In the Arms of the Goddess

IN THE ARMS

OF THE GODDESS

C.M. Varley

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 C.M. Varley

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Part One:

From Darkness

Prologue

She could feel him watching, the boy who followed her, hiding behind the scruffy growth on the sand dunes as she made her way toward the beach on the far side. She’d gotten used to the eyes that watched her in the schoolyard at recess, whispering behind their hands and giggling nervously or making the sign of the cross at her as she passed. But out here it annoyed her; this was her place, her space. She would not let them harass her out here.

She stopped and turned, putting her fists on her hips, and stared back at the dune behind her. She was a small girl for thirteen, a petite little fairy of a creature in jean shorts and a halter top, with a long mane of wavy auburn hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. Green eyes that glittered almost eerily now flashed in anger. I know you’re there! she called. Why can’t you leave me alone?! She saw the leaves of a bush behind the dune rustle and raised her voice again, tauntingly. If you don’t leave me alone, I’ll put a curse on you!

You wouldn’t do that. The voice was a warbling lilt, caught up in the transition of adolescence. A boy emerged from behind the dune, a tall, gangly stork of a boy. There was a backpack over one shoulder and a camera slung around his neck.

She recognized him from school. He probably got as much taunting as she did for his gangliness and his unusual height. He was always in a corner of the playground somewhere with that backpack and camera, reading a book. He was right, though, in what he said; she wouldn’t have cursed him. Her mother had brought her up to respect the light, not dwell in the darkness. How do you know I wouldn’t?

He shrugged awkwardly. I read a lot.

You read about witches?

Sometimes.

She adjusted her knapsack on her shoulder. Aren’t you afraid of me? Everyone else is.

He shrugged again and shuffled his bare feet in the sand uncomfortably. You don’t look like a bad witch to me. He’d heard the rumours about her and her mother, but he didn’t look at her like the others did. He thought she was pretty and mysterious, like the wonderful stories of powerful witches from ancient times.

What’s your name? she asked.

Fletcher.

I’m Mia.

I know.

She looked at him strangely, head cocked as if listening. After a long moment she smiled just a little, tentatively. She felt nothing from him; no babble of thoughts came to her like from the others. He was quiet, unreadable, something alien to her.

I’m going to the beach, she said. Do you want to come?

Yeah, all right, he mumbled, his toe digging in the sand.

They started walking through the dunes again, beside each other this time, the little fairy of a girl with the fiery ponytail and the tall stork of an awkward boy. She led him on a long excursion across the duned peninsula, talking about the symbiotic relationship between the plants and the sand, the sky and the earth, the water and the rock. He barely understood but he listened avidly. He marveled at her independence and her complete confidence. She belonged here in a way he would never comprehend.

They splashed through the shallow water along the edge of the beach and Fletcher took pictures of the gulls that swooped and dived above Mia. They hovered and curved their wings to meet the air currents, calling out in their screechy voices as if trying to get her attention. She smiled at their exertions and shook her head. Where sand became smooth pebbles leading to a cove, Mia led Fletcher up a shore path that came out on a grassy ridge above it. Before them were the mouldering ruins of a once-grand old resort, Lakeshore Lodge, now falling apart and groaning with age and decay. She skirted far around it with small, nervous glances and Fletcher followed her, as he would follow her again and again in his life.

The ochre-stuccoed house that she led him to was also abandoned and old, but it was neat and tidy even in its neglect. The lawns around it were cut and the one-and-a-half-story cottage seemed to sit patiently, waiting under the golden-green glow of the sun filtered through the massive oaks and horse chestnuts that rose about it protectively. Mia skipped around the house, laughing.

I’m going to live here someday, she called to him impulsively. I’ll always be close to the beach then. I’ll plant a garden and live with the earth.

He watched her petite figure flitting through the trees and it struck him again how perfectly she fit here: a dryad in the wood, a nymph in the surf.

Chapter One

Dusk descended quickly in the core of the city. It lingered only in the occasional gold-edged shafts that managed to find their way between the tightly knit buildings. Streetlights fizzled into life and shimmered off wet sidewalks and puddles left over from the day’s rain. The maple saplings that lined the streets were ensconced in cement, their slim trunks encased within tall, spiked grills; their newly budding leaves timidly seeking light that came only infrequently. Their drooping limbs dripped upon the roofs of a line of shiny black limousines as the vehicles pulled up outside a back-street art gallery, discharged their passengers and passed on.

