I stopped struggling, stopped screaming, opened my eyes.
I was in bed. My bed. My bedroom. The lamp was on, light radiating off the crystal knobs atop each tall and graceful bedpost, illuminating the armoire with its carved lovebirds, the Scully & Scully porcelain soldiers at attention on the fireplace mantel, and John’s worry-lined face.
John.
His chestnut hair stuck up in tufts. His eyes looked black with apprehension. His voice was sleep-roughened, strained.
“It’s just a dream. A bad dream. We all have them. You’re all right now.” He added doubtfully, “Are you all right?”
I was still shaking, my body soaked in sweat, breathing hard, breathing as though I’d been running for my life. Running without stop for three hundred and sixty years.
“J-John?” I wheezed.
Relief flooded his face. “That’s right. It’s me. See? Everything’s okay. You’re perfectly safe.”
I couldn’t tear my gaze from his—those same fierce yellow eyes of the man in my dream.
The man in my dream? That man had been John. The hair, the clothes had been different, but the voice, the eyes, the hatred… That was John.
Had been John.
John, watching me closely, said, “What was it, Cos? What did you dream?”
“Nothing.”
He looked startled and then confused. “Nothing?”
I sat up, pushing into the pillows piled against the brass star plaque of the headboard. “It was just a dream.” My voice still sounded shaky.
“But… You don’t remember?”
“No.”
His eyes flickered, absorbing the obvious lie, the distance I was automatically putting between us. He said slowly, as though it was only sinking in, “Are you afraid of me, Cos?”
“Of course not,” I said quickly. Too quickly.
“You are.” He sounded winded. Gut punched.
And even though I was afraid of him, even though the dream still felt terrible and real, I couldn’t bear the pain in his eyes.
“No.” I reached out, my hand closing on his wrist—and his hand was ice cold. In all the time I had known him—did I even know how long I had known him?—he had always been warm to the touch, as if powered by his own internal aeolipile. “No,” I repeated.
“I would never hurt you. Never.”
I nodded.
His smile hurt my heart. “You don’t believe me.”
“I do believe you.”
“No. You want to, but you don’t.” He pulled away—not roughly, not in anger. “It’s… I’ll sleep in the guest room.”
“No.”
He hesitated. “What did you dream?”
I swallowed. “I don’t— I can’t—”
It took him a moment, but then he nodded, accepting it. “Until you can, I can’t sleep here.”
I let out a tremulous breath. “That—that’s silly, John. You don’t have to.”
“Yes. I do. I can’t sleep in here so long as you’re afraid of me.” He stepped into his slippers, picked up his robe from the back of the winged chair near the little staircase.
“Do you want the light on or off?”
“Off.” I wanted the reassurance of moonlight, the shelter of darkness.
He turned off the lamp and again hesitated, a tall shadow in the light from the windows. I could feel his hurt, his confusion, his unease.
“John…”
“It’s all right.” His voice was calm. “Go back to sleep, Cos.”
He left the room, closing the door softly behind him. I slumped against the pillows. Tears stung my eyes.
Worst of all, I was relieved by his decision.
Chapter Five
I woke to the sound of rain on the windows and the knowledge I was a fool.
The bronze and black Boulle clock on the mantel chimed the hour in silvery dings. Seven o’clock. I jumped out of bed and strode down the hall to the first of our guest rooms, barely sparing a glance for the blank space on the wall where the Louis XVI rococo mirror that had once imprisoned my great-great-great-uncle Arnold had hung. The mirror was now in storage and Great-great-great-uncle Arnold was only the Lady knew where.
The door to the guest room stood open. The bed was made. There was no sign of John.
My heart sank. I didn’t have to check the other guest rooms, didn’t have to go downstairs. I could already feel that emptiness in my chest. John was gone. It was Saturday, and he was not working, but he had gone.
My mouth was dry, my knees nearly giving out when I stumbled into the kitchen. The coffee machine was on, a folded note propped next to it.
I unfolded it with unsteady fingers.
Hope you’re feeling better. I’ll call you later. J. He’d added—squeezing in the words sideways: I love you.
I sank into the nearest chair, close to tears with relief. I had been so afraid of a replay of those terrible days after he’d learned the truth about me, when he had left me. When he had made the decision to end our marriage.
But he had not left me. He loved me. We would talk, and I would try to explain. Or at least we would talk.
The truth was, I was not sure myself what had happened. The nightmare had felt so horrifyingly real that in the panic of the moment, I had assumed it had to be more than key-lime pie on top of a tremendously stressful day. But really, the thing that makes nightmares so frightening is they do feel real. Perhaps my subconscious had bundled up all my anxieties and uncertainties and produced a night terror.
Or perhaps it was something else.
Something I preferred not to consider. Could not bring myself to believe.
Because the thing I did not wish to name would not be a coincidence. It would be a dreadful realigning of fate. And while, yes, Fate rests her hand on each of our shoulders, it is a tenet of the Abracadantès tradition that we control our own destiny.
I remembered the cruelty of John’s face in my nightmare and shuddered. No. It could not be true.
The pet door opened, and Pyewacket slunk in, looking wet and disreputable, and I shook off my dark mood. After all, most times a dream is just a dream.
“Bonjour. So that’s where you’ve been.”
He ignored me, going to his dish and delicately sniffing the contents in disapproval.
“Cat does not live by paté alone.”
Pye’s meow was more like a snarl. He jumped onto the table, the better to glare into my eyes—just in case I had somehow missed the message.
I laughed, bumped my head gently against his, but then remembered Bridget, our housekeeper-cum-double-agent, was due in about half an hour. “Hey. You can tell me my failings later.” I scooped him up, set him on the floor, and grabbed a tea towel—which I remembered was also a no-no, and exchanged for a paper towel.
Pye was not about to settle for being dried off with a common paper towel. He slid out from under my ministrations and circled me, being sure to leave his little muddy footprints everywhere.
“Thanks a lot,” I muttered, swabbing hastily at the floor. “Don’t take your bad temper out on me. I don’t know what you expected. She’s just a cat. Of course she doesn’t understand.”
To which Pye pointed out some uncomfortable comparisons—loudly—and sprang away to disappear upstairs.