I will talk to you again in my office, at nine A.M. tomorrow morning, to
give you a more thorough orientation to the school and to explain what I will be expecting of you as a scholarship student.” She turned to Greta.
“Greta, please see Caitlyn settled in her room, and see that she showers.” With a nod she turned on her heel and left.
Caitlyn raised her arm and sneaked a sniff at her armpit. Was Madame Snowe saying she smelled? She caught Greta watching her and lowered
her arm. “Just checking,” she said sheepishly.
Overall, books and art were a safer escape from reality than sleep.
Lisa CachThe driver bumped his way through the door and plopped down Caitlyn’s “luggage.” Caitlyn watched Madame Snowe’s eyes go to it, widening as
she took it in. Caitlyn’s cheeks heated.
Her “luggage” was a Vietnam War-era army green duffel bag, bought for a dollar at a garage sale. Cloud-shaped moisture stains mottled its
faded surface, and jagged stitches of black carpet thread sealed a rip on one end, Caitlyn’s clumsy needlework giving the mended hole the look of
one of Frankenstein’s scars.
“Is that all you brought?” Greta asked.
Caitlyn nodded, wishing the floor would swallow her.
“Very good. You will have no trouble unpacking, and then you can burn your bag, heh?”
“Reduce, reuse, recycle!” Caitlyn said with false cheer. “We’re very big on living green in Oregon. Why buy a new suitcase when someone else’s
old duffel bag will do?”
“We’ll see that it gets … disposed of properly,
She spent all her free time either drawing the strange things she saw in her dreams, or with her nose inside historical novels. The world held in
the pages of history felt like the real world, and the present day an illusion she had to suffer through until she could escape back into the pages of a
book.
A tingling mix of excitement and fear ran over her skin, and a deep feeling of familiarity and recognition settled in her gut, as if she had at last
come home
Except Caitlyn. High school dating, drill team, school spirit—it all seemed silly to her. Why did it feel like high school was crushing her soul? She
had nothing concrete she could point to. All she knew was that she didn’t belong here.
She preferred old, used clothes to new ones; her iPod was full of classical music; and photos of castles and reproductions of old European art
covered her bedroom walls, including a Renaissance painting of a young girl in white, named Bia. It should have been pop singers on her wall, or
movie stars
You’re American, yes?” Daniela said.
“Yes.”
“New York?”
“Oregon.”
“Dónde?” Where?
“It’s a state on the West Coast.”
“Near Los Angeles?” Brigitte asked.
“North of there. Just south of Canada.”
All three sighed, “Ah.”
“You’re from the ends of the earth,” Amalia said, a teasing smile on her lips.
“Not quite that far!”
“Almost!” Brigitte said.
Why hadn’t the Woman in Black called for Raphael? Mathilde’s idea that she’d stopped looking for him seemed out of keeping with most ghost
stories; ghosts didn’t change their behavior, did they?
Whatever the reason, Caitlyn was glad of it. Raphael was hers, and she didn’t want to share him. She hated the idea of a long-lost lover roaming
the halls of the castle, looking for him. It meant there was someone else in his life.
She was, she realized, jealous.
That’s stupid! How can I be jealous of a ghost, over a guy who might not even exist?
And yet, there was no other word for what she felt. Since the moment she’d seen Raphael riding in the valley, her heart had claimed him as her
Knight of Cups
Monsieur Girard grinned at the effect his story had had, and moved on, grunting disparagingly at another student’s efforts. As he approached her,
Caitlyn went back to work, afraid to be caught slacking. He came to stand behind her, watching her attempts, and despite her best efforts her arm
slowed and then dropped as she was overcome with self-consciousness.
“Do you, too, have a brilliant artist locked in your head?” he asked.
“No. I’m beginning to think I don’t know a thing about art.”
“Class! Do you hear? She knows nothing about art! And she proves it in her drawing.”
Caitlyn cringed.
“This,” he went on, laying his hand upon her head, “is the proper state of mind for learning to draw. Your mind must be blank of your old ideas and
old ways of seeing. You must start fresh, like a baby who has never seen the world.” He dropped his hand from her head and pointed to the area
she’d shaded with parallel lines. “This is nice.”
“Thank you,” Caitlyn said in soft surprise.
He nodded in acknowledgment. “Keep listening. With open ears, you will be one of the few who learn.
That’s not necessarily a bad thing,” Caitlyn protested. “I’m sure it keeps you out of trouble.”
“Thierry told me I was cold. He wasn’t the first boy to say that, either.”
Caitlyn winced. “Ouch.”
Amalia turned toward Caitlyn. “I wish I could be more like you.”
“Me? Are you kidding? Why?”
“You let your emotions show on your face. They’re right on the surface, for all to see.”
Caitlyn grimaced. “I thought I’d learned to control that.”
“See?” Amalia copied her grimace. “Right on the surface!”
“Mmph,” Caitlyn grunted unhappily.
“Mmph,” Amalia copied.
Caitlyn threw up her hands in defeat, then cast a quick warning look at Amalia. “Don’t you do it!”
Amalia chuckled.
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