The Dollhouse Romance Page 4

  Last night I slept in my contacts, too terrified to leave the safety of my bed. Now my eyes are itchy. The room doesn’t look so threatening in the daylight. I dare to set my saline solution and contact case on a corner of the vanity, away from the watchful stare of the photograph.

  The mirror flares, all sparkly, but no little girl this time. Clearly, proximity to the ring triggers it. The green patch waits, ready to light up the secret door. I turn my back on it and flop onto the bed instead.

  If only there were something to do for half an hour. Mamá still hasn’t emailed. I finished all my homework at school and I’m in no mood to sketch house designs or solve riddles.

  So bored!

  Arthur.

  Thinking about him activates the tune again. It greets me, welcoming and warm. There’s got to be a music box in this bedroom somewhere that plays when I enter. There’s no way I can create music as complex as the melody I keep hearing. The only logical explanation is that I’ve forged a psychic link with a wooden doll, and that’s an unacceptable conclusion.

  Wait – maybe there’s a music box inside the doll, and that’s what I’m hearing! It’s a better explanation than a psychic link.

  I find myself pacing on the rug beside the bed, eager to go see him again and yet terrified of how the dollhouse can claim my mind. Maybe it’s an essence-sucker – it’s powered by people’s imagination. Then it eats their souls.

  I snort at my overly-dramatic fancy. It’s nothing compared to the horrific scenarios I came up with last night. At least I’ve got my fear under control now.

  If I just analyze from a distance, how bad can it get? I snag my sketchbook and a pencil and head back to the hidden door. It opens, showing everything as I left it – the sheet is still crumpled in a pile on the floor and the tiny lights still glow inside the dollhouse. Only my footprints in the dust are new.

  I hesitate in the doorway, unable to bring myself to set foot inside the study again. As much as I want to figure out why I’m so scared of such a beautiful toy, I’m as bad as a four-year-old afraid of the boogeyman. Face my fears? Keep my distance? The best I can do is plop myself down, half-in and half-out, and start taking sketches from there.

  A knock precedes Amelia’s voice: “Michael’s waiting. You ready?”

  Is it already four-thirty? Did I fall asleep? I check my sketchbook. One large rectangle with a few windows, that’s all I drew. Not even shutters or flower boxes. Time gets warped here. “Be right there,” I yell, stumbling out of the secret doorway. It closes behind me and disappears. I toss my sketchbook on the bed and then greet Amelia, hoping I don’t look as guilty as I feel.

  She leads me through the mansion toward the kitchen wing. When we pass the library, I stop and gawk. It’s identical to the one in the dollhouse!

  Amelia snaps her fingers at me. “Let’s not be late.”

  I wish I had time to explore, but I still don’t know what Mamá planned for tonight’s dessert. I’ll need as much time as possible to get my bearings.

  Outside the kitchen, Amelia spins around on her heel toward me. “I’ll pick you up here after dinner.”

  “Oh, no need. I’ve got a good memory. I’m sure I can find my way back.”

  She offers me a tight smile. “It’s no trouble.”

  Am I a prisoner for the next two weeks, not allowed to wander anywhere except my room, school, and the kitchen? Fine, then – no need to tell her about the abandoned study. I might need the extra space when I start to get claustrophobic from all these rules.

  The stinging scent of bleach water leaks into the hallway. When Amelia pushes open the door, my heart sinks. Knives and ladles line the walls, glistening in sanitized precision. The high-pitched sound of metal whisks scraping against stainless steel bowls sets my teeth on edge.

  Baking is Mamá’s passion, not mine – she can talk about different kinds of flours and their uses for hours. I’m capable, not passionate. But she’s been teaching me her tricks since I was able to stir and pour. I hope I’m ready to handle a fifty-person service.

  I wish we didn’t need this paycheck so badly. Mrs. Nelson, the bakery’s owner, got angry with Mama’s Reserve duty and called her unreliable. At least the Ambassador understands.

  “That’s Michael,” Amelia whispers.

  “The short guy?”

  “No, the one by the window.”

  I make eye contact with a tall, lean man whose raised eyebrow indicates he may not enjoy having a teenage assistant. He keeps dicing his onions without offering a greeting.

  “Your station is over there. Stay out of Michael’s way.” Without any further encouragement, Amelia leaves me to fend for myself.

