Like flint striking in the dark, Gwen’s words snatched Isobel’s attention.
“What did you just say?”
“A rose garden,” she said, and removed a white sheet of paper from her bag. “Sort of like a network of rooms and tunnels covered in roses, all of them red. That’s the only way I know how to describe it. ”
Images of a dome-shaped room surrounded by roses flashed through Isobel’s mind, telling her that she had been there too. She could even picture a screen of falling petals, the velvety slips of red tumbling between her and someone else, someone leaning in close.
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“At first Bubbe and I were alone. But then I saw someone moving through the garden. When he passed by one of the archways, he stopped to look in our direction, like he was surprised to see us there. And then I woke up. But not before I realized who it was. ” Gwen stood.
Varen, Isobel thought. Not only had Gwen dreamed about the same place she had, she’d seen Varen there too.
Unfolding the paper, Gwen stepped toward her, holding it out.
Confused, Isobel took the white sheet, an Internet printout of the same black-and-white image of the cloaked and kneeling figure that Mr. Swanson had passed back along with her and Varen’s essay.
Reynolds.
Isobel’s grip tightened, the paper crunching in her fist.
“Him,” Gwen said. “It was him. ”
10
White Noise
Isobel lay awake that night.
She’d left her door open, giving her a clear view of the darkened hallway.
Occasionally flashes of light sparked from behind Danny’s door, though it seemed as if the headphones she’d given him had done the trick of blocking out the sound of sword swipes and repetitious cries of agony.
So far, however, the renewed silence wasn’t helping her get to sleep any faster. All things considered, she could have been tucked away in the presidential suite at the Hilton and still be watching the walls wide-eyed.
As midnight came and went, not being able to drift off became its own brand of torture. Especially since, right then, sleep was the one thing she wanted more than anything. Because unconsciousness was the only way she knew to slide back the screen standing between her and Varen.
If she fell asleep, if she began to dream, then maybe he would find her again. Even if she only remembered snippets when the sun rose, even if she woke as soon as she saw him, it would still amount to more than she had now.
At the same time, Isobel could not forget the horror of that morning’s encounter with Pinfeathers.
Before climbing into bed, she’d taken care to grab her “Number One Flyer” trophy from her dresser. She kept it buried beneath the covers with her, one hand wrapped around the plastic golden cheerleading figurine, confident that the statue’s hard granite base would provide enough of a blunt edge to smash in the Noc’s face.
The Nocs were brittle, hollow creatures, their hard outer shells as fragile and breakable as porcelain. But they also held the power to transform themselves to smoke, to slither around in violet, inklike swirls, sliding through the air as intangible wraiths. The trick to shattering one was catching it in solid form, getting it to hold still long enough to land a blow.
Isobel had managed to inflict significant damage to Pinfeathers once before, kicking in one side of his torso and snapping off an entire arm.
She already knew Pinfeathers must have managed to rebuild himself, though. When he had appeared to her that morning, taking on Varen’s form, he’d had both arms. The lightning-bolt scar zigzagging down his bare torso now explained itself as well.
Isobel’s hand tightened around the trophy.
The Noc might have caught her off guard that morning, but Isobel knew that Pinfeathers’s power lay in his ability to surprise her—an advantage she would not allow him to have again. Not now that she knew he’d found a loophole through which to enter her world again.
It made her wonder if a version of that same loophole existed for Varen, if its emergence had any correlation to his repeated appearances in her dreams. Not to mention Lilith’s intervention that afternoon through Gwen’s book.
Isobel recalled the statue that had stood atop the fountain in the rose garden in her dream. She remembered how the figure had turned its head to look at her, its pair of empty black eyes matching those of the woman in the etching.
Other images of the dream continued to swirl through her mind.
The absence of her reflection in Varen’s sunglasses. The interior of his car. The spinning dashboard clock. The nothingness inside those eyes.
Gwen’s mention of the rose garden had tipped the first domino of Isobel’s recollection, bringing the rest of the dream into stark relief.
It was clear that somehow, some way, they had both visited the same dream space.
If so, why had Reynolds appeared to Gwen and not her? What had he been doing there in the garden?
It made her think about the strange aroma that clung to him. It had been almost overpowering that night Reynolds had carried her home—that musty smell of sweet decay, exactly like roses on a grave.
Isobel rolled onto her back to face the ceiling, the blank white space offering a better canvas on which to connect the emerging series of dots.
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The garden, she knew, must be the place from which Reynolds took the roses he brought to Poe’s grave. It made sense.
Still, his presence in the garden didn’t explain why Varen had felt the need to take her there.
His face winked into her thoughts, so clear and complete in every detail, close enough that she could almost feel the silken strands of his hair brushing her cheek.
I’m here. Right here. Waiting.
Isobel shut her eyes as Varen’s words resurfaced in her mind. In them, she knew she had the answer to her questions.