Down the street, behind the window of a squalid little bar, a diminutive woman sat, watching the limousines come and go. Slender fingers brought a tumbler of Scotch to her lips and tipped the last of it into her mouth, then rattled the ice cubes in the empty glass over her shoulder.

Another, Mia? A cynical voice came from behind the bar.

Her haggard gaze never left the view outside the window before her. It was her art that all those limos were lining up for, her show. Her last show, although no one was yet aware of it.

And another beer. Her voice was low, husky.

She lit a cigarette with a silver lighter and inhaled deeply. The bartender put the Scotch and a bottle of beer before her. The eyes that glanced up at him and away were harassed, beyond weary. Bud had seen that look often enough to recognize the edge when he saw it and it surprised him not at all to see it in Mia Wilde’s unusual green gaze.

You know I shouldn’t be serving you anymore, he grumbled.

She pushed a hundred-dollar bill across the table at him. Fuck you too, Bud.

She watched the beautiful people stepping out of their limousines in designer dresses and tailored suits. The faces were all familiar. She could almost hear their thoughts from here. It would be bad in there tonight. She gulped at the Scotch and chased it with half the beer, grimacing tightly. The warm glow she’d started on an hour ago became a hot buzz. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad after all. She always thought that after a few, and she was always wrong; it was always bad. But being completely sober would have been unbearable.

The limos slowed to a trickle and she watched Susan Seton make her way up the steps to the gallery. She actually liked Susan. The woman was a rare genuine human being among a social jungle of two-headed lizards. The last of the Scotch slid down her throat and she grimaced again. It was too bad Susan chose to come tonight; Mia would rather have spared her the sordidness to come.

She rose and donned a battered leather coat, pulling waist-length tangles of auburn hair over the collar and nodding to Bud behind the bar as she left. The gallery was full of mingling, murmuring people when she coasted in the door. She met none of the eyes that turned her way. Her agent, Paul, who’d been hovering anxiously by the door, accosted her the moment he saw her.

His arm went through hers and he pulled her rather abruptly to his side. Fashionably late as usual, darling, he whispered at her ear. His nose wrinkled and his eyes narrowed. His whisper turned to a hiss. How long have you been drinking?

Not long enough, she replied, disdainfully eyeing the expectant faces turned toward her.

A passing waiter almost dropped the tray he was carrying as she snatched a glass of champagne from it. She didn’t even notice him.

Get it together, Mia. This is an important night, remember? Michelle and Argen are here. His eyes flickered nervously at her failure to respond. The New York gallery? Ringing any bells? His manicured fingers smoothed the lapels of a Hugo Boss jacket and he smiled delightfully through his terse words as he escorted his small, disheveled charge through the throng. Mia?

She slipped out of his grasp and stalked through the crowd on soft feet, feeling dangerous. She winced occasionally at the barrage of mental babbling that seeped through the alcoholic buzz. The dark-hued canvases on the walls loomed over the room. Arguments in tense, lowered voices broke out among the guests who stood beneath them. The discomfort that the ghastly paintings provoked infected everyone, like a virulent fever. Mia’s lips twisted in a cruel smile. Politely false party laughter tinkled in her wake. Oily smiles slid across her and she shuddered. Great work, Mia. You’ve done it again, Mia. So beautifully disturbing, Mia. Such an unusual gift, Mia. The voices came to her in echoes, an abstraction punctuated in greater definition by the thoughts behind the words: God, she’s a mess . . . Ugliest things I ever saw . . . What a bitch – the least she could do is smile for the amount of money I’m going to shell out tonight . . . She’s going to crash and burn soon . . . Did you hear about the bar fight she was in last week? All the smiling, appreciative faces had duplicitous fangs and talons.

She walked around the edge of the room, looking up at her work. Half of it she didn’t even remember painting. They were ugly and awkward; childish nightmares. Three blue lines on a blank canvas would have fetched a few grand and much authoritative discussion in this crowd. Her name meant money to her now, not talent and certainly not art, as these social vultures thought. The House stopped her and she stared at the canvas. The voices dimmed momentarily and she felt again the vestiges of the recurring nightmare that had inspired the limestone leviathan shrouded in dead vines. Lurid crimson at the broken windows hinted at the fire within. Those dreams had come back with a vengeance in the last year.

