Dandelion Fire (6 page)

The water had climbed with her, lapping at the deck beneath her feet. And it hadn't taken any rest. Again it reached her shoes. She gathered herself for another push, and as she did, the ship sighed beneath her. Something had changed. The ship was surrendering, sinking faster, diving below the waves.

Henrietta dropped the knife. As the water swallowed her shins, she pushed herself up and lunged for another hold. She caught it, splayed her feet, and lunged again. Each time, the water caught up to her as the ship dropped, and each time, she clawed her way above the surface, until finally, clenching her teeth and with the sea up to her thighs, her fingers caught the inside of the small doorway.

It was much too small for her.

Henrietta closed her eyes and forced her rubber arms to pull once more, forced her legs to drive her forward while her feet slipped on the wet planks. Her grandfather's room was just above her. She could get there. She kicked up, and her head was inside. The water was frothing around her waist. Her hands found the edge of the cupboard on the other side, and her fingertips felt carpet. One last surge, a groaning, vein-throbbing pull, and she spilled through onto Grandfather's floor.

Exhausted but panicked, she picked herself up and
ran out of the room and up the attic stairs, leaving Grandfather's door open behind her. Staggering into Henry's room, she fell against the cupboard wall and, with one hand, spun the compass knobs, not caring where they stopped. Then, with quivering legs, she hurried back down to the landing and, leaning on the rail, returned to Grandfather's room.

Inside, the carpet was a swamp, and water still dripped from the cupboard. She hoped it wouldn't drain through the ceiling in the living room, but who really cared if it did? She wasn't drowning in it. She wasn't floating through the middle of some bizarre sea battle with no hope of ever coming home. She shut the door and turned to the bathroom.

“Henrietta?” Penelope yelled. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Henrietta managed, and her throat clamped shut. “I'm,” she said, and swallowed, “just gonna take a shower.”

“Zeke came over!” Anastasia yelled. “Come down and tell him about Henry.”

“In a minute,” Henrietta said. She walked into the bathroom, locked the door behind her, and leaned against the sink. Her clothes were ripped and coated with grime from the deck—oil and blood and salt water. On her face, finger tracks, painted in blood, striped down her forehead and cheek where the man had touched her before he fell. She felt a sob in her chest, but she swallowed it down. Instead, she turned on the shower, and, shivering, she stepped in.

She stood in the shower and watched the filth run off her clothes and off her shoes and swirl around the drain. Then, hesitating, she put her hand to her face and rubbed away the blood. Cold fear and relief surged through her. Her legs shook, finally refusing to hold her up. Kicking off her shoes, she huddled in the tub.

Grandfather's key was in her pocket. Digging into her leg.

Henry lay perfectly still. He didn't know if he was awake or asleep, but he knew that he was listening. And he wanted to keep listening. So he didn't move.

A woman was talking. “The sedation we gave him will have worn off by the time he wakes up. I'd rather not redose him, but we can if you need us to.”

“We'll be fine,” Frank said.

“We don't know that.” Dotty sounded nervous. “We don't know how he'll be tonight.”

“I'll give you something just in case,” the woman said. “You don't have to use it, but you may want to. Panic, in this case, is not a symptom, it's the cause.”

“You really think it's all in his head?” Dotty asked. “His eyes looked so awful, and that burn on his hand?”

Henry heard the woman shifting. She was tapping something, and her feet squeaked. “We ran every scan that we can. His brain is clear of abnormalities, and he has no discernible nerve damage. The glucose levels in his urine were a little high, but his blood tested fine. His eyes weren't actually that bad, either. The swelling went
right down, and they react perfectly normally to light. If his eyesight had been damaged by a lightning strike, swollen eyelids would be an unrelated symptom. Quite honestly, my bet is that he had a mild allergic incident that triggered massive anxiety. A panic attack. He believed himself to have been struck by lightning, and, after the swelling, he believed himself into blindness. If he doesn't regain his sight soon, I think you should start by taking him to a therapist.”

“The burn,” Frank said.

“Excuse me?”

“What about the burn?”

“Well,” the woman said, “I can't explain the burn, but I can tell you that it is not like any lightning injury that I've ever seen, and it's certainly not serious. It looks ugly, but it's rather shallow. It's not infected, and it's already healing over. It may play a role in his panic, but it is unrelated to his other symptoms.”

“Madam?” came Richard's voice, nasal but bold. “Ahmm, yes, excuse me.”

The woman was laughing. “What can I do for you?”

“I'm afraid you are mistaken. I cannot believe that Henry York would falsify his blindness.”

Henry could have climbed out of bed and hugged him.

“Oh, his blindness is real. It's just that his anxiety is causing it.”

“Henry is not inclined to fear.”

Henry swallowed. This, unfortunately, he knew to be false, but Richard continued. “I have stood beside him in
extreme peril. Only I was standing more behind him than not. He did not panic and imagine himself to be blind. He did what had to be done.”

“Richard, honey,” Dotty began, but Frank was chuckling.

Richard sniffed. “If I lay blind upon the bed, and you told me that the weakness of my mind had been the cause, I would believe you. Not Henry.” Richard kept talking, but his voice grew quieter, more distant. And then it stopped. They'd left the room.

Henry was embarrassed. Embarrassed because he knew Richard was wrong. He was entirely capable of a panic attack. But this wasn't one. He wasn't panicked. He opened one eye and squinted up at … nothing, where there should have been ceiling tiles and fluorescent lights. He was blind, and that was that.

Worse than being blind was being blind and being told that he wasn't really. Worse than that was being blind and being taken home from the hospital, where his cousins would be told that he wasn't really, that his mind was only playing make-believe.

