The Color of Dust Read online

  Applewood, ash and oak. Carrie dusted the dirt and debris off her hands and stood by the fire watching the flames flitter and flare.

  Sweet applewood and oak. Carrie breathed in the aroma. It was a delicate smell, the sweet applewood. Maybe too sweet to be just smoke. Carrie breathed in deeper. There was something floral in the air. It was more like perfume than smoke. She stood away from the fire and sniffed around the library trying to figure out where the smell was coming from. A faint whiff hovered over the desk, but it wasn’t coming from the flowers, whose petals were curled and brown. She followed the trail of it over to the couch.

  She knelt and touched the seat. Her hand passed through cold, but the seat was warm to the touch.

  Carrie jumped when she heard the first howl, a slow, drawn-out cry that prickled her skin and made her shiver. She heard the horn sound out and the hounds bayed closer than ever, yipping in short staccato bursts. Carrie went over to the patio doors to see if she could see them, but the wings of the house blocked her view.

  She stepped out into the little garden in between and stood by the picket gate. The chill in the air had grown so sharp it brought smoke to her breath. She wrapped her arms around herself and looked out over the new mown field behind the house. The moon was big and bright, but a fog covered the ground in thick patches, pooling in the hollows and underneath the trees.

  A fox ran out of the woods in a swirl of mist. It streaked across the field and ducked under a fence, disappearing into the woods on the other side. Carrie hadn’t noticed that fence before, the split rails zigzagging along the line of trees. The baying came even closer. A low moan rose from a soft cry, swelling into a full-throated howl. Others followed in an eerie chorus.

  The dogs burst out of the trees with soft fingers of fog clinging to their fur. Some ran with their noses in the air baying and barking, but most ran with their noses to the ground swinging their heads back and forth, jostling each other for the best track.

  A horse shot out of the woods right behind them. A man in a tall top hat and coat with the tails fluttering behind him sat straight backed in the saddle. He checked the horse to a saunter, paused and blew his horn. The dogs checked their pace but then ran on.

  The rider slapped the horn against his leg in a frustrated gesture and then urged the horse back into a gallop. A tight pack of horses and riders burst out from underneath the trees, shredding the fog under their galloping hooves. They jumped by ones and twos over the hedge and followed the dogs into the woods.

  Carrie blinked at the meadow and rubbed her eyes. Where did that hedge come from? And that bed of flowers? She closed her eyes tight for a second and then opened them again. The chill in the air grew sharper as the hedge, the flowers, the split rail fence disappeared underneath the rising fog.

  Carrie shivered and walked quickly back to the house, rubbing briskly at her arms. She shut and locked the doors and closed all the windows. The lamp on the table beside Carrie’s chair threw out a dim yellow light. The fire seemed to burn brighter. Thin, jittery shadows quivered against the walls.

  She stood in front of the flames to warm her fingers and toes and stared at herself in the mirror. Was she really going crazy? A log shifted and fell. The flames hissed and crackled. Sparks jumped out of the fire and landed on the hearth where they glowed for a second before they darkened and died. Her reflection seemed to waver with the fire’s shadows dancing under her chin. The hazy silver made her look different. Her hair looked bigger. Her face looked thinner, younger. Her T-shirt was lacy. The desk was in the wrong place again. A lamp with a stained glass shade sat on the leather blotter, glowing softly. A candlestick telephone sat next to the lamp, its bright green cord running over the edge of the desk.

  Carrie heard the music. Not from the music box, but real music, piano, strings and flute, with bursts of laughter and people talking. She couldn’t make out what they were saying. The words were muffled and muted, sounding as if they were in another room. How could she be dreaming? She hadn’t even closed her eyes. Her heart beat hard against her ribs, making them ache. She felt light-headed and a little queasy. In fact, she felt very queasy, dizzy and short of breath. Her knees wobbled underneath her.

  She closed her eyes and leaned against the mantel, cradling her head in the crook of her arm. A cold draft blew against the back of her neck. Her stomach twisted and churned.

  “Celia, are you all right?”

