The horizon is laced with purples and pinks and reds as the sun begins to tip over the edge. It seems abnormally huge, but it is because Whitley’s grounds are so large, so vast. I’m marveling in the beauty of it when I hear a noise.
A rock tumbling along the path, maybe. A skidding sound, something that interrupts the stillness of morning.
I pause, but Castor bounds ahead without me, his giant body barreling down the path toward the stables, intent on finding the source of the noise.
“Castor!” I call, but he doesn’t listen, and doesn’t even look back.
“Castor!” A male voice barks through the stillness, and Castor skids to a stop at Dare’s feet. “Sit!”
Castor sits obediently and immediately, poised in front of Dare.
I stare at him in awe.
“How did you do that?”
Dare looks up at me and I decide that he must be…. eleven? His hair is a bit shaggy, almost touching his shoulders even. But his eyes… his eyes haven’t changed.
Dark
Dark
Dark as night.
“You have to be firm,” he tells me, his voice clipped and British. “You have to be the boss. They’ve been trained this year, but they’re still puppies. You have to control him.”
I’m hesitant, because Castor is twice, maybe three times my size. Why would he listen to me?
“Call him,” Dare tells me. “Do it firmly. Say, Castor come.”
I do it, trying to mimic the sternness of Dare’s voice.”
Castor looks at me without moving, and Dare snickers.
“You’ve got to call him with authority, little mouse.”
My head snaps up. “Don’t call me that. I’m not a mouse.”
He laughs. “Then don’t act like one. Call him with purpose.”
My lip curls and I snap, “Castor, come.”
Castor gets to his feet and comes straight to me. He stands in front of me, waiting for my command. “Sit.”
He sits.
Like magic.
Dare smiles, and his teeth are very white. “See? He’s been trained. And I’m sure he remembers you. They were both trained with your scents.”
“Our scents?”
Dare nods. “Yeah, yours and your brother’s. Sabine kept a few of your shirts to use for them. It worked, didn’t it? He knew you?”
I nod and I can’t argue. He did know me. But it feels weird to know that my scent was being used without my knowledge this year, even though that’s dumb. My scent doesn’t belong to me. Not really. I put it out into the world, and once it’s released, it never comes back.
Dare walks to me, a little bit skinny, a little bit gawky, but he seems so sophisticated to me, so worldly. He’s three years older after all. The eleven-year olds at school won’t even look twice at me. Well, unless it’s to call me Funeral Home Girl. I cringe at the memory and Dare looks at me curiously.
“What?”
I swallow because I’ll never tell him of that particular shame. “Nothing. What are you doing out so early?”
He’s the one who seems to cringe now, but then he hides it. “It’s the only time I can come,” he shrugs, without explaining. “Don’t tell Sabine, ok?”
That seems like a dumb thing to ask because we aren’t doing anything wrong, but I agree. “Ok. What are you doing out here?”
Dare shrugs. “Nothing. Just walking around.”
He’s smart because he has a jacket on.
“Can I come with you? I don’t know my way.”
Dare hesitates, but finally nods. “Fine. But you have to be quiet. We don’t want to wake anyone up.”
“This place is so huge,” I answer. “No one will hear us out here.”
“There are eyes everywhere,” he tells me. “Don’t doubt it.”
“Ok,” I answer, because he wants me to agree. But I think he’s being paranoid.
We walk along the path toward the grounds, far away from the house, and Castor stays a few feet in front of us. Every once in a while, he lifts his giant nose to the breeze, checking checking checking for something.
“What’s he watching for?” I ask Dare curiously.
“Anything,” Dare guesses. “Everything. Who knows? Newfoundlands are known for their hero instincts. He’d probably die to protect you.”
“And you?” I ask quietly. Dare glances at me.
“Probably. But he’s not mine. He’s yours.”
I’m dying to ask why Dare couldn’t have a dog, because he so obviously loves Castor. But I don’t. Because I have a strange sense that it would offend him, that it would hurt his feelings, and I don’t want to do that. I have a strange fascination with this boy and his dark eyes.
Dare pauses on the path, and he seems to be trying to catch his breath. I suddenly notice that he’s pale, paler than the last time I’d seen him. I touch his elbow.
“Are you ok?” I ask quickly, and he yanks away in annoyance.
“Of course,” he snaps. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Because you can’t breathe.
I don’t say that though because obviously he doesn’t want me to notice. So I wait quietly with him, patiently. Finally, after minutes and minutes, he continues on his way, although his steps are slower this time. Castor slows too, determined to stay near us.
A boy in my class at school has something called asthma. He has to carry an inhaler, and oftentimes during recess, he has to stop playing so that he can breathe. I decide that Dare must have that too, although it’s stupid to me that he wants to hide it. Having asthma is nothing to be embarrassed about.
Dare points to a stone building in the distance.
“There’s the mausoleum. Every Savage has been buried there. You will be too.”
How depressing.
“And will you be?”
The question comes out before I can stop it.
Dare laughs, but there is no humor in it. “Doubtful, and I don’t want to be. My father was French, and I’ll be buried in France. They can’t keep me here.”
There is as much distaste in his voice now as there is in Eleanor’s when she speaks of him. Bad blood, my father would say. But why?
“You don’t like it here?” I ask, hopeful that he’ll tell me something, anything, to help everything make sense.
Dare is silent though, his dark eyes trained on the horizon.
“Please tell me,” I add. “I don’t like it here, either.”
“Why don’t you?” Dare glances at me and he seems almost interested.
“Because I miss my dad. I miss my room. I live in a funeral home. Do you remember that?”
Dare nods.
“I don’t like that part because the kids at school tease me, but I miss home. I miss the ocean. Whitley is too big. It’s scary here because it’s dark and everyone is quiet. It feels like everyone hides things from each other, but I don’t know what.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” Dare mutters and I look at him sharply. He looks away.
“Tell me about living in a funeral home,” he says, redirecting my attention.
I smile because he doesn’t sound mean or judgy. He just sounds interested.
“It’s ok. It smells like flowers all of the time. The smell gets into my hair and my clothes.”
“Do dead people look like they’re sleeping?”
I snort. “No. They look dead.”
Dare nods. “I figured.”
We’re quiet now, and we walk, and Castor pants. The tiny pebbles tumble under my shoes and I once again wish I were home, on the cliffs of Oregon. But then again, Dare isn’t there, and he interests me.
The wind blows my hair and I raise my hand to shove it behind my ear, and as I do, something moves in the corner of my eye.
I turn, and what I see is the stuff of nightmares.
I see Castor and Pollux, broken and bloody, dragging themselves along the path, their legs broken, blood pouring from their eyes and their noses. Blood trails behind them, it fills the pads of their paws and leaves crimson prints on the ground. There is so much blood that I can smell it, I can taste it.
I scream and try to run to them, but my feet won’t move. They feel like they’ve been glued to the ground and I’m frozen frozen frozen. My heart pounds and pounds, the blood racing through my veins and I can’t move I can’t move I can’t move.