For the heart whose woes are legion
’Tis a peaceful, soothing region—
The bell dismissing lunch rang, interrupting the lines of Poe’s poetry her memory had somehow retained.
Beyond the blue doors, she knew the halls were filling with students.
Isobel took a step backward, and then another, glancing toward the passing traffic on the road nearby.
There was a city bus stop two blocks away. She and her mom passed by the covered bench every day on the way to school.
Dipping a hand into her pocket, she retrieved the lunch money her mother had laid on the counter for her that morning.
It would be more than enough, she thought, to get her to the city’s preservation district.
15
Images
The house loomed over her, blank-faced, ordinary.
This was not how she remembered Varen’s Victorian home.
Instead the image of the reversed, cracked, slanted mansion from the dreamworld, its windows blacked out, forced its way through her memory, making this house seem like the strange one.
Behind her, rows of parked cars lined either side of the serene, sun-filled court. Among them, Isobel saw the champagne Lexus Varen’s stepmom drove, its sparkle-flecked finish gleaming bright. Knowing this meant that Darcy had to be home, Isobel climbed the steps to the porch and lifted a fist to knock. She hesitated, though, and a full minute elapsed before she could admit to herself that she was stalling, waiting for piano music to drift from the parlor, for the amber stained-glass window of the door to bleed violet, for the knob to melt or the concrete beneath her to transform into a pit.
But the house remained silent, the doorknob as solid as the cement under her feet.
Sucking in a breath, Isobel rapped twice.
More seconds ticked by, and the urge to bolt grew strong, as if, by knocking, she had somehow triggered the countdown of a bomb.
Her fear stemmed less from the prospect of facing Darcy than it did from being this near to the house itself. Monsters, in one form or another, had shown up each time she’d entered its walls.
Thudding footsteps, heavy and fast, interrupted Isobel’s thoughts. She shifted, her uneasiness escalating, because those footsteps didn’t sound like they belonged to—
An enormous figure filled the stained-glass window. The door opened, and a man dressed in a spotless gray business suit—the exact twin to the one she’d seen in the dreamworld attic, complete with red tie and silver cufflinks—appraised her with a hardened glare.
“Yes,” Mr. Nethers said, holding the door open by a foot, as if he needed only one half of a good reason to send it slamming home again. “What is it?”
“I—I” Isobel stammered. She hadn’t expected Varen’s father to be home. Not this early in the day. “Um—”
As she scanned her brain for something comprehensible to say, she couldn’t help but marvel at the man’s six-foot stature, his bulky shoulders and steely gaze. This, after all, was the first time she’d ever encountered Varen’s father one-on-one, in person.
On the night Mr. Nethers had stormed up to his son’s bedroom in a drunken temper, shouting slurred obscenities at him, she’d caught only a brief flash of the man’s face from the closet where Varen had forced her to hide. Red and blotchy, knotted with fury, that face had seemed like an ogre’s.
And early last month, Isobel had glimpsed Varen’s father a second time through a keyhole after he had entered Bruce’s shop looking for Varen. Sober but just as angry, Mr. Nethers had slammed his giant fist on the countertop, issuing threats and demanding answers of the elderly bookstore owner.
But here, up close, Mr. Nethers looked drawn and tired, sapped of his ferocity. His soot-colored hair hung loose in greasy strands around his ashen features, as if he’d run his hands through it a thousand times that morning. Heavy bags underlined his leaden, red-rimmed eyes, and their hooded dullness made her wonder if he’d already been drinking.
“How old are you?” he asked. “Aren’t you supposed to be in school right now?”
Unbidden, a string of accusatory counter-questions began flipping through Isobel’s head like cue cards, making it impossible for her to conjure a single excuse.
“I—I’m—”
“Isobel.”
Mr. Nethers swiveled his head in the direction of the soft gasp from within the house.
Over his shoulder, Isobel saw Darcy approaching. Still dressed in the black slacks and pumps from earlier, she moved toward them with purpose, her silk blouse rippling.
“Joe,” Darcy said, placing a manicured hand on his shoulder, “I forgot to tell you. I went ahead and posted that ad for a housekeeper. I know you said you weren’t sure, but I thought it would help to take some of the stress off.”
