The Dollhouse Romance Read online

  The

  DOLLHOUSE

  ROMANCE

  EMILY ASAD

  Other Novels by Emily Asad:

  Survival in Style

  Destination: Paraguay

  Code Name: Whatever

  The Juggler’s Journey

  The Jester of Corona

  The Forbidden Briefcase Trilogy

  Copyright © 2016 Emily Asad. 1st Edition.

  www.emilyasad.com

  Cover Photo © Martha Boers. “Love Across Time.” 2015. Website: Antique Lilac, www.antiquelilac.com

  All rights reserved.

  Printed by CreateSpace. Available for order from Amazon.com, CreateSpace.com, and other retailers

  ISBN-13: 978-1533130921

  ISBN-10: 1533130922

  For TOM STAHL and ZOE HAUSER,

  fellow sufferers on the journey to perfection

  SPECIAL THANKS TO:

  My 2015-2016 Creative Writing Lunch Bunch and other tale-spinners at Orange Grove Middle Magnet School:

  Kaylee Allen, Paige Allen, Hermani Barnes, Ava Barrera, Emily Bernstein, Madeline Blackburn, Maria Bondarenko, Alyssa Brown, Rebeca Braukman, Skyler Dallas, Rayeshonda Fitzgerald, Shaheed Foster, Ashley Horan, Sheila Jean, Lydia Jurman, Isabellarose Lamb, Eli Lopez, Cassidy Palmer, Annabelle Pattison, Liyana Postles, Rachel Prophete, Anthony Ralston, Evelyn Rocha, Abi Rodriguez, Katie Short, Viviana Soto, Anita Sriwaree, Noah Stepp, Samantha Stites, Imari Williams, Mekhi Wallace, Maddy Ward, and Isabella Zelaya...

  ...and especially to Shannan Adams, who already writes like a grownup, Clastel Patrick for saying my little story was “creepy cool,” and to Olivia Cox, whose puppy stories will forever have the power to make me smile. Kayla Crain, thanks for not letting me give up. Alissa Spradlin, thanks for all that dark chocolate to nourish my muse! Alexa Verschuere, you’re the best TA ever

  To my colleagues who listened to my endless drama without complaint: Julian Rivera, Amy Pardo, David Phillips (you complained in your heart, admit it), Michael Culver, Vivian Lázaro, Katrina Washington, and Lisa Edelstein.

  Sarena Castorino, you’re my personal godfairy – thanks for keeping secrets!

  And to my insightful, precise, super-talented beta readers (any plot errors that remain are completely my own): Tom Stahl, Zoe Hauser, Callie Bates and Lynne Hanson - your encouragement means far, far more than you can possibly guess.

  Finally, to Patricia Crumpler, for a keen editing eye and high standards, and for making me rewrite on the micro level. Ugh, that hurt so good!

  CONTENTS

  1

  Sparkle Vision

  1

  2

  Lovely Graveyard

  6

  3

  Not Haunted

  15

  4

  Buzzed

  22

  5

  Complicated

  30

  6

  Expected

  41

  7

  Doll People

  45

  8

  Missing

  55

  9

  Comatose

  61

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  35

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  Circus Freak

  Belonging

  Mangled Charm

  Alexis?

  Skill for Skill

  Modern Architect

  Barriers

  Finances

  Time

  Soothed

  Apology

  Desperation

  Switching

  Mid-Terms

  Phoebe

  Artemics

  Foundations

  Tricks and Treats

  Caught

  Evergreen

  Tiny Housing

  Stiff Reunion

  Developing

  Stunted

  Black Friday

  Alone Time

  Surgery

  Torment

  Unspoken

  Hesitation

  Stronger than Logic

  Whitman

  71

  79

  85

  98

  102

  111

  118

  127

  131

  140

  145

  154

  158

  168

  179

  184

  193

  199

  209

  217

  223

  230

  235

  242

  252

  257

  263

  268

  273

  282

  291

  300

  Dear Reader,

  To fully enjoy this story, you must try to solve the following riddle. Good luck…

  The Lumberjack’s Dilemma

  A lumberjack in Northern Minnesota must take his goods into town to sell at the market. He has a fat loon, a bag of wild rice, and a live timber wolf cub. He must row across the river, but the boat is only large enough to hold the lumberjack and one of his items (the timber wolf, the loon, or the wild rice). If he leaves them together, the timber wolf will eat the loon, or the loon will eat the wild rice. How does the lumberjack get himself and all his goods safely to the other side of the river?

  Tiny House Plan: “The Suitcase”

  CHAPTER ONE:

  SPARKLE VISION

  My scalp prickles when the housekeeper opens the door to the Alexis Akakios suite. Of course it’s not haunted. I don’t believe in that. But rumors tend to be based in truth. Something awful must have happened here at the mansion for real, or rumors wouldn’t still linger in my high school a century later.

  “…come check on you,” the housekeeper is saying. “Zenia, are you listening?”

  I nod and force my eyes to open. Beyond the door, a dainty corner fireplace crackles its orange welcome, spitting the fresh scent of pine logs into the air. A fire in August is unusual, even for northern Minnesota, but not grounds for superstition. Still, cold air leaks into the hallway where I’m standing. What a waste of electricity. “Why don’t you just turn off the air conditioning?” I suggest.

