

"Shut that minx up," commanded the foghorn.

The one eyed man clamped a dirt streaked hand over Sheila's mouth, and she stopped screaming. Over the soiled back of his hand, she breathed heavily through her nose, her sapphire eyes terrified and wide.

"Mmm. And I was right, too," he whispered into her ear.

From out of the bright sunshine, they were forced down a murky, narrow stairway into the belly of the ship. May hesitated on the second stair, momentarily blinded by the darkness. The pirate in front of her yanked on her wrist, and she stumbled down steps that were hardly wide enough for a child's foot. There was no railing, and she slid her hand along the rough wall to steady herself. She felt a spider run over her fingers.

At the bottom of the stairs, it was pitch black. The moist air smelled of sour pickles and rotten fish. She and Sheila were hauled inside a small storeroom piled with boxes and barrels and abruptly let go. Minute shafts of sunshine shone down from the ceiling to the musty floorboards. Something scurried along a wall. There were no windows.

Several loud male voices hooted and cussed at the top of the steep passageway. She heard Carlisle being hauled down the stairs next, his feet bumping and skidding the way down. Two pirates pulled him roughly into the room, then banged and bolted the door closed after them. She could hear them thumping up the stairs again, laughing and cussing.

His hands still tied behind him, Carlisle whipped around and spit at the slammed door. He paced several times muttering to himself, then walked to the wall and plunked his forehead soundly against it.

With her back against a wooden crate, May slid roughly to the floor. From behind her, she heard Sheila start to cry. Carlisle opened his eyes and looked warily over at the corner. Slowly, he walked out of May's sight.

She heard his voice say softly in a lilting tone, "Oh, honey, don't do that. Please don't. It'll be alright. I'll get us out of here, I promise."

May's eyes never left the door.

His face suddenly appeared in her field of vision as he crouched down in front of her. He looked as though he had just bitten a lemon.

He whispered, "May, can you get Sheila to stop crying? I won't be able to think if she keeps doing that." Then his face fell. "Are you alright?"

She shook her head. "I'm having ... trouble."

"Trouble? What kind of trouble?"

"Catching my breath," she got out.

"Did those—did they hurt you?"

Her wrist was sore, but she didn't think it was broken. She shook her head.

He looked relieved. "You're probably just upset."

"No ... I just can't ... breathe."

"May, I promise you. I'll get us out of here. Do you trust me?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"No."

"Then I trust you."

"Good. Do you feel better?"

"No."

He spun around on his heels in front of her. "Do you think you can help me with this knot?" His hands were purple.

"I'll try." The rope was difficult to work on in the dim light. With this new activity to keep her occupied, the vice around her rib cage relaxed. His fingers were like ice. "What the heck kind of a knot is this?"

"The deuce if I know, but it's tight."

Sheila wiped her eyes and came over to help. Even with both of them working on it, the knot was still impossible to budge.

"Use the knife, May!" said Carlisle.

"The knife! I completely—" She shot Sheila an accusing look as she fished the butter knife out of her sock.

"I didn't tell him. Honest!" said Sheila.

May sawed at the coarse rope with the serrated blade. The outer fibers of the rope began to fray and break, but it was slow going.

There was a scuffling overhead and angry male voices. She glanced up. "What the hell are they fighting about anyway?"

"I don't know," he lied, looking at the ceiling. "Don't worry. I'll get us out of here."

"I know you will," Sheila reassured him.

"Aren't you done yet?" he asked.

"Keep your pants on. It's almost through," said May.

All at once, they heard the sound of loud footfalls descending the stairway.

May forced the knife into his hands, and he stood up, moving away quickly to the opposite wall. She and Sheila hunkered down, huddled together with their backs against the wooden crate behind them.

The door flew open and Fowler strutted in with two lackeys who grabbed Carlisle roughly by his arms then stood dumbly blinking down at the floorboards echoing with the sound of clattering metal.

Fowler bent over and picked up the butter knife at his feet. "Well, well. Will ye look at that, lads, someone's been eatin' biscuits down here." He inspected the knot around Carlisle's hands. Then with a look thick with dissatisfaction, he kicked him from behind towards the door. The two lackeys picked Carlisle off the floor where he landed and thrust him up the stairwell.

"I'll deal with you two later," Fowler said to the girls before slamming the door closed behind him.

They heard Carlisle being shoved and bumped up the stairs. Sheila went white. "What're they going to do with him?"

May swallowed. "I don't know."

She heard loud laughter above them, then a hooping of voices. There was a shuffling of feet and then she heard something heavy hit the floorboards above. A burst of dirt filtered down. In a sunbeam, she followed its slow descent to the floor.

Sheila stifled a sob, then covered her ears with her hands and closed her eyes tight.

She looks ridiculous, thought May.

There was another loud hooping of laughter over their heads.

May clamped her hands to her ears and winced.

### Chapter 11

### The Royal Fortune

How long the sounds continued above them, May couldn't tell. Her head throbbed and she felt sick to her stomach. She rested her chin on her knees.

She didn't think anything could be worse than the sounds had been, but for a while now there had only been an eerie silence with an occasional murmuring from above. She strained her ears, but could make out nothing over the constant groan of the galleon's wooden planks and creaking ropes.

Next came the sound of heavy boots on the stairs, and she heard Fowler's blowhard voice say something that she couldn't make out.

She and Sheila huddled together in the darkness and waited. She heard the harsh rasp of the bolt draw back then the door opened and Fowler entered with the pock-marked man. Without a word, Fowler grabbed Sheila by the arm and yanked her to her feet. She cried out as he pulled her along behind him up the stairs.

The pock-marked man came at May. She put her hands up and said, "Don't. I'll go. Just ... don't touch me." He made a grab for her, but she was too quick. She sidestepped him and shot up the stairs before he could put his nasty hands on her.

On deck, she took a place beside Sheila at the guardrail, then looked around for Carlisle and found him between two hulking pirates. He no longer had his hands tied but he was blindfolded, and the men on both sides of him each had one of his arms—whether to restrain him or to keep him upright there was no way to tell. He swayed a little with the rocking of the ship. His face was ashen except for an ugly purplish welt blossoming on his jaw, and his lower lip was split.

Fowler smiled a crocodile smile at Sheila, who was gazing at the floorboards of the deck and rubbing her wrist. "Tut, tut. There's no need to be sad, dearie. I've got somethin' that'll get that pretty little pink mouth laughin' again. We've arranged some amusement for ye both. Ye see, we've decided to make your dear ol' dad here walk the plank, and we didn't want ye to miss the fun." He pursed his lips and wrinkled his bulbous nose. "Just to let ye know, he wasn't real warm to the idea at first, but I think we've convinced him. I don't want to burst yer bubble, but yer daddy here's a bit of a coward."

From behind him, May heard Carlisle's voice echo her own thoughts when he said, " _You're_ a coward, Fowler."

Fowler stopped smiling and said, "And apparently he's stupider than I thought, too. I thought I already taught him to keep his stinkin' mouth shut, but I guess I was wrong."

The pirates to the sides of Carlisle backed away, and May watched him take in a deep breath and hold it as though bracing himself.

Fowler spun around and gave his blindfolded captive such a vicious blow to the jaw that Carlisle was knocked off his feet and slammed the rail behind him. He slid to the floorboards with his legs straight out in front of him.

For a long moment Carlisle didn't move and May thought he must be out cold. She hoped so anyway. He really couldn't keep his mouth shut. He was either a masochist or hell-bent on getting them all killed. But then his shaking hand reached up and pulled off the grubby blindfold.

Even Fowler looked surprised.

In a raspy voice, Carlisle said, "Two young girls and an unarmed man; that makes you a coward. Give me a weapon and let me fight." And then, with pure hatred in his eyes, he licked blood from the corner of his mouth and spat it out on Fowler's boots.

Several of the pirates laughed loudly.

Fowler's bloated face was red and blotchy with anger as he stood staring down at the rust colored spittle glistening on the black leather of his boots.

A reedy voice shouted out, "Go on, Fowler. He's got a point. Maybe he's not a coward, maybe you are." The rest of the crew joined in. Most of the men were itching for a show on this dull afternoon. If Fowler was willing to take the risk ...

The crew began coaxing and howling for a duel.

Fowler was thinking murderous thoughts by the look of him as the men urged, cajoled, insulted him into action.

Carlisle's jaw was starting to swell. He looked around at the shouting men with a glint in his eyes, feeding off the energy around him.

He's actually enjoying this, thought May in disbelief.

Carlisle's eyes came to rest on Fowler, "How 'bout it? Just you and me. You're pretty handy with that revolver. Is that what you want? That's fine with me. How 'bout giving me one this time, too? Or maybe you just like your opponents unarmed?"

The men all hushed one another to better hear Fowler's response.

"I'd just be wasting shot on ye. Blades, I think. Something more than a butter knife this time. Get this imbecile a sword and get me mine."

The crew cheered. A disorderly group effort broke out among the men to find a spare sword.

Fowler walked to an old crate and picked up a tankard of rum. He tipped the mug up to his lips and drank greedily with his back turned. His sword was presented to him, and he took it in his free hand without a pause from his cup.

His head still woozy from the blow to his jaw, Carlisle stumbled to his feet, aided unkindly by the two pirates at his sides. As he shook his head to clear it, another pirate offered him a cup. He took it, kicked back a swig, then drained it and gave it back to the pirate. A sword was thrust into his hand. He looked it over and felt the weight of it as his eyes scanned the floorboards of the deck.

Among the crew, there was a final furtive exchange of money and then the mob of pirates drew back, tripping over each other's boots. May and Sheila pressed themselves thin as pieces of paper against the guardrail.

Fowler took a last swallow from his tankard and put it down with a dull thud. He turned around, stepped to the center of the deck, and put his weapon up.

Carlisle took a place in front of the fat pirate and lifted his sword, swaying on his feet a little. He clasped and unclasped the handle several times, rubbed his wet forehead against the crook of his elbow, then nodded that he was ready.

Murdoch gave out a sharp whistle.

Fowler lunged forward immediately. Carlisle jumped back and sidestepped out of the way. When the pirate lunged again, he swatted the blade away with a clumsy swipe downward as though he were chopping wood with an ax.

The two men circled one another once, then Fowler sprang forward again. May heard the sharp clang of metal as Carlisle knocked the sword to the side. The duel continued in this way for several more minutes, with Fowler on the attack and Carlisle just defending himself like a lumberjack. More money was exchanged among the crewmen.

Carlisle finally made a desperate lunge at the pirate, but the pirate parried him off easily, and the crew moaned in disappointment.

May felt she couldn't watch, but she found she couldn't turn away either. Bad enough the man was going to get himself killed trying to be a hero, but then what would happen to her and Sheila? Should they make a jump for it over the side? She peered over the guardrail behind her. She could see the waves cresting against the ship's hull far, far below and shuddered. No, she didn't want to think about that.

May looked over at Sheila, expecting her to be flinching, hiding her eyes, but instead, she was watching the sword fight eagerly as though she were confident that her champion would win. May heard the scrape and clash of metal and turned back to the swordfight. She had to admit that for such a poor swordsman, after more than a dozen exchanges, Carlisle still didn't have a mark on him.

Unexpectedly, Fowler lunged high.

Caught off guard, Carlisle dipped swiftly to the ground and brought his sword up underneath his opponent's in one smooth, even elegant, motion.

Nearby, May heard several of the crewmen murmur.

Murdoch whistled and both of the men backed off one another.

Perhaps Carlisle wasn't as incompetent as he pretended. What was he waiting for then? Why didn't he just attack and get it over with?

Fowler's breathing was ragged and labored as he went to his tankard of rum.

Was that it? wondered May. Was he letting Fowler wear himself out and all the while studying how he fought? How he tipped off his intentions of when he was going to strike, when not?

"The coward won't even fight me," the pirate sniggered between gulps and breaths. "It's like chasing a mouse around deck."

"Come on, Fowler, are ye done yet or what?" griped Murdoch.

"Oh, why don't ye stow it," yelled Fowler, before tossing back one last swallow. He belched loudly then slammed down his mug. He walked to Carlisle who was already waiting by Murdoch in the center of the deck, lifted his sword and said, "Better get ye sword at the ready. This is the last time ye'll be using it."

Carlisle faced off against the pirate, but something was different this time. The two men stood toe-to-toe. Fowler's face darkened. He lowered his sword. "So that's how it is?" he said thickly. Then he backed up a step, hitched up his pant leg, and got into position again.

"What's going on?" whispered Sheila.

After a second of her own confusion, May answered, "He's left handed."

Murdoch signaled for the duel to begin.

Carlisle shifted his weight briefly onto his back foot then sprang forward in an attack. Fowler was thrown off balance both by the unexpected quickness of his opponent and the unusual angle of the blade coming at him.

Accelerating with each thrust like a predatory cat, Carlisle lunged at the pirate again and again, while the pirate retreated repeatedly, unable to counter either the length of the lunges or the longer reach of his attacker. When he finally ran out of room, Fowler found his back pressed against the mast with the tip of Carlisle's sword on his neck.

Carlisle had the faintest trace of a smile on his lips. May cringed and peeked out of one eye.

Next to her, Sheila put her hands over her face. She peered out between her fingers.

The sword flashed as it angled in the sunlight, poised to deliver the final death blow. But Carlisle just drew his sword away suddenly. May was surprised by her own disappointment until she saw the flowing red gash at the pirate's neck. Fowler himself looked confused, not realizing he'd been cut at first. But then he daubed at his throat, brought his hand away and just stared at the blood dripping off his fingers.

The once unruly pirate ship was now quiet as a chapel as Carlisle walked back to the center of the deck and put up his sword again.

Sheila uncovered her face and gasped, "Why doesn't he stop? He's won, hasn't he?"

"Yes," replied May. "But he's going to kill him. He just wants Fowler to know it, too."

"He can't!"

Fowler's chest was heaving. Blood trickled down his filthy vest front.

"Go on," said Murdoch.

The pirate looked around at his fellow crewmates. They stood silent as jewel eyed statues, except for the urging, small nods of their heads.

No way out, thought May. Fowler had no choice but to walk forward and accept his fate.

"I can't watch," said Sheila, hiding her eyes completely this time.

As soon as Fowler got into position, Murdoch gave the signal, and Carlisle dashed forward immediately, lunging and attacking, the tip of his blade coming within inches of Fowler's chest.

The pirate backed up again and again, beating off his attacker's blade with the guard of his sword. His elbow crooked at an impossible angle, he was driven further and further backward until finally his spine met the rail at the side of the ship.

Now with nowhere left to go, his sword locked with Carlisle's, Fowler arched his back over the rail behind him.

Abruptly, the mob of pirates parted. A tall man with sandy hair walked out of the midst of them in a scarlet coat, scarlet breeches and a large hat with a red feather. He wore an enormous gold chain and jeweled cross around his neck.

"What in the blazes is all this racket? Not a single one of ye to meet me. What's going on?" bellowed the captain. Then he spotted the two men with their swords and eyes entwined, and shouted, "There's no fighting on my ship. I'll not allow it. It's to be settled on shore." He marched towards them. "You there, back off," he ordered.

Carlisle glanced at him, but didn't move.

"Seaman, I ordered ye to back off," the captain commanded again.

"You're not my captain," said Carlisle.

The scarlet captain turned the same shade as his clothes in righteous indignation. "But this is my ship!"

Carlisle considered the captain's argument for a moment, then frowning, disengaged his blade from Fowler's with a shove, almost knocking the fat pirate overboard. As he turned to face the captain, a brief gust of wind ruffled his once clean white shirt, now stained with dirty hand prints and speckled with Fowler's blood.

The captain snarled, "I don't usually repeat myself, sailor. Yer lucky I don't run ye through." Then he barked out, "Murdoch!"

"Aye captain?"

"Who is this man?"

"He's a prisoner that was found in a rowboat at sea. He looks a bit pasty, but he's plenty brave and fast. He'd make a first rate pirate."

Carlisle spoke up. "Let the lasses go and I'll join you."

"Lasses?" The captain sputtered.

A man with an eyepatch clamped down on Sheila's wrist. "Here," he yelled. "It's Fowler's doing." Sheila sunk her teeth into his filthy mitt and the pirate howled. When he reached for her with his other hand, she ran across the deck and stood behind Carlisle.

"Females?" the captain spat out. "Aboard the _Royal Fortune_? Where's Fowler? I'll kill him."

But Fowler wasn't anywhere.

"Don't worry. I'll find him," said Murdoch, pushing his way through the men.

"Ship ahoy," called the lookout in the crow's nest. A seaman handed the captain a spyglass and said, "She's French."

"Nay," said the solemn voice of another. "It's a trick. That's _The Swallow_ , I'd recognize her anywhere. She's British. I served on her and hoped never to see the likes o' her again."

"British? Is it so, lad? Are ye sure?" asked the captain, alarmed.

"Aye, sir. That I am."

The captain looked on the crew with disgust. "None o' ye are fit to fight; half o' ye are drunk or hung over. Ye're a pitiful lot." In a tone of resignation he said, "We shall make for the coast straight away." He fingered the gold cross at his neck and stared sullenly at the approaching ship. "A coward's way; I would rather fight."

"You won't win," said May.

A man beside her hissed, "Shut up, you little wench."

"Nay, nay," said the captain. "Let her speak. The lass says we should run." He turned to his crew, "What do ye think? Should we run like women? What say ye?"

The mob of men howled their dissent.

"Just so," said the captain. "Methinks she has made our decision for us then. We will stay and fight like men."

The crew cheered.

The captain pointed at Carlisle. "You there. Get yer females off my ship. I don't want 'em aboard when I go into battle, nor have their blood on me hands, neither. Nothing but bad luck from it. Besides, it looks to me like ye've earned it." Then to the pirates, the captain yelled, "Release the prisoners and let them take the craft they came in. We must prepare ourselves for battle."

The captain began barking out orders, and the crew sprang to life. A dozen men drew up the enormous anchor by a rope as thick around as a man's waist. Others set about hoisting the sails. The argumentative rag tag collection of pirates under the direction of the scarlet captain was suddenly one organism.

As soon as their captors' attention was put to the more important task of readying the ship for battle, May and Sheila ran to the ladder and assumed Carlisle would do the same.

Sheila was already halfway down the ladder, and May had just begun her descent when she looked up and noticed that he hadn't followed them. Luckily he was tall enough to spot among the scurrying seamen. The sword still gripped tightly in his hand, he scanned the faces of the sailors running to their tasks. Just what was he doing? she wondered hotly.

Then her stomach sank. He was hunting for Fowler.

She got back on deck, ran to him and yelled, "Mr. Carlisle, let him go."

His eyes still searched. He wasn't hearing her.

She grabbed his shirt sleeve and yanked on it. "Mr. Carlisle," she demanded and got his attention finally.

His eyes were jet black and glassy, the pupils dilated by some mysterious mix of natural chemicals in his bloodstream.

She said firmly and deliberately, "We don't have time for this! We need to get far away from here fast. The _Swallow_ is going to blow this ship out of the water."

"Go wait for me in the boat," he ordered.

"The hell I will," she said. "We'll never get far enough away if you don't come now."

"Five minutes, May."

"We don't have five minutes. We need to leave now. It's better this way. Let the captain take care of Fowler."

He calculated her face a moment. "Then you'll just have to go without me," he said.

"But—but you—" She winced as unsaid words died on her lips. She let go his sleeve as though she were touching something unclean. "Fine, then, we will, without any help from you."

She went to the ladder. She was vaguely aware of his eyes on her, but she didn't look at him as she began picking her way down the rungs.

When she stepped into the rowboat, Sheila was frantic. "What took you so long? Where is he?"

May sat down at one of the oars. "He's not coming." She brushed hair away from her face and took up one of the oar handles. "I'm going to need your help, Sheila." She nodded to the empty seat on the bench.

"He's not coming?" Sheila said in a dismal tone, sitting down next to her.

"I told you he was a loser. Let's just go," May said as they started rowing.

### Chapter 12

### Drowned

From high above their heads, May heard a loud manic yell as Carlisle vaulted over the guardrail of the ship.

He landed less than a yard away. A great surge of spray erupted out of the sea, gushed over the rowboat and drenched them in icy water. May cringed and let out a shuddering breath.

She saw his hand rise up over the side as he placed the sword in the boat. He swam to the ship's rope ladder, hoisted himself out of the water and stood on the last rung. "Get out of the way," he hollered in sulky anger before stepping into the rowboat.

Happily, she and Sheila plunked down on the bench opposite.

Carlisle, streaking water, sat down heavily in the rowboat. He rubbed his eyes and face, discovered that his hands were shaking, and put them quickly on the handles of the oars.

"Thank you," said May with a triumphant smile as she pushed the rowboat away from the ship's hull.

"Five minutes, May!" he yelled at her as he began rowing away the last of his dark energy, making huge slices through the water. "That's all I asked."

She blew a loud raspberry through her lips. "For Fowler? Oh, please. That guy's not worth two minutes let alone five. Besides, have you ever actually killed someone?"

Whatever he had expected her to say, it had not been that. He stared at her with his mouth ajar and blinked.

She swallowed. "Intentionally, that is?"

"No," he said huskily, shaking his head. "Never."

"Well, there you go," she exclaimed with relief. "How could you have lived with that on your conscience?"

"Believe me, for Fowler I could've got by somehow."

May wrung out the bottom of her t-shirt over the side of the rowboat. "You know, what were you thinking? You nearly hit the rowboat on the way down. Couldn't you have aimed a little better? You couldn't have done worse if you hadn't looked at all."

Carlisle just rowed.

"You didn't look, did you? We could have all been killed!" she shouted.

"Well, it was either that or not at all, because I sure wasn't going down the ladder," he shouted back.

"I can't believe—"

"I'm just glad you came," piped in Sheila, sending May a look.

Carlisle nodded a moody thanks.

"And I think what you did was amazing," Sheila added.

"Well, I wouldn't say—"

"No," said May. "She's right. It was amazing. How did you learn to do that?"

He looked out at the sea a moment and then said, "My father thought I was a bit ... ah—" he searched for the right word and shrugged, unable to avoid the first one that had come into his head, "clumsy, when I was young. He thought fencing might do me some good. It was no hardship, but I'm not sure it ever cured the problem. I never dreamt I would use it for anything like this."

"Are you left handed or right?" asked May.

"They tried to teach me to use my right, but I just couldn't get it."

"Could have fooled me. I'd love to be able to do that even half as well."

"I'm out of practice. Lucky for me, Fowler was sloppy."

"And drunk," May added.

"Believe me, not as much as I would have liked. You know, I've seen a few women fence and they can be quite good. When you get home, you should find someone to learn from."

"Have you ever fenced any?"

"Any? Any what?"

"You know, women."

"That's not exactly sporting, is it?" said Carlisle.

"Well, have you?"

"I might have," he said, then scowled at the oars as if they suddenly needed his intense concentration.

"Were you ever beaten by one?"

"I have a longer reach."

"That's not really an answer, is it?" said May.

"It's the only one I have for you."

"Well, since you got us out of there and all, I guess I can cut you some slack."

He shook his head. "The truth of it is, if the captain hadn't stepped in, none of us would have got off that ship alive. I should never have brought you there. It was too much of a risk."

"Oh, I'm sure you would have thought of something," said May, though she wasn't entirely sure at all. "By the way, I didn't know that a pirate ship was what you had in mind when you said you wanted to find a place for yourself."

"Not my first choice."

"But it has its appeal, don't you think?"

"Well, there wasn't much choice under the circumstances."

"Oh, of course, of course. And thank you. I only meant that it's definitely an adventurous life, and pirates—well, they seem to have their own misguided sense of purpose somehow. Though I'm not really sure what that is."

"Every man for himself?" said Sheila.

"Yeah, I'd say that's probably it," said May. "Not a real bright bunch either. It's definitely a good thing the captain keeps them on a short leash. They get too much time on their own they might start thinking for themselves, and I'm not so sure that's such a good idea where that pack of cut-throats is concerned." She snorted a laugh. "Heck, they'd probably just all kill each other anyway. Come to think of it, maybe that wouldn't be such a bad idea after all."

Sheila said, "Well, for what it's worth, Mr. Carlisle, I think that guy was wrong. I don't think you belong there at all. I'm glad we're all off that ship together."

"Besides, those pirates aren't going to fare too well," said May. "They pretty much fall apart after the captain dies. Even if you survived the battle, with all that pillaging, killing and dirt ... " she looked down at her hands as if seeing them for the first time and made a face, "... I can't imagine any of them live too long." She leaned over the side of the boat and washed her hands in the salt water.

Sheila's eyes narrowed to slits. "Serves 'em right. What a revolting bunch of evil men. I hope their ship burns to a crisp and they all drown in the ocean." And whether to get the taste of the man she bit out of her mouth or to curse them all, she spat into the water.

All three of them jumped as the sound of a loud gunshot erupted from the deck of the _Royal Fortune_. May held her breath, and Carlisle stopped rowing to watch the ship.

Over the rail of the galleon, the pirates threw a green velvet rag doll. From across the water, they heard a loud splash.

May looked at Carlisle and watched a sinister satisfaction creep across his features. When he became aware that her eyes were on him, he extinguished the look and started rowing again.

In the distance, they watched the _Swallow_ approach the _Royal Fortune_ until the two ships were squared off, broadsides. The _Royal Fortune_ struck the French flag she had been pretending and sent up the Jolly Roger. The other ship struck her own French colors and hoisted the flag of the British navy.

In a matter of seconds, the sea around the rowboat darkened to the color of ink and a cold wind began to blow the rolling waves into white crests. Leaden clouds covered the sky and began to send out silver lightning bolts down onto the surface of the ebony water.

"How—how can the weather change so fast here?" cried May, watching the churning black water around the rowboat with mounting anxiety.

"It's the battle," said Sheila. "The battle is causing it."

"That's not possible," said May.

All the emotion was drained out of Sheila. "Sometimes May, I think you're so busy figuring out what's supposed to happen that you don't actually see what does happen."

The loud cannons of the two ships began firing on one another.

A thunderous crack rang out from the pirate ship as the towering main mast split in two, midway up. They watched the top half of the mast teeter back and forth in the wind for a brief moment, then plummet down with a splintering crash onto the deck.

There was a pitiful, tumultuous outcry of men's voices from the _Fortune._

"The captain's dead," said May.

Several minutes later, the pirates slipped a scarlet red figure over the side into the cruel black sea.

The wind increased to a gale, and cold hard raindrops stung May's face and hands. Clutching the side of the rowboat with one hand and the underside of the bench she was sitting on with the other, she clung to the small boat as it was tossed around violently on the waves.

The rowboat suddenly rose high, hung in the air a moment and then dropped. May's stomach jumped. The boat hit the surface of the water brick- hard, and the impact sent a shock of pain up her spine as she slammed against the wooden seat again.

The raging ocean left the tiny rowboat suspended on the edge of crests, oars uselessly clawing air. Carlisle gave up rowing. He shipped the oars and spent his time hanging on and making sure neither the sword nor the oars were lost. Massive amounts of frigid water splashed over the boat, drenching them all and making the interior of the rowboat even more slippery and wet than it already was—if that were possible.

The slight vessel rose high once again and came down with a tremendous smack on the surface of the water, knocking May's handhold loose. At that precise moment, she felt a powerful rush of water take her as an enormous wave struck and washed over the boat.

The ocean absorbed her into itself and she became a part of it. Overwhelmed, she had no choice but to go where the wave wished on its own purposeful quest for the final release of its energy. The world spun around in confusion.

Just as suddenly, she was disgorged abruptly into air. Herself once more, she was desperately in need of oxygen. She gasped then crashed into the sea. With her lungs aching, she somehow found the surface again. She coughed out seawater and attempted to replace it with air.

In the dark chaos of the storm, she saw the rowboat tossing on the waves not more than a few yards away from her. She could see Sheila and Carlisle spinning around, searching the water, shouting her name.

She tried to call to them, but a frozen knife of a wave crested against the back of her neck and her head went under. At first she fought against the watery menace that pressed her on all sides; she pushed her hands against it resentfully. Then, some brief semblance of reason took over, and she attempted to use it to propel herself forward. But the water resisted, even flowed between the minute spaces between her closed fingers. Panic set in as her lungs began to ruthlessly demand air. She clawed at the water, trying to find the way up, not even sure where it was anymore.

Then all at once, she was distracted by her limbs thrashing about. She tried to remember why they were making such an ungainly motion. And unable to remember something that seemed so far away and such an effort to recall, the fight left her, and she went with the billows where they took her. She felt forces push and pull on her body as the currents and waves shifted against her.

She floated along with them effortlessly.

Her lungs no longer hurt anymore. From what seemed a great distance away, she felt a pressure surrounding her, like a cloth wrapped snugly around her body, comforting in its own restrictive way, and even though some lost part of her knew it should be otherwise, strangely warm.

### Chapter 13

### Lost at Sea

May's fingers brushed against something hard and rough. She tried to figure out what it was. There was something coarse and solid under her hands.

Everything around her was inky blackness. Then gradually, out of the murk, there appeared two familiar, worried faces framed by a backdrop of gray sky.

All at once, her lungs exploded water, and she felt strong hands turn her over as she expelled the last of it from her mouth and nose, burning her throat and nasal passages on its way back up. She drew in a large breath, and to the amazement of both herself and her companions, burst into tears.

Carlisle threw his head back and laughed.

May was mortified. She stifled herself.

He stopped laughing, rubbed her back and smiled. "Well, at least we know you're not dead."

She sat up, exhausted and nauseous. "I feel terrible."

"You took in a lot of seawater," he informed her.

"Thanks," she said to him meaningfully.

He started setting up the oars again. "Don't thank me. Sheila was in the water before I could stop her." He cast a look of disapproval at Sheila but added with a wink, "She's apparently half mermaid."

So she thanked Sheila instead who was dripping wet with red-rimmed eyes. Sheila hugged her and sobbed, "You really are a terrible swimmer, May."

"I know," she agreed.

As quickly as the storm had started, it was now over. Carlisle started rowing again.

"Where are we going?" asked Sheila, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

"I think we could use some dry land," he said. "I know I could."

The clouds soon dispersed and the sun appeared. It became hot, drying their clothes, leaving the fabric sticky and stiff with crusted sea salt. After the freezing temperatures of the storm, May soaked in the warmth as she sat in the bottom of the boat, bailing out water with her hands.

After a short while, she leaned out over the side of the boat and vomited. May had eaten very little for breakfast and had swallowed more than her fair share of the ocean. Hopefully they would find food and water soon. She had almost no energy left. Shaking, she leaned against the uncomfortable wooden boat and dozed off in the heat haze.

When she awoke Carlisle wasn't rowing anymore. Sheila was curled up at the front of the rowboat, sleeping. The sun was almost gone in the sky. It sent out its last rays over the horizon in pink and orange.

Seeing her stir, Carlisle sat down next to her and propped his back against the bench.

"I can't row anymore," he said flatly.

"That's okay."

"I can't find the edge. I've been rowing for hours, but I just can't find it."

"It's alright. Maybe the current will take us to it." May was too tired to worry about anything.

"Maybe your right," he agreed, too tired himself to argue the point.

Lazily, water lapped the outside of the boat.

He screwed up his face. "May, how'd you know about the battle? That the pirates would lose? That the captain would die?"

"I saw the picture when I was at Sheila's once and I went to the library and read about it. Captain Bartholomew Roberts—kind of weird they called him Black Bart when he liked to dress in red so much."

"I'm glad we didn't find out why."

"Me too," she said, because she already knew why. "Mr. Carlisle?"

"What?" He yawned.

"I think I ought to tell you something."

He crossed his arms across his chest. "Hmm?"

"I said I should probably tell you something. It's just that Sheila's mother bought more than one of your paintings. She bought a picture of your—Mr. Carlisle? Are you listening?"

But he wasn't listening. Francis Carlisle had fallen asleep. He snored softly through his crooked nose.

May actually felt relieved. Maybe it was better not to tell him about his wife. Even if they managed to make it out of the painting they were in, there was no guarantee they would ever make it to his wife's painting. And if, by some miracle, they did, there was no way to know what it would be like—what she would be like—when they got there. After all, she didn't arrive there the same way they did. She was, well—dead.

But even more importantly, she and Sheila needed to find their way home. They didn't need to be wandering around searching for Carlisle's wife who might not even remember him when he got to her.

Anyhow, it was too much to think about and May was too exhausted to think. She put her head down on the bench and watched a glowing crescent moon rise up out of the ocean and advance across the purple sky.

### Chapter 14

### Two Golden Apples

The motion of the waves invaded May's dreams. That night she dreamt that instead of the rowboat, she glided through the water in a small submarine, smooth all around. Sheila was with her and Francis Carlisle, too.

Carlisle kept painting the inside of the submarine all sorts of different colors so that her head spun and she yelled at him to stop. The inside of the vessel was freezing cold and Sheila kept repeating, "Why is it so cold in here?" until May began wondering the same.

The question began to distress her so much that she woke with a start.

She found that she was shivering, chilled through. The boat wasn't moving anymore and Carlisle and Sheila were asleep.

An eerie mist surrounded the rowboat on all sides so that she could see almost nothing beyond it. All that she was able to make out was that they had landed on a tract of sand.

The air was pungent with an overwhelmingly sweet smell of some flower she didn't recognize and the enticing and repulsing scent of overripe fruit. She began to be aware of strange plopping noises that she couldn't place, full and pregnant sounding, occurring at irregularly spaced intervals.

Rubbing her arms in the chilly air, May stepped over the side of the boat and sunk into the sand. After being so long on the ocean, her head swam now that she was back on solid ground. She knew now that she had never fully appreciated how wonderful it could be to stretch her legs.

The encompassing whiteness of the fog gradually turned pinkish and translucent. The morning sun was burning off the night's mist and bringing warmer air with it. She could see now that they were on a small beach. Just beyond it was a patch of green grass, studded with small rose colored flowers, the source of the overwhelmingly fragrant smell.

"What is this place?" asked Carlisle in a sleepy voice behind her, awake now in the boat and rubbing his lower back.

She answered him over her shoulder. "I don't know. The fog is so thick, it's hard to tell. It appears to be burning off though, so that's something. I can see just a little bit of some grass over there, so we've hit a coast or island of some kind is my guess."

He stumbled out of the boat behind her, and she heard his tired steps crunch up to where she stood. "What is that strange noise? Rain?"

"You mean those weird plopping sounds?" she asked, turning around to answer him, then breaking out in a laugh. His hair was definitely worse in the morning. "I don't know," she got out between laughs.

He chose to ignore her.

"I don't ever want to see another rowboat again," Sheila said peevishly from behind them.

"I have to agree with you there," agreed Carlisle, inspecting some blisters on his hands.

"Where do you suppose we are? Are we in the same painting?" asked Sheila.

"It doesn't seem like it, but we never found another edge. Maybe we're off the map. Who knows anymore in this place," said May.

"What a weird noise. What do you suppose—"

"We don't know," said May and Carlisle together.

The shape of trees slowly began to emerge out of the pinkish gray mist. By the even spacing of them and the smell of overripe fruit everywhere, May felt certain that what they were looking at must be an orchard. She heard her stomach rumble.

The same realization hit them all at the same time, and they ran full tilt into the orchard. Each plucked the nearest fruit and collapsed on the soft green grass. They munched together voraciously.

Carlisle quickly devoured a golden apple and began to work rapturously on a second. May munched on a sour green apple while Sheila was demolishing a juicy brown pear.

All around them, the fruit, so ripe and ready to be eaten, fell and dropped down with small dull thuds onto the ground.

"This is the best pear I've ever had," sputtered Sheila with her mouth full.

After finishing his second golden apple and happy for the moment, Carlisle lay back on the grass, his hands entwined behind his head. "I needed that," he sighed with amazed satisfaction.

"Where do you suppose we are?" asked Sheila.

"I wish I knew. I hate surprises," said May. "I don't remember an orchard in any of your mother's pictures, but she might have bought a new one."

"Should we go exploring? After we're done, of course. I think I'm going to eat about a hundred of these." Sheila held up another brown pair and admired it before taking a bite.

May had only eaten one apple, but she already felt full. "We can bring some with us," she said, taking off her sweatshirt and spreading it on the grass. She scratched her forearm where sea salt had dried on her skin and left a flaming red rash. "We need to find fresh water, too. This salt is starting to burn, and we're going to need drinking water."

She and Sheila collected up some apples and pears and placed them on the sweatshirt. As she was tying the sleeves together to form a bundle, she heard Sheila's voice say tremulously, "May, could you come here?"

Sheila was kneeling over Carlisle with a pinched look on her face.

"What's wrong?" asked May, not entirely sure she wanted to know.

"I–I don't know. He doesn't look like he's breathing."

"What do you mean he isn't breathing?"

"He looks ... Oh, May! He looks ... "

"How? Are you sure?" she hesitantly went over to where Carlisle lay white and still on the grass. His eyes were closed. He was totally inert and Sheila was right; he didn't appear to be breathing whatsoever.

May's stomach lurched. She dropped the bundled sweatshirt, and an apple rolled out.

Sheila put her face in her hands. She started to cry softly, "I'm sorry, May, I can't help it."

May knelt down next to him. She tucked her hair behind her ear and placed her head against his chest. She could hear an almost impossibly slow and faint beat. She felt the merest whisper of movement against her cheek. He was breathing shallowly, almost imperceptibly.

She straightened up, shook her head and said, "He's not dead, Sheila."

Sheila looked up from her hands, "But he's—he's not breathing."

"He is breathing actually, but not well."

"What's wrong with him?"

She swallowed and said, "I don't know. I would think if he'd been poisoned—I guess it would depend on the kind of poison—but he would be contorted or would have said something at least. And he'd be purple if he'd choked. It's more like he's been drugged or something. He's in a really deep sleep, close to death, maybe, but not dead."

Yet.

May touched his forehead with the back of her hand. He was cool.

"What'll we do now? We can't leave him here," said Sheila, burying her face in her hands again.

Watching her, May bit her lip. "I think that's the least of our worries right now. We ate the fruit, too."

Sheila looked up. Her face was blotchy. "I don't feel sick or anything if that's what you're saying."

"Good. I don't either—just ... a little dizzy."

Sheila wiped her eyes. "Are you really sure he's still alive?"

"Yes. I'm sure."

"It's just so strange to see him so still."

May knew what she meant. Any brief time with Carlisle yielded one important fact of his existence: at least one part of him was always in motion. When a hand stopped moving, a foot took over. When that ceased, a finger would reach up and scratch his neck. Heck, May had even seen his hair move on its own.

He seemed to have a restless energy which he controlled from building up to explosive proportions by letting it out in bits—like the release of a static charge. And Sheila was right; it was eerie to see him so still.

Sheila looked up suddenly. "What was that?"

"What was what?" May could only hear the occasional dropping down of the fruit from the trees around them.

"Music. From over there." Sheila motioned to a hill dotted with daisies nearby.

Very faintly at first and growing gradually louder, May began to hear it, too—the high refrain of a flute. As she watched, a remarkable set of people crested the hill. A young girl danced before a sedan chair being carried by four fancy looking men in white wigs, satin coats and breeches. Resting languidly on the sedan chair was a beautiful woman whom May felt certain she had seen before. Four musicians, playing harps and flutes, came after, followed by a smiling throng of about thirty beautiful people of all races.

"That looks like the lady in the shell," said Sheila.

"Of course! It's Venus. Your mom has a print of Botticelli's _Birth of Venus_."

"Are those like the angels in the picture?" asked Sheila, pointing at the handsome winged beings flying around and through the trees.

May shook her head. "They're called Zephyrs."

The four men in satin suits set the sedan chair on the grass in front of them. Another male servant in mint green came forward and placed a tiny tasseled step stool next to it.

Venus placed her gold-slippered feet onto the stool. She took the servant's white gloved hand in her own and stepped down onto the grass. She wore a dress of crimson-gold velvet, embroidered all over with white lilies. It clung prettily at the top in an empire waistline and flowed fully and elegantly down the length of her tall body. On the goddess's head, she wore a delicate crown of gold. It was adorned with rubies and pearls, and on each of the crown's pinnacles there was a star; except for the highest in front which had a crescent moon.

The goddess's eyes were a cool aqua green, as translucent and deep as the ocean itself. She smiled and said serenely in a sultry voice like flowing water, "Ah, here you are. One of the Zephyrs spotted you three a little while ago."

As impressive as was her appearance, at the sound of her voice, May and Sheila bolted quickly to their feet. May made a low bow. With her head down, she contemplated an apple core on the ground with remorse. "I'm sorry, Your Highness, we didn't know this was your orchard; we were very hungry."

With a queenly sweep of her hand, Venus said, "That's quite all right, dear. The fruit grows persistently and abundantly and is free to all."

"Thank you, Your Highness, you are most generous." May gestured to Carlisle. "Can you help us, Your Majesty? We're kind of concerned. We fear he might be dead."

Venus walked toward Carlisle and inspected his face. She said gravely, "Thankfully, we don't see much of this anymore, but it still happens sometimes. Did he eat of the golden apples?"