  The broken burr of a voice tickled in Carrie’s ear. She lifted her head slowly and raised her eyes to the mirror. Her heart skipped and stuttered. The woman was standing right behind her, red hair shimmering in the firelight. The hat was still lying on the couch. Carrie watched her lift a white-gloved hand and place it on her shoulder. She couldn’t feel the weight of the hand, but a coldness crept slowly through her skin, sinking down to touch her bones. The sound of the music grew louder in her ears.

  “Celia, can you hear me?” The woman’s voice seemed stretched and thin. She lifted her other hand. Gloved fingers curled softly over the slope of Carrie’s shoulders and touched her collarbone.

  Ice crawled down her spine. “I can hear you.” Her voice sounded strange, twangy, faint and far away. She looked at the weightless hands on her shoulders. Real and not real. Carrie desperately wanted the hands to be real. “If I turn around will you still be there?”

  The woman laughed. It buzzed and crackled and made Carrie’s heart do skittery things. “Of course, you goose. I’m not going to leave you that soon.”

  Carrie took another breath, her lungs catching against her ribs. Slowly, she turned around. The woman was still there, still hazy and faint. White-gloved hands slid back up onto Carrie’s shoulders as the woman leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the cheek.

  Cold stabbed through Carrie’s face. It sank into her bones, froze her thoughts, iced her blood. Stopped her heart. The room went dark. Carrie’s knees buckled and she fell to the floor.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Carrie was lying down. A warm hand held on to her cold one, patting it and then rubbing it briskly.

  “Celia, can you hear me?” A plaintive voice spoke clearly in her ear. “Wake up, sweetheart. Please, wake up.”

  Her heart was pounding painfully against her chest. Carrie tried to take a breath. Her ribs pinched and ached. Her head hurt like the day after New Year’s and her stomach felt just as unstable.

  She felt a hand patting her cheek, softly at first and then harder until it was just short of a slap. With an effort, Carrie opened her eyes. The woman with the red hair was bending over her, just as clear and solid as she was. Only, Carrie didn’t feel very solid. She felt faded and worn.

  The woman saw her eyes open and her body sagged as she pressed her hand to her chest. “Oh, thank the Good Lord, Celia. You gave me such a fright.”

  The soft cee of the name the woman called her echoed strangely with the hard sound of her name. It sounded right, somehow, even though it was wrong. Carrie lifted a hand and pressed it to her head. Her hand felt cold and weightless. “What happened?”

  The woman shook her head. Her hair shimmered, catching the late slanting sunlight in a fascinating way. Copper and gold.

  Carrie squeezed her eyes shut and then opened them again.

  Where did the sun come from? Wasn’t it night just two seconds ago? The sun was out of place. It hurt her head and made her feel worse than she felt already. Disjointed and shifted.

  “I don’t know what happened. I was just getting ready to give you your gloves when you turned the most ghastly shade of gray and then fell over in a dead faint. You bumped your head on the mantel when I tried to catch you and then you nearly fell into the fire.” The woman’s hand fluttered against her chest. “Lord, have mercy, what would your father have said to me if you burned your new dress with the guests already arriving?”

  “My father?” Carrie blinked. The images of two very different men drifted into her mind. One was tall and gaunt with a flaming red nose, dead and buried for som
e years past. The other, tall and robust with a snow-white beard and a hearty laugh. One was her father and the other was…her father. The thought didn’t make much sense to her, but her head was still spinning and maybe that was why.

  “Yes, your father. It’s already a quarter to five.” The woman frowned at her. “Where’s your watch? I gave it to you so you could be mindful of the time. Did you put it down somewhere? Lord knows, you are always losing that watch.” She grabbed Carrie’s hand and chafed at the back of it. “What am I going to do with you? Your father will come down any minute now to get you. You must be there at the door to greet Robert when he arrives, and you must be presentable.” The woman tugged at her hand. “Can you sit up?”

  “Robert?” Carrie thought of a young man with mutton chop whiskers dressed in a coat with sharp pointed tails that buttoned funny in the front. She didn’t know why but she was sure that Robert always carried a large black bag with him wherever he went.

  “Yes, Robert. How hard did you hit your head? You’re not bleeding.”

