flames across the oriental carpet, a warning to Cassie that something was terribly wrong. Her mother never pulled open the curtains that faced the sea, much less opened the window to admit the roar of the surf . . . and the Chill.
But tonight the window was open. Tonight, after so many years of being locked out of the room, the surf growled like an intruder.
'Mother?'
She was lying naked on the four-poster bed, a white sheet pulled tightly over her, her hair spread out on the pillow, deep as the night sea. Cassie scanned the room for a trace of movement in the shadows.
'I heard screaming.'
Ann's face glistened with sweat, and she lay so still that Cassie feared she must be dead.
'Mom?'
In her haste to reach her, Cassie bumped into the dressing table, knocking a hairbrush to the floor. The way her mother's eyes snapped open at the sound told Cassie that she had only been pretending to sleep.
'What are you doing?' Ann sat up quickly, the glint of the knifeblade reflected in her eyes.
Cassie lowered the knife, but didn't let go of it. 'I heard voices.'
Voices?' The parental tone made Cassie feel childish to be holding the knife, childish to have barged in at all. 'You didn't hear anything.'
Cassie didn't believe her - she had heard something - but she let her mother take the knife from her and lay it on the bedstand.
'Cassie . . .' The anger in Ann's voice vanished mysteriously and was replaced by an emotion that Cassie found harder to identify, a tenderness mingled with . . . 'You'd better get to bed, honey.' She beckoned for Cassie to hand her the quilted bathrobe at the foot of the bed, and slipped it on, stifling a shiver. It struck Cassie that she hadn't seen her mother naked since she was a child, not since before that night on the Pandora. Ann had gone to great lengths to hide the scars from the burns, as if she felt that the Chill -the other scar from that night - had caused her daughter enough pain.
Ann seemed surprised that the window was open and stood up to close it. Even at forty, even after what the tragedy on the Pandora had done to her, she still carried herself like a dancer, Cassie thought as she watched her glide towards the window in a single smooth movement. Before Ann pulled the curtain shut, Cassie glanced around the room. In the moonlight she could make out the emerald-green curve of a wine bottle on the bedstand.
So that was it, Cassie thought sadly: the screams . . . the curses . . . her mother had been shouting out in lonely, drunken rage at the darkness. If only she hadn't forgotten about dinner, Cassie thought ... if only she hadn't snuck out with Todd, her mother wouldn't have taken the bottle up to her room, and all the strar.ge and terrifying anger wouldn't have spewed out.
it's late. Go to bed,' Ann said.
Cassie hesitated, i love you.' It was what her mother had always said to her at bedtime. Why did Cassie feel compelled to say it tonight?
Ann reached out and embraced her, held her so tightly that Cassie could feel her breath against her hair - no words, but a gentle rush of air that spoke to her. Her mother was clutching her, she thought, the way a frightened child clutches a doll. On her breath, Cassie expected to smell the sweet, familiar bouquet of wine. It would have explained everything.
But there was no hint of it. The wine bottle on the bedstand . . . Cassie took a good look at it: it was full.
Ann released her with a wisp of a smile. 'Sleep tight.'
Reluctantly, Cassie let go, and left the room. But as she started down the stairs, she felt a queasiness in the pit of her stomach, and looked back over her shoulder. Her mother had picked up the silver hairbrush that had been knocked off the dressing table, the Art Nouveau antique that had been her grandmother's. She brushed her hair in fitful strokes, her long black tresses crackling with electricity, sparks cutting blue question marks in the dark.
Chapter 2
Cassie could force what had happened last night out of her
But tonight the window was open. Tonight, after so many years of being locked out of the room, the surf growled like an intruder.
'Mother?'
She was lying naked on the four-poster bed, a white sheet pulled tightly over her, her hair spread out on the pillow, deep as the night sea. Cassie scanned the room for a trace of movement in the shadows.
'I heard screaming.'
Ann's face glistened with sweat, and she lay so still that Cassie feared she must be dead.
'Mom?'
In her haste to reach her, Cassie bumped into the dressing table, knocking a hairbrush to the floor. The way her mother's eyes snapped open at the sound told Cassie that she had only been pretending to sleep.
'What are you doing?' Ann sat up quickly, the glint of the knifeblade reflected in her eyes.
Cassie lowered the knife, but didn't let go of it. 'I heard voices.'
Voices?' The parental tone made Cassie feel childish to be holding the knife, childish to have barged in at all. 'You didn't hear anything.'
Cassie didn't believe her - she had heard something - but she let her mother take the knife from her and lay it on the bedstand.
'Cassie . . .' The anger in Ann's voice vanished mysteriously and was replaced by an emotion that Cassie found harder to identify, a tenderness mingled with . . . 'You'd better get to bed, honey.' She beckoned for Cassie to hand her the quilted bathrobe at the foot of the bed, and slipped it on, stifling a shiver. It struck Cassie that she hadn't seen her mother naked since she was a child, not since before that night on the Pandora. Ann had gone to great lengths to hide the scars from the burns, as if she felt that the Chill -the other scar from that night - had caused her daughter enough pain.
Ann seemed surprised that the window was open and stood up to close it. Even at forty, even after what the tragedy on the Pandora had done to her, she still carried herself like a dancer, Cassie thought as she watched her glide towards the window in a single smooth movement. Before Ann pulled the curtain shut, Cassie glanced around the room. In the moonlight she could make out the emerald-green curve of a wine bottle on the bedstand.
So that was it, Cassie thought sadly: the screams . . . the curses . . . her mother had been shouting out in lonely, drunken rage at the darkness. If only she hadn't forgotten about dinner, Cassie thought ... if only she hadn't snuck out with Todd, her mother wouldn't have taken the bottle up to her room, and all the strar.ge and terrifying anger wouldn't have spewed out.
it's late. Go to bed,' Ann said.
Cassie hesitated, i love you.' It was what her mother had always said to her at bedtime. Why did Cassie feel compelled to say it tonight?
Ann reached out and embraced her, held her so tightly that Cassie could feel her breath against her hair - no words, but a gentle rush of air that spoke to her. Her mother was clutching her, she thought, the way a frightened child clutches a doll. On her breath, Cassie expected to smell the sweet, familiar bouquet of wine. It would have explained everything.
But there was no hint of it. The wine bottle on the bedstand . . . Cassie took a good look at it: it was full.
Ann released her with a wisp of a smile. 'Sleep tight.'
Reluctantly, Cassie let go, and left the room. But as she started down the stairs, she felt a queasiness in the pit of her stomach, and looked back over her shoulder. Her mother had picked up the silver hairbrush that had been knocked off the dressing table, the Art Nouveau antique that had been her grandmother's. She brushed her hair in fitful strokes, her long black tresses crackling with electricity, sparks cutting blue question marks in the dark.
Chapter 2
Cassie could force what had happened last night out of her
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