I stare back.
Then one steps forward and nudges my hand, sliding his massive head beneath my palm like he knows me, like he’s not going to attack me.
“Castor!” Sabine yells from behind me. “Pollux!”
The dogs stand at attention, and when she yells Come, they do.
She looks at me. “I’m sorry if they got you muddy,” she tells me. “They’re the estate dogs. And as you can see, they aren’t always graceful.”
I follow her gaze and she’s staring at muddy paw-prints on my legs, and when did that happen?
“They’re fine,” I tell her, because they didn’t hurt me. In fact, even though they’re enormous, they have such sweet faces. Sabine acts like she knows what I’m thinking.
“They wouldn’t hurt anybody,” she tells me. “It’s their size that is intimidating.” She pauses. “They’d protect you with their lives, though.”
Me?
Before I can ask, she returns to the house and the dogs go with her. Down the path a ways, one of them pauses and turns to look at me, but then he continues on his way and I try to put my uneasiness to rest.
Why am I uneasy?
They’re just dogs.
And the guy I saw was just a gardener or something.
Nothing to be unnerved about.
Yet I’m still unsettled as I wash my face, so when I’m finished, I poke my head out into the hall. There’s nothing there.
With a sigh, I lock my bedroom door and I’m chilled from the wet English air. Glancing at the clock, I find it’s only six thirty. I can rest for a few minutes more, and I’m thankful for that.
Because clearly, jet lag has made me its bitch.
Chapter Twenty-Four
As I step into the grand foyer of Whitley, my feet have barely hit the floor when I feel the overwhelming sense of being stifled, of the coldness that permeates a person’s bones here. To put the feeling in perspective, my home in Oregon is a funeral home. Whitley is far, far worse.
Finn picks my hand, aware of my faltering steps. “You ok?” he whispers, his blue eyes searching mine. I nod.
Of course I’m lying. I’m not ok. Why would I be?
I stand in the foyer windows, staring across the moors. England has such haunting moors, such rolling, wet fields, such places that are conducive to melancholy. It makes me think of sadness, of Charlotte Bronte, of Jane Eyre.
I don’t know why I identify so much with Jane. She’s plain, and I know that I’m not. I have hair like fire, eyes like bright emeralds. I’m not being conceited in admitting that, because after all, physical attributes are things that we cannot help. I am pretty, but I didn’t earn it. I was simply born this way, a product of a beautiful mother. Internal traits though, they’re important and praiseworthy. Jane Eyre is fierce in spirit, and I like to believe that I am, too. Fierceness is much more commendable than my pretty face.
To be honest, I almost wish that I weren’t pretty. It makes me self-conscious. People tend to stare, and when they do, I always feel like they’re staring at me because they think I’m crazy.
Crazy
Crazy
Crazy.
Just like my brother.
It’s like a whisper, echoing through the rooms of Whitley, across the grounds, through the air. Everyone watches us, my brother and me, to see which one of us will crack.
“I’m going for a walk,” I tell Finn. His head snaps up.
“Alone? You’ll get lost.”
“No, I won’t. I’m just going to explore.”
“I’ll come too.”
“No. Go get something to eat. I just need a few minutes to breathe, Finn.”
He nods now because he understands that.
I slip outside, out the door, away from the doom of the house.