"Yes, Your Highness."

"I thought so. Normally they are quite harmless, but for some they can be deadly. It is caused by a reaction."

"What do you mean 'a reaction'? Like, an allergy?" asked May.

Venus looked up at her and her eyes were emerald green now. "How do I put this? It's a reaction between the apples, which contain pure joy itself, and a terrible sadness."

"I don't understand."

Venus put her hand to her chest lightly. "He has suffered a broken heart that has never healed."

"His wife died a few years ago," said Sheila.

Venus looked down at his face again and appeared puzzled. "Has he remarried?"

"No," responded Sheila.

"How peculiar," said the goddess. "No, my dear, I'm afraid the wound usually runs deeper even than that. I suspect that he lost his mother at too tender an age—most likely at his birth."

Sheila cried, "Oh May, did you hear that? Poor, poor, dear Mr. Carlisle," before she buried her face in her hands again and wept.

"You have got to be kidding," said May. One more down. Talk about having bad luck with women.

Venus's eyes shifted from green to gray. "No, dear, I would never joke about that. As I've said, I haven't seen this happen for quite a while. It used to happen a lot more often."

May looked down at Carlisle's motionless form on the grass as she processed this new information about him. She said out loud, "I've read it was as high as one in four women at one time."

"Excuse me?" said Venus.

"That died in childbirth. And you're right, it almost never happens anymore. That probably explains why you don't get them as often."

Venus's eyes took on the black midnight murk of the ocean depths. "Yes, I suppose it does," she said in a cool tone as she knelt down on one knee. She touched Carlisle gently on the cheek. "Poor dears. They always do seem to be drawn to the golden ones." The goddess passed a pale serpentine hand through his hair and smiled to herself, sadly. "It's just as I thought."

"What is?" asked May.

"Why, his hair! It's just like silk. Didn't you wonder? And what an interesting face he has. He looks very intelligent, don't you think?" Spying the weapon next to him, Venus brightened, "He has a sword, I see. We get so few men with swords now. Is he a knight?"

"A what?"

"Is he a knight?" Venus's eyes were bright blue now as she stood up.

"Oh, a knight. Yes, I guess you could say that." Not wanting to disappoint the goddess and with the hope of advancing themselves in her favor, May added, "He is Sir Carlisle, and we are his nieces. I am Lady May, and this is Lady Sheila." May made a courtly bow.

Sheila sniffled and attempted a curtsey in her jeans. "Your Highness, this what-ever-you-call-it he's had, he's not going to—I mean—he—he will get better, won't he? Can't you do anything for him?"

Venus said sympathetically, "I'm terribly sorry, child. In all honesty, there isn't much we can do. Whether he wakes or not will depend on him. Is he a brave and true knight?"

"Oh yes," assured Sheila, "very brave and very true."

Venus smiled at her. "Then he is most likely just tired and needs to sleep for a time. If he decides to wake, you will see, he will be much better for the rest. In the meantime, I will have some of my men take him to a tent where they can watch over him. They will let you know when he stirs."

The goddess beckoned to the four satin clad servants and they each took one of Carlisle's limbs. May reached for the sword on the grass, but a white gloved hand stole it out from under her. She looked up quickly into the impassive face of the man in mint green.

"I'm sorry," said Venus when she saw May's stunned expression. "We don't allow weapons here of any kind. We will take your uncle's sword for safekeeping, and we will return it to you on your departure." She smiled. "But you girls look like you have had a long and tiresome journey and could use some food and a nice hot bath. How does that sound?"

It sounded about the most delicious thing anyone could have said to May right then. She almost forgave Venus for taking the sword. She could have kissed the goddess.

Venus lifted up Sheila's chin with one of her delicate fingers. "Oh, such a lovely face so unhappy. Dry your eyes, dear lass, and try not to worry yourself so." Looking more closely at Sheila, she said, "You are very beautiful and sweet, dear child! Come, you must ride in my sedan chair with me. I would enjoy the company."

Sheila looked back at May guiltily as the goddess took her by the hand and led her away.

A litter was procured for Carlisle, the flute started up again, and the whole procession of beautiful people slowly made its way through the orchard and over the fertile hills. May followed up at the rear, keeping one eye on Sheila and one on Carlisle's almost lifeless body so as not to lose sight of either one of them.

### Chapter 15

### The Birth of Venus

Over fifty attractive and colorful tents made up Venus's encampment, some square, some round. Like a medieval jousting tournament, they were decorated with festive banners sticking out of their striped roofs.

May was fairly sure Venus would never be too hard to locate due to her large and constant entourage of human lemmings that followed her around. By association, May reasoned that she was unlikely to lose Sheila since the goddess had taken her under her wing. Therefore, she decided to attend to where Venus's serving men were taking Carlisle. The men bearing his body placed him inside a red and white striped tent with two solid red fabric panels for doors and two huge ruddy faced guardsmen in front to match.

A bustle of male and female servants went in and out of the tent. Carlisle's clothes departed in one attendant's hands, folded linens went in with another. Then basins of water, soap and sea sponges entered, followed by fluffy white towels and linen sheets.

Confident that Carlisle was, for the moment, in good hands, she noted the location of the tent and turned to go.

Two women had been standing next to her for some time and seemed to be waiting for someone. They smiled at her when she glanced at them, and it suddenly dawned on her who they were waiting for. They took her arms gently and led May to a purple and white checked tent that they indicated was to be hers.

Inside the tent were puffy purple cushions and the wonderful smell and sight of perfumed, hot, soapy water in a shell-shaped tub with floating rose petals.

An hour later, after a heavenly and much needed bath, she found that the servants had laid out a pink silk dress on the purple cushions. It was a full length gown with a low cut empire bodice. Suspiciously, she held it up to the light; just as she thought, it was practically see-through.

Next to the gown, the handmaidens had placed May's own clothes, washed and blown dry by a Zephyr and smelling of jasmine.

With no real intention of actually wearing the dress, she still couldn't resist trying it on. It proved to be the right size, but when she looked at herself in the mirror, she saw that the dress puckered on her unflatteringly—and in all the wrong places. The pale pink of the gown washed her out so much that her face appeared almost colorless. As she walked around the tent she felt awkward and ungainly in it, and the hem kept tripping her up.

May took off the dress and put on her jeans, t-shirt and gray sweatshirt. Her sneakers were so clean that they looked brand new. When she put them on, they looked like spongy marshmallows on her feet.

The beautiful handmaids, which she couldn't seem to tell apart even though one was dark haired and the other light, brought her a lunch of rich cheese, tasty heart shaped crackers and sliced fruit. The fruit looked delicious, but after thinking on it, she pushed it to the side.

For desert, there were three moist, heavy pastries. The maids called these 'moon cakes'. Each was about the size of a half dollar around, about an inch thick and saturated with a milky sugary syrup. She sniffed one. It smelled like vanilla and spice. Pulling off a morsel, she tasted it, then made a face.

It was sweet. Actually, it was overly sweet—cloying, in fact—and the sweetness was followed by a bitter aftertaste. To wash the taste out of her mouth, May ate a dry cracker and drank some raspberry lemonade.

It looked as though she would be able to come and go as she pleased. And what she most dearly wanted, after almost three days of uninterrupted company, was to be completely alone.

Unfortunately, as she soon discovered, some handmaid was usually bustling about her tent for one reason or another. With growing irritation, she decided to go for a walk. She could check on the whereabouts of Sheila (hopefully without her knowing), maybe peek in on Carlisle, and then sneak silently off to the orchard to pass the time blissfully by herself.

It was late afternoon. The day was warm, and a light breeze stirred the leaves lightly. The encampment overlooked a crescent-shaped harbor of clear, aqua-green water. A rainbow shone out on the bay and some Zephyrs were flying and swooping in and around it, performing graceful acrobatics.

Along the path, May spotted a unicorn nosing the grass under a plum tree. It looked up at her with innocent blue eyes as she approached it, then went back to snuffling a plum on the ground.

She had almost succeeded in getting hold of its horn when the unicorn looked up suddenly and galloped off. "I'm glad you didn't make it on the ark!" she yelled after it.

She walked a little farther and stopped to watch some Centaurs playing polo in a field. They hit the ball to each other lazily until one of them accidentally knocked it into some bushes. Remarkably, instead of searching for the ball, the centaurs merely shrugged at one another and laughed. They patted each other on the back and left.

It didn't seem right to May to just leave the ball where it was. She searched in the bushes and found it along with about twelve other previously lost balls. She tried to call after the centaurs, but they were already gone, and all she got for her troubles was a thorn in her finger.

She began walking again and her thoughts turned inward as she sucked at her finger. Though she welcomed the rest, this malady of Carlisle's caused a rent in her plan to keep pressing forward at all costs. Bathed and fed now, she found herself restless to get going again. But with the sun now beginning its downward descent in the sky, Sheila being entertained by a goddess, and Carlisle half alive or dead (she couldn't decide which) she had little choice but to wait it out.

It was unlikely they would be starting out before morning at the very least. If Carlisle hadn't recovered by then, she and Sheila would just have to continue on alone.

She stopped sucking on her finger and rubbed the bruise on her wrist made by one of the pirates. On the other hand, as dictatorial and bumbling as Carlisle was, he had also proved to be useful so far. She began weighing in her mind whether or not it was worth waiting a little longer for him to recover. Maybe they should wait a day (or perhaps two) to see if he would wake up.

Some people passed her by—equally gorgeous like all the rest. They cast looks at her as they walked past and suddenly, the thought occurred to her that they were not the first. That in fact, other people had been giving her sideways glances all afternoon; only at the time, with so much else to think about, it simply hadn't left an imprint on her mind.

She smiled crookedly to herself. No, it couldn't be. She must just be imagining things. Being in this dreamy and hauntingly beautiful place was just disorienting her.

Some more people passed her by and this time she was sure of it. People were peeking at her furtively as though she were some kind of oddity.

The hair stood up on the back of her neck. She suddenly wanted desperately to talk to Sheila and wondered why Carlisle had to go and eat those stupid golden apples anyway?

May spied five maidens playing a game around an apple tree. They were chasing each other and laughing merrily. She tapped on the shoulder of a girl whose back was turned—a girl with daisies woven throughout her flowing, honey blonde hair and wearing a shimmering, silver gown.

The girl spun around with a smile on her face, still laughing from the game she was playing.

May blinked in surprise.

"Can I help you?" Sheila asked politely, still smiling.

"What the heck's the matter with you?"

"I'm sorry. Do I know you?"

"Cut it out already, Sheila. The joke's over. It's me—May."

Sheila said, "May." But she still stared at her vacantly. Then finally with feeling she said, grabbing both of her hands, "May! Oh, May! I haven't seen you all day. Where have you been?"

"What the hell is wrong with you? You didn't even know who I was for a moment. Are you okay?"

"Of course I am. You—you just looked different is all, and I didn't recognize you at first."

May felt a rush of heat to her face. "I look different?"

She wanted to say all sorts of other things, but since she couldn't figure out a way to say them without it all sounding utterly petty and catty, May kept them to herself. She suddenly realized that she was red hot angry, and she didn't know why, and that made it all worse somehow. It didn't make any sense to her why she felt the way she did. She didn't like it one bit.

She sat down, ripped handfuls of grass out of the turf and threw them in front of her.

Waving her companions away, Sheila sat down delicately next to her. Some minutes went by as May's anger cooled. Sheila was arranging her silver skirts prettily around herself, when a unicorn came up and nuzzled her hand. "Not you again?" she said, petting it and smiling.

"Unbelievable," muttered May.

From somewhere, a trumpet sounded. "May, why don't you come to supper?"

"I have a migraine."

"You're too young to get a migraine. Come on, I'm starving. Come to dinner. We can talk."

"Don't you think these people are weird here? Haven't you noticed they're always looking at you. Have you noticed?"

"They're just curious is all, and friendly."

"No. That's not it."

"If you don't like it, ignore them," said Sheila, getting up. "Let's go eat. I'm starving."

May stood and brushed her hands together. "We just had lunch, didn't we? Didn't we just have lunch? They're probably too stupid to even tell time right here."

"You're coming, right?"

"Yeah, yeah, alright, alright," said May. "But they better have something different for desert than those disgusting moon cakes."

"You don't like them? Can I have yours?"

"It's a deal."

Inside Venus's dining tent was a long banquet table at which were seated at least a hundred beings. There were humans, nymphs, Zephyrs, cherubs, centaurs, and other creatures that May wouldn't have known the names of unless someone had told her.

The girls found seats close to the head of the table next to a handsome centaur eating a baked potato. As soon as they sat down, he requested the butter as though he had been hoping someone would sit next to him just so he wouldn't have to reach for it.

"Who won the polo game today?" asked May as she handed the butter to him, wrinkling her nose at his horsey smell.

"Won?" he asked.

"You know—which team scored the most points?"

"You mean play against each other?"

"Yes, of course. Otherwise, what's the point?" May felt annoyed now.

He shrugged and said, "Gee, we never tried that."

"Don't you guys get kind of bored after a while?"

He gobbed the potato with about ten pats of butter and slathered on several large dollops of sour cream before he answered. "I never really thought about it." He looked off into space like a grazing cow as he munched a huge mouthful of potato.

May gave Sheila a desperate look. "What did I tell you? This place is so weird. I just want to get the hell out of here and get going again."

"I think it's pretty here," said Sheila with a pout.

"Pretty weird, you mean. It's gorgeous and all—I'll give you that, but I don't think we should stay here too long. As soon as Carlisle wakes up, we should get our butts out of here." May put a morsel of prime rib into her mouth no bigger than a skittle. She dabbed her mouth with her napkin and pushed her plate away.

"Aren't you going to eat any more than that?" asked Sheila.

"It's practically mooing at me," cried May. She stabbed her fork into the thick slab of meat on her plate, lifted it up and gave a look of revulsion at the puddle of thin red liquid underneath.

"It's just some kind of sauce— _o juice_ , I think they call it," said Sheila, before stuffing in an enormous bite of her own prime rib.

"Au jus," May corrected, "and it's just a fancy word for blood. No thank you."

"What could be wrong with the baked potato at least?" Sheila said with her mouth full.

"I ate it," May said defensively.

"You did?"

"You know I don't eat the skin. You never know how well they wash it when you eat out. Can we just get off the subject?"

Sheila shrugged and went back to her meal.

She watched Sheila eat in silence, but there was something on her mind, May could tell. She doubted it would take long before Sheila came out with it, and she was right, it didn't.

"May? Do you think he'll be alright?"

"I don't know," May said honestly.

"Well, if he does wake up, don't you think we should tell him about his wife? I think he should know, don't you?"

"I knew this would come up."

"Well, don't you?"

"I've really thought about this a lot, Sheila. We don't even know if his wife is actually going to be in her own painting. I mean, she died! You, me, and Carlisle went into his painting alive. And even if it turns out that she is in there, what if she doesn't remember him? Do you see what I'm saying?"

"But there could be a chance! We have to try."

"But what if we never make it as far as his wife's painting? What if we tell him about it and he gets his hopes up, and we just never make it that far?"

"I would want to know if it were me, no matter what—no matter if I made it there or not. Just to know there was a chance."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, but just because you would want to know, that doesn't mean everyone would. I wouldn't. Too much of a disappointment if it didn't happen. Look, I'm not saying that we never tell him. I'm saying that we tell him after you open the door, and we are absolutely certain that we are in his wife's painting. If there's a door at all, that is."

Sheila was quiet.

"Well? Don't just stare at me like an idiot. Do you see what I'm saying?"

"I do. And you're right."

"Good, I'm glad we got that settled."

"No, I mean you really have thought about it a lot."

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing." Sheila mulled it over and then said, "Okay. I'll go along with it, but I still don't think it's right."

"Well, it's not wrong either!"

"I'm not so sure about that."

"At this point, I think the best we can do for him is get out of here and get moving again once he wakes up. Maybe if he's lucky we'll reach his wife eventually. But I'll be honest with you, Sheila—his wife—that's his business. Our business is finding our way back home again. Maybe you've forgotten that, but I haven't."

"I haven't forgotten. But since we're stuck here for now, can't we at least enjoy ourselves? Look around, May. Have you ever seen a more beautiful place?"

"Yeah, it's beautiful, I'll give you that. And everyone does everything for you, but have you noticed? After a while, even though they all look different, you just can't seem to tell anyone apart? It's just creepy.

"Like the two maids in my tent. One has dark hair and the other's got light hair, and for the life of me, I can never remember who brought me what, or who I was talking with last. They just blur together somehow. And, I'm sorry, but the staring is driving me crazy!" She turned and glared at the centaur next to her who took his eyes off her finally and went back to eating his meal. "Can't they just mind their own business? I just want to be rid of this place—the sooner the better! They can keep their disgusting moon cakes, their mooing meat, and their freaky eyed goddess, thank you very much. Sayonara and good riddance."

Sheila's eyes went as big as saucers suddenly.

"What's the matter? Was the sour cream bad?" May looked at her potato skin with her stomach sinking. She quickly took a sip of her fruit punch.

"Are you enjoying the dinner, girls?" said Venus from behind her.

May nearly sprayed her drink all over the table, but she just choked it down instead, leaving a painful lump in her throat. "Yes, Your Highness. Everything is delicious," she said, making a face at Sheila for not warning her.

Venus sat down at the head of the table and a servant appeared out of nowhere to remove their dinner plates. The man hovered over May's plate a moment, unsure if he should take it or not, until she waved the dish away. Another servant swooped in and deposited dessert.

May stared at the three moon cakes on the dainty plate in front of her and tried not to show her disappointment. She wondered how she could gracefully avoid them.

Venus said, "Oh dear, I'm afraid you don't care for the moon cakes."

May seized on the opportunity of getting out of eating the dreaded pastries. "Well, you have me there, Your Highness," she admitted. "I have to confess that they are not my favorite."

Venus stared at her with glacial blue-white eyes and said, "I know that some people can find them too sweet. Pardon my saying so, but you seemed the type, so I asked Chef to adjust the recipe for you. I think you will find that this batch is more suitable to your particular constitution."

Great. It didn't look like there would be any getting out of it.

May smiled insincerely and stuffed some of the sticky confection into her mouth. It was sweet, but not as sweet as the ones at lunch had been, and it melted in her mouth in such a way that she found herself stuffing in another piece. Before she knew what she was doing, she had eaten up all of the first cake, as well as its two companions on the plate.

"There now," said Venus. "I thought you would like them."

What had happened? May hadn't intended to eat them at all. She looked at the crumbs on her empty plate and felt tricked somehow. She was so full now that her stomach fluttered. Feeling suddenly ill, she left Sheila with Venus and dizzily headed back to her tent.

On the path, May bent over with a sharp pain in her stomach. She was flushed and hot. After a few moments, the heat and pain subsided, and she felt better physically, but then she was overwhelmed by an intense sadness that hit her all at once and permeated her completely down to her toes, so that her knees buckled under her.

The realization struck her that she didn't really want to go back to her tent and to the handmaids fussing and milling about incessantly. She also knew she didn't want to stay outside in the night of this bizarre place, either. She knew that she wanted to go someplace else.

Someplace else, but where?

Stumbling, May found herself making her way to Carlisle's tent. It's probably quiet in there without all those stupid maids running around, she told herself. Meanwhile, her feet trod along purposefully in the same direction as her thoughts, but on some unexplained errand of their own.

She only hesitated a little when she saw the guards in front of Carlisle's tent. Would they stop her? But when she approached they said nothing at all to her, only stood stonily silent at their posts. They must just be for show, she thought, pulling aside one of the fabric panels and entering.

When she saw Carlisle in the tent, she caught her breath in sharp.

He was laid out like he was dead, dressed in white linen clothes and draped in white linen sheets, and it made the sight of him worse somehow.

A flame burned dimly on a lamp stand, casting flickering shadows on the striped canvas walls. Resisting the panicked urge to shake him awake, she knelt down next to the bed, folded her hands together and started to cry.

"Oh God, please don't let him die. I don't think we can get home on our own, and I want so badly to go home. This is awful. I swear if we stay here too much longer, Sheila's not going to want to leave at all. She barely recognized me today.

May opened her eyes and glared at him. "So unless you wake up, Mr. Carlisle, we're going to be stuck here probably forever. Do you hear me?" She pointed a finger at him accusingly. He looked annoyingly blissful. "No way. No way, you hear? You just get that look off your face. You aren't getting out of it that easy. You promised you would get us home, and I'm holding you to it!

"And I really, really hate this place. Everyone looks at me sideways here. Like I'm messing up their pretty world with my ugly face or something. Everyone here is beautiful and I'm not.

"Besides, you've got to get to your wife. I didn't tell you that Sheila's mother bought that painting of your wife, too, and if you don't wake up, you'll never get to see her. I don't know if she's even there, or if she'll even remember you, but if you never wake up, you'll never know for sure.

"And I guess that's it. That's all I have to say." She pursed her lips. "No actually. There is one more thing. I'm really sorry to hear about your mother. Anyhow, I hope you don't blame yourself. It's not like it's your fault or anything, though you really do have some terrible luck with women." She went to get up and knelt down again, "Amen," she said, glancing up at the striped ceiling.

And since she could think of nothing else to do, she gently brushed back his hair and kissed him on the forehead quickly. He was as cold as ice.

She sniffed loudly, wiped her nose on her sleeve, and left.

### Chapter 16

### The Kiss

May slept poorly all night on the pretty velvet cushions. She awoke feeling tired and irritable.

The morning brought the same pale white mist as the day before. It surrounded the encampment and wove in and out of the tents, intensifying her gloomy mood that hadn't yet left her from the night before. She felt hollowed out like a pumpkin shell.

She went to collect Sheila and found her coming out of Venus's tent, but Sheila just looked at her vacantly when she called her name. Even after repeated prompting, Sheila still didn't know who she was, although she was distressed at May's agitation and tried to console her as she might a distraught child who had lost their way.

Most of May's life she had spent trying to get away from people: their interruptions; their intrusions; their demands; their constant eating away of her time, babbling insipid small talk about hairstyles, movies and personal issues that they seemed to have no insight or desire to fix.

She had often imagined what it would be like to be free of it all—all the messiness and chaos they brought into her world.

But now that it was upon her, she could hardly stand it.

For the first time in her life, she was lonely and having never felt lonely before, she was confused. In fact, she was so confused that she didn't know which she hated worse: being lonely or being confused.

She went into the orchard to sit and think. She needed to get her thoughts clear. If she could do that, then she would feel normal again. But like a rolling ball of twine, everything she had ever thought was unraveling, and she along with it.

And overriding all of this mental confusion, the unexplained sadness that had hit her the night before still ate at her from the inside out.

In the orchard, she ran into a mob of beautiful people milling about. She tried to sidestep them, to skirt around the mass of humanity and avoid their intrusive glances. As inconspicuously as she could, she pressed herself to the edge of a row of apple trees and then dashed through to the other side.

She bumped into Venus unexpectedly and literally. She recoiled immediately at the feel of the soft velvet of her gown.

"Why dear, whatever is the matter?" said Venus.

Caught off guard and faced with the embodiment of all her troubles May found herself shouting, "If you really want to know, it's you! You're the cause of all this. With your poisoned apples and everything else. Sheila doesn't even recognize me anymore, and Mr. Carlisle might as well be dead." (She didn't care right then if anyone knew or not that he really wasn't her uncle.)

Then she surprised herself by saying, "I bet you'd probably just like me to disappear and go away or something. You don't like me anyway. You've hardly noticed me since I've been here, and all these people just keep staring at me like I was some kind of circus freak." She glowered at the shocked faces around her and there they were doing it again! "Mr. Carlisle will probably never wake up, and Sheila and I will probably never get home, and it's all your fault. I hate this place, and I hate you!"

Her tirade over, May felt her cheeks burning as every eye stared at her. She tried to find a way through the whispering and staring faces, but not one of them stepped aside to let her pass. Short of bursting through their bodies, she could find no way out. She plopped down on the grass, buried her head in her arms and wished that she could disappear completely.

Venus knelt down in front of her. She put both arms around her and pressed May's head against her smooth bosom. The goddess smelled like a dizzying mix of fruit and flowers.

May came undone. "I don't know what's come over me. I feel terrible. I've never been so miserable in my entire life. I just want it to stop. It will stop, won't it?"

"Yes, dear," Venus said soothingly. "I promise it will pass. You're just worried about your sister and you feel badly for your uncle. It's only natural. Please know I never meant to slight you, dear. When you're an empress, there's so much to do and so many people who need you in one way or another that it's almost impossible sometimes. And rest assured the people here don't mean you any harm, they just find you interesting. You see, most everyone seems the same here after a while. Please, don't be sad." The goddess rocked her gently. "I spoke to your uncle just this morning. Look, he's coming now. Right over there. He's walking into the orchard as we speak."

May picked up her head, and there he was—making long strides and frowning in thought. He caught sight of her and Venus huddled together on the grass and headed towards them at a brisk pace.

She disengaged herself quickly from the goddess and wiped her face on her sleeve.

Carlisle stopped several feet away. Venus got up, whispered something to him, smiled back once at May, and left. One by one, the mass of beautiful people poked along behind the divinity. A young male attendant in chartreuse glanced back, and she couldn't resist sticking her tongue out at him.

Carlisle took a linen napkin from his pocket, sat down next to her, and opened it up in his hand. There were four moon cakes inside. He offered her one. "I got worried when I couldn't find you anywhere."

She nodded and took one of the cakes. He took another from the napkin, and she watched him shove it into his mouth whole.

"How many of these things have you eaten?" she asked.

"I don't know," he said, sucking his fingers. "I've lost count. Why?"

"It's just that you look a little ... " She took a small bite of cake.

"What?"

"I don't know. Fatter?" And then she added, "I mean that in a good way."

"Thanks," he said with a small shrug, not offended in the least.

"I'm glad to see you up and around. You look better." She noticed with surprise, "Your bruise is gone."

His hand went up to his jaw, and he moved it back and forth a little. "Come to think of it, my jaw feels better too." His fingers felt the bridge of his nose. It was still crooked.

"Maybe you have to sleep longer for that."

Carlisle shoveled another whole moon cake into his mouth. "Strange sort of twilight sleep," he mumbled as he rubbed his sticky fingers together. "Odd dreams fading in and out."

She leaned back on one elbow and scrutinized him. "You know, you shouldn't talk with your mouth full. I thought they taught everyone better manners back in the day. And all that cussing you do under your breath—you aren't a very good nineteenth century gentleman."

"Sorry," he said guiltily and swallowed. "My wife used to scold me too."

"So what did Venus say to you just now?"

He sighed. "The goddess has requested us to dinner tonight—"

May groaned. "Can't we just get going?"

"Maybe requested wasn't the right word."

She groaned again.

"Look, I'd like to get going too, but we aren't going anywhere without her help. I don't know if you've happened to notice, but this place is an island. We can take the rowboat again, but we don't even know how long it is to wherever we need to go—even if we knew where that was. And we could be days or weeks on the water. Venus intends to have a boat prepared for us in the morning and—and there's something else I need to ask her about as well. I know you'd like to get going right away. So would I, but we're going to have to indulge her."

"Have you talked to Sheila this morning?" she asked.

"Yes, I have." His face clouded over. He stared at the last pastry in his napkin.

"She didn't remember me at all this morning," said May.

"Nor I. Venus had to tell her who I was. Incidentally, Venus kept calling me 'Sir Carlisle'."

"We kind of had to promote you a little."

"I thought it might be something of the kind," he said. "As to Sheila, I don't know. This place is strange. Maybe it affects people in different ways. She'll probably be fine once we leave here."

"If she even wants to go by then. Did you notice? She's even starting to look like them. You know, in all honesty, she looks a lot like Venus."

"Maybe that's it then," he said. "When I first met Sheila, I thought she seemed familiar. Now that you mention it, she kind of does look like Venus." He got up, dusted his hands off then held one out to her. "Come on, let's go. The day's wearing on, and I'd like to see what kind of arrangements are being prepared for the boat. I want you to find Sheila and keep your eye on her this afternoon. Don't let her out of your sight."

"I was going to anyway," she said defensively, throwing the rest of the moon cake into the bushes before taking his hand. While she was brushing herself off, some women passed by, glanced her way briefly, and then smiled openly at Carlisle. He put up a hand to tip his hat, but discovered he had none. Embarrassed, he gave a small bow instead and the women giggled.

"Forgot your hat too?" asked May with a smirk.

"Hmm? What's that?" he said, looking after the women.

"Never mind," she said, shaking her head.

"They sure seem very friendly here."

"Well they may smile at you, but they all keep looking at me like I've got three heads."

Carlisle was only half listening. "Maybe you should try smiling back for a change. I'm sure it's not what you think."

"What's that?" said May.

"Excuse me?"

"You just said, 'I'm sure it's not what you think.' What did you mean by that?"

He opened his mouth to speak then closed it again.

"Go on. Tell me."

"Nothing. I don't think anything."

She got ahead of him and stood in his way on the path. "Well, I already know that, but tell me what you were going to say."

His tone became stern. "Young lady, it's impolite to back people into a corner."

"It's impolite to start a sentence and not finish it, old man."

Seeing that he wasn't going to be able to get her to back down, he relaxed. "It's no great mystery, May. You're always looking at the stones when you walk. I'm surprised you can notice anyone looking at you when you hardly lift your head up anyway."

"I do that?"

"Yes."

She turned around and started walking again so that he couldn't see her face.

"I wouldn't worry," he said. "It's fairly normal to be a little—I mean; to feel a little awkward at your age."

"Awkward?" she sputtered.

"Perhaps that came out wrong."

"Just forget it."

"I only meant to say that—I mean—I wasn't—it's just that it's—well, it's—common. I daresay everybody goes through it. Lord knows I did."

"Oh, I see now. Like it's supposed to somehow make me feel better to know I'm just one of a zillion people to go through the same thing?"

"That's not what I meant at all. You're putting words in my mouth. Let's just forget it."

They walked on in silence another quarter of a mile, until they passed a young couple entwined in a heated embrace under the shade of a peach tree. Raising his eyebrows at them, Carlisle broke the silence by saying, "They really are uncommonly friendly here. A little too much, I think. Let's see if we can't locate Sheila. There's no telling what might happen. In fact, I suspect the sooner we get out of here the better for all of us."

"Amen to that."

"After we find her, I don't want you to let her out of your—" Carlisle stopped short on the path and cocked his head to the side.

"What is it?" asked May, stopping along with him.

"What color was that dress Sheila had on this morning?" He gestured up and down the length of his body and scowled disapprovingly, "You know the one I mean."

"You mean the one she _almost_ had on? Gold, I think. Why?"

"That's what I thought." He took three large steps backward, glared in the direction of the couple smooching under the peach tree and darted off the path.

Carlisle had the boy by the scruff of the neck when May finally caught up to him. He yanked the young man onto his feet and gave him a shove that sent him reeling. May caught a brief glimpse of the boy's handsome frightened face as he glanced over his shoulder, before finding his feet again and scrambling away.

Sheila slipped behind the peach tree and clutched the trunk, her lips cherry red, flushed from the kiss.

"You don't even know him," Carlisle yelled, following her around the tree with his hands on his hips as she scooted around the trunk. He stopped short then dashed the other way with the same agility and speed that had allowed him to out-fox Fowler.

Sheila shrieked, left the tree and ran behind May for protection, clutching her shoulders.

"Well?" he shouted.

"I—he—he just asked for a kiss," stammered Sheila.

"A—?" Carlisle's mouth flew open. "That was a kiss?" He made frantic tangled motions in the air with his hands. "You both were so twizzled up together I couldn't figure out where either of you began or ended. I've seen cat yarn that was easier to sort out. Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

Sheila's nails dug into May's shoulders. "I'm sorry?" she said.

"Do you know what that boy was thinking right now? Do you?" yelled Carlisle.

"Holy crap, this guy's crazy? I better get my butt the hell out of here fast?" offered May.

"Before that," yelled Carlisle, with a sweeping motion of his hand.

"Oh," said May and Sheila, nodding knowingly.

"Wrong again. The answer is: absolutely nothing. He wasn't thinking anything. And apparently, neither were you. You're practically in the middle of nowhere, and you don't know him from Adam." He gestured around at the vacant hills with a look of amazement. "What if he'd been dangerous?" Then, he lowered his dark eyebrows, crossed his arms over his chest and said with a voice that could have come from a storm cloud, "And frankly, Sheila, I'm also surprised at you. I thought you were a nice girl."

"I am a nice girl," said Sheila weakly, on the verge of tears.

"Then why are you behaving like a common little tart? What would your mother and father say?"

Sheila stifled a sob and ran off.

"Thanks a lot. There she goes again," said May, looking after her.

Still with his arms crossed, Carlisle gazed after Sheila with a mixture of righteous satisfaction and a twinge of conscience.

"She doesn't have a father, by the way. Leastways, not one that she knows."

Carlisle winced.

"You didn't know. I'm not sorry you said something to her. I've been trying to tell her the same thing for a couple of years now. But I don't see why the girl always has to get the bad reputation. Nice guys can do anything they want and nobody calls them a tart." She tried to keep a straight face at the word.

"I didn't make the rules, May."

"Who said you had to enforce them, then?"

"Don't be simple minded. She has a little bit more to lose, don't you think? Just maybe she'll think twice about it next time. It's for her own good."

"I'm not so sure about that," she said. "You just made her feel awful about something you wouldn't think twice about."

"And just what would you know about what I would or wouldn't think twice about? Look, she's getting away. Will you just go follow her? Don't let her out of your sight. Not in this place anyway."

"Don't worry, I'll keep my eye on her."

"Good. And maybe if you're right there she won't forget who you are." He uncrossed his arms and held out his hands. "And for God's sake, May—"

A peach dropped down and struck him on the head. It bounced off and fell into one of his open palms. He tossed it from him like it was a hot coal and wiped his hand on his vest. "The devil," he breathed out, staring at the peach on the ground.

May laughed.

He pointed after Sheila. "Follow her! She's getting away. And May—"

"Yes, yes, yes. I get it already. I'll keep her out of trouble." She turned and broke into a run.

### Chapter 17

### Dinner with the Goddess of Love

His eyes lighting up over his second glass, Carlisle complemented his hostess. "Your Highness, this is absolutely the most delicious food and the most delightful wine I have ever tasted."

May had been dreading another rowdy banquet like the night before, but she found to her relief that tonight's supper had been prepared just for the four of them. May, Carlisle, Venus, and Sheila sat at an elegantly set round table in a small circular tent.

"Thank you, sir," said Venus, lazily relaxing against her pink velvet chair back. She had on a low cut dress of red satin. "People tell me that the wine here is exquisite, though of course I have never known any other."

"I don't remember when I've tasted anything quite like it, Your Highness," said Carlisle, taking another appreciative sip from his glass.

The first course had already been served: oysters in a half shell. May poked at one of the gooey gray blobs with a small fork shaped like a trident.

"Don't eat them if you don't like them, dear," said Venus.

"Thank you," said May, putting her fork down and reaching for a croissant.

"The music is simply beautiful, Your Highness," said Sheila of the gentle harp music that seemed to rise up from the very ground and treble in the air around them.

"That's funny, somehow all I can hear is a dull rapping sound," said May. She shot Carlisle a pointed look, and he stopped tapping his fingers on the table. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, rubbed his forehead and reached for his wine glass again. He seemed to suddenly think better of it and stopped himself.

Venus touched his arm delicately. "Why, Sir Carlisle, you look flushed. Come now, surely a few tiny sips of wine could have no effect on such a great tall man as you."

"Oh hardly, Your Highness," he said. "It's just that the tent is rather warm."

"And what did you expect in a wool suit? I don't know why you didn't just wear what the attendants left out for you. The only cure for it now is to strip!" Her words produced the desired effect by making his face turn an even darker shade of crimson. Venus laughed. "You really are a charming man. I only meant for you to take off your jacket."

Looking relieved, he stood up and began unbuttoning his jacket with one hand. "Thank you, Your Highness, though I really shouldn't."

"Nonsense, there's no need to be formal here. As you can see, we only dress lightly ourselves."

With a boyish grin on his face, he said, "I can't deny I had noticed that."

She waggled a finger at him. "Ah, ah, ah, I thought you might have."

Carlisle fumbled around with the last button on his coat then shrugged the jacket off one of his shoulders. A handmaiden behind him assisted in removing the rest of it.

"Thank you, miss," said Carlisle, as he sat down, drew his chair in and reached for his glass again. As soon as he emptied it, a serving woman came into the tent and refilled it. When the woman spotted the empty goblet at May's table setting, she moved the decanter to pour some wine into it.

"None for them, thank you," he said, shooting his hand out over May's glass.

Annoyed, she said, "You know, you're not our—"

"You should really listen to your uncle, dear," interrupted Venus. "He's only thinking about your welfare."

May smiled insincerely back at Venus before saying to Carlisle in a scolding tone, "Maybe you should start thinking about your own welfare, Uncle. How many glasses does that make?"

"Don't be a ninny, it's only wine," said Carlisle, but he looked oddly at his glass when he said it.

Another handmaiden came in with a pitcher of raspberry lemonade for the girls.

"Cinnamon and vanilla," mused Sheila dreamily as the woman filled her glass.

"What?" asked May, worried her friend was starting to lose her mind as well as her memory.

"Haven't you noticed, Lady May? It's the handmaidens."

She looked at the woman who was removing her plate of untouched oysters. The woman's skin was the color of cinnamon under a sheen of glowing translucent gold. Sheila was right. The woman did smell very distinctly of cinnamon and vanilla.

"Have they all been that way?" she asked.

"Yes. The last woman smelled like licorice."

"I couldn't figure out where it was coming from!" The cinnamon scented woman bumped against the back of May's chair. "Don't you think this tent is a little small?"

Another serving woman, blonde, came in and topped off Carlisle's wine with a smile. After she was gone, May said, "Lilacs?"

"Honeysuckle," said Sheila.

"Lilacs," said Carlisle, unfolding his napkin and placing it on his lap. He looked up to find them both staring at him.

"May's right. Lilacs," he said simply.

"See," said May to Sheila.

Carlisle picked up his newly filled wine glass and said, "Um ... this certainly is a curious vintnage—I mean, vintage. The stuff back at the castle is dreadful."

"Tomorrow you really must take a stroll with me through the vineyards," said Venus.

"T'morrow?" said Carlisle.

May shook her head at him.

He said, "I'm sorry, Your Highness. We need t' head out early."

"Why surely you could spare a few moments in the morning before your departure? The vineyards are simply beautiful this time of year. Acres and acres of the finest vines imaginable. The way the mist moves through them at sunrise is breathtaking." She plucked a grape from the centerpiece on the table and sighed wistfully before touching it to her scarlet lips. "Oh, how I only wish I were a painter."

Sheila said, "But Sir Carlisle aren't you—"

May shushed her.

"I knew it," exclaimed Venus.

"Knew what?" said Carlisle, putting his empty glass down.

"There's just something about an artist. I can always tell. That settles it. You simply must come with me tomorrow."

"That won't be possible," said May.

Carlisle said: "Yes, thass right. I'd dearly love to, but we need to get goin' first thing. Anyhow, I can't. I ain't got none o' my brushes with me."

May just stared at his flushed face. He was getting sloppier by the second!

"Pish-posh. A minor problem," said Venus, waving a handmaiden over to refill his glass. "I can get you anything you need: brushes, canvas, easel, paints—I believe you mix your own, don't you?"

"Well, I 'spose I could delay the launch for just— "

"Oh no you couldn't," said May.

"Right. Right. I 'preciate the offer, Your Highness, but I promised the girls. You see they miss home somethin' terrible." Bleary eyed, he smiled warmly at May and placed a weighty hand on her head.

She rolled her eyes. Dinner had hardly started and he was more than half in the bag already. But then she remembered the whole tankard of rum he had swallowed on the pirate ship. He couldn't be that much of a lightweight.

Something must be wrong with the wine.

Carlisle removed his hand from her head and said to Venus. "Please don' be 'fended."

"Rest assured there is no offence taken, sir, though I truly do wish you would reconsider." Then Venus put her hand on his arm, leaned in closely to him and said something that May couldn't hear.

May picked up her water glass and said loudly. "Is this tap water?"

"It's from the Holy Spring, dear," said Venus, sliding a look at her, taking her hand from Carlisle's sleeve.

"Filtered?"

Venus's eyes went a slate gray color. "I'm afraid not."

May sniffed the water, inspected the rim for fingerprints and took a small sip. "Uncle, maybe you should lay off that hooch and try some of this holy water instead."

A redheaded woman in a low cut dress walked in to drop off bowls of tomato bisque. "Cantaloupe," said Sheila of the woman's scent.

May shook her head. "That's got to be watermelon."

Carlisle began searching around his plate for something. "Your Highness, I don't 'spose you could tell us 'bout this place we're goin' to t'morrow?"

"I'm afraid I can't tell you a lot. The lands to the west change more often than they used to. This new one has not been there very long. The Zephyrs have investigated and say there is a small village there. Did you lose something, sir?"

"Jus' looking for—"

"Your napkin's right there," said May, pointing to a spot on the floor between Carlisle and herself.

