The Splendour Falls (11 page)

Obediently, I lifted a dripping spoonful to my mouth. I expected it to be heavy, cloyingly rich. Instead, I got magic on my tongue. Fresh berries burst against my palate, the tartness sweetened by light, crisp pastry, all bound together with the cream.

‘Oh. My. God.' I didn't even care what it did to my thighs, it was that good.

Clara smiled in satisfaction. ‘Now,
that's
a proper welcome to your family home.'

My family home. In the dark kitchen, hours later, I let the scene replay, tracing a hand over the old table. My father had eaten at this table, maybe sharing a meal with his cousins while the adults dined in the formal room, with china and linens. The image was so vivid, it was as though I were standing on one side of a window, looking through to someone else's memory.

If I glanced out of the unfocused corner of my eye, I could almost see the servants moving about, preparing dinner. A woman walked past me, laden with a groaning tray, her forearms muscled from the accustomed weight.Details sang in my mind – the black hair curling out from under her cap, the crisply starched ruffles of the apron covering her long calico dress.

The breeze of her passing brushed my skin, and my half-closed eyes flew open. I whirled, and glimpsed the swish of a skirt, the trailing ribbons of an apron,
disappearing round the corner, towards the dining room down the hall.

Clara? That didn't make sense. Or maybe it was Paula, but I couldn't believe she wouldn't stop to berate me for being out of bed. Plus, the clothes had been so distinct, and I couldn't picture either of them wearing linen and calico.

I took a single step after the woman, then stopped, as a dizzying wave of horror grabbed my insides and twisted. There was no one there. There
couldn't
be, because I'd been standing in the middle of the kitchen and no one had come in. No one had moved past me but the figures in my imagination.

But I'd felt her. And seen her. Not imagined.
Sensed.

Forcing myself down the hall was like taking my first steps in physical therapy. An exercise in will. But I had to find the explanation. The drift of curtain or shaft of moonlight that was real and tangible, just transformed by my thoughts, the natural outgrowth of my ruminations.

But there was nothing. The curtains in the dining room were drawn and still. The only illumination was from a night-light in the corner outlet.

Oh crap.

Leaving the room was much easier. I hurried to the kitchen, then out the back door and onto the covered porch, where Gigi was waiting for me in her crate, pawing at the latch impatiently. As soon as I let her out, she jumped into my arms, and I sat down hard on one of the cushioned wicker settees, my trembling legs giving out. Just like my marbles.

The black-humour barrier between me and my fears had come crashing down. This was bad. Unfunny, unvarnished, undeniably awful. What had just happened was different from my earlier imaginings. This wasn't just overly detailed fantasy. I had truly slipped. I'd been convinced the figure in the hall was real, right up to the moment I realized it couldn't be.

It was Central Park all over again. But I was dead sober. Tired, overwrought, totally freaking out, but very, very sober. And I had to face the question, if it wasn't alcohol, and it wasn't Vicodin … did that mean it was
me
?

Gigi licked my cheek. I had her cuddled tight to my chest, and she snuggled trustingly against my neck. At least one of us was confident in my ability to take care of us.

It was reassuring in a way that logic could never be. I couldn't crack up, because then who would look after Gigi? Therefore, I would not go crazy. If sheer force of will could keep someone sane, then I was the one to do it. Ballerinas are
made
of willpower.

On the porch, the quiet didn't seem so oppressive. I could hear the wind in the trees and, very faintly, the sound of the river. The night was warmish, but the ceiling fan stirred the air. I grabbed an old quilt from the back of the settee and wrapped it around Gigi and me as we curled up together.

I didn't think I would fall asleep, given the turmoil in my head, and certainly not on the creaky wicker settee. But I couldn't quite face the house and its creaks and sighs. Instead, I stroked Gigi's silky fur and reached
for the calm I felt when I dug my feet into the grass. Just like my dad had taught me.

When I opened my eyes again, the moonlight had changed with the passing of who knew how long. I'd worked my way down on the settee, neck at a painful angle, Gigi snuggled against my chest. She was shivering in her sleep, and I realized I was cold too, even with the quilt around us.