She jerked away, nearly upsetting the tray of another waiter. She snatched another glass of champagne and drained it quickly. Every eye in the room followed her movements surreptitiously, like magnets drawn to the North Pole.

Mr. and Mrs. Hoffel were her first targets, being the closest to her. She felt Paul’s relief from across the room as she approached the couple with a predatory smile, hand outstretched. Preening themselves as the first to receive her attentions, they welcomed her, proffering a powdered cheek and a jewel-encrusted hand. Mia spoke in a pleasant manner and watched with vindictive satisfaction as the blood drained from the graceful lady’s face and rose like mercury in her husband’s. The people within eavesdropping distance averted their eyes in shocked embarrassment as the couple listened to Mia tell them casually about their respective sexual encounters with secretaries, airline stewardesses, pool men and groundskeepers. Their lip-clenched silence spoke volumes.

The uncomfortable murmuring of the beautiful assembly began to rise as Mia circulated among them, calmly imparting her knowledge of their most soiled laundry, heedless of all who overheard. Minor detonations exploded behind her as she passed onto the next victim. Mr. Paula learned that everyone knew he was addicted to cocaine and Hans Suter, the president of a major corporation, was warned that the next little boy he buggered would squeal and make a case. She told Susan Seton that her Vice President, who was standing beside her, was embezzling from her and how much. Susan looked at her strangely, speculatively, not with disbelief and sputtering anger as the others had. She’d known about her VP’s deceptions and seemed curious rather than horrified as to how Mia knew. Mia dismissed her and passed on; there was no going back now.

Not many were left untouched. Paul stood in the middle of the room and stared at her, his eyes wide with incredulity as she made her turbulent way to the exit. She poured the last glass of champagne she’d pilfered onto the floor of the foyer and dropped the glass after it. The shattering glass was lost in the chaos of raised voices and fainting women she left behind.

Out in the street she hailed a passing cab and slumped back into its curried darkness, lighting a cigarette. Her fingers shook as she brought it to her lips and a slightly hysterical giggle escaped her. The only thoughts that disturbed her in the silence of the cab were her own and the driver’s, but his were muted, Hindi. Hers were exulting, lurid, sensuous. A rush of sensations tingled through her. The neon signs of the city prickled her skin, pulsated in her brain. A sun, star and moon in a shop-front caught her eye as the cab sat at a stoplight. In the window, among charms and bunches of herbs, was an enlarged Tarot card on bristol board: the Lovers. Man and woman entwined by a vine.

Old instinct turned Mia’s eyes up to the sky but the moon was not to be seen. She’d rarely seen it in the city and had long since lost the habit of looking for it. But she knew what night it was: April 30, May Eve, Beltane. She leaned forward and gave the cab driver another destination. The pull of old traditions meshed with her exultation. Her blood was up.

She shed her leather jacket as soon as she walked into the club, dropping it negligently behind a table. The heat of the crowd and the pulse of the music wrapped her in a blessed mental fog. She moved through the bodies fluidly, hearing nothing of their thoughts and nothing of hers. Her eyes scanned the undulating bodies and she caught sight of him, the one she sought. He sat at a table across the room with a few others, his large frame sprawled casually in a chair that seemed too small for him. Beautiful Ethan. Mia’s pupils dilated. She circled the dance floor slowly, stealthily, her eyes fixed.

Ethan’s head rose suddenly from leaning in to hear a companion’s words and his face turned, his posture erect. His gaze tracked out across the sea of people as if he’d heard his name called and he saw Mia approaching through the crowd. He rose as she reached the table. The open smile that had formed on his lips paused, then slipped away into speculation at the fearsome aura she exuded. The smile returned but it was different now, aware of her hunger. She drew him away from his friends onto the dance floor, and he let himself be led easily. She could feel his expectancy. His thoughts were familiar to her now and she understood them. She knew what he desired and how he desired it; her expectations were the same. It was what had drawn him to Mia to begin with. It was what drew every man to Mia.