  Carrie moved her head from side to side, looking through one eye and then the other. The woman stayed solid no matter which eye she looked out of, but Carrie’s brain thought that she shouldn’t be solid, that the woman and the sun shouldn’t be there at all. She opened both eyes. “I think I’m seeing double.”

  The woman let go of Carrie’s hand and felt gingerly at the back of her head. The press of her fingers was soft and gentle, but the woman’s face grew stern and hard. “Celia, there’s not even a lump.”

  Carrie looked up at her, at the rich red hair framing pale skin, at the light dusting of freckles that spread across her nose and cheeks. Eyebrows, two shades lighter than her hair, arched over sharp green eyes. She had a very square face, a generous mouth and a little pug nose. Her features were an unusual combination of things, but all put together she seemed just right. The woman was remarkably handsome. To Carrie, she seemed beautiful in a way that made her heart hurt. She reached out a tentative hand and touched the woman’s arm. It was a solid arm. She wrapped her hand around the woman’s wrist, and more images crowded into her brain too fast for her to sort them out, but one thing became perfectly clear.

  Carrie let go of her wrist. “Your name is Lilly, like the flowers on the music box.”

  The woman leaned back and raised an eyebrow into an even higher arch. “That’s very good, Celia. Can you recall your own name now? You’re going to need to know it soon.”

  “You’re being sarcastic.” Carrie narrowed her eyes just a little, trying to remember with memories she was quite sure didn’t belong to her. “Yes, you are. You’ve always had a quick tongue, and it’s gotten you into trouble before.”

  Lilly sat back on her heels. Her frown deepened. “I don’t see why a woman should be forbidden to speak her mind.”

  It had the feel of an old argument, a phrase spoken so many times that it had worn a rut in her tongue. Carrie knew the words to say that would make Lilly’s cheeks flame, make her eyes spark with ire. She didn’t say them. Carrie didn’t want to see her lips thin or her brow crease, the arms fold tightly against her chest.

  There had been enough of that in the past. There would be too much of that in the times to come. She didn’t know how she knew, but she did, as sure as the sun was shining.

  Carrie made a move to sit up but found that she couldn’t.

  She tried to bend at the waist, but it felt like her whole torso was stuffed into a toilet paper tube. One size too small. “What is this?” She felt at her waist, at the stiff material and hard rods that pinched and poked her. “Why am I in this contraption? Jesus, it’s tight. I can’t breathe. I can’t even move.”

  Lilly gave her a tight-lipped look. “The language, Celia.

  Please. Try to remember how you’re supposed to behave when you have guests.” She slipped her hands under Carrie’s shoulders and lifted her into a sitting position. Carrie’s head swam and her vision dimmed. A hand cupped her cheek.

  “No, Celia. Stay with me. Don’t go to sleep.”

  Carrie pushed the hand away from her face but it came right back again, a second one following, squeezing her cheeks. “I’m not going to go to sleep, but if you don’t let go of me I might puke.”

  “Oh. And what a horrible word that is.” Lilly’s hands stayed where they were. “I’m not going to ask where you learned it, though I can gather what it means.”

  Carrie’s head slowly stopped swimming as Lilly’s hands rubbed at her cheeks. She grabbed at the hands and held them still. They felt familiar in their shape, in their heat and how they molded themselves to fit into hers. She looked at them closely, flat filed nails, one chipped at the corner, swollen knuckles and work roughened palms. “Your hands are warm. They were cold earlier.” She looked up at Lilly who was blushing softly.

  “Your hands are cold,” Lilly replied. “They always are when you’re nervous. Do you want your gloves now?” She pointed her chin to the chair where the wide-brimmed hat sat half on top of a pair of long white gloves.

  “I like it better when you wear them.”

  Lilly almost smiled. “That’s not appropriate, Celia. I can wear your clothes when we’re alone, but not in front of your guests.”

  Carrie looked at Lilly’s knuckles. She turned one hand over and touched the calluses on her palm. Before she thought about what she was doing, she raised it to her mouth and brushed her lips across them. Lilly jerked her hand away, her pale skin blotching with red. She cradled the kissed hand inside her other, holding it as if Carrie’s lips had burned her.

