Warped (5 page)

Hugh reached out and cuffed him. Despite the glancing blow and the gloved fist, Will’s head snapped as if it hung on strings, and his teeth rattled together.

“Watch your tongue, little brother,” said Hugh pleasantly.

Indeed, Will checked his tongue, as well as his teeth. All there. His brother spoke with his fists. Fighting was a second language to Hugh, really, in which he was fluent. Foul-mouthed, but fluent.

“I forgot to say good morning,” Hugh added, baring his teeth in a smile.

Will rubbed his throbbing ear, all thoughts of the girl in the wood, for the moment, driven from his head. “You do know,” he said to Hugh, “you can’t go around doing that once you’re at court.”

Hugh shrugged. “When we get to London, I’ll let Father do the talking.”

Right. Will frowned at the thought. That would not be a vast improvement. “Perhaps I should come along,” he suggested, knowing even as he did that it was a wasted effort.

“Father’s already told you no,” said Hugh. He straightened in the saddle and announced, in a fair imitation of their father’s deep, authoritarian boom: “ ‘There must always be a de Chaucy at Hartescross.’ Besides,” he added, nodding toward the huddle of wattle-and-daub cottages in the distance, “what if one of the villagers has a complaint? Suppose there’re weevils in the barley? Suppose somebody steals a chicken? Who better to deal with it than the earl’s younger son? A young Solomon.”

“You’re very funny,” Will told him. Then, more quietly, “You leave today, then?”

Hugh’s face sobered and he looked out to the right, where the fields and the valley lay below. A shadow of worry crept over his features, and Will was shocked to see it. His brother was as stout-hearted as a lion.

“Aye,” Hugh said, all trace of his usual bluster gone. “I just pray the king grants our petition.”

“He must,” said Will. “King Henry will listen to reason. He’s an educated man.”

Hugh brightened and grinned at him. “Well. We’ll not hold that against him. Yet.” He studied Will for a moment, then said with a nod, “We’ll send news as soon as we have it. Now I’ll leave you, little brother, to your
thinking
ride.” He gave Will a swift punch in the arm for a farewell and wheeled his horse around. “And give the girl a kiss for me!” he called over his shoulder as he galloped away.

Will watched until Hugh became a distant figure. For once he didn’t mind being left behind while his father and brother tended to the business of the estate. The land dispute would be settled soon anyway. Despite his rough ways, the Earl of Umbric was no fool. Neither was Hugh. They didn’t need him.

Need him? Will’s mouth curled into an ironic smile. They barely noticed him. As younger son, he wasn’t master here at Hartescross (though everyone usually did as he bade them) and he wasn’t servant (though he was told often enough what to do). Neither master nor servant. Neither idle nor employed. Just something in between. Would he ever find his place?

Will sighed. Somehow he didn’t think it was at Hartescross.

He gave Hannibal free rein and trotted down the hill and into the meadow. The young man wandering there seemed put off at seeing the earl’s son, for he gave a nervous tug on his cap and stumbled away.

After but a few steps, Will observed, the young man encountered a group of villagers, themselves running through the meadow with raucous shouts. Some exchange took place. It involved heated gestures toward Will and the woods beyond. And quite a bit more scratching. Finally the whole lot turned and walked with an air of glum resignation back toward the village.

Will shrugged and turned his horse toward the forest, where the girl had gone.

It was a foolhardy thing to do, he thought. Surely the chit knew it was forbidden. No one entered the wood without the permission of the earl. Not that his father would care if a young maid went wandering in the northern woods. But if the gamekeeper spotted her, she would likely have a thrashing. Miles was an ill-tempered sort. Foolish maiden or poacher, it made no difference, he would exact punishment first and ask questions later.

Will gave a puzzled look down at the grass to see what she had dropped so deliberately. A small tuft of gray wool. The girl was a mystery. A dark-haired enigma with huge blue eyes. He pretended not to notice her each time he rode through the village, something that he had found himself doing more and more of late. He didn’t even know her name. But today, he decided, he would find out.

“Come out of there,” Will shouted. More quietly, he added, “Hello?” He watched the wall of trees for a sign of her. When there was no response, he dismounted. He led Hannibal into the woods.

