Verum (11 page)

D
are’s hand
closes over mine at dinner-time, as I’m reaching for the dining room door.

“Would you care for a walk?” he asks, his voice so low and rich.

I nod.

Because, God, I would.

Dare’s hand is on the small of my back as he guides me to the veranda. We stop here, where the wisteria and plumeria grows, where I breathe it in and we stand staring at the stars.

“Do you remember Andromeda?” he asks, and I do remember that night back home. I remember sitting on the beach and his lecture about undying love, but now, it seems so relevant.

“I do,” I tell him, and I lean into him, feeling his warmth and his strength. “And I believe you. Love is undying.”

Finn.

My mom.

Undying.

He stares down at me, and then runs his fingers along my cheek. “Calla, you’re so loved. You just don’t know it right now. Please don’t push me away.”

I close my eyes, because the reasons that I was distancing myself somehow don’t seem important anymore. But still.

Because secrets are the same thing as lies.

And I can’t overlook his secrets.

“I know you think my mind is fragile,” I tell him. “And I think you might be right.”

He protests, but I shake my head. “No, I know you do. And that’s fine. Because I still talk to Finn, Dare. I still pretend he’s with me. A sane person wouldn’t do that.”

Dare swallows and holds my hand, and doesn’t hesitate.

“They would if it helps,” he tells me firmly. “You suffered a great loss, Calla. More than the average person could understand. If it helps you to pretend that Finn is here, then do it. As long as you know you’re pretending.”

I nod, because I do know, most of the time, at least where Finn is concerned.

But there’s something else….something I won’t mention.

The strange man in the hoodie.

Because I don’t want to know if he’s real.

“It’s not fair to expect you to be with me when I’m in such an unbalanced state,” I murmur, and everything in me wants him to argue, to protest, to pull me close.

But to my surprise, he doesn’t.

He just nods. “I don’t want to rush you,” he says quietly. “When you’re ready, you’ll know.”

His words graze my heart, but I brush them away.

This is what I asked for.

“Are you still drawing here?” I ask, trying to change the subject.

He nods. “Of course.”

We keep walking, out of the gardens and down the path. The moon shines overhead, illuminating our steps.

“May I see your drawings?”

Dare smiles. “Of course. Would you like a new one?”

I remember posing for him.

When he drew me, painted me,

those feelings were so intimate and familiar,

I can’t say no.

I nod. “Yes.”

“I’ll go get my sketch pad,” he tells me. “Meet me in the library.”

He leaves me at the door, and I curl up in the library and wait.

I wait in a window seat, bathed in the moonlight.

With my head pressed to the glass, I stare outside, out at the stables, at the trails, at the moors.

Something moves in the dark, and I focus, peering close.

The hoodie stands out in the night, the boy inside of it stealthy.

He steps out onto the trails and stares up at me,

But still I can’t see his face.

I breathe and count,

One,

Two,

Three,

Four.

When I look again, he’s gone.

He’s not real.

Clearly.

“Are you ready?”

Dare stands behind me, his pad under his arm, a chair in his hand.

I try to settle my trembling lungs, and I nod.

“Yes.”

Because this is real.

Dare is real.

My feelings for Dare are real.

“Tuck your legs beneath you,” he whispers, moving to help me pose. His fingers are slender and strong, cool against my skin. “Hold your hand here,” he shows me, moving my fingers to frame my cheek. “There. You’re perfect.”

I smile and he tells me to look into the distance, to look toward the stars outside.

I do, and I force myself to not look down,

Because I don’t want to see anyone standing there.

The energy between Dare and I is thick. It snaps with tension, with unspoken words. I close my eyes and feel it, gliding over my skin like his pencils on the page.

I listen to the charcoal skimming the paper,

I hear Dare’s shallow breaths as he concentrates.

Glancing at him, I watch as he shoves his hair out of his eyes with an impatient hand,

Rushing to get back to my picture.

He draws my leg,

He draws my eye,

He draws my lips.

And when he draws my lips, I get up from my seat, and I kneel in front of him.

I touch his with shaking fingers.

He closes his eyes, but then captures my hand with his own.

“Not ‘til you’re ready, Calla,” he says, his words firm. “I can’t… just not until you’re ready.”

I have to accept that because it’s fair.

I can’t waffle back and forth, I can’t play games, even if it’s with myself.

“Okay,” I whisper. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, Cal,” he tells me. “Just be ready soon. Please.”

I have to smile at that, and I examine his picture.

I look sad, haunted, almost like a ghost as I perch in the window staring at the sky.

