CHAPTER NINE

Isabella's POV

I suddenly woke up on the floor beside my bed, screaming.

The scream filled the dark room and kept going after my eyes opened. My mouth tasted of copper. Of blood.

I clapped a hand over my lips and the sound stopped.

My own breathing was fast and ragged. I looked  around, noting the carpet under my palms and the pale glow of the balcony doors.

Not marble. Not Marble. Carpet.

Thank God!

I ran my tongue over my teeth, my lips, the inside of my cheeks. There was no cut. No blood. My mouth was fine.

The taste belonged to another life.

In the dream, I had been on the staircase at Linden Street again. Adrian's hands around my throat. The banister cold against my spine. Then there was nothing under my feet. There was the long fall, and the crack of my skull against the bottom step.

Four nights had passed since the dinner at my parents' house. Four nights of lying awake, waiting for the dream to come back.

Tonight the dream had finally come.

I drew my knees to my chest and pressed my back against the side of the bed.

A knock sounded on my door.

“Isabella.”

It was Nathaniel.

His voice came again. “I'm coming in unless you tell me not to.”

I opened my mouth but nothing came out. I couldn't even think of what to say. 

A second later, the door opened. Light from the corridor fell across the carpet, then his shadow, then Nathaniel himself. He was wearing a grey T-shirt and dark sweatpants. His feet were bare. His hair stood up on one side, as though he had been dragging his hand through his hair for hours.

I looked at him, still not knowing what to say. 

He did not turn on the lamp.

He looked at the empty bed first. Then he looked down and found me on the floor.

For a moment, he did not move.

Then he crossed the room slowly and sat down on the carpet. He was not beside me. He was a few feet away, with his back against the wall under the window. Close enough to reach. Far enough to leave me room.

He said nothing.

He did not ask what I had dreamed. He did not ask why I was on the floor. He did not tell me everything was fine.

He just  sat there in the dark and waited.

I listened for his thoughts.

Silence as always.

At my parents' house, in the car, on the staircase, his silence had frightened me. He was a locked door. A man I had no way to read.

Tonight, for the first time, the silence felt safe.

Every other mind I knew was full of noise. Wanting. Judging. Planning. His gave me nothing to fear, because his gave me nothing at all.

My hand moved before I decided to move. I reached across the carpet and caught the sleeve of his T-shirt between two fingers.

He looked down at my hand. Then, carefully, he laid his own hand over mine. His hands were warm. Steady. He did not pull me closer.

We sat in silence for a long time.

“Tea,” he said at last.

A shaky laugh escaped me. “Tea?”

“My mother believes chamomile cures everything.” He stood and stretched his back. “I've never seen any proof. But the kitchen is warm, and the walk gives you two minutes without me staring at you.”

He was gone before I answered him. 

I sat alone on the floor and found, to my surprise, I did not want two minutes without him.

He came back with two mugs and a plate of shortbread balanced on top of one of them. He handed me a mug, sat down against the wall again, and set the plate on the carpet between us.

The tea was too hot and too sweet. I drank every drop.

“Better?” he asked.

“Better.”

He nodded and asked nothing else.

So I asked instead.

“What were you doing awake at three in the morning?”

“Reading.”

“Reading what?”

“A quarterly report from our Chicago office.” He paused. “Gripping stuff. The finance director uses a lot of exclamation marks.”

I laughed in response and the sound surprised both of us.

After the tea, we talked about just any thing. Small, safe things.

Like the gardens below my balcony, which belonged to his mother. She spoke to her roses every morning, he said, and she gave the yellow ones names.

“What names?”

“The tall one is Margaret.” He sipped his tea. “Not after your mother. After our cook.”

“Why name a rose after the cook?”

“Because the rose has thorns, and Margaret once threw a pan at my father.”

“And she still works here?”

“She makes the best soup in Westbridge. My father also ducked so it's all good.”

I covered my mouth with my hand and laughed until my eyes watered.

Then I asked about music.

He went quiet then.

“Nathaniel?”