His hands slid across her smooth, leathered hips as he caught her slow rhythm and moved with it. She danced sinuously against him, deliberately close. Her long hair coiled around his bare arms and she lifted her small face to his. He leaned into her, drew himself around her and his large fingers rose into the tangled mass of deep red locks. She lunged at his lips hungrily.

Let’s go.

Ethan followed her out of the club without a moment’s hesitation.

***

In the deep darkness before dawn, Mia was in another cab, heading home. The city was particularly bleak at this hour – the only time it was silent with the absence of life. She was sated and as bleak as the empty streets that rolled past the windows. Concrete and glass reflected back at her and blurred. Mascara ran in rivulets down her cheeks. Her soul gnawed at itself, empty as the city; a hollowed shell, an unfertile place.

Crossing the street to the warehouse she lived in, she caught sight of herself in a puddle and splashed through it brutally with booted feet, tripping up onto the sidewalk. The man who sat on the corner, wrapped in a blanket, watched her with black eyes. She felt those eyes, had always felt them when she came and went and they always made her shiver and avert her own gaze. She stopped in front of him and stared. No thoughts came to her from this man. His mental silence was like a scream.

What! she yelled at him. Why do you always stare at me? You never look at anybody else!

The old Native man never averted his gaze, but he shook his head slowly. Go home, Mia, he said quietly. You’ll never find what you’ve lost here.

Mia saw her reflection again in the window above the man and she stared at it, wild-eyed. She looked like a wizened little crone with a wreath of fiery hair. She cut her eyes away abruptly, her shoulders fell and she dropped a handful of change at the man’s feet, then crossed the alley to the door of the warehouse.

Chapter Two

Mia didn’t leave the apartment for a week. She unlocked the elevator only to get food delivered and to let the gallery shippers return all the horrid canvases from the last show, unsold. She paced distractedly around her huge living space, listening as her answering machine spewed out message after message from malice-laden voices that threatened and cursed and filled the warehouse with their disembodied echoes until she ripped both machine and phone from the wall savagely, shattering them to pieces on the floor and screaming at the wreckage.

Then there was silence. There were no thoughts here to invade her mind but her own, and she liked them as little as she liked the constant barrage of a crowd. Where to this time? Nothing seemed appealing to her, but anywhere was better than here. She packed boxes and suitcases, sorting through the last five years of her life in the city. Despair clung to everything with clammy tendrils – despair in the cunning disguise of success.

The ride up the art world elevator had been thrilling. It was easy to soak up the adulation and attention, and she had, whole-heartedly, with full frontal vanity. She knew what these people were like but it hadn’t mattered. What they showed everyone, including her, was that they loved her work and they loved her. She could have anything she wanted and she took it all. It made her sick how easy they were to deceive and manipulate, and she was sick of herself for doing it. Her lifestyle was spiraling downward, even she saw that. She made outrageous amounts of money for her work because it was in vogue and spent it just as outrageously. The Ferrari made her investors shake their heads in chagrin. But the money kept coming back as fast as she could spend it.

Her discontent in the past year had been apparent to no one – no one knew her well enough to know if this was normal for her. Her erratic behaviour was thought artistic. She ordered food at restaurants and wouldn’t touch it when it came, she bought expensive things that collected dust in a corner of her apartment, she disagreed with everything anybody said and approved of the strangest opinions. She’d lie in bed for days, not stirring, not answering the phone, and then show up at a club out of the blue, drink several martinis, disdain everyone who wanted her attention and leave with one of the few men she saw on a regular basis, whichever one happened to be at the club when she arrived. Ethan was her most recent lover.

There’d been a few men she’d slept with on and off while she was in the city. All were extremely physically attractive and fit; they exuded their masculinity but weren’t totally aware of it. She was attracted to certain physical traits in hands, eyes, lips, the curve of a muscular shoulder. Through an artist’s eyes she thought the most beautiful thing on earth next to Nature herself was the shape of a well-made man. The only thing above it was being able to touch and caress the well-made flesh of such men, to feel their taut skin on hers and know how they burned for her when their fingers caressed her cheek. She was addicted to it. They, in turn, were instantly attracted by her physical appearance as well – but it was her aura that captivated them, her elusiveness; she made herself so rare. They were spellbound by her and they loved the chase, of which she was an expert. But they couldn’t hold her attention for long. Her need to be alone, without romantic entanglements, always outweighed her addiction and kept any real relationships from forming. That suited her and it suited the men who shared her bed – if it hadn’t, they wouldn’t be in it. But none were there now, nor would they be. She’d lost her taste for it since the last show and the Beltane debauch with Ethan afterwards.