“Do I really look like that?” I ask dubiously and a bit disappointed.

“You’re beautiful,” he tells me and he believes it.

I rest my cheek against his knee.

“Is it awful being back here? I know you don’t enjoy it.”

But he came here for me. That says something.

It might say everything.

“It’s not terrible,” he answers. “You’re here.”

I am.

I’m here.

“What happened to you here,” I ask him, bringing up a tender subject. He flinches, but looks away.

“Nothing you need to worry about.”

“But I do,” I tell him. “I worry.”

He picks up my hand and holds it. “It isn’t about me here,” he says seriously. “It’s about you.”

I don’t like that answer, but he walks me to my room, and kisses my forehead before he leaves me.

To my surprise, I sleep. And when I wake, the picture Dare drew is on my nightstand, but I don’t remember putting it there.

Was he here while I slept?

I didn’t hear him.

He’s not at breakfast, so I search the grounds for him. The trails, the garage, the gardens. He’s nowhere to be found, but Sabine is, of course.

“Hello, child,” she greets me, her hands full of sod. I watch as she sifts the soil, as she plants and re-plants and prunes.

Why does everyone call me child?

“Good morning,” I greet her. “Have you seen Dare?”

She shakes her head.

“He was out walking earlier,” she offers. “But I think I saw him drive away.”

I wonder where he goes every day.

I sink to my knees next to Sabine.

“What was his childhood like?” I ask, hoping she’ll tell me what he won’t. “You must know because you were his nanny.”

“I was,” she nods. “But Olivia was very much present, very much involved. Not like Eleanor was to your mother. Eleanor was detached. Olivia was loving. His mother loved him, child, so there’s that.”

But something is in her voice, something that tells me that Olivia loving him was his only thing.

“What about Richard?” I ask hesitantly. A cloud passes over Sabine’s face.

“Richard never liked Dare,” she answers honestly. “He thought Dare was competing for Olivia’s affection, which is ridiculous. Dickie was cruel to Dare, but I did my best to protect him.”

My heart twinges because something in the tone of her voice, lets me know that her best wasn’t enough.

“What did he do to him?” I ask, and I’m honestly afraid to know.

She turns away.

“It doesn’t matter anymore. It’s past. It’s done, and Dare paid for what he did.”

This starts me, snapping my head back.

“What do you mean by that? What did Dare do?”

She shakes her head. “It’s in the past. It doesn’t matter.”

But I know that it does.

It lives in Dare’s face,

It haunts his eyes.

Secrets are the same as lies, and I must uncover his truth.

I leave Sabine behind, but I feel her watching me as I go.

O
nce I’m
in the house, morning light floods the dining room, and through the window, I watch Sabine walk through the gardens, her gait hunched and slow.

She examines something growing, something viridem,
green,
before she hunches over to look at it. Tearing a leaf off, she chews it thoughtfully¸ before turning her gaze to mine.

Her eyes meet mine through the glass, and then she walks away.

She knows I’m going to hunt,
I realize. And she’s not stopping me for a reason.

Maybe she wants me to know.

I find myself wandering through the hallways, ignoring the silence. The maids pretend they don’t see me, and I steer far clear of the wing with Eleanor’s office. I go down the East wing, a hall I haven’t explored yet.

Immediately upon setting foot down the corridor, I feel a stillness, an unexplained quiet. I instantly feel like I’m in another place, somewhere remote, somewhere where there is no life. I don’t even see any servants as I move over the polished marble floors.

I hesitate to even breathe loudly here, and I don’t really know why.

I pause at a large carved double-door, and before I can think the better of it, I push it open.

It’s someone’s living quarters. I’m standing in a parlor area, in the middle of creams and beiges and blues. It’s like someone threw up neutral colors and I spin in a circle, taking it in.

I’ve almost decided that it’s a guest room, that’s it’s not worth exploring, when I see the edge of a picture in the next room. A portrait in a thick, gilded frame.

I cross the threshold and gaze up at the family in front of me.

Dare, his mother, and my uncle stare back down at me.

Dare is younger, of course. Much younger.

He looks to be only ten or so, thin and young, but those same dark eyes yawn from the photo, haunting and hurt. It’s evident to anyone who looks at him that he’s not happy. He shirks as far as he can from my uncle, although he allows his mother to wrap her arm around his shoulders. Her expression is soft, her eyes kind. I find myself wondering what in the world she’s doing with Richard?

