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.
Caitlyn, s’il vous plait!” Madame said, whacking the blackboard with her stick, its end pointing to the irregular verb devoir, “to have to.” She
wanted Caitlyn to conjugate it.
Caitlyn felt the class’s attention turn to her, and a clammy sweat broke out in her armpits. Her brain stopped in its tracks, unable to move under
the pressure. A vague sense of having known how to speak French in her dreams tickled at her brain, but the skill was as lost to her in the waking
world as was Raphael.
“Devoir,” Caitlyn croaked. “Er. Je dev? Tu dev?”
Madame gaped at her, horrified.
Caitlyn shook her head; she knew those words were wrong. “Er … I mean, uh …” And then out of nowhere came, “Egli deve, lei dovrebbe …”
These words felt right. He must, she must …
Several girls burst into laughter.
“What?” Caitlyn demanded.
“You’re speaking Italian!” one girl shrieked, and collapsed into hysterical giggles.
Hi,” Caitlyn said.
“Hello.”
“I’m Caitlyn.”
Mathilde grinned. “The Wild West girl who rode bareback! Yes, I know. The whole school knows! Can you shoot a gun, too?”
Caitlyn’s cheeks heated in embarrassment. “Urg,” she gurgled, “no.
Some people say that love itself is the most powerful magic,” Caitlyn said.
“But would true love make a man go against every principle that had guided his life, and make him break vows he had made to God?” Raphael
shook his head. “Simon brought Eshael here, to the château, but she would not give up her goddess and so he could not marry her. The local men
were frightened of Eshael and her strange ways. There were stories of firelight in the caves that pierce the cliffs beneath the château, and the
dancing shadows of local women that Eshael had converted to worship of her goddess.
“Simon’s love for Eshael began to fade; he started to see evil in all she did and all she was. The final straw came after Eshael bore him their first
child, a daughter. When Simon discovered Eshael consecrating their child to her goddess, the last vestiges of his love turned to hatred. In his rage,
he killed her.
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