“In a bit, Pa!” Emily called over her shoulder, and shared a secretive look with Caitlyn. “I haven’t had a good run in days!”
Caitlyn looked back to see the man shaking his head, a reluctant smile on his tanned face. She turned forward again as Emily urged the horse to greater speed, the two girls bending low as the wind whipped their faces and the world flew by in a blur.
Madame Pelletier intruded upon Caitlyn’s vision.
“Arretez! Arretez! Mon Dieu, qu’est-ce que vous faites? Arretez!”
Stop! Stop! My God, what are you doing? Stop!
The country road vanished, and the arena appeared before Caitlyn’s eyes in startling clarity. The other novice riding students were frozen, watching her.
The advanced riders had halted, Amalia among them, all staring with the same horrified fascination. “You know, she’s from the American West,” Caitlyn heard Amalia say. “Riding bareback is in their blood!”
But with the loss of her trancelike state, the horse beneath Caitlyn’s thighs became an alien motion, out of synch with Caitlyn’s balance and movement. Caitlyn panicked and pulled back on the reins, making Rosamund come to a bouncing halt just as Caitlyn began to lose her seat.
“Merde
,
”
Caitlyn muttered, and in a long slow descent into shame, she fell.
CHAPTER
Thirteen
Caitlyn was glad her French comprehension was poor. It made listening to Madame Pelletier’s infuriated ranting about the bareback fiasco more bearable. Pelletier had dragged her to Madame Snowe’s office mere moments after Caitlyn had fallen off Rosamund.
Caitlyn was sitting in front of Madame Snowe’s ebony desk, slouched down in her chair as the riding instructor shouted, gesticulated, and pointed at her shameful student. Caitlyn had never been sent to the principal’s office before. It was humiliating, and she hoped it didn’t happen again.
Fortunately, Caitlyn hadn’t been hurt in her fall. It had been more embarrassing than anything else, especially with Amalia watching.
Madame Snowe made understanding noises to Pelletier, and she said some firm words in French that seemed to calm her down. Snowe walked the woman to the door, no doubt letting her know that the miscreant would be dealt with severely.
Caitlyn felt something itchy on her stomach and lifted the hem of her sweater. A bit of sawdust from the arena fell out onto her thighs. She brushed it off, then grimaced as it formed a pale smudge on the Oriental carpet. Caitlyn surreptitiously rubbed it in with the tip of her boot.
Caitlyn peeked over her shoulder to see if anyone had noticed, and found her gaze caught by
La Perla
. Bianca looked amused.
It’s not funny
, Caitlyn silently told her.
I might get kicked out for this whole horse thing.
“Caitlyn?” Madame Snowe said. “Is there a reason you are glaring at that portrait?”
“What? No!” She turned forward again and straightened her posture, trying to prepare herself for the dressing-down Madame Snowe was about to deliver.
Snowe—in a midnight blue shantung silk suit—rested one slender hip on the edge of her desk and looked down at Caitlyn. “Would you like to tell me your side of the story?”
“I’m so sorry! I don’t know what came over me.”
“But something did ‘come over’ you?”
“I never meant to disobey Madame Pelletier, or to ride bareback, I swear! I wanted to ride so much, though, and I didn’t think I was going to be allowed to, and then …”
“And then?”
Fear took hold of Caitlyn’s tongue, silencing it. She remembered how her father and Joy had reacted to her stories about the vivid dreams that felt so real, she sometimes confused them with reality and claimed she had done things that she had, in fact, only imagined. Her parents had accused her of lying at first, but as time went by they started to worry that something might be wrong with her. Maybe, like a schizophrenic, she couldn’t tell what was real and what was not. A psychiatrist her parents talked to said that it wouldn’t be out of keeping with schizophrenia that Caitlyn’s symptoms had started with puberty.
Caitlyn learned to keep her dreams confined to the covers of her journal.
“And then I made a simple bridle and mounted Rosamund, and went for a ride,” Caitlyn said dully.
“How did you know how to make the bridle?”
“I didn’t. It just came to me.”
“Someone must have taught you at some time. It was an improvised hackamore you made, Madame Pelletier said.”
Caitlyn’s heart thumped. “What’s that?” she asked. She had learned something
real
from one of her dreams?
“It’s a Spanish type of bridle, seen mostly in Western riding. So it seems likely you made one before, or saw someone make one.”
Caitlyn shrugged, trying to hide her interest. This would be the second time she got
real
information from one of her dreams!
“And then there was your ability to ride. Madame admitted that if she hadn’t been so startled, and so frightened for you, she might have admired your seat. You rode with a natural grace, she said. Until you fell, of course.” Madame Snowe lifted Caitlyn’s chin with her long, cold fingers, forcing her to meet her eyes. “
Alors
. Tell me the truth. You have ridden before.”
Caitlyn hung on the precipice of truth and lies, not knowing which would save her. The intensity of Madame Snowe’s gaze, though, threatened that the headmistress would sense a lie. Caitlyn almost imagined that she could feel Snowe’s will, forcing her to tell the truth. “Only in my dreams,” Caitlyn squeaked.
“Ah?” Snowe released Caitlyn’s chin. “These must be very vivid dreams.”
Caitlyn nodded.
“And do you have other dreams where you learn to do things like ride horses bareback?”
Caitlyn thought about Raphael, then shook her head. She didn’t want to share him with the headmistress. “Or at least, I don’t know if I do. Like anyone else, I rarely remember more than snippets of my dreams.”
Madame Snowe tapped her lower lip with a fingertip, thinking. “I suppose cryptomnesia could be the explanation for your riding skill,” Madame Snowe mused, almost to herself.
“Crypto-what?”
