The Artisans (10 page)

Cole sits near the containers of dead roses. I set my sketchbook aside and rise. While I never get used to them, my hallucinations grow tiresome. I meander over to the utility sink, turn on the faucet, and run water over my graphite-covered hands. Caught without a glass, I cup my hands under the flow and drink. My throat is dry, and my back aches from leaning over my sketchbook too long.

My reflection in the large mirror opposite is alarming. The tone of my skin is paler than usual. I’m all sunken eyes, and severe angles, and sharp bones. Last spring, I cut my thick hair in long layers. They look great with a flat or curling iron, but not when they stick out all over my head, like they do now. Black eyeliner rings my eyes, smears where I’ve rubbed it, giving me a vampire vibe, especially over the red stain that I use on my lips. I’m a pretty girl, at least, so I’ve been told. Maybe that was true once but not anymore. The girl in the mirror is a haggard, worn shadow of someone once vibrant who’s long gone.

Cole slides into view behind my image.

“What do you want, ghost boy?” He doesn’t scare me anymore. I don’t know why I talk to him at all, except I’ve come to that level of acceptance with my insanity.

“My freedom.”

I turn and face him. Well, that’s new. He’s lost that whole, spooky talk-without-moving-his-mouth trick. “Me too.”

Cole lifts his hand and touches my arm. There’s sensation, not as strong as an actual person’s touch, but as if someone runs a feather over my skin.

The black and white hound from the other day jogs neatly through the wall and heels next to Cole’s leg. Cole grins revealing a pretty set of white teeth. He’s attractive. Well, if the guy were alive, and a couple of years older. “Hello Rex,” he says.

My heart skips a beat as I scan the walls, waiting for the glowing stallion to gallop through the room. “That horse,” I ask, though I don’t know what I think Cole can do. “It’s not coming, is it?”

Cole smiles without his pretty teeth, and shakes his head. His dark bangs fall across his forehead—downright sexy, for a ghost. The dog bumps Cole’s hand and he pats the hound’s head. When Cole raises his gaze to mine, his expression sobers. “We’re … trapped here.” He chokes and coughs. “All of us. We need your help, Raven. Please.”

A shiver wraps me. “I don’t understand. Who is all of us?” This is as much as he’s ever spoken. Maybe my tumor is further along than I thought. The dog barks, and I jump it’s so loud. He yips again and again.

With a sharp jut of his chin, Cole motions out the window. Shoulder to shoulder, a dozen people stand together just outside. An older man with a frosty white goatee anchors the group in the middle. I swear he’s wearing a Confederate uniform. I’ve studied fashion and uniform trends long enough to recognize the gray fabric and gold trim. To his right, another man wears a pinstripe double-breasted suit and fedora straight out of a 1940s gangster movie.

“What’s going on?”

“Trapped.”

Rex, I think that’s what Cole called the dog, continues his ear-piercing barking. I back away until my butt hits the sink. “Hush, dog!”

My throat tightens. A headache begins over my eyes and small wonder. Overwhelmed by confusion and noise, I whirl away from them, facing the mirror again. The same gaunt girl stares me down. My gaze lowers to my chest. The red furrows in my skin where Edgar scratched me are still raw and angry. The sight evokes a new thought. Edgar scratched me because the
dog
frightened him—a dog from my imagination that only I can see. If that’s true, how does a fictitious hound scare a cat with no brain tumor? He doesn’t.

“You’re real?”

Cole’s reflection isn’t there when I glance up. I spin around, searching the room for the boy or the dog, or the people outside the window. They’re gone again. Holy freaking cow …

I don’t know what to believe.

***

Two days later, as I lean over my worktable, I hear the door to my bedroom click. “Who’s there?” I call.

Soft footfalls brush across the carpet. I tense, fearing its Gideon until Jamis rounds the corner. He’s carrying a small cardboard box that he tips slightly my direction.

I shake the hair back from my eyes. “What’s this?”

His brow withers into deeper wrinkles. “I believe you left a list with Jenny? I did my best to procure the items you requested, miss. Where shall I put them?”

