The Artisans (7 page)

Inside the room, I drop Edgar, lock the door, and scramble into bed. Flopping my head against a sea of pillows, I let out a breath, determined to sleep. “This is ridiculous. You’re seventeen years old.” Resentment burns a hole in my gut. Exactly. Not an adult, not a teacher, or a fifty-year-old man with a drinking problem, and not a mother. Where are the people meant to protect me? How long do I have to be strong?

Help me
…

As I sit up, a boy faces me from the foot of my bed. He’s thin with dark hair and pale, blue skin except for the shadows lurking under his black eyes. Water streams off his hair, down his white shirt, molding to the planes of his body. His image strikes a familiar chord. His eyes widen until the whites show bright around a black iris. The boy’s mouth opens, a perfect black maw of terror with no sound. My scream sticks in my throat, strangling me.

Legs shuffling, I scramble back until my spine smacks the headboard. When I glance up, ready to meet my doom, the boy disappears. I blink and rub my eyes. Still gone. Mother Mary and Joseph, what was that?

I swear I know the scary face from somewhere. Then it hits me. The photo in the hall of the kid with sad eyes—the dead one—is the same boy who stood in my room just seconds ago. Holy freaking … I cover my face with the blanket and breathe deeply, trying to slow my heartbeats. When I raise my head, there’s no one there. Clutching a pillow to my chest, I sit still, barely breathing, afraid the … whatever
it
is will come back.

How long I wait there I can’t say. My eyelids droop, and I snap them open, terror demanding I keep watch. After a while, Edgar reappears. He curls into a ball and snoozes peacefully at my feet. His steady purr tugs at my weary brain inviting me to sleep.

Once the soft, pink glow of morning colors the windows, I give in, falling on my side, sliding into a world of peace and dreamless slumber.

***

For several days I sketch and stare at the fabric scraps I’ve pinned to the three manikins in my sewing room. I don’t sleep, or at least not much. Convincing myself that I hallucinated the poltergeist standing in my room the other night isn’t working, but what other explanation is there? On a positive note, the ghost hasn’t made a reappearance, and I haven’t seen Gideon all week, thank all that’s holy. I know it’s only a matter of time.

I glance at the clock on the wall and check the time. Seven minutes after four. My stomach growls. I can’t remember when I last ate, nor do I care.

A sigh slips out as my gaze roams the work area for the hundredth time. Will Gideon get angry when he notices how little I’ve accomplished? I never struggle with creating. Never get sewing block or whatever people call it. Not until now. Tossing my charcoal pencil across the table disturbs Edgar who meows and stretches. “You’re no help,” I complain.

A faint knock on the door draws my attention.

“Miss Weathersby?” Jenny’s voice rings out, chipper as ever. I’ve asked her to call me Rae but she smiles and ignores me. “You have visitors.”

My tummy cramps. Gideon? Who else can it be, but she said visitors with an s. “Come on back.” Soft tread brushes the carpet from my bedroom door to the workroom. Dane’s huge form fills the doorway followed by Maggie and Jenny. My heart goes from zero to fifty in one second. Yes!

I jump from my seat and race for Dane. As I tackle him, my hand reaches out, finding Maggie, and I pull her in for a group hug. I’m so past acting cool, I couldn’t care less who’s watching this sloppy display of affection. When we step back, questions pour from me. “How are you guys? Why did you come? What’s happening at school?” I’m a little surprised they’re allowed in, but I can’t stop grinning.

“We have so much to tell you!” Maggie gushes. She’s changed her stripe in front from pink to purple. I smile as my friend gestures wildly to the housekeeper. “We just got here and met, uh—”

“Name’s Mrs. Jennings, dearie, but everyone calls me Jenny.” Who knew? Jenny pauses. “Shall I bring beverages up here, or would you like to visit in the drawing room? I can make a few sandwiches, if you like.”

“Yes, thanks,” I say, suddenly hungry. “That’d be awesome. We can eat in my workroom, if that’s allowed.”

“Of course,” she nods to my friends and retreats.

“This place is legit,” Dane says once Jenny shuts the door. He sits in my chair at the worktable and ogles my sketches. “I thought you’d be dressed in rags and chained to a tree outside or something.”

I shudder.