I thought – as much as I was thinking anything, because thinking meant remembering why I was there – that the chill had woken me, but then I caught a faint sound, the same mournful keen I'd heard earlier in the evening. It rose in a thin wail, and I lifted my heavy head, then winced at the crick in my neck. Gigi gave a tiny, sleepy growl, but even she was too tired to get excited over it.

The sound faded, and I pushed myself painfully upright, holding Gigi securely in one arm. More than half asleep, I stumbled into the house and down the hall. I limped up the stairs, pulling myself up by the handrail and cursing whatever quirk of ventilation had made the centre of the house so damned cold. Teeth chattering, I found my room, closed the door against the chill and fell into bed, careful not to squish Gigi.

I pulled the covers over us both, and she tucked her head under my chin, already snoring. I wasn't far behind.

The sweet smell of lilacs was strong, and invaded my sleep as I dreamed of searching the woods for something I'd lost, something I was desperate to find.

I
woke to the smell of bacon frying. Or rather, Gigi did. Her wiggling nudged me awake, and I pried open an eyelid as she stuck her twitching nose out from under the covers.

‘Ugh. Don't even think about it.'

Struggling against the tangled blankets, I managed to get upright and glance at the window, full of morning light. If someone was cooking, I had obviously missed the opportunity to sneak the dog back down the way we'd come. I would have to improvise.

Something about the daylight made yesterday's strangeness seem small and manageable. Though maybe that was nothing more than the perspective of distance, and when it snuck up on me again, it would be huge and insurmountable.

If
it snuck up again.
Think positive, Sylvie.

I washed my face with the cold water in the pitcher on the washstand. It seemed odd at first, but by the time I'd splashed my face, standing on tiptoe to let the drips fall back into the basin, the motion was oddly natural. I groped blindly for the towel, and found it on the first try.

The soap in the dish jarred me out of the moment. The smell wasn't right somehow. It took a second before I realized what I had been expecting. If the soap smelled of roses, then where was the lilac scent coming from?

I opened the cabinet, looking for shelf liners or potpourri. But Gigi was getting anxious, so I didn't search very hard. I didn't mind the scent, even if it was a little sweet for my taste.

Throwing on a pair of sweats and a camisole, I topped it with an army green hoodie that my mother hated but I loved. Gigi was sniffing one of the rugs, so I scooped her up and tucked her into my sweatshirt, zipping her in. The only real problem with this plan was that I had zero boobs with which to hide her. Hence my neglect to wear a bra.

Too late to worry whether I'd packed my push-up. I poked my head out of my room, and all was quiet, so I closed the door behind me and scurried down the hall.

The landing was warm, the sun streaming through the sheer curtains on the French doors, and with Gigi licking my armpit under my jacket, nothing, not even my own mental state, seemed ominous. I hadn't forgotten about seeing someone standing at the window, though, while I'd been on the phone with John. Curious, I went down the short hall that crossed the main landing, and lifted the thin drape.

The view was spectacular. Forgetting about Gigi wiggling around inside my sweatshirt, and the possibility of getting caught, I unlatched the doors and let myself out onto the balcony.

From this vantage point, in the morning light, it was easier to see the layout of the grounds; the house and gardens were on a cleared area surrounded by uncultivated forest. The river snaked down from the northeast, wide and still in the distance. To the north another, smaller river joined the larger one before it disappeared behind the overgrowth of pine and mosscovered oaks. It reappeared close to the house, where I'd seen it last night, then vanished round a curve on its meandering path to the Gulf of Mexico.

At the railing, I had an overhead view of the back yard, where I'd met Paula after returning from my walk. The yard was enclosed along the north edge, bordered in back by a casually planted cottage garden. It made a cosy spot, with a table for alfresco dining on one side and a small arbour seat on the other.

The northeast side dropped down to the great lawn with a view of the inlet, and the summerhouse on a hill. To the northwest, a trellis-covered path led to a
brick building with stairs running up to a second-storey landing. Last night, Paula had gestured that way when she mentioned Clara and Addie's apartment above the garage, and I could see Clara's domestic hand in the flowerpots and window boxes around their door.

