Chapter Twelve

 

"No, no, no!" Mr. Sandovar cried, crossing the stage and waving his arms at the teen boys playing the rivaling Capulets and Montagues. He was in charge of choreographing the rumble scene. "This is a duel, a dancing duel number, not a real melee!"

Ivy wanted to giggle, but could only stare. The dark theater offered a sort of solace from her thoughts, but the play practice for the fight scene in Romeo and Juliet wasn't proving enough of a distraction. She glanced to Forrester, who was in his practice costume as Paris. He kept fiddling with his fake mustache, sneezing. Everywhere, wooden swords in rapier style were clashing.

Lornie stood at stage left, beaming at her chance to stand in for Juliet's Are You Satisfied? scene in her post-engagement number. Carlie had a cold. Lornie had practiced pining over Romeo all afternoon as they finished Ivy's dress.

Still, Ivy's mind was full of black-and-white images of Maeve—sometimes Mabel, Mary or Madeline—from the library school archives. She'd tried to show one of the class groupings to Lornie from her cell phone pictures, but Lornie didn't see any familiarity.

"But that guy," Lornie had pointed out, indicating a boy two photos away from Maeve in 1928, "looks kinda familiar. Geez, we had such a small graduating class that year that they let the girls and boys have a photo together?"

Ivy had taken another look at the cell phone image. "No, the ovals were placed on the class archives later, for posterity. I'm sure they had separate pages at the time."

"Posterior?" a voice from behind them had said.

Ivy had nearly keeled over. Dred stood looking over their shoulders as they waited for the rush of students to leave the school hallway earlier. She'd snapped the phone off, staring at him. "No."

"What ya up to?" he'd wanted to know.

She didn't tell him, and he didn't seem to recognize Maeve's old photo. "Research, for . . . for my dress."

"Yeah?"

"I'm going," Lornie had told them. "See you there, Ivy!"

And she'd left her alone with Dred.

Now in the safety of the dim theater, Ivy realized how weak her excuse of not going with him to the Hall was. He'd bought it—after all, she did have a lot of homework—but it would only take a few wrong words to let slip her interest in the school archives.

But, she had learned, he didn't wear the same aftershave she'd detected at the library.

The conductor tapping his baton on the music stand in the orchestra pit brought Ivy's attention to the stage. On it, in mostly full costumes, the scene was set for Juliet's post-engagement to Paris number. Lornie stood in the center of the bedroom, pulling at her hair as she began the song. Nearby, Heidi as Juliet's nurse, looked on, this time with a headset to autotune her voice when her part of the song came to join in. Ivy marveled that Heidi could join the fluidity of roller-skating with her jerky mime-like movements while singing.

Lornie went through the number, but all Ivy could concentrate on was the violins in the pit, their harmonized chords plucking through the mostly empty auditorium. Somewhere in her memory of the last week or so, Mandrake's playing at Brylinden Hall floated back to her. She smiled, recalling the blond man's aggressive talent with the instrument. There had been something bold in his playing, something not undermined by his ability to make the violin play the more sensitive notes with the same affect.

At least, affect on her. She shook her head, trying to shake it from her mind as her curiosity brought back the name of the piece he was composing in the second floor music room. Year of the Bone. She couldn't imagine what it meant, except to have something to do with Scarlet's play. She'd done an internet search for the term, but found nothing about a play of the name.

By the time she looked back at the stage, and really focused, the setting had changed for the Mantua apothecary scene. Instead of being fourteenth century Verona, a Victorian mad scientist-type of shop was set up, complete with steaming and bubbling beakers on the counter. Ms. Decker had cast junior Fritz Hrez as an androgynous apothecary, complete with steampunk goggle-eyepatch and vest of chain and glass vials. Lornie had talked-up the character so much, Ivy felt she'd seen Fritz in costume before; she hadn't, and now, he was nearly unrecognizable as the somewhat standoffish teacher's aide in her English Pre-Lit class. According to Camille, he wasn't shy outside of school.