  “You mustn’t do such things, Celia. Not here. You have guests waiting in the parlor, and your father will come downstairs any moment. Robert will be arriving soon.” She looked over her shoulder at the library doors and inched away from Carrie.

  It hurt to see her move away and Carrie wondered at the depth of it.

  Lilly stood and looked at her. “Will you try and stand?”

  Carrie lifted a hand almost as a challenge. “You’ll have to help me.”

  Lilly glanced again at the library doors and then back to Carrie. “You mustn’t.” Her tone was pleading.

  “I won’t.” Carrie wasn’t sure what she was promising not to do, but if she didn’t do anything, it should be all right.

  Lilly looked at her sharply, but she couldn’t keep the expression. Her face melted into an odd mixture of exasperation and fond sadness. She slipped her hands into Carrie’s and pulled her gently to her feet. She dropped her hands quickly and knelt with practiced ease to fluff out the skirts Carrie was wearing, tugging on the hem and shaking out the pleats.

  Carrie looked down at the crown of her head, the pale skin showing through the red part, and then down at herself. She was wearing a light blue gown with lace trim at the wrists. She felt her chest and neck, at the lace and seed pearls and a collar so high that it nearly touched her chin. She felt her waist. The rods and cords that bound her made her breath come shallow and short.

  “I don’t think I like this dress.” Carrie felt her knees go weak again. Strong hands circled around her waist and held her upright.

  “You must hold yourself together now, Celia. Real ladies of quality faint after their engagements are announced, not before.”

  There was a pointed bitterness to Lilly’s tone. She shook the hem of Carrie’s skirt sharply so that it pooled on the floor around her feet and then she stood. Bright eyes looked at Carrie, pinched with hurt.

  It hurt Carrie to see the hurt. “I don’t want to be engaged.”

  The eyes narrowed. “We’re a little past that now, Celia.”

  Carrie couldn’t stand to see that expression on Lilly’s face, the soft angles thinning into harsh lines. She turned away from her and walked over to the mirror. Her reflection was clearer than it had been before. The tarnish spots were gone. Her face definitely looked thinner than it should have. Her hair was done up in an elaborate braid. She could see Lilly standing behind her, red hair shimmering, glov
es dangling from her hands. Carrie turned around, half expecting the room to fade back into dullness, but nothing changed. Lilly was still standing there in her simple dress, looking at her hands, tugging one by one on each finger of the gloves.

  “Lilly,” Carrie said softly to herself. It felt good on her tongue, like a piece of candy both sharp and sweet. She wanted to say it again, to sigh over it, to hold in her mouth, to let it trickle out between her lips as her tongue caressed her palate. She knew the name so well. Some small growing part of her had known it for years along with half-remembered secrets, like the birthmark on the back of her left knee, the feel of her lips as they brushed across her cheek, the heat of her hands as they buttoned and tied her dresses and stays. Carrie found it hard to catch her breath.

  Her head still felt dizzy and the pinching at her waist was making her nauseous.

  “I have to get out of this dress, Lilly. It’s killing me.”

  Lilly raised her head. “Yes. You always say that. It just takes a while to get use to it. You know that if you stop fighting against the dress it will get better faster.” Lilly pursed her lips and looked her over with a critical eye. “The dress is your father’s fault, you know.”

  “Why? Was he drunk when he bought it?” No, Carrie thought. That was the wrong father.

  “Shame on you, Celia, for saying such a thing.” Lilly scowled as she scolded. “Lord knows it’s been nearly impossible to teach you to act like a lady.” She looked at the gloves in her hands and shook her head slowly. “If only your father hadn’t let you run around in short pants when you were small.”

  “Could he have stopped me?”

  “Perhaps. If your poor mother had lived. If there had been a firm hand to guide you.” Lilly slapped the gloves lightly across her palm.

  “Isn’t that what your hands are for? To torture me to death with whalebones and silk strings to make up for my deficient upbringing?” Carrie tried not to think about Lilly’s hands as she inhaled experimentally. If she breathed down instead of out she could take a deeper breath.