"I'll get it for you, sir," said the serving woman who smelled like cantaloupe, bending down to pick up the napkin.

"Quite unnecessitary, miss," said Carlisle. "I'll get it." But the woman was halfway to the floor already. The sight of her full cleavage was unavoidable even for May.

May shot such a look to Carlisle that he straightened to sitting, held out his hand for his napkin and stared at his plate.

The handmaiden patted him on the shoulder. "I'll go get you another, sir," she said before leaving the tent.

Carlisle cleared his throat and said, "Sheila, would y' be a dear an' pass the salt?"

"But the shakers are right in front of you."

"Oh, how stupid o' me." He grabbed the pepper and sprinkled it on his soup. Confused by the black flecks that came out, he put down the pepper cellar. Reaching for his wine without looking, he knocked the entire glass over.

Venus asked, "Was there anything else that you needed to know, sir?"

"'Bout what, Your Highness?" Carlisle asked, watching a handmaiden dab at the dark red wine stain with a napkin. The tablecloth whitened with each dab of the cloth in her hand until it shone pure white again. Before she left, the woman deposited a new glass in front of him, filled to the rim.

"About the place you're going to tomorrow," said Venus.

"Right, right, sorry." Still staring at the magically whitened cloth, he picked up his goblet without looking, took a sip, and went into a coughing fit. Inspecting the goblet in his hand he found that it was half full of raspberry lemonade. He spotted his wine glass in May's hand and wrenched it away from her.

He said to a passing handmaiden, who had long dark hair and smelled of ginger, "Pardon, miss? Ma niece an' I assidentally drank out o' each other's cups."

"I'll get you both another," she said with a curtsey, taking the two goblets from him.

May's head was spinning from the sip of wine she had snuck from Carlisle's glass. She had suspected the wine was drugged; and though she wasn't a complete stranger to her parents' liquor cabinet, she still wasn't sure. What she was sure of, was that the wine was dizzyingly potent and seemed to fill up every hollow space she had inside her in a rush of pure bliss.

Salad was served next by a platinum blonde smelling of freshly washed, lavender scented linens. May aimed for one of the cruets of salad dressing on the table. Next to her, from what seemed a long way away, she heard a commotion and clinking of plates.

"Whoa!" shouted Carlisle, standing up covered in lettuce.

"Oh, how clumsy of me," exclaimed the handmaiden.

"Really, you must be more careful, dear," scolded Venus. "You've spilt lettuce all over the poor man."

"Oh no, please don't, Highness. 'S'my fault really. I should watch where I put ma big feet," he said, smiling at the handmaiden like a silly schoolboy.

"Let me get those for you, sir," said the handmaiden, brushing salad greens off his vest.

"Oh, don' trouble yourself, miss," said Carlisle, looking down and whisking himself off with his napkin. The sudden motion caused him to teeter forward. He caught his hands on the table and sat down.

The main course was chicken in a brandy peppercorn sauce. May was glad when it came, hoping that Carlisle would eat enough to offset the amount of liquor he had consumed.

Unfortunately, if anything, the food just seemed to make him more thirsty, and as soon as he finished his glass, yet another more beautiful serving woman came in to fill it back up again. The next time Carlisle went to take a sip, May snapped at him, "Don't you think you've had enough?"

"For pity's sake, May. Ya soun' jest like my—." He shook his head sloppily. "Do y'self a favor—no man likes a nag."

May felt the last of the glorious feeling from the enchanted wine leave her, exposing everything all raw and jagged again.

The next woman that came in was an auburn-haired beauty in a gold dress.

"I can't get this one," said Sheila. "It's like familiar and not familiar at the same time."

May didn't want to play the game anymore. "She smells like rotten apples to me," she said.

Carlisle leaned toward Venus. "Highness, I gotta ask 'bout somethin'."

"You do, sir?"

He whispered loudly, "Yes, an' ye've been so kind, I feel somewhat awkward in broachin' the subject."

"Don't be silly. Not at all, sir."

"It's jest when the servants took ma clothes—y' know—to wash 'em—I had sumpin' in one o' the pockets—"

"I definitely smell apples, but it's spicy too," said Sheila.

"It's probably just pie," said May curtly, trying to catch the gist of the conversation across the table.

"Could be, but I also smell cloves."

"Pie."

Carlisle looked over the table at them and said something that May couldn't make head nor tails of.

"Hot mulled apple cider?" said Sheila. "What's that?"

"You understood that?" cried May. Then she said loud enough for Carlisle to hear, "Well, it's no wonder we didn't get that one, Sheila. No one's had that for years."

If he heard her, he didn't show it. With his face turned away from her, he continued to speak to Venus in quiet tones, but she could no longer make out what he was saying. As they finished talking, May watched Venus pat Carlisle's arm and smile warmly.

After their hushed conversation, he sat back in his seat with his wineglass pressed against his chest, his eyelids blinking slowly. She could hear his breathing, slow and steady, somewhere in the brooding realm between wine and sleep. Venus motioned for a handmaiden to come and wait on him. He didn't notice the woman at first, and when she asked him a question, he jumped.

The handmaiden said in a pretty Irish accent, "Oh, ah didna mean to startle ye, sir. Only, I see that yer cup is empty, would ye be liking some more?" She motioned delicately with the green decanter in her hand.

"Roses," whispered Sheila.

Carlisle's eyes wandered over the woman, her dark hair, her lacey white dress. He seemed unable to answer her.

May got up and took the forgotten wine glass out of his hand. Giving it to the handmaiden, she said, "Just bring him some coffee. A lot of it."

"Certainly, m'lady," said the woman with a delicate curtsey.

"Bring the pot," called May after her.

A minute later, the woman returned with a platter of poached pears, a carafe of coffee, and four cups and saucers. She put a sugar cube and cream into Carlisle's cup, making his coffee without even asking how he took it, then whisked the coffee around with a teaspoon and placed it in front of him. He stared at the creamy liquid as it swirled around the cup.

When the handmaiden placed a poached pear in front of the goddess, Venus cried, "Oh, what a disappointment! Really, I simply must talk to Chef. I'm not very fond of poached pears, are you? Sure they're pretty to look at for a while, but they're so cold, don't you think?" She pushed her dessert plate away. "I don't think I'll even bother. I would only be wishing it were something else—a nice piece of pie or cobbler, for instance." She sighed and put her chin on her hand. "Humbler dishes perhaps, but far more warm and inviting, don't you think, Sir Carlisle?"

When he didn't answer her, she put her hand on his shoulder and said softly, "You've been awfully quiet for a long while now, sir." Venus eyes were sapphire blue as she gazed at him.

Carlisle's voice had taken on the mellowness of the wine in his blood. "I fear I am poor comp'ny tonight, ma'am."

"Nonsense, sir. I have found your company most enjoyable. But I sense you may not be feeling well."

"Yer right, Yer Highness. Would ya be so kind?"

"Of course. You may go if you wish."

"Thank you, Yer Highness." Carlisle placed both palms down on the table and stood up just as the dark haired handmaiden who smelled of roses arrived with his jacket in her hands.

Venus plucked a candied orange peel off her pear and asked, "Would you like to have one of the handmaidens escort you to your tent, sir?"

The woman at the door, curtseyed, "I'd be glad to do it m'self, Yer Highness."

I'll bet you would, thought May.

Carlisle took one of his hands off the table and rubbed the back of his neck with it. He hovered over the table, wavering back and forth on his feet.

Now that the sip of enchanted wine had worn off completely, May could feel the same old familiar dull ache of lacking and vague dissatisfaction she had grown accustomed to all her life, only now it was acute after having had the feeling of complete fulfillment to measure it against. Against reason, she felt herself wishing for another glass.

If the wine here had that effect, what about other things? She suspected that if the handmaiden walked Carlisle to his tent, he might never leave this place. He would end up just another one of the mindless, faceless people that followed Venus around endlessly. And what would happen to herself and Sheila? Would they ever be able to get home? May felt certain that she would go crazy in this place. Or maybe she would lose her memory like Sheila. Would she forget who she was? Forget she was May?

And Carlisle wasn't a monk. What was to prevent him from accepting this woman's offer which seemed to include more than just walking him to his tent? As far as he knew, he was completely unattached. The realization that she should have told him about his wife came too late.

But even if she had told him, what's to say it would have mattered to him anyway?

She decided finally that she owed him the benefit of the doubt since it had been her decision to keep the information from him. She suspected that whatever resolve he might have mustered against this simpering minx waiting at the door had probably left him three or four glasses ago. All it would take would be a soft look, a little stumble in the dark, then the handmaiden would lean against him ...

May stood up, tossed her napkin on the table and said to Venus, "Oh I think you and your handmaidens have done quite enough already, don't you? Wait for us, Uncle. I'm suddenly feeling like I'm going to puke."

"Escellent! Let me walk ya to ya tent," he said, though he didn't move from the table whatsoever.

She considered that what she had taken for drunken indecision might just be his inability to work out the logistics of moving away from the table without falling over. She moved his chair out of the way behind him and took him by the arm. "Lady Sheila, it's time to go. I'll need your help."

Sheila looked disconsolately at her half eaten pear, her fork poised in the air above it.

She leaned over the back of Sheila's chair and whispered, "Come on, Sheila. Let's let him walk us to our tent or he's liable to end up in a ditch somewhere. Besides, if you eat another bite, I think you just may pop the stitches on that dress."

"Oh fine," Sheila said wretchedly.

On their way out, May snatched Carlisle's jacket from the handmaiden, roughly. "Tart!" she hissed at her.

### Chapter 18

### The Mending of the Sword

The next morning, they strolled down through the mist to the shore where Venus and her entourage of beautiful people awaited them. Sheila was back in her own clothes again. Carlisle looked like he had slept in his.

"I had the strangest dream last night," said Sheila. "I dreamed I was a mermaid. It was wonderful. I swam everywhere under the waves, and it felt just exactly like I was there. It was awesome."

"And I dreamed I was fencing," exclaimed May, happy to be leaving this place. "And you're right. It was the most amazing dream. I could actually feel the sword in my hands. I can't wait to get my hands on one now." She made a few imaginary swishes in the air.

"I rescued this handsome blond sailor from drowning," added Sheila.

"And I was fighting this tall guy. He had a fencing mask on, so I couldn't see his face and I don't know what he looked like, but I pierced him in the heart! Ha!"

"You didn't kill him, did you?" asked Sheila, sounding concerned.

"Relax, I just made him bleed a little—not much." At the look on Sheila's face, she said, "I'm kidding. I didn't hurt him, honest. We had fencing gear on."

"Well, that's a relief!" said Sheila.

"What about you?" she asked Carlisle. "You're awful quiet. Did you have any dreams?"

"That's between me and my pillow, don't you think?"

"Oh come on. Really, what did you dream about?"

Since he wouldn't answer her, she decided to pester him until he gave in.

"Well, if you simply must know," he said finally, "I was on a picnic with my wife at a lake that we used to go to sometimes."

Centaurs blew trumpets to announce their arrival. Venus sat serenely on a throne which had been placed on the grass. Taking his hands out of his pockets, Carlisle approached the goddess and bowed.

"Have you rested well?" asked Venus, stepping down from her throne.

"Yes, Your Highness," responded Carlisle.

"I hope you all had pleasant dreams last night. I sent them to you as my parting gift."

"Thank you, Your Highness," said Sheila.

Carlisle turned pink.

The goddess leaned toward him and said, "Not to worry, dear sir. I only send your heart's desire. I never peek." She straightened up and addressed them all: "The cockle boat will take you to the far shore. When you arrive, take the provisions with you, for the vessel will leave immediately on its own and return here. Are you ready to go?"

Carlisle said, "Your Highness, you have been very generous but there is the small matter of my sword and—"

"Yes, how foolish of me!" exclaimed the goddess with her hands in the air. "I almost forgot. Of course, you'll want your sword back."

"Get out of my way," said a low, gravelly voice. "Make way, for Venus's sake."

The crowd of people jostled and bumped. They parted and from their midst came a dark-eyed dwarf with a neatly trimmed black beard. He wore a deerskin tunic dyed emerald green. When he saw Venus, he knelt down on one knee and presented a sword and scabbard in his outstretched hands to her.

Venus said to Carlisle, "I hope you don't mind. I took the liberty of having Samson work on your sword. He is the best smith of all the dwarves in the land." She looked over the weapon and complemented the dwarf, "It's simply breathtaking, Samson."

"Dwarves?" remarked May. "I don't remember seeing any here before."

"It's because I have such trouble getting them to stop working. They simply refuse to rest and are constantly toiling underground—dig, dig, dig! Excellent metal workers, mind you. None finer." Her eyes twinkled amethyst with admiration.

Samson got up from his knees and stepped in front of Carlisle, still holding the sword and scabbard out in front of him. "Here you go," he said loudly.

The scabbard was dazzling to the eye, encrusted with jeweled cabochons of precious gems in a rainbow of shades. The hilt of the sword was inlaid with mother of pearl.

"That can't be mine," said Carlisle, recoiling from it.

"What is a sword without a scabbard, sir? I had one made for you," said Venus.

"You don't like it?" yelled the dwarf, insulted.

Carlisle said, "I meant it is simply too fine. I feel that I can hardly accept it."

The dwarf smiled. "I had to fix a nasty break in it, too," he said.

"A break? I never noticed a break," said Carlisle.

"It was one of those ones you can't see unless you're really looking—and believe you me, I always look. There's almost always one or two hairline cracks if the blade's seen any use at all, or if it wasn't forged well to begin with. Trust me, next big sword fight and yours would've busted into a million pieces. But don't you worry, I fixed it up right. It's a fine bit of workmanship, if I do say so myself." Samson lifted the sword up higher. "Are you going to take it, or what?"

"Yes, Sir Carlisle, please accept it. After all, what's a knight without his sword?" said Venus.

"Your Highness," said Carlisle, "May embellishes. The truth of it is I am not actually a knight."

Venus beckoned him to come closer with a wave of a jeweled finger. She whispered, "Between you and me, Mr. Carlisle, I knew you weren't a knight already."

"You did, Your Highness?"

"Yes, Mr. Carlisle. You see, a knight knows to kneel in the presence of a queen."

He rolled his eyes in embarrassment and dropped on one knee.

May watched as the goddess took the scabbard from the hands of the swarthy dwarf, drew out the sword and knighted the man kneeling in front of her. As she returned the sword to the scabbard, she said, "You may stand now, Sir Francis Carlisle."

When he stood up, she handed him his weapon. "This is yours, Sir Carlisle. Put it on," she commanded. "Sheila told me all about your bravery aboard the pirate ship. You are truly a most worthy knight," said Venus.

With shaking hands, Carlisle fastened the scabbard round his waist, almost dropping it on the ground in the process.

Venus continued, "Last night you were trying to tell me you lost something of value to you. I neglected to mention that I had the servants put some of your things aside for safe keeping." She motioned to a maiden dressed in white satin who handed her a green silk tie and a gold wedding band.

Venus gave the tie to Carlisle and held up the ring. "It is often an unfortunate fact that only in the losing of something do we sometimes know its true value. You will be far less likely to misplace this in the future if it is on your hand rather than in your pocket. Please give my regards to your wife."

He looked indignant. "I am a widower, Your Highness, and it was for fear of losing it that I took it off in the first place." He forced his tie into his pocket then took his wedding band from her and pushed it roughly over the knuckle of his finger. He turned his hand over several times and stared at it.

Venus smiled at him. "I think you will find that it fits properly now. I am sorry about your wife, but you might as well keep the ring on, since you wear it on your face already. I have a good feeling it will only bring you luck."

"I fear you have misjudged me, Your Highness."

"I didn't misjudge you for an instant, dear sir. It was you that misjudged yourself. I was just giving you the opportunity to prove yourself wrong. Sometimes we discover more about ourselves by discovering first what we are not."

They started walking down to the boat. "I have asked Lady Sheila to accompany you to the far shore. Her memory will return shortly. The current will bring you to the new land. You should reach it by nightfall. I wish you all the best of luck."

Before getting into the boat, Carlisle went down on one knee in front of the goddess.

She put her hand on his cheek and smiled. "You have a very unique face, sir."

"So I've been told."

"I only meant that it is one of those rare ones that gets handsomer the more familiar it becomes; I meet far fewer than I would like."

To May's relief, the interior of the shell shaped boat was cushioned, and to Carlisle's relief, there were no oars anywhere to be found. Over the top was a canopy of white silk to shield them from the sun. As soon as they had all settled in, two Zephyrs blew the boat away from the beach.

As the crowd on shore dispersed, Venus cupped her hands around her mouth and called out, "Sorry about the hangover!"

When May looked at him, Carlisle said, "I don't know what she's talking about. I feel fine."

From the air, the Zephyrs waved to them and left. The vessel glided along quietly in the water as the current began to carry them to the far shore.

### Chapter 19

### The Juggler

Carlisle put his hands behind his head and stretched out in the boat. Sheila opened a satchel of small shells and shiny beads she was carrying and examined each one.

May lay down on her stomach and looked into the glassy water. She could see clear down to where yellow and black striped fish played and danced on the sandy bottom. She draped her hand over the side and watched the wake left behind by her fingers trailing through the smooth water. She was bored.

All of a sudden, she felt Carlisle grab her ankle. She hadn't realized she had been kicking her feet up and down until then, rocking the boat gently. She propped herself up and looked around at him.

He was sitting bolt upright, his face a putty color. With an apology, he let go of her leg.

She grinned at him. "How ya feeling?"

Putting his elbows on his bent knees, he dropped his head in his hands. "Like the wrath of God."

"Is it a doozy?"

"The dooziest. What's in those provisions they packed us?"

"You can't be hungry," she said.

"Why do you always have to argue? Just look for me, will you?"

She opened the wooden box with the provisions in it. Inside, there was a small quantity of food wrapped in white linen napkins. There were also two bottles in the box. The bottle of clear glass she took to be water, but the one of green glass she dropped over the side of the boat. "I see what you were after now. Hair of the dog?"

Carlisle watched the bottle sink, scattering a school of yellow striped angelfish which darted in every direction. "It would of helped," he said wretchedly, putting his head in his hands again.

"I think you're better off this way."

"You're completely heartless, May."

"Not completely," she said quietly. "You look like hell, you know. Did you go to sleep in your clothes?"

"I assume so; I woke up in them. Did you both get back to your tent alright?"

"We're here, aren't we?"

"I should have walked you. I'm sorry. I feel so—I'm glad you didn't come to any trouble."

"You don't remember a darn thing, do you?" she said, smirking.

He picked up on the accusatory note in her voice and misinterpreted her meaning. "I hope I didn't offend you in any way."

"I'll say you did!"

He drew his hands slowly away from his head. "I'm truly sorry. There's no excuse for it," he said.

"You bet there isn't! You called me a nag." She had expected him to apologize again, but he started chuckling in a pathetic way.

"Just what are you laughing at?"

"Oh May, can you ever forgive me?"

That was better. "No. I like to hold a grudge for a while. You should keep away from the booze. You always drink everything in front of you?"

"Now you're being a nag," he said, lying down again.

Across from her in the boat, Sheila just kept playing with her shells like an idiot. She wasn't any fun to talk to anymore. Funny how you could miss someone so much who was sitting just a few feet from you.

May turned over on her stomach again and stared out at the flat water. "I wish I had a book right now," she mumbled.

Carlisle surprised her when he answered, "I'm not much of a reader myself." She hadn't expected any conversation from him. Either he was trying to make up for insulting her or trying to keep his mind off how he was feeling at the moment. "My wife read to me sometimes in the evening, but my mind usually wandered off somewhere. There were times I think she would have been better off just reading to herself. I liked listening to her anyway."

"And painting her?"

"Yes, and painting her," he said softly.

She thought briefly about telling him about his wife, then changed the subject by asking, "Hey, how'd you get from being a railroad tycoon to being a painter?"

She heard him laugh. "Tycoon!"

"Well?"

"Why don't you help Sheila make a necklace?"

"I don't want to. I'm talking to you. I'm just going to keep bothering you until you answer, so you might as well just give up."

"I'm trying to sleep," he said. "I have a headache."

"I know that already. What I'd like to know is what you did for the railroad to make all that money?"

"My father worked for the railroad," he said obscurely.

"You inherited your money?"

He snorted a laugh. "No."

"That doesn't make any sense," she said.

"My father was a manager for the railroad. He had done fairly well. Sometime after I got married he thought I was ready to try it too."

"So, did you?"

"For a while."

"What happened?"

"It wasn't the right line of work for me."

"Oh, I see," she said.

"You know, May, there are times when I could swear I hear a whirr and click coming from your head. And it wasn't what you're thinking."

"What am I thinking?" she asked innocently. That he was always either drunk or hungover? She didn't feel like going down that road again.

"If you want the truth of it, it was all those meetings and deadlines. It was a nuisance keeping them all straight. I tried anyhow." He reached up with one hand and brushed the soft silk of the canopy with the tips of his fingers.

"Oh."

"I think you mean, 'Eureka'. I distinctly heard a whirr and click again."

"No it's just—I was just thinking they have a name for that kind of problem now. When you're easily distracted and can't keep track of things."

"What? Boredom?" he said, lifting his head up and looking at her.

"Never mind. It doesn't matter. So if you didn't make your money that way, how did you make it?"

He settled back down with his hands clasped behind his head again. May watched his feet wiggle. After a time she heard him say, "One thing I never argued with my father about was money. That was something he knew better than anything else. If he said there was money in the railroad, then there was. So I invested in it."

"Stocks, you mean?"

"Mergers. You don't really want to know the particulars, do you?"

"Yes, actually, I do."

He thought for a bit. "Well, one time I was taking a trip with my brother—"

"You have a brother?" she interrupted. "What's his name?"

"What's that got to do with the story?"

"I just want to know. What's his name?"

"Seamus. After my father."

"My brother Charley is a junior too. You can continue."

"Thank you. Well, on the trip we had to make several stops and change trains. At the time, there were a lot of little companies with a little amount of track and a few stops and all on different time schedules. It was quite a nuisance if you had to go any distance, let me tell you. So when Seamus and I were waiting at a stop with a whole lot of other unhappy passengers, I got an idea."

"Which was?"

"Buy up the companies. I pooled whatever I had saved, borrowed as much as anyone would lend me, and that's what I did. As many as I could, until I had one enormous company with a whole lot of track, a whole lot of stops and all on only one blessed schedule. It worked like a charm."

"You did well, then."

"I made a fortune," he said with a glint in his eyes.

"Your father must have been happy."

"You could say that."

"Oh please. I bet you could of cooked eggs on his head."

"I don't know," he said smiling. "I never tried, but now, I kind of wish I'd thought of it."

"Oh well, hindsight's twenty-twenty. Hmm. Let me guess. He didn't think you'd earned it?"

"Touché. You know, you really should take up fencing, May."

"I'm thinking about it."

"The truth of it is, he was right. There was a huge amount of luck involved."

"Yeah, and a heck of a lot of risk, too."

"But how could I lose? Everything was already there: the trains, the tracks, the conductors. The only real work was in coordinating the lines. Some of the old timers had a hard time, of course. They were used to things the way they were."

"You fired your own father?"

"Heavens no."

"Your father didn't happen to lend you any money for this idea, did he?" she asked.

"My brother did."

"Your father was probably steaming mad jealous he didn't think of it himself even if he would have never had the guts to do anything about it if he had. Or maybe he was just mad because you proved him wrong. You didn't do anything at all his way and you still didn't fall on your face."

"Does it help knowing all this information?" he asked.

"Yes, I like to know about people."

"Figure them out, you mean."

"Maybe."

"People aren't like trains, May. They don't run on tracks. Once you figure someone out, that doesn't mean they'll stay where you put them. You can't eliminate every surprise. It just makes it worse in the end when you think they'll jump one way and they do something entirely different than what you expect. I learned that much in fencing."

"That doesn't make sense," she said.

"Believe me nothing and no one is as predictable as you think they are—not even yourself. Please, no more questions. My head is starting to throb again."

A shadow fell across May's face. Sheila held out a necklace of delicate pink shells. "Here May, I made it for you."

She took it from her. "Thanks."

"You, too, Mr. Carlisle." Sheila handed him his own. "Is that okay? It's not too, I don't know—girlie, is it? Maybe it is."

He sat up, smiled and took it from her. "It's lovely, Sheila. Welcome back."

"You don't have to wear it if you don't want."

"Really?" he asked, the necklace still dangling from his hand.

"Yeah, really, it's okay, honest. My feelings won't be hurt."

"Thanks," he said, putting it in his pocket.

For the rest of the morning, May and Sheila spent the time chatting, while Carlisle drifted off to sleep. At lunchtime the girls began opening up some of the provisions.

Carlisle propped himself up on his elbows. "What've we got?"

"I hope our talking didn't disturb your sleep," said Sheila.

"Not at all. Though I admit I had quite forgotten how much girls your age could giggle."

"Well," said May, "it looks like mostly fruit. No golden apples, thank goodness. There's a little bread, some cheese and, lucky us, moon cakes."

"We'll set some aside for later," Carlisle said, sitting up, "for when we hit land. Are you done with that satchel, Sheila?"

Sheila dumped out the rest of the shells from the leather bag and handed it to him.

"We'll put some fruit and some of the cakes in here and take it with us when we leave."

"Aye, aye, captain," said May, saluting him.

"Who wants what?" he said, juggling one red apple and two green ones. The three pieces of fruit danced in the air a few seconds before the red apple flew off sideways into the water.

Sheila leaned over the boat and snatched the apple up before it drifted too far away. She handed it back to Carlisle.

He rubbed the apple on his shirt. "I think I'll take red," he said, leaning back on the cushions.

"Good choice," said May.

Sheila settled back with a moon cake in her hands.

"How can you stand those?" she asked.

"I love them. They make me feel all cozy like I'm back home."

Home? What did Sheila have to say that for? How many days had it been anyway?

May felt like a turtle who had misplaced her shell. Without all the familiar things that normally surrounded her, she felt uncertain of who she was anymore. She stared at the green apple in her hands, her appetite gone.

Carlisle took one last bite of his apple and threw the core into the water. He picked out three more apples from the sac. "Hey," he said, nudging May's arm with the back of his hand. "I'm out of practice, but here goes anyway."

He kept the apples in the air longer this time, but gradually his tosses grew more and more erratic until he could no longer predict where each piece of fruit would fall. He lost control of the game and all three apples tumbled down onto the soft cushions inside the boat.

"Maybe you should just stick to fencing," said May.

"What would be the fun of that?"

"You're already good at it," she said before taking a bite of her apple.

### Chapter 20

### The Starry Night

By late afternoon, a shoreline appeared in the distance. By degrees, the sun set and a fat crescent moon appeared over the land, casting its pale light on the water. Stars arrived to twinkle in a midnight blue sky. Cool air whirled and eddied about them as the small scallop shell boat crunched onto a sandy shore.

Carlisle was first out of the boat. After putting the strap of the satchel over her head, Sheila took his hand and got out after him. May was last out and just in time; the craft moved under her, beginning its unmanned voyage back to the opposite shore.

There was just enough moonlight to see the shape of rolling hills and trees illuminated in translucent blues and greens. In a rolling valley in the distance, there was a town. A large white church shone in the center square, its steeple gleaming alabaster in the silvery moonlight.

The ground itself gave out an electric energy just on the verge of sound; May felt it as a low vibration in her body. She was dizzy with it. Audibly, there was only silence; not a bird or a bat or the buzz of an insect; no rustling of leaves in the swirling wind that puffed and gusted in unpredictable, unexpected ways.

"Oh, I love this one," said Sheila.

Carlisle sank down on the grass and watched the swirling liquid sky fold and unfold itself over and over around a sea of brilliant stars.

"Vincent Van Gogh," May said to him. "He lived around your time, but I doubt you'd have seen his work. Come on, we better get going."

He looked at her with an odd expression, "Does anything ever really move you, May?"

"Did I say something wrong?"

He shook his head as he got to his feet.

The village was directly ahead of them, and they began to make their way down to it. They came upon a dirt road which led into the town and looked untraveled. The dirt changed to cobblestone as they entered the outskirts of the village and still the strange silence persisted. May heard only the sharp footfalls from Carlisle's hard bottomed shoes and the creak of new leather from the belt of the scabbard at his side.

Most of the stone houses emitted light, but there was no activity inside any of them. Not even a moth came to flutter about the candles and lamps that burned unattended.

May couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched.

Sheila said, "We don't have to stay here too long, do we?"

"I hope not," said May.

When they passed the church and the churchyard, Carlisle said, "There aren't any names on the gravestones."

From the corner of May's eye, she saw a shadow move around a building—the quick flash of a dark robe. She looked at Sheila and Carlisle. They hadn't seen it. Another shadowy figure moved to her right around a house, and they still seemed oblivious to it. She decided she must be imagining things.

But even as they followed the road out of town into the turquoise hills, the feeling of being watched didn't leave her. She felt exposed and vulnerable.

All at once, the earth trembled under their feet. All three of them stopped and watched the ground. The tremor lasted only a few seconds and then was gone.

"Let's pick up the pace," said Carlisle just as another tremor hit.

May had always known that the land floated over a sea of molten rock but she had never had the experience of it. She had come to rely on the dependable solidity of the ground during her fifteen years. That surety was gone in an instant as she felt the land shift like water under her.

When the shaking stopped, all three of them started forward immediately, but another quake hit again—this one larger and more terrifying than the last two. The land wrenched open in front of them, forming a crevasse about three yards across in a matter of an instant. May dropped to her knees.

She watched Carlisle teeter at the edge of the crevasse, his arms spread out for balance like a tightrope walker. When the land settled down finally, she retreated as fast as possible away from the newly formed precipice like a crab, but Carlisle didn't move. He just gazed down into the dark vacuum of the abyss in front of him.

She got to her feet and darted forward to grab him, but Sheila held her back and whispered, "Don't! You'll scare him. He might fall in."

"That's not what I'm worried about!" said May.

"What do you mean? You mean—jump?"

"Oh Sheila! I should have told him about his wife!"

"Don't worry. I already did," said Sheila.

At the edge of the abyss, Carlisle took one unsteady step backward. He turned around and brushed by them. "Let's go."

As May's relief turned to anger, she waited until he was out of earshot and then said to Sheila, "You already told him? When?"

"When you fell asleep in the rowboat after you almost drowned."

"He's known all this time? Then why did you even bother to ask me whether we should tell him or not?"

"Because I was certain you'd say 'yes'. I'm sorry May, but I'm glad I told him."

So was May. "Quick, we better follow him. He's hard enough to keep up with, and he's headed in the wrong direction."

They started to run after him, but Carlisle stopped abruptly, realizing his mistake. He threw up his hands, turned around and headed back towards them.

They joined the road again where towering dark green cypresses lined the way like menacing soldiers. Around a sharp corner, the road ended without warning at a mirrored wall. Without being asked, Sheila began walking along the length of it, searching for a door. When she had gone a few hundred feet, she doubled back and continued in the opposite direction. As she passed by May, she met her eyes; she wasn't finding a door this time.

Carlisle had been pacing for some time and seemed ready to burst out of his skin. He yelled at May, "For Heaven's sake, you haven't found the door yet?"

"Why are you yelling at me? Sheila's the one who usually finds it."

But they both knew he couldn't yell at Sheila.

"Mr. Carlisle," Sheila said anxiously, "with you pacing like that, I don't think I'll be able to find anything. You're making me nervous."

"Oh, sorry," he said, standing as still as he could and crossing his arms. But his eyes darting around and a deep sigh made it obvious he was still wound up tighter than a metal spring. He said, "May, there's something you're not telling me."

"What do you mean?"

"About this place. About this painter."

May thought. "Well, he did spend a lot of his life in an insane asylum."

"That's too bad," Carlisle said, unfolding his arms.

"You didn't go insane, did you?" she asked suddenly.

"No, nothing like that. Just—I don't know—melancholy from time to time."

"Sure. You'd be crazy not to, right?" said May, relieved. "I'd like to get out of here myself. I keep getting the feeling I'm being watched."

"Again? And you're worried about me?"

Without warning, the ground convulsed, and May fell against the side of the mirrored wall. Instead of feeling the impact of a solid surface, she plunged into a silver pool of water. There was a sucking noise in her ears as she popped through to the other side.

She bumped down painfully on her backside. At first there was light then everything went pitch black, like a lamp being extinguished. A horrible smell met her nostrils—the stench of rotted meat and decay. The surface under her hands was slippery with wet. She got to her feet and rubbed her hands on her jeans.

She sensed the air move in front of her like the parting of a curtain. As her eyes adjusted, she began to make out a hulking shadow tensely poised in the blackness ahead of her. She stood still and held her breath, hoping that the creature in front of her was as blind as she in the darkness. If she had only known how long the creature had lived in the shadows, how accustomed it was to the half-light, she would never have held out that hope.

All at once, the creature pounced.

### Chapter 21

### The Monster

May could see nothing in the darkness. She felt sharp claws pressed into her shoulders, pinning her to the wet floor. The creature that held her down breathed on her with fetid breath. It sniffed her, and she felt a drop of something warm strike her cheek.

She heard a rasping voice say in a disappointed tone, "Oh, it's just a girl!" before the claws released her with one painful last dig into her shoulders. She heard heavy footsteps walking away next—clump, clump, clump, clump. She lay there in the darkness, dazed, afraid to move from where she was.

There was the hiss of a match and about ten feet away a lamp was lit.

She sat up and backed against the wall. She was in a room shaped like a cube about thirty feet in every direction. Just to the side of the room, standing before a huge rectangular red table, was an enormous, ugly man almost twenty feet tall with long gray scraggly hair. He sat down, and it was a giant's chair that he sat in.

He drummed his long dirty fingernails on the tabletop. "Where did you come from?" he demanded.

"I—I—"

"Well, out with it!"

"I—I came through the wall."

"Well, on your feet now. Get up. Can't sit on the floor all day, you know. Get over there in the corner." The giant pointed. "I want to see you better."

In silence, she obeyed. She didn't even think of doing otherwise.

In the corner, her anxious face gaped back an infinite number of times, misshapen and distorted in the mirrored corner of the room. Her breath began coming in short gasps. Why did that have to happen now?

"Turn around," said the monster, making a circle in the air with his finger.

She did as she was told.

The monster sneered. "Bit of a homely thing, aren't you? Come closer."

"Why?" she rasped out, alarmed.

The monster's eyes flashed. "I said, get over here!"

May took a tiny step closer.

"That's better," the giant cooed, relaxing. "That's very good." He glanced at the wall. "Tell me, my ugly little bird, are there any more coming through like you?"

She didn't know whether Sheila and Carlisle were ever going to be coming, but if they did, she sure didn't want this thing to have any advance warning.

"No," she answered. "Just me."

"Pity," the giant said. He began drumming his filthy nails on the enormous table again. The sound was amplified in the emptiness of the room.

He stopped tapping suddenly with an abrupt scratch of claws against wood. He smiled. "Unless you're lying that is."

Somewhere in the room, a fly buzzed.

She heard a loud rushing, sucking noise. The giant extinguished the lamp.

From out of the pitch black, she heard a tremulous voice say, "May?"

"Sheila? Run!" she yelled.

There was a sudden scuffling noise, and then she cringed when she heard Sheila's bloodcurdling scream.

The monster swore and raged out of the dark. "Another girl!"

He moved heavily across the floor. Clump, clump, clump, clump. A match hissed again and the ogre's black eyes glimmered in the reignited lamplight. Sheila was shrunken back against the wall. "Get over by that one," he yelled, pointing to May in the corner, and Sheila ran to her.

The creature sat down again. His expression changed from anger to disappointment, transforming the dirty creases of his face into a hideous carnival mask. "I was so looking forward to the next arrival." He whined, "I was so hoping it would be a boy!" He put his forehead in his hand.

"Where's ... Carlisle?" whispered May.

"He's still trying to get through," Sheila whispered back. Her voice sounded on the edge of hysteria. "What do you suppose it does with the boys anyway?"

"I don't want to know."

"No whispering," said the monster. "You there. Yes, you, the little fat girl."

"Fat?" said Sheila.

He leered at her up and down. "Believe me, I don't mind. It's kind of cute and kittenish, really. But you better watch it when you're older. Who do you think's going to want a fat girl?"

Sheila blinked back tears.

"Don't listen," whispered May. "He's just trying to play with your head. We need to get out of here. Start looking for a door."

"I'm not leaving without Mr. Carlisle."

"We don't even know if he's going to make it through."

"Then I guess we'll just have to go back and get him."

The ogre muttered, "Whispering again? Didn't anyone ever tell you little brats that it's impolite to whisper?"

May watched the monster warily. "We need to be sensible about this, Sheila."

"No, May, no. I don't want to be sensible. I don't want to be! I just couldn't live with myself. Could you? He'd never do the same to us. Never."

She pushed Sheila roughly towards the wall and ordered, "Go look."

The monster said, "You see, that's one of the problems with the girls. They're always chatting. Yippa-yappa, yippa-yappa, yippa-yappa." He seemed to stare straight through them, his voice trailing off to nothing, yet his lips still moving.

Watching him, May tried to calm herself down. "Okay," she said, "He's not just an evil giant—he's an insane evil giant. We are trapped in a revolting room with an insane, evil giant."

Without any warning, the monster got to his feet, knocking his chair over backward with an earsplitting crash against the stones. He came from the table with far more speed than May thought possible considering his size and lunged at them.

The girls screamed and ran under the table to the lightless corner at the opposite side of the room.

May slipped on the wet floor and skidded onto her bottom. She rubbed her hand on her pant leg. Her palm left a dark smear on the faded denim fabric. She turned her hand over and looked at the burgundy stain on her skin. Her eyes searched the floor and stopped. Next to her was a pool of something dark and sticky.

Blood.

She got to her feet in a daze. Where was it coming from? She had to know.

Half a yard away was a grizzled mass of rotting flesh. She could see the ragged bottom half of a severed leg and foot. Squirming all around the floor, upset by her rude interruption were hundreds of plump, white maggots. May's stomach lurched. She took in a huge breath and let it out in a scream.

Sheila grabbed her arm and pulled her away.

They ran along the wall and were met midway down by the giant who jumped into their path.

The ogre reached out one grimy arm and forced them back against the wall, knocking the wind out of the both of them.

"Too easy," said the monster, "You're almost not worth the trouble of chasing."

The giant was incredibly bow legged and the same thought occurred to both May and Sheila at the same time.

They dashed under the giant's legs.

May heard a rushing noise again as Carlisle plunged through the wall, head first. He slammed down onto his shoulder, landing with a grunt; slid several feet on the slimy floor and came to a stop directly in front of them, so that she and Sheila nearly tripped over him.

"I've been waiting for you!" said the ogre.

Carlisle's face fell. Mumbling under his breath, he got to his feet and fumbled for his sword. The blade made a ringing sound as it left the scabbard.

May and Sheila turned around, standing between Carlisle and the giant.

Motioning them aside with one of its clawlike hands, the ogre said to them, "Get out of the way. I'm not interested in you."

Neither of them moved.

"Girls, out of the way," said Carlisle from behind them. When they still didn't move, he ordered, "Now!"

"No," said May.

"For the last time, get out of the way," yelled Carlisle.

Picturing the gruesome sight in the corner, she said, "You heard him! He's not interested in us. He wants you."

"Enough," screeched the monster. "Somebody better move or I'll eat all of you."

Sheila began to cry loudly but stood her ground.

"Sheila, please honey, not now," Carlisle pleaded.

The monster made a horrible face, put his hands over his ears and wailed, "I hate that noise! Stop it!"

Sheila tried unsuccessfully to stifle herself. May put an arm around her shoulder and tried to shush her.

"Stop it," the ogre screamed again, his eyes bulging wildly out of the sockets of his now purple face.

Sheila cupped both her hands over her mouth. May added one of her own.

There was quiet at last. Somewhere a fly buzzed again, and a drip of water condensed on the ceiling and plunked to the floor.

The monster uncovered his ears. "Pathetic," he said. "How utterly pathetic. Isn't it just like a girl to cry!" He pointed at Carlisle with one crooked, dirty finger. "And you! Do you always let girls fight your battles for you? Why don't you just give one of them the sword if you can't handle it. I suppose next you're going to start to bawl."

"Me?" said Carlisle, drawing himself up to his full height. "I should say not."

Still with her hand covering Sheila's mouth, May said, "You know this guy's really starting to piss me off."

"My, my, my," said the monster, "that wasn't very ladylike."

"What is this guy's problem, anyway? He's nothing but a frikin' jerk! This guy is a total—"

"You know young lady, he has a point," came Carlisle's voice from behind her. "Must you always sound like you work at a railroad yard?"

She turned to him. "You're agreeing with the ogre?"

For an answer, he pointed his sword to the opposite wall. "Take Sheila and find the exit," he ordered. "I'll handle this."

"Fine," she said to him icily. "Have it your way. Be eaten! Sheila and I will go find the way out of here. Come on, Sheila."