Chapter 7

A
fter school Tessa walked home as usual. Meaning she ran. She barely looked up as she raced across Harbor Square; her feet had memorized every step long ago. Tessa’s pace slowed as she approached the Artist’s Shelf. Here she stopped and let her eyes linger for a minute on the display of starched white canvases, tubes of paint and sticks of rich oil pastels. She smiled at the tumbled array of colors, then sighed and kept moving. She was going to be late for work.

Their building sat in the middle of Portland’s Old Port district. The handsome brick three-story had been built in the eighteen hundreds and stood on one of the “quaint winding lanes perched above a working waterfront.” At least, that was how the summer guidebook described it. She glanced around the quiet street before going in. In the summer these streets were filled (or at least busy) with tourists. The bell over the front door rang constantly with the traffic. But this was spring, otherwise known as mud season, and it wasn’t so busy. Dead calm, she thought, would be the nautical expression.

Tessa pulled the door, and the bell overhead gave a halfhearted jangle as if to say, “Okay. One customer. Big whoop.”

“Dad,” Tessa called. The wooden stool behind the front counter stood empty. He was nowhere to be seen. Typical. He was way too trusting. Anyone could have walked off with half the inventory. Tessa looked around with a despairing shake of her head.

“That you, Tessa?” Her father appeared above her, leaning over the railing from the loft section of the store, Maine History and Lore. He held a tattered, oversized volume in one hand and his glasses in the other. “How was school?”

“Fabulous,” said Tessa, in automatic reply. She waited to see if details were needed. No. Her father’s eyes were already back on his book.

How would he react, she wondered, if she broke away from their routine exchange and talked about something real?
Hey, Dad. Hunter wants to have sex with me and I’m not sure how I feel. About college—I don’t want to major in business, or even go to the University of Southern Maine in the fall, for that matter. And oh yeah, I can feel a zit the size of a hamster coming out on my nose
.

“That’s good, honey,” her father mumbled. He was returning to the mesmerizing world of . . . Tessa craned her neck and peered to read the big letters on the spine . . .
Town Records—Livermore Falls
. Really, was there anything her father didn’t find fascinating?

Tessa sighed. She hung her backpack on a hook by the door, shrugged out of her denim jacket and rounded the corner of the counter, promptly slamming her leg into the large box tucked behind it.

“The last box from the auction is behind the counter,” her father called down.

“Yeah. Got it,” answered Tessa, rubbing her shin.

The bell chimed again as the door opened and Alicia Highsmith strode into the store.

Alicia Highsmith was a petite woman, but she carried herself like an army general. A very stylish, professional general, Tessa thought, wearing black woolen slacks, a pearl-gray sweater set and slingback pumps. Tessa became suddenly aware of her own appearance. Her hair was barely contained in a sloppy ponytail and she had on faded jeans, a Bowdoin College sweatshirt (the operative word being
sweat
) and worn-out Avias.

Alicia gave a smile and a brisk wave. “Hello, Tessa. Your father in?”

“Hi, Alicia.” Self-conscious, Tessa felt herself straighten from her slouch as she returned a polite smile. “Dad!” she yelled to the loft.

Her father hustled down the creaky stairs, ignoring the fact that a heavy man should not hustle, anywhere. He looked practically giddy. “Alicia! I didn’t expect you this early.” He took Alicia by the shoulders and they exchanged a brief kiss as Tessa found something intriguing to stare at under the counter. Dust bunny to the rescue.

Girlfriend
, thought Tessa, glancing up when their greeting smooch was done. It was not a word you thought of in the same sentence as
my father. My father’s girlfriend
. No. It just didn’t work.

It was little consolation, but Alicia Highsmith didn’t seem the type of person who would appreciate the title either. For one thing, she was middle-aged, almost fifty, maybe. And the professional overachiever type, Tessa thought. She was CEO of a medical technology company in Portland that made prosthetics. She was attractive, with auburn hair cut into a sleek bob and big brown eyes that were currently fastened on her father’s face.
Girlfriend
. Tessa sighed. It was too weird.

“Busy today?” Alicia asked.

“So far, you mean?” Tessa’s father put his glasses back on and looked around. His chubby face looked hopeful, as if he expected a stampede of voracious book lovers to suddenly appear from behind the stacks. “Well. Not too,” he admitted.