Penelope would pity him. She'd probably offer to read to him. Anastasia would ask him why he didn't just stop it and start seeing again. Henrietta would think he was weak. She already did. Henrietta would know she was right.

And Richard—loyal Richard would stand with his scrawny arms crossed and his thick lips pursed, and he would defend the honor of Henry York, knight of the
realm. That would be the final touch. Richard's defense would make everyone want to believe Henry was nuts.

A pit grew in Henry's stomach as he finally realized the worst. His cousins would tell Zeke Johnson. Zeke, who had taught him to play baseball and never laughed at him, who had belted a witch and saved Henry's life. Zeke would finally look down on him. And all the guys at the ragged baseball diamond would wonder why Henry didn't play anymore.

Henry thinks he's blind.

All in a moment, Henry wished he was back in Boston. He wouldn't be sent to school if he was blind, and when he was lying on the couch in his mother's new apartment, there would only ever be one person there to think he was weak. The nanny would look at him and shake her head, but he wouldn't see and he wouldn't care. He wouldn't know her.

Or maybe it would be a man. Someone strong enough to control him when he had his regular panic attack.

When they came back, Henry was sitting up on the side of the bed, wondering what he looked like in his little gown.

No one asked if he could see.

Everyone left while he redressed himself, or he thought they did, and then Aunt Dotty took his arm and led him through the halls. He sat in a chair beside Uncle Frank while Dotty talked to someone about his parents' insurance.

“Couldn't get ahold of ‘em,” Frank said.

“Who?” Henry asked.

“Phil and Urs. We got all old numbers. Dots couldn't find that lawyer letter, or we would have called them.”

“You gave it to me,” Henry said. “And I threw it in the field before the storm.”

“Right,” Frank said. “Well, that's probably the best place for it. Could be useful out there.”

Henry sat up in his chair. “Uncle Frank,” he said. “Do you think there's nothing wrong with me?”

“Of course there's something wrong with you, Henry.” Henry listened to the sound of his uncle scratching a stubbled jaw. “Right now, I'd say your eyes are wrong. If lightning didn't do it, then something did. But I'm glad they're not busted. There's a difference between busted and just not working.”

“Do you think they'll start working?”

“I do,” Richard said. Henry had forgotten he was there.

“Don't know,” Frank said. “Have to wait and see, I guess.”

Henry sagged back down in his chair. “Or wait and not,” he muttered.

“All set!” Dotty said. Her hands picked up Henry's, and he stood, waiting to be guided. A smooth arm slid beneath his, and he was turned.

Smelling his aunt, Henry listened to the world go by. The television faded behind him, and the automatic doors slid open. People passing, talking, and then the air
crawling over his face and around his ears, his shoes on asphalt, cars starting, stopping, turning, and eventually, the squeal of the truck door opening, the sighing springs in the old seat, the smell of dust older than he was in the upholstery, the doors slamming, and the muffled thumping of Richard in the truck bed. Finally, the click of the key and the slow throbbing complaint of the engine before it exploded into life.

The explosions would pull them home.

Henrietta walked downstairs. She'd pulled her wet hair back into a tight ponytail, and she was wearing an old sweatshirt she'd stolen from her father months ago.

Zeke and her sisters were sitting around the table. They'd given him a glass of lemonade, but it was all ice now. He was leaning his lean frame back in his chair, passing an old baseball hat from hand to hand. A line in his short hair showed where he usually wore it.

“Hey, Henrietta,” he said.

She smiled and stood beside Penny's chair. Zeke knew everything about the old house and the attic cupboards. At least he knew as much as Anastasia and Penelope. He'd ruined his wooden bat on the witch's head. The blood spatters had burned Henry's jaw.

They were all looking at her. Her face had to be different. She'd just watched people die. She'd almost died with them. Her sisters never would have known what happened to her. But they would have known that she'd done something horribly stupid. How much water
would have come through that door? Henry, Kansas, could have become a saltwater lake.

Penelope stood up and pointed to Zeke's glass. “Like some more lemonade?”

“Sure,” he said. “Thanks.” And he handed it to her.

“Henrietta,” Anastasia said. “Tell him about Henry's eyes. Do you think he'll be—” Anastasia stopped.

Henrietta put her arms around Penny and squeezed her tight. She didn't know why it was embarrassing, hugging her sister, but it was. She didn't care. She could feel tears building up in her eyes, and she quickly blinked them away. She wasn't going to do that again. Letting go of her sister, she stepped back, puffed out her cheeks, and looked at the three faces watching her.

Penny was smiling. Zeke didn't look surprised at all. Anastasia's mouth was open, and she stared blankly.

“Sorry,” Henrietta said. “I think I'm going to lie down. Henry's eyelids were swollen this morning, and he couldn't see. That's all I know. Did Mom and Dad call?”

“Just when they got there,” Penny said. “They didn't know anything yet.”

Anastasia leaned forward onto the table. “Do you think he was faking?”

“No,” Henrietta said. “He wasn't.”

Zeke set his hat on the back of his head. “But he wasn't struck by lightning?”

Henrietta shrugged. “Something messed him up pretty good.” She turned back toward the stairs. “I'm going to lie down,” she said again.

She stopped on the second-story landing and looked over at her bedroom door. Then she climbed the attic stairs.

In Henry's room, she dropped onto his bed and slid her hand under his pillow. She was not going through any more cupboards by herself. Ever. At least not until she had read through Grandfather's journal. And, depending on what was in it, maybe not then.

She'd read the first pages before, the apologies to Frank and Dotty, the admissions of deception and hypocrisy, and the stuff about her great-grandfather's notes. But she ran her eyes over it anyway, and slowed down when she hit something new. It didn't all make sense, but it didn't matter. She was going to read for the parts that did.