House Of Shadows

It was revealing to hear his thoughts aloud and easy to take measure of his mind. He had an organized way of thinking, linear and clear. His ideas were concise and simple to understand, and her pen flew across the paper. At times, he paced the floor or hesitated before speaking. She waited, pen in the air, and as soon as his words began to flow once again her scratchings on the paper renewed.

He came and stood behind her. After discussing the particularly difficult redesign of a gear, he put his hand on her shoulder and asked, “Did that make sense? I think if we change the ratio, the output will be stronger.”

A twist of nervousness tightened within her. She looked up at him, her eyes wide. The sight of him—tall and regal, with his white hair framing his handsome face—affected her, making her breath heavy.

“Yes,” she said, nodding as if she understood perfectly. But the only thing she understood was his hand and those long elegant fingers resting on her shoulder.

She couldn’t breathe. More than anything she wanted to rest her cheek on that hand, to feel it caress her skin. Never before had she reacted in such a way. Something strange was happening.

Somehow, her pen kept moving, danced across the paper and finished the last sentence. The realization that she wanted more of that touch made her hand shake and her script wobbly.

He had such passion. A singular-minded obsession. She wondered what it would it be like if he lavished that passion on her.

The thought flamed her cheeks, and she pulled away from him, turning her head. Instantly, his hand disappeared from her shoulder. She wanted to face him and say something, but what could she say? Nothing at all.

Stepping away, he continued speaking, pacing the floor. And she continued writing as if nothing had passed between them.

She wrote so much her fingers hurt, and the tips of them became stained with ink. It felt like an instant later the grandfather clock tolled the midnight hour. Time seemed to speed up when she was with him.

She stretched her tired, achy fingers, waiting for the chimes to stop and Carrick to start lecturing again. But as soon as the clock fell silent, another sound rang out.

It was the sound of crashing noises coming from outside, and the second she heard them, a terrible sense of foreboding settled over her.

* * *

As soon as Carrick heard the crashing sounds coming from outside the workshop he was up and out the door. He didn’t know what he was expecting—C.J. maybe, up to some antics—but when he went outside only the summer breeze greeted him. He looked around. Nothing.

He heard the faint sound of a woman’s gasp. It was light and breathy with an air of surprise and something else, something he couldn’t name.

He looked in the direction of the sound and saw a woman standing just outside the circle of light that came from the window. She wore all white and had a sheen of yellow hair that trailed just below her shoulders.

An angel. That was his first thought. She floated out there in the darkness, hovering with a strange look of fear and longing on her face. Such longing.

She couldn’t be a ghost. No such thing. “Hey,” said Carrick sharply. “What are you doing out here?”

Instead of replying, she shook her head slowly and began to back away.

“Hey!” he called again, louder now.

The woman began backing away, the shadows swallowing her. “Stop!” he said, “Don’t go. Tell me who you are.”

Penrose came and stood right behind him, her body pressed against his.

“What is it?” she asked, craning to see outside. “No!” she shouted, surprising him so much that he startled. “Go away!” The tone of her voice was frightened. More than frightened.

“Do you know that woman?” Carrick asked.

The woman turned to Penrose, and something passed between them. He felt it like a bolt of lightning.

The woman outside looked angry, beyond angry. Her posture was rigid. She lifted her hand and pointed at Penrose. For a moment, it looked as if the blonde were about to speak, but she shook her head again and, in a swirl of white skirts, turned and fled.

Some primal instinct flared inside of him, and he took off running after her. No one should be on the property. He didn’t know what she was up to, but he fully intended to find out.

“No, Carrick!” screamed Penrose. “Don’t follow her!”

He paid Penrose no attention. “Stop!” he shouted to the woman. It was dark. He had trouble enough seeing at night, let alone running through the trees.

He heard her crashing through the woods, and this made her easier to follow. He loped along behind her, his long legs closing the distance between them. Her crashing sounds were getting louder by the second. Once he caught her, he would get to the bottom of this little mystery.

* * *

A heavy, oppressive feeling settled in Penrose’s chest. As soon as she saw the woman, she knew her ruse was up. Her breath died in her chest at that moment. So did the little feeling of hope that finally she had started to feel. She should’ve known the scheme would end badly.

Anytime she tried to get ahead, something came along and set her back. Now Carrick was out there, chasing that woman, that beautiful, perfect woman who by all rights should be standing right where Penrose stood.

Now alone in the quiet workshop, feeling numb, Penrose looked around her. The budding hope that had begun to grow inside of her was already dying. She looked around, trying to memorize everything in the room because she knew she would be leaving. Carrick would show up any minute, yell at her and kick her out. She’d never see the workshop or Harris again. Or Carrick. Her reaction surprised her.

In one quick fix, she had thought she could solve her problems. But she’d only made them worse.

She noticed that her fingers were stained with ink, and she went to the table, picked up a rag and began wiping the stains away. Minutes dragged by, and when the clock gonged again—one in the morning—the door swung open.

Carrick filled the doorway. He looked wild. His white hair stood on edge.

Penrose’s hands stilled and fell to her side. The rag dropped to the floor.

He stared at her long and hard, his shoulders squared, and he took great, heaving breaths.

She wasn’t sure how to react. She was too afraid to say anything, to reveal anything at all. Perhaps he hadn’t caught up with her.

But one look at his face told her he had, indeed. More than caught up with her, she realized, noticing the angry set of his lips. He’d spoken with her.

In three strides, he crossed the room. She barely had time to gather her breath before he loomed over her, his beautiful, angry features hovering right above her face. “What trickery are you up to, Penny?”

He knew. It was over. A horrid wrenching twisted in her gut, but something else was there, too, some wild, fluttery, panicked sensation. A painful feeling of loss and shame. She didn’t want him to think badly of her. “I’m sorry,” she blurted out. “I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I never intended...”

He shook his head slowly. “The conversation I just had with that woman,” he said, walking around her. “And the things I’ve learned about you.” He stopped, leaned forward and took her chin in his hand, forcing her to look into his strange eyes. Angry eyes that seemed to swirl with dark colors. “It seems you weren’t honest with me, were you?”

“No,” she whispered, too flustered to come to any self-defense of her behavior. She felt the hole that she’d dug widening beneath her feet, and the blackness threatening to swallow her up. If only she could look away from his eyes, but his hand at her chin was no longer gentle. It held her tight.

“What game you play, I don’t know,” he said. “But you will not win it. This I guarantee you—you will not win it. You came and looked me in the eyes, and deceived me.” He leaned close. She smelled the woods on him and the scent of summer blooms. “I know your secret. And I wager there are even more to find out, and, trust me, I’ll find every single one.”

Penrose knew what he was talking about. He was talking about her. About the blonde. “Please, you’re scaring me,” she said. Her words came out too soft, too weak. “Where did she go?” she asked him.

His chest pressed against hers, and he made no accommodation for her at all. She was forced to hold her breath. He said, “Do you care where she went? Do you really care as long as she’s not here?” He stepped even closer, forcing her tighter against the table. “And why is she here, Penny? Do you know that?”

“I needed a job,” she whispered her confession. Her eyes met his, imploring him to have sympathy. “I was hungry. I didn’t know...” Her voice trailed off.

“She gave me the impression you knew a great many things, Penny. And that you weren’t so innocent, that you committed a crime against her, and now she suffers for it,” he said. “Her words, not mine.”