They walked toward Fifth Avenue and arrived at the Metropolitan Museum in quick time. The front steps were filled with people scarfing down their lunches, taking pictures, or simply basking in the sun. It was a carnival atmosphere; someone was slapping bongos on one end, and a boom box blasted reggae music on the other. They walked up the steps and inside.
The lobby of the museum was bustling with activity and color—schoolchildren on field trips lined up behind their teachers, art students walked briskly with their sketchbooks tucked underneath their arms, a Babelian prattle of many different languages bubbled from the tourists.
Dylan slid a dime underneath the glass ticket counter. "Two, please," he said, an innocent smile on his face.
Bliss was a little appalled. She checked the sign. SUGGESTED DONATION: $15. Well, he had a point, it was suggested, not mandatory. The cashier handed them their round Met pins with no comment. Apparently, he'd seen it all before.
"Have you ever been to the Temple of Dendur?" Dylan asked, leading Bliss toward the northern end of the museum.
"No," she said, shaking her head. "What's that?"
"Stop," he said. He put his hands gently on her face. "Close your eyes."
"Why?" She giggled.
"Just do it," he said. "Trust me."
She closed her eyes, holding a hand against her face, and she felt him tug at her hand, leading her forward. She walked hesitantly, feeling ahead of her—they were inside some kind of maze, she thought—as he led her briskly through a series of sharp turns. Then they were outside of it. Even with her eyes closed, she could sense they were in a large, empty space.
"Open your eyes," Dylan whispered.
She blinked them open.
They were standing in front of the ruins of an Egyptian temple. The building was majestic and primitive at the same time—in direct contrast to the clean, modern lines of the museum. It was absolutely stunning. The hall was empty, and there was a long horizontal fountain in front of the temple. It was a breathtaking piece of art, and the history behind it—the fact that the museum had meticulously shipped and reconstructed it so that the temple looked perfectly at home in a Manhattan museum—made Bliss's head roll.
"Oh my God."
"I know," Dylan said, his eyes twinkling.
Bliss blinked back tears. It was the most romantic thing anyone had ever done to her—ever.
He looked directly into her eyes, nodding his head down toward her lips.
She fluttered her eyelashes, her heart racing in her chest, swooning. She leaned toward him, lifting her face to be kissed. He looked gentle and hopeful, and there was something appealingly vulnerable about the way he couldn't meet her gaze.
Their lips met.
And that's when it happened.
The world went gray. She was in her skin but not in her skin. The room was constricting. The world was shrinking. All four walls of the temple were suddenly whole. She was in the desert. She could taste the acrid sand in her mouth, feel the hot sun on her back. A thousand scarabs—black and shiny, buzzing flew out of the temple door. And that was when she began to scream.
Catherine Carver’s Diary
30th of November, 1620
Plymouth, Massachusetts
Today Myles Standish took a team down the coast to Roanoke, to bring medicine, food and supplies to the settlement there. It is a fortnight’s sail, so they will be gone a good while. I was heartsick to see John go off with the men. So far, we have been safe, but who knows for how long. No one dares say. The children grow quickly and are a delight to all. There has been an abundance of twin births. The Allertons recently had triplets. Susannah White, whose husband, William, also journeyed to Roanoke, came to visit. We agreed it is a fertile season. We have been blessed.
— C.C.
CHAPTER 11
Schuyler was still thinking about what Jack had said after Aggie's funeral when she arrived at Dr. Pat's all-white office in a chrome-and-glass Fifth Avenue tower later that afternoon. He'd asked her why she had ignored his note, and she'd explained she had simply dismissed it as a prank. "You think Aggie's death is funny?" he'd asked, his face stricken. She had tried to protest—but her grandmother was calling her and she had to leave. She couldn't erase the look on his face. As if she had disappointed him deeply somehow. She blew out her bangs loudly. Why did he have such an effect on her? An emaciated woman in a fox-fur jacket across the room glared at her. Schuyler stared defiantly back.
Cordelia had made a big to-do about Schuyler seeing Dr. Pat. The doctor was some kind of dermatologist, a famous one. The office was more like the inside of a Miami hotel—the Shore Club or the Delano—than a normal waiting room. It was all white, white flokati rugs, white tile walls, white lacquer tables, white leather couches, white fiberglass Eames loungers. Apparently Dr. Pat was the Dr. Pat, the one who all the socialites and fashion designers and celebrities credited with their fabulous complexions. Several signed and framed photographs from models and actresses hung on the walls.
Schuyler pushed Jack out of her mind and began flipping through the glossy magazine articles extolling the doctor's virtues, when the door from the inner office opened and Mimi Force walked out.
"What are you doing here?" Mimi spat. She had changed out of her Dior suit and was wearing a more «casual» outfit—a pair of tight four-thousand-dollar Apo jeans with the platinum rivets and a diamond button, a chunky Martine Sitbon sweater, and slim butter-colored Jimmy Choo stilettos.
"Sitting down?" Schuyler replied, even though it was obvious Mimi had asked a rhetorical question. "What happened to your face?"
Mimi glared. Her whole face was covered with little pinpoints of blood. She'd just received a laser dermabrasion peel, and it had left her skin a little raw. It helped mask the blue veins that were starting to fade around her eyes. "None of your business."
Schuyler shrugged.
Mimi left, slamming the door behind her.
A few minutes later, the nurse called Schuyler's name, and she was ushered into a treatment room. The nurse took her weight and blood pressure, then asked her to change into a backless hospital gown. Schuyler put on the gown and waited a few minutes before the doctor finally entered.
Dr. Pat was a stern, gray-haired woman, who looked at Schuyler and said, "You're very thin," as a greeting.
Schuyler nodded. It never mattered what she ate—she could live on chocolate cakes and French fries and she never seemed to gain an ounce. She'd been that way since she was a kid. Oliver always used to marvel at her capacity. "You should be as big as a house," he liked to say, "the way you eat."
Dr. Pat inspected the marks on her arms, silently tracing the patterns that had formed there. "Do you get dizzy?"
Schuyler nodded. "Sometimes."
"Like you can't remember where you are or where you've been?"
"Uh-huh."
"Do you ever feel like you're dreaming but you're not?"
Schuyler frowned. "I'm not sure what you mean."
“How old are you?"
"Fifteen."
"Right on time then," Dr. Pat muttered. "But no flashback memories yet. Hmm."
"Excuse me?"
She suddenly remembered that night at The Bank.
Oliver had gone to get drinks, and she'd excused herself to go to the ladies' room. But when she'd turned the corner, she'd bumped into that strange man. She had only seen him for a moment—a tall man, with broad shoulders wearing a dark suit—his bright gray eyes had glared at her from the darkness. Then he had disappeared, although there was only a blank wall where he had been standing. There had been something ancient and remote about him, and she couldn't place it, but he seemed familiar. She didn't know if that was anything to tell Dr. Pat about, so she didn't mention it.