Indigo Moon (5 page)

“And I have great teeth!” she proclaimed. Affirmation concluded and job done, another personality trait kicked in. Isabelle discovered she loved snooping.

Hungry for information, she explored everything around her. In contrast to the bedroom, the bathroom was bright and cheerful, with a wealth of personal items for examination. A faintly remembered scent lingered in the air, spicy and enticing. Homemade shampoos, soaps, and bath salts littered every ledge, but the alluring smell did not come from them. She snooped in the bathroom cabinet, rifling through razors, nail files, oils, creams. A linen hamper overflowed with fluffy, damp towels. Someone loved an indulgent bath time.

Glossy-leaved plants in brightly painted pots lined the windowsill. A few cacti even managed to bloom in hot pinks and oranges. Isabelle picked up a small pot, hand-painted in a cheerful, childish daub. Little brown foxes, or maybe wolves, chased bright yellow chickens round and round the rim.

A stack of clean white towels lured her to the bathtub, and she checked the shower faucet for hot water. It ran full and scalding and she almost cried with relief. She shed her robe and stepped in, enraptured with the simple act of washing away the grime of God knew how long. Not caring her bandage would get wet, she let the hot water race over her. It took several shampoos before she was satisfied her hair was finally clean.

The bandage on her shoulder was soaked and she peeled it away, curious to see her wound. A row of stitches curved in a wide crescent across her shoulder. The blood-scabbed knots wavered irregularly across her skin like a sordid smile.

I’ve never had stitches before, not even for my lip, and that bled and bled
. Curious how the oddest facts popped into her head while the important stuff eluded her. She could vividly remember a blood-soaked dishcloth wrapped around a bag of frozen peas pressed to her split lip. She remembered her fingers tingling from the frozen packaging and adrenaline pumping through her. And nearby, just out of her line of vision, someone was saying, “I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it,” over and over again. “Sorry, sorry.” She could recall his voice so clearly. She paused over this flashback. Who had hit her?

These were recalled emotions rather than actual fully fledged events, she reminded herself. It could be dangerous to accept such things at face value. She could inadvertently rewrite her own past to suit this blank of a present. She had facial wounds that were old; that did not mean she was a beaten wife, did it? She had to be careful.

The stitches felt alien to her tender flesh, and they nipped her skin in a burning itch. Some of the puncture marks did not need stitches at all and were healing quickly. Others went deeper into the muscle, causing her discomfort and stiffness. It looked like a painful injury, and Isabelle was glad she had slept through most of her recovery. She guessed she’d been heavily medicated, remembering the ill-tasting liquid she’d gulped down. What had caused the puncture wounds in the first place? Broken glass? Rent metal? Her dreams were littered with it.

A rosy rash peppered her chest and belly. Was she reacting to something? The rash looked harmless and did not irritate her. She rubbed at it briskly with the towel. Another thing to ponder. She needed to find Ren and discover what the hell had happened to her.

An unopened toothbrush packet lay by the sink. She hoped it was a guest one for her use, but was too shy to assume. She squeezed toothpaste onto a finger and scrubbed her teeth, and spat the bad taste out of her mouth. She finger-combed the damp tangles of hair and dispassionately examined her reflection again, looking past the obvious bruising for other signs of well-being, or not, as the case might be. The rash on her chest now decorated her throat. A glum sigh escaped her. She looked in her eyes and tried to peer deep within herself. Who the hell was she? She looked like someone who didn’t care about herself. She looked ill and unhappy on a world-weary level that went so much deeper than the trouble she was in now. And she knew trouble. She could feel in her bones that she knew it well.

She gave her reflection a weary smile, really nothing more than a grim twitch of her lips and turned away. If she stood on tiptoe she could peep out the high, narrow window to see the view from this side of the cabin. She cracked the window open an inch. Outside, cedar trees swept down a steep incline, their heavy branches buried under a layer of thick, powdery snow. The crisp white ground and snow-laden trees glowed eerily under a rising moon, as atmospheric as a scene from her dreams.

It was dusk. Overhead, a cloudless, star-bright night was unfolding. The air smelled pure and frost sharp, and she wanted to be out in it, running and rolling in the snow, to lie in it and laugh up through the treetops to the stars beyond. She felt a delightful giddiness she associated with childhood, the high energy of not having a care in the world.

