51
It’s terribly easy to enter a house uninvited. Especially when that house is your own.
I slip in the door near the kitchen, hidden by crates of wine and stacked boxes full of ornaments and unused garlands. The smells of mulled wine, melted chocolate, savory tarts, and Christmas spiced treats hits me with the strength of a crackling-hot kitchen. I avoid the hustle of the kitchen. There are banging pots, shouts, and hurried orders coming from that direction. Instead I slip down a side hall, hugging corners and shadows.
I walk quickly, with purpose, just in case someone sees me and asks why I’m here. My nose and cheeks are starting to thaw and there’s a painful tingling in my fingers as blood rushes in at the newfound warmth.
Down the hallway, reverberating through the stone walls and muffled by the thick old rugs, is the sound of an orchestra. They’re playing a Christmas waltz. I remember the song. I danced it with Max.
It’s Christmas Eve.
Mila is tucked in bed upstairs, dreaming Christmas dreams.
Daniel is?—
I duck around the corner, my heart racing.
Daniel is kissing a blonde in the study. I remember him leading her out of the ballroom, his hand at the crook of her back.
I lean against the stone wall and take a deep breath, willing my heart to slow.
I hear the woman’s laughter, Daniel’s murmured response.
The golden light from the wall sconce spills over the stone floor and hits the shadows at my feet. I clutch my hands. They’re still icy cold and prickling from the rush of warm air.
The waltz is picking up speed. Right about now, Max is telling me he wants more. He’s telling me he loves me.
There’s a weight in the pocket of my parka. It hits against my leg when I walk. Right now, it’s pressing into my thigh. I know what it is. I know without having to be told.
But all the same, I reach into the slick pocket of the long black parka and close my hand around the cold metal of the gun.
My breath is short, my lungs painfully tight.
When my fingers slide over the gun I shiver from the cold.
How did Becca know me? Did she dream when I dreamed? Or is it that Dee or Essie or Maranda told her who I claimed to be that first day I was there? Fiona Abry, British and Swiss citizen. It wouldn’t have been hard for her to find me. Or perhaps Aaron asked her about Fi; Robert asked her about her inconsistent behavior; someone told her about me saying my real name, acting strange.
I don’t know. I can’t say.
I only know that she’s here, on the first anniversary of Aaron’s death, with a gun.
There’s a woman’s tinkling laugh from the study, the soft murmur of Daniel’s voice.
I push away from the wall and hurry down the hallway. As I move down the shadowed hall, I push my blonde hair back and bring up the fur-lined black hood, pulling it tight around my face. I hide my features, burying myself in anonymity.
I remember the bulky black of the coat, the way the shadows of the hood hid the woman’s face. No one knew who she was. No one could make out her features.
I turn right, away from the sitting room, down another stone hallway, toward the ballroom. My heart beats faster and a cold prickle travels down my spine.
As I near the ballroom the music grows louder and I can make out the individual instruments. The arpeggio of the violin, the sweeping crest of the cello, the slow, mournful sigh of the bass. The clatter of champagne glasses, china clinking, and the high laughter of a hundred guests urges me toward the ballroom.
The noise surrounds me and I take on a floating feeling, as if I’m tied to a string and I’m being pulled forward, whether I want to go or not.
At the entry to the chateau there’s a gathering of guests donning furs and wool coats. The clock over the old walnut entry table reads 11:47 p.m.
“Madame?” someone calls.
I ignore them and turn toward the ballroom.
I step into the bright lights. The music swirls around me. It’s beautiful. It truly is.
The Christmas trees line the room, decorated for all the countries where our watches are sold. The scents of fir and cinnamon and allspice swirl through the air. The life-size gingerbread house is coated in glistening frosting. It’s whimsical and sweet, and the giant Abry timepiece, the spun sugar Chronomachen, is ticking down the seconds until Christmas day.
There are dozens of guests still dancing. The colors are bright. The mood is high. There’s Mellisande and Arne. Phillipe too. Vincent. Jean. There’s a tuxedo-clad waiter carrying a silver tray of champagne flutes.
From the ceiling hundreds of hanging snowflakes twirl and swirl, glittering overhead.
I step further into the ballroom, weaving through the crowd. I’m a black shadow moving through the red and green, gold and silver.
My mouth is dry, my heart pounding in an irregular rhythm as a cold sweat drips down the back of my neck.
I stop.
Across the ballroom the spun sugar Chronomachen reads 11:48 p.m.
The minute I was shot.
And there I am.
It’s strange to look across a crowded ballroom at myself. I look different than I imagined. I’m taller, fairer, my hair more fiery auburn than I knew. My deep red dress flairs around me as Max spins me in the waltz. The me from a year ago tilts her head, an urgent line between her brows. Telling Max, “I love you, I always have?—”
But not in the way he wants.
He turns me then, blocking my face from view. He dips his head toward me, the line of his back tight as he asks, “Can you know for certain that I can’t make you happy?”
I take a slow step forward, dodging a waiter, a dancing couple.
It’s strange to find myself here. This is the day it all began. I just didn’t realize it until now.
I was shot and then . . .
Then my mum had the strongest premonition, an irresistible urge, to visit my Uncle Leopold.
Then my Uncle Leopold dangled the watch in front of my mum, making certain she took it.
And then my mum gave me the watch.
And I dreamed.
If I walk away now, if I turn around and stride out the door of the chateau into the cold, bitter night, I’ll never be shot. My mum won’t visit Uncle Leopold. She won’t steal the watch. And I won’t dream. I’ll never meet Aaron, and I’ll never have the chance to go back and save him.
