Despair has its own calms.
—Bram Stoker, Dracula
The rest of the day is spent in my room, mostly working on my painting and trying not to think about Bram, which only leads to more thinking about Bram. I mean, yes, he’s really cute. Yes, we share the same interests. Yes, he knows how to use multisyllabic words correctly in a sentence. Yes, he said he wanted to sketch me, which in my mind is pretty much the most romantic thing a person can ever say or do. But still, as cool as he may be, as familiar as he may feel, I’m also well aware, painfully aware, that I’m exhibiting all the telltale signs of a classic rebound situation.
Not that I’ve ever had an opportunity to have a classic rebound situation until now, with Jake being my first boyfriend and all. But after watching my dad go through it not long after losing my mom, when he just turned his back on the past and jumped right back into the dating pool with Nina, I’m pretty much an expert on these things.
Which is exactly why I can’t indulge myself now.
Exactly why I need to look upon Bram as a fellow art student and nothing more.
And that’s why I stay in my room. Determined to do what I came here to do, which is paint—not flirt, or hook up, or get emotionally attached to someone who’ll probably just end up breaking my heart at the soonest opportunity anyway. And when Violet comes in to leave a new tray of food, including a plate of those sausages I like, I don’t even ask if she’s seen him, or what he’s up to. I just carry on with my painting, as though Bram doesn’t exist, until the jet lag kicks in, I fall asleep again, and the dream picks up right where it left off, with me fighting through the mist, grasping for his hand, only this time, his icy cold fingers entwine with mine, pulling me closer, begging me to see him, really see him, as a pulsating red glow emanates from his chest….
And when I awaken, I head straight for my canvas and capture that, too, the long, cool fingers, the red glow, and am just making out the arch of his brow when a pale, blond girl comes in to clear the tray, takes one look at me, and suggests I change for dinner.
I squint, wondering where she might’ve come from, since this is the first I’ve seen of her. I wasn’t even aware there was another shift of servants working here. Then I follow her gaze to my dress, horrified to see that I’ve ruined it, smeared it with paint, and wonder why no one ever offered me a smock to wear over it. I mean seriously, no teachers, no smocks, no designated art studio—what kind of art academy is this?
I take a deep breath and look up at the girl again, my mind suddenly flooding with a long list of questions. Questions that vanish the moment she returns my gaze and says, “Not to worry.” Her voice is calm, soothing, eager to put me at ease. “I’m certain the dress can be cleaned, and if not, there’s plenty more where that came from.” She turns toward the canvas, her eyes growing wide as she takes in my progress. “I say, you’ve come a very long way in just a day’s time.” She clucks her tongue as her hands twist at her apron. “Such great progress indeed,” she adds, her voice lifting. “Oh, and in case ye were wonderin’, the instructors have also been delayed. But the good news is, this mist should lift in no more than a day or two now, and when it does, all will git back to normal again.”
“Really?” I look at her. “Violet said it would be at least a week.”
She looks at me, gaze thoughtful when she says, “Did she? Well, let’s just say that things are lookin’ up, miss.” She tilts her head and looks me over, and something about her gaze, her movements, the way she clutches at her apron is so familiar. Then I realize what it is—she looks and acts like a much younger version of Violet, and I wonder if they’re somehow related. “I’m Camellia.” She nods, heading for the armoire. “Violet’s me mum.” She pushes through the row of dresses, choosing two and then turning toward me. “So, what do ye say, miss—the green or the purple?” She lifts a pale blond brow that’s so light in color it practically fades into her skin. “They’re both beautiful—both perfect for yer colorin’—couldn’t go wrong if ye tried.” She nods, dangling a gorgeous silk gown in each hand.
I glance between them, finding them both equally stunning, equally outdated, and equally alluring. Wondering for a moment what happened to my bag—the one full of cargo pants, jeans, and black sweaters, then meeting her gaze and dismissing the thought just as quickly.
Deciding to enjoy this new version of me for as long as it lasts, I say, “What the heck, let’s go with the purple this time.”
When I walk into the dining room, I almost don’t recognize him.
No, scratch that. Because the truth is, I do recognize him—just not as Bram.
For a split second, when I find him at the table with his hair slicked back, and his modern-day clothes replaced with 1800s Victorian wear, he looks just like the guy in my dreams—the one who beckons to me.