Isabelle pulled the window shut. She had drawn all the clues she could from this room and from the mirror before her. It was time to find her benefactress and thank her. It was time to ask all the questions she needed answers for.

She left the bathroom and returned down the hallway. A murmur of voices drew her to a closed door. A woman and a man were talking in the room beyond. She recognized the woman’s voice. It was as mellow and dark as ruby wine, and had soothed her through numerous nightmares. One hand was on the door handle, the other raised to rap, when she realized the voices were hard edged with anger. Though she could barely distinguish the words, there was no doubt this was an argument. She hesitated to knock, unsure what to do.

“Burn it—” The abrupt cessation of Ren’s sentence should have warned her. Too late she realized what it meant. The door flung open and Ren towered over her, her eyes narrowed to glittering slits. Isabelle stepped back, startled. This was her savior? This woman who pulsed with menace? For an instant they stood stiffly, then Ren’s anger melted, the tightness in her face relaxed into gentler angles. Isabelle flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and relief. She’d have died if that anger had been aimed at her.

“Ren?” The name felt like a pure beam of light. But the person attached to it came as a surprise. Seeing her now face-to-face, Isabelle did not know this woman at all. Before, she had only been a lamplit shadow, a distant face distorted by fever and delirium. Now she finally stood before her outlined by the light, clear to her eye, and she was beautiful…but in a cruel, arrogant way, like the aquiline profile of emperors on ancient coins. Or the cold, impassive beauty of goddesses carved out of hard, unblemished marble.

“I thought I heard something.” Ren’s voice softened. No trace of her earlier anger remained. “You’re awake.” She sounded surprised and pleased. She stood back to allow Isabelle to enter the living room.

“Yes. I took a shower. I hope you don’t mind,” Isabelle murmured, still shy and overwhelmed.

“Not at all. Come on and sit by the fire.”

Isabelle looked around her with interest. The living room was small and comfortable. Old, rust-spotted watercolors decorated the walls. A mahogany bureau sat by the far wall, conspicuous in that it was the only costly piece of furniture in the room. Beside it a tall, narrow bookcase stood in a corner stuffed to overflowing. Several more books were wedged under it, replacing a missing leg. Isabelle frowned in quiet disapproval; books should be better looked after than that.

Drawn up before the blazing fireplace sat a battered old couch, an open book and glass of wine perched on the armrest. It was a shabby and threadbare piece of furniture, but colorful throws and fat, bright cushions made her want to sink into it. The simple, homespun comfort of the room poured out warmth and drew her like a magnet. It was the perfect space to while away the long, dark winter nights. She took a step forward, then hesitated.

“How are you feeling? I’m not sure you’re strong enough to be up and moving around just yet.” Uncertainty undercut Ren’s casual words. It was clear she was concerned and a little nonplussed at Isabelle being so well so soon.

“I’m feeling a lot better, thank you,” Isabelle answered, aware of the young man who stood by the hearth. She drew her robe tighter around her thin body. He had just thrown a log into the fireplace and now straightened up to watch her enter. Isabelle watched the fire, fascinated. Thick wads of paper bloomed into flame sparking the log bark. He was burning a book. Behind her, Ren suppressed an angry hiss, and Isabelle bit her tongue to stop from tutting out loud. It was sacrilege to burn a book, she thought. No good could come of it. The burst of flame highlighted his thin, sharp face and pale gray eyes. He watched her coolly, with no sign of welcome.

“This is Patrick,” Ren said, her tone hard. Their earlier argument had not been forgotten. “He’s just leaving.”

“Good evening,” he said dully. Though he spoke to Isabelle, his gaze was glued on Ren. Before Isabelle could return the greeting, he turned away and headed for the door. “Will I see to it now?” He looked at Ren with doleful eyes.

She gave a sharp nod and dismissed him. Ren waited until the door clicked closed before giving Isabelle her undivided attention.

“Come and sit by the fire. Would you like something hot to drink? Tea? Cocoa?” She guided Isabelle over to the couch. “I make good cocoa.”