“Cryptomnesia. It’s when you forget how or when you learned something, and even forget that you know it, until it suddenly pops into your mind. It tricks some people into believing they have psychic or other paranormal abilities. Has it done that to you?”
“No. Of course not,” she semi-fibbed. She
had
been thinking there was something unusual going on with her dreams, that might find an explanation in the paranormal.
“
Bon.
You may have learned to ride by watching other people, or movies, and then incorporating that knowledge into your psyche by dreaming that you yourself were riding.”
“I guess so,” Caitlyn said, although the explanation was a letdown. It was so … mundane.
“If you have any more of these cryptomnesiac spells, I want you to tell me. I have a doctorate in psychology, and I find them … fascinating. Will you do that? Will you tell me the details, the next time something like this happens?”
“You don’t think …,” Caitlyn started. “I mean, you aren’t worried that …” Caitlyn circled her finger around her ear and crossed her eyes.
“That they’re a symptom of a mental illness?”
Caitlyn nodded. “It’s not a symptom of schizophrenia?”
Snowe exhaled a short breath of laughter. “No. You are not crazy. You are, instead,
unique
, Caitlyn. Be content with that, as I am.”
Caitlyn blinked in surprise. She was beginning to accept that Madame Snowe truly
did
believe that she was special. It seemed that the traits that had made her an unhappy oddball in Oregon were now the things that made her valuable in Madame Snowe’s eyes.
Maybe there hadn’t been anything wrong with Caitlyn all these years; maybe she’d just been in the wrong environment, with the wrong people.
Caitlyn smiled. “I think I can be content with uniqueness.” But she still didn’t want to talk about Raphael with Madame Snowe.
“Good. And don’t forget to tell me the next time this happens. I want all the details. Promise?”
Caitlyn smiled and nodded, and hoped she wouldn’t be struck down for the lie.
CHAPTER
Fourteen
FEBRUARY 16
Breakfast was the quietest meal of the day in the Great Hall, although as far as the food went it was Caitlyn’s favorite. This morning, a long buffet was laid out with croissants,
pain au chocolat
, butter, cheese, sliced deli meats, yogurt, fruit, muesli, milk, tea, orange juice, and hard-boiled eggs, and Caitlyn was free to take whatever she wanted. She didn’t have to talk to a single cook. Girls came down from the dorm still half asleep and in their pajamas, or dashing in just before the kitchen closed to scoop up a couple croissants from the buffet. Some girls never came down at all, valuing sleep more than food.
Caitlyn put her bowl of yogurt and fruit at an empty space at a table, next to Mathilde Obermann, the girl who had seen the real Woman in Black.
Caitlyn had been thinking about talking to Mathilde for several days. She wanted to hear the story of her encounter with the Woman in Black, and whether or not Mathilde had heard the ghost calling for her lost love, Raphael.
Madame Snowe’s talk of cryptomnesia made perfect sense as an explanation for Caitlyn’s dreams that seemed to have a basis in fact. She must have read or heard about Catherine de’ Medici before. Maybe she’d seen a show on the Discovery Channel or the History Channel, a show unmemorable to her conscious mind that nonetheless left an impression on her unconscious. She’d been happy with that explanation until she’d suddenly remembered that the first time she’d dreamed Raphael’s name had been in the car coming from the Bordeaux airport,
before
she’d arrived at the school. Where could she possibly have heard Raphael’s name, then?
Maybe Mathilde’s encounter with the Woman in Black could shed light, however feeble, on the question.
Caitlyn was pleased to have found Mathilde alone. The Austrian girl had frizzy red hair that stuck out in a halo around her pale face, and her eyebrows were so light they were invisible, giving her a look of perpetual fright.
“Hi,” Caitlyn said.
“Hello.”
“I’m Caitlyn.”
Mathilde grinned. “The Wild West girl who rode bareback! Yes, I know. The whole school knows! Can you shoot a gun, too?”
Caitlyn’s cheeks heated in embarrassment. “Urg,” she gurgled, “no.”
“I would have liked to have been there for Madame Pelletier’s reaction. I heard she was furious!” Mathilde waved her arms over her head and made an angry, ranting face. She dropped her arms and chortled. “I would have liked that very much.”
“It wasn’t so great from my end.”
Mathilde smiled, her cheeks dimpling. “But now you have a good story.”
“Like you do. I heard that you saw the Woman in Black, a year or two ago.”
Mathilde’s smile faded. She dropped her gaze and picked up her croissant, shredding it between her fingers.“That was very frightening for me.”
“As scary as Madame Pelletier?”
Mathilde flashed a smile. “Maybe not.”
“I was wondering if maybe you could help me?”
“How?”
“I have to write a paper on Jane Austen’s
Northanger Abbey
, which is sort of a ghost story; I thought maybe I could work your encounter into my essay.” Which was true, and it was also a good excuse for being so curious about the Woman in Black.
Mathilde frowned. “I read that book. There’s no ghost, only a heroine who imagines things. I didn’t imagine the Woman in Black.”
“No, of course not! That wasn’t the angle I wanted to take. I wanted to contrast a real ghost encounter with a fictional one.”
Mathilde thought for a moment, then popped apiece of croissant in her mouth and smiled. “Okay.”
“Start from the beginning.”
“It was the middle of the night. I’d gotten up to get a glass of water,” Mathilde said.
“So you were out in the hallway?” Caitlyn asked. “Which floor?”
“Third floor. I heard a sound behind me, like heavy silk skirts. The sound they make, what is the word …?”
“Rustling?” Caitlyn supplied.
Mathilde nodded. “Rustling, the way long skirts do when a woman walks. I was very surprised, of course.
Who is this?
I thought.
Who would be dressed in long skirts and coming down the hall at this hour?
So I turned around.”
“And?” Caitlyn asked, her hands clenched tight together. “What did you see?”
“Nothing! No one there.”