Blood.
Panic rose in my chest. The room spun, the band playing faster and faster until the notes blurred into one continuous cacophony. I looked up, my heart leaping in my throat. Instead of fairy lights, bloody swords hovered in the air above me, their blades hanging over my head. With each thump of the bass, they dropped closer, closer…
“Mina… Mina?”
I woke with a start. Bright sunlight pierced the curtains. A soft hand touched my shoulder. Quoth’s anxious face hovered in front of me. There were no swords, no sinister music, no droplets of blood.
“You were shaking,” he whispered. “I was so worried.”
“I’m fine.” I rubbed my eyes. “It was just a nightmare.”
I sat up. A neon-green light flashed in my eyes. As it faded and I could make out the room, I realized I was in the guys’ room at Baddesley Hall, but no longer in the bed. Instead, I lay on the chaise lounge under the window, my back pressed against Quoth’s chest. Lydia sprawled across the bed like a starfish between Heathcliff and Morrie. Even in slumber, a self-satisfied smile played across her face.
“Lydia rolled over in the night and pushed you off the bed,” Quoth explained. “I believe it was on purpose, but of course I could not confirm. I carried you here. You’ve been whimpering and tossing and turning all night.”
I squeezed his hand. “Thank you for staying with me.”
“Always.” Quoth’s lips brushed mine, his kiss sweet and searching. I pulled him on top of me, my hands exploring his body, searching for comfort in his embrace.
“Do you want to talk about the dream? Edgar Allan Poe placed a lot of emphasis on the prophetic nature of dreams, and so must I.”
“I’m afraid this one is needlessly simple. I was alone in a dark ballroom. I wanted to dance, but if I moved from the spot, it would be too dark and I couldn’t see. There was blood dripping from the ceiling all over me.”
“I think that means you’re afraid of stepping into the unknown, but you know you can’t stay where you are,” Quoth said, his face serious. “It means you should talk to your mother. And look at those pamphlets Dr. Clements gave you. And tell the guys about the fireworks.”
“I think it’s about the fact I saw a man stabbed through the heart with a sword,” I declared.
“Well,Ithink it’s about you running around solving murders so you don’t have to think about your eyesight,” Quoth observed.
I bristled. “That’s not it. WhatIthink is that I want to stop talking about it. And it’s my dream, so I make the rules. What are our plans today?”
“I’m going back to open the shop so we can still pay the mortgage this month. You’re going to stick your nose in where it doesn’t belong.”
“Yes, I know that, but in order to do that to the best of my ability, I need to continue to pretend to be interested in the Jane Austen Experience.”
Quoth picked up the brochure. “As Cynthia said, most of the morning’s events have been canceled. But there’s a pre-breakfast poetry reading organized by some of Professor Hathaway’s graduate students. I thought you might like to attend with me before I head back.”
“I’d love to.” I’d never much been into poetry, but after Morrie had read aloud the erotic work of John Donne the first time we slept together, I discovered a hidden affinity for it. “Should I wake the others and ask them to join us?”
“I told Heathcliff last night and he said, ‘poetry is tough to stomach at any time of day, let alone before I’ve had my kippers’.” Quoth ran a hand through his sleek black hair. “Plus, I thought maybe this was something you and I could enjoy together.”
I smiled. I hated that Quoth had been left out of the weekend’s events,again. It made me think of my dream, how much I’d wanted to dance but wasn’t able to because of my disability. Quoth’s disability always stopped him from doing things he enjoyed, and it wasn’t fair.
Not this morning. Not with me.
I threw on my now-very wrinkled muslin dress, Docs, and a pair of socks featuring titles of banned books (in honor of Mrs. Scarlett, may she rest in peace). Quoth pulled on Morrie’s tights, breeches, and topcoat, and hung his lanyard around his neck. As I predicted, he looked stunning. His black hair spilled down his back like a silken waterfall, and the shiny buttons reflected the flecks of orange fire in his eyes. He held out my arm and I took it.
“To Mansfield Park!” I exclaimed.
Quoth and I descended the staircase together. Our footsteps echoed around the silent Hall. Hardly anyone else was awake yet, although Cynthia’s staff darted across the entrance hall, carrying dishes and trays of food into the breakfast area. If not for the police tape roped across the entrance to the antechamber, there was no sign that anything terrible had happened last night.
Unless you counted the horrible image of Professor Hathaway’s slain body that had etched itself permanently into my brain, that is.
When we arrived at Mansfield Park – a pretty yellow drawing room opposite the marketplace – we found a few other morning birds flittering around. David shuffled back and forth from the front of the room, stopping every few moments to dab at his eyes with a handkerchief. Alice sat in the front row. Her notebook rested open on her knees, and she snapped candid pictures around the room, her right index finger mashing the shutter.
To my surprise, Christina Hathaway sat primly in a chair by herself in the far corner of the room, her eyes fixed on the lectern. I nudged Quoth, and we shuffled down the aisle to sit next to her.
“Hi, Christina. I’m Mina Wilde. We met on Friday. I’m so sorry about your father,” I whispered.