She was wrapping dishes in newspaper as the sun set three days after that fateful show. The elevator clunked into life, going down. She knew who this was going to be: the only other person who had a key for the warehouse.

Paul stepped out of the lift when it came back up. He didn’t bother to close the doors behind him and his usually expressionless Bay Street face was grimmer than she’d ever seen it. His gaze took in the empty apartment, the boxes beside the elevator, the canvases cluttered on the floor, the map on the wall studded with darts. He rounded on her abruptly. She could feel him seething as she calmly continued wrapping dishes on the island in the kitchen.

Running away, Mia? The calm voice belied the smouldering fire behind his grey eyes. His black mane was slicked back and tied with a leather thong, probably from a cow raised on what used to be a patch of South American rainforest. His shoes were alligator hide and the light spring suit Prada.

I thought it best, she replied tightly.

Of course. Fuck yourself and everyone around you then get the hell out of Dodge, right?

They had it coming, Mia muttered under her breath.

I’m sorry? His tone was scathing, his indignation rising to the surface quickly.

Nothing. She rolled glasses in newspaper tensely. It was easy to provoke his quick temper and she had many times before, deliberately. It was hard to suppress her desire to bait him, hard to back down and she wasn’t sure why she felt she should.

Paul put exasperated hands in the pockets of his trousers and moved impatiently across the apartment away from her. What were you thinking? All those very influential people at your last show, that you know as well as I do, I might add, now think you’re some kind of a witch. I know they’d love to string you up. Their associates are now questioning them about the things you said. There are reputations on the line here, Mia, including mine. Don’t you give a shit? You’ve gotta start calling people, apologizing . . .

No. Her voice was low but cut through his tirade.

No? Why the hell did I introduce you to those people then, huh? Why did I make your career happen when you came here, huh?

I don’t know, Paul, why did you? Mia’s hands stopped wrapping and Paul stopped his meandering path.

I saw a talented young artist a few years ago – do you know what happened to her?

Success in the city. I haven’t painted anything good in over a year and you know it.

Paul shook his head and his eyes scanned the line of canvases propped up against the wall. There were three paintings of The House in various aspects, all bleak and foreboding but they were the ones that stood out from the rest. There’s still talent there, Mia.

Bullshit.

He crossed the room to lean on the island, in her face. His smile was chilly. You realize you’re finished here unless you do something?

That was sort of my point. She met his stare and he turned away, not liking what he saw. If you knew the amount of talking I’ve done for you these last few days . . .

Stop.

Stop what?

Stop speaking for me.

I’m your agent, Mia.

Then cut me loose. Save yourself. I want out. Mia turned abruptly and poured herself a shot from the bottle on the counter, downing it. Say whatever you like, Paul, I surely deserve it and I don’t care. You have to stay here, I don’t.

Paul’s slim frame sank limply onto the edge of a crate, staring at her, resignation on his drawn features. He’d done all he could to salvage the situation, but he’d seen her like this before. She wouldn’t back down. It was time to save his own skin. You did it deliberately, didn’t you?

I didn’t want people bothering me after I left. She poured another shot.

He snorted. No one’s going to seek you out now, honey.

I guess I did the right thing then, eh? The second shot went down.

How did you do it?

She shrugged, reached back to the fridge and grabbed a beer, opening it without offering him one. Do you think I’m a witch, Paul? She looked at him speculatively from across the kitchen.

His silence was apprehensive suddenly. He straightened from the crate awkwardly, shoving his hands in the pockets of his trousers.

She took a drink of her beer slowly, watching him. My mother was a witch. Did I ever tell you that? She cast spells and made potions. She taught me everything she knew.

Paul threw up his hands and stalked around the apartment again. What is it with you anyway? You pull a monumental send-off and you want me to know how you did it?

You asked.

He stopped at the piles of canvases against the wall beside the kitchen and looked up at her, his gaze narrow and defiant. Well?