I freeze. My breath freezes, my heart freezes, my entire body freezes, but then, when he turns and smiles in that familiar, easygoing way that he has, all systems are go again.
He’s not the guy from my dream. He can’t be. For one thing, he’s here right in front of me. And for another, that just doesn’t make any sense.
“Let me guess, they hid your clothes too?” I take the place across from him, the one set with fine china, crystal goblets, and more rows of silverware than I know what to do with. My eyes graze over him, taking in the white ruffled shirt, the blue waistcoat, and of course those glasses, which in an odd, unexpected way really seem to go with his clothing.
“No.” He smiles, helping himself to so many sausage links I hope he’ll leave some for me. “I found these in the armoire and thought I’d dress up to match you—you know, so you wouldn’t feel so alone. What do you think?”
I look at him, allowing myself a quick glance, which is all it takes to make my stomach start to dance. Then I help myself to what’s left of the sausage, grab my knife and fork, and dig in. “You look—nice,” I mumble, between bites. “Proper, elegant”—and sexy, and hot, and totally and completely irresistible—“and, with the glasses, a little bit edgy, even,” I stammer.
He laughs, dabbing his lips with the corner of his napkin as he says, “And you, fair lady, look stunning. That purple really suits you.”
I press my lips together and gaze down at my plate, reminding myself of my vow to not get overly excited by his compliments.
“So, I see you’re a fan of the sausage?” He looks at me, jaw dropping in horror when he realizes what he just said. “O-kay, not quite how I meant it, but, still, there it is.” He shakes his head and laughs, heaping a generous lump of mashed potatoes and some unidentifiable boiled, limp, green thing onto his plate. “Can’t say I blame you, though, it’s good stuff. Wonder what they put in it?”
I shrug, covering my mouth as I say, “It’s like hot dogs. Best not to ask.”
“Ever try blood sausage?” He looks at me, head tilted as a smile plays at his lips.
I blanch, making all manner of grossed-out faces when I say, “Gawd, no, why would I? I mean, is it really made from blood?”
“Really and truly.” He nods. “Pig’s blood. Usually. It’s good stuff, though. Don’t knock it till you try it.”
I stab a green bean and lift it to my mouth, inspecting it as I say, “Uh, no thanks, why would I even go there?”
He shrugs. “Well, one could also ask, why wouldn’t you go there? I mean, you’re an artist, right?”
I shrug and pick at my food.
“Okay, so maybe you’re not Picasso—yet, but you’ve got an artist’s way of looking at things, which is nothing like the normal way of looking at things. Painters like you and me—we don’t see life the same way as everyone else. We notice the details, all the things they miss. Then we add and subtract and interpret them in our own way. So, with that in mind, why would we ever choose not to try something? To just settle for the same ole, same ole? Why would you even consider signing up for the usual, mundane experience?” He leans toward me, his brow lifted high over the rim of his glasses. “And, as artists, it’s practically our duty to look upon our lives as one long artistic experiment. The more you allow yourself to experience, the more your craft can grow. And trying new things is a very big part of that. You’ll be amazed at how it feeds your imagination and frees your—soul.”
I shrug, watching as he pours some red liquid from a decanter into my goblet, thinking, Great. Now he thinks I’m an uptight prude! And immediately chasing it with, Who cares what he thinks? He’s a fellow student, not a Jake replacement. Clinking my glass against his and nearly choking when I bring it to my lips and discover it doesn’t just look like wine, but it really is wine.
He looks at me, laughing when he sees my reaction, then continues to drink and eat like he’s used to dining like this.
“You actually like it?” I ask, watching as he makes good progress toward emptying his glass.
Seeing him nod when he says, “I’ve spent a lot of time on the road, traveling all over Europe with my mom and her band. It’s not at all like the States, here there are a lot fewer restrictions. You can drink, go to clubs, live like an adult, it’s all good.” He smiles. “Everything in moderation—right? Or at least, almost everything.”
I nod, immediately pegging him as way out of my league. I mean, a guy like that, a guy so worldly and experienced, would never be interested in a small-time girl like me. Not that I care or anything. I’m just saying.
“Your life sounds so…exotic,” I mumble, finally able to look at him again.
But he just shrugs. “To me it’s just—my life. It’s what’s familiar—what I’m used to.” He spears a sausage link and chews thoughtfully. “The idea of going to a normal American high school—now that’s exotic.”