They moved to the opposite side of the room as Carlisle and the monster faced off. Sheila began searching the wall for a door, walking up and down, trying to locate a doorknob.

But the monster didn't attack right away. It just crouched down and settled itself on his heels in front of Carlisle and stared at him. It gave an arching sweep of its head and sniffed the air, then smiled. "What's that I smell? A coward? Yes, that's it, isn't it? Just what are you afraid of anyway, coward? You're the one with the sword."

Nervously, Carlisle tightened his grip on the weapon in his hand.

"You're that frightened of me, are you? You should probably just give up then." The monster regarded his own filthy nails casually. "But I'll tell you what. I'll make it easy on you. You seem a likeable fellow so I'm willing to make a deal. If you agree to stay, I will let your two little friends go. Two for the price of one. That's not so bad, is it?"

Why couldn't the monster just attack? Then they could just fight fair and square. There ought to be a rule that ogres shouldn't be allowed to talk. A talking ogre was twice as deadly as just a growling one.

May shouted out, "Two for the price of one? Is that some kind of sick, twisted flattery? You're worth more, so I'm not interested in them, but—oh, by the way, didn't I tell you? I'm going to eat you."

The giant turned to look at her. "No, you're wrong. That's not what I want."

"It isn't?" she said.

"I've got it!" exclaimed Sheila, clutching a tarnished brass doorknob in her hand.

The giant scowled. "The little fat girl is good. It usually takes a lot longer to find than that."

Sheila jiggled the knob then cried out mournfully, "No, oh no, it's locked."

"A pity," observed the monster in mock sympathy.

May rushed over to her. "Whatever you do, don't let go." She bent down and inspected the door. There was a keyhole below the knob with no key inside.

The ogre reached into his mane of unwashed hair and pulled out a brass key on a darkened leather strap. He swung the key back and forth like a pendulum. "You aren't looking for this by chance, are you?"

### Chapter 22

### The Giant's Key

"My offer still holds," the creature said to Carlisle. "You stay and I let your little friends go free. How about it?"

May shouted, "It's a trick. Don't listen to him."

"Take it or leave it. It makes no difference to me. But if you don't, I'll just kill all of you. I can assure you, it will be quite slow, and I plan to start with them, just so you can watch."

Carlisle flicked his eyes to them, and it was as though May could hear his thoughts out loud.

"I won't go," said Sheila madly. "We'll have to get the key some other way. I won't go."

May yelled, "Forget about it Uncle Frank!"

"Quiet, you two," said Carlisle.

May said, "No dice, Uncle Frank. We're all leaving here together. So you'd better just think of something else."

The giant threw his head back and laughed. "You're being generous, right? That would assume he was thinking of anything to begin with, and by the looks of him, I doubt it."

"Don't listen to him. He gets his jollies by playing with people's heads," yelled May.

"Tell me, does she make all your decisions for you, or just some of them?"

"Oh, get off it," she said.

"Oh, I see. She does make your decisions for you then. I understand now." The giant fixed his gaze on May. "Maybe I should just keep her instead of you."

She shut up.

"What? We finally have some peace and quiet from the corner?" said the giant, smiling evilly at her before turning back to Carlisle. "Come on. It's very simple really. I'll make it plain enough so that even an idiot like you can understand it. You stay with me, and I'll give the key to your little friends."

Carlisle opened his mouth to speak.

"No!" shouted May and Sheila together. Then May said, "He'll just kill you, or maybe even worse—he won't. Then you'll be stuck in this disgusting room forever, too, just like he is. He probably just wants to drag somebody else into this stinking hellhole with him so he won't be so pathetically lonely."

She was unprepared for the intensity of the ogre's reaction. He spun on her suddenly. His eyes glowed like brilliant orange coals in absolute fury. "You still haven't learned to shut up, have you?" Forgetting Carlisle for the moment, the monster came towards her.

She pressed her back against the wall, more than ready now to shut her miserable trap.

Carlisle began following the giant from behind. Out of the corner of her eye, May saw him make a rolling motion with his hand.

He wanted her to keep the ogre talking.

Her mouth was dry. She swallowed imaginary spit and squeaked out the only words that came into her head. "That is what you want, isn't it? Someone here to suffer along with you? I mean, why kill someone when it's so much more fun to keep them alive?"

The giant glanced in the direction of the far corner where the flies buzzed around what was once a man.

"What happened? What did he do that was so bad that you got rid of the only thing in that bottomless black hole of a heart that made you happy?"

The giant growled low in his throat at her. May didn't feel like she was in her body anymore. She was listening to herself from somewhere else.

"What was it? Did he stop following your orders?" she shouted.

Something glimmered in the giant's angry eyes as though she had touched on some part of the truth. "So that was it, wasn't it? And you couldn't handle it, could you? 'Cause you really enjoy that, don't you, everybody doing just exactly what you say? It fills up that hollow space inside that you can't ever seem to get rid of."

The ogre was now much closer. She could see Carlisle creeping up from behind with his sword ready, so she kept on talking.

"And since you couldn't control him anymore, I bet you got scared that he'd finally find a way out of this place and you wouldn't have anyone left to play cat and mouse with and to squash and crush and make you feel powerful and important. Because deep down you feel like you're really nothing at all. Nothing."

The giant was practically on top of her.

"But killing him wasn't the same, was it? Because what you really wanted—what you were really hungry for—you couldn't get to that way. As far as I can see, you're the only coward in this room. You're a sad, scared, evil little man who won't be happy unless he makes everyone just as miserable as he is."

Drool dripped down in a thin line from the edge of the giant's mouth and puddled on her sneaker.

She closed her eyes tight and turned her head to the side.

At last, Carlisle lunged at the monster from behind, but he slipped on the smooth, wet surface of the floor and sprawled headlong. The sword flew out of his hand and skidded across the stones.

The monster snapped his head down at the prostrate form of Carlisle at his feet. "My, my, my. What a pity we're so clumsy."

Carlisle inched forward, creeping on his stomach towards his weapon.

Reaching down with one hand, the ogre swatted the sword away before Carlisle could make a grab for it. May cringed as the sword flew towards her. With her eyes closed, she heard it clatter against the wall by her ear.

The giant lifted Carlisle off the floor and flung him to the far side of the room where he slammed into the corner and crumpled to the floor. As he got to his knees, dazed, he felt and smelled the giant's breath on his neck. He closed his eyes, crossed himself and waited for the inevitable.

May didn't think. In one seamless motion, she scooped up the sword and ran with it. Holding it high over her head in both hands, she rushed at the giant and plunged it into his thigh.

Honed to a deadly sharp point by the dwarf, the blade went into the stringy flesh with unexpected ease; through skin, through muscle, through sinew. It grazed the bone, pierced clean through to the other side of the leg, and stuck there, buried to the hilt.

The ogre screeched, shot to full height and spun around. He swatted at May, missing her by only inches as she ran. He stalked after her, dragging the lame leg behind him grotesquely like a maimed cockroach, and caught the hood of her sweatshirt with several daggered claws.

She gagged and clutched the zipper at her throat as the ogre picked her up and dangled her in midair. She watched the floor twirl around below her, getting farther and farther away.

Having avoided the inevitable, Carlisle jumped up and ran at the giant. He grabbed the hilt of the sword still buried in the giant's thigh, turning and twisting it as he removed the blade.

The giant howled in renewed pain and grabbed at the wound in his thigh. May fell to the floor.

Vast amounts of blood spurted from the jagged hole in the ogre's thigh. Unable to staunch the flow, the monster's blood pulsed and gushed, rapidly forming a massive red pool under him on the moist stones of the clammy little room.

The giant stumbled and fell backward, then landed on his back with his chest heaving, eyes pinned sightlessly on the ceiling. His breath began to come in shudders. Carlisle went up and cut the greasy leather strap from around the thick neck. He ran to the door and handed the key to Sheila.

Sheila slid the key into the lock then rattled the knob. "It won't budge!" she yelled.

"Let me try," said Carlisle. His left hand and the entire arm of his jacket were glistening red. He held out the sword to May, and it too was covered in blood—not the cold sticky blood of the corner, but bright red and warm. She took the sword with a queasy look.

Sheila released the doorknob to him. "You have to fiddle with these kind," he said. He turned the key and jiggled the antique knob until he heard a click, then went through the door first and held it open for them. Sheila and May heard a low, miserable growl from behind them as they ran through the doorway.

Carlisle let go of the knob just as the giant rolled over and flung himself at the door, thrusting his arm through the opening with one final burst of energy. May watched the futile, frantic movements of the long arm, searching around blindly. It scraped the ground with its dirty nails for someone—anyone—it could draw back into the claustrophobic little room where the rest of the giant dwelt now in isolation, dying.

The hand gave up at last and with one final groan, the arm withdrew. The door swung shut for the last time and closed.

Now, the only thought in May's head was to get the stench and blood off her body and her clothes. She looked around purposefully, hoping to find a water source.

They had arrived into a boring, bleak landscape, its dullness a welcome sight after everything else they had gone through. There simply had to be some water here. Boring, flat landscapes always had at least one stream or lake in a feeble attempt to add interest.

Her instincts were right. She spotted a pond not more than a hundred yards away and walked to it, not caring if anyone followed. She had only the single-minded, desperate need to wash herself and only wished now that she had a huge bar of soap. She dropped the sword on the grass as she walked into the water, clothes and all. The water was like ice, but she didn't care.

Sheila slipped the strap to the satchel off her shoulder and let the bag thump down on the grass next to her. She dived into the water head first.

Carlisle discovered the brass key still in his hand and threw it as far and as long as he could. He removed his scabbard next, set it on the ground and treaded into the water, stripping off his jacket and vest as he went. Scrubbing at his hands, he said huskily, "I just can't believe how much blood there was."

"I must have hit the femoral artery," May told him. Her voice sounded strange to her.

"Sit down, May," he said.

"Why?" she asked, as her knees gave out under her.

She stared at the water she had fallen into. A stain was spreading out from her jeans in a billowing red cloud. A jolt of something sinister and nameless passed through her. "God," she said breathlessly, "there really was a lot of blood, wasn't there?"

"You couldn't have found a better spot if you'd tried. I can't believe how quickly he went down," said Carlisle.

"I didn't know what I was doing. I didn't mean to kill him. I just wanted to stop him."

"Well, you certainly did that, but why did you have to go and say that to him? I just asked you to keep him talking, not totally infuriate him."

"You asked me to keep him talking and I did. It's the only thing I could think of!"

"Well, you could have got yourself killed!"

"Don't you think I know that? What's wrong with you? Just get off my back, alright?"

"I'm not angry at you!" he yelled, looking at her as if he was amazed she could be so thick. He snatched his jacket from where it floated on the surface of the water, and she watched his jaw pulse as he began to scrub the blood from it.

She understood finally why he was angry. "I tripped too, you know, and I don't even have those stupid slippery shoes you have on."

He didn't answer, only nodded sullenly before wringing out his jacket.

She noticed that there was a line of blood spreading on his collar. "You got hurt?" she asked.

"It's nothing—just a scratch."

"What was that painting?" asked Sheila. She was submerged to the shoulders and only her head shone above the surface of the water. "My mother's had it for ages, but I don't know the name of it. I don't think I'll ever be able to look at it again."

"I can't remember," said May. She asked Carlisle, "Do you know?"

He didn't look up from what he was doing. "I saw it once. It's by a gentleman named Goya."

"Do you remember what it's called?"

" _The Monster_ , I believe," he said as he wrung out his vest.

"Funny," said May, "I thought it had a longer name for some reason." A shiver came over her, and she hugged her arms. "I'm glad to be clean, but maybe it wasn't the brightest move to get wet like this. It's pretty cold here." She surveyed the bland landscape of scrubby trees and blighted grass. "There's a brown farmhouse in the distance over there. Maybe we're in luck. There's some smoke coming from the chimney. It looks—it looks a little—"

May stood up suddenly, splashing back the water all around her in waves. She slammed the surface of the pond with her hands, sending out plumes of spray in every direction. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Easy," said Carlisle, who had just gotten a face full of water, rubbing his eye with the back of his thumb.

The bitter wind changed direction.

"You told me yourself you wouldn't want to know," said Sheila.

"Know what?" interrupted Carlisle. "What's this all about?"

"It's May's painting," said Sheila.

"What do you mean her painting?" he asked, still not understanding.

"She painted it," answered Sheila.

He surveyed the landscape with renewed interest. "You painted this, May?"

May felt the cold air blow against her hot cheeks.

Carlisle gave her a wide smile. "You didn't tell me you painted!"

### Chapter 23

### The Boring Brown Farmhouse

May's teeth chattered in her head. She was wet to the bone and dripping frigid water as they set out for the farmhouse and the warmth promised by the smoking chimney.

But the house was proving to be farther away than they thought.

"I guess I should have painted the house up closer," May said, unable to feel her face anymore because of the cold.

"Mmm," said Carlisle.

"I didn't exactly criticize your painting."

"I didn't say anything, May."

"Well, the house is pretty far back, I'll give you that. I suppose it could be closer."

"Maybe," he admitted.

"I, for one, wish you had painted it a lot closer," said Sheila. "I can't feel my toes anymore."

They passed by a grotesquely shaped tree, the branches too thick for the trunk. "And I know I got the proportions all wrong," said May.

"It's a common problem," he ventured tentatively, stepping over a twisted branch on the ground. "Usually comes from standing too close to your work. You probably just need to back up from the canvas now and then."

"Why did your mother have to hang this up, anyway?" said May. Sheila had seen the painting stuffed into a corner of May's bedroom one day. Sheila had asked for it and May had yielded it up begrudgingly.

"You know how much she likes you. I told her you'd be mad if she hung it."

May cringed as she pictured it in Bonnie Hazelton's living room for everyone to see. She wasn't mad—she was horrified!

She was also freezing. No one talked after that for some minutes as they trekked over tall silver-brown grass that crunched frostily under their feet. She began to shiver uncontrollably, unable to stop herself. The house had to be another quarter of a mile at least only she wasn't sure she could walk much farther.

"I need to sit down," she said.

"Oh no you don't," said Carlisle, sounding alarmed. "You need to keep moving."

"Just for a second." She sat down anyway, bunched herself into a ball, and rocked back and forth. It helped a little, but her whole body was still shaking violently.

Carlisle had already given his coat to Sheila. He unbuttoned his wool vest and put it around May's shoulders. It wasn't dry, but it was warm. He left both his hands on her shoulders, crouched down in front of her and held her gaze. His lips were blue and there was frost forming on his dark eyebrows. "Come on, May, get up."

"I just need to sit down for a bit."

"You can't. You need to keep moving."

Sheila was slouched over with her arms folded over her chest. "May, please, get up," she said, shifting her weight and stomping a foot.

"If we stop here, we'll die."

"I just need to warm up for a minute."

"No. Get up now, or I'll carry you."

She studied the dead serious expression on his face. You would, too, wouldn't you? she thought. She summoned whatever energy she had left and got on her knees. As he helped her to her feet, she managed to get out the word, "Nag."

As though he had charged her with a little bit of his energy, in some kind of half trance, barely feeling her body and her legs trudging under her, she managed the seemingly endless rest of the way.

She didn't remember painting a fence, but there it was anyway: an ugly, rickety one about five feet tall surrounding the homely brown farmhouse. At least half of the fence slats were broken or missing.

Carlisle undid the locked clasp on the opposite side of the gate and opened it. There was no walkway to the house, so they trod over the unmowed grass in the yard, flattening it down with their footsteps and leaving a wormlike trail behind them.

There was no front porch, only a few bare concrete steps leading up to a beige door. Above their heads, suspended from a wooden overhang, a set of wind chimes clunked out an unpleasant tune.

Carlisle tried the door. "Figured as much. Locked and probably bolted. Get down off the steps. I'm going to have to kick it open."

As he backed away from the door and swung his foot, something sharp clawed at the pit of May's stomach. "Wait," she shrieked out, rushing up the stairs.

Carlisle almost fell off the stoop. "What is it?" he squawked, catching himself with a hand on the doorjamb.

"Just—I don't know—I think there's a key somewhere."

"Well, be quick about it. It's not getting any warmer."

There was no welcome mat for a key to hide under. She passed her fingers over the top of the doorframe and felt around. There was no key there.

Over her head, she heard the doleful sound of the wind chimes—ding, ding; ding, ding; clunk. She, Sheila and Carlisle all looked up at the same time.

In the middle of the hanging tubes of the chimes was a small silver key. It swung back and forth on a red thread. Carlisle reached up and snapped the thin string that held it. The chimes sang out musically as he took his hand away. "I guess they were just off-key," he said, with a little smile as he handed the key to her.

"That's a lame joke," said May, turning the key over in her hand and looking at it. It was ornamentally carved with flowering trees all the way around and down the shaft. It looked older than the handle and lock, the door and the farmhouse put together.

Sliding the key into the lock, she opened the door. Inside was a windowless, white-walled room with a small fireplace at one end, which she and Sheila rushed over to as soon as they saw it.

When Carlisle entered, he cast his eyes up at the ceiling which was no more than an inch above his head.

"The fireplace is so small," lamented Sheila, rubbing her hands together in front of it.

Carlisle crossed the room and joined them. "What a stingy fire," he said in a disapproving tone.

"It's okay if you're right next to it," said May feeling inexplicably insulted.

"Part of the problem is this blasted fireplace screen," he said. "I really hate these contraptions." Crouching down, he touched the metal framework of the screen quickly, then took hold of the frame with both hands. "I got rid of them all at my place," he said, tugging and pulling, and then yanking on the metal framework when he found that it was bolted in place. "The screens keep the sparks from flying out but they also keep all the heat in."

With one final pull, he wrenched the screen free of the stonework and toppled over backward with it in his hands. When he got on his feet, he crossed the room and chucked the screen out the door.

"What'd you do that for?" said May.

"It's freezing in here!" he said as though it were all her fault.

"It's a lot better now," said Sheila.

"I thought as much," he said, walking back to them and reaching into a bucket of firewood near the hearth. He threw a large log into the fire and a brief, flickering burst of sparks shot up the flue. He was about to add a few more logs, when May stopped him.

"Shouldn't we save some of the firewood for later?"

Carlisle scrunched up his face at her. "Save it for what? Until we freeze to death? Really May! You call that a fire?"

He added several more logs until the heat came at them in waves and made the steam rise in an eerie fashion off the wet clothes still on their bodies.

Standing up, Carlisle noticed some photos on the mantelshelf. "What are these? Daguerreotypes?"

"Photographs," said Sheila, standing up and joining him. "Look May, it's your family."

"They're in color. Are they tinted?" asked Carlisle, picking up a framed photo.

"No. They just come out that way," responded Sheila.

"How does it work? How do they do it?" He turned the frame over as if the back of it might yield some clue to the process.

"Don't look at me," replied Sheila, shrugging. "Do you know, May?"

"No," said May, embarrassed that she didn't.

Carlisle looked at the subject of the photo in his hand. "And who is this good-looking blond fellow? Is this a beau, May?" he asked, turning the picture around for her to see and raising a theatrical eyebrow as though he thoroughly disapproved.

"Oh, that's her brother, Charley," interjected Sheila. She pointed to a family picture taken on the front lawn of the Taylor house. "Those are her parents and there's Charley there."

"You have a fine looking family, May. You look a lot like your mother, but I suppose everyone tells you that."

"Pretty much."

"Charley doesn't appear to be too much older than you."

"They got married late. Mom had to spit us out quick," said May.

Sheila said, "Charley's wicked smart—the whole family is. May's mother is a financial wiz and her father's a lawyer."

"A lawyer?" said Carlisle, impressed.

"Tax lawyer," May said, faking a yawn.

"Believe me, even if Charley wasn't her brother, it's not like she'd be interested in anyone like that anyway," said Sheila.

"Like what?"

"I don't know, like nice, for instance?" said Sheila.

May snorted a laugh. "Charley's nice, alright. I always tell him he'll make someone a nice wife someday."

Sheila scowled. She leaned towards Carlisle conspiratorially and said, "She always goes for the guys that barely notice she's alive. And if a guy's nice at all, forget it, she doesn't want anything to do with him. Far as I can tell, all she's interested in is jerks. Of course that's only when she can even be bothered to take her nose out of a book that is."

"Sheila!"

"I see," said Carlisle, playing along. "Well, not only is her brother smart and decent, he seems to have gotten his father's good looks as well. Don't you think?" He tilted the picture toward Sheila, and she blushed.

Carlisle put back the picture and spotted another on the mantelshelf. It was a photo of May and Sheila sitting together on the yellow flowered couch in Sheila's living room. Some of the wall behind them was visible.

"That one was taken this summer," said Sheila. "My mother hung May's painting in the corner, so I guess we must be traveling along that back wall now, but the pictures have changed since then."

May took her eyes away from the photo of her family and glanced around the squat, white room. There was only one other door in the room besides the one by which they entered. It was next to a narrow stairway that appeared to lead to a second level.

"We ought to try to find some dry clothes," she said, staring at the door, not quite ready to leave the fire.

Carlisle followed her gaze and took her hint. He walked across the room and wiggled the doorknob. Retrieving the ornate key from his pocket, he put it in the keyhole. It fit. He turned the key then went through the door.

Curious, both Sheila and May left the fire and followed in after him. Sheila bumped into him already trying to exit. He backed up in order to not run over her.

"It's your bedroom, May," said Sheila, halfway into the room. "Only—smaller?"

May lingered in the doorway. She didn't relish the possibility of her bedroom being scrutinized.

How could this room be her bedroom anyway? Her bedroom was somewhere else—someplace real. It was at home. Not in a painting! Sure this room was similar, but the dimensions were all wrong. All the furniture: her bed, her desk, her books: they were all normal size, but the room itself was just so much smaller. Everything was jumbled one thing against another. There was hardly any space to move. Heck, there seemed hardly any room to breathe. And like the rest of the place, the ceiling was so low that Carlisle's hair actually brushed against it.

Yet there was her dresser by the door; her bed with her grandmother's butterfly quilt still on it; and next to that, her white book shelf crammed with miscellaneous junk: a broken spelling bee trophy from third grade; an abacus she had taught herself to add small amounts on (she had no idea how to subtract); and a model of a t-rex she had made out of papier-mache for the science fair in fourth grade. On top of the bookshelf was a pile of stacked CD cases with the player on the shelf directly below it.

Standing amidst all this was Carlisle, who looked about as uncomfortable as any thirty-six year old man could look in a teenage girl's bedroom, let alone a tall Victorian man trapped in the far end of an incredibly small one by two teenage girls.

Just behind him was May's desk. It was still neatly piled with school books, homework and her laptop. Her room in actuality being on the second floor and under an eave, one side of the ceiling was pitched. Against the wall on the pitched side was her denim beanbag chair and dozens on dozens of stuffed animals in a row along the floor.

"Could I possibly get out?" said Carlisle, pointing to the door and motioning for the girls to back out of the room.

The sight of her desk reminded May that she had a test in social studies that she hadn't studied for whatsoever. For a moment she forgot her embarrassment and the improbability of finding her bedroom in a painting. She smacked her forehead with her palm. "Oh crap! I have a test on Friday."

Carlisle gave a frustrated sigh and glanced around the room. "What's this?" he said, taking an open shoebox off her bookshelf. The box was spilling over with tubes of oil paint, a bottle of thinner, and crusted paintbrushes. "Please tell me this isn't how you keep your paints."

With her hand still on her forehead, she peered out from between her fingers. "Why do you ask?"

"But this is awful," he said, holding up a full tube of red ochre paint that had no cap. He looked around for a trash can and spotted one just behind him. He dropped the hardened tube of dried paint into the can, and it made a loud pinging noise as it hit the metal sides of the bucket.

"Don't you ever accidentally leave the caps off?" she asked.

"I make my own. But if I didn't, I certainly wouldn't leave them like this. How can you even find what you need?" He poked around the box with his index finger then tossed the box back on the shelf, rattling the knickknacks and jostling the pile of CD cases which cascaded down in a clattering plastic waterfall at him. He made an attempt to catch them, but they flowed around his fingers and hands until every one of them had landed in a heap at his feet.

"How stupid can I possibly be!" he said, staring down at the pile.

Sheila squatted down to pick them up.

"Don't trouble yourself, Sheila. It's my fault; I'll pick them up," he said, bending down.

"It was just an accident, Mr. Carlisle. It could happen to anyone," said Sheila.

"Those things fall all the time. I should really get a holder for them. I pick them up three, four times a week myself. It's really nothing to beat yourself up over."

Carlisle picked up the last CD case and stood with it, hitting his head loudly on the low slanted ceiling.

May and Sheila winced.

With one hand on his head, Carlisle put the case back on the shelf then motioned to the door. "Could—could you girls back up and let me out? This room is very—very—"

"Claustrophobic?" helped May.

"Small."

She backed out of the room as Sheila sat on the bed and drew up her legs to let him pass.

Looking relieved, he exited the room. Drawing his sword from the scabbard, he turned up the stairway. "I'm going to go see what's upstairs," he said to May.

She went into the bedroom again and shivered. It suddenly occurred to her that she was standing next to her own bureau, and she began opening one drawer after another in the hope of finding dry clothes. She pulled out a pair of jeans, a black t-shirt and a dark gray Red Sox sweatshirt and handed them to Sheila.

"Wait a second," she said, taking back the pair of jeans which she realized would never fit Sheila, and swapping them for a pair of leggings. She regretted it instantly.

Sheila sent her a hurt look. "Why don't you get dressed first? Being as you're so skinny and all, you're probably colder than me. I'll wait. Hopefully, the pants will fit."

"Now you know I didn't mean—"

Sheila squeezed by roughly, bumping her into the bureau with her hip, then left, closing the door loudly.

May took off her damp clothes and searched around for a location to put them. At home she would have placed them neatly in the laundry room hamper, and it seemed unnatural to just throw them anywhere, even if this really wasn't her actual bedroom.

She finally settled on the corner by her desk and thought how her mother would have turned purple to see those wet clothes on the floor. She got dressed in a t-shirt, a green sweatshirt and a pair of dry jeans. Before she left, she went back to the sopping pile in the corner and felt around her jeans until she located the newspaper clipping. It was wet now and faded, but she slid it into the back pocket of the jeans she had on.

Sheila was attempting to dry her long hair at the fire when May emerged from the tiny bedroom.

"I didn't mean what you think," said May. "The ones I gave you are just newer, is all." And yes, she did think they would fit better, but she couldn't say that. "Do you have to be so sensitive?"

For an answer, Sheila brushed by her, went into the bedroom and slammed the door after her.

She wasn't worried. Sheila would cool off quickly, she always did. May headed upstairs to see what Carlisle had found. He had been quiet up there for some time.

She met him midway up the narrow stairwell as he was coming back down.

"There's not much up there really," he said to her with his head pressed against the inclined ceiling above him.

"I'd still like to see anyway," she said. He took up the whole of the tiny stairwell. There was just no way to get by him. "Do you mind?"

Turning around, Carlisle ducked his head and went back up the stairs.

### Chapter 24

### The Library of Time

The top of the stairway opened out into another whitewashed room—this time enormous, with a high, vaulted ceiling above and a cool, gray marble floor below. The walls were lined with simple built-in bookshelves, also painted white, and which stretched all the way from floor to ceiling.

May gave a low whistle.

"My thoughts exactly," said Carlisle. "I don't see how this room can fit over the floor below, let alone how the lower structure can support the weight of anything in here."

Some of the shelves were empty, but most were completely full of leather bound books, all neatly organized by subject, their titles stamped in gold leaf on the spines. Each subject title was posted in elegant script on a three by five card tacked to the shelf. The subjects started with 'Astronomy' and ended with 'Zoology'.

In addition to the shelves of books, there were also other shelves for CDs, DVDs, and another for a multitude of three ring binders, which on closer inspection contained neatly clipped and punched magazine and newspaper articles. Closed cabinets comprised the lower portions of the bookshelves.

In the center of the room was a round, marble table. On it sat an oversized glass-domed clock with a gold four-balled mechanism inside that revolved continuously, marking time. As May and Carlisle walked by the table, he leaned over and put his hand to his ear.

"What are you doing?" she whispered.

"Why are you whispering?" he whispered back.

"I—I don't know," she said a little louder, "I think this must be some kind of library."

"Shhhh." He put a finger to his lips. "Listen."

She heard the clock whirrrrrrrrrr as the four balls of the internal mechanism spun around rapidly getting faster and faster as though building up to something. Suddenly the mechanism stopped spinning and the clock gave out a loud clicking noise which made her jump a little.

Carlisle straightened up with an I-told-you-so smile. "What did I tell you? A whirr and a click."

"What is this place?"

"How would I know? You painted it."

May went to a computer on a desk a few feet away. A colorful, spiraling screen saver whirled around the monitor in blue and green and pink. The computer was practically an antique. It was like the one her family had when she was little, the monitor so large that it took up most of the space on the small desk. She moved the mouse back and forth and the text of Carlisle's news article—the one in her back pocket—appeared.

She pulled out the chair to the desk and sat down. Clicking the mouse a few times on the back arrow, her last homework assignment came up, then the back of a corn flakes box flashed on the screen.

"What is this contraption, anyway?" asked Carlisle, putting his hand on top of the monitor and looking around the back of it.

"It's a computer," she mumbled.

"A ... ? How does it—"

"Hey! Don't touch that."

He dropped the cord in his hand.

She began pressing the back arrow repeatedly. Math homework, the front page of last Friday's newspaper and some pages of Emerson she was reading for English appeared in rapid succession. "This is freaky," she said. "It's like everything I ever read is in here."

"Interesting machine," said Carlisle, scratching the side of his neck and wincing. "It's a kind of book? Only it's a little heavy to take to the beach."

"This is old. They aren't all like this."

"I wouldn't mind seeing that news piece again. Do you mind?"

"Knock yourself out," she said, getting up.

Leaning over the desk, he placed his hand on the mouse. "How does this—" He ran the mouse briskly back and forth and watched the cursor trace wide circles on the screen in response to his movements. "These arrowheads are what turn the pages?"

She nodded.

"And so—if I want a different page, I move this little arrow up to here—like so, and I press the top button of this small device that looks a little like a mouse—"

The text on the monitor changed, and he smiled at it, pleased with himself.

"Bingo," said May, rolling the computer chair gently into the back of his calves. "Sit down. You'll get a crick in your neck. You can move the small device that looks like a mouse to the other side of the keyboard if you want."

"Thank you," said Carlisle, sitting down, not taking his eyes off the screen.

She went to one of the bookshelves and read some of the gleaming gold titles. Under 'Medicine' she found an Anatomy and Physiology textbook and a medical dictionary she remembered having taken out of the library. Under the category of 'Literature' she saw _War and Peace, Jane Eyre,_ and _A Tale of Two Cities._

She skipped to 'Languages' and spotted her first year French textbook. 'Mathematics' not only had her current algebra textbook, but also last year's geometry and all of her other math textbooks as well; every single one of them, all the way down to her first grade math journal.

"This has got to be every book I've ever read. Even the ones from the library are here," she said, walking down the shelves of books.

"I wondered if that's what they were. That certainly is a lot of books, May," Carlisle said, suitably impressed. "And the titles! Wouldn't you rather be reading romantic adventure stories at your age?"

She stopped suddenly in front of 'Art History' and pulled a book off the shelf. She went through the index then flipped back until she found the section on Francisco Goya. "Oh, thank goodness, it's here," she said out loud.

"What is?"

" _Saturn Eating His Son_ —that's what it's called. See, I knew it had a different name. It was driving me crazy. Did you hear what I said? That painting we just—"

"Yes, well, that's it, isn't it?" he said over his shoulder. "It's not like it really matters at this point, does it? I'd rather just forget about all of that."

"I'm not sure there are some things you can ever really forget, but I suppose you're right. Only, I know myself. That title would have kept haunting me forever unless I found out what it was. At least now I know." She put the book back.

Carlisle pushed away from the computer, came over and pulled out a book. "Did you really like reading some of these, May? What is a girl your age doing reading something like this?" He held the book out in front of her so she could see the title.

" _A Concise History of Infectious Disease_ ," she read. "Actually, that's really not that bad once you get into it."

"Get 'into' it? But it's—" He turned to the last page and pointed. "It's 846 pages long. How concise can it be? I think I would just prefer to get the measles again, wouldn't you?"

"Actually, it's 864," she said, glancing at the page. "And I wouldn't know if it was worse than the measles; I never got them. They have medicines for that now: vaccines and antibiotics, and stuff like that."

"I'm glad to hear that," he said, closing the book and slipping it back into the bookshelf.

"Does that happen a lot?" she asked.

"Does what?"

"Do you mix up letters and numbers like that a lot? Read them backwards. Flip them around."

"No more than other people, I imagine."

"It doesn't happen to everyone. It's called dyslexia."

He smiled. "My goodness! Is it catching?"

"I'm being serious. And you might like to know, it's more common in left handed people. It just makes it harder to learn things."

"Like what things?"

"Reading for instance. But it's got absolutely nothing to do with whether you're smart or not."

May took another book down from the shelf. " _Aristotle's Physics_ ", she read. "I borrowed this one from Charley last year. Only I accidentally left it at the bus stop and it got rained on. He didn't speak to me for a week."

"May, I think we've seen enough. We should go." He held his hand out for the book.

She remembered how mad Charley had been when he'd found out what had become of his beloved philosophy book though she couldn't figure out why. She thought Aristotle was going to be interesting, but it was like reading one of those teabag tags with a cryptic saying that didn't make sense no matter how hard you thought about it. She got about half way through the book and didn't even finish. It suddenly occurred to her that she should probably buy her brother a new copy and wondered if she would ever get the chance.

She let the book drop open in her hands and stared at the page in front of her. Instead of the normal text, the entire page was taken up by one sentence in large bold letters:

You will never be as smart as Charley.

She turned several pages and then fanned through the book with her thumb. The embarrassing and infuriating sentence was on every single page of the book from beginning to end.

Almost involuntarily, she thrust the small volume from her, and it landed open on the marble tiles several feet away with a dull thud. She stared at it as though it were a rattlesnake poised to strike. "Do all the books say that?"

"No."

"Just that one?"

Carlisle didn't answer her.

"There's more? How many? A lot?"

He shook his head. "I wouldn't say a lot."

"Two or three?"

He bent his head down toward the floor and scratched the nape of his neck.

"It's more than that? But, why do they say that?"

"I don't know. I can't make much sense of it either. It's not all of them anyway. Maybe it's just the ones you didn't really want to read in the first place?"

"You mean the ones I was just too dumb to understand, don't you?"

"I never said that."

"You were thinking it though."

He looked offended. "I was not. And really, how would I know? I thought that one was a book on artists when I took it off the shelf. I can't even pronounce what you called it."

She stared sulkily at the open book on the floor. "Well, it's true, I guess. I never ever will be as smart as Charley. It takes me hours to do my homework, and he's done in ten minutes. Did you know he's valedictorian? I don't even know why I bother. If I dropped off the face of the earth it's not like my parents would care anyway. They probably haven't even noticed I'm gone. Maybe everybody's better off without me. I'll never be smart. I'll never be pretty. I'm useless at sports, and I suck at painting. I don't think I could be more average if I tried."

"Oh, you can't think that. You're far from stupid, May. And you're certainly not—"

"Is everything okay up here?" said Sheila at the top of the stairs. "I heard a loud noise."

"Yes, fine. I just dropped something," said Carlisle, scooping down to pick up the book. He snapped it shut and put it away.

"What is this place anyway, a library?" Sheila looked over several titles on the first shelf she came to. "Yikes. Talk about boring. Where do they keep the good stuff?" She reached down to open one of the doors to a lower cabinet.

May swatted her hand away.

"Ow, what was that for?"

"Do you always waltz into people's houses and open up their cabinets?" said May.

Carlisle put his hands in his pockets and looked around the room.

May gasped and waggled a finger under his nose. "You opened them, didn't you? You, at the very least, ought to know better. You really aren't a gentleman! That's totally rude."

"It's not exactly ordinary circumstances, May. I wasn't trying to pry, but I'm glad to see that you read something else besides this dry rubbish. There's nothing wrong with reading for amusement, though frankly, I will say there are several under there I think your parents ought to know about."

Sheila's face lit up. "Seriously? Do you seriously have bodice rippers under there? I didn't know you read any of those," she said, reaching for the handle of the cabinet again.

"I do not," said May, smacking her hand away.

Carlisle dropped out of the conversation as a book under the category 'People' caught his attention. He ran his finger along the three words on the spine, then picked the volume off the shelf and headed for the door with it.

"Hey, where are you going with that?" said May. "Not to get too technical, but I'm pretty sure that's mine."

"That's up for debate," called Carlisle, most of the way down the stairs.

May and Sheila arrived in time to see him toss the book into the downstairs fire. As the flames licked the cover, he picked up the poker and drove the thin volume deeper into the embers.

For a brief moment the words 'Francis Everett Carlisle' shone in gold on the spine of the book before both the gilt lettering and the burgundy leather were singed to a uniform black.

"You can't read people like books, May," he said.

"Thank you."

"For burning it?" he asked.

"No. For not reading it."

The farmhouse let out an agonizing groan of wood.

"What was that?" asked May, though she doubted anyone else knew either.

"That's weird," said Sheila. "Could I get that key, Mr. Carlisle?"

"Why?"

"There's a door over there I didn't notice before. Maybe we could find some dry clothes in there for you, too."

"You're very kind, Sheila," he said, gazing up at the ceiling which had grown a full six inches taller over his head. "But we should probably go now. I think we've mucked around in this place long enough." He took the photo of May and Sheila off the mantel and removed it from the frame. He slid it into his vest pocket as they headed for the door.

Before leaving, he stopped in his tracks, turned and stared into the fading fire as though he'd forgotten something.

"Aren't you coming, Mr. Carlisle?" said Sheila.

"In a moment," he answered, returning to the fire. He got three more logs from the firewood bucket and threw them in the fire. As the logs ignited, a spray of sparks exploded from the hearth and extinguished themselves on the cold stone floor, each one leaving behind only a dark smudge and a small trace of harmless white ash.

Looking into the now blazing fire, Carlisle brushed off his hands and smiled. "That's better. Now we can go."

### Chapter 25

### The Tornado

May stepped out of the farmhouse into the overcast sunshine. The air outside was still cold, but it had lost its bitter edge now that her clothes were warm and dry.

Carlisle came out last. Glimpsing the clapboards as he closed the door, he said, "Your paint is peeling." He pulled off a long scrap of curling brown paint from the house. "There's red underneath!" he said with a grunt of surprise.

"It stuck out like a sore thumb, so I repainted it," she said.

"This isn't the same color as the bark on all those trees over there, is it?" he asked, looking at the dried strip of paint in his hand.

"Yeah. I don't know what it's called."

"Called? Don't tell me you used it straight from the tube?"

"Yeah," she said. "Why? Is that wrong?"

"It's okay once in a while. But keep in mind no two colors in real life are exactly alike." He threw the paint chip aside and descended the steps. "Even the same exact object can change color on you depending on the time of day and the light. Take the farmhouse for instance. It can be one shade of brown at sunrise and then an almost completely different shade at dusk."

May kept walking, running her gaze along the grass. A hazy orange sun shined feebly through the sheer curtain of gray above.

He continued: "The things around it will affect the color as well. When the leaves change, the house will take on a warm hue. In the snow it'll be bluish. You can't really get that out of a tube. If you really look next time, you'll see what I mean." He went around and opened the gate for them.

"How about if I just don't bother at all. What's the use anyway?"

"Look here, I never did anything I was good at overnight and certainly, not painting." He was last through the gate, almost closed it, then decided to leave it open. "In fact, I don't even really know if I'm any good at that. It's just—well, once I got started, I couldn't seem to stop myself. It felt like what I should be doing somehow; what I should have been doing all along. Maybe you just haven't found what you should be doing, yet. You'll know. It'll just fit. But you won't find it if you're trying to be like somebody else."

"Like my brother, you mean?"

"Like anyone."

"What's the use, anyway? I'll never be good at anything."

"May, that isn't true," said Sheila.

"Come now," Carlisle said with a snap of impatience. "This isn't like you, May. You're usually such a level headed girl. You aren't still stewing about that book you found? You're being completely silly."

"Silly?"

"Yes, silly. The truth of it is, you're being ridiculous. You're sulking about like a miserable puppy."

"A—?"

"And about being clever of all things, when it doesn't even do for a girl to be too smart anyway."

"Excuse me?"

"It's simply unnatural, if you want the truth of it."

"And what is 'the truth of it'? All a woman really needs to know is how to cook and knit and scrub and sew?"

"And what's wrong with that? Believe me, a man isn't interested in debating art or medicine or politics with his wife."

"It was 'philosophy' not 'politics' and I'm going to just ignore you said that. I keep forgetting I have to make allowances for you."

"And what exactly is that supposed to mean?"

"Women didn't even have the vote back then."

Carlisle came to a standstill. "Women got the vote?"

She turned around and faced him. "Yes."

His eyes darted back and forth. The wheels were turning, and she didn't like the looks of the direction they were headed.

"See," she said. "What did I tell you? Allowances."