She put the beer down on the counter and crossed over to him, stopping directly before him. With her eyes on his, she reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket, her fingers coming out holding a small silver locket on a fine chain. An old love gave you that before she went back to Colorado. She thought you didn’t love her anymore.

Paul’s mouth dropped open and his eyes widened. He snatched the locket from her fingers and put it back in its pocket, taking a backward step and bumping into canvases. He stumbled and righted himself, away from her. Jesus. How did you know that?

It’s not magic or witchcraft. Just a glitch in the brain at birth, a crossed wire, a curse. She went back to the kitchen and poured another shot. I see things when I touch them, brush across them, people included. Crowds are unbearable eventually. I can’t do it anymore, Paul.

He straightened his tie, recovering himself. Then you should’ve left before. You didn’t have to do this. He turned away from her and headed for the elevator.

Paul?

He turned inside the car and pulled the doors closed.

She thinks about you still, you know. The one from Colorado.

The bitterness and hatred for her in his eyes as he disappeared from view was familiar. They didn’t want to know and they hated her for knowing, as they feared what she could do. They hated her for telling them something they’d always wondered about but didn’t really want to find out. The relish with which she told people their own secrets was a bitter taste in her mouth now. The animosity she’d generated was beginning to turn her stomach.

***

By the end of the week everything she owned was in boxes and she sat on the floor, despondently staring out the windows at the blank face of the grey building across the street. Streetcars clattered by below, car horns blared and sirens pierced the din from far and near. She longed for something that had become almost unknown to her now: silence, open space, sunlight, the sky, the earth beneath her feet. These things had all been part of a childhood that seemed like another life to her now – a life entwined with the elements and the seasons, in a place that embodied them in all their splendour. It was an idyllic place to grow up, not meant to survive the harsh realities of adulthood and the loss of faith.

A splinter of sunlight escaped the smoggy cloud cover above the city and spilt through the window where Mia sat, embracing her in a pool of bright gold. Her breath caught and she inhaled deeply, smelling the promise of heat on a spring wind. The cry of seagulls came on that wind and the steady whoosh of waves climbing rocks and sand.

The great sliding panel of wall at the far end of the warehouse was stuck from disuse. A little oil on the wheels sent it creaking aside, revealing a dark, low room filled with musty boxes and furniture. The air was old and stale. Mia hadn’t opened this door since closing it five years ago on her dead mother’s belongings. It was quiet back here. The constant noise of the city was muted in the dimness. Mia’s fingers traced through the dust along the wood-carved back of an antique tapestried settee and left a line across the face of the grandfather clock. Her mother, Jade, was everywhere here. The faded fragrance of mingled herbs lingered even in the dust. Mia curled, fetally, into the arms of a petit-point chair and felt the past hovering around her like unquiet spirits longing for life. All that came to her was the detached memory of Jade’s death. Holding her mother’s hand as she gasped her last breaths, she had caught the images of a father she’d never known; nostalgic and pitiable memories of his kiss, the mole at the bottom of his cheek and the yellow-flecked eyes of green that she’d inherited. Then they were gone; Jade was gone. Despite how much they’d grown apart in the ten years before her death, Mia felt a sudden emptiness now at her absence; an emptiness she’d never felt before.

Mia closed her eyes and tried to clear her mind. She sought a focus that she remembered from childhood; a focus that brought her strange power under control. She used to be able to do it without thinking, but now it eluded her completely. She heard the muted streetcars, the tires on pavement, the sirens and she rose and closed the door on Jade’s things. There was no mystical control, only strength of will, as she’d learned over the years. The earth and the sky could not help her.

She shucked shorts and T-shirt and stood before the wall of windows at the back of the loft in tank top and panties. The street below was quieter now, the streetcars stopped for the night. The streetlamps cast a hazy glow against the buildings around her and a low spring fog had descended heavily. The city never really got dark. Her eyes focused on her faint reflection in the glass and saw through the wavy auburn locks tangled around her shoulders and the slightness of her figure; it was like she wasn’t even there.