Because my uncle’s eyes are hard as steel. He’s got Eleanor’s eyes and her rigid posture, too. He’s imposing, he’s stern. And I can tell he wasn’t a nice person.

I find myself taking a step back, actually, which is silly.

And when I turn to look around the rest of the room, I still feel like he’s watching me, which is silly too.

It’s as quiet as the crypts in here, and part of it might be that I know that two of the three occupants of this suite are now dead. I saw their alcoves in the mausoleum, I traced their names beneath my fingers.

It’s also apparent that Dare no longer occupies this room. He must’ve moved when his parents died, intent on avoiding memories.

I can’t say that I blame him.

I can taste the memories in here in the air, and they aren’t good.

Energy doesn’t disappear.

There’s a bad feeling in this room, although there’s no tangible reason why.

There aren’t any other photos. The dressers are all devoid of personal things, the walls filled only with ornamental décor. I glance into the closet and find it still full of clothing. Rows of suits, dresses and shoes. All exactly the way they’d been left. It has an eerie feel, as though it is frozen in time, and I turn to leave.

But I’m stopped by one thing.

A brown belt hangs on a hook just inside the door.

Normally, a belt wouldn’t grab my attention, but this belt is old and battered, and covered in brown splotches.

It’s old and battered in a house filled with exquisitely fine things.

But it’s the fact that is battered that intrigues me. In a house of perfect, rich things, why would someone like Richard keep something so ratty?

I bend closer to examine it, and I trace the spots with my hand.

I yank my fingers away when I realize what the splotches are.

They’re blood.

And I would bet any amount of money that the blood is Dare’s.

I suck in a breath, my fingers fluttering to my chest as I imagine little Dare and those big sad eyes, and the huge man who used such a thick belt on such a tiny back.

In my head, I see Richard, swinging the belt, high and hard, and I see Dare fall to his knees, his head bowed, his mouth clenched tightly closed to avoid screaming.

He’s stubborn and he won’t cry, and I can’t stop the visions in my head.

I don’t want to imagine it, but the pictures still come and I can hear a woman crying. Dare’s mother cries for Richard to stop, and he throws her off. She hits the wall behind the bureau, slamming into it hard enough to knock the picture from the wall.

The room swirls and the nausea returns and I fall to my knees, sucking in air.

What is happening to me?

Am I really seeing this?

I squeeze my eyes closed, trying to find solace in the dark, trying to close out the horror of this room.

But I can’t.

Because Richard did this to Dare.
I’m not imagining it. He hurt Dare over and over throughout the years and nobody stopped it, nobody could.

I tried my best to protect him.

But Sabine failed.

A whisper hisses around me, from the corners, from the ceiling, from the sky.
He did this. HeDidThisHeDidThisHeDidThis.

The whisper turns to a roar and it overwhelms me, and I squeeze my eyes closed to block it out.

When I open them again, the room is dark.

Someone is sitting in the chair across the room, half hidden in the shadows.

“What are you doing in here?” Dare asks me, unmoving. His hands are on his thighs and he looks like he’s waiting.

Waiting for me to wake up.

I blink the sleep away, trying to determine how long I’ve been here.

I scramble to my feet and fly into Dare’s arms, surprising him with all my weight.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper to him over and over and he stares down at me like I’m the crazy person I am.

I’m dizzy, but I don’t care.

All that matters is that Dare isn’t little anymore, and he’s in my arms and I’ll never let anyone hurt him like that again.

“I’m so sorry he did that to you,” I tell him, and his eyes widen before he looks away.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

His words are stilted, closed.

“My uncle hurt you,” I say firmly. “I know he did. And God, I’m so sorry, Dare.”

He’s so leonine, even in the dark, graceful and strong. I stare at him helplessly as he tries to pretend that it’s not a big issue, that he wasn’t beaten as a child.

“You shouldn’t have come in here,” he says quietly. “There’s nothing in here to see.”

There was one thing.

A blood-stained belt.

And a whisper:
He did this.

I pause, studying Dare’s shadowed face. He’s impassive, hiding his thoughts, but I’ve got to ask.

“My uncle was a horrible person,” I tell him desperately, trying to make a dent in in his impassive face, the face that is so good at hiding things. “And Eleanor is terrible. You never knew my mother, so maybe you think all Savages are that way… you think they’re terrible, and so you think I’m a hateful person now.”

He’s taken aback by this, but he stops trying to push me away.

“I don’t think you’re a hateful person,” he argues, and his hands are limp at his sides. “I never thought that.”

“Are you sure?” I ask him bluntly. “Because now that we’re here at Whitley, you’ve changed.”