When she came for him, when she finally discovered a way to step physically back into the dreamworld, she knew she would need to locate the garden. He’d be there, waiting, just as he’d said. That had to be what he’d wanted her to know, what he’d needed to convey.
It still didn’t explain why Reynolds had been there. But now Isobel realized that Reynolds knew how to get there, wherever “there” happened to be. And after she followed him out of the cemetery in Baltimore, he would be able to lead her to the rose garden.
To the place where Varen was keeping his promise to wait.
The place where she would fulfill hers of finding him.
THE SMOOTH SOFTNESS BRUSHED HER arm first, the sensation faint as a sigh.
Isobel rolled onto her side.
The slight silken something returned, though, tracing the curve of her jawline.
She lifted a hand to brush whatever it was away, sending a ripple through the still pool of her slumber.
But the ghostly slip of velvet would not relent.
It passed over Isobel’s lips.
She scowled and snatched at the air in front of her face, catching something sleek and stiff within her fist.
Her eyes fluttered open. Shooting upright, she unclenched her hand and frowned down at the object that now rested in her palm.
A black feather.
Isobel jerked convulsively. With a small cry, she released the plume as though it had scalded her.
Scrambling backward, kicking off covers, she collided with the cubbyhole headboard of her bed, causing its contents to rattle.
Isobel scanned the perimeter of her room, searching the silent mesh of shadows for any sign of movement.
Her surroundings lay still, quiet—empty.
Isobel did her best to keep her breathing in check. She swallowed, forcing her panic level down while she waited for each of her senses to check in, to confirm that there really was nothing there.
But her heart refused to match the q
uietness or slow down.
A flicker of cool blue light drew Isobel’s attention to the hallway.
Her focus landed on Danny’s door. It stood ajar.
When the flickering came again, the icy flutter filling the stairwell, Isobel could tell that the source of the light had to be on the first floor.
She wondered if Danny could still be up, if he might have relocated his post-Christmas video-game marathon to the living room.
But then she glanced to where the feather lay amid her tangled covers, and she knew that fooling herself was no longer an option.
Next to the black quill, she caught sight of her flyer trophy half-buried in the crumpled blankets. She snatched it up.
She swung her legs over the side of her bed, and her bare feet hit the carpeted floor.
Nerves prickling, Isobel took a step toward the hall, and then another.
As she moved closer, she had to fight the urge to rush forward and slam her door shut, knowing all too well that locking herself in would block whatever it was out about as well as closing her eyes and pretending she was somewhere else.
Peering out into the hall, she glanced downward, through the banister rungs of the landing. The blue light continued to flash through the foyer; the weird flickering appeared to be emanating from the living room.
Isobel drifted down the hallway with careful steps. She paused at Danny’s door long enough to peek inside. The intermittent bursts of light illuminated his bedroom, and she saw that he lay flat on his stomach, nestled beneath a mound of blankets. He breathed heavily, one arm slung over the side of his bed, the tips of his fingers nearly brushing the clothing-strewn floor.
She pulled his door closed, keeping the knob twisted until the wood slid into the frame so that the latch wouldn’t click. Then she returned her attention to the light.
Gripping the banister with her free hand, she began to descend the stairs.
She stopped midway down, though, her eye caught by a portrait of herself hanging crooked on the wall amid the array of all the other perfectly aligned family photos. In the image, she wore her cheerleading uniform. Posed in front of a black backdrop, her arms akimbo, she smiled brightly, a blue-and-gold pom-pom resting on each hip.
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Isobel reached out to straighten the picture, but her hand froze on the frame when she heard a sharp static sizzle followed by the sound of garbled singing—a woman’s airy voice accompanied by warbling piano notes.
“Sleep now a little while
Till within our dreams we wake
Unfolding our Forever
If only for Never’s sake. ”
Isobel tensed.
She knew that song. She’d heard it only the night before. It was the same sad melody that had filtered from the radio when she’d found Varen’s jacket hanging on her closet door.
Isobel turned her head toward the music when the scratchy spurts of static broke through and began to drown out the woman’s singing.
“And . . . to your ever . . .
Let’s . . . our eyes
Together . . . through . . . oor
Where autumn . . . ver dies. ”
Isobel let go of the picture frame. She tightened her grip on the trophy and, moving steadily, continued down the stairs, her steps keeping time with the ticking of the mantel clock. She made her way to stand in the archway of the darkened living room, the interior of which stood unoccupied aside from its menagerie of familiar furniture and silhouettes.
Through the dimness, the TV glared a flickering blue, throwing the details of the room in and out of view.
Her eyes trailed the row of built-in bookshelves behind the corner lamp stand and moved past the Christmas tree to the front windows, which showed nothing but the slush-covered street.
“Who’s there?” she asked the room in a quiet voice.
As though in answer, the TV popped and fizzled, causing Isobel to jump.
On the screen, the image of a young woman seated in profile at a grand piano, her hands trailing back and forth over the keys, began to bleed through the overlay of static corrosion.
