“Yeah, I’m fine,” he says in confusion, his hands stroking my back, holding me close. “Did you think something happened?”
I see his name, carved in the mausoleum stone, and I shudder, pushing the vision away, far out of my mind.
“No. I…no.”
He holds me for several minutes more, then looks down at me, tucking an errant strand of my hair behind my ear.
“Are you ok? You’ve been gone for hours.”
Hours? How can that be? The sky swirls, and I steady myself against his chest.
I hear his heart and it’s beating fast, because he’s afraid.
He’s afraid for me because he recognizes the signs, he’s seen them before.
“It’s ok, Cal,” he murmurs, but I can hear the concern in his voice. “It’s ok.”
But I can tell from his voice that it’s not.
Craziness is genetic.
I’m the rabbit.
And I’m crazy.
Dare’s arm is around my shoulders as we walk back to the house, and I can feel him glance at me from time to time.
“Stop,” I tell him finally as we walk through the gardens. “I’m fine.”
“Ok,” he agrees. “Of course you are.”
But he knows better, and he knows that I’m not.
Sabine is kneeling by the library doors, digging through the rich English soil, and she looks at us over her shoulder. When she sees my face, her eyes narrow and she climbs to her feet.
“Are you all right, Miss Price?” she asks in her gravelly voice. I want to lie, I want to tell her that I’m fine, but I know she can tell the difference. In fact, as she stares at me with those dark eyes, I feel like she can see into my soul.
I don’t bother to lie.
I just shake my head.
She nods.
“Come with me.”
She leads us both to the back of the house, to her room. It’s small and dark, draped in colorful fabrics, in mystic symbols and pieces of gaudy jewelry, shrouded in mirrors and dream-catchers and stars.
I’m stunned and I pause, gazing at all of the pageantry.
She glimpses my expression and shrugs. “I’m Rom,” she says, by way of explanation. At my blank expression, she sighs. “Romani. Gypsy. I’m not ashamed of it.”
She holds her head up high, her chin out, and I can see that she’s far from ashamed. She’s proud.
“You shouldn’t be,” I assure her weakly. “It’s your heritage. It’s fascinating.”
She’s satisfied by that, by the idea that I’m not looking down at her for who she is.
Her dark eyes tell a story, and to me, they tell me that she knows more than I do. That she might even know more about me than I do.