Which was odd, because she could never remember having exercised just for the sake of it before. She’d always gotten plenty of walking done each day and that had been fine—right?
She shouldn’t be thinking about herself, anyway. She had to watch Bonnie the way an EOD technician watched a bomb and pray that Damon would figure out what on earth was going on with her friend.
Weirdly, she had an unreasonable impulse to watch Caroline like an EOD tech, as well. Or maybe just like the proverbial hawk. There was something about that girl . . . The word for what Meredith meant seemed to be on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t quite bring it to her lips.
Two syllables, she thought. Starts with W. Or maybe not. She couldn’t think of any word except “wherefore” that started with the right sound and made sense when applied to an eighteen-year-old female. And what did wherefore and a hawk have in common?
* * *
Bonnie’s head hurt. She’d knocked into something very hard during the time she couldn’t remember. And she’d said something so awful that even Meredith didn’t want to repeat it to her. Elena’s face had still been pale when she’d said goodnight.
Bonnie tried to control the fear that roiled inside her. She took slow deep breaths, pretending she didn’t see Meredith watching her covertly.
In, two, three, four; hold, two, three, four; out, two, three, four; hold, two three—gasp!
Bonnie felt Meredith go still at the gasp, but she didn’t explain that she was trying to be calm. She knew Meredith knew that. But neither of them knew what to do.
I am probably going insane right this minute, Bonnie thought, and felt her guts cramp with chill. Schizophrenic? Psychotic? Me? But what else could you call it when you terrified all your friends by saying things that you didn’t even remember?
Meredith was treating her as if she might spontaneously combust at any second. Bonnie could almost imagine that she could hear what Meredith was thinking. It was all about how to soothe her . . . with chamomile tea and a heating blanket and an icepack on the bump on her head. It was so like Meredith, to think that if she just did enough, Bonnie would somehow be fine . . .
And now you’re imagining that you can really hear her! a voice in Bonnie’s mind said sarcastically. You’re already completely nuts, aren’t you?
Bonnie shivered as they reached their room and Meredith opened the door for her. Her head was throbbing and she was very cold inside.
She certainly didn’t want any pizza. Or any tea, for that matter.
* * *
Mrs. Flowers examined the bottom of her teacup earnestly. As her eyes moved, her forehead puckered with concern.
There was one very large clump of tea leaves. That indicated trouble. Had it been near the handle it would have been trouble of her own making; however, the clump was opposite the handle. The trouble might not be her fault, but it was still coming.
Other bits of leaf had joined to form a pattern that looked something like spectacles—no, a mask!
Deception, she thought in dismay. Lies, secrets, and base trickery.
There had been dishonesty already, but this mask was to the right of the handle which she held facing her. It meant more lies in the future. And it was close, meaning that it was coming soon.
Mrs. Flowers sighed and put the cup down as she stared sightlessly into the middle of her kitchen. She wished that dear Mama would be more helpful and that dear Grandmama would do more than snort when she asked for advice. Clearly they felt she had to decipher the first prophecies she had been given before they would vouchsafe more.
She glanced upward, toward the stairs of the boardinghouse that now had not a single boarder. She wondered what Stefan was doing at night, and wished, helplessly, that he might come back here, to a place that had been home to him for a short while.
He would be needed, she thought grimly. Everyone would need to stand together in the days ahead. Of course, that was going to be a bit difficult if no one could even recall who they actually were.
Mrs. Flowers realized that she was getting a headache.
* * *
Damon walked back to Elena’s room with the coverlet rolled like a rug under his arm. He was whistling the waltz from Gounod’s opera Faust—and he was not thinking about his brother.
Elena. Dancing witch-fire in her gold-flecked dark blue eyes. She was waiting for him in Soto Hall. Like Faust’s sweetheart, Marguerite, she was a white soul, a dove, an inspiration.
Or, better still, she was like Helen of Troy in Marlowe’s play Doctor Faustus, Damon thought, remembering the prophecy given by Mrs. Flowers’ dear Mama to Stefan. To Elena, one could quite honestly say:
“O, thou art fairer than the evening air
Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars . . .”