“Didn’t we have an accident?
Un accident?”
White brows drew down in a frown.
“With a truck?” she clarified. “
Camisole
?”
“
Camisole?”
Shoot. That was an undershirt, not a truck. “Big car, for carrying things?”
“Ah.
Un camion.”
“
Oui!
Did we almost have an accident with
un camion
?”
“I swerved.”
“Oh.” Of course he did. She remembered the jerk of the car. “Did I faint?”
He smirked, and turned his eyes back to the road.
She’d fainted, something she’d never done before. She rubbed her forehead and shook her head. Apparently, she was even more worn out than she’d thought.
At least she hadn’t had one of her Screecher nightmares while she’d been out cold. Maybe, like the evil spirits of legend, the apparitions that visited her dreams couldn’t cross over moving water and hadn’t been able to pursue her over the Atlantic Ocean. She could always hope that the Screechers had been left behind with her old life.
Hazel eyes and a head of curly hair filtered up from her unconscious.
Raphael
, an inner voice whispered, and her heart tripped in response.
Caitlyn dug in her backpack and pulled out her art journal, flipping through to her last entry, where she’d drawn the tarot cards. The Knight of Cups sat on his horse in his winged helmet and armor, a cup held up in his hand. The only similarity to the boy in her dream was youth, and a horse. Raphael had worn no armor, had held no cup. She dug out a pencil and wrote
Raphael?
under the Knight of Cups. She turned to a fresh page and sketched the riders on the road, Raphael in their midst, twisting in his saddle to look back at her.
Her pencil hesitated over the blank of his face, the features already disappearing from her memory, leaving behind only a sense of how vivid they
had
been, mere minutes before. She tentatively shaded in shadows to give a sense of the proportions of his face, but the features themselves were lost to her. The effect of the shadows on her drawing ended up more ghostly than man-of-her-dreams, and she sighed in frustration. Her artistic skills had never been adequate to the vividness of her dreams. Never did she regret that as much as she did right now.
She flipped back to the beginning of her journal, and the first entry, from three years ago: a dark-faced Screecher with long black hair howled on the page, running toward her through a forest of twisted trees. Caitlyn had drawn the picture with a ballpoint pen, the marks violent and jagged on the white paper, and blotted with ink. The picture still gave her chills.
That first drawing, and the next half dozen in the journal, had been her attempt to exorcise the Screechers from her dreams, as if putting them on paper would exile them from her mind. It hadn’t worked.
She flipped through the Screecher drawings. They were all humanlike, with smeared, indistinct faces. They clawed, struck, or cursed at her. They screamed and howled, and threw things. Worst of all, though, were the ones who did no more than silently, intently stare at her with their round, dead eyes.
She shuddered and turned the page. After several months she’d realized that drawing the Screechers wasn’t making them go away, and to save her own sanity she’d turned her pens and pencils to recording images from her more benign dreams. She thumbed through those pages now, seeing her gradually increasing drawing skill more than the images themselves: hunters chased a dear; a pioneer girl rode a horse; teenagers loafed on a couch. On one page, a man stabbed his friend in a bar; on the facing page, a woman dressed for her wedding. There was no rhyme or reason to the dreams, no pattern that she could ever tell.
She turned to the drawing of the woman being burned at the stake, and paused.
That
had been an unusually creepy dream. It had lingered in her imagination far longer than was comfortable. It had felt so real, she almost wondered if she herself had once been a woman burned at the stake.
Caitlyn closed the journal and looked out the window, not wanting to think about flames and burning flesh. The countryside dressed in cold shades of gray was a welcome antidote to the hot orange flames licking at her memory.
The Mercedes was off the main road now, and they wound their way through a small village built into the base of a steep ridge of hills. They followed the black asphalt road upward as it clung to the edge of the hills and passed under dark, evergreen oak trees.
The driver suddenly cleared his throat, making her jump. His eyes met hers in the rearview mirror as he slowed the car and brought it to a stop in the middle of the empty road. He nodded to the right, where there was a break in the trees. “Château de la Fortune,” he said, pronouncing it “shah-toe de la for-toon.”
Caitlyn lowered her window, her sea-green eyes searching the landscape. The car was stopped halfway up the ridge. At the top of the next hill, a golden limestone fortress stood strong at the edge of a cliff, the stone of the earth merging with the foundations of the castle.
A tingling mix of excitement and fear ran over her skin, and a deep feeling of familiarity and recognition settled in her gut, as if she had at last come home.
CHAPTER
Four
The Mercedes passed through a gate in a thick defensive wall and entered a parklike setting. The castle and grounds were on a headland jutting out above the valley, and the outer wall, complete with crenellations and towers, went from the cliffs that curved around the castle grounds on the south, to the cliffs curving around to the north, walling off the castle property from the dark forest that covered the rest of the hill.
The driveway continued through close-mown grass to the massive square castle, an archway piercing its center front. Gardens, riding stables, and outbuildings surrounded the castle itself. Caitlyn looked up as they rolled slowly through the archway and saw the iron points of an immense portcullis in the shadows above them; it was the first time she’d seen such a thing in real life. A shiver ran over her skin, as she realized she was really here.
The car came out into an immense courtyard in the center of the castle, and the thick-necked driver parked and shut off the engine.
Caitlyn drew a breath and got out of the car, pulling up the hood of her thrift-store parka. Her breath steamed in the frosty air, and as she watched it dissipate, she felt a curious dissociation from her body, as if she were an alien looking out of someone else’s eyes. She’d had the same sensation before in stressful times.
Someone grabbed her shoulder, bringing her back to herself. She was shivering, and the smell of stale cigarette smoke in the driver’s clothes filled her nose. He assessed her with narrowed eyes. “Are you sick?”
Her eyelid twitched and fluttered. She shook her head, then promptly bent over and retched, her airplane breakfast of omelet and orange juice spilling onto the cobbles and splashing his shoes. He swore in French and hopped out of the way. She was dimly aware of his leaving her, calling out, and knocking at a door. Hands on her knees, her long straight black hair hanging around her face, she stared at the ground and breathed deeply, trying to get the nausea under control, until female voices and hurried footsteps made her raise her head.
A plump middle-aged woman with short, fluffy blond hair trotted toward her, her rosy face puckered in concern. Behind her, moving more slowly, was a tall elegant woman in her thirties, with pale skin and dark red hair pulled back into a chignon at the base of her neck. Caitlyn recognized her from her photo on the school’s Web site: she was the headmistress, Eugenia Snowe.
Oh, great! Good first impression you’re making, Caitlyn. Way to shine.
With a shaking hand she wiped her mouth and stood up straight, forcing a smile to her lips. Her eyelid twitched again. “I’m so sorry,” Caitlyn said. “Is there a hose? I’ll wash it away.”
The chubby blond clucked in dismay, reaching her. “Child, it’s not for you to worry about.” She put her palm on Caitlyn’s forehead and then lay the back of her hand against Caitlyn’s cheek. “No fever. How long have you been unwell?”
“I’m okay, really,” Caitlyn said, feeling a tingling in her skin where she had been touched. Her last traces of nausea seemed to have vanished, too. “The long trip …,” Caitlyn fibbed, unwilling to admit she was as tense as a guitar string. “Maybe a bit of carsickness?”
“And jet lag,” the lady said. “It is very common with our students who come from a great distance.”
Caitlyn nodded, glad for the excuse. She gathered her nerve and looked at Madame Snowe. She was afraid that the headmistress was already suspecting that she had wasted a scholarship on her.
The headmistress was looking at her with one auburn brow slightly raised, her dark brown eyes seeming to see through her. She was wearing a thin maroon sweater and a black pencil skirt, the clothes setting off her slender curves. She seemed not to feel the biting cold, despite the ice pellets dusting her hair and shoulders. “Are you quite recovered?” she asked, a hint of a French accent in her voice but not much concern.
“Yes, thank you.” Caitlyn clasped her hands tight together, trying to still their shaking.
“Let’s go inside then, shall we?” Madame Snowe turned to the driver. “The mademoiselle’s bags, if you please,” she said in French and, without waiting for an answer, headed back into the building, her posture as perfect as a ballerina’s.
Caitlyn and the blond woman followed. Caitlyn heard the trunk of the car pop open and grimaced, remembering what was in there. She sent a fervent wish heavenward that Madame Snowe would abandon her for other duties before catching sight of her tattered luggage.
They went through a side door into a surprisingly mundane lobby that looked like a medieval dentist’s waiting room. In front of a vast, empty stone fireplace a few pieces of tapestryupholstered furniture surrounded a coffee table with magazines. To the left, a high counter and glass receptionist’s window blocked off an office area. Beside that was a wall of antique post office boxes with glass windows and brass trim. On the opposite side of the room were two sets of double doors within gothic arches.
Madame Snowe brushed the ice off her sleeves, then loosely clasped her hands in front of her. “Now that we’re out of the cold, let me be the first to welcome you, Caitlyn, to Château de la Fortune.”
“Thank you,” Caitlyn murmured.
“As you may have guessed already, I am the headmistress, Madame Snowe. It is my sincere hope that you will benefit from your time with us here at the Fortune School, and that you will take full advantage of all we have to offer. This is Greta,” she said, nodding toward the middle-aged blond. “She is the house mother. She’ll show you to your room. If you have any questions or need anything for your personal comfort, go to her.”
The driver bumped his way through the door and plopped down Caitlyn’s “luggage.” Caitlyn watched Madame Snowe’s eyes go to it, widening as she took it in. Caitlyn’s cheeks heated.
Her “luggage” was a Vietnam War-era army green duffel bag, bought for a dollar at a garage sale. Cloud-shaped moisture stains mottled its faded surface, and jagged stitches of black carpet thread sealed a rip on one end, Caitlyn’s clumsy needlework giving the mended hole the look of one of Frankenstein’s scars.
“Is that all you brought?” Greta asked.
Caitlyn nodded, wishing the floor would swallow her.
“Very good. You will have no trouble unpacking, and then you can burn your bag, heh?”
“Reduce, reuse, recycle!” Caitlyn said with false cheer. “We’re very big on living green in Oregon. Why buy a new suitcase when someone else’s old duffel bag will do?”
“We’ll see that it gets … disposed of properly,” Madame Snowe said dryly. “I will talk to you again in my office, at nine A.M. tomorrow morning, to give you a more thorough orientation to the school and to explain what I will be expecting of you as a scholarship student.” She turned to Greta. “Greta, please see Caitlyn settled in her room, and see that she showers.” With a nod she turned on her heel and left.
Caitlyn raised her arm and sneaked a sniff at her armpit. Was Madame Snowe saying she smelled? She caught Greta watching her and lowered her arm. “Just checking,” she said sheepishly.
“Are you sure you are well?” Greta asked.
Caitlyn smiled crookedly. “I’m okay. Really. Just tired.” Greta’s warmth was a welcome contrast to the icy headmistress. Even Greta’s German accent was somehow comforting, making it sound as if she’d next be offering warm apple strudel and hot chocolate.
“You will feel better after a bath, and perhaps some tea to settle your stomach. Try to stay awake until this evening; it will make the adjustment to the time difference easier,” Greta said.
“Okay. Thanks.” Caitlyn didn’t know how she could possibly manage that. She was barely conscious as it was.
Greta patted her arm and smiled. “You’ll be fine.”
Caitlyn felt a small return of energy tingling through her arm as if from Greta’s touch, and believed her.