"Well, honestly May, it's just that women are more—"

"Oh this should be good. Please do enlighten me."

"Emotional," he cried, gesturing with both hands in her direction as if to prove his point.

The dry grasses around them rustled, buffeted by a quick, sharp wind.

"And, let's face it, women just aren't as—"

Sheila interrupted suddenly, "Can't we all just get along? The only silly thing here is this argument."

"Fine," said Carlisle, with a quick nod, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

"No," said May, "I want to hear what he has to say. Women aren't as what? Spit it out. Strong? You were going to say 'strong', weren't you?"

"I didn't say that."

"But you were going to, weren't you?"

"Don't tell me what I was going to say. If you'd let a man finish a thought for a change—"

"You were going to say that women are weaker. I knew it."

"I never said 'weaker', you did. But now that you said it, you can't deny it, can you?"

"I knew it."

"And they're not as—well, let's just say they don't think like a man."

She fixed him with an icy glare. "Honestly, I don't know why I should have expected anything else from such a stupid man from such a backward time period!"

"I see," he said. He put his head down, made an arc around her and kept walking.

May closed her eyes in a vain attempt to wish her last words away. When she opened them, Sheila was standing in front of her, hugging herself against the cold gusts that animated the once rigid landscape around them. Her normally full lips formed a thin straight line. "Why didn't you just slap him instead? It would have been kinder. You couldn't have thought of anything else to say besides that?"

With May's conscience somewhere around the level of her toes, she crossed her arms and defended herself vehemently. "He insulted us, Sheila."

"Then don't ask his opinion if you don't want to hear it." Sheila's eyes left May's face as her attention was drawn to something behind May. "What is that?"

Grateful for the interruption, May turned around. "What is what?"

Massive gray clouds had gathered in the distance. From one of them, a swirling shape dropped down like the inverted peak of a whipped egg white. Around them, the wind swirled the grasses into pointed standing clumps and pressed them flat again in the next instant.

She saw Carlisle about ten yards ahead of them, watching the horizon with his body tensed.

May pursed her lips. "I can't be sure, but I think it might be a tornado."

"Make it stop," said Sheila.

"Make it stop? How can—"

"It's your picture. Make it stop. Don't let it reach the ground."

"I don't know how to do that!"

"Well, it's headed straight for us, so you better figure it out fast."

"You seem to be the expert, what am I supposed to do?"

"I don't know. Maybe—maybe you should cry."

"Cry? That's your suggestion? That's not going to help. That's like your solution to everything. It'll probably start raining, and we'll all just get wet again."

The cyclone stretched down from the cloud and touched the land. Brown plumes of dirt and debris spun around in a violent twirl of confusion and spiraled upwards, darkening the body of the funnel.

Carlisle ran back to them with his arms out like he was trying to corral them. He pointed to an enormous granite boulder erupting out of the tall grass about twenty feet away.

As they started running, the twister began tracing a winding, zig-zag path toward them through the landscape, tearing up everything in its way. It uprooted the deformed trees and chewed them into splinters. It tore a wide swath in the earth, ripping up the dry matted grasses and leaving gashes of dark fertile soil in its wake.

The air around them whirled with shredded blades of yellow grass and small clumps of thatch and bramble that velcroed itself to their hair and clothes.

They reached the giant boulder and crouched down behind it. May pictured the whirling wind picking them up like dolls and smashing them against the jagged surface of the stone. If they dug in here, they might be able to wedge themselves into a depression at the base of the enormous rock.

She began scooping at the hard earth, not caring about the dirt caking under her nails. Her hair kept whipping into her eyes and she dug it back behind her ears, her fingers leaving behind dirt-streaked stains on her cheeks.

Sheila gripped her arm suddenly and pointed at a narrow hole at the base of the rock, left by some animal seeking shelter. The hole was longer than it was wide, no more than two feet along the length of the rock and one foot in width. It hardly seemed large enough for either of them to squeeze into, let alone Carlisle. May and Sheila began to wrench at the hardened sod around the rim of the hole, widening it.

When it finally seemed large enough, Sheila twisted the satchel she was carrying around to her back and slipped into the hole first, as smoothly as a snake. May took a deep breath and followed in after her. Carlisle came in last, creeping in on his elbows.

The narrow entrance opened out into a small cavelike hollow, just large enough to sit sideways and crunch their knees up to their chests. A tight squeeze even for May and Sheila, Carlisle looked like a spider nestled in the tail end of a garden hose.

The tornado sounded like a locomotive rumbling over the land above them, getting rapidly closer. Sand and pebbles began to shoot through the open hole, stinging the exposed skin on their hands and faces. Carlisle covered the entryway with his arm and shoulder. The earthen walls around them shook, vibrating down loose dirt and small stones onto their heads.

A sharp root prickled into May's back. She tried to blot out the image of them all being buried alive. She closed her eyes and pressed her forehead into her knees, hoping the pain would drive the image away, but the storm raging overhead was deafening, and try as she might, she couldn't escape the noise and the fear. She covered her ears with her hands. She had an overwhelming desire to scream.

All at once, an immense blast of dirt and air from the direction of the cave entrance threw Carlisle sideways, slamming his hard shoulder into hers. The blow knocked the wind out of her, and sent her careening into Sheila. They all fell in a line like dominoes.

The ground over and around them jumped with one massive shock wave as something dense slammed the surface of the earth above them with a thunderous impact.

May heard the locomotive sound of the tornado traveling away as dirt rained down on their heads. Carlisle waited until the patter of dirt stopped before he moved to get off of her.

She blinked several times to make sure her eyes were actually open. An unbelievably pure velvet blackness enveloped her. She heard Carlisle say, "No one got hurt, did they?"

"I'm fine," she muttered, the pain in her shoulder forgotten.

"I'm okay," said Sheila in shaky singsong.

May wasn't sure she wanted to know what had just happened. She heard Carlisle breathing shallowly next to her and half expected him to mumble something entirely appropriate to the situation under his breath. But in the closeness of this now pitch black hole they were in, he must have judged it unwise.

But she had no doubt he was thinking of a swear, and if he wasn't, she certainly was.

They were completely trapped underground.

### Chapter 26

### Underground

"What just happened?" asked May, attempting to keep the rising level of panic out of her voice. She already knew the answer, but she was hoping against hope she was wrong.

"The stone must have tipped," said Carlisle's low voice out of the dark. His attempt at a calm tone only thinly disguised the anxiety lingering below it, but she was grateful for his effort anyway.

"What do we do now?" she asked. "Can we dig our way out?"

"The stone is on top of us. We'd have to dig around it," said Carlisle.

He's leaving out the part where we run out of air in the process, thought May.

Next to her, Sheila took in a long breath and let it out in an audible shudder on the verge of a sob. May expected her to start crying any second, but instead Sheila said, with surprise in her voice, "It ought to feel a lot stuffier in here."

"What's on the other side of you?" asked Carlisle.

Without explanation, May found Sheila's observation enormously funny. She began to laugh.

"Hush, May," Carlisle said softly, putting his hand lightly on her arm.

On the other side of her, she felt Sheila move away.

May stopped laughing and gave a small gasp. She groped around the moist dirt floor hoping to contact some part of Sheila. When she didn't find her, she called out her name.

"Wait there for me," said Sheila's voice from a small distance away.

Carlisle was furious. "Where the—where in the devil's name—is she going? I didn't tell her to do that! Get moving, May. Follow her. I can't get by you."

As irritated as she was at being ordered about like a foot soldier, she had to admit she didn't like the idea of Sheila stumbling through the dark on her own either.

She began to shuffle along on all fours, patting the ground ahead of her as she went and hoping she didn't encounter anything slimy. Behind her, she could hear dirt silt down on Carlisle as his head brushed the top of the tunnel and his broad shoulders grazed the loose soil of the concave walls to the sides of him.

Ahead of them, she heard Sheila give out a small cry.

"Can't you go any faster?" said Carlisle.

"It's pitch black. I'm going as fast as I can!" All at once, the bottom dropped out from under her right hand and her stomach jumped. May felt around, searching for the moist cool floor of the tunnel again and found it a full two feet below.

"Watch out for that drop," shouted Sheila.

"Now you tell us," she called back.

"Is it me or is it getting narrower in here?" said Carlisle. There was a note of panic in his voice.

"Definitely narrower," confirmed May.

"Don't worry, we'll get out of here."

"I know we will," she reassured him.

"Guys?" said Sheila. Her voice sounded muted and small in the tunnel ahead of them as the soft, musty earth absorbed the vibrations of her voice. "I think some of the roof collapsed. There's a hole, and I can see some light, but it's not big enough to get through. I'm going to try to make it bigger."

As Sheila scooped away at the fine loam ahead of her, the light ahead seemed to get brighter by degrees until after a few minutes, she said, "I'm through. There's more tunnel up ahead here, but I think I can see the end of it." She suddenly sounded excited. "I don't think it's much further!"

May came to the narrowed part of the tunnel that Sheila had dug out and wiggled through on her belly, loose dirt crumbling to the sides of her. She made out Sheila's outline ahead, making her way down the final length of the passage as the tunnel opened up. Sheila was almost at the end, and May scrambled to catch up. Behind her, she could hear Carlisle give a small grunt.

All at once the light ahead of her was extinguished and the form of Sheila disappeared momentarily. Then May saw the dark silhouette of her head reemerge in a circle of gray sky just a few feet ahead. Sheila grabbed her hand and pulled her out into the open air.

Exhausted, relieved to feel grass under her hands, May rolled over onto her back and stared thankfully at the sky.

A few seconds later, Carlisle wriggled out like an earthworm. Every last inch of him was caked with reddish dirt from his shoelaces to his bushy eyebrows and long sideburns. Sweat and grime had mixed on his face into a streaky red mud.

He got to his feet and walked several yards away from them, tipped his head forward and brushed his hands briskly through his hair, causing dirt to patter down onto the dry grass.

"How far do you think we traveled underground?" asked May, turning her head to look into the distance. She found the rock easily but the farmhouse was nowhere in sight, and she decided the tornado must have torn it apart.

"Far enough," said Carlisle.

Sheila searched through the satchel. She pulled out the empty water bottle and put it on the grass, then plucked out a bruised, red apple. "Any takers?" she asked. May was famished and took the apple. Sheila got another one for herself and held the last up for Carlisle.

He shook his head. "No thanks."

"Too bruised?"

"Save mine for later," he said.

"You really ought to eat, Mr. Carlisle. Don't save it on our account," said Sheila, offering it again.

"I said I don't want it," he snapped at her.

"Okay," Sheila said softly with a hurt look, putting the apple back in the sack.

Carlisle softened his tone. "Just—just save it for me, dear. Or you can eat it yourself, if you'd like. I'm just not very hungry right now." He got to his feet with a sigh and started walking. "I could use some water though just to get the taste of dirt out of my mouth. Maybe with some luck, we'll find some."

As they walked, the brown grass growing up through hard packed ground changed over gradually to green meadow dotted with purple crown vetch, daisies, and bright goldenrod.

Strangely, from no discernable starting points, footpaths began to emerge out of nowhere in the field. Some paths lead to forest, some wove through stands of trees and then back out again. Some paths continued for a short way, then mysteriously dissipated into nothing but more virgin and untrodden growth underfoot.

The blanket of gray clouds above them blew away, and the sun began to shine down, brightening their spirits—all but one, that is.

Carlisle sulked along, listlessly lagging behind the girls.

"He can't be holding a grudge still?" said May, hoping for reassurance from Sheila, whose finer sense of such things she had grown to depend on over the years.

"I don't know," her friend replied as if she knew very well indeed.

"I'll apologize, you know. I've just been waiting for the right opportunity."

"Oh, is that what you've been waiting for."

"You know, he wasn't totally in the right either."

"I know that."

May stopped walking and without needing to explain herself, Sheila left her behind so she could wait for Carlisle to catch up. May watched him walk to her slowly with his hands in his pockets.

"You're a bit poky," she said brightly.

He replied with a grunt, not looking at her.

Her first attempt to make light conversation having failed, she forged ahead steadily.

"Sheila and I are so used to getting a stitch in our sides keeping up, we hardly know what to do with ourselves."

He mumbled, "I never realized. I'm sorry."

"That's fine. We've gotten used to it." She traveled alongside him and focused on the ground as she said, "I wanted to talk to you about what I said before. It's just—you made me mad. I only said what I did because I didn't like what you said to me first and I still don't. But I shouldn't have said what I did. And it's not even true anyway. You aren't stupid. I can't live with you thinking that I think less of you. But then you kind of think less of me, don't you, just because I'm female? I guess I can't help that. It's completely narrow-minded, but it's not really your fault. After all, you are from a backward time and all. Anyhow, will you accept my apology?"

"I'm not entirely sure I heard one, but it's no matter. I haven't given it a second thought. You don't really need to apologize."

"Oh. Okay."

"On the other hand, if it makes you feel better, then I accept."

"Good," she said relieved. "I still think you were wrong, too, but I'm big enough to let it go."

"Thank you."

"Maybe if you thought about it awhile, you would see my point."

"Perhaps."

"That's not much of an answer."

"It's the only one I have for you. Now would you mind very much, May? The truth of it is, I appreciate your apology, but I have a lot on my mind. Perhaps you and Sheila could chit-chat for a while. We'll stop and rest in an hour or so, unless we find some water before then."

"Fine," she said, stepping up her pace.

"Well?" asked Sheila, when May caught up to her. "How did it go?"

"He still seems like he's in a crabby mood to me," she said, feeling like she'd failed in some way. Looking down at the ground, she asked Sheila, "What happened to the path we were on?"

"It went veering off into the woods," said Sheila. "I thought it would be better if we just followed the sun."

"Well, okay. I guess that makes sense, but we'll have to make sure to do a tick check when we stop."

Forty minutes passed before they finally came upon a small stream. After they filled their water bottle, she and Sheila splashed water on their faces, attempting to clean off the red muck, which still clung to them from their journey underground.

After drinking from the stream, Carlisle sat down and propped his back against an oak tree about ten yards away. A squirrel chittered at him from a low branch.

"I guess he doesn't like our company anymore. He's got some nerve saying I mope around," said May. "You'd think he'd a least want to clean up a little."

"He's acting strange," said Sheila. She pulled the previously rejected apple from the satchel and strolled over to the oak tree with it.

There was a brief exchange of words between them before Sheila returned, still bearing the apple in her hand. She bit her lip as she replaced it in the satchel.

May knew that look. "What now?" she asked, not really in the mood to deal with any more tender feelings from either one of them.

Predictably, Sheila burst into tears.

"This has gotten ridiculous. He's been in a horrible mood all afternoon. How long can the man hold a grudge, anyway? It's just our luck to be stranded with an artist."

She marched over to the oak tree, stood in front of him with her hands on her hips, and yelled, "What's gotten into you? You don't need to go crabbing at Sheila if it's me you're mad at. I told you I was sorry already!"

He was leaned against the trunk of the tree with his legs straight out in front of him and his hands folded across his chest, keeping his jacket closed. He didn't even reply to her—only stared at his shoes sulkily.

"You could at least look at me when I'm talking to you."

Reluctantly, he glanced up at her. His eyes sparkled with an abnormal brightness. He returned his gaze to his shoes again. "I'm sorry," he said bleakly.

A vague misgiving clawed at her with that one glance.

Oddly, what struck her next was that not one inch of him was moving. Only one other time had she seen him so still—and that was when he was as good as dead.

### Chapter 27

### The Poison in his System

From somewhere, May heard the high pitched whine of a cicada sing out in the midday heat. She knelt down and peered at Carlisle with the intensity of a cat watching a bird.

He shifted uneasily as he saw her expression out of the corners of his red-rimmed eyes.

Under the streaks of rusty mud clinging to his face, his skin was as white as milk. Even in the late afternoon heat, Carlisle had his jacket buttoned up, and he was shivering.

She said the first words that erupted in her head. "It's a darn good thing you get cranky when you're sick. When were you planning on telling us?"

"It's nothing to worry about. I caught a chill is all," he said, forcing out a pathetic cough.

"A chill, huh?" she repeated, peeling back the collar of his shirt.

At the base of his neck, the scratch left by the ogre was festering. The wound was red, inflamed and oozing pus. The whole side of his neck was angrily flushed.

He pulled away gently from her intrusion, and the collar slipped from her grasp.

"Ugh. Well, that is wicked disgusting," she said. Then she was suddenly mad at herself. "Those nasty, filthy nails; I should have known." She had saved a small piece of anger for Carlisle as well. "Were you just going to wait for gangrene to set in before you said something?"

The man looked guilty daggers at her but held his tongue.

She pressed her hand against his forehead, causing the back of his head to thump against the tree behind him. With crossed eyes and an annoyed look, he focused on May's thin wrist.

She clucked like a mother hen, removed her hand and wiped it on her pants. "The shirt's gotta go."

He scowled a refusal.

"To state the obvious, it's got pus all over it. It's unsanitary, and not to be too vulgar, I might add, it's starting to smell."

His face withered.

"Sorry, but it's true." When his expression didn't change, she asked, "You aren't that shy, are you?" She closed her eyes and tossed her head a bit. "Well, it doesn't matter. Okay, I'll compromise with you. We'll cut the collar off."

"Oh no you won't. It's my favorite shirt."

"Doesn't it have Fowler's blood still on it?" she asked, disgusted.

He looked down as if he could see the white garment through the wool of his coat and vest. "Actually, the Zephyr's got every spot of that out," he said, sounding impressed.

"And what about the ogre's?"

"I got it right away with cold water, you can't hardly see it." He placed his palms on his chest in an act of protection for the maligned garment. He said in an obstinate tone, which invited no further argument, "You can't have it."

Getting nowhere on the tack she was on, she began again in a roundabout manner, "Okay. I would like you to remember that I do have an older brother. I would also like to add that I've seen him without his shirt like a zillion times—but—I'm going to go talk to Sheila for a bit. You can put your coat right back on after you're done. I'll be expecting to have that shirt in my hand when I get back. Then Sheila and I will wash it as best we can. We won't hurt it, I promise. Agreed?"

For an answer, he crossed his arms again and without looking at her, he nodded once, then tilted his head, waiting for her to leave.

Sheila had the Red Sox sweatshirt off and was busy using a wet sleeve to clean her face when May returned. "What is it? What's wrong," she asked, seeing May's face.

May said quietly, so as not to alarm her too much, "Didn't you notice? He's sick." She kneeled down and washed her hands in the stream.

"How bad?"

"That scratch on his neck is infected."

"Oh, that's all." Sheila sounded relieved. "Well, he'll be okay then, right?"

"I don't think you quite get it," said May. "It's not exactly like I can run to the drugstore and get some Bactine. I don't even think that would help now, anyway. What he could really use is an antibiotic. All we can do now is to try to stop the infection from getting any worse and hope that his body will fight the rest."

"What's he doing now?" asked Sheila.

"Removing his shirt; we're going to have to wash it. God Sheila, I feel awful. You know how I am about this kind of thing. I can't believe I didn't think to check on that stupid scratch. You think the idiot would have said something though."

"You just forgot about it is all, and he probably didn't want us to worry."

"Yeah, maybe," she said, scowling down at the clear stream flowing by her feet. "We'll wash the scratch out with water, whatever good that'll do. I wish we had some fire. The water really ought to be boiled."

"It doesn't taste bad," said Sheila.

"You've been drinking it?"

"Well, yeah. And he had some too."

"Just great. If he gets sick, he'll be even more dehydrated."

"Well, so far, I feel okay." Sheila began emptying the satchel and gutting the contents.

"Can you hand me the water bottle?" asked May.

"I thought you didn't want any water?" said Sheila, removing the empty bottle from the bag and handing it to her.

"Not for me. Since you elected yourself guinea pig, keeping drinking it. If you still feel okay in a few hours we can give some more to him. He's going to need a lot of water to fight that infection."

May rinsed out the bottle and began filling it in the stream.

Sheila shook her head as she dug through the satchel. "This is way too heavy. Eew. All the fruit is bruised and mushy now. Let's see how the moon cakes did. They're probably all squished," she said, removing the folded white napkin from the bottom of the leather sack.

May was about to cork the bottle when she heard Sheila let out a high pitched scream.

Sheila tossed the napkin away from her, found her feet quickly and backed up, smoothing down her jeans with her hands as though casting off whatever might have landed there. Her lip was curled into a snarl.

May looked down at the napkin on the grass and shot to her feet as well. On the yellow-stained linen squirmed several dozen creamy white maggots, freshly hatched. No longer in the peaceful darkness feeding contentedly on moon cake, they struggled around pitifully, trying to avoid the stabbing bright sunshine.

"That painting—they must have come from that disgusting painting," said Sheila.

Carlisle looked over from the oak tree and attempted to get up.

May waved him back down with both hands. "Don't worry," she called to him. "She just saw a snake. It's nothing."

"Let's get rid of them," Sheila said, flicking a few maggots back onto the napkin with a stick. "We'll throw them in the woods." She noticed a maggot too close to her foot and stepped on it with a mixture of nausea and hatred passing over her angelic features.

"Oh no we won't," said May, taking the stick from Sheila and poking some more of the writhing hitchhikers back onto the cloth. "Did you know that the Roman soldiers used to use them to treat wounds? And they've been using them in the jungles for years especially in wartime. Even some hospitals have started putting them on sores that won't heal normally." She rolled in the last maggot onto the cloth and tossed the stick away.

Gathering up the napkin delicately by its four corners, she suspended the bundle out in front of her at arm's length like a baby in a stork's bill.

Sheila's face was spectral. "You can't mean—! You're not going to put maggots on the poor man, are you?" she asked, with her voice rising to an impressive, shimmering thread of a note, worthy of any opera diva.

"Yes I am. And you're coming with me, because I don't expect he'll be too happy about it either. I could use some reinforcements. Come on." May motioned with her head, her hands being otherwise occupied. As they walked toward Carlisle, she whispered, "Try to put it to him delicately. You know how bad I am at that."

He opened his eyes and squinted at the both of them approaching with May smiling like the bearer of glad tidings. He ogled the dangling napkin suspiciously.

May kneeled down on one side of him, and Sheila sat on the other. His eyes trailed from one to the other of them and back again distrustfully. May gave her friend an encouraging nod, and Carlisle, his energy low, but his curiosity now very much aroused, turned his attention on Sheila.

"Mr. Carlisle?"

"Yes, Sheila?"

"We would like to put maggots on your wound."

"Well, I could have done that," said May.

"You'd like to do what?" he asked, uncertain if he'd heard right.

May put the napkin down and unfolded it on the dry leaves next to him.

She didn't know how he did it, but Carlisle managed to go three shades whiter than he already was. He furrowed his brow and yelled, "The deuce you will!" and by force alone, with only his backbone, attempted to bore himself bodily through the oak tree behind him. Above him, the squirrel in the tree chittered in protest as the surrounding landscape faintly echoed back his words.

"It's all we've got," May explained. "If your wound isn't treated, you could very well die."

"Die?" said Sheila. "He could die? You didn't tell me—"

"Now stop being a big baby. From what I've read, it doesn't hurt at all. The maggots just nibble at the infected tissue. You'll hardly feel a thing."

Still with his forehead in a knot, Carlisle closed his eyes, and with a queasy expression on his face, rocked his head back and forth against the tree trunk stubbornly.

"Did you hear me? I said you could die. In fact, you probably will die if we leave that thing festering like it is. Do you understand?"

"Oh please, Mr. Carlisle," pleaded Sheila.

May continued haranguing him, "You're just being silly! A great big man like you afraid of a few measly little worms. It's totally ridiculous."

He opened his red-rimmed eyes and attempted to glare at her, but it was a pathetic look. She felt a little pity for him then and softened her tone. "I know they're yucky. But we don't have anything else. Will you please just try? The Roman soldiers used to use them on the battlefield," she coaxed.

He said, "I had an uncle that died from a cut on his finger."

"Good!" she said brightly. Standing up, she untied the sweatshirt from around her waist. "I'll need to rip my shirt for a bandage since I don't think you'll give up your favorite shirt. I'd ask for your tie, but somehow I don't think I'd get that either." He didn't argue.

May ripped several strips off the sweatshirt as well as two larger pieces. She put one of the strips aside, took the rest of the rags in her hand and started walking to the stream. She said over her shoulder, "I'm going to get these wet. I'll be right back."

At the stream, she doused the pieces of green sweatshirt in the water, saturating them completely. She cupped the dripping wet cloth in her hands and dashed back to the oak tree with them. "Wash your face," she ordered, wringing out one of the rags until it was only just damp and handing it to him.

As he cleaned his face, the small amount of ruddy color the scrubbing brought to his skin receded quickly and was replaced by a sickly pallor that even the last few days of bronzing by the sun couldn't disguise.

She picked one of the leaves off the oak tree above her head and with another pushed six or seven of the maggots onto it. Peeking up from her near-sighted concentration on the leaf and its writhing passengers, she nodded to Carlisle. "Ready?"

He inclined his head sideways and looked in the opposite direction, exposing the base of his neck to her. He had a nauseous sneer on his face in anticipation of the sickening physical sensation to come. He caught sight of Sheila and held up the white shirt in his hand. "Sheila, dear, would you be so good as to wash this for me?"

"I'd be glad to," she answered quickly, taking the shirt and sprinting to the brook with it.

"She never did have a very strong stomach," said May, preoccupied with her gruesome task.

"I can't say I blame her on that score." He let out a huge sigh.

"Well?" she asked. "Do you feel anything?"

"You didn't already—?"

"Yes," she said with a smile. "And the little guys look pretty happy, too, I might add. What's it like?"

He paused to appreciate the feeling on his skin. "It tingles. Tickles really," he said with distaste but a kind of pleasant surprise as well.

"See! That's not so bad, is it? Hardly worth making a fuss about at all." With repelled attraction she watched the larvae feeding on Carlisle's diseased tissue.

He observed her expression out of the corner of his eye. "You can't bear to see a dog lick my face, but this doesn't bother you?"

"Oh, it is revolting, but I have to admit, it's fascinating, too."

"This sort of thing really does interest you, doesn't it? Medicine, I mean."

"I probably get it from my mother. I can't hardly sneeze without her checking my forehead. It's my fault, I guess. I got pneumonia when I was two, and I had to be in an oxygen tent for more than a week. Since then my father says she's been kind of scared."

"In a what?"

"I had to be in the hospital for a while."

"That's too bad," he said.

"Oh, well. It's not like I remember it anyway," she shrugged. Slowly, she refolded the napkin. "I sure wish you'd said something earlier. As it is, I'm still pretty mad at myself. You would think that me, of all people, would have known better."

"You shouldn't blame yourself. I certainly don't blame you for anything."

"Well, I still should have known better. I should have known right away what to do when I saw the blood. Maybe it wouldn't have come to this. I could kick myself."

"It's not your fault."

"And it was so cold, too—and damp. I'm sure it aggravated your condition."

"You're not blaming yourself for that, surely? How could you have known how cold it would be?"

"Or damp," she made sure to add.

"Or damp," he agreed.

"You're right, of course. I just feel it's my fault somehow. God! I hope you don't—" she shook her head and didn't finish the thought. "I should have realized sooner. Maybe then I could have done something about it. I guess I was just so preoccupied with everything else going on."

"I'm sure you were. You're being too hard on yourself."

"Do you really think I'm being too hard on myself?"

"Yes, absolutely."

"I suppose you're right. After all, who am I kidding? It's not like we had anything to treat it with anyway. Not even a lousy bar of soap to wash it out, get rid of the germs."

"There you go. No sense in blaming yourself, see." He gave a small weak smile and closed his eyes.

"You're right, of course. Then again, if I were home, no question about it. I would have been able to treat it with something. I could have brought you to the doctor, and she would have given you something for sure. Nowadays there are lots of medicines to treat diseases they had absolutely no idea how to treat back in your day."

He opened his eyes and watched her face from under purple, hooded eyelids.

"Maybe they just hadn't figured out what caused them or maybe they just hadn't developed the medicines they needed yet. So, I think you're right. I really shouldn't blame myself for you getting sick. I shouldn't blame myself at all."

"May?"

"Medicines, vaccines, antibiotics. Did you know that people don't get the mumps hardly at all anymore? Or whooping cough? Or ... or measles, even? And there's others, too. Take tuberculosis, for instance."

"May."

"They used to think that it was an inherited condition, but nowadays we know that it's actually infectious and can be—"

"May!"

"Yes?"

"I know what you're doing. I'm not entirely stupid," he said.

"I know that," she said. "You're not stupid at all."

"You've got no business poking about in matters that don't concern you."

"Weren't you the one who told me that if you stand too close all the time, things get out of proportion? I'm just trying to get you to back up."

"I was talking about painting; it's hardly the same thing. And I don't appreciate my words being thrown back at me by a little snit of a girl."

She picked up a strip of sweatshirt material next to her. "Well, it's just a good thing this little snit of a girl knows you're sick and cranky and all, and isn't one of those people that takes everything personally because, boy-oh-boy, she would be pretty offended right now!" she said as she wrapped the cloth around his neck.

"Hey," he yelled. "Easy!"

"Oh, did I hurt you? I'm sorry," she said pleasantly, neatly tucking in the ends of the strip around his neck.

"Wait," he said with his eyes large. "You aren't actually going to leave those—those creatures on, are you?"

In the same tone she would use for a three year old, she explained, "The maggots have got to feed on the infected tissue."

"How long?" he said, touching the bandage gingerly with his fingertips.

"I don't know. Long enough. I'll keep checking on it. Later tonight, I'll put some more on. These guys should be pretty full and bloated by then. I guess they'll die happy."

She balled up the remainder of the torn sweatshirt, put it down for a pillow behind him, and patted it. "Get some sleep."

"You'd make a good nurse," he said.

She snorted a laugh. "Yeah, right."

"Though your bedside manner could certainly use some improvement."

"I think you meant to say 'doctor'. And thanks but 'no'. Just in case it had escaped your notice, I wouldn't exactly describe myself as a people person. But it has occurred to me that I might not mind stabbing rats for a living."

"Come again?"

"Research. Lab work."

He grimaced. "May, do me a favor and don't just close yourself up in a little room somewhere. You'll end up some scrawny, dried-up old-maid." He illustrated his point by pruning up his face and hunching his shoulders. Then he winced in pain and touched his bandage.

"You deserved that. I think I liked you better when you kept your opinions to yourself. Now get some rest. Lie on your side and take a nap. Let the little guys do their work."

By the stream, Sheila started singing as she shook out the wet shirt and picked a branch to hang it on to dry. Carlisle looked over at her almost dreamily.

"Oh, did I forget to mention? She sings like an angel, too." May screwed up her face. "Though I think I need to talk to her about her song selection." Right then Sheila was singing the chorus to _American Pie_.

"No, don't," he said. "I like it." He placed his head on the bunched sweatshirt, closed his eyes and asked, "What's a 'Chevy'?"

"Just a kind of carriage. Get some rest."

May returned to Sheila and slipped the napkin back into the satchel.

Sheila broke off her song about the time the men were drinking whisky and rye. "Oh tell me you're not saving them!" she said.

"Well, duh, for when we need more. Keep singing, by the way, he likes it. He's falling asleep." May washed her hands in the stream.

"Can you believe how much cloth is in this thing?" said Sheila, pointing at Carlisle's shirt fluttering in the breeze over a tree branch. "It's practically a dress."

"Let me see that for a second." May got up and wiped her hands on the sides of her thighs. She snatched a sleeve out of the wind and turned the cuff inside out. "Hand stitched. The man sure has an interesting way of wearing his heart on his sleeve. Three guesses as to who made it and the first two don't count. We must be getting close to his wife's picture, don't you think?"

Sheila said dejectedly, "I don't know what to think. I'm not even sure we're going through every painting anymore."

"What?"

"I remember seeing that—that ogre painting on the living room wall before you came over. I know because that one painting is so disgusting, and I keep hoping my mother will get rid of it, but she never does and it looks horrible wherever she puts it. I remember when she hung it in the dining room—no one could eat anything. She said she thought it would be good for her diet. Anyhow, I just know it wasn't next to yours. Yours was behind the rubber tree plant in the corner."

"Great," said May. Well at least she didn't have to worry that anyone would see it.

"Right before that ogre was some kind of crazy black and white painting—all twisted up and sad looking. It made me want to cry." Sheila pursed up her lips and wrinkled her forehead. "This is really strange, but I remember it had a light bulb in it."

" _Guernica_?" said May.

Sheila shrugged. "Whatever you said."

"It's a good thing we didn't end up in that."

"You believe me then?"

"Of course. Why wouldn't I? But that means—"

Sheila finished May's thought in a forlorn tone. "We might not end up going through his wife's painting."

May didn't say 'I told you so', but she was thinking it. And what's more, Sheila knew she was thinking it too. She sighed. "All we can do is just keep going the way we're going. We don't seem to have any control over it anyway. What do you think?"

"What do I think?" Sheila mulled over the question as if it were a novelty. She answered slowly, "I think that sounds good."

May nodded. "We'll just have to hope for the best."

"I'll go look for a door," said Sheila.

"Alone?"

"We shouldn't leave him by himself."

May didn't like the plan, but they couldn't move Carlisle in the state he was in, and they had to get out of here. She could feel it starting to get cold again. "I want you back by dusk."

"Yes, Mom," said Sheila, heading for the woods.

### Chapter 28

### The Doorway Home

It was dark and the temperature had plummeted at least forty degrees by the time Sheila returned with twigs in her hair, holding her side and walking with a limp.

May had been pacing up and down for an hour by the stream. She thought she would never be gladder to see someone than when Carlisle had burst head first through the wall into the ogre's painting, but she was wrong.

"I couldn't find it," Sheila said, out of breath, sinking down on the grass. "All there is out there is thorns and puckerbushes. Couldn't you have painted something nice? I'll have to try again in the morning. It's getting too dark to see anything. How is he?"

"Impossible. He even made me put his stupid sword on. This is no place for him. It's freezing here. His fever hasn't broken yet and we have nothing to start a fire."

May heard Sheila let out a huge sigh in the dark. "Let me just rest for a few minutes then I'll go back out again."

"Oh, no you won't," said May. "If I have to wait around again, it'll kill me. Besides, I've been doing some thinking. As far as we know, this is still my painting. I'm the one who made the tornado, right? Well, if I can make that, maybe I can make a door, too. We're taking him back home with us."

"You can't do that to him."

"He needs to be in a hospital right now and not one of those bloody, dirty turn-of-the-century ones."

"He just wants to go home like us."

"If we don't get him to a real hospital, he'll die. I'm going to check on him before I go looking for a door. Don't tell him anything. I don't want him to know I'm going out. He was madder than you-know-what when he found out you went off on your own. He refused to go to sleep. If I were you, I'd let him cool off for a while before you see him unless you want to get yelled at again."

Carlisle stirred groggily at the sound of May's footsteps approaching and propped himself up on one elbow. He was breathing raggedly and shivering.

"You can rest now, she's back," she said, pressing his shoulder.

"Good," he said, letting her push him gently back down on the grass.

She put her hand on his forehead. It was as hot and as dry as a campfire stone. She picked up the water bottle on the ground next to him and shook it. "This should be empty by now. I told you to keep drinking."

"It doesn't matter anymore."

"Don't talk like that. You just need to keep drinking water. Haven't I told you you're going to be fine?"

He shook his head. "No, I'm not."

She was thinking—oh yes you will, once I get you to a doctor—but what she said was, "How can you just give up? What about us?"

"Come next to me, May," he said suddenly. When she didn't move, anticipating some awful pronouncement, he said, "Please, May."

She knelt by him on the grass, clutching the water bottle in her hands. "If it's a message for your wife, you can tell her yourself."

He smiled wearily and licked his lips. "You really ought to take up fencing," he said.

She wasn't planning on delivering any message, but it was better to keep him calm, so she said, "Yes, yes, yes, I'll tell her that you love her."

He nodded, closed his eyes. "There's another thing."

For once in her life, May didn't want to know something. Whatever guilt filled confession he had to make to his wife was between the two of them. "Don't," she said, starting to get up.

Opening his eyes, he put his hand on her forearm and held her. "For pity's sake, May," he whispered. There was note in his voice she hadn't heard before. The fever driven heat from his hand seared her cold skin.

"Okay, what is it?" she asked, steeling herself. "What's the message?"

"Tell her I wanted it." He let go of her. "Make sure she knows."

What the heck kind of a message is that? wondered May. It seemed a complete let down after preparing herself for something dreadful and guilt ridden. What kind of 'it' could he possibly mean that was so important to save his last dying breaths on?

Then the answer came to her. "She was pregnant."

"Yes," he said, almost inaudibly.

"You didn't—didn't you want it?"

"Lord knows. So many years. But then she got sick. And then I lost everything and we were bankrupt. The fact we didn't have any kids—I thought it'd been for the best. Then when she told me about ... " he licked his dry lips.

"About the baby," she said, helping him along.

He nodded. "We had an argument. I went into my studio. That was when—" He didn't continue.

"It's not your fault. Tuberculosis can last for years then suddenly—"

He shook his head. "She lost the baby," he said. "Something went wrong."

"That happens."

"I wasn't there. No one was there."

"Just how long were you in your studio?" she couldn't keep the accusatory note out of her voice.

"A few days? A week? I don't really know."

"Some bender."

How could Carlisle, who had been so brave about so many things have committed such a monumental act of cowardice? May said, "What were you so worried about anyway? Raising a kid on your own like your old man?"

He was silent a moment. "I hated my father. He was a drunk." After a pause he added, "So am I."

She couldn't argue with that. "You may be a drunk, but you're not your father."

A soft snow began to fall. She looked up at the sky into the fluffy white flakes rushing down on her.

Great. Just what I needed, thought May.

Looking back down at him, she saw that several snowflakes had already turned to water on his closed eyelids and a panic seized her.

When she checked his pulse, he didn't even stir, but she felt a faint flutter under her fingers and let out her breath. He had just passed out.

Rejoining Sheila, May squatted down on the bank of the stream and said, "He's finally asleep." She uncorked the bottle in her hands, dumped out the contents and held it underwater. As she waited for it to fill, she watched the bubbles come up from the neck and the snowflakes dissolve in the swirling eddies of the stream.

"I'm going now," she said, jamming the cork in the bottle and handing it to Sheila. "Give him a half hour to sleep and then start pushing water on him. Don't take no for an answer either."

Sheila said nothing back. May could feel her anger coming at her in the dark. "Did you hear me?"

"Don't take no for an answer."

May had avoided the unsterilized water all day, but now she cupped both of her hands together, scooped up some of it and held it to her lips. She stared at the morsel of moonlight reflected in her hands—it was pink.

Only it occurred to her that the moon wasn't pink.

Her sight shifted to the gurgling water slipping past; it was pink too, reflecting something on the opposite bank, and she looked across the stream.

Illuminating the snow falling all around it, she saw an arched door made of a milky, translucent pink stone.

She lost her balance and fell onto her backside—the door shimmered and flickered, and for a moment, she thought it would disappear. She got to her feet. "Quick. We need to get him."

"It's beautiful," said Sheila.

"We need to hurry," May yelled, running. "I don't know how long it'll last."

When she got to Carlisle, she patted his face roughly with her wet hands. "Wake up. You've got to get up."

He scowled and stirred in his sleep.

She grabbed one of his burning hands then called to Sheila, "Quick, get his other hand. On the count of three, pull. One, two, three!"

Carlisle barely budged off the ground.

"Okay, again! One, two, three!" May yelled, "Come on, get up you big dumb oaf!"

"Please get up, Uncle Frank," pleaded Sheila.

Carlisle moaned. "What is it?"

"You've got to get up," said May. "I don't know how long it'll last. I found the door. Up, up, up!"

Drowsy and confused, they got him to his feet then led him in his semi-conscious state to the stream. May dipped her hand in the water and splashed his face.

"Ugh," he said, trying to turn his face away, opening his eyes. Catching sight of the door, he walked through the water, nearly pulling May and Sheila in after him. They let his hands go and jumped over to the opposite bank.

May ran on ahead and stepped in front of the door. "It's my door. Don't anybody touch it," she yelled.

Sheila cried, "May! Think about what you're doing."

"I have thought about it. I know exactly what I'm doing," she said, turning around and opening the door.

A tangible wall of rose scented air crashed into her. It was night beyond the arched frame of the doorway—a shimmering night with a large pale moon illuminating roses cascading in unruly profusion: rambling roses, climbing roses, beach roses. The flowers glowed in dark blue reds, silver tinged whites and haunting shades of purplish orange.

May stepped aside and held the door open for him.

Carlisle backed up a step.

"Oh, don't do that!" she cried.

"It's Cora's rose garden," he said, swaying on his feet. For an instant, May thought he was going to retreat backward, but it was just a gathering of energy before he lunged forward through the archway.

May sucked in a breath then let it out in a whistle. "I thought we might have to push him through," she whispered to Sheila as they went through the door after him.

"You and me, both. You probably should have warned him. You could have at least warned me."

"I was hoping it would be a surprise."

A faint smell of wood smoke mingled with the rose scented perfume in the air. Beyond the garden, the windows of a small white cottage glowed with firelight.