A series of sharp, climbing notes came from the orchestra pit, followed by Fritz's high, girlish laugh onstage, and then Lornie's half-boyfriend Jeremy's banging away at the piano keys burst out as Fritz launched into his rendition of Marina and the Diamonds' Girls!!! Ivy sat forward, realizing she'd missed most of Lornie's performance by letting her mind wander back to the Hall.

She watched the number, impressed and feeling guilty, until Lornie waved to her from the left wing. Ivy finger-waved back. By the look on her friend's face, Ivy assumed Lornie hadn't seen her expression glaze over. After Fritz' number, the orchestra took a break as the scene was set up for Romeo's duel scene. Ivy looked down as her cell phone hummed. She quickly looked at the text.

Gotta run thru again. Staying? Lornie was asking.

Ivy felt a rush of relief. No sign Lornie knew she'd drifted out. Teaching @ 6.

Sry. 4got. Later!

Ivy shot back a goodbye and stood up. Lornie wasn't side-stage now, so Ivy assumed she was backstage, secretly texting.

By the time she got outside, the sun was heading west, in a hurry to set for the day. Ivy turned down the sidewalk to the library, guessing she'd have her usual four to six students this time, most girls and one boy. She pulled her jacket close and lowered her head against the chill wind that gusted into her face. Her book bag was stuffed with yarn and extra crochet and knitting needles, her standard stock for classes. There were always a few students who forgot something. She'd run out of most smaller sizes, and now mostly had the nine- and ten-inch knitting needles, sizes eight to thirteen. She'd have to start charging students for replacement supplies if she wanted to make anything of a profit for her three hours a week of classes.

When she looked up as the gust died down, Vohn stood at the town's small main intersection. She stopped walking.

He didn't seem surprised to see her. He nodded her over, meeting her a few steps as she glanced down the street to her left where the library was out of sight around the next corner. His eyes dropped over her, noting her bulging bag. "Take a walk with me, Ivy."

He smiled a little, but she saw nothing inviting in his face. "I have a class to teach."

He nodded. "Then we'll walk to the library."

She nodded slowly. "O-Okay."

He turned down the street, watching her fall into step with him. He was dressed much like Branard had been the first time Ivy saw him, in jeans, hoodie, and sneakers. His dark hair was more ruffled than she generally saw it at school—or during their summer of scoping him out under Camille's orders. She fought off a blush at the thought. They'd been so careful, but to find out now that Vohn had known about them all along was humiliating.

"You've been to the Hall enough to know our family isn't typical," he said, still looking straight ahead.

She nodded, relaxing her shoulders. The wind wasn't as bad here, now that he was blocking most of it. "Dred said you have a lot of relatives kind of visit and stay on some." It wasn't exactly what he'd said, but she figured it was close enough.

"Some stay for months. It's a stopover of sorts. Our family is old, with Old World eccentrics, shunned outcasts, displaced royalty." He grinned when she gave him a shocked look. "Royalty no one wants, Ivy. No land, no estate; just royal or noble in name, most penniless. Some have remained, become fixtures at the Hall." He shoved his hands into his hoodie pocket, his mood sobering. "Dred has troubles. I don't know if anyone has told you that, but he does. Problems people don't talk about in polite circles."

She saw no humor in his face, just his eyes locked on nothing, his jaw line tensed with something he wasn't voicing. "They let him into school, so maybe a counselor there could help if—"

"It's not as simple as that." His gaze lowered to her, frowning slightly. "He's not from Canada. He's from Oregon."

"Oh . . . Well, that's not a problem." She had the feeling there was much more, but was hoping to ease some of the tension the wind didn't push out of the air.

"He seems fond of you. Can't blame him," he added offhandedly. "But I don't know if it's healthy for you."

Now the chill seeped into her jacket, up her sleeve cuffs and down her collar. "Healthy?"

He put his hand on her back and directed her down a street two blocks from the library. "You've got time for a detour."