“You don’t go to school?” I look at him, wondering how he qualified for the program, since it was open only to high school seniors.
“Nope, I have a tutor. Think of it like a traveling home school, if you will.” He shrugs, running his tongue over his teeth. “My mom’s been dragging me back and forth from London to New York since I was a little kid. She yanked me out of public school way back in kindergarten, didn’t even let me graduate with my class.” He laughs. “So how is high school? Is it anything like you see on TV?”
I gaze down at my plate, thinking about the hell I went through last semester when the whole humiliating Jake and Tiffany story broke. How everyone stared at me, gossiped about me, and how the couple in question obviously enjoyed flaunting it, by the way they always chose to make out right in front of her locker, which was just two rows from mine. I had no one to turn to. I was completely alone. My dad was too busy, Nina too…bitchy, and, unfortunately, for the last few years I’d relied so much on Tiffany, I’d forgotten to make other friends. And even though my coming here to England has handled the out of sight part of it, I’m still waiting for the out of mind part to follow. I wish it would hurry.
“It’s nothing like you see on TV,” I say, trying to peer into his glasses, see what lurks behind those dark lenses, but the only eyes I see are my own reflecting right back at me. “Nothing like it at all.” I sigh. “Trust me, it’s far worse than that.”
The second we finish eating, Camellia clears our plates and tries to get us to head back to our rooms so we can paint. But we don’t want to head back to our rooms, and our saying as much really upsets her.
“It’s not like we need babysitting,” Bram says, smiling at her in that charming way that he has. “If you want to head out—head out! We can look after ourselves.”
She glances between us, obviously so unhappy by our refusal to go along with her plans I’m about to agree just to please her, figuring we can always just sneak out later. But when she disappears with a tall stack of dishes, Bram leans toward me and says, “What’s her deal?”
I shrug. I don’t know what anyone’s deal is. I’m nothing like him. I didn’t grow up on the road, drinking wine in exotic locales, with a goth band mom. I’m a half-orphaned only child, from an L.A. suburb, who’s used to a pretty normal, ho-hum existence, who, oh yeah, just happens to have artistic ambitions. But still, no matter how weird it is here, with our clothes, the mist, Violet, and Camellia—I’m not the least bit homesick. I mean, yeah, I miss my dad—or at least the old version of him. But I don’t miss Nina, or high school, or either one of my two former friends.
And the next thing I know Bram is beside me, offering his hand as he says, “Come on, let’s ditch this place before she comes back.”
We slip out the front door and straight into the mist, the two of us laughing as we stumble along, clutching at each other so as not to get lost. And even though his hand feels so good with the way his soft, cool palm presses tightly, and the way his fingers entwine so nicely with mine, I’m quick to remind myself that it’s purely for practical purposes. So that we don’t get separated and lose each other in the haze. No matter how nice, no matter how right it may feel, it means nothing to him, so it shouldn’t mean something to me.
We move forward, slowly, carefully, heading toward the area where the mist is at its thickest, not realizing we’ve stumbled into a graveyard until I’ve fallen head-first over a tombstone.
“Must be the family plot,” Bram says, voice coming from somewhere just above me as he helps me to stand. “And watch out for the roses. They’re so big and vicious they practically jump out at you.”
But a second after he says it, it’s too late. I’ve already been scratched by one of those thorns, digging into the side of my neck, somewhere between my ear and the hollow.
I let go of his hand so I can assess the damage, my fingers slipping through something warm and wet that can only be blood—my blood.
“Too late,” I say, wincing when I touch it again. “Maybe we should head back inside so I can clean it up, get a Band-Aid or something. Okay? Bram?”
I reach out beside me, in front of me, behind me, my hands groping into thin air, the space he just filled—but he’s gone. No longer there. No longer—anywhere.
I turn all around, calling his name, as my arms flail through the mist. But I can’t see him. Can’t see anything. And no matter how loudly I call, no matter how many times I shout out his name, there’s no response.
I’m alone.
And yet—I’m not.
There’s someone else. Something else. And when I see that soft red glow in the distance, I turn and run the opposite way. Falling over a mound of freshly dug dirt, not realizing until a hand is clamped over my mouth that that loud, piercing scream came from me.