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Dark.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she answers.
“You don’t know about Castor and Pollux?” I ask to clarify. “We didn’t have dogs?”
She shakes her head and I decline her tea and I feel her gaze upon my skin long after I’ve left the room.
That night, I find a long dark hair in my bed among my sheets.
A dog hair.
It terrifies me as I hold it in my hand, it’s long and thick and coarse, and I run from my room, running for Dare, and I can’t find him anywhere.
I search the house, I search the grounds, I search the stables, I search the garages, and when I’ve finally given up, when I’m finally trudging back up to the house in the dark, there’s a shadow on the path. I catch a glimpse of the boy, and he’s staring at me, and his face is hidden. He points up and I follow his finger, and there’s a room with a light on.
I chase the light, up the stairs, and when I finally see light underneath the door-crack of a lone door, I burst through it and come skidding to a halt.
I’m in an abandoned nursery.
It’s got two bassinets and a creepy rocking horse. Its wooden eye watches me lifelessly as I idly stare around the room.
The walls are pale yellow and old, the floor is gleaming hardwood, the ceilings are high. There are chandeliers even in here, in a place where children were supposed to flourish.
But the toys are scarce and the formality is abundant.
The silence is unnerving.
There are no children here but something something something pulls me.
The silence roars in my ears and my feet move on their own accord, toward one of the bassinets. It’s still, it’s quiet, it’s eerie, and when I get to the edge, I pull on it with my fingers and it rocks toward me.
A hoodie is lying inside.
It’s a simple jacket, but it’s the one the boy was wearing and it fills me with dread, and I sink sink sink with it to the floor, and the floor seems to swallow me, seems to grab at me with barbed fingers.
“This was your mother’s nursery,” Sabine says from the door. “And Richard’s.”
Two bassinettes, which indicates that they were babies at the same time.
My heart pounds.
“Are they…I didn’t know… are they twins?” My words are limp, and Sabine doesn’t truly answer.
“Twins run in your family, girl.”
She trails her twisted fingers along the walls as she paces paces paces toward me, and with each step, her face seems to get more grotesque under the twisted scarf of her turban.
She drops something into my hand and it’s a locket and it’s inscribed with a calla lily. “Go ahead,” she urges me, and it comes open in my hands.
There are pictures inside.
One of Eleanor, when she was very young, and one of another woman.
They both look young, and dark-haired and dark eyed and
Oh
My