“It’s true.” Maggie adds. “I’m glad Maddox didn’t answer the door. Dane might have killed him. And Jenny, is it? She’s like someone’s grandmother. Nothing is what I thought it would be like for you here.”

You and me both, I think.

Maggie picks her way around my room, hands gliding over everything she sees. I know the feeling. The room is so beautiful, I doubt it’s real myself. “Okay, so let me fill you in on what happened at school yesterday.”

“Rae?” A moment of annoyance pings through me at Dane’s interruption. I’m starving for information beyond these prison walls. “Your sketches? They’re shit.”

“Well, thanks.” I know they are, and the idea that even Dane recognizes the truth makes me crazy and frustrated. Time to face facts: maybe jail time is killing my creative mojo. “I’m having some trouble, but I’m still adjusting to everything. I’ll figure it out.”

“Of course you will,” says Maggie, pinning Dane with an evil glare. “Let me see.” Dane holds a dozen sketches in the air with a petulant expression. Maggie snatches them, pursing her lips as she peruses my pitiful ideas. “They’re not so bad, and she’ll fix them.” She leans over, lowering her voice, but I totally hear her. “Can you just
try
to be encouraging?” Dane’s Adam’s apple bobs as she whispers against his ear. I hide my smile.

I doubt he hears a word she says because the next thing out of his mouth is, “Are you eating, Rae? Are you sleeping or sleep
walking
again, because you look like one of the zombie scarecrows from that movie
Midwestern Apocalypse
.” Maggie smacks him with my sketchbook. “Ow.”

“Really?” Maggie asks, “Did your mama drop you on your head?”

Dane shrugs. “May-be.”

Maggie slides my drawings onto the worktable, and then walks toward me. She takes my hand and stretches out on the carpeting of my bedroom floor, pulling me down alongside her. “You do look tired, sweetie. What’s up?”

They won’t quit until I spill, so I don’t hold back. Dane makes his way to join us as I relay all the events since my arrival. I tell them Gideon’s dad is dead, about my shock at the living quarters not being a six-foot square cell, my argument with Gideon and his demands. I end with the freaky dream of the ghost boy standing at the foot of my bed, the same, dark haired guy from the photo in the hall.

No one speaks for a minute. Then Dane says, “Can I see it?”

“Oh, you mean the scary photo I’ve been avoiding since the night the kid showed up in my room? The one that makes me stare at my feet as I pass by, so I don’t have to view his creepy, realistic eyes? Sure.”

Maggie puts a hand on my arm. “You don’t have to, Rae.” Dane nods his agreement. “We get to go home. You have to stay here tonight, so don’t do anything you don’t want to.”

“No, it’s fine,” I say, getting to my feet. “You can tell me about school on the way.”

“Done,” my friends say at once.

“And Dane, can you find out more about Gideon’s parents?”

He shrugs. “I guess so, but why?”

“Curiosity, mostly.” I’m not sure what I’m looking for, maybe some insight into Gideon’s twisted mind. “It might be good to learn more about them.” Dane and Maggie lounge on the carpet, apparently in no hurry, but I am. The pictures give me serious heebie-jeebies. I want this over with. “Come on people, quick like bunnies, I want to get back before Jenny brings the snacks.”

Food is usually enough to motivate Dane. He stands, leans over, and drags Maggie to her feet.

As the three of us plod down the hall, Maggie does most of the talking. “So, you know how my mom volunteers in the front office twice a week?” Her question is rhetorical, so I wait. “Well she was in there yesterday when none other than Gideon Maddox himself shows up asking to see Principal Myers. You never told me how incredibly hot the guy is.” I glare. “For a loser,” she adds, and then continues. “He’s in there for about a half hour and the pair comes out all smiles and handshakes and thank-yous. A regular mutual-admiration-society going on or something.” Her hands flail as she talks. “Mom found out Maddox made some arrangements. About you.”

“Me?” My pulse picks up, unsure where her story is heading.

“Yeah, get this, Maddox tells Myers you’ve been chosen for some sort of fashion designing honor.” Dane snorts and Maggie shushes him with a look. “The whole school is talking about it. He makes your absence sound like you’re a contestant on one of those talent shows for singing or sewing that allows minors to compete. Except this contest isn’t televised, it’s funded by independent clothing manufacturers looking for new talent. Clever, right? He says his company is backing you. It’s a once in a lifetime chance, and if you win, the publicity and prize money will pay for college, change your whole life.”