My chance to save the island hangs in this moment.
All I have to do is aim the gun across a crowded ballroom and pull the trigger.
It won’t be hard. My Dad used to take me to shoot clay pigeons. I can aim. I can shoot.
Besides, I’m still not certain if this dream is a shadow of reality or reality itself.
Maybe if I shoot I’m merely replaying something that already happened.
But then again, maybe not.
I can’t know.
I can only know that if I don’t shoot, I might never meet Aaron.
So.
With my limbs heavy, heart pounding, and the blood in my veins throbbing with an urgent rhythm, I pull the gun from the pocket of the parka.
A woman screams. High-pitched and terrified.
The waiter drops the silver tray and all the champagne flutes slide through the air. The golden liquid sprays free, and then the flutes hit the floor and explode in a glass shower.
The orchestra fumbles, cellos slide to silence, and violins screech to a halt. A cymbal ricochets and quiets.
Across the room Max turns toward me. Sees the gun. He clutches the other me, trying to push her behind his back, shield me from myself.
I blink as Mellisande and Arne dive to the side.
My skin runs cold as Phillipe stumbles and slams to the floor.
I falter and feel a thick, halting heartbeat knock against my ribs as Jean’s glass of champagne slips from his fingers and shatters.
I stand there in front of myself. My dress is vibrant and blood-red.
My hand shakes and then steadies.
I’ve always wondered why I was shot.
I’ve always wondered why the woman seemed to know me.
Why she seemed to want me to understand.
Now I know.
The nightmares that haunted me for months? It was me, warning myself.
There’s a sharp screaming, and then I say urgently, desperately, trying to make myself understand, “It’s Christmas Eve. Remember, it’s Christmas Eve.”
Perhaps this time I’ll understand. In the months I’m with Aaron, on the island, I’ll remember this moment and I’ll look up the news. I’ll look up Aaron, I’ll realize he’s real, and I’ll tell them what happens on Christmas Eve.
“Tell them it’s Christmas Eve,” I beg myself.
And then I aim.
And I pull the trigger of the gun.
I sprint through the maze of hallways in the chateau. My breath comes in frantic, panicked bursts. Screams and shouts chase me and a sharp, black panic tugs at the edges of my vision.
My footsteps echo over the stone as I run down a dark back hall. The battery acid of fear coats my mouth and the gun bangs against my thigh with every jarring step.
The darkness of the hall tightens around me as I run deeper into the old stone hall. It leads to the cellars, down, down, deep into the centuries-old storage rooms. I hit the thick wooden door at the end of the hall, not bothering with a light. Instead I grasp the iron handle and yank the door open.
The musty wooden cask and dusty air whooshes out with a heaving sigh. I dive into the dark, tugging the door shut behind me. When it closes, all the sounds of the gala, the shouts and the cries, are cut off like the quick slice of a knife.
I grasp the old wooden rail and sprint down the uneven stone steps. They were carved hundreds of years ago and are weathered and worn. I could run down these steps blindfolded I’ve walked them so often, from age six to now. And so I keep the lights off and descend into the dark.
I don’t want anyone to see the glow of a light from under the cellar door. I don’t want anyone to come looking for me.
I sprinted from the ballroom. And in the shock no one stopped me.
I didn’t wait to see Max dive over the me of last year. I didn’t wait to make sure he pressed his hands to my bleeding abdomen. I didn’t wait to hear him tell me not to be afraid. I know he did. I know he kept me safe until Dr. Gaertner pushed him aside and the ambulance arrived.
I had to run. I had to get away.
I have something I have to do.
I wind through the labyrinth of the cellar until I’ve made it to the center of the caverns underneath the chateau. There, with my heart pounding and the musty, stagnant air heavy and watchful, I pull the chain overhead and turn on the light.
I blink at the buzzing, electric glow and wait for the blue-white sparks to settle. I’m in the storage room where my Dad kept his favorite wines. It’s cold, the walls are carved from the gray stone under the chateau, and the room stays a chilly autumn temperature year-round. There’s water leaking from the stone, bleeding to the floor in a slow drip, drip, drip.
The walls are lined with dark wooden wine crates, stacked six feet high. There are hundreds of bottles. They’re covered in cobwebs and dust, and through the dust the bottles sparkle a dull summer-green in the harsh light. The dust tickles my nose and I sniff at the damp, musty scent. There’s a trace of vinegary wine from a bottle that’s turned.
I sneeze and then flinch at the scattering of claws on the floor and a quick squeak.
Rats then.
I wait for a moment, but the cellar is quiet and still. There’s no noise leaking in from upstairs. No one is at the door.
Still, I have to hurry.
I stride to the center of the room, where a large wooden wine barrel is turned upright. There’s a rusty corkscrew there, a dusty wineglass my dad would use to taste the bottles he opened. He’d come down here when he wanted a break from the world. Next to the glass is a small notebook and a three-inch-long pencil. Its lead is dull, the eraser gone. In the notebook is my dad’s neat, precise handwriting. He left notes on all his bottles—the chateau, the year, his impressions.
My heart gives a sharp pang, and then I tear an empty page from the back of the notebook. And I quickly scrawl a note to myself.
I grip the short pencil in my hand and write:
It’s real. You can change what happens. Save them.
Then I fold the note, take the gun, and thrust them both into the lowest wine crate, behind a bottle of my dad’s favorite wine.
If it’s there when I wake, then I’ll know I was really here.
I plunge the cellar into darkness and?—
Wake up.