Finn rolls his eyes before he covers his head back up with his covers. “Mom does. Besides, you have me. I’m all you need, Calla.”
I can’t argue with that.
So I drop it. Soon I hear Finn’s even breaths, signaling me that he’s asleep.
I lie still, watching the shadows move across the ceiling. I’m not scared when Finn is here, which probably really is dumb. I heard Jones telling Sabine that Finn couldn’t beat his way out of a wet paper bag, but that’s only because he hasn’t hit a growth spurt yet. Regardless, I know he’d die trying to protect me. Somehow, that’s comforting and morbid at the same time.
I close my eyes.
And when I do, all I can see is Dare’s face.
Dark hair, dark eyes, stubborn glare.
I love him.
He’s mine.
Or he’ll be mine someday. I know it in my heart, as sure as I know my name is Calla Elizabeth Price.
I sleep to the sounds of the moors…the wind, the dark, the silence, the growls. The moors here at Whitley growl, although no one else seems to notice. At first I thought it was Castor, but it’s not. He’d never growl at me. But the moors do.
After the morning sun wakes me up, I pull some clothes on and dash down to the kitchens, hoping to see him before breakfast.
“Is Dare here?” I ask as Castor and I skid around the corner. Sabine eyes me from beneath her scarf as she hands me a croissant.
“Shh, child. I think I saw him slip outdoors.”
She’s quiet so that no one will overhear her. I tell her thank you over my shoulder and head for the grounds, because that’s where Dare likes to be. He hates the house, and he hates most of the people inside.
But he doesn’t hate me.
Even though I’m only eight and he’s eleven. I know this because he told me.
I race down the paths, over the cobbles and between the gates of the secret garden with my dog on my heels. I watch for Dare above the flowers, beneath the massive angel statues, and I finally see him sitting on the edge of a pond, his dark eyes thoughtful as he skips a rock across the glassy surface.
“You’re not supposed to be out here,” I tell him tentatively as I approach. He barely glances up.
“So go tell Eleanor.”
His tone is sullen as he mentions my grandmother, but I’m used to that.
My mother said his lot in life has left him grumpy, that I’m to be patient.
I’m more than patient.
I live for every word out of his mouth.
I sit next to him, and even though I try, none of my rocks skip. They just fall heavily into the water.
Wordlessly, Dare reaches over and adjusts my hand, making me flick my wrist as I toss the stone. I watch it skip once, twice, three times before it sinks.
I smile.
“What does ‘lot in life’ mean?” I ask him curiously.
His eyes narrow.
“Why do you ask?”
“Because my mom said you’re grumpy because of your lot in life. But I don’t know what that means.”
Dare seems to turn pale, and he looks away and I think I’ve made him mad.
“It’s not your business,” he snaps. “You’re supposed to be learning how to be a good Savage. And a good Savage doesn’t pry.”
I gulp, because Lord knows I’ve heard Grandmother Eleanor say that a million times.
“But what does it mean?” I ask after a few minutes, ever persistent.
Dare sighs heavily and gets to his feet. He stares into the distance for a minute before he answers.
“It means your place in the world,” his words are heavy. “And mine sort of sucks.”
“So change it,” I tell him simply, because it seems simple enough to me.
Dare snorts. “You don’t know anything,” he tells me wisely. “You’re just a kid.”
“So are you.”
“But I’m older.”
I can’t argue with that.
“Can I hold your hand?” I ask him as we make our way out of the gardens. “I forgot my shoes and I don’t want to fall on the stones.”
I’m lying. I just want to hold his hand.
He’s hesitant and he seems a bit repelled, but he glances up toward the house, then reluctantly lets me cling to his fingers.
“You’ve got to be more responsible, Calla,” he advises me with a sidelong look toward my bare feet. But he lets me hold his hand as we slowly make our way back to the house. He shakes off my fingers before we open the doors.
“See you at dinner.”
I watch the house swallow him up before I follow him in.
As I walk down the hallway, I can’t help but glance over my shoulder every once in a while because even the sunshine can’t keep the shadows away at Whitley. Something always seems to be watching me, hovering around me.
Always.
When I find Finn in the library, I tell him that.
He shakes his head, annoyed, yet clearly concerned. Like always.
“Have you taken your pills today, Calla?”
“Yes.” If I don’t, I see monsters.
I see red-eyed demons and black-eyed serpents.
I see fire,
I see blood,
I see terrible
Terrible
Things.
Finn stares at me dubiously.
“Are you sure?”
I pause.
Then I grudgingly pull the two colorful pills out of my pocket.
He glares at me. “Take them. Right now or I’m telling mom.”
When I don’t rush to do it, he adds, “Or I’ll tell Grandmother.”
That threat bears weight, and he knows it. I hurry to get a drink of water, and I swallow the pills while he watches.
“You know better, Calla,” he chides me, sounding more like a parent than a brother.
I nod. Because I do.
“They taste bad,” I offer by way of explanation.
“That’s no excuse.”
“What isn’t?”
Our mother breezes into the library, red-headed and beautiful, slim and glamorous. If I’m lucky, I’ll look just like her some day.
“Nothing,” I hurry and tell her.
She seems suspicious, but she’s in too much of a hurry to ask again.
“Have you seen Adair?” she asks us both. “Your uncle is looking for him.”
We both shake our heads, but Finn is the only one telling the truth. I’d rather die than tell that monster where Dare is.
“What does uncle Dickie want with Dare?” I ask her as she turns to leave.
She pauses, her face drawn and tight. “It’s grown-up stuff, Calla Lily. Don’t fret about it.”
But of course I do.
Because every time Uncle Richard finds Dare, I hear screaming.
And even though you’d think that was the worst part, it’s not.
The worst part is when the screaming stops.
Because silence hides an abundance of sins.
That’s what my mom says.
And she’s always right.
At least, that’s what my dad says.
At dinner, I mention my dad.
“I miss him,” I tell my mom. “Why doesn’t he ever come with us in the summers?”
She sighs and pats my hand before picking up her shrimp fork.
“He does, Calla. You know that. He’ll be here for the last couple of weeks, just like he always is.”
“But why do we come here every year?” I ask again, and I feel stupid, but it’s a good question. Every summer, year after year. Dad has to stay home in Oregon to work, but we get to come here because mom’s family is rich.
“Because Whitley is also our home, and we have to,” my mom says tiredly. “And because of the Savage name, you have opportunities. The best doctors, the best of everything. But we have to spend summers here to get that. You already know all of this, Calla. I have to make sacrifices for you, Calla. Just appreciate that.”
I do.
I do appreciate that. I don’t understand it, but I appreciate it.
What I don’t want to tell her is that sometimes, what I know blends with what I don’t. It twists and turns and bends, turning into shapes that I can’t recognize. Facts blend with dreams, and dreams blend with memories, and then reality isn’t real.
I always feel too silly to ask anyone but Finn what is real and what is not.
They’d think I’m crazy.
I’m not.
Dare kicks me lightly beneath the table and I glance at him quickly.