The guy is good. I almost wish it were true.

“So by the time he’s done explaining all of this to Myers, Maddox has our principal eating out of his hand. That and Mom said he made a generous donation to the art department.”

I stop walking. “What? Why? Why do all that? I don’t understand.”

“Hang on. I’m getting to that part. Maddox persuaded Myers to allow you to finish school at Sales Hollow without actually attending class. Once a week, you get all your assignments and exchange your completed pages for the next week’s work. The teachers will grade your stuff and so on until the end of the year. You’ll graduate. With us!”

“And guess who’s bringing you your assignments?” Dane adds.

“My mom knew I would want the job and volunteered me on the spot.” She beams. “Dane is my unofficial escort.”

“So I can smash Maddox in the face if he hurts you.”

Maggie elbows Dane in the gut. “So we can check on you every week and make sure you’re doing okay.”

Stupid with shock, I stand in the center of the hall. Gideon mentioned he was making arrangements for my last year of school. I guess he did. There’s no need to say how relieved I am, my friends know me well enough by now, but Dane picks me up anyway, crushing the air from my lungs before setting me down again. In a rare moment of approval, Maggie wraps her arm around Dane’s waist and gives him a squeeze. My eyes burn with unshed tears, my throat closes on the gratitude I can’t express.

I shake my hair back and notice the photo of a dark-haired boy on the wall. “We’re here.” I point, eager to get the focus off me for a change. “I swear that’s the guy who showed up in my room.” Something about the photograph seems different, but I can’t put my finger on why.

Mags steps to the wall, studying the famed subject. “Whoa. Boy’s got it going on.”

Dane’s eyebrows form a sharp V.

I cross my arms, ready to take back all the nice things I just thought about my friend. “Seriously?” It’s usually Dane with the sensitivity issues. Maybe he’s rubbing off on her.

She laughs. “No, I’m sorry. But if you have to have someone haunting your dreams … young Mr. Hot and Mysterious here isn’t half bad, if you’re into the cougar thing.”

Dane’s nostrils flare like a pissed off bull.

“Okay, bestie, you can shut up now.” I tilt my head, studying the picture. “I could have sworn it was his left hand that was raised, not his right.” Weird.

At the sound of a rattling tray, our three heads turn. Jenny frowns as she finds us milling around the hallway. “What’s all this then?”

Dane points. “Rae’s having nightmares about the dead guy in that picture.”

Awesome, thanks Dane.

Jenny’s eyebrows arch toward her hairline. “Is that so?” The dishes, laden with food, jiggle on the tray. Without a word, Dane reaches out and lifts the heavy burden from the older woman’s arms.

“Thank you, my how polite.”

Maggie’s smile is radiant and more reward for Dane’s thoughtful gesture than if she had handed him twenty bucks. “Who is he?” she asks.

Jenny’s hand flutters to her chest. Her frown stays, her eyes dart everywhere but at the picture, or us. She seems guilty or upset, but I can’t see why. “His name is Cole Wynter, an old acquaintance of the young master, I believe.”

Not a relative? Does anyone else think it’s bizarre that old man Maddox took a picture of some random kid, and hung it on the wall in his house? I don’t get these people. At all.

“Is
Cole Wynter?” Maggie asks, voicing my next question. “Then he’s still alive? I assumed he lived, like, a hundred years ago or something.”

Jenny examines a spot on the floor. “No, not that long ago, dearie.”

Her answer doesn’t seem to satisfy my friend who presses for more. “Do you know where he is now? How old he is? When this photo was taken?”

“So many questions. You young people are such curious creatures. Perhaps we should—” Somewhere, a door slams shut. I jolt as the noise echoes throughout the mansion. Picture frames clatter against the walls, the chandelier above us bounces, crystals jingling as they settle back into place. “Oh, well my goodness.” Jenny’s words are breathy, as though she’s been running. “Old houses are so drafty. What a nuisance. Shall we go back to your room now, Miss Weathersby?”

She’s clearly bothered. My friends and I exchange tentative glances at the housekeeper’s thin explanation. The air is as still and heavy as the calm before a storm.

There is no wind in the hallway. No wind at all.