In the mail the following day, an envelope bearing the letterhead of a prominent Toronto lawyer stood out amid the flyers and cancellation notices from art galleries. Images of unprecedented law suits flashed through her mind as she opened the envelope on the way up in the elevator. She unfolded the single-page letter and stood at the island in the kitchen, reading. It inquired, very cordially, in very few lines, whether she was available for a commission of an indefinite time frame. The commission would involve as many paintings and drawings as she cared to do of the interior and exterior of the Keiller House in Picton; the new owner indicated that she would know of it. Recently come into possession of the Keiller family property through inheritance, he was of a mind to have some views of the house on canvas. The name of the lawyer to contact was at the bottom of the page: Neils Jackman.

The thick parchment shook and her tightening fingers crumpled the edge. She laughed harshly, shaking her head. Coincidences followed Mia the way bad luck followed some people. She didn’t believe in coincidences or luck, good or bad. The paintings of the house from her dreams fell under her eye as she turned to them speculatively, letter still in hand. Subconscious precognitive awareness didn’t faze her, but it had been a part of her life for too long for her to be dismissive of it. The connection was obvious. She needed a place to go, a way out, and one was being provided for her. Her curiosity was aroused and the despondency faded slightly. Her eyes narrowed, their unusual inner green iridescence glittering eerily. That house, always that house; in her dreams and nightmares, haunting her with darkness and fire.

***

The interview with the lawyer didn’t enlighten her much on the details of the commission, nor the name of the new owner of the property. She was given to understand that he was overseas at the moment and would not arrive back for another month at least, the beginning of June, and preferred to wait until then to make himself known to her. However, in the meantime, she could move in at her leisure; there was an apartment prepared for her and Neils would show her around and give her a set of keys. She should feel free to explore the house and grounds with an eye for good views to paint, until his return when he’d provide more details.

Neils Jackman was a small man, very neat with short, short, blond hair, a cherubic little face and huge blue eyes. Like all the lawyers she’d met, his thoughts were completely guarded to her. He talked almost incessantly from the moment she arrived till the moment she left but never actually answered any of her few questions. Instead he made many well-mannered insinuations about her new, unfortunate status in the art world and how fortunate she was to receive a commission like this. Mia gritted her teeth against her natural inclination to put the little man in his place. She had no intention of doing anything artistic in Picton and she kept her mouth shut. She knew she’d get no more information on the owner and how he knew her unless Neils was told to divulge it by his employer, so wasted no effort trying to find out. Just to be away from here was all that mattered to her right now.

Chapter Three

Twelve thousand five, going once . . . twice . . . There was a pause before the gavel came down with a solid thud. Sold to Mr. Griffen for twelve thousand, five hundred dollars.

A tall man excused his way across his row of seated bidders and made for the back desk, reaching into his suit jacket for his cheque book. The painting he had just bought was removed from the easel on the stage and replaced with another. His large, rough hands pushed wayward, fair locks back over a high forehead in a familiar gesture as he leaned over the desk to write out

the cheque.

Thank you, Mr. Griffen. The clerk seated behind the desk accepted the cheque with a flourish.

It’ll be delivered to the house today? The rumbling baritone of his voice was gruff but not unfriendly.

By five at the latest, sir.

He turned away and tucked his cheque book back into the inside pocket of his jacket. On his way out, he eased the tie-ridden collar away from his neck with a thick finger and a grimace.

Fletcher?

He turned in reaction to the sound of his name and watched a thin man with a long ponytail of straight, black, shiny hair approaching him. The man smiled and the deeply bronzed skin of his face creased amiably around jet-black eyes. There was a familiarity there but he couldn’t place the memory.

The man stopped in front of him with hand outstretched. You’re struggling for a name, I know.

Fletcher smiled uncertainly and took the proffered hand. Recognition dawned suddenly and his sea-blue eyes lit up from within. His gruff, unshaven demeanor was transformed into beautiful, boyish delight. Mr. Skyler? He shook the hand firmly now, warmly. His fingers reached nearly all the way around the older man’s smaller-boned grasp.

None other. He withdrew his hand with a smiling wince. Although I suppose you ought to call me Gordon now. I’m not your teacher anymore, after all.

And I’m not a kid anymore, I guess.

A couple heading for the door excused themselves around Fletcher and Gordon and they stepped aside from the entrance, murmuring apologies for blocking the door. They faced each other again.

I heard about your recent good fortune, Gordon said.