Carlisle was a twitching shadow in the moonlight. "I must be a sight," he said.

"Don't be silly," said Sheila. "You look great. Doesn't he May?"

"Sure, sure. Now stop worrying. If she was that shallow, she wouldn't have married you in the first place." May felt a smack on her arm from Sheila and said, "It's a joke. She hasn't seen you in over three years. Do you really think she's going to care how you look? Now stop it. You're making me a nervous wreck. Will you just go?"

Sheila hit her arm again, but this time it was a nudge. "Oh, and you look very handsome. You'll knock her dead—ah—I mean, you'll knock her socks off. Why don't you go already?"

"Yes, go," said Sheila. "We'll wait here. You ought to say hello by yourself first."

"It's dark. I can't leave you out here!"

"Why?" asked May, looking at the blue-gray rose bushes around her warily.

"Is that a bench by the cottage? Can we wait there?" asked Sheila.

He didn't answer at once. "Would you?" he finally asked.

"Of course."

The night air wasn't getting any warmer, and May only had on a t-shirt. "Time's wasting. Let's hustle," she said. "I'm freezing my butt off out here."

### Chapter 29

### About Cora

With hesitant steps, Carlisle crunched up the gravel walkway to the front door of the small white cottage and stood in front of it. He rubbed the back of his neck, then stood still with his hands down by his sides and let out a breath that seemed to come from the bottom of his soul.

"What's he waiting for?" asked May, peeking around the corner of the cottage.

"Shhh," hissed Sheila.

Through the partially open window at the side of the house, May heard the sharp snap of a book hit the floor. It was followed by the sound of short, hurried footsteps tapping smartly across the floor of the small home.

Carlisle rapped gently once on the wooden surface of the door before it rushed open in front of him, drawing in wisps of his hair, and the ends of his clothes, and cool night air into the cottage.

Cora Carlisle threw both her arms around her husband.

For a moment the man stood stunned, and then both of his arms went around his wife, one encompassing the entire span across the back of her shoulders and the other pressing her head against his chest. He buried his face in her hair and breathed in the long lost scent of her.

May and Sheila drew back from the edge of the house and sat on the bench.

May stared at her hands. She heard Carlisle whisper something but couldn't make out what it was.

"Frank, why would you even say such a thing?" his wife said reproachfully in a pretty Irish accent. "I've never heard such foolishness. Forgive you fer what? Is that why ye didn't come to me sooner?"

He whispered again.

"Of course I do and always. Haven't I been prayin' night and day an' wearin' the floor out for three weeks waiting for ye? And not a word from ye either. You can't know what I been goin' through. I've been worried sick."

"Three weeks?" said Carlisle. "Has it been three weeks? I'm so sorry, Cora."

His wife cried out suddenly, "Frank. You're burnin' up. Come out o' the cold this instant and off to bed with ya."

"Wait. Not yet, Cora. Not yet," he said. "It's been so long since I held you. Stay for a while."

"Nonsense, Frank. Let me go this instant and come inside. Just look at ya. Why, you're weak as a newborn pup. You can barely stand. Ye ought to get off your feet."

"You're right, Cora."

They heard a shuffling noise. Mrs. Carlisle cried out suddenly, "Frank!"

"He must have passed out!" said May.

Sheila flew out of her seat on the bench, nearly tripping over May's feet. As she looked around the edge of the cottage, Sheila seemed relieved and smiled.

"What? What is it?" whispered May.

"Just—it's nothing. Everything's fine."

"What's happening? No, forget it. Forget I said that. It's really none of my business. It's really none of our business."

Still watching and smiling, Sheila nodded from the corner of the cottage.

"Oh, screw it," said May, rushing out of her seat and peeking around the corner herself.

Carlisle was on his knees with both his arms wrapped firmly around his wife's legs. His face was hidden in the folds of her dress.

"Whatever possessed me to marry such a foolish man as you?" exclaimed Cora, off balance and scowling down at the top of his head. Then her features softened, and she drew in a breath. "Oh, darlin', don't do that. Not that. You're home now with me. Everythin'll be alright." She took her hands off her hips and lost her fingers in the curls of his dark hair. She said sweetly, "Won't you please come in now, love? Please, dear?"

Both the girls retreated from the edge of the cottage. As they sat back down, Sheila said, "I wonder if it really is as soft as silk."

May didn't reply.

They heard the front door close. Mrs. Carlisle's lilting voice wafted down from the window slightly ajar above their heads. "That's better. Off with the jacket. Now the vest. Straight to bed with ya. Go on. Into the bedroom you go."

"But Cora—"

"Go, go, go. I won't listen to a word 'til you're tucked up tight. And might I suggest some soap and water would do no harm as well."

There was the sound of an interior door closing. And then the pretty voice sounded suddenly muted and far away.

Sheila and May both kneeled on the bench to look through the cottage window. Next to an upright piano, was a door through which Cora Carlisle's muffled singsong could still be heard with an occasional low interruption from her husband more clearly in the form of, "But Cora—"

The sound of a high shriek erupted and the door to the bed chamber flew open.

Mrs. Carlisle darted to the fireplace with the two ends of the green sweatshirt bandage suspended in her fingers. She threw the cloth into the fire where it made a crackling, popping noise.

She went back into the bedroom then reappeared at the edge of the doorjamb. "I have to fetch some water. Don't you even try to move," she threatened, pointing into the bedroom at her husband.

"Cora," Carlisle said loudly. "Be quiet for a half a second and get over here. I have to tell you something. It's important!"

His wife went back into the bed chamber, and May heard their voices rumble on in soft tones for several minutes.

Cora Carlisle emerged out into the living room with a pensive look as she closed the bedroom door after her. She walked through an archway and came out with a shawl on her shoulders and a black kettle in her hand then went out the front door.

In the yard, she put the kettle down next to a water pump and walking briskly, rounded the corner of the cottage. She stopped when she saw May and Sheila, and her dark blue wool skirts swished to a standstill around the ankles of her little black lace-up boots.

Cora Carlisle was short, buxom, plump and pretty, with a rounded oval face, more freckles than could be counted, and nut brown hazel eyes. Her hair was so red it was black, a fact that could best be appreciated in strong sunshine, but was still evident even in the shimmering firelight slanting from the high cottage window into the yard.

"I'm Mrs. Francis Carlisle," said the lady, primly and proudly, with a small curtsey. She cocked her head to the side and folded her hands neatly in front of her. She reminded May of a small robin standing there, not the elegant swanlike lady she had seen in Carlisle's portrait of her.

"How do you do? Sheila and May, is it?" said Cora Carlisle.

Sheila held out her hand. "Hi, I'm Sheila."

Mrs. Carlisle took Sheila's hand in both of her own and kissed her on the cheek.

"Indeed, then you must be May," said Mrs. Carlisle, doing the same to her. "I owe you both so much. Thank ye for bringing him home. I've been worried sick." The lady drew her black crocheted shawl around her snugly. "Ooo, it's cool out here. Let's get inside. If you'll excuse me, I just need to get some water."

They walked with her to the hand pump, and Cora Carlisle began working it in silence. The pump took some time to get going, but finally, the water gushed out in short, thick bursts, sloshing into the kettle below it and dribbling down its sides. The release of water from the faucet seemed to cause a similar reaction in Cora. She turned away from them and wiped her face on her sleeve.

"Can we help with that, ma'am?" asked Sheila.

"No, thank ya. I'm fine," said the lady, picking up the now full kettle. She walked a few steps and the wet handle slipped from her grasp. The container fell to the earth, slamming down on its wide bottom and spilling water out in a gush.

Cora Carlisle just stared at the dark wet stain spreading on the dirt around the kettle. "I don't understand it. He looks ... " She shook her head back and forth. "It's just like him. He's gone for three weeks from me, and he looks as though he's been half dead for three years."

May sent Sheila a desperate look. Say something.

"It's just that he loves you, ma'am. I'm sure he'll be fine now," said Sheila.

"It's just, I've had the worst feeling, the worst feeling these last three weeks. Like I might never see him again. I've been frettin' myself silly about him." Cora Carlisle lifted her head and taking a small lace handkerchief from inside her sleeve, wiped her eyes. She gave out a small, meager laugh that sounded no better than a sob. "And what must you be thinkin' of me, I wonder?"

"Oh no, not at all," said Sheila.

"Right. It's only natural," said May.

Mrs. Carlisle tucked her handkerchief back into her sleeve, gave May a faint-hearted smile, then reached down for the kettle. Her shawl opened up, and she stopped to adjust it around herself again.

May's eyes went wide. She picked up the kettle before Cora could grab it again. "I've got this. Where's it going?" It was heavier than it looked. "I don't think you lost any water. It feels like it's still full."

"On the stove in the kitchen, dear. But I can get it," said Mrs. Carlisle, reaching for it.

"No! Please, ma'am. It's fine. I have it," May said, putting up a hand, stumbling a little.

"Why thank you, dear. You're a kind lass."

In the kitchen, Mrs. Carlisle placed wood in the stove until a hot fire gleamed through the chinks in the metal. She replaced the burner cover, disengaged the handle and hung it on a peg.

With both hands, May lifted the kettle up onto the scalding surface.

From the living room, Carlisle's voice called for his wife huskily, "Cora?"

"Oh that man," said his wife, rushing out of the kitchen. The woman's scolding voice came from the other room, "I thought I told you to stay in bed."

Carlisle said, "I'll get the water; I don't want you lifting that heavy kettle in your condition."

Cora's voice became mild. "Indeed, you needn't have worried, darlin'; it's already done. The lasses helped me with it."

Back in the kitchen, Sheila said, "Her condition? He means tuberculosis, right?"

"Her other condition."

Sheila said, "She was pregnant?"

May put her hand on Sheila's shoulder and looked straight into her clear blue eyes. "She is pregnant, you mean. He's home now."

Mrs. Carlisle bustled back into the kitchen and began opening and closing cabinets. "He doesn't want anything but tea. You both look hungry. Would you like anything?"

May was too tired to eat. "Just tea for me is fine too."

Sheila agreed.

"Why don't ya both go sit in the parlor next to the fire. I'll bring the tea when it's ready."

There didn't seem to be anything else left for May to do now, so she went. Sheila sat down on the cushion of the couch next to her.

That was the last thing May remembered until her eyes opened and she saw Mrs. Carlisle standing over her with an expectant look on her face.

The fire was low. She and Sheila were covered by a quilt in shiny, velvety fabrics and trimmed with lace. It looked to be many lifetimes of worn out dresses and ball gowns, the fabric washed, salvaged and put to use again.

Mrs. Carlisle gently nudged Sheila awake next to her.

"You poor things. I came with the tea and you had both quite gone to sleep. I've prepared the loft upstairs."

"What a lovely quilt, ma'am," said Sheila, stretching. "Did you make it yourself?"

"Why thank ya, dear. That I did."

May rubbed a crick in her neck.

"That's not part of your wedding dress, is it?" asked Sheila, pointing to a swatch of white satin.

"That would be my aunt's. I was married in blue."

"This one?" Sheila asked, indicating a bright blue velvet.

Mrs. Carlisle said with a fond smile, "Oh, not that one. That was one of my sister's favorite dresses. And her with her cornflower blue eyes, too. Didn't the young men just trip over their own feet to stop and stare when she wore that one."

"What about this one?" said May, pointing to a familiar, emerald green silk.

Cora Carlisle's expression became sober. "Mr. Carlisle's mother, poor darlin'. God rest her soul." She crossed herself. "The Lord took her far too young."

"How old was she?"

"Twenty-two," answered Mrs. Carlisle. "A tragedy, indeed, and hardly a fit story to guide your dreams by." She pointed to a violet colored satin, "Better here. The first I ever danced with Mr. Carlisle."

"Let me guess. He stepped on your foot," said May.

Mrs. Carlisle had a musical laugh. "Mercy no. But it's a mystery even to me; Mr. Carlisle is, in fact, a most wonderful dancer. Now, come on. Off to bed with ya both. It's late." She drew off the quilt and laid it neatly on the armrest of the settee.

May got to her feet, "How is the patient?"

"Sleepin' like a babe. Don't you fret your pretty head one bit," Mrs. Carlisle answered, taking an oil lamp off a small table.

Still drowsy, they followed the lady to a doorway next to the kitchen where there was a narrow staircase to the upstairs. Mrs. Carlisle's voice echoed off the walls as she led them up to the loft. "I opened the door at the bottom to warm it up here. It doesn't take long. Bein' across from the fire the heat travels smartly up the stairs. I'll close it when I go. It can get like an oven up here, and the sound travels somethin' wicked, too. I wake up early, and I wouldn't want to disturb ya."

They emerged into an attic room with two cot-like beds tucked under the slanted eaves. Only in the apex of the roof was anyone completely able to straighten to standing.

Each bed was covered with a quilt over which a clean cotton nightgown had been placed. May chose a quilt with an arrangement of small calico triangles on a background of cream muslin. On Sheila's bed was a quilt of appliqued pink and green flowers.

As soon as Mrs. Carlisle started down the stairway, May peeled off her filthy clothes, stepped into the nightgown and settled herself under the warmth of the triangles. Under the spell of the blanket, and with the image of Carlisle and his wife dancing in her head, she fell fast asleep.

### Chapter 30

### The Lady of the House

"Come on now, for the last time, let me up," came Mrs. Carlisle's plea from the kitchen.

"Now, now, Cora. Couldn't ya spare just one more wee little kiss?"

"You've had more than enough," said his wife. "I have to get back to my baking now."

"Let the baking wait. When I woke up this morning, I thought I was dreaming. I think I must still be."

"You're a silly man."

"I know."

"Let me up."

"No," said the lady's husband stubbornly. "I told you. I'm not lettin' ya off o' my lap until I get another kiss."

"Mr. Carlisle," said Cora, with anger more feigned than felt, "as ye can see, I am quite covered in flour and sugar."

"Really? Why Mrs. Carlisle, don't you know that just makes you taste even better? I'll have to insist on two kisses then."

"Indeed?"

"Indeed."

May stopped short at the bottom of the staircase to the loft, spun around in an attempt to silently scramble back up the stairs and collided into Sheila who had just turned around to do the same. Sheila banged her head against the side of the wall then knocked her shin loudly on the next stair riser up.

From the kitchen, they heard the screech of chair legs then a few of Carlisle's long, quick strides on the wooden floor followed by the sound of the front door closing.

When they ventured to look around the doorjamb into the kitchen, there was a round, flat pie dough on the surface of the table, and Mrs. Carlisle had a teapot in her hand ready to pour the steaming tea inside it into four delicate teacups in a row. Her face was as red as a poinsettia.

The kitchen smelled of cinnamon and apples. May was starving.

"I was beginning to wonder when you two were getting up," said Mrs. Carlisle, briefly glancing up from pouring tea. "You poor dears were so tired. We didn't want to wake you. Would ye like some breakfast? Please sit down. Mr. Carlisle's just gone to get some water. He'll be back shortly."

"Yes, ma'am," said May. "Um—but first I kind of need to—"

"Not a word more. It's right out back dear. And there's soap and water by the back door as ye come in."

On her return she was greeted in the living room by Sheila heading in the opposite direction. "It's rustic," May warned her.

She entered the kitchen just as Mrs. Carlisle was arranging the top crust on a fat apple pie, and Carlisle was lifting the edge of the pastry to sneak out a sugar and cinnamon covered apple slice. Without a glance from what she was doing, his wife smacked the back of his hand, and the apple slice flew from between his fingers and landed on the table. Amused, he picked up the slice and popped it into his mouth.

He spotted May at the door, stood up and smiled widely. "Good morning."

With a paring knife, Mrs. Carlisle made some small cuts to the top crust of her pie. She sprinkled it with a spray of sugar and wiped her hand on her apron. "I apologize about the mess. I usually have this cleaned up by now," said Mrs. Carlisle, casting a disparaging look at her husband.

She slid the pie off the edge of the table, caught the bottom of it with her other hand then carried it to the stove.

"You didn't have to go to any trouble on our account," said May.

"This? It's not any trouble at all, dear. Though, I'm sorry to say, I got a late start on the bread this morning. I'm afraid supper will probably be a wee bit late today." Her husband got another disparaging look for that.

"Mrs. Carlisle, you worry too much," he said, brushing off flour from his brown linen suit. He gestured to May to take the seat opposite him, which she did. "The bread will be fine," said Carlisle, addressing his wife.

"Indeed. Well, if it's all the same to you, Mr. Carlisle, I think I'll be the judge o' that," said the lady of the house. Protecting her hand with the hem of her apron, she opened one of several small doors in the stove and placed the pie inside.

As she wiped her hands on a clean dish cloth, Mrs. Carlisle looked out the window into the yard. She went and hung up her towel on a peg and came back to pour fresh tea into an empty cup in front of May who thanked her.

"You look so much better," May said to Carlisle before taking her first sip of tea. "What time did the fever break?"

His wife answered for him while she brushed remnants of pie dough and flour into a bowl she held under the table. "Sometime last night, dear. I'm sorry I don't know the exact time. The cuckoo clock's been broken for a long while now."

Mrs. Carlisle put the bowl on the sideboard next to the stove. She returned with a dish, piled high with scones, and set it down on the table. Gazing out the window again, Cora continued in a distracted fashion, "I will say he seemed quite a good deal recovered this morning. He insisted on getting up. In any event, he certainly seemed to be vigorous enough, so I can't see there's any harm in it."

"Your color is a lot better," said May, watching Carlisle turn red.

Cora Carlisle took her eyes off the yard, glanced at her husband and bit her lip. She deposited a heavenly smelling wedge of pastry on a plate in front of May. "Have a scone, dear?" she said to her cheerfully.

"Thank you, ma'am," May said before taking a bite. The scone was delicious. Unfortunately, as she soon discovered, it also had nuts. Lots and lots of them. Lots and lots of _wal_ nuts.

"I'm sure taking off that bandage helped," said Mrs. Carlisle, making a face as she scrubbed the table with a clean rag. "I've heard of that happenin' sometimes. That's why it's so very necessary to change the bandages regularly."

May quickly swallowed the bite of scone in her mouth. The nuts scoured her throat all the way down. She began with a depreciating smile, "Well, actually ma'am–"

But she stopped mid-sentence when she saw Carlisle look up from his dish with his thick brows knit and his lips clamped together. He made short, furtive shakes of his head at her.

So with the words trapped and burning on her tongue, she stuffed in another bite of walnut-laden scone and rankled inwardly at how good it tasted, nuts and all.

Mrs. Carlisle, on her way back to the stove, retrieved her husband's napkin off the floor, placed it next to his plate and patted him on the shoulder. Noticing him tipping back in his chair, she pushed him forward so that he landed on all four chair legs with a whumping noise and an expression of surprise on his face.

With a glance at Carlisle's empty, crumb filled dish, Mrs. Carlisle grabbed it without comment, plunked another scone on it and placed the dish on the table in front of him again. She took off her apron then sat down finally to her own plate and cup.

Carlisle picked up his butter knife and looked around the table with a frown of disappointment.

Noticing him, Cora got up again and opened a wooden larder right next to him. She set on the table a thick pottery bowl in which was a fist sized mound of butter. She went back around him and sat down again.

"Thank you, dear," her husband beamed, looking at the butter as though it had just dropped down from heaven.

His wife patted his hand. "Would you like some more tea, dear?" she asked, turning to May suddenly, holding the top on the pretty flowered teapot with a linen napkin.

Still dazed by the woman's rapid movements, May said, "Um—yes, that would be wonderful. Thank you."

"Cream and sugar?" her hostess asked.

"Don't bother, I'll get it," she said.

Cora poured some tea into her husband's cup and then into her own.

"Mrs. Carlisle," said her husband. "What have I told you before? You've gone and given yourself my favorite cup again." He switched his own cup with hers, turning the nick on the rim discreetly towards himself.

Cora went a shade of pink over the state of her best china. She put one lump of sugar and a dash of cream into her husband's tea and whisked it with a spoon until the tea twirled around merrily. She placed the teacup in front of him and then attended to her own.

Her husband watched the whirling tea and smiled. "Thank you, dear," he said, before taking a sip.

Sheila joined them at the table. She sat down across from Mrs. Carlisle who had her back to the window.

"Would ye like some tea, dear?" Mrs. Carlisle asked her.

"I'd love some," Sheila answered.

"Why dear, look how blue your eyes are. I didn't notice last night. Don't they just sparkle in the sunshine," Cora said as she poured tea into Sheila's cup. "Don't she just put you in mind of your sister-in-law, Mr. Carlisle?"

Carlisle blinked at Sheila two or three times and set his chair back down on all four feet. "Your mean your sister, Grace?" He seemed to see Sheila with renewed eyes. "I suppose so, now that you mention it. Huh. Come to think of it, she sort of looks like you, too, I guess."

Cora said, "My sister's eyes were just that dazzlin' blue, though her hair was the color of milkweed, God bless her. Didn't she turn heads."

"Oh, not any more than you, Mrs. Carlisle," said her husband, leaning back in his chair again. "I always found her a bit pale, myself."

"Grace married Mr. Carlisle's brother, Seamus," Cora explained, taking her husband's knife off his plate and buttering his scone with it.

With a look of scorn, Carlisle snorted lightly.

Mrs. Carlisle lowered her brow as though delivering confidential information. "I'm afraid their marriage was not always a happy one."

"She made my brother miserable. The truth of it is, she was a—"

"Mr. Carlisle, they'll be no disparagin' words about my own sister at this table," said Cora firmly.

May said, "Wait a minute. Hold on. Let me get this straight, Mr. Carlisle's brother married your sister?"

"Dear," said Mrs. Carlisle. "What a look you have on yer face. It isn't as though we planned it that way. These things happen sometimes as the good Lord wills it." She dropped the buttered scone back on her husband's plate.

"How did you all meet, ma'am?" asked Sheila.

About to take a large bite of scone, Carlisle said, "Oh, you don't really want to hear that, do you?"

His wife continued, undaunted. "Through a misfortune, I'm afraid, dear. Grace and I were orphaned when we were girls not any older than you two are now. We came to stay in America with my Aunt Shannon and Uncle Tomas. Their daughter had got the measles a number of years earlier, poor lass. They were left childless and agreed to take us in."

Carlisle shifted in his chair.

"Ooo," exclaimed Cora, turning to her husband. "Watch it dear. You've quite stepped on ma foot."

"Sorry, dear." He drank some tea.

May asked, "Mrs. Carlisle—you and Mr. Carlisle—you wouldn't happen to be cousins, would you?"

Carlisle put down his teacup. It clattered noisily against the saucer. "Twice removed," he said indignantly.

"Just so, dear," said his wife, patting his hand.

May said, "It's just a good thing you guys never had any—"

"May, why don't you have another scone," shrieked Sheila next to her, practically throwing one on May's empty plate.

"But I don't like—oh, right! Wow, you know, I really am hungry this morning," she said. "Thank you so much, Sheila. That's probably a really good idea." And she made sure to take an enormous bite.

"They really are delicious, Mrs. Carlisle," said Sheila. "Please don't stop. I'd love to hear the rest of the story."

"Oh, no," moaned Carlisle, standing up.

Cora smiled up at her husband. She tugged on his sleeve until he sat down again.

"Well, Mr. Carlisle came with his father and brother to meet us at the ship." She smiled at her husband. "Back then he was so thin and shy, with his hands in his pockets skulking behind his father." She made a glowering face. "He went to get my bag, stepped on my best dress and ripped the hem. I liked him fine right then."

"Was it love at first sight?" asked Sheila.

"Oh, mercy, no," said Cora. "Dense as the fog. And I couldn't have made it more obvious if I'd tried. He ignored me totally."

"You were too young," said her husband.

"You were eighteen."

"Och, eighteen." He made a wry face. "You're right, dear, it was me that was far too young."

Cora went on with her story: "Indeed, after several years I had quite given up hope completely on Mr. Carlisle. Several months after my twenty first birthday, I talked to my aunt about joining a convent and asked her to help me to make arrangements. My aunt was beside herself and refused to help. She said she was heartbroken to think of me in such a bleak and cheerless place as that. But my aunt and uncle had done so much already, and they themselves not so well off either, I did not wish to be a burden any longer.

"The very next evening, out of the blue, who should come to call but Mr. Carlisle? He stood on the doorstep, white as a sheet and handed me a single red rose. Stiff as a statue and staring at his shoes, 'Miss O'Brien, may I court you please?' he says, just like that."

Carlisle stared at his shoes.

"How romantic," said Sheila.

"Indeed," said Mrs. Carlisle. "After seven years and not so much as the time o' day? I took the rose and slammed the door in his face."

Not looking up, he smiled and said, "But she did take the rose."

"The next day, I found that my aunt had invited him to dinner. A good thing, too, him with always such a lean and hungry look about him. I had no idea anyone could eat so much pie." She picked up the teapot. Smiling at her husband, she said, "Would you like another cup, Mr. O'Callahan?"

"What did you just call him?" asked May.

Cora stopped smiling at her husband and stared at him blankly with her mouth partially open. She took in a short breath.

"That's fine, dear," said Carlisle, patting her hand. He tipped back in his chair. "The money lenders were having a hard time rememberin' my name, so I thought it might be better to shorten it, if you know what I mean."

"Carlisle is his mother's maiden name," said Cora as if the good woman was afraid to be caught in a lie.

Sheila rushed up suddenly from her seat and threw both arms around Carlisle's neck. Still tipped back in his chair, his eyes rounded at Sheila's unexpected embrace as well as the terror of an impending impact with the floor behind him. He reached out, caught the underside of the table and set himself, the chair and Sheila upright.

"You really are my uncle," Sheila cried, showering his neck with affectionate little kisses and practically choking him.

Carlisle turned bright cranberry. "I am?"

"O'Callahan is my mother's maiden name. I thought you looked familiar. You really, really are my Uncle Frank." She let him go suddenly and flew around the back of his chair to Mrs. Carlisle and hugged her. "And you're my Aunt Cora."

"Ooo, isn't that wonderful, dear," exclaimed Aunt Cora, hugging her back.

Through the open window, May heard the low, rough bark of a dog and the patter of canine feet coming at breakneck speed towards the house. There was the sound of a loud concussion on the front door followed by furious scratching. A crash of porcelain came after as the door flew open and smashed against the living room wall.

Mrs. Carlisle, her face beaming with delight over the back of Sheila's shoulder, cringed.

Through the kitchen archway sprang a chocolate lab, tongue lolling, streaming slobber. It ran full tilt, clattering its muddy nails across the wood floor, and launched itself at Carlisle.

"Rufus? It's Rufus, Cora," cried Carlisle as the dog licked his face.

"Oh! Not that great, stupid oaf of a dog! You just mind he keeps far away from my chickens."

Carlisle looked insulted. "He hasn't even ever touched one of those scraggly chickens." He smiled down at his dog and scratched his ears. "Have you boy?" Then to his wife, he said, "Don't I always make sure to keep the fence mended?"

Cora shook her finger at Rufus threateningly. "I know he looks at them when I'm not around, and if he doesn't stop it, he won't be gettin' any more o' my beef stew."

The man said to his dog, "That sounds pretty serious." He turned back to his wife. "Mrs. Carlisle, if he really wanted to get to those chickens, he would find a way. It's not like it's that difficult."

"Indeed. Well, he's probably just too stupid to figure out how."

"He seems clever enough to me," said Sheila, patting the dog's head as she walked back to her seat.

The dog thrust itself off Carlisle and jumped to the window, clacking its nails on the sill. It gave out two loud warning barks in the direction of the yard, dropped back to the floor and shot out of the kitchen. The dog barked all the way out of the house and down the walkway to the dirt road.

"Ma'am," said May slowly, looking out the window, "there's a wagon out there."

"I think you mean a wain," said Carlisle.

Cora twisted around in her seat. "Well, thank heavens. They were supposed to be here three weeks ago. Lord knows what could have tooken them so long."

"Maybe they just got stuck somewhere?" offered May.

### Chapter 31

### A Late Arrival

The driver was undoing the rope on the canvas tarp when they got to the hay wain.

"Hallo," the man called when he saw them, then nodded and smiled when he recognized Carlisle.

The driver's son was underneath the wagon. He called from below, "I've almost got all of the ropes undone, but it's bleedin' hard work. The knots are all wet, Pop. Hang on, there's one more."

"Ooo. Nothin' got damp, did it?" Mrs. Carlisle said, feeling around the tarp.

"Oh, no ma'am, not to worry. We tied it up real tight just like you asked," assured the driver.

"I was so afraid you weren't comin'. What could have possibly tooken so long?" she asked.

"Got snagged on the streambed when first we started, but a kind gentleman come along and helped us out." He winked at Carlisle.

The driver's son emerged from the rear of the cart, lithe, handsome and sandy-haired. "That's the last of 'em. Ye should be fine now, Pop." He tipped his hat to Mrs. Carlisle. "Mornin', ma'am. Sorry 'bout the language, I didn't know there were ladies present." He grinned and tipped his hat in a jaunty way to Sheila and May.

Catching a cool look from Mrs. Carlisle, he returned her a disarming smile.

Mrs. Carlisle was not disarmed.

The young man cleared his throat and busied himself by loosening more of the ropes, all the while stealing small looks at Sheila, who for her part, pretended not to notice.

Carlisle ran his hand over the tarp. "What's in it, Cora?" he asked.

"Go ahead," said Mrs. Carlisle, pushing her husband's elbow encouragingly.

He pulled back the corner of the rough canvas and stared at the items underneath in complete silence.

His wife grabbed his hand. "I hope you don't mind," she said, sounding worried. "But I sent for all your things. The studio here looked so empty when I arrived and not one of your paintings anywhere to be found. 'We can't have Mr. Carlisle arrivin' with the place lookin' like this,' I said. I sent for everythin' straight away."

Carlisle leaned down and kissed his wife on the cheek. "Thank you, dear."

"All your paints and brushes and canvasses should be here," said his wife.

"Oh, yes, ma'am," said the driver. "We took everythin' we could find in the studio. I can't imagine anything is missing."

"Hey, you even got my pipe tobacco!" Carlisle reached for a large green mason jar full of tobacco and a well-used pipe next to it.

"Indeed. Now how did that get in there?" asked Mrs. Carlisle, shooting the driver a dark look.

"I recall you specifically asking us not to forget it ma'am," the man said to her, winking at her husband.

Rufus placed his front paws on the bed of the wagon and snuffled the stacked paintings.

"Down," scolded Carlisle. The dog bounded off and circled the cart, tongue flapping and eyes rolling, his slobbering mouth snapping at dragonflies.

"Hope you don't mind the dog," said the driver. "He doesn't belong to you, by chance? He joined us back down the road a piece. Would you like him?"

Carlisle said he would.

"I thought you might," the driver said and smiled. "Now, let's help you get all this inside."

"Mr. Carlisle's studio is through the double doors in the living room. Mind the walls, please, and don't damage anything," instructed Cora.

May went to help carry some items, but Cora shooed her away. "Let the men do it, dear."

Carlisle removed a heavy wooden box with tightly sealed jars that clinked and rattled together as he carried it to the cottage while the driver and his son took several paintings each.

"Don't drop anything," said Cora.

The girls looked over the paintings that remained in the cart. "This is gorgeous," said Sheila, holding a landscape in her hands.

"Don' I know it," said his wife. "That one always makes me want to cry. It's like Mr. Carlisle turns everythin' inside out, so that he's not just showin' you what's on the outside, but the heart and soul of everythin' as well. I'm amazed by it."

Mrs. Carlisle suddenly said to May, "Don't you just look peaked, dearie. Your long trip must have caught up with you. We must sit you down straight away." She took May by the hand and brought her to a wooden bench under an arbor of orange roses.

"I'll be better in a minute or two," said May. "I just feel a little dizzy."

At the cart, the driver's son returned for another load. "'Scuse me, miss," he said to Sheila.

"Goodness, am I in your way?" Sheila smiled at him without moving whatsoever.

Poking the brim of his hat up with one finger, he gave her a wide grin.

Mrs. Carlisle came back quickly to the hay wain to supervise the removal of her husband's property and the propriety of her niece. Sheila slipped to the side of the cart as the driver's son hastily grabbed several pictures from the bed of the wagon and started for the house with them. A painting from the middle of the stack in his hands began a downward slide to the ground. Drawing up his knee, he slid the painting back into the pile again then dodged a sinister look from Mrs. Carlisle and continued to the cottage.

After he was gone, Mrs. Carlisle said, "The gawking dandy. He should keep his eyes to himself and concentrate on what he's doing. Pity the poor lass who ends up with that dolt."

Sheila pointed to a newly uncovered painting in the bed of the wagon. "It's Uncle Frank."

"Oh, mercy no, dear. But it's a common mistake. That's his father," said Cora.

"Is he a lot like him?" Sheila asked.

Mrs. Carlisle considered for a moment and frowned. "That's not easy to answer, dear. At first they seemed so different to me, ye see: Mr. Carlisle bein' the way he is and his father as hard as a railroad watch. Yet the longer I knew them, I began to see that, deep down, the two o' them weren't so very different at all. In fact, I think they were just about as alike as father and son can be. Only his father had spent most of his life stompin' and stampin' out all those things about himself he didn't like, or was told he shouldn't like, or thought was holdin' him back from the good Lord knows what."

"Then along comes his son and there it was all over again in spades, staring straight back at him in the flesh. And what did he feel, but that he had to do all that stompin' and stampin' out all over again and set out to make his son just as shiny and cold as he was himself. Of course, it didn't help that his father blamed Frank for all his misfortunes on account of his poor mother, God rest her soul."

The lady paused, crossed herself and drew in a much needed breath. She hushed her voice. "If you ask me, the Good Lord in His Infinite Mercy took the poor lass to her heavenly reward early, so that she might not have to suffer all the rest of her days with that man. Ooo, what a black temper that man had, especially when he was three sheets to the wind, which was anytime he wasn't workin'. And Frank always seemed to be taking the worst of it. I remember one time he—"

"Mrs. Carlisle," called her husband from the doorway of the cottage with his pipe in one hand and a match in the other. "Would you mind getting me another cup of tea, dear?"

"Yes, dear," she called back at once.

"He's right there; can't he get his own tea?" said May from the bench.

Mrs. Carlisle waved the thought off. "Honestly dear, have you ever had his tea? You can stand up a spoon in it. Besides, he always takes the teacup from me as though I'd just given him a kiss. How could you deny a man a cup o' tea when he looks at ye like that?" She lowered her voice as her husband neared the wagon. "Besides, I certainly don't need the man muckin' about my kitchen and crackin' all my teacups together. No indeed."

"The men would probably like some as well, Mrs. Carlisle," her husband said, putting his pipe and match down on the wooden bed of the wagon.

"Of course, dear," said his wife, then to Sheila she said, "Would you like to keep me comp'ny while I make more tea, dear? I would love to hear how the family's getting on."

As Cora and Sheila headed to the house, the driver and his son tipped their hats and stepped off the path to let them by. As the driver got to the wagon, he said, "Now that's one of the prettiest little lasses I think I ever saw. Though if you don't mind me sayin' so, she dresses kind o' peculiar. Maybe even a little forward, as it were. Ah, well, pretty is as pretty does."

"Well then, she's pretty through and through," said Carlisle, picking up a crate.

"Let my son get that for ye, sir. Only one last load here."

Carlisle thanked him, then gave a short, sharp whistle through his teeth to the young man who stood in front of him with his hands out, but whose head and eyes still followed the rounded backside of his employer's niece. Carlisle shoved the heavy box forcefully into the young man's waiting arms and the driver's son coughed out a burst of air, nearly dropping the box. He lumbered to the house after his father.

When he was gone, Carlisle smiled to himself and shook his head. He picked up his pipe and match, and turning to go, tripped smack over Rufus who had come to sit at his master's feet at the sound of his whistle.

Carlisle cussed a blue streak then looked down at the dog gazing up into his face with expectant devotion. "What do you want?" he asked the dog, before heading for the bench May was sitting on.

"Oh," he said when he saw her. He made little circles in the air with the pipe and match. "I didn't realize you were sitting there."

"Anybody ever tell you that you sound like you work in a railroad yard?" she said, grinning.

"Sorry," he said with a guilty look.

"Don't worry about it. Let me guess—your favorite bench? I can move if you'd like to be alone."

"No, don't. That's fine. I never mind the company. It's just that Cora doesn't like me smoking too close to the house. She says the smell makes her sick."

May busted out laughing.

Carlisle looked confused.

"I can't smell anything else but roses," she said when she recovered herself sufficiently. "It's even on my hands."

"Oh, don't I know it, too," he said, rolling his eyes and sitting down next to her. "She won't leave off putting it in the soap. You ought to try walking down the street smelling like a six foot rose garden. It's uncomfortable to say the least."

"You must make some interesting friends."

He struck the match on the bottom of his shoe then lit his pipe. "Not the kind I'm interested in, May," he said, shaking out the match and tossing it.

Rufus came and curled up at Carlisle's feet with a stick in his mouth. He began to chew at it with intense canine concentration.

"I like your wife," said May. "She has a pretty accent. I can understand why you said you like to listen to her."

"Mmm," he said, smiling and puffing his pipe awake.

And listen. And listen.

"I notice you pick up her accent a little when you're with her."

"Do I? Well, I don't doubt it. It was my father's as well."

"Incidentally, they've found out that smoking causes cancer," she said.

He held his pipe away from him and raised his eyebrows at it. "Really?" He stuck it back in his mouth with a shrug. "I could be wrong, but I'm not entirely sure that matters anymore."

They sat in silence a minute while Carlisle let out puffs of smoke from his mouth and watched them shift and disperse lazily into the atmosphere.

Rufus chewed moistly on the stick between his paws, making sloppy crunching and scraping noises that crawled up May's spine. She broke the relative silence. "Your wife mentioned something about supper, but I think Sheila and I should really be heading out this afternoon."

He took the pipe from his mouth. "May, you've got to give me one more day."

"We don't need—we don't expect you to go with us," she said.

"It's just that I've had an idea for a while, and I just couldn't figure out how to do it. Well, 'till now, anyway." Carlisle leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees. "Only, it might not work."

"What is it?"

"It's just that it occurred to me a while back that if I painted you into here, maybe I can paint you out. It's worth a try isn't it?" His eyes questioned hers plainly, trying to gauge her reaction.

May looked away and considered.

"You don't lose anything by trying," he coaxed.

"But how?"

"You'll sit for me—you and Sheila."

"Sit?"

"Yes, so I can paint your portrait."

After having chewed the stick to splinters, Rufus decided to mouth Carlisle's shoe.

"Stop," Carlisle said to the dog, drawing his foot away. He gestured with his hand to his foam-streaked shoe. "Just look at that!" He sighed into the dog's warm brown eyes. "Dumb mutt," he muttered.

"Why do you keep him then?"

He leaned down and scratched behind one of the dog's ears, "Oh, he's really not a bad dog. A bit stupid, but he's a great watchdog. Never misses a thing. And a he's the best hunting dog I've ever had, that's for sure. He's a natural in the water." He smoothed the dog's coat and patted the animal soundly on the back.

Rufus nuzzled May's hand wetly. She snatched it away and looked at it.

"You don't really like dogs, do you?"

"How can you tell?" she said, wiping the slobber off on her t-shirt with a nauseated look. Luckily, Rufus spotted a butterfly and lit out after it.

At the cottage, Mrs. Carlisle and the hay wain driver emerged from the front door and exchanged a farewell. The driver and his son began walking towards the wagon down the path as Cora wandered back inside.

"She probably got chatting and forgot all about the tea," Carlisle mused with a small shake of his head.

"You could get your own tea, you know."

"I do," he said, furrowing his brow and leaning back on the bench. "On occasion."

"Good day to ye, miss, sir," said the driver, tipping his hat to the both of them.

"Hang on," said Carlisle, getting up from the bench and feeling around in his vest pocket. He glanced towards the house, turned his back to it and handed some money to the man.

"That's not necessary, sir. Your wife already paid us."

"Take it," said Carlisle, "for the pipe tobacco. And get a padded seat for that wagon. Thanks for your help."

Next to him, the driver's son stared at some rocks on the ground. "Here," said Carlisle, handing him a few coins.

Carlisle came and sat down on the bench next to May again and together they watched the cart bump down the road until it crested a hill and rolled out of sight.

May felt a painful scratching on her shoulder and discovered a thorny rose vine had attached itself to her shirt. Carefully plucking it off thorn by thorn, she said, "Not entirely friendly vegetation around here, I see."

"My wife tries to keep them all pruned. This one is worse than the others though. She didn't realize how it was until after it had twined itself completely round the arbor. It's very hardy. Nothing kills it. You have to admire that. Mrs. Carlisle lost almost every other rose bush in the garden but this one a few winters ago. Did you happen to smell it? It's different—spicy. Unusual color, too. Not showy at all, but it's always in bloom." He admired one of the plain orange blossoms.

"Still, it's so—so—ornery," said May, trying to encourage the vine to go elsewhere without success.