The music picked up once more, as if the broken signal had become reestablished, the pattern of trickling notes matching the movements of the figure on the TV.
Oddly, everything within the television’s frame, except for the woman’s deep violet evening gown, appeared in muted tones of black and white. Her long fair hair, secured partially by a glittering comb, hung in loose strands around her downturned face, concealing her features from view as she played and sang.
The dress that she wore, beautiful and elegant, was floor-length. It hugged close to the curves of her body before opening out just below the knees like the trumpet of a bellflower.
The woman’s hands, nimble and long-fingered, seemed to float over the piano keys.
And yet the way she moved, jerky and quick between smooth slow-motion moments, reminded Isobel of clips she’d seen from old silent films.
Rocking forward and back ever so slightly as she played, the woman sang with a wispy and ethereal voice, one infused with a delicate strength that poured forth in careful pitch and control, less like an angel’s and more like that of a ghost, heartrending and full of mystery.
“And I’ll sift my sands to your side
Before we slip away
Before we’re little more than silt
Beneath the rocking waves. ”
Isobel lowered the trophy as she entered the room, entranced by the strange scene playing itself out on her family’s television, confused and curious as to what it was doing there and where it could be coming from.
Sinking down to kneel in front of the screen, she squinted, trying to see through the crackle and static overlay, which had grown thicker as she’d drawn nearer.
She wished the woman would turn and look her way, if only for a second. There was something so familiar about her. Especially those floating hands.
Had she seen her before?
It made her wonder if she could have been in the dream with Varen.
No, Isobel thought, she didn’t think so. But the song had.
In an instant, she placed the melody as not only the same one she’d heard in her bedroom, but the same one that had struggled to work its way out of Varen’s car stereo. She remembered the way he’d wrenched the portable CD player loose from its cords, pitching the whole thing into the backseat.
What about the music had bothered him so much?
Isobel studied the woman, who continued to play as though locked in a trance, the melody now meandering on without vocal accompaniment, the piano taking over. An interlude of high notes trickled forth in a complicated pattern, accented by a few well-placed chords from the instrument’s lowest spectrum. This mixture of dark and light, high and low, hope and despair, worked its hypnotic effect on Isobel, as though she were a small child listening to an intricate story.
And that was when she began to search for more details, to notice the objects that surrounded the movie’s central figure. Old-fashioned floral-print wallpaper. Fancy antique furniture. A shelf-lined wall bearing indiscernible pictures in frames and nondescript knickknacks. A mirror, too.
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Isobel’s sense of déjà vu grew twofold, the sensation threatening to spill directly into her conscious recognition until, like murky waters, gray and black rolls and squiggles rose up the television screen to scribble the woman away, and fizzing white noise eclipsed the music.
“No,” Isobel whispered, snapping to as though released from a spell. “Wait. ” She placed a hand against the screen, but it blinked to blue again, resuming its silent fluttering, flashing in her face like cold firelight.
“Don’t worry,” an acidic voice rasped from behind her. “They don’t work anyway. ”
Isobel shot to her feet. She spun to find him sitting in an armchair nex
t to the darkened Christmas tree.
Leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees, he sat staring down at the floor in front of him. His hands hung in between, one overlapping the other, the curved tips of his razor claws aimed toward the floor.
“Lullabies, I mean,” he whispered in the corrosive hiss that never failed to set her on edge. “Never have. ”
He didn’t look up at her when he spoke but remained motionless.
Every so often, the light from the TV burst strong enough to flare across his scarecrowlike frame, illuminating the crimson curve of long claws and the pointed, slicked-back black-to-red spikes of his coarse feather-and-quill hair.
Pinfeathers.
11
Of Ill Omen
“Why are you here?” Isobel asked him, her tone guarded. In her hand, her “Number One Flyer” trophy began to feel slick, greased by her own sweat. She clutched it tighter.
Part of her had suspected that the black feather had been the Noc’s way of announcing himself, of dropping off a quiet calling card before retreating and waiting to be received.
It was a far cry from his usual jack-in-the-box style of popping up out of nowhere, all demented smiles and gleaming malice.
But what was he seeking to gain by entering her world like this?
More important, how was he doing it?
Pinfeathers blinked, his black eyes remaining downcast. Tilting his head to the side and knitting his brow, he seemed to contemplate the question. He didn’t answer, though. He only looked the other way, toward the Christmas tree, so that with the next flicker from the television, Isobel caught a glimpse of the jagged hole in his cheek.
It made her wonder—if he could reconstruct his arm and side, what kept him from doing as much for his face?
But there was something in his demeanor, in the heavy way he sat, that warned her against asking and launching the opening bid for a match of verbal tag-you’re-it with the Noc.
Instead she shifted her weight from foot to foot and kept her eyes trained on him, waiting for him to speak or move again. When neither of those things happened, Isobel’s anxiety began to build, its intensity magnified by the ticking of the clock on the mantel.
The clock.
Isobel shot a glance in its direction long enough to see that the second hand moved at its normal pace.