  “It’s always like this. Coldest room in the house.” She gestures for me to enter, so I must.

  Nothing about it suggests murder or ghosts. Lacy white curtains dangle in the bay window. Cheerful splotches of crimson play against buttercup-yellow walls and cushions. Of all the places most likely to be designed by a fairy, this one could win the award.

  I don’t belong here. Not because I’m afraid the ghost of Alexis Akakios will snatch my body, but because I’m going to be a poor substitute for my mother while she’s serving her two-week tour for the Navy Reserves. She’s a real pastry chef. I’m just her assistant.

  “See you in an hour, then.” The housekeeper pulls the door closed behind me.

  I’m left in the room alone.

  May as well get settled.

  I sling my suitcase and backpack onto the four-poster bed. An immediate avalanche shakes the mountain of pillows. One falls to the floor. When I pick it up, a tassel tangles itself around my hand like vine
s creeping their way up a wall.

  A ring emerges from inside the tassel and slides itself around my finger.

  Ice-cold electricity shoots through my arm. The tassel snaps. Green sparkles flash everywhere. My scream fills the room.

  Maybe my new classmates have been telling the truth, after all. Maybe their gossip hasn’t been some misguided hazing ritual to freak out the new kid. Maybe there’s a reason this room is so cold…

  Knock it off, Zenia. Get a grip. Think.

  None of the rumors mentioned a ring. They only say this bedroom is the last known location of Alexis Akakios, a young woman who disappeared in the 1940’s. She wasn’t the first victim. Fifty years earlier in the 1890’s, the founder’s wife also got murdered and buried in the center of the evergreen maze in the mansion’s back yard. My new classmates insist Ambassador Akakios, the mansion’s current owner, has forbidden anyone under the age of twenty from setting foot through his gates. It’s his way of preventing Alexis from taking on a new body and seeking revenge.

  Or so they say.

  As winner of last year’s science fair, I take pride in logical conclusions. Obviously, ghosts don’t exist. Until two minutes ago, I believed that with all my heart.

  Now I’m not so sure. The ring won’t come off.

  My scream brings the housekeeper, Amelia, back into the bedroom. “Zenia? You okay?”

  I’ve only known her for about eight minutes, but I can already tell her scowl is permanent. I need this job. I can’t risk bad impressions. First instinct: hide my guilty hand behind my back. Second instinct: lie. “Sorry. Thought I saw a mouse.”

  “A mouse?” Her scowl deepens – that woman’s going to develop forehead wrinkles before she turns forty – and her gaze darts to every corner. “Impossible.” She spits the word as if I’ve just insulted her impeccable housekeeping abilities. Still, she continues to scan the room. “Where did it go?”

  “No idea.”

  “I’ll set traps tomorrow.” She clucks her tongue when she sees the fallen pillow, then scoops it up off the floor and places it back with the rest.

  “Sorry.” What a place to mess up! This mansion is a high-class resort. So much for making a good first impression.

  The ring refuses to come off. My shoulders jerk as I tug. Every time I work it toward my first knuckle, it scoots back toward the base of my finger. My waist-length hair gets tangled in it, tilting my chin up at an awkward angle.

  Amelia gawks at me. “What are you doing?”

  I force a smile and hold still. “Uh… It’s called ‘at ease,’ a position of respect when you’re speaking to a superior. Isn’t the Ambassador a retired military officer?”

  “That’s nice. And he was. But we don’t follow that sort of order here, just the rules I already explained. You’re what, a sophomore in high school?”

  “Junior. I’m seventeen.”

  She leans in close to me. “Your mother assured me we could trust you. Was she wrong?”

  My reply gets stuck in my throat. Around her medallion, green sparkles buzz like flies around a puddle of honey. It didn’t glow like that five minutes ago when she brought me here.

  She repeats herself. “Was she wrong?”

  “No, ma’am.” I force myself to get a grip on my chaotic emotions. “I won’t let you down again. This job means a lot to Mamá.”

  “Good. Try to get settled, then.”

  If only my nerves would settle! As soon as she closes the door behind her, I bring out my trembling hand so I can get a good look at the invader on my finger.

  I’ve heard of rose-gold, which has a reddish tone. This ring, however, is blood red.

  Blood-gold.

  A single rose pops up from the band, its petals so lifelike they seem to flutter in an invisible breeze. The band is braided in a rope theme with knots that repeat in a pattern. Green sparkles seem to escape the ring in the shape of leaves.

  It would be pretty if it weren’t so creepy. There must be a way to get it off.

  I twist and pull, but it refuses to cooperate. Worse, it seems happy to be back on someone’s finger. Happy, like it’s aware of me. Magic? Not possible. Yet…

  Work the problem, Zenia. Don’t freak out.