"It's just because the petals fall off easily. It's just protecting itself. See?" He gently touched one of the orange flowers and several of the petals rained down. "Wonderful fruit, though. Did you know roses have fruit? I didn't know that until I met my wife." He sat back, crossed his arms and enjoyed his pipe.

"Rose hips."

"Yes. That's it. She makes some kind of tea from them. She makes me drink it if I get sick. Cures me pretty quick," he said, curling his lip.

"That's pretty smart of her."

"She is."

"So what took you so long to marry her? Didn't you like her?"

"She was far too young when I met her."

"I thought you all—"

"Fourteen, May."

"Oh."

"And she was under my aunt and uncle's roof as well. My uncle liked me fine but my aunt—well, who can blame her. Anyhow, I had this idea that maybe if I made something of myself in the few years until Cora was marrying age, then maybe my aunt might finally come around. But one year led to another and me never better off than the year before—I could scarcely support myself let alone all the other things a wife brings: babies, houses, pianos—"

"Do they really bring pianos?"

He cocked his head to the side. "Most of the time, I think.

"And you told Cora about your plan?"

He shook his head. "How could I? Cora made it obvious exactly how she felt about me. And like I said, she was too young. I could hardly be in the same room with her. I'll never, ever know what she saw in me. I was the poorest catch there was and no woman within ten counties didn't know it. I just figured she was too naive to know any better."

"There must have been others that wanted to ask her out."

"Someone started a rumor that she was spoken for already."

"I see. Rumors can be so nasty, can't they? So not only did you make her think that you didn't want her, you made her think no one else wanted her either. No wonder she finally gave up and decided to join a convent."

He looked to the heavens. "Can you imagine Cora in a convent?"

"And her so talkative and all," said May.

"She would have been miserable. She didn't belong there. My aunt couldn't stand the thought of it. And Cora had got her mind dead set on it. My aunt had grown uncommonly fond of Cora and the thought of her locked away in a convent—"

"After already losing her only daughter."

He nodded. "My aunt came to me."

"The poor woman must have been desperate."

"I'll ignore that."

May leaned back on the bench. "So when did your wife find out that you couldn't read? Was it after you were married?"

Not looking at her, he held up a cautionary finger. "You know May, that nose is going to get you into trouble someday."

"It was only a hunch. Did she teach you after you were married?"

"As much as she could. It was no hardship. She's a wonderful teacher." He smiled at the memory.

Mrs. Carlisle appeared at the front door of the cottage wiping her hands on her apron. "The tea is ready. Would you like me to bring it out?"

"No thanks, Mrs. Carlisle. We'll get it inside." He collected his pipe from the armrest of the bench then said to May, "It'll take me a few hours to get my studio set up again. By afternoon, the light should be right; come in and sit for me then." A gentle scented breeze stirred the rose bushes around them.

"It's beautiful here," said May.

"I know. We should never have left."

At the cottage door, they were greeted by the sight of Mrs. Carlisle standing on a kitchen chair in front of the fireplace. She poised on her tip-toes and stretched awkwardly toward the handle of an antique cutlass suspended between two hooks above the mantel.

"Cora," yelled Carlisle when he saw her. "What are you doing?" He rushed over to the fireplace. "It's just a good thing there's no fire going, Mrs. Carlisle."

"Oh, hello, dear," she said to her husband clutching her skirt. She straightened with the cutlass in her hand, twisting the hanging gold tassels around the handle. Carlisle removed one of his hands from her dress and took the tarnished weapon from her.

"What are you doing with my father's sword?" he said.

"Well, dear, I thought the new one you brought home was so beautiful that we should hang it here instead. Could you hand me that, Mr. Carlisle?" She pointed to the jeweled sword and scabbard on the settee.

"Well, I suppose so," he said, reluctantly. "But get down and let me do it, will you?"

"It's alright, dear. Really, I can do it. If you'll just ...." She pointed to the settee again.

"No."

"But Mr. Carlisle—"

"No," he said again firmly. "You shouldn't even be up there."

She gave out a sigh, picked up her skirts and got down.

Carlisle stepped up onto the chair. Without looking down, he held out his hand and his wife placed the new sword and scabbard into it. Mrs. Carlisle clasped her hands in front of her mouth as she watched him arrange it above the mantel.

"There. It's done," he said, getting down and kissing his wife on the cheek.

Cora grabbed the chair and practically ran back to the kitchen with it. "I'll go get your tea," she called back to him.

"She worries far too much," he said. He headed in the direction of the double doors and said loudly for his wife to hear, "I'll be in my studio."

Cora poked her head out from the kitchen. "What about the tea?"

"Oh, the tea, right. I don't suppose you could—"

"I'll bring it in," she said. "What about lunch?"

"Just call me when it's ready."

"Frank," she said with a note of warning in her voice.

"Really, I'll come out."

"We have guests." She gestured to the girls.

"I know. I'll come out. I promise." He sniffed the air. "Shouldn't you really check on the pie, Mrs. Carlisle?"

"The pie! You're right. Thank you, dear, I will."

He entered the studio, turned around and held up two fingers. "Give me two hours. Then—after lunch." He closed the double doors after him.

Mrs. Carlisle said, "The man has an uncanny nose for pastry. Seems to know by smell alone exactly when the apples are tender but not mushy."

One of the double doors opened again and Carlisle looked out. "The pie?" he reminded her.

Her hands flew up and she ran off to the kitchen.

He smiled after his wife. "She gets to talking. I hate when the apples are mushy. Did you know she's won the Maine state fair five years in a row with that pie?" He wiggled two fingers. "Two hours," he said before shutting the door.

### Chapter 32

### A Jealous Woman

After everyone had eaten a generous amount of beef stew at supper, Cora said, "The sword you brought home is beautiful, Mr. Carlisle, but you never told me where you got it."

"It was a present from Venus," said May.

"Who?"

"Venus. You know, the goddess."

Mrs. Carlisle stared at her husband. "The goddess?"

Looking up briefly from his second helping of stew, he nodded.

"And she knighted him, too," said Sheila. "I can't believe he didn't tell you."

Mrs. Carlisle pressed her hand to her ample bosom. "Frank, you were knighted?"

"Well, I'm not really sure it exactly counts," he said, dipping a thick slice of bread into his bowl.

"By Venus herself? I should say so. Of course it does. I can't imagine what it was like to meet a goddess. Why, whatever did she look like? Was she as beautiful as they say?"

"Oh absolutely," said May. "And her eyes were like, green, then blue, then gray, then ... well, they were just weird, only really, really beautiful as well. And she had long blond hair about Sheila's color, and I guess you could say she looked a little like Sheila only—well, I mean, she was a goddess and all."

Sheila looked insulted.

"Well, she is a goddess, Sheila. Anyhow, we accidentally visited her orchard and your husband here practically died from eating some poisoned fruit."

"P—poisoned?" said Mrs. Carlisle.

"But he was okay after he woke up," she added quickly.

"Indeed, I can see that," said Mrs. Carlisle, a bit white. "Pray continue."

"Anyhow, she wasn't upset about us eating the fruit, thank goodness, and then Mr. Carlisle here woke up after about a day or so and felt better, but then Sheila started losing her memory. I wanted to get going, but then Venus invited us to dinner, and I have to say that the food was the most delicious I've ever tasted in my entire life. Even Mr. Carlisle said so, didn't you Mr. Carlisle?"

Cora turned to her husband. "Indeed?"

"It was just a compliment, dear. I had to say something—to be polite, after all, since they seemed to have gone to so much trouble. You definitely could have taught those cooks a thing or two." He picked up the bread basket. Smiling, he held it across the table. "May, would you care for another slice?"

"No, I'm fine with this, thank you," she replied, holding up some bread.

"Please, May, do continue," said Mrs. Carlisle. "What was the dinner like, dear?"

"Course after course, ma'am. And every one served by a different handmaiden who smelled like something delicious."

"Indeed," said Mrs. Carlisle, recovering some of her former color.

"Oh yes. One smelled like cantaloupe and another like cinnamon buns and ... what else? What else? Oh, ginger and ..." She frowned. "Do you remember any others, Sheila?"

"Um ... well, not really. My memory is still kind of in and out from around then."

"They must have been dressed very prettily as well," said Mrs. Carlisle, brushing crumbs off her blue wool skirt.

"Oh yes, in beautiful silky gowns of all different colors." May snorted. "And practically see-through. All of them were disgustingly beautiful. In fact, everyone there was disgustingly beautiful."

"Indeed?"

"And none of them could hold a candle to you, dear," said Carlisle to his wife. He held up the bread basket again. "Are you sure you don't want any more bread, May?"

"Yes. I'm fine, thank you, I said."

He put down the basket on the table and a slice of bread bounced out.

Mrs. Carlisle gave her husband a quick smile and asked him, "And so did she give you the sword after dinner, dear? Venus, I mean."

"She gave it to him the next morning," said May, concentrating on sliding a questionable carrot to the side of her bowl. "When Venus handed him back his wedding ring and his tie."

Carlisle pushed his stew away. He took the bottle of wine off the table and uncorked it with a loud popping noise.

Cora raised an eyebrow at her bowl and put down her spoon. She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms.

"Cora—" began her husband delicately.

"No really, dear," she said, putting up her hand, but not looking at him. "I am quite interested in what the lass has to say. Please continue, May."

"May?" cautioned Sheila.

May blinked into her bowl then looked up at Mrs. Carlisle who was staring at her and waiting. May laughed loudly. "Well that sounded bad, didn't it? I mean—it's just that after he was poisoned and he was sleeping, the handmaidens took all his clothes off to wash them, only his tie and wedding ring were in his pocket and—"

"H—handmaidens?" choked out Mrs. Carlisle.

Carlisle collapsed his head into his hands.

Cora gave him a hurt look. "Your wedding band was in your pocket?"

He peeked out from under his hands and slowly met his wife's gaze. "I thought—it's just that—" He winced. "Well, you were—you know—here. And it brought me no end of grief looking at it." He swallowed then he shook his head. "Cora, I'm sorry. I swear I only just took it off last week."

"Oh, is it so? Well that's different then. I suppose I should thank you for at least waitin' 'till I was cold."

Carlisle rubbed his hands down his face, reached for the wine bottle and poured himself a glass.

"And so what exactly was the sword for anyway, dear?" asked Cora pointedly at May.

"Good God," exclaimed Carlisle, staring at the glass in his hand with a look of abject disgust. "This is worse than the castle. Is this the wine we usually have?"

Cora regarded her husband coldly. "And how should I know, Mr. Carlisle? When you know I never touch the stuff." She said to May, "Pray continue, dear."

May looked over warily at Carlisle.

"Oh, yes. Why not, May? By all means," said Carlisle.

"Why was Mr. Carlisle knighted? Don't you usually have to do something important for that sort of thing?" asked Cora.

May felt she was wired to a bomb and not entirely sure of the detonation point. She said in a small voice, "I think it was for ... bravery, ma'am."

"Bravery," said Mrs. Carlisle. Then as the impact of the information hit her, she repeated, "Bravery?" With a worried glance at her husband, she said, "How so?"

"Not really bravery, dear. Nothing to—"

"No, really," May interrupted helpfully. "He's just being humble. He fought off this big ugly pirate—"

"He fought a pirate?" interrupted Mrs. Carlisle.

"Yes, ma'am, on the pirate ship."

"Pirate ship? Indeed. A fight, Mr. Carlisle?"

"Well, I didn't exactly start it," he grumbled.

"Do you ever? And didn't I think you would have learnt your lesson after you got your nose broke last time. You know you always end up on the worst end of things with never a thought to how many you're up against—"

"But Cora, it wasn't like that—"

"Oh, no ma'am," interrupted May. "It wasn't that kind of fight. Not a fistfight—a sword fight!"

"A sword fight?" Cora shook her head with her mouth open in disbelief. She cried to her husband, "You promised me. You promised me you would never—"

"I know, dear," he said. "But I didn't have a choice."

"Honest, Aunt Cora, it wasn't his fault," said Sheila. "The pirates were holding us hostage. Me and May were so frightened. They were horrible men."

"And he didn't end up badly at all," said May with her eyes gleaming. "He did great. If the captain hadn't interrupted, he would've killed the guy."

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph," breathed out Mrs. Carlisle, crossing herself in a blur.

May blinked several times and looked over at Carlisle.

"Mrs. Carlisle, you weren't there," said her husband firmly. "If I could have done it any differently, believe me, I would have."

"But you almost—"

"Almost, Mrs. Carlisle, and I didn't. So can we let it rest? At the very least, can we discuss this all later?"

His wife pursed her lips. "Fine."

The hush that followed was as cool and thick as the stew in their bowls.

Several minutes went by before Cora interrupted the strained silence. "Mr. Carlisle?"

Good God. Isn't she done yet? thought May, ready to crawl away.

"Yes?" her husband answered, closing his eyes.

"Sheila tells me that the estate didn't stay in the family. That it was auctioned? I thought we had agreed that should anything happen, it should go to my sister and your brother."

"I know we did."

"I made an appointment with the lawyer before I—well, you know."

"Did you, dear?"

"Yes, dear. After you forgot about the first two I made. You did keep the appointment this time, didn't you?"

He implored her in a hushed tone, "Cora, can we discuss this another time? Please?"

"It's a simple question, Mr. Carlisle. Just a yes or no will do."

"Well, that period of time is a little ... " he searched for a word.

"Fuzzy?" offered Sheila.

He pointed to her. "Yes, fuzzy. It was just after you—you know—and the appointment—well, dear, as you can imagine—it was the last thing on my mind."

"I see. So, you're saying that you did indeed miss the appointment, then?" clarified Cora.

"I recall someone coming to the house to say they'd rescheduled it but ..."

"But ...?"

"Well, before I could keep the appointment—well, May here thinks I fell into—"

"Now you'll be dragging the girl into it?"

"No really," said May, "I think he's saying that he missed the appointment because he fell into his painting when the casement of the window blew in and hit him on the head."

"The casement of the—? Not the window I was after you to fix for ages? Fell into your painting, indeed! You didn't, by chance, happen to fall out the window, did you?"

Carlisle had the look of someone trying hard to remember something important.

Cora eyes went wide as her hands shot to her face. "Oh no. You didn't—you didn't ... jump?"

"No, no, Cora. Not that. I swear I didn't, though I won't deny, but it crossed my mind."

Cora looked thankfully to the heavens. Then another thought occurred to her. "Frank? Were you ...?" She glanced at the bottle on the table.

"Can we just please discuss this all later?" he yelled. He stood, and grabbing the bottle of wine, he headed for the door of the kitchen with it, then stopped suddenly. He looked up at the ceiling, turn around and put the bottle back down on the table with a loud thud.

"I'm sorry," he said softly to them. As he walked out the door he called over his shoulder, "I'll be in my studio."

"Indeed," said his wife. "And what else should I expect? It's as much as ye always do. By the way, I think ya forgot somethin' this time."

"Come on, Rufus," said Carlisle sulkily from the other room. The dog's nails click-clacked across the floor, then they heard the double doors in the living room close.

May and Sheila stared at their cold empty bowls.

Mrs. Carlisle glared into hers.

"Why don't you let us help you clean up, Aunt Cora," said Sheila, getting to her feet with her spoon and bowl in her hand.

The double doors banged open in the living room, and a second later, Carlisle appeared in the doorway of the kitchen.

They all looked at him in surprise.

"You know what, Cora?" he said. "The whole time I was eating that fancy dinner, I kept thinkin' how all I really wanted was to be back here with you over a simple bowl of stew in this ridiculously small kitchen. And for the life of me, could you please remind me why? Because right now, I just can't remember. I'm sorry I forgot about the appointment. You know how I am. Haven't we been together long enough for you to know me by now?" He gave her an incredulous look. "And, believe me, Cora, if I could've changed, I would've long ago just to make you happy—God! Even just to make you shut up! You're a lovely woman, Cora. There's just sometimes I wish you'd tell that to your tongue."

"Frank!"

"Now, I've traveled a great long way to see you, and I take it very ill—very ill—you doing this to me, and in front of the girls—our guests, as well. If you want me at all, I'll be in my studio. But don't even bother to knock unless there's a word of apology on your lips."

"Indeed?"

"Indeed," her husband replied.

Then he left.

"Well," hissed out Cora, red in the face, "on my—"

Carlisle reappeared suddenly in the doorway and pointed at his wife. "And another thing—keep the rose oil out of the soap. Don't think I don't know why you do it; I'm not that stupid. A man shouldn't have to go around smelling like—" He looked down at himself with his hands out, "—like flowers. It's embarrassing."

"Indeed."

"Indeed!" He pointed his finger again at her. "Or I simply won't wash at all, and if you don't like the smell o' me, you can go out and play with your damned roses for the rest of eternity."

They heard his long steps rap across the parlor floor, and then the double doors to the studio slammed shut.

They listened in silence for a minute only this time the doors didn't reopen.

"On my heart and soul," raged Cora. "How do ye like that? Eleven years with the man and not so much as once has he—" She turned on May and Sheila. "What on God's green earth did you do to him?"

"Nothing. What does he usually do?" asked May.

"Usually?" said Cora, rolling her eyes in exasperation. "Says nothin', then closes himself up tighter than a drum in that studio of his and sulks for days on end."

Cora got up and began scraping the contents of one bowl into another. "I don't need you to help," she said shortly. "I'll get the cleanin' up; it helps me to think."

Sheila and May didn't need any more prompting to head for the door. On their way out of the kitchen, they heard Mrs. Carlisle say to herself, "An apology indeed. When this place freezes over!" And then again, after a clattering of pottery, they heard Cora give out one final, "Indeed!"

### Chapter 33

### Making Amends

"This is all your fault, May," said Sheila when they were back in the loft. "Why can't you just stop and think before you blurt things out?"

May ran her index finger over a quilted triangle in green calico. "It's not like I did it on purpose."

Sheila folded her arms across her chest. "You might as well have. Heck, you probably couldn't have messed things up worse anyway if you had."

"You know, I always suspected he was high maintenance."

"Oh, they all are," grumbled Sheila, sitting down across from May on her own bed. "Why do you think my mother's been married four times?"

"Why doesn't he just tell her?" asked May. "What's the big secret, anyway?"

"Who knows? I don't know how I'd feel if I found out my husband had spent the last three years stuck in his own painting all by himself and couldn't find his way out."

"Maybe he feels like a moron. It took you all of, what, a minute to find the way out? I bet he just doesn't want to hear about it forever. What a heinous witch."

"Well, you got her pretty wound up."

"Wound up? I thought her head was going to explode."

"Well? What was she supposed to think? 'Oh, yes, the next morning, Mrs. Carlisle, right after the Goddess of Love gave him back his wedding ring and his tie?'" Sheila lay down on her back with her hands under her head. "The poor man hasn't seen his wife in three years and there you go stirring up trouble. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were jealous and did it on purpose."

May was on her feet before she knew what she was doing. She grabbed Sheila by the shoulders and bounced her up and down on the bed. "You take that back this instant!"

Stunned, Sheila stared up into May's angry face. "Holy Cripe, you really are jealous."

"Take that back, Sheila. I am not."

"Then why did you just turn three shades of red?"

"I did not. And wipe that stupid smile off your face."

"You did too."

May stopped shaking her. "Well, it's hot up here."

"Not any hotter than it was two seconds ago."

She let Sheila go suddenly and collapsed sitting onto her own bed again. She stared off into space with a confused look.

Sheila sat up, watching her with a strange, little smile on her face. "You are so weird, May. How can a person not know what they're feeling?"

"Eyew. He's like old enough to be my father."

"Yeah, you're right." Sheila nudged her shoulder. "Like your father's father's father's father's—oh whatever! I was never good at math."

"What a mess I've made of things."

"You can say that again."

May's stomach was tying itself into a knot. "And he hasn't seen her in such a long time. He didn't do anything wrong. And even if he had, it would only have been because he didn't know any better. How was he supposed to know she was here?"

"Yeah, it's just a good thing we told him about his wife, huh?"

May clamped her hand over her mouth. "Sheila? You don't think. Could I really be that terrible?"

"No, May. You're just human."

"A human wrecking ball, you mean."

Sheila shrugged. "Kind of. But it's part of your charm."

The door at the bottom of the narrow stairway closed with a soft click, and May realized that she hadn't closed the door behind her on her way up to the loft. She and Sheila exchanged a look as they listened to Mrs. Carlisle tap softly and slowly up the stairs.

How much Cora Carlisle had heard and just how long she had been listening was evident on her face when it rose from the stairwell opening in the floor. She said, "I closed the door for you. It seemed to be getting a wee bit hot up here."

She laid a fresh nightgown on Sheila's bed, and as she bent over to place a nightgown on May's, she said, "I won't even try to pretend I didn't hear anything. Really, you mustn't blame yourself, dear. I am quite capable of makin' a mess o' things on my own. I know I've a wicked tongue, and it brings me no end of trouble. It's unfortunately one of the few things my mother left me."

"You won't make him wait too long, will you, ma'am?" she asked. "He didn't do anything, I swear it. We were with him the whole time."

"He loves you so much," added Sheila.

Cora straightened to standing and folded her hands neatly across her apron. With a firm look of disapproval, she said, "Humph. An apology indeed. But what can I do? I don't want him in that studio all night. He needs to get some sleep; he's been overdoing it entirely. The man is as stubborn as an old shoe, but I can't have him gettin' himself sick all over again, can I?"

Staring at the floor, May nodded.

"Oh don't look so dour, dear. It's not so bad to stir up the pot now and then. It keeps things from sticking."

"Um, I'm sorry I called you a—"

"And what was it that you called me, dear? I only accidentally heard the last part o' the conversation. I am, after all, not in the habit of eavesdropping."

"Nothing, ma'am."

"Just as I thought. Now off to bed with ye both. You've a busy day tomorrow. I'll close the door behind me at the bottom so it'll cool off a bit up here."

When the lamp was out, May found she was unable to sleep. She stared into the black of the slanted ceiling with the quilt tucked snugly under her arms. The freshly laundered nightgown, warmed by her body, released its rose scent into her nostils.

She wrinkled her nose and stifled a sneeze.

From below, she heard the sound of several light raps and held her breath to listen. One of the doors to Carlisle's studio creaked open below. She heard nothing for a moment and then she heard Mrs. Carlisle's voice in a soft lilting murmur. It was followed less than a beat later by Carlisle's indistinct rumble.

A long full silence followed and then she heard the studio door close softly again.

### Chapter 34

### Painted

May and Sheila woke, dressed and stomped downstairs to announce their arrival.

In the kitchen, bread was rising under a towel on the sideboard near the stove and there was another pie in the oven—the other having been devoured by Carlisle the day before.

On the table, a new plate of freshly baked scones was set out for breakfast. A swirl of hot steam curled its way out of the spout of the little teapot next to it.

Mrs. Carlisle greeted them, but Carlisle was nowhere in sight.

"You slept well, I hope," Cora said cheerfully, going to the table and putting down several teacups in her hand. She took up the teapot and poured them some tea.

They both thanked her and took a seat.

Through the window, Carlisle could be seen coming up the path with Rufus running circles around him.

"It's a beautiful day, isn't it?" said Mrs. Carlisle.

"Yes, ma'am," said May, reaching for a scone.

"Take one of those," said Mrs. Carlisle, pointing to several on a smaller plate. "They don't have any nuts, dear."

"Oh, you didn't have to go to the trouble."

"Not a bit of trouble at all, dear."

"You're finally up," said Carlisle loudly, poking his head into the kitchen. "I'll be right back. I just need to put my pipe away."

By the looks of him, May thought his fever had returned.

"Is he alright?" Sheila asked after he'd left.

"In a manner of speaking," said Mrs. Carlisle, looking disgruntled. She sat down and took up her teacup. "He always looks like that when he's been working."

"Has he even gone to bed?" asked May. Carlisle was wearing the same rumpled brown linen suit from the day before.

"No," said his wife, sounding annoyed. "And it's completely useless to make him try. It used to worry me silly when he got like this. I'd make him stop workin' and insist he go to bed. But then he'd just stay awake all night and the next night be at it again. Finally, I decided, better one night without sleep than two—or more." She shrugged. "After he gets whatever he needs to out of him, I feed him and put him to bed. He sleeps like a babe, and usually he's not too much the worse for wear after everythin's said and done. I just wish this time it didn't have to come so close on the heels of that fever."

Carlisle joined them with apologies. His eyes were bright and glassy.

May ate half her scone and found herself wishing it had nuts in it.

Sheila and Mrs. Carlisle chatted about rose gardening, Sheila's mother having never had a rose bush last more than one season.

Carlisle was agitated and fidgety from lack of sleep. He ate three scones and downed three cups of tea in restless silence. He said finally, "I've set the painting up in the back garden. I don't know if it'll work."

"We can only try, right?" said Sheila. Turning to May, she said, "Home, May."

May, who had long since forbidden herself to even think of home, experienced an inward tug at the word, and a sadness, too.

Sheila asked Carlisle. "What will you do now?"

"I don't know," he answered, as if that thought hadn't yet occurred to him. "Stay here for a bit, I guess. I have a little work to do on the house. Then, maybe in a couple of years we'll take a trip upstream." He looked over his shoulder at his wife who had gone to the stove. He leaned across the table and whispered, "It's good to get Mrs. Carlisle out now and then. She can get a little set in her ways."

"I heard that," said Cora, returning to the table, but not sitting down. "Mr. Carlisle," she said, putting a hand on his shoulder, "I think it must be time to get these dear lasses back to their homes, don't you?"

He nodded once.

Cora sent May and Sheila a look. They caught her meaning and stood up. When Carlisle noticed all the women in the room standing, he came out of his thoughts and got to his feet.

As they walked through the parlor and into the studio, he said, "I know the last time you went through, it was a little rough, so I was hoping to make things less bumpy for you this time. I was aiming for something like a ... " he shrugged and made an expansive gesture with his hands, " ... a 'waltz', I guess you could say."

As they came through the door and entered the back garden, May spotted a large painted canvas propped against the trunk of a tree. Like the photo, the painting showed her and Sheila sitting on the flowered sofa in Bonnie Hazelton's living room. She clamped her eyes on the herring-bone patterned brick of the courtyard.

"It's not as bad as all that, is it?" said Carlisle with a grimace. "I was hoping you would like it."

"Oh, Uncle Frank, it's beautiful," said Sheila. "Don't you think so, May?"

She nodded.

"You don't like it," Carlisle said.

"No, it's very nice. It's just—well, my eyes aren't exactly that color," she said. "My eyes are brown."

"Brown?" he said. "May, my eyes are brown." He put a finger under her chin and waited until she looked at him. She tried not to laugh as he inspected her eyes carefully, looking cross-eyed down his crooked nose at her.

"They're amber! Just as I thought. A truly unusual color—like the eyes of a cat. I've never seen the match to them. They're one of your nicest features."

"They are?"

"Yes."

"But then there's—you kind of made me too ... " she gestured again at the painting, not even daring to glance at it this time.

"Too what?" he said. "It's your nose, isn't it? I made it too long. I was worried about that."

"No. It's not that. It's just that you made me too—" With a look, she appealed to Mrs. Carlisle for help.

Cora said to her, "Indeed, it's no use arguing with him about it, dear. It doesn't make a bit of a difference, and it only just gets him into a fine royal temper." The woman rolled her eyes skyward. "And believe me, I am one that knows."

May gave up. She said, "Never mind. It's beautiful. I love it."

Carlisle turned to her with a wide smile. "You do?"

"Really, I do."

"Hey," said Sheila. "I think I just saw myself wink. There I go again."

"Why yes, I believe I saw it too," said Carlisle. "Did you see that, Cora?"

"Indeed I did, dear."

Sheila's elation turned to sadness. "I guess that means it's time to go."

May grabbed Mrs. Carlisle's hand and pumped it. "Thank you, ma'am, for everything."

"Nonsense," said Cora. She pulled May toward her and kissed her on the cheek. "Thank you, dear, and God bless you."

"You, too, ma'am."

Sheila rushed from the painting to Carlisle, jumped up and threw her arms around his neck. "Oh, Uncle Frank," she sobbed.

Carlisle regained his balance, leaned over and put her feet gently back on the ground.

"Oh, Uncle Frank," she sobbed out again, still hugging him. "I am going to miss you so much."

He was silent for a long moment. Finally, he said, "Me too, dear."

Sheila lingered a moment, then released him and hugged her aunt. "Oh, Aunt Cora. I wish I could have known you longer."

"I do, too, dear," said Cora, hugging her and sniffling.

May looked up at Carlisle. He was white and rigid. He eyed her nervously.

"Don't worry, I won't cry," she said to him with a smile she didn't feel.

Looking relieved, he cleared his throat. "I wanted to give you this," he said, picking up a glass jar of dark red paint from a tree stump next to him. "It's to replace the one I threw away. I had Cora write down the ingredients on the label; her handwriting's better than mine."

May took the jar from him. "It was all dried up anyway, but thank you."

"Remember to close the lid tight."

"I promise."

The breeze started to pick up in swirls. Fallen rose petals stirred then whisked around the courtyard, carried aloft by the wind. Rufus chased and snapped at them.

May and Carlisle shook hands. She said to him, "I was wrong about something, Uncle Frank. You really are a gentleman."

He leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. He was frowzy and his beard hurt. He smelled of sunshine and pipe tobacco. She whispered in his ear, "Congratulations. You're going to make a wonderful father."

Sheila left off hugging Aunt Cora. She hugged Carlisle again and then joined May in front of the painting.

Carlisle put his arm around his wife as Cora took her kerchief from her sleeve.

Sheila wiped her eyes on the back of her hand. "May, are you sure he's alright? He looks kind of pale. He's not sick again, is he?"

"He'll be fine."

The warm, perfumed air circled around the garden courtyard, lifting their hair into buoyant halos around their heads. May watched the hair of her painted self do the same.

Sheila grabbed her hand. "Well, here goes!"

"A waltz, huh?" shouted May above the rising noise of the wind, bracing herself.

"That's right," Carlisle shouted back, "Either that or—" He said something to his wife that she couldn't hear.

"Or what?" she shouted as Sheila stepped into the painting, pulling May through behind her.

### Chapter 35

### The Rose Garden

May felt a pleasant twirling, dizzying sensation and the next moment, she landed with a soft puff onto the cushions of Sheila's living room sofa. "Well? That didn't seem so bad," she said in a trembling voice. "How do you feel?"

Sheila considered. "A little dizzy. Warm and cozy."

"Me too," said May, licking her lips and frowning. "Do you taste eggnog?"

"No."

"Weird. I must be imagining things," said May, looking around the living room. Decorative pillows littered the floor at their feet. Knick-knacks lay chipped and scattered beneath the corner wall shelf. The coffee table was against the far wall and the magazines usually on top were scattered over the floor along with the television remote in several pieces, having slipped the cover of its battery compartment and disgorged the contents.

"It's just as we left it," said May, hopping up from the couch and grabbing her cellphone off the side table.

"What time is it?" asked Sheila, watching her.

"Five of one," said May.

"My mother will be back any minute."

May and Sheila both ran to the coffee table, lifted it and set it in front of the couch. Sheila went for the magazines while May put the remote back together. May was in the process of replacing the knick-knacks on the shelves and tucking a few stray shards of porcelain into her pocket, when Bonnie Hazelton arrived in a good mood through the front door, having just sold another house at auction. Bonnie stopped humming when she saw them and smiled at her daughter.

Sheila gave a final pat to the pillows on the sofa.

"I saw the two bikes still in the yard, but I just figured you must have walked to the game. You're back early, aren't you?" said Bonnie who had the same sing-song voice as her daughter, mellowed by time and experience. She stood in the entryway arch in her nyloned feet. An attractive, honey-blonde, aside from being slightly rounder and with the soft beginnings of crow's feet framing her eyes, she bore a remarkable resemblance to her daughter. Bonnie sniffed the air. "Are one of you girls wearing perfume?"

They both shook their heads.

"I guess that new air freshener I bought must be working." Bonnie walked to her daughter and hugged her. "Did you have a good time, sweetie?"

"Yes," said Sheila, hugging her mother back.

"What a nice hug, dear," she said. Then looking into her daughter's face, she said, "Didn't you wear sunscreen to the game? You're brown as a nut."

"I guess I forgot."

Bonnie shook her head. She said to May, "Did Sheila show you the paintings I bought?"

"Oh, I think you could say that!"

"I don't really know why I bought that castle one. It's very sad. I think I'll advertise it as 'delightfully moody'. Hey, that's pretty good. 'Delightfully moody'—I like the sound of that. Did you see the other one of Cora Carlisle? It's very sweet," she said, walking toward the painting. Her mouth flew open. "Sheila? Did you notice there was a man in this picture sitting on the bench? I don't remember—"

"There is?" said Sheila and May together, crowding in to look at the small portrait.

"He's got his arm around her. That must be Francis Carlisle. Do we still have that newspaper clipping?" Still looking at the painting, Bonnie held out her hand.

May reached into her pocket, unfolded the clipping and placed it on Bonnie's outstretched palm. The paper was yellow, faded and smudged.

Bonnie lifted it into the air, holding it between her thumb and forefinger and making a face as though it were a sock she had found under the couch. She compared the photograph of Carlisle to the man in the painting. "I'll be. It is a self-portrait. I wonder if that makes it worth more? It's funny I don't remember him being there before. I guess I really need to wear my glasses more often. Well, good. I thought his wife looked a bit lonely there all by herself—well, when I thought she was by herself anyway. I don't even remember the dog either or the young girl. Gosh, that's strange."

"There's a girl?" said Sheila.

"Yes, right there," said Bonnie, pointing. "She's swinging from an apple tree in the background."

"I figured it would be a girl," said May.

A classified advertisement caught her attention on the back side of the newspaper page dangling forgotten between Bonnie's fingers.

**Fine-Arts Fencing** Character! Confidence! Self-Control! Tap your potential! Get fit! Most of all have fun! Come learn the fine-art of fencing! Instructions in foil, epee, saber. Certified instructor, Roberta Fortune. Call: (207) 555-1887

She heard Bonnie start talking again as May plucked the clipping from her loose fingered grasp. "Such an intelligent looking man! Bit of a cuddly, teddy-bear type by the look of him. I like them that way, myself. You know, he kind of reminds me of my brother Harvey. Doesn't he look just a little bit like Uncle Harvey, dear?"

"You know, Mom, it's funny, but now that you mention it, he does. Maybe we should do one of those family trees sometime. Who knows? He might be some long, lost uncle or something."

"That would be kind of a fun project for us," said Bonnie starting up the stairs. "I'm going to go change. These control top pantyhose are killing me."

Sheila nudged May's arm with her elbow and said, "I see Aunt Cora didn't waste any time fattening him up."

May nodded and smiled. "Indeed."

### Chapter 36

### Morning

A loud rhythmic beat shook the air around the gray colonial as May coasted up the drive and parked her bike. Before going inside the house, she picked up the folded newspaper off the lawn and tucked it under her arm. As she opened the front door, the rhythmic beat became an assault on the atmosphere.

Charley pressed the mute button on the remote when he saw his sister enter the living room. He was stretched out on the Taylor's brown couch with his head on one armrest and his white stockinged feet on the other. He had his physics textbook propped open on his chest.

"Your music sucks," she said, happy and relieved to see him.

"Too bad for you. What's that in your hand?"

"The newspaper."

He sighed. "The other, stupid. The jar?"

She grinned. "Paint. It's a gift from a friend. Thought I would try it."

"You have friends?"

"Occasionally," she said, heading for the stairs.

"You didn't—did you go to the game today? I didn't see you there."

"No, I was at Sheila's. I'm sorry. I wanted to go, but we missed it."

"Oh." Charley fingered a few pages of his textbook. He gave a small nod. "Well, you didn't miss much."

"Weren't Mom and Dad there?" she asked.

"You know Dad wouldn't miss it," he said in a sarcastic tone. "But Mom had an appointment."

"Imagine that," she said.

"You're too hard on her."

"Not nearly." May started to head for the stairs, but he stopped her again.

"You two just stay over your friend, Sheila's, for the afternoon?"

She turned around. "Yeah. Hung out. Painted our toenails. Girl stuff. I'm sorry we missed the game. I hope you're not disappointed."

"Don't worry about it. Why would I be?" he said quickly, diving back into his physics textbook.

She watched him a moment. "I must be an idiot."

He turned a page. "You are an idiot. What is it?"

"Why don't you just ask her out already?"

He didn't look up from his book.

"Oh, my mistake." She turned to go.

"She probably has tons of guys ask her out all the time," he said.

"Yes, well, what would you expect? She's gorgeous." Which I will never be, she thought. "Tons and tons."

"What I figured," he muttered.

"I happen to know, though, she goes for a certain tall, blond, dorky guy. No accounting for taste, I guess. You don't happen to know any do you? They seem to be in short supply."

Charley frowned in concentration at his book, not reading a word of it.

Watching him, she took a few more tentative steps toward the stairs.

"Really?"

"Yeah. I guess it's a shame she's not your type and all. I should probably call her and tell her you aren't interested so she can move on." She gazed up at the ceiling and tapped her index finger lightly on her chin. "What was her new cell phone number again? I remember I wrote it down on the fridge calendar last week."

"You aren't really going to call her, are you?" He was looking at her now in a kind of terror.

"No. But, if you don't, I will."

"You wouldn't dare." He swung his legs off the sofa and sat up, causing the physics book to fall off his lap. It landed open on the carpet with the pages bunched and folded, trapped between the heavy cover and the floor.

"Charley, if it was up to you, she'd be a grandmother before you called. How much easier can I make it? Suck it up and call her already, preferably in her lifetime." She tapped an imaginary watch on her wrist and the newspaper slipped out from under her arm. "Clock's ticking, buddy. Twenty-four hours. You call or I will."

Forgetting all about his physics homework, Charley settled himself back on the couch and contemplated the ceiling.

"Oh, and if she breaks your little stone of a heart—and she probably will—keep in mind, I'm not responsible."

May bent down, picked the paper off the floor and swore when she saw the headline.

"You better not let Mom hear you say that," said Charley. "She grounded me for a week."

"Say what?" she said, walking up the stairs with her eyes glued on the paper.

"Did you want me to turn down the music?" he called after her.

"Music?"

"Yeah, the music. You want me to turn it down?"

"Turn it what? No, no, turn it up. It's starting to grow on me."

REMAINS OF MISSING PAINTER FOUND IN UNDERWATER CAVE

The remains of painter and railroad tycoon, Francis Carlisle, were found today in an underwater cave at the base of the castle that bears his name. Carlisle's body, missing for almost 120 years, was found by an excavation team of Eurocorp Development Company during an effort to shore up the foundation of the castle. The company has been unsuccessful thus far in its efforts to renovate the antique structure into an elegant hotel and spa.

His body lost for over a century, Carlisle was thought to have drowned himself in the bay shortly after the death of his wife in 1887. Bone fragments, including a badly fractured skull indicate that the painter most likely plunged or fell to his death from one of the castle windows onto the jagged rocks which line the sheer cliffs of the estate. Carried by the surf into an underwater cave, his body waited for over a century, his death shrouded in mystery.

Once the body's identity is confirmed, Carlisle will be laid to rest next to his wife, Cora, in Masobesic Cemetery after a formal ceremony. Preliminary identification is based on items found with him, most notably a marriage ring bearing an inscription, and a man's black onyx ring known to have belonged to him. Also found within the cave were some small non-native shells and a silver key. Both items may be incidental to the find but will warrant further examination as to their origins.

May had arrived at her room. She entered and locked the door behind her.

She placed the jar of paint on her shelf, walked to her desk and put the paper down on it. The news article didn't make any sense to her, and she shook her head, unable to accept the words on the page and unable to accept how she felt about them.

He was dead.

No matter how much she reasoned it out to herself; it seemed to make no difference to how she felt. It was no good telling herself he had already been dead for over a century the whole time she had known him or that this newspaper report didn't matter one bit. It changed absolutely nothing about what they had been through.

But all her good reasoning wasn't working in making her feel any better. There seemed no way for her to avoid the complete irrationality of it. And with her door locked and herself finally and completely alone for the first time in what seemed like forever, there just didn't seem to be any point in avoiding how she felt about it, either.

With Charley downstairs in a stupefied dither getting up the nerve to call Sheila, and the pounding rap music blaring through the house, she gave herself up completely.

She cried because she had lost something she hadn't even known was important to her. Then she cried, scared and mad about everything else: the pirates, the goddess, the earthquake, the ogre, the freezing cold and the gnawing fear in the pit of her stomach to see Carlisle close to death.

And the thought of that made her cry all over again about him.

She lost all sense of time. She cried as long as she wanted and as miserably as she wanted.

She cried until she began to think what a silly, stupid fool she was for crying so much. The news article really didn't matter. What she had been through was truer than anything written in black and white on a page.

Finally, she raised her head off her desk, sniffed and wiped her eyes.

The paper was soaked good. It was wrinkled and smudged, and the ink had left reversed black letters all up the length of her arms. She went to the bathroom and in the mirror, she saw that her nose was shiny, and her eyes were puffy.

She looked gloriously awful.

