The cobbled path turns to pebbles as I get further away from the house, and after a minute, I come to a literal fork in the road. The path splits into two. One leads toward a wooded area, and the other leads to a beautiful stone building on the edge of the horizon, shrouded in mist and weeping trees.
It’s small and mysterious, beautiful and ancient. And of course I have to get a closer look. Without a second thought, I head down that path.
The closer I get, the more my curiosity grows.
I can smell the moss as I approach, that musty, dank smell that comes with a closed room or a wet space. And with that dark scent comes a very oppressive feeling. I feel it weighing on my shoulders as I open the heavy door, as I stare at the word SAVAGE inscribed in the wood, as I take my first tentative step into a room that hasn’t seen human life in what looks like years.
But it has seen death.
I’m standing in a mausoleum.
Growing up in a funeral home, I’m well versed in death. I know what it looks like, what it smells like, even what it tastes like in the air.
I’m surrounded by it here.
The floor is stone, but since it is deprived of light, soft green moss grows in places, and is soft under my feet. The walls are thick blocks of stone, and have various alcoves, filled with the remains of Savage family members. They go back for generations, and it makes me wonder how long the Savages have lived at Whitley.
Nearest me, are Richard Savage I, my grandfather, and Richard Savage II, my uncle. When did he die? And next to him is Olivia.
Olivia.
I run my fingers along her name, tracing the letters cut in the stone, absorbing the coolness, the hardness.
What do I know about her, other than she must have been Dare’s mother?
Why is she significant in my memory?
Did Dare have her eyes, or her hair? Was she the only spot of brightness in his world? Does he miss her more than life itself?
I don’t know.
Trailing my fingers along the wall, I circle the room, eyeing my ancestors, marveling at the silence here.
It’s so loud that my ears ring with it.
The open door creates a sliver of light on the dark floor, and it’s while I’m focusing on the brightness that I first hear the whisper.
Calla.
I whip my head around, only to find nothing behind me.
Chills run down my spine, and goose-bumps form on my arms as I eye the empty room. The only people here are dead.
But… the whisper was crystal clear in the silence.
I’m hearing voices.
That fact terrifies me, but not as much as the familiarity in that whisper.
“Hello?” I call out, desperate for someone to be here, for someone real to have spoken. But no one answers.
Of course not.
I’m alone.
I lay my hand on the wall and try to draw in a deep breath. I can’t be crazy. It’s one of my worst fears, second only to losing my brother.
A movement catches my eye and I focus on it.
Carnation petals and stargazers, white and red, blow across the floor. Funeral flowers.
Startled, I turn toward them, bending to touch them. I run one between my fingers, its texture velvety smooth. It hadn’t been here a moment ago. None of them had, yet here they are, strewn across the floor.
They lead to a crypt in the wall.
Adair Phillip DuBray.
My heart pounds and pounds as I race to the plaque, as I trace the fresh letters with my fingertips. His middle name is the same as my father’s.
And this wasn’t here before.
What the hell?
I gulp, drawing in air, observing the fresh flowers in the vase beside his name.
There is no moss here, because this had been freshly carved, recently opened, and very recently sealed. But there’s no way Dare can be here, because I just saw him last night. He’s fine, he’s fine, he’s fine.
As my hands palm his name, as I reassure myself, pictures fill my head, images and smells.
The sea, a cliff, a car.
Blood, shrieking metal, the water.
Dare.
He’s bloody,
He’s bloody,
He’s bloody.
Everything is on fire,
The flames lick at the stone walls,
Trying to find any possible way out.
The smoke chokes me and I cough,
gasping for air.
I blink and everything is gone.
My hands are on a blank wall, and Dare’s name is gone.
The flowers are gone.
I’m alone.
The floor is bare.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t breathe.
I’m crazy.
It’s the only explanation.
I scramble for the door and burst out into the sunlight, away from the mausoleum, away from the death. I fly toward the house, tripping on the stones.
“Calla?”
My name is called and I’m afraid to look, afraid no one will be there, afraid that I’m still imagining things. Is this what Finn felt like every day? Am I starting down that slippery path? It’s a rabbit hole and I’m the rabbit and I’m crazy.
But it’s Dare, standing tall and strong on the path, and I fly into his arms, without worrying about pushing him away.
His arms close around me and he smells so good, so familiar, and I close my eyes.
“You’re fine,” I tell him, I tell myself. “You’re ok.”
“Yes, I’m fine,” he says in confusion, his hands stroking my back, holding me close. “Did you think something happened to me?”
I see his name, carved in the mausoleum stone, and I shudder, pushing the vision away, far out of my mind.
“No. I…no.”
He holds me for several minutes more, then looks down at me, tucking an errant strand of my hair behind my ear.
“Are you ok? You’ve been gone for hours.”
Hours? How can that be? The sky swirls, and I steady myself against his chest.
I hear his heart and it’s beating fast, because he’s afraid.
He’s afraid for me because he recognizes the signs, he’s seen them before, he’s seen them in my brother.
“It’s ok, Cal,” he murmurs, but I can hear the concern in his voice. “It’s ok.”
But I can tell from his voice that it’s not.
Craziness is genetic.
I’m the rabbit.
And I’m crazy.
“Is your father’s name Phillip?” I ask him tentatively, and he glances down at me.
“Yes.”
“Mine is too.”
“I know,” he says. “But things aren’t always what they seem, Cal. Remember?”
That seems so silly. My father’s name is Phillip and his father’s name is Phillip and it is what it is. Dare’s arm is around my shoulders as we walk back to the house, and I can feel him glance at me from time to time.
“Stop,” I tell him finally as we walk through the gardens. “I’m fine.”
“Ok,” he agrees. “Of course you are.”
But he knows better, and he knows that I’m not.
Sabine is kneeling by the library doors, digging through the rich English soil, and she looks at us over her shoulder. When she sees my face, her eyes narrow and she climbs to her feet.
“Are you all right, Miss Price?” she asks in her gravelly voice. I want to lie, I want to tell her that I’m fine, but I know she can tell the difference. In fact, as she stares at me with those dark eyes, I feel like she can see into my soul.
I don’t bother to lie.
I just shake my head.
She nods.
“Come with me.”
She leads us both to the back of the house, to her room. It’s small and dark, draped in colorful fabrics, in mystic symbols and pieces of gaudy jewelry, shrouded in mirrors and dream-catchers and stars.
I’m stunned and I pause, gazing at all of the pageantry.
She glimpses my expression and shrugs. “I’m Roma,” she says, by way of explanation. At my blank expression, she sighs. “Romani. Gypsy. I’m not ashamed of it.”
She holds her head up high, her chin out, and I can see that she’s far from ashamed. She’s proud.