  There must be an explanation somewhere. If only life were as logical as my riddle books! I love puzzles. They’re meant to be solved. It’s why I do so well in chemistry and calculus, and probably why I don’t get along so well with people. Human behavior baffles me. I thought things would get easier now that we’ve left Minneapolis three months ago, but I just finished the first week of school and I’m still friendless. Maybe it’s because I’m so good at hiding behind my curtain of hair. Maybe it’s because all the other kids have been together since kindergarten. I might not be able to crack into their inner circles, but I bet I can figure out what’s activating this ring. If only it would stop electrocuting my veins long enough for me to think straight.

  My heartbeat calms to a more acceptable pace. The ice-cold sensation subsides in diminishing pulses. Green sparkles remain on my ring, though, while pink sparkles swarm in clusters around the rest of the room.

  Great. Now I’m seeing pink sparkles, too.

  Am I getting sick? Going crazy? Losing my sight?

  My gaze jerks around the room in quick strokes, frantic to find the pattern. No sparkles around the porcelain basin or water pitcher on the vanity. None near the window, either, or the bed. So no porcelain, wood, or fabric.

  I tiptoe over to the vanity, afraid to disrupt the busy pink patches swirling around the room. Pink sparkles cover all the bobby pins and aluminum perfume bottles. They’re on the nail clippers, too. Metal then? It’s not much, but the clue is consistent.

  The only green glitter comes from my ring. Everywhere else is pink. Then there’s the mirror. It’s mixed. Green and pink sparkles hover around the mirror, over it, in it, as if they’ve infused the very silver lining itself. Silver’s metal. Hooray - a pattern.

  Wary, I sink into the vanity’s low bench. My arm brushes the base of a pewter powder box. Pink sparkles flare. I snatch my arm back as they ripple toward me.

  Shuddering, I glance down at the ring.

  I don’t believe in ghosts.

  I don’t believe in magic.

  There must be a logical explanation.

  CHAPTER TWO:

  LOVELY GRAVEYARD

  From the back corner of the vanity, a black-and-white photograph of a woman smiles at me, signed, “To Alexis, from Mom, 1899.” Is she watching me, guarding her missing daughter’s possessions? “I’m not a thief,” I tell her. Why did I say that out loud? It’s stupid to talk to a picture. Then I feel stupid for feeling stupid. It’s just a picture.

  She continues to stare at me. What’s she going to do, blink her eyes? Push her way into three-dimensional existence? Of course that doesn’t happen, so I force my imagination to calm down.

  When I reach to turn the frame around so it doesn’t face me anymore, the mirror flares. So does my ring. I draw back, frowning. Now a patch of green flickers near the mirror’s edge. It seems lonely among all the pink.

  My newly-ringed finger reaches out like it’s returning to a friend. It’s strange watching my own finger press against the green patch.

  A wall panel near the corner fireplace lights up, outlining a small doorway in green and pink. Could Alexis be on the other side, waiting to snatch my body so she can be released from her dark tomb?

  Get a grip, Zenia.

  I steel myself against invisible dangers as I approach the outlined door. Like the mirror, it flares when I get close. A green patch floats where a latch should go. If my ring is some sort of magnet (it’s more scientific than admitting to magic), then all I have to do is touch the latch.

  My morbid side delights in the fact that this mansion has a secret passageway. What if there are rats behind the door? Cobwebs? Skeletons? What if the door locks from the other side and I can’t get back into my room? Plus, it’s not my house. I can’t aff
ord to jeopardize Mamá’s position here. What if Amelia catches me?

  Yeah, but… it’s a mansion! With a secret passageway! When my two weeks are done here, will I ever get another adventure like this?

  My hand jerks up to the wall. Sure enough, the door swings inward. It’s not a passageway at all, but another room. A study, maybe. Empty of furniture except for some TV’s and a huge, sheet-covered cabinet near the curtained window. Across the room, faded sparkles outline another doorway like they’ve rusted it shut. Rows of bookshelves line the wall farthest from the window, filled with dollhouses. Why are they locked away in this dark, dusty room?

  With Amelia’s lecture about being careful and respectful ringing in my head, I tread as lightly as I can toward the dollhouses. They range from peasant huts to Tudor chalets, a style I just finished researching. Some are small enough to fit in the palm of my hand. Others are as big as toaster ovens. They all look so real, a thumb-sized carpenter must have built them.

  For a moment, I toy with the idea of going back to the bedroom to fetch my sketchbook of tiny houses and cottage designs. I’m always on the lookout for new inspiration. My hero is Richard Morris Hunt, an architect from the Gilded Age who designed the Biltmore Estate and the pedestal for the Statue of Liberty. My favorite pastime, frustrating as it may be, is trying to pare down his French Renaissance style to fit my cottage-sized designs. If I go back to the bedroom, though, I might lose my nerve and never finish exploring this room.

  Fascinated as I am by the attention to detail, shivers won’t stop tickling my neck. One lone, thin streak of silver moonlight pushes through the window and falls on the shelves, casting the dollhouses as white bones. This isn’t a room to showcase treasures. It’s more like a graveyard for stolen secrets.

  Footprints in the dust lead to the far side of the room. Several TV sets sit in a row in what appears to be chronological order. The oldest must be from the 1940’s. The newest seems to be something from my childhood – and it’s plugged in. The picture has turned to static but the volume still works. What a waste of electricity. Why would anyone keep a TV running if nobody’s watching?