“Cocoa would be lovely.” Isabelle was hungry. The mention of a hot drink made her stomach grumble, but she was too embarrassed to ask about food.

“And perhaps some toast? How does that sound? I can’t give you anything too heavy to eat just now.”

“Oh. Yes, please. I woke up ravenous.” She perched on a corner of the couch, holding her hands out to the fire, her toes wriggling in delight on the thick woolen rug. “It’s wonderfully warm in here.”

“Do you want a blanket for your knees? I don’t want you chilled,” Ren said.

“No. To be honest, my temperature is all over the place. One minute I’m shivery, the next I’m boiling up.” She blushed as she recalled Ren’s body blanketing hers last night, providing much-needed warmth. She felt the keen gaze scour her face. Isabelle drew her legs up under herself and curled into a snug ball among the plump cushions with their tired velvet covers.

“You’ve had a high fever. I’m relieved to see you up and about so soon.” Ren’s voice was relaxing to listen to, and Isabelle melted back into the couch. “You’re a quick healer. I’m pleased.”

She glanced up to see Ren smiling at her. A smile that played tricks with her temperature all over again. Waves of pleasure ran through her. It was luxury to be on the receiving end of that smile. No wonder she had a fever then the chills. She looked away and concentrated on the flames.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Ren left for the kitchen, leaving Isabelle alone to contemplate the fire and her strange feelings.
Well, a fever would explain why my head’s so fogged up.
She had a hundred questions to ask, but she needed Ren to return with the cocoa and hopefully all the answers.

Isabelle’s gaze fell on the book lying open on the couch: Mary Shelley’s
Frankenstein
. She felt a surge of excitement. She knew this book. Her mind conjured up a tooled red leather cover, with gorgeous etchings—a cherished gift given to her at some point in the past. This was a cheap, mass-market student edition, ragged and dog-eared. A section of text was underscored. Isabelle peered at the underlined paragraph:
“I am alone and miserable; man will not associate with me; but one as deformed and horrible as myself would not deny herself to me. My companion must be of the same species and have the same defects. This being you must create.”

“Try this.” A steaming mug was thrust under her nose. Isabelle jumped, the book abandoned. She hadn’t heard Ren reenter the room. The drink smelled rich and wholesome and her stomach gurgled in delight.

“And this.” A plate with a toasted cheese sandwich also appeared. Isabelle nearly swooned with happiness; it was as if her mind had been read. Toasted cheese sandwiches were her comfort food, yet another recollection from out of the blue.

“Mmm.” Her first sip from the mug was nectar. “This is gorgeous. It’s the best cocoa I’ve ever tasted. Is there licorice in it? I can taste something bittersweet.” She bit into her sandwich and gave another groan of appreciation.

Ren settled beside her, sitting a little too close considering it was such a roomy old couch. Her proximity made Isabelle nervous and she took another huge gulp from her mug, eyes wide over the rim.

“You’ve got the bluest eyes in the whole wide world.” Ren smiled at her. It felt as if the sun had broken through a brooding storm cloud. Ren’s smile lit up her entire face, the room, the cabin…the whole of Isabelle’s wide, blue-eyed world, in fact.

“They’re cornflower blue. Like summer,” Isabelle said, uneasy that Ren studied her battered face so closely. She was the absolute opposite of Ren’s dark, animalistic beauty. Ren’s face was keen, her eyes hungry, and she moved with the grace and purpose of a predator. But when she smiled it felt like sunrise after a long, haunted night.

“I’m not sure who told me that. But they’re cornflower blue,” Isabelle babbled on, “when they’re not all black and puffy, that is.” Her answer surprised her. The memory had floated into her head and lingered, lost without context. She couldn’t remember who had said this, or when it had been said, but she knew the memory was a true and happy one.

“They’re my best feature,” she said trying to spin out this little thread, see what it might weave. The memory made her feel good about herself and she instinctively felt this was a rare thing. Whoever had paid her this compliment had a fondness for her. Somewhere, someone once cared, perhaps still did. She was pleased at this little series of remembrances. Favorite food, the gift book, her eye color—she was beginning to fill out from the vaporous ghost she’d awoken as.