You
did? “On the table.” He takes a step then hesitates. The table is covered with fabric and sewing crap. Jamis seems at a loss. “Anywhere is great, thanks.” The old man places the box over one of my patterns and backs away. “Shall we see what you found me?” I ease around the corner of the table and grab for the box. I’m curious as hell to know what he did with my odd shopping list.

His watery blue eyes dart toward the exit. “Must I?”

“I’m afraid you must.” I’m teasing now, seeing if I can break the ice a little with the stiff old geezer. I pull the flaps open and peer inside. On top sits a pair of old spectacles, underneath is a black crow feather nestled among several skeins of ribbon in blues and grays and soft browns. When I glance over, Jamis inches nearer. In spite of his protests, he leans his skinny frame over the box and peeks inside. Like a child at a friend’s birthday party, his lips purse, and I imagine he’s wondering if I am pleased with the gifts he brought. I lift the ribbon. My fingers thread through a tangle of otter brown velvet. “This is beautiful.” I swear I detect the hint of a smile. “Aren’t you going to ask why I want this stuff?”

“I wasn’t planning to, no, miss.”

“They’re for my inspiration board.” I can’t help my squeal as I pull a pair of leather aviator goggles from the box. “Oh my gosh!” Jamis winces. “How did you find these? They’re perfect!” I find two more pairs in the box along with a pocket watch, old wristwatch, Bakelite jewelry, lace, and rhinestones. I grab his arm, and he stiffens like a cadaver. “You did just awesome, Jamis.” He nods, eyes widening a smidge. “See, what happens now is I tack all these things up on a corkboard, over there on the wall.”

He stares at me as though I have a rhino horn instead of a nose. “Indeed.”

“Yeah. You know, for inspiration. And when I look at this stuff, I have a color palette and a theme. See?” He glances at the box again. When he says nothing, I add, “You’ve never heard of an inspiration board? I’ll bet you think it’s a dumb idea.”

“Not quite, Miss Weathersby, but then, it is not I that need be inspired.”

“Oh, come on, Jamis, we’re all motivated by something.”

“Not necessarily.”

With his eyes fixed squarely on his clasped hands, his silence prompts another question. “You think I’m crazy?”

“Madness, and its varying forms, is something I’m quite accustomed to, miss.”

I think of the house he works in, its ghosts and inhabitants, and I have to concede that one. “Truth.” I shift my weight. “Do you have a hobby, a passion, or pastime?” I don’t know why I’m trying so hard. I feel like Edgar, or any other cat I can think of, for that matter. They zero in on the one person in the room who hates them most and stare or try to sit in their lap. Or maybe I try because I miss Ben so much I can’t breathe.

“None, miss.”

“Reading, gardening, cooking … photography?”

“No.” His tone is as crusty as dry toast. “Decidedly not. If the young lady needs nothing else, I have work to do.”

My lungs deflate. Of course you do. “That’s it from me. Go.” The last word is a sigh. My gaze returns to the box and its treasures. The old guy really outdid himself. I love everything he found. “Thanks again, Jamis,” I say, without looking up.

“Music.”

What? “What?”

“I prefer the cello, but the violin is pleasant also.”

I smile and lift my head. “Vivaldi was my mother’s favorite.”

Jamis makes a slight bow and leaves me to my sewing.

It’s ten o’clock in the evening on Friday night. After catching my friends up on my week, including my various nightmares, insanity, and brain tumor theories, I sit in the kitchen with Maggie watching Dane ingest his seventh maple-walnut fudge square. His display of gluttony is as fascinating as it is disgusting, but Jenny beams, pouring him another glass of ice-cold milk.

Staring down at her matronly black shoes, I frown. My cat is absent from his usual duty of begging while wrapping himself around her chubby ankles. That animal never misses a meal. I slough off my worry as an overprotective mother and face Maggie. “So, I’ll call you to see how I did on the test, okay?”

She shrugs, and I watch her stifle a yawn. “Righto, but I don’t know why you’re so nervous. You ace anything having to do with poetry. It’s nauseating. The only interesting poem is one a gorgeous European guy whispers in my ear to get me hot. And it had better rhyme.”