Alicia smiled. “You know, Jackson . . . ”

“I know, I know.” He raised a hand with a good-natured shake of his head. “We could turn a profit if we closed the store, kept the books in a warehouse and sold exclusively online. You’re right.” He beamed at her, his face animated and his eyes dancing. “My practical Alicia. But this is my dream job. Besides,” he added, “we would lose the immense satisfaction of dealing face to face with the reading public. Not to mention all this charm. Right, Tessa?”

“Right.” Tessa was still on autopilot. She looked around the store with a smile. Old books, check. Dust, drafty windows, creaky floors, all check. But charm? Maybe if it was dark, and you squinted, she mused. But the store was comfortable. And it was home.

Anyway, it didn’t matter what “his” Alicia said, thought Tessa. Eww, by the way. The bookstore really
was
her father’s dream. It would take a tsunami to move him out. He’d sat in a corporate cubicle for years but had always dreamed of having a bookstore. After her mother had died, he’d decided to pursue that dream. And he made no secret about the fact that he hoped Tessa would help run it, after getting her business degree.

Business. Such a weird-sounding major, when you thought about it. As in “I’m going to major in making money.” Valuable, no doubt, but somehow it wasn’t what Tessa thought her life would be about. Then again, she didn’t have a clue what would be better.

Why was it so much easier to know what she
didn’t
want than what she did?

“We’re going to try that new Thai place down the street,” said her father. “Would you like to come along?”

“No thanks. You guys have fun,” Tessa said with a wave. “I want to hang out at home tonight anyway. Opal’s coming over. We’re doing our usual raid on the magazine rack.”

Opal walked into Tessa’s room and immediately sprawled across the bed. She kicked off her shoes and threw half of the carefully arranged pillows to the floor to make room for her usual supply of snacks.

Tessa surveyed the jumbled pile of cellophane-wrapped candy. “You are a nutritional disaster, Kandinsky.”

“Not true,” Opal mumbled around a licorice whip. She picked up a bag and shook it at Tessa. “I have raisins. Fruit.”

“Those are chocolate-covered.”

“Of course. For the antioxidants.”

As they munched, Tessa looked through a glossy photography magazine while Opal flipped open a copy of
Guitar World
.

“Take a look at this Les Paul,” Opal said. She pushed her wispy bangs out of her eyes and tapped the picture, as if she could make a riff come out of the glossy paper.

“Nice,” said Tessa with a glance. She didn’t know a thing about guitars, but Opal sure did. In fact, Opal could pretty much play any instrument she laid her hands on. She had a gift for music, and planned to go to the New England Conservatory after graduation.

Restless, Tessa dropped the magazine, got up and straightened the few items on her desk: a picture of her with her mom and dad, a calendar book and a small jar of multicolored beach glass she’d collected over the years. Finally she walked over to where the tapestry hung on the wall.

Opal glanced up, and noticing the tapestry, she let the magazine drop from her hands. “Cool unicorn,” she commented. Then she made a slight grimace. “Not exactly My Pretty Pony, is it?”

It was true, Tessa thought, considering it. The unicorn in the tapestry didn’t look like the gentle creatures from fairy-tale illustrations. And definitely not like the chubby pastel versions that had decorated her pillowcases when she was a little girl.

It had a savage kind of beauty. Its eyes blazed like golden flames from behind the shaggy tangle of silver-gray mane. The black hooves on its raised forelegs looked long and sharp, more like talons. And she saw something she hadn’t noticed before: in addition to the bloody cut on the creature’s cheek, the tip of its long, spiral horn was dark, the color of dried blood.

As if it just gored the middle out of Bambi
.

Tessa shivered.

“What’s the matter?” asked Opal, looking at her.

“I—I don’t know.” Tessa blinked, breaking her gaze from the unicorn’s eyes with an effort. “I feel kind of funny when I look at it.”

“Probably the dust. Maybe you’re allergic.”

“Maybe,” said Tessa. But she knew very well she’d shaken out and aired the tapestry. No. It wasn’t any antique mold or mildew that was messing with her head. It was the unicorn itself. “What do you know about unicorns?” she asked Opal.

Opal tilted her head. “Let’s see. Shy, imaginary creatures. Pointy headgear. Perennial favorite on the merry-go-round—”