My subliminal upstaging sense warned me I wasn't alone. What told me it was Rhys Griffith behind me – maybe some funny-bone-type tingle – I couldn't have said.

I turned to find him leaning against the doorjamb, looking as though he might have been watching me for a while. Apparently my radar was a little slow.

‘Is stalking something they do for fun in Cardiff?' I asked, arching my brows.

He wore khakis and a white T-shirt, proving that some things were classics on both sides of the ocean. His dark hair had been finger combed at best. I'd seen guys try way too hard for that attractively rumpled look with much less success. I guess, by definition, ‘effortlessly handsome' wasn't something you could work for.

Sauntering over, hands in his pockets, he said, ‘Good morning, Vicious. And to your little dog, too.'

I might have blushed if I hadn't been distracted by Gigi, who wiggled so hard in my jacket I thought she'd strangle one or both of us. Despite this, I made a stab at nonchalance. ‘I don't suppose there's any point in pretending I have no idea what you're talking about.'

‘Nice try. If you want to sneak her out, you'll have to get up earlier.'

It's hard to be arch when you have a puppy's fluffy head sticking out of your shirt, but I tried. ‘Yes, well, we divas have only one seven o'clock in our day.'

‘I'm sure.' He held out his fingers for Gigi to sniff, then scratched under her ear. His knuckles brushed my collarbone, just briefly, but the echo of his touch seemed to stay on my skin, and my pulse started tap dancing at the base of my neck.

Rhys cleared his throat and stepped back. ‘I hope you enjoyed meeting everyone last night.'

Honesty or tact? Which way to go? I settled on ambiguous. ‘It wasn't the worst part of my day.' The rueful curve of his mouth said he got what I meant, and I fought the pull of an answering smile. ‘I, um, noticed you disappeared.'

His smile broadened, as if my statement had been telling. Which I guess it was. ‘I was typing up some notes for my father.'

‘Not into pizza with the gang?'

A shrug, and we were back to studied neutrality.

‘I'm a stranger here.'

The balcony caught a breeze from the river, and I brushed a strand of hair from my face. ‘So am I.'

His brows arched, the way they had when I'd tried to pretend I didn't have Gigi down the front of my sweatshirt. ‘Yes, but
you
are a Davis.'

I pursed my lips in frustration. ‘Everyone keeps saying that like it means something.'

‘Maybe it does,' he said, ratcheting up my irritation with his enigmatic tone.

It occurred to me that maybe I should find out what it did mean. But first I had to get Gigi downstairs. I couldn't do anything until she'd had her morning pee.

As if reading my thoughts – which would add a whole new level of weirdness I couldn't deal with –
Rhys jerked his head towards the corner. ‘Come on, then. I'll show you the secret way down.'

He led me to the end of the balcony, where a thick growth of vines hid a spiral iron staircase; I certainly hadn't noticed it in the dark. The stairs had a fine patina of rust, but when Rhys stepped onto them, they seemed sturdy. Still, I hesitated, one hand on the curved railing.

Rhys noticed my uncertainty and paused a few steps below me. ‘It's perfectly safe. If it will hold me, it will certainly hold you.'

‘Is that another crack about my being skinny?'

‘It's an observation of physics,' he said evenly, and offered a hand. ‘Give me the dog if you're worried.'

‘She's fine.' I, however, was not. I had been down many spiral staircases, but not since I'd broken my leg. The thing about hitting the ground in agonizing pain with your bone jutting out is that it takes a long time to get over the fear it might happen again. If you ever do get over it. I was still waiting.

The twist of the spiral meant stepping on the narrow part of the wedge-shaped stair with my right leg. The traitorous one. It had been incarcerated with rods and splints and casts for months, and after only a few weeks of freedom, it hadn't had time to prove its loyalty.

Gigi, riding like a joey in a pouch, tilted her head as if to ask what the holdup was. I guess dogs had no concept of paralysing fears. Not my dog, anyway.

I stood there so long, Rhys started back up the stairs. ‘That's all right, then. We'll go the normal way.'

‘No.' I'd had it with my disobedient psyche. It was
just a set of stairs, for God's sake. ‘I'm going to do this.'