May splashed her blotchy face and the printed ink all up her arms reflected back at her from the mirror no longer in reverse. It was a jumble of smeared words, but she saw clearly in bold letters, 'Eurocorp'. She smoothed soap over her forearms, washing the words away. Then she brushed her hair and went back to her room.

An hour later, she emerged with a box of items she had no use for anymore: old stuffed animals, empty journals never written in, music hardly listened to, worn out books and pieces of herself that no longer seemed relevant or pertinent or part of her any more.

She brought the box down to the garage along with a trash bag of unsalvageable oil paints in hardened tubes, stiff unusable paintbrushes she had never bothered to wash, school papers from elementary school, and old bits of broken, out-of-date bric-a-brac. She lifted up the top of the large metal garbage pail in the garage and threw the full trash bag in.

The box of items, she put near a pile of other yard sale merchandise accumulating for several years now, no one in the family having the inclination to give up a Saturday to actually have a sale.

A shaft of bright light, falling through a high window on an unused nook of the garage, caught her attention. It was just beyond a tall plastic shelf full of old rusty tools and car wash paraphernalia. She went back to her room to get some more items.

When she returned to the garage, May propped a blank canvas up on a makeshift easel made from an old kitchen barstool and began to paint.

### Chapter 37

### An Early Birthday Present

"Just what are you wearing?" cried Sheila, pulling aside the corner of May's unzipped down coat.

May shivered on the front porch of Sheila's house and breathed whitish, translucent fog out of her nose in the freezing December air. Before she answered Sheila, she turned around and waved to her mother inside the new Escalade backing down the drive. Lynn Taylor returned her daughter's wave before pulling out into the street.

May waggled the cell phone in her hand. "I got your text message. I came right over from fencing class. I didn't even change. You said it was an emergency."

"I forgot you had one of those fencing classes this morning."

"My third one. It's not easy, but so far, I love it." May grinned and opened the other side of her coat, showing all of her new uniform. "What do you think?"

Sheila gave her a crooked smile while she pulled a sweaty lock of hair off of May's cheek with a nauseous look then tucked it behind her ear.

"What is up with you?" May said, closing her coat. "Can I come in, please? It's freezing out here."

"Oh, right." Sheila backed up into the warm house.

"Do I smell chocolate chip cookies?" said May, putting her sports bag on the floor. "You making them for Charley? He's coming over any minute, right? He's going to have to drive me home—Mom had an appointment. Where are you guys going anyway?"

"Didn't Charley tell you?"

"Like I get any information from him."

"The museum."

May laughed. "That ought to be good. How did you manage that? Good luck, that's all I have to say. If you happen to lose him, just go back to where they keep the statues; he'll be the one that isn't moving. By the way, you two didn't happen to have a fight on Thursday, did you?"

Sheila sat down on the entryway bench. "Did he say anything?"

"He didn't have to. He's been sulking for two days."

"Good."

"Whose is that minivan in the driveway?" asked May as she plopped down next to Sheila. She tucked her cell phone next to her, leaned over and took off a boot.

"Oh that? My aunt's here," said Sheila lightly.

"From out of state?" asked May, taking off her other boot and sliding the pair underneath the bench.

"They were living in Boston for a few years. My Uncle Harvey is an architect. They just moved a couple of towns over."

"I remember now. Didn't we go with them to the beach one summer? I seem to recall your cousin, Derwin, throwing sand in my hair."

"Duncan," corrected Sheila. "And he was only nine at the time. Besides, I think he liked you."

"That's a good reason. Took me two days to wash it all out." She picked up her bag, took her cell phone from the bench, and headed into the living room.

"Aren't you even going to take your coat off?" asked Sheila, following her.

"Why? Charley will be here any second; he's never late for anything." She went to put down the phone in her hand and nearly dropped it on a large floor vase full of silk flowers in seasonal red, white and gold.

"She moved that little table to the back hall," said Sheila.

May put the phone in her jacket pocket as she walked to where the painting of Carlisle Castle had once been. Instead, Aunt Cora and Uncle Frank sat smiling out from their rose garden with Rufus curled up at their feet and their daughter swinging from an apple tree in the background.

May said, "The castle painting is in Ohio you told me?"

"Yes, and I'm glad too. My mom sold it to a museum there for a bundle. They still haven't figured out what he put in the paint or the varnish. I bet someone would probably pay a fortune for the formula."

Let them wonder, thought May.

"Mom didn't know the painting was a family heirloom when she sold it. She probably wouldn't have if she'd known, but I'm not sorry it's gone. She sure wishes she'd bought more paintings at the estate sale though. Have you seen Eurocorp? Mom says, 'thanks for the tip'. The stock has tripled in the last week!"

"So I heard," said May with a wink.

"Your mother must be happy you're taking an interest in her line of work."

"You could say that. It's paying for college."

"Did you hear they're opening Carlisle Hotel in the spring? You want to go check it out when it opens?"

May thought about it for a second. "Nah."

"You're right. It wouldn't be the same."

May walked to the coffee table. Next to the usual stack of magazines was a hastily wrapped Christmas present and a large paperback art book. Making no comment on the present, she read the title of the book. " _Great Movements in Art History_. Your mother reading that?"

"I am," said Sheila.

"No kidding?"

"I figure it couldn't hurt, right? I mean, my mother hasn't a clue what she's doing; I thought I might be able to help out a little."

May set her bag down on the floor. "Okay, now. What's the big emergency?"

Sheila dived for the present on the coffee table and handed it to her.

"Christmas was last week. You already gave me a gift, remember?"

"Actually, it's your birthday present," said Sheila. "I'm sorry about the Christmas wrap. I know you hate it. I usually try to make a special trip to the store, but I didn't get a chance. I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it. I know you've been a little preoccupied this year. Anyhow, I like the surfing Santa wrap. It's very festive. But my birthday isn't 'till next week." May offered back the gift.

"It's early," said Sheila.

She held the present up to her ear and shook it. "What is it anyway?"

"Open it."

"You know I hate surprises," she said, shaking the present again and listening to the shifting noises inside. "Can't you just tell me?"

Sheila sighed. "It's some new paints. I knew yours had got all dried up, so I thought you could use some more."

"Thanks. Can I open it later?"

"What I figured," said Sheila.

Charley always says that, thought May as she unzipped her sports bag and slid the present inside. "So that's the big emergency?" she said, zipping the bag back up.

From the kitchen, she heard the sound of the slider to the backyard open. A second later a small, dark haired boy tore into the living room, wiggled out of his snow covered coat and let it drop on Bonnie Hazelton's immaculate wood floor.

The boy had on a red cape. He did an elaborate karate chop in the air. "Yah," he yelled at May with superhero gusto.

She stared down at him. "Let me guess. This is the big emergency? You offered to babysit, and now you need me to do it while you go to the museum?"

The boy stared up at her and wrinkled his nose. "You dress funny," he said.

She put her hands on her hips. "So do you," she shot back. There was something familiar about the kid. "What's your name?" she asked suspiciously.

He put a hand on his hip, copying her. "I'm Shane O'Callahan. I'm five," he said, holding out a splayed hand proudly.

May said in amazement, "You know, he kind of looks like—"

"I know."

Sheila's mother and aunt were concluding the mandatory house tour. The sound of their voices could be heard as they turned the landing and descended the staircase into the living room.

May heard the slider close in the kitchen and a low, resonant voice called out, "Hey, where did you go? Get back over here, Rugrat, and take off your boots!"

The voice was both familiar and yet unfamiliar at the same time.

The male voice from the kitchen said, "Hey, what the—? Aunt Bonnie? The cookies are done. Don't worry, I've got 'em, though I think they're a little burnt."

From the other room, May heard the sound of kitchen drawers opening and closing, then the oven door shut with a clang. She heard an aluminum pan clatter loudly. "Ow," yelled the voice from the kitchen, followed by unintelligible, vitriolic muttering.

Sheila whispered, "Duncan just got his license this year, and he was driving my aunt around. He's always kind of looked out for me maybe because I didn't have a brother. I missed him when he moved away to Boston. But he's back in the area now. Only he doesn't know anyone around here anymore, and he's a little—well ..." (Sheila looked up at the ceiling and inclined her head as though she were trying to think of just the right word to use) "... shy."

"Shy?"

"Yeah. You know—a little like you."

"I don't think I would really describe myself as 'shy'."

"Oh, it doesn't really matter, does it? Anyhow, I thought—that is—if you didn't have anything else to do this afternoon ...."

"This afternoon?" said May, confused.

"Yes, May—the museum. I figured that maybe you might like to go with us. I'm trying to get Duncan to go, but he says he would feel like a sixth wheel."

"I think you mean a fifth wheel," she said, trying to think of any excuse she could come up with not to go. Since she was drawing a blank, she stalled for time. "You mean go somewhere with you and Charley?"

"Yes, me and Charley. Grow up, May. It's a museum. I promise I won't kiss him in front of you."

"Eyew."

"Oh please say 'yes'! I haven't seen Duncan in ages. If you don't go, he won't either."

Shane jumped up and down and shouted, "Can I go? Can I go, too?"

"What are you saying? You mean this afternoon?"

"Yes, this afternoon! In case you're wondering, it's called being spontaneous."

May's stomach went hollow. "I don't know, Sheila, I don't feel so good all of a sudden. It's like a hundred degrees in here."

"You're probably just overheated. Take your coat off, for heaven's sake." She spun May around and wrestled her down coat off of her.

"I don't know about this, Sheila. Can I at least peek around the corner first?" She was feeling suddenly lightheaded.

"He's really sweet, May."

"That's not a good sign."

"No, I don't mean that—it's just, well—oh, never mind, you'll see. Really, he's a super nice guy." Sheila closed her mouth abruptly. "Actually, I didn't really mean to say that, either. What I meant was—"

"That's okay. I get the picture. He eats nails for breakfast, right?"

"Yeah. He's the worst guy you'd ever want to meet, I promise." Sheila looked down at Shane who was yanking on her hands now and hopping up and down. She squatted down and patted the floor. "Sit down, Shaney, and I'll get those boots off of you. You don't want Aunt Bonnie to be mad at you, do you?"

Shane sat down dutifully with his legs spread out and his palms on the floor behind him for support. He stared at his pretty older cousin while she removed his wet boots.

In the kitchen, Duncan O'Callahan took off his Aunt Bonnie's reindeer shaped oven mitts. He grabbed a warm chocolate chip cookie from the wire rack on the kitchen counter, whisked crumbs off his favorite black t-shirt and stuffed the cookie whole into his mouth.

With his cheek contorted by the cookie and brushing his hands together, he lumbered into the living room in search of his energetic little brother.

Sheila smiled up at her cousin as he came through the archway, but Duncan didn't see her, instead his brown eyes widened at something else in the room. He stopped chewing suddenly and winced.

Sheila turned around just in time to see May topple over and hit the floor.

"That was so cool," shouted Shane with his eyes huge and one boot off.

### Chapter 38

### A Tall Glass of Fresh Water

May felt tapping on the backs of both of her hands. Someone stroked hair off her forehead and patted her face softly. She felt hot, cookie-scented puffs of breath on her cheek.

From light years away, a woman's voice she didn't recognize said, "Shane O'Callahan, back off and give the girl some air."

She heard Duncan say, "Come on, Rugrat, you heard Mom."

"Let me go. Ma, tell him to let me go," yelled Shane.

"Then back off. You're sucking up all her air," said Duncan.

"But she smells nice."

"I know she does but get out of her face, will you? She can't even breathe."

"Duncan?" said his mother, embarrassed.

"Yeah?"

"Never mind. Thank you, dear," sighed Duncan's mother. "What do you suppose could have happened? Has she been sick?"

"I don't know," replied Bonnie. "Maybe she got overheated and went out in the cold too quick. Did she just come from one of those fencing classes, Sheila?"

"Yes," said Sheila then explained to Aunt Shannon, "May started fencing class a couple of weeks ago."

"Funcing?" said Shane. "What's that?"

"It's fencing, Rugrat. Sword fighting," said Duncan.

"Sword fighting? Cool!"

"Shh, everyone. It looks like she's coming to now," said Bonnie.

May had a headache. She opened her eyes and sat up. She was on the area rug in the living room, with Bonnie on one side of her and Sheila's aunt on the other. The older women stopped patting May's hands and lifted her to her feet where she bobbled unsteadily.

Wordlessly, the women sat her down on the couch. They stood in front of the coffee table with their hands clasped in front of them, assessing her with motherly looks of concern on their faces.

"I'm fine, really," May said, looking around her and trying to get up. Duncan wasn't anywhere to be seen. She heard the sound of running water in the kitchen.

"Just hang on a few minutes, hon," said Bonnie, pushing her down on the sofa again. "You're not going anywhere. You need to rest a bit."

"That was so cool!" shouted Shane.

"You had us worried," said Sheila, sitting down next to her on the armrest of the sofa.

Loudly, Aunt Shannon said, "Duncan, dear, could you get the poor girl a glass of—"

Having just returned from the kitchen, Duncan showed his mother the glass of water in his hand, presenting it like a magician materializing it out of thin air. "Ta-dah," he said.

His mother smiled up at him. Turning to Bonnie, she said, "He's always such a thoughtful boy."

Duncan blushed crimson to the roots of his wavy dark brown hair.

Sheila's aunt looked back at her eldest son. Seeing the color of his face, she gave him a quick smile and said, "Sorry dear."

"That was so cool!" shouted Shane again, climbing up on the sofa next to May and jumping up and down on the cushions so that the couch bounced nauseatingly under her.

"No, no, Shaney," scolded his mother, waggling a finger at him.

Aunt Bonnie looked ready to strangle him.

Swallowing queasily, May turned to the boy and searched his still bouncing face, "Exactly how cool did it look?"

"You went over like a ton of bricks." Shane smashed his hands together with a loud smack. "Bam! Your legs went way up in the air. It was awesome!"

"Great," she whispered.

"Off, already," cried Duncan to his brother. "You want to crack your head open on the coffee table or do you want me to crack it for you? Besides, just look at her. You're going to make her puke."

Shane finished bouncing with one final jump onto his bottom and got down.

"Actually, it really was cool," said Duncan, fingering and turning the glass in his hands. "I never seen a girl pass out before. Especially not like that!" Grinning widely, Duncan just stared at her.

"Don't forget to give her the water, dear," said his mother.

"Oh, right, for sure," said Duncan. He put one hand on the pile of glossy magazines on the low coffee table, and with the other, held out the water glass. As she went to take it from him, the magazines shifted under his weight and he came flying straight at her.

May braced herself for the impact, but he caught himself with his elbows on the coffee table before landing in her lap. A wave of water sloshed over the rim of the glass in his hand and all down the front of May's new fencing uniform.

She sucked in a sharp breath at the unexpected coolness and gazed down at herself. "Well, that was refreshing!"

"I'm ... so ... sorry," said Duncan, wincing at her soaked uniform. He got up off his elbows and set the practically empty glass down on the coffee table in front of her.

"That's okay," she said, looking up at him quickly. "It's just a little water. It'll dry."

"Dunc, there's not much left," said his mother. "Maybe you should get the girl some more."

"No, don't bother!" May grabbed the glass off the coffee table before he could take it. There were fingerprints all around the rim. "Honest, this is perfect. Besides, I don't actually like water anyway," she said before taking a sip.

"Really?" said Duncan. "I'm afraid of heights, myself."

Choking on the water, May coughed out, "You are?"

Surprised at her response, he said quietly, "No, not really. It was just a joke." He made a drumming motion with his hands in the air and said weakly, "Ba-dump-ching."

"That's a stupid joke. I don't get it," said Shane.

Neither did May, but she smiled anyway. "Well, I do."

The doorbell rang. Sheila jumped off the arm of the sofa and called out, "That must be Charley."

"That'd be my ride," said May, standing up. She put the empty glass on the coffee table and reached for her sports bag on the floor. Before she could grab hold of it, Sheila pushed her towards the stairs to the second floor, saying, "Could someone let Charley in? May needs to change in my room before we go to the museum."

"But I need my bag," protested May.

"Yuck! I mean—there's no time for that. I'm sure I have something you can wear."

Duncan jingled a pile of loose change in his pocket as he watched May being prodded up the stairs by his cousin.

Bonnie let her nephew alone for a moment and then said, "Duncan, dear, would you mind letting Charley in?"

"For sure," he said, spinning around too fast, banging his shin on the coffee table. Holding his knee with one hand, he slouched out of the room with Shane right behind him.

Duncan's mother said, "Did you see that? I've never seen him like that. Who is this girl anyway? Some friend of Sheila's?"

Bonnie, who never believed in sparing young people from the hazardous winding path of love whenever the marvelous opportunity presented itself, said to her sister-in-law, "May's a dear girl from a good family—very respectable and responsible."

"Bonnie, you know what happened last time. I don't want him to go through that again."

"You can't protect him forever, Shannon. He's sixteen. Do you want him to become a priest?"

"But you know how he is. He can't seem to do anything half way."

"And May is as cool as an Atlantic salmon. It won't take them too long to figure out they have absolutely nothing in common. You have nothing to worry about."

"An Atlantic salmon?"

Bonnie held up two fingers in a girl scouts salute. "On my honor. Ice water. She's even more uptight than her mother, which is saying something. You've got to let my favorite nephew have some fun." Bonnie looked into her sister-in-law's hazel eyes and said, "This move has been hard on him. He's got to make all new friends." Bonnie moved her arm around Shannon's shoulder and steered her towards the kitchen where chocolate chip cookies and strawberry daiquiris awaited for the afternoon. "Besides, lighten up, they're just going to a museum."

"Maybe you're right," said Shannon.

"Of course I'm right," said Bonnie. "Think about it. What could possible happen to them at an art museum?"

###

Note from the Author:

Thank you for taking this journey with me!

If you enjoyed this book, please leave a good review at your favorite ebook retailer. I am excited to say that the sequel to this book is now available! Look for

Spelled Out in Paint

at smashwords.com as well as other ebook retailers!

I welcome you to email me with your comments at

t.mikals@rocketmail.com

I am always trying to improve. Please email me right away if you noticed a typo!

About the Author

Tina Mikals is a native of New England. She admits now that she took the advice of "follow your bliss" too seriously. After getting a bachelor's degree in linguistics, she spent her youth traveling and working menial jobs. She is a little more settled now and prefers traveling in her head. She has a wonderful and supportive husband and is the mother of two easy going and delightful children of the art, math and science breed. She has given up trying to get any of them to read books, so she is a reading tutor to others. She also has a Jack Russell terrier and a pug, a quasi-feral cat, and a late twentieth century Volkswagen which has become another member of the family. She is the author of _The Painted Room_ and its sequel _Spelled Out in Paint_ offered on smashwords.com and other ebook retailers.

Read on for a peek at the sequel

Spelled Out in Paint

### Chapter 1

### A Wrong Turn

Duncan saw the one-way sign too late. Since he couldn't back up into traffic onto the busy street he had come from, he said a silent prayer that no cars would turn down the short one-way alley before he could make it safely out the other side.

He was about half way down when his luck ran out.

In the gray light between the buildings at the end of the street, he saw the boxy silhouette of an automobile enter, blocking him in. The straight, high roof of the vehicle hinted at a set of emergency lights.

"It's just a ski rack," said May in the front passenger seat next to him.

The alleyway lit up bright blue for several seconds then returned to wintery gray twilight.

"Or maybe not," she said, twisting around to glare at her brother, Charley, in the back seat.

As the mini-van ground to a stop, Charley said, "Hey, don't blame me. The GPS didn't say anything about this being a one-way."

In the seat next to Charley, Sheila pointed to the cell phone in her hand with the sparkly blue nail of her pinky finger. "What about that arrow there? And wasn't I supposed to be reading the GPS for him?"

Charley was silent as he took the cell phone from her, turned it upside down, and frowned at the screen.

May said, "Any dumb idiot could see this was a one way, Charley, but you just kept screaming at him to turn. You've been back seat driving this whole trip."

Duncan was surprised to hear so many words strung together from the girl in the front passenger seat, though he was glad at this particular moment that they weren't aimed at him. But she was right about her brother back seat driving and when he wasn't doing that, he was bickering with Sheila.

Just what Sheila saw in Charley, Duncan couldn't figure out, but he had never known his cousin to make brilliant choices when it came to boyfriends anyway.

From inside the van, they all watched the police officer squeeze himself out of the squad car, trying not to ding the side of a red Subaru with the Taser on his hip. Duncan ran the palms of his hands down the thighs of his jeans. The cop looked close to retirement and there were hard lines on his face. He had probably heard every excuse in the book, and he looked like he hadn't believed any one of them.

Charley said, "Dude, that guy's seen a lot of donuts."

Silently, they all nodded in agreement.

At the very back of the minivan, Duncan's little brother, Shane, blurted out, "Is that a real cop car? Dunc, are you gonna get 'rested?"

Sheila answered sweetly, "No Shanie, the nice officer's just going to talk to Dunc a little."

Duncan wished she sounded more sure.

So far it had been one of those dry Decembers, too bitter cold to snow, and Duncan decided to wait until the cop got to the van before pressing the button to roll down the window. Not that the cold would have affected the girl in the front passenger seat; she hadn't removed her puffy white parka the entire trip even with the heat cranked. With her skinny legs sticking out, it was like driving around with a giant cotton swab.

The cop seemed to be taking his sweet time getting to the van. When he finally got close enough, Duncan clicked the control to the window but nothing happened.

The cop looked blandly through the glass, gnawed some gum in his mouth and waited.

Duncan tried the button again, but the window still didn't budge. He tried to remember if his mother had been having trouble with it; the van was ancient.

"I'm sorry, officer," Duncan yelled through the glass, holding his hands up helplessly.

The cop raised his eyebrows, drawing up the tired hoods of his pale gray eyes. He lifted a finger and pointed to the back of the van.

From behind him, he heard Charley say, "Thanks for the fresh air, dude. Why don't you try rolling down your own window now?"

Duncan felt, more than saw, the girl next to him roll her eyes as he looked down, moved his hand to put up Charley's window, then pressed the correct button for his own.

The officer's eyes scanned the interior of the minivan as the window came down. He said routinely, "License and registration, please."

"Oh right." Duncan unclasped his seat belt, wrestled his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans then offered it to the cop. The wallet was made of duct tape.

The officer chewed his gum at it. "Could you take out the license, please?"

Duncan dug out his license and handed it to him, then watched the cop look it over.

"And I'll need the registration," said the cop, not looking up.

"Oh, right, I forgot," Duncan shot a hand out to the glove compartment and the girl next to him startled like she'd heard a gunshot.

He snapped his hand back, then excused himself twice before gingerly reaching in front of her again to flick the clasp of the compartment.

At his touch, the door flew open and exploded papers all over her knees and onto the floor. Mixed into garage repair bills and a decade's worth of van registrations, there was a mutilated owner's manual and an unwrapped orange tootsie-pop.

He stretched out his hand to take some of the papers off her lap but then stopped himself, suspecting that he might get it slapped this time. She bent her head down and started pawing through the pile like she was looking for a missing lottery ticket before he could make another attempt to enter her body space.

The officer, reading from the license with the trace of a smile on his purplish lips, announced, "Duncan Fergus O'Callahan. That you?" The man poked the name badge on his uniform. "I'm Officer James O'Reilly, Duncan. Could you take off your hat, please?"

Duncan removed his faded red baseball cap. Unsuccessfully, he tried to smooth down the ends of his dark hair that curled up where the edge of the cap had been.

O'Reilly inspected his face, comparing it to the picture on the license in his hand. "I didn't know you young guys were still wearing your sideburns so long."

The girl next to him made a funny noise in her throat like a little cough.

"You drove up from Mass?" asked O'Reilly.

"Mass?"

"Yes, Mass. This is a Massachusetts license, Duncan. This is yours, isn't it?"

"Oh, right, Mass. No, we left from Masobesic Bay."

"Maine? Are you vacationing?"

"Vacationing?"

"Yes, vacationing. Are you on vacation?" The cop was getting annoyed.

"Vacation? No, we just moved up from Boston."

"When was that?"

"Um ... I don't know," said Duncan slowly, watching the cop flip the license over in his hand. "A week?"

O'Reilly looked up sharply. "So you're saying you don't know if it was a week ago that you moved? I think I would remember—"

"No, sorry. I mean, a few weeks." Duncan swallowed. "Why? How long do I have to change it? I was going to get a Maine one tomorrow, I swear. Don't I still have a few days?"

"Take it easy. You've had this license about seven and a half months, Duncan?"

"For sure."

"Is that a 'yes'?"

"Yes, I mean, yes."

O'Reilly raised an eyebrow at him.

Duncan shrank in his seat. "Sir? I mean yes, sir. Is ... is there a problem with the license?" When the cop didn't answer right away, he added weakly. "Sir?"

"No. Not necessarily. Where are you all off to today?"

"Art museum, sir?"

"Are you asking me or telling me, Duncan?"

"Art museum, yes sir."

O'Reilly nodded. "This is the wrong street, Duncan. It's around the corner, next street over."

Duncan had already figured that out. "Thanks, sir."

"How old are you, son?"

"Sixteen, sir." Couldn't he tell from the license? He was looking right at it.

"Do you know why I stopped you, Duncan?"

Charley grumbled something about not knowing how to drive that was audible to everyone, including the cop.

There was a thump from the back of the van as Shane kicked the underside of Charley's seat.

"Um, not really, sir," said Duncan, widening his eyes, trying to look innocent.

"Did you happen to see that sign on the corner, son?"

"Sign, sir?"

O'Reilly sighed, turned to face his squad car and motioned to both sides of his thick body with his hands, one of which still had Duncan's license in it. "Okay, Duncan, do you see that all the parked cars are facing in our direction on both sides of the street? And do you see how your vehicle happens to be pointing the opposite way?"

Duncan nodded, watching his license move up and down in the cop's hand.

"You're traveling down a one way street in the wrong direction."

"Duh," breathed out Charley.

Shane kicked the underside of Charley's seat again, which made it about the hundredth time since leaving Sheila's house.

"Bingo!" shouted May, holding up the orange tootsie pop.

When everyone just stared at her, she pointed to the piece of paper stuck to the lollipop. "I finally found the registration to the van."

She passed the tootsie-pop to Duncan by the very bottom of the stick. He took it from her carefully, trying not to touch even one of her slender white fingers. Then he offered the lollipop with the registration to O'Reilly.

Both sides of the officer's mouth went down. "Could you remove it from the sucker, please?"

Duncan tugged a few times on the registration until it let go with just a small tear out of the corner. The wrinkled paper fluttered as he held it out to O'Reilly.

May said suddenly, "It's really not his fault, officer, my brother gave him the wrong directions. He's a total back seat driver. You should try playing a video game when he's around."

"I'll consider myself warned," mumbled O'Reilly, reading over the registration.

"The GPS was incorrect," insisted Charley, who hated being wrong about anything. Luckily for him, but unluckily for others, he was not wrong often. Sheila pointed again to the phone with the painted nail of her little finger.

"Sheila, that's the next street up. The GPS is simply in error."

"Oh," said Sheila. Then to everyone, she said, "You know, I think he's right."

"Thank you," said Charley. He smiled and handed the phone back to her.

Duncan closed his eyes and exhaled. Charley seemed to have that effect on everyone eventually.

"I'll be back in a minute," said O'Reilly. "Don't go anywhere."

As he watched O'Reilly saunter back to the cop car, Duncan slumped in his seat and stuck the lollipop in his mouth. In the ten minute wait that followed, Sheila and Charley argued, and Shane announced that he needed to go to the bathroom. The girl next to him said nothing of course.

He turned on the radio to drown out the sound of Charley and Sheila and Shane in the back. What he really wanted to do was to scream at them all to just shut up already. He pressed about a dozen buttons on the radio, got nothing but talk—some obnoxiously political, some obnoxiously inane, some both. Finally, he gave up and turned it off.

What was taking the cop so long? Wasn't it always bad if they took a long time? Duncan was going to lose his license, he just knew it. He had finally passed the written test on his third attempt, made it past the six month mark and the passenger and night restrictions, and now his license would probably be taken away until he was thirty, maybe forty even. He'd be practically dead by then.

What's more, he had some sense to realize what a moron he looked like being dressed down by this cop. But it didn't really matter because the girl (what was her name again?) was on a date with a 'dumb idiot' that couldn't read street signs anyway.

Duncan was starting to deeply regret agreeing to go along on this trip. He realized now that he had made a mistake.

When he first met her, she had seemed so different to him; but he saw now that she just wasn't his type.

Okay, really, he saw now that he just wasn't _her_ type. She looked down her thin nose at him whenever he said anything to her. At the start, he had tried to make small talk, even attempted a few jokes, but after getting back only one word responses for over an hour, he had given up.

He supposed it was just as well. After all, she wore way too much make-up, obviously had no sense of humor, and to top it off, had an obnoxious, know-it-all, back seat driving brother who had rattled him into making a completely stupid mistake which might cost him his license. The only reason he had ended up driving was because his mom's minivan was big enough to carry all five of them. His little brother had insisted on coming along and, as usual, had gotten his way. Shane was smart, smarter than himself at that age, Duncan realized, and he had a persistent will that wore down their mother completely.

Duncan also suspected his mother wasn't above using his little brother as a spy.

He watched the girl trying to organize the stack of papers from the glove box. He should tell her not to bother. The van was usually a dumping ground of soda bottles, paper cups, and empty snack bags.

He crunched the rest of the lollipop and chucked the stick at his feet.

"You know, you don't really need to do that," he said, picking some candy out of a tooth with his finger. "The whole van's usually a pig sty. I've tried to clean it once or twice, but it's usually a junk heap a few days later."

Her Highness didn't even look at him. All she said was, "Oh?" like he didn't need to tell her what she already knew. Then she just went on fiddling with the papers on her lap. Duncan wanted to reach over and mess them all up on her.

As he was looking at her, she touched the edge of her eye and came away with a smudge of black goo which she gave a disgusted look to before taking another paper from the pile.

Why hadn't he guessed it? Of course the makeup was all his cousin Sheila's work. The heavy eyeliner and bright lipstick, which seemed just a part of Sheila (he couldn't even remember her without it), seemed out of place on this girl. She looked like a tarted up librarian. He suspected she knew it.

About the only good thing Sheila had done was to put the girl's hair up in a bun. Curled lengths of glossy brown hair bounced around the back of her head every time she moved. His eyes followed one shiny lock down to the nape of the girl's slim neck. He had the impulse to reach out and run his fingers down the length of it.

She faced him suddenly and gave him a wide eyed look. Her almond shaped eyes were a strange shade of light brown on the edge of orange.

Duncan felt heat rush to his face and hated himself for it. He quickly looked out the driver's side window.

It wasn't like he hadn't ever stared at a girl and got a nasty look in return. But those were girls who knew they were pretty and just acted offended. This girl really was offended, as though he had stared at her like she was a side show freak.

He was almost glad when O'Reilly's wrinkled mug appeared at the window.

"Could you please step outside the van?" he said, before Duncan could even get the window down all the way.

His stomach dropped. He rubbed his hands over his face, opened the car door and got out.

The cop led him midway down the side of the minivan. Duncan leaned his back against the cold metal and shuddered.

Officer James O'Reilly had three boys with his ex-wife. Two of them were in college and one was a senior in high school. He wasn't taking any chances. So far the kid was keeping it together, but he didn't like the thought of him losing it in front of everyone in the van, especially his girlfriend.

Or the girlfriend's brother, who reminded him of his ex-brother-in-law.

The kid's story had checked out. O'Reilly hadn't smelled or seen anything unusual in the vehicle either.

Damn GPS. At least a dozen people made a wrong turn down that one-way street each week. Why couldn't people just go back to reading maps and paying attention to road signs?

O'Reilly's nicotine gum had lost its flavor, but he kept on chewing it anyway. He crossed his arms, looked down the street at his squad car, deciding what to do, then looked back at Duncan.

"Look, kid, I can't find anything on you, but you need to know that Maine isn't Mass. Namely, it's a bit longer before you can have a gang of people in your vehicle if you're under eighteen."

Duncan tilted his head back, reached up with both hands and folded them together over the top of his head. It seemed to stop his head from spinning, but his eyes were starting to sting. He stared up at a gray cloud that seemed to have followed him all the way from Boston.

"Relax," said O'Reilly. "This is still a Mass license but you need to change it pronto. I want you to find a ride for a few of your passengers, like your girlfriend's brother there. Make some phone calls, but not on the road. Do it at the museum."

"She's not my ... she's not ... I just met her."

O'Reilly waved his hand impatiently, motioning for Duncan to get back in the van. "Date, friend, BFF, whatever you all say now." He pulled a pad of paper and a pen from his inside jacket pocket and started writing.

As the door closed, O'Reilly ripped off the sheet from his notepad. "And another thing. I noticed you got a skateboard in there. Word to the wise. The property owners around here don't like skateboard punks ripping up their walkways and piazzas. You get?"

"I'm just storing it for a friend."

"For sure," said O'Reilly, holding out the sheet of paper. "This is a ticket."

Duncan just stared at it.

"Relax. It's not for you." He reached into the window and passed it to the back seat.

"For me?" said Charley, taking it from him.

Sheila leaned across Charley's lap and read out loud, "'Speeding ticket for running your mouth. Your Fine: Silence for the rest of the trip. Advice: No one likes a back seat driver.' Ha! That's pretty funny."

Charley crumpled the paper up in his hand and added it to the food wrappers at his feet.

"Back up and I'll wave you out into the street," O'Reilly said, giving a final pat to the window ledge.

Duncan put his seatbelt on then started the ignition. Placing a hand at the back of May's seat, he set the minivan in reverse.

She noticed that he wore about a dozen multicolored friendship bracelets on his wrist. His hand next to her smelled of scented soap, and his eyes were bloodshot like he'd been crying.

Great, she thought, the sensitive type.

### Chapter 2

### The Doomed Date

Like many small art museums in rural states, along with the shock of a lesser known Picasso or Van Gogh in the regular collection, from time to time there are exhibitions of other pieces of famous and rare art. Northern New England drives to Boston for culture, but time brings culture in the opposite direction as well; though somewhat more slowly than traveling on I-95, depending on the traffic.

May checked the time on her cell phone again and was frowned at by a passing security guard who seemed to think that all cell phone usage meant that people were taking photos—a big no-no at the museum.

She was on the never ending date. Doomed to wander around an art museum with a guy with whom she had nothing to talk about, who made stupid jokes about every painting, and who had made it obvious that he didn't think she was even remotely attractive. Since she had been forcibly stripped of her parka by Sheila at the coat check room, Duncan had ceased to look at her whatsoever aside from brief glances. He rarely stood in one spot long and when he did, he shifted on his feet like he was going to bolt off any second. He seemed twitchy for the date to be over, which was fine with her. Didn't she want it over herself? So what did she care if this guy was making it completely obvious that he thought she was dull and unattractive?

Shortly after splitting up from Sheila and Charley, she had excused herself to the restroom and washed off the makeup that Sheila had puttied on her while getting ready for this last minute escapade. May couldn't get all the eyeliner off, but at least her eyes had stopped itching, and she felt less like she belonged in a circus.

Before she left the restroom, May stuck her tongue out at her reflection in the mirror as she adjusted the top of the low cut tank she was wearing. She was glad she could at least tuck the tank top into her pants because the sweater Sheila had made her wear was just weird. It didn't even go all the way to her waist. Sheila called it a 'shrug', and it was rightly named since she'd like to shrug it off. Thankfully Sheila didn't have any hot pants or high heels that would fit her, so May had been allowed to wear her own jeans and sneakers.

When Duncan wasn't avoiding looking at her, he was usually trying to keep track of his little brother. The open spaces of the art museum and the vanilla shake at the burger joint they had stopped at for lunch were wreaking havoc on the nervous system of the five year old. The kid was zooming around like a jet engine.

Literally.

Luckily, it was almost closing time and most people were finding their way out of the museum into the gloomy winter evening to find a restaurant. In a plea bargain deal, Shane had avoided having to hold his older brother's hand by agreeing to stay in the same room.

"That sure is a lot of blood," said Duncan, twisting around to catch sight of Shane. "Are they nurses?"

"Not likely." She pointed to the placard on the wall. " _Judith Beheading Holofernes_ by Artemisia Gen-til-es-chi, yup, Gentileschi."

"By who?"

"By whom," she corrected.

She's got a little of her brother in her, thought Duncan. "Okay. By whom?"

"Artemisia Gentileschi."

"Not ringing any bells."

"Maybe because she's a woman?"

This date just keeps getting better and better, thought Duncan.

Shane buzzed by as a mock airplane. He wore a red Superman cape leftover from Halloween and it trailed out straight behind him as he zoomed around. He stopped making engine sounds for a second, halted in his tracks and said, "Look at all that blood!"

"They're cutting off his head," she told him. She sounded glad.

"Awesome!" said Shane before resuming his flight around the room. After a few seconds, the engine sounds cut out abruptly.

Duncan looked over his shoulder and caught sight of Shane prodding a spider on the floor with the toe of his sneaker. "Leave that alone," he said as his eyes traveled over the walls of the room, making sure there wasn't anything he'd have to explain to the kid later.

The rest of the paintings were pretty innocent looking: mostly still lifes of flowers and fruit, some ratty yellow tapestries in frames, a few portraits of people, (none of whom appeared to be living now and a few others, not when they were painted in the first place).

A couple paintings in the room were more interesting, like a peculiar one of a dog-faced girl and the one they were standing in front of which was of a guy getting massacred by two women.

Duncan thought he might know how the guy felt.

"What is this room supposed to be again?" he asked.

"The room is called _Women in Art_ ," she answered primly, reading from the museum guide in her hand which she hadn't let go of since they'd arrived.

"Oh right. Now, I get it. I thought it was—" He waved his hand. "Never mind."

It took her a moment. "Oh, you mean you thought it was pictures of women, not _by_ women?" Without looking directly at him, she widened her eyes as though she thought he had expected the women to be naked.

"But ... it's not like I thought ... you know ..."

"No. What do you mean? Thought what?" She pursed her lips as she leafed through the guide.

"Never mind," he mumbled.

She found the page she was looking for and started reading out loud.

Again.

Every painting got the full treatment. He had hoped she would put the guide down somewhere so he could sneak it into a trash can, but she held onto it like it was a shield. The edges of the glossy paper were wrinkled and curled from how tight she was gripping it; he would have had to pry it out of her hands to get rid of it.

She read in a flat tone: "'Here we see Judith with her maidservant beheading Holofernes in order to save her people. The _Book of Judith_ is generally considered apocryphal by the protestant church and is not included in most Bible versions. Holofernes, a general of Nebuchadnezzar, de ... um ... " her voice slowed down, "... d—desired the beautiful widow, Judith. One night, getting him drunk and ...." She wrinkled her forehead and started reading silently to herself.

The story was just getting interesting. "And?" Duncan prompted.

She closed the guide. "Yeah. He was bad. She chopped off his head."

"Maybe the dude should have headed for the exit?" said Duncan.

"Right."

Right, he thought, watching her check the time on her cellphone again.

He was aware suddenly that there was complete silence in the room and spun around on his heel. There was no sign of Shane. "That little puke. I think he went into the next room. I'll be right back." As he walked to the door, he said, "Let's find the other two and head for the exit ourselves. They're just about to close the museum anyway."

"Sure," she answered, and he swore he heard relief in her voice.

The next room he walked into had an assortment of artwork in a mish-mash of styles, some unrecognizably shaped sculptures and for some unknown reason, a huge flat screen television—probably one of those modern art displays. The room did not, however, have any people whatsoever in it and definitely no five year olds in Superman capes.

Shane must have gone the other way, Duncan realized. He turned back around and felt the girl's eyes pinned on him as he continued straight through the room to the opposite door.

The room he entered was softly lighted and full of pottery and antique weapons. After checking around all the displays and glass stands, Duncan made up his mind to kill his little brother when he found him.

There was a security guard in the room. "Lose something?"

"Did a little kid run through here?" Duncan held a hand to his waist. "This high? Red cape?"

The guard shook his head.

Duncan must have missed Shane in the first room. He had only just glanced in it. Shane must be hiding behind one of the sculptures. The kid was probably just bored out of his mind and wanted to watch television. Heck, Duncan wanted to join him.

But he was still going to kill him anyway.

He turned around and nearly ran into the girl. They danced back and forth a few times before they finally skittered out of each other's way. She followed after him along with the security guard.

The room with the television was on an end. Besides the entrance doorway which led to the rest of the museum, there was only an emergency exit to the outdoors. Duncan made a circuit around some modern sculptures which looked like mutant cats. When he came up with nothing, he headed for the emergency exit.

"I wouldn't do that," warned the guard loudly.

The alarm went off throughout the museum as Duncan skidded onto a frost covered fire escape. Covering his ears with his hands as the alarm continued to sound, he leaned over the railing and peered down through the winter darkness at the lighted street below. His breath huffed into frozen nothingness, then in and out harshly as the cold air stung his lungs.

###

Look for the rest of _Spelled Out in Paint_ at your favorite ebook retailer!