“Eighties power ballads,” he admitted.

I stared at him with amused horror. “No.”

“Loud ones. With headphones while I read reports.”

“The chairman of Blackwood Holdings listens to power ballads.”

“If you tell the board, I'll deny everything.”

“And how much do you sleep?”

“Four hours. Most nights.”

“Four hours isn't enough for anyone.”

“Four is plenty.” He shrugged. “Five makes me lazy.” He turned his mug in his hands. “Your turn. What keeps you awake?”

The question was gentle. The true answer was a staircase in a house I had not yet seen in this life. But I couldn't say that. 

“Numbers,” I said after a moment. “I count things when sleep won't come.”

“What things?”

“Ceiling tiles. Stairs. Interest rates.”

Something moved behind his eyes at the second word. He did not ask about the stairs.

“Interest rates,” he repeated as the corner of his mouth lifted. “And people call me boring.”

The sky beyond the balcony doors turned from black to dark blue. My mug went cold in my hands and my head grew heavy.

At some point, I moved closer to the wall. At some point, his shoulder was under my cheek, and the soft cotton of his T-shirt smelled of soap and paper and sleep.

The last thing I remembered was the first grey light over his mother's roses.

***

When I opened my eyes, sunlight filled the room.

I was still on the floor. Someone had pulled the throw from the end of my bed and tucked the blanket around my shoulders. My cheek still rested on Nathaniel's shoulder.

He was awake. He sat straight, his head back against the wall, his eyes on the ceiling.

I lifted my head. “What's the time?”

“Ten to seven.”

I counted backwards. The last time I had seen the clock, the numbers had said a quarter to five.

“You sat here for two hours?” I asked in shock.

“You were asleep.”

“Your neck must be killing you.”

“My neck has survived worse.” He rose stiffly, rolled one shoulder, and winced. Then he held out his hand and pulled me to my feet. “Breakfast is at seven forty. My father counts the minutes. So be quick.”

He let go of my hand at the door.

“Nathaniel,” I said softly. 

He turned.

“Thank you.”

He looked at me for a moment, as though he wanted to say something. Then he only nodded and closed the door behind him.

***

II showered and dressed in one of the new blouses from the Galleria. Before I left my room, I opened the top drawer of the dressing table and took out my grandmother's necklace.

The emerald had stayed in the drawer since I moved in. I had been afraid to wear the pendant in a house full of strangers.

This morning, after the dream, I needed her close.

The gold chain settled cool against my collarbone.

Downstairs, Richard Blackwood sat at the head of the breakfast table behind a newspaper. Eleanor poured tea. Nathaniel came in a minute after me, showered and shaved, in a dark suit, looking as though he had slept ten hours.

“Good morning, Mr. Blackwood,” I said.

Richard Blackwood lowered the newspaper and peered at me over his reading glasses.

“Isabella, one Richard in your life is plenty. Your father already has the name. Call me whatever you like. Richard. Sir. Old man.”

I smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Blackwood.”

He sighed and raised the newspaper again. “Stubborn. Good.”

Eleanor set a cup of tea in front of me. Her thoughts drifted across the table.

Both of them look as though they never slept. Good heavens. Should I ask the kitchen for more coffee? No. Say nothing, Eleanor. Say nothing at all.

I kept my eyes on my teacup and my face still.

Then Eleanor went still too.

The teapot hung in her hand above Nathaniel's cup. She was staring at my throat. Across the table, Nathaniel followed her gaze to the pendant, then looked at his mother's face.

“Isabella,” she said quietly. “Where did you get the emerald?”

My fingers rose to the pendant.

“My grandmother gave the necklace to me on my eighteenth birthday.”

Eleanor set the teapot down slowly.

“Adelaide Whitmore,” she said softly.

I stared at her. “You knew her?”

“A long time ago.”

She smiled but her hand on the teapot was trembling.

Then her thought reached me.

Adelaide's emerald. Oh goodness! Richard Whitmore tore the whole house apart looking for this necklace after the funeral.