“That’s not true,” he denies somewhat hotly, then tempers his tone. “You told me you wanted space, I’m giving it to you. Be careful what you wish for, Calla.”

“You’ve been hurt here,” I tell him. It’s a statement, not a question, and I’m doing my best not to let his words hurt me. “In this room. At the hands of people related to me. I’m really sorry about that. God, I’m sorry.”

Dare’s handsome face shutters closed, and any trace of softness is gone.

“Don’t feel sorry for me,” he says icily. “People generally deserve what they get.”

“What the hell does that mean?” I ask in confusion. “That’s ridiculous.”

He shakes his head. “It’s just the truth. But not with you. You don’t deserve any of it.” He pauses. “Are you coming?”

He obviously doesn’t want to leave me in here alone, so I trail behind, closing the door behind me.

I start to walk in the opposite direction, toward my room, but Dare stops me with a hand on my arm.

“Wait. I want to show you something.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. You need to see it.”

Confused, intrigued, and a bit scared, I follow him through the halls of the East wing, along back corridors and up old stairs to the attic. As we walk, I swear I can hear whispers… all around, coming from the floors and the nooks and the crannies.

Secrets.

Secrets.

Secretsssssssssss.

But of course there are no voices.

I’m imagining it all.

The problem is, as each day goes by, I’m not sure what I’m imagining anymore and what’s real.

Once we’re standing in the dark room, I take a deep breath and look around.

Old furniture, boxes, crates, and picture frames are stacked as far as I can see. It’s clearly an old storage place, and not even maids come up here. There’s a thick layer of dust everywhere.

Dare turns on a light, and leads me through the clutter.

He takes me to a back corner, where a massive desk sits amid a makeshift office space.

“Yours?” I raise my eyebrow. “I can’t picture you up here.”

He rolls eyes and shakes his head. “No, it’s not mine.

The floor creaks beneath my feet, and when I look down, I find a stack of framed pictures… of Dare, of Eleanor, of my grandfather, of Dare’s mother. The glass on each one is shattered.

Who did that?

“Why did you bring me here?” I whisper, and I suddenly am on edge. Something is here, something huge, something I need to know.

Dare looks away, his expression troubled.

“Look at the bottom of that pile, Calla.” He motions to a stack of envelopes on the desk. It’s a thick stack, held together with a rubber band.

With hesitant fingers, I sift through the paper.

I’m startled to find letters to my father that I’ve written over the past couple of weeks, unopened, unstamped, unsent. My appalled gaze meets Dare’s.

“If my letters haven’t been mailed, then how does my father know I’m ok?” I ask slowly, trying to imagine why Sabine wouldn’t have mailed them.

“He doesn’t,” Dare nods. “That’s the thing.”

“I… I don’t know what is happening,” I say in a broken whisper, and I look away, around the room, my gaze coming to a stop on the chair behind the desk.

A gray hoodie hangs there, its cuffs dragging on the floor.

I’ve seen that hoodie before, on the man no one can see but me.

My heart pounds.

My mind races.

“I don’t want to be here anymore,” I admit aloud. I want to be home, I want to be safe, I want to be away from
all of this.

“Then go,” Dare’s words are soft, and his eyes are softer, liquid black, like a starry night.

And in this moment, I know I can’t leave him.

“I would never leave you,” I tell him, and I mean every word.

Dare’s head snaps back and he gets to his feet, circling the desk and standing in front of me. I breathe in his scent and his uncertainty and I match his gaze.

“This isn’t about me, Calla,” he answers, his hand on my arm. “If you need to leave, you should go.”

“I won’t leave you alone.”

In my head, I remember the little boy he used to be, the little boy in the picture, and the pain that used to live in his eyes. He was so small, so vulnerable, so very alone. He’s learned to hide it all now, but that makes me even sadder.

His smile is grim. “I’m always alone, Calla. I’m used to it.”

And somehow, I believe it. Regardless of who he surrounds himself with, he’s alone because he hasn’t let anyone in.

“You don’t have to be,” I offer. “I can help.”

Save me, and I’ll save you.

He smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes and he bends, his lips touching my neck as he murmurs into my ear.

“Run, little mouse. The hawk is coming, and you’re going to get eaten.”

My breath comes in spurts as he leaves me amid the chaos of the attic. I listen for his steps on the stairs, and only when I can’t hear him anymore do I feel comfortable leaving myself. I tuck my father’s letters into my pocket and creep down the stairs, hiding them in my room before dinner.