Dane chokes. His eyes water, and I’m waiting for milk to shoot out his nose.

Something clatters behind us, and I twist in my chair. Jenny is fumbling with a dish in her arms, her cheeks a brighter pink than usual. “Pardon me, children. I think I left something upstairs. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Mags,” I hiss. “Cut it out. You embarrassed her.”

She grins, tossing her hair. “Pfft. It’s good for the old girl. Besides, now that she’s gone, we can talk about whatever we want. Like when does Gideon get back into town?”

I shrug. “I don’t know.” I rarely see him. Thank all that’s good and merciful.

“When do you visit Ben?” Dane asks, changing the subject. Maggie and I reach for the last maple square at the same time. Dane beats us both to the treat and tosses it to Mags. I huff my protest, but he only smirks at me, crossing his arms. “Oh, come on! Jenny cooks for you every day. We just eat here once a week.”

He’s got me, there. “True enough.”

Maggie smiles and winks at him. His eyes soften, and I think his small gesture is repaid fifty times over.

I wrap my arms around my waist as my gaze bounces between the pair. “Next weekend is one month. If nothing goes wrong, Jamis is supposed to drive me over to see Ben.” If nothing goes wrong … Despite the fact I’m next of kin, no one calls or reports anything to me, his daughter. Gideon pays the bills, insisted Ben sign legal forms allowing access to his medical information.
That
pisses me off to the nth degree. Of all the people in the world, I have to rely on my jailor for news of my own stepfather? My blood boils.

Dane seems to sense my mood because he scoots his chair over, wraps his arm around my shoulder, and pulls me close. Our foreheads touch. “We have to go, soon.” I nod. “If it gets to be too much here, we can figure something else out. You don’t have to stay. You don’t.” The last two words grind out of his mouth like ice in a blender. He means well, but we’ve been all through this.

Maggie drags her chair closer on the other side of me. Her arm snakes around my shoulder in the opposite direction, overlapping with Dane’s. “Ben is being helped. It’s normal to be anxious, but it’s going to be fine.” When she pats my arm, Dane shivers. “The hallucinations are stress related. That’s all. It makes sense, doesn’t it? Anyone would have nightmares going through what you have. So shut up about the tumor crap, okay? It’s ridiculous. You’re suffering from nerves, and maybe post traumatical, that’s a thing, right?”

“Absolutely a thing,” Dane says, voice gentling.

His gaze captures hers, eyes light as though a candle burns behind each sable iris. He accidentally brushes my skin as he rubs her shoulder. Why can’t she see how wild he is about her? I’m almost jealous. Not of Dane, he’s the brother I should have had. It’s more the idea of security, constancy, or devotion. Hell, I don’t know—something.

“I’m okay,” I lie. “Things will get better. I can do a year. Anyone can do anything for a year.”

“Exactly.” Maggie pulls away and settles back in her chair. “The new sketches you’ve come up with are amazing. That ought to keep Gideon off your case for a long while. I’ll admit when you first came here, Dane and I almost went to the cops.” I give her a sharp look, but she meets my glare head on. “Twice.”

Shock keeps me mute.

“What? We did.” Maggie holds her thumb and first finger up in the air. “I came
that
close to asking my parents if they could apply for temporary custody and have you move in with me.”

Dane eases back into his seat, threading his long fingers over the linen tablecloth.

“Until the brainiac that is Dane explained that it was too late. That anything having to do with the government and red tape takes time, that you wouldn’t agree, that we couldn’t protect or help Ben. The state might screw up and you could wind up living anywhere …”

“I’m smart like that,” Dane agrees with a smug smile.

“Good thing, too.” Maggie sweeps her new, green hair stripe aside. “Dane was ready to go all
Red Dawn
on Maddox’s ass.” She lifts her chin daring Dane to argue. “Anyway, point is once we came here and saw you in that palatial room of yours, we felt a little better. That and the fact Mary Poppins is baking for you. You don’t seem in any real danger.”

Sure, none except for the ghosts, and the imprisonment, and the blackmail. My hair falls in my face. I rake my fingers through the thick mass, twisting it back and out of my vision.