She stopped the protest that came to her lips. He seemed to know her schedule for the evening, so there was no real excuse she could make.

"I must say, I was surprised you called me out about Evandis' work," he said, chuckling dryly. "I didn't see that coming from you. Maybe you are ready for the truth about Dred."

"What did he do?" She felt the wind push at her back.

"Nothing, maybe. Maybe something." He sighed, his posture stiffening. "In Oregon, Dred's family, his mother, father, little sister, were bludgeoned to death four years ago. Dred alone survived, unscathed, found covered in blood. He said he didn't remember anything for the first two years after that, so, when he turned thirteen, the institution let him stay with family. One family after another had their chance with him, until last year."

She stared wide-eyed at him, unable to ask the question burning in her.

"He stayed with an aunt then. She was old, half-deaf. When she died, the family—our relatives—decided it was best for him to adjust, one way or another, into normal society. So he came here." He looked over at her, steadily estimating her reaction. "So here he is. In Rasperville."

She gripped the strap on her bag tighter as her fingers shook. Her attention went back down the street before them. "Is . . . Is he okay now?"

"Some say he killed his family that day." He shook his head, smiling a little when she looked to him. "Of course, it was mostly talk. You know how small towns are. He remembers that he came home from school and they were all dead that day. Mother, father. Three-year-old sister."

Ivy felt ill at the words.

"I guess it's a form of shock. He doesn't talk about them. Acts like it was something he read about, not that it actually was his family. From what I've heard, there was no hard evidence against him; just circumstantial bullshit. Like most small town cops would come up with. Anyway, they never charged anyone for it." He shrugged as they reached the end of the street and turned the block corner that would to the next block across from the library. "So that's why he's here."

"How did his aunt die?" She could barely utter the words.

"Just her time. Old age."

She walked on, not feeling the cold breeze that was now brisker with their turn of direction.

"But don't ask him about it. I don't know what he'd tell you." He took a deep breath, shaking his head. "I don't think he's told anyone the truth."

They walked for the next full block, neither speaking, Ivy trying to digest the new information.

"So if you don't want to come back to the Hall," he said slowly, "we'd understand. Everyone would. And Dred, eventually, would think you were afraid of him pouncing on you."

She frowned at him. "He hasn't. Really he hasn't."

He chuckled. "It would be only natural, Ivy. Hormone-driven kid like him. Cute girl like you. Only a matter of time."

Her lips curled in aversion. "He seems nice."

"Never sure how he's going to be, day by day." They waited for a car to pass at the stop sign to the next block. "Maeve was going to tell you, but she just hasn't yet. Waiting for the right moment, I guess."

Darkness was in twilight, the few streetlamps glimmering on in the semi-night. Some of the shops already had strands of clear lights put up, outlining the windows, a decoration that could easily be used for Halloween, Thanksgiving, or the holiday season.

"Thanks for telling me," she finally said. Her hand tightened on the bag strap at her shoulder. "What were they bludgeoned with? The family. Did the cops know?"

"A sword. The hilt end of a sword. Some family heirloom. The blade had bloody handprints on it from whoever had done the swinging."

She felt sickened. "Did they match Dred?"

"Not conclusively. But the fact that the sword was used as a club rather than as a sword," he said, slowing as they neared the brightly-lit library, "made some investigators think the attacker was too young or weak to use it correctly for stabbing."

Her stomach fluttered with nauseated butterflies. "Gross."

"Just thought you should know." He glanced from the library's scarecrow and jack-o-lantern display set up on the lawn back to her. "So you can decide if you want to come back or not, or if you want to watch yourself around him."

She waved to two of her students who skipped past them and went into the library. "Thanks. Vohn." She looked up at him, never guessing he knew what he did about Dred. "Thanks for telling me."

He nodded. "See you, Ivy."

He left back down the short sidewalk to the street, jogged across it, and headed back into the main town.

Ivy felt the bracing wind sweep into her face.

So that was the truth about Dred Jacobin.