  The sous-chef gives me a friendly nod as I tiptoe past him, but Michael keeps his back turned. Just as I’m about to ask where the ingredients are, he whirls around and points his knife at me. “Come to take my job, huh? A mother-daughter team conspiracy? I can handle desserts just as well as you can.”

  I gulp, wanting to hide behind my curtain of hair. But this is a showdown. If I expose my true feelings, Mamá will lose face. “I believe you. Mamá says you’re amazing. I’m super lucky to get to watch such a gifted chef in action.”

  “Huh.” He lowers the knife. “Yes, you are.” Then he chuckles. “That was a joke, you know. Not about handling desserts, though, because I’m pretty good at those, too…”

  Mamá warned me he was weird. Before he can lecture me about kitchen hygiene, I use the scrunchie around my wrist to tie up my hair in a ponytail. Mamá’s list of dessert ideas for the next two weeks hangs in front of me. Her careful handwriting makes me miss her even more.

  Michael glances sideways at me. “Pantry’s in there.” He jerks his head toward a metal door. “We’re prepping for seventeen tonight. You need help?”

  “I can manage.”

  “You know we have three conventions in the next two weeks, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He snorts. “Sir? I’m not that much older than you are, kid. Barely twice your age, I bet.”

  I sneak a look. His hair is thinning pretty badly above his forehead, making him seem older than thirty. “Sorry.”

  We work side-by-side for almost an hour, he at the spacious island with his ginger roots and garlic cloves, and me at the corner counter with my sugar and butter. Mamá’s starting me out easy tonight, just her special cinnamon-apple pie and chantilly cream.

  I try to be as non-threatening as possible, and soon he relaxes. Turns out he loves to talk – nonstop, it seems, and I’m fresh meat. Mostly he talks about chef school and his high-school cooking club. Just before I finish putting the lid on the last apple pie, however, his tone becomes conspiratorial.

  “You may as well know since you’re going to be here for a while.” He sighs as if he’s doing me a huge favor.

  The sous-chef shakes his head and rolls his eyes.

  Michael starts telling me the rumors I’ve already heard at school. No help. I already know about Alexis’ alleged murder. I need to learn about the dollhouse, the ring, or the mirror. But at least he’s being nice. I was worried I wouldn’t fit in and they’d be sorry they let me come.

  “Never visit the gardens,” he intones as if we’re sitting around a campfire. “That’s where the founder’s wife is buried. She was murdered back in the 1890’s, and there’s been a curse on this house ever since.”

  1890’s? That’s the decade Richard Morris Hunt made the dollhouse. I nearly drop the pie I’m shoving into the oven.

  Should I ask if there’s a connection? I don’t want to tell anyone about my secret yet. “So there are three ghosts?” I ask, confused. “Alexis, the mother, and the little girl?”

  At the mention of the little girl, Michael clamps his mouth shut. The sous-chef looks startled.

  “There are no children in this house,” they both say at the same time.

  Talk about creepy.

  Michael points his knife at me again like it’s an extension of his hand. �
�Better not mention any of this to Amelia.”

  As if I’d tell her anything that would make her want to move me away from my room. I shrug. “No problem.”

  He and the sous-chef ignore me now, slicing and whisking in silence. Worse – Michael turns away when I ask him a question. And he keeps his back to me for the next few minutes.

  Great. I just crushed his chatty streak. He seems like a gold mine of stories. There must be a way to get him to talk again. Leave it to my clumsy mouth to ruin things – I’m not good with people. What should I say to fix this? Worse, now I’m certain that the little girl in the mirror is connected to the rumors. How am I supposed to get information without arousing suspicion?

  Michael must have noticed I’ve gotten self-conscious, because he shrugs and throws me half a smile. “Nice piece.” He indicates my new ring with a jerk of his chin.

  “Thanks,” I croak, hiding my hand in my apron pocket. I’m too startled to think of an excuse or a good lie.

  The ring reminds him of his college days. He launches into another story.

  I’m not listening. I’m scrambling to figure out what I’m going to do about this ring. It won’t come off. How do you hide hands, anyway? They’re so public. Maybe I could use a bandage to cover it up?

  I begin whipping the chantilly. He and the sous-chef help a handful of serving staff deliver dinner to the Ambassador and his guests out in the dining hall. Before they return, I wrap white gauze around my ring. Then it’s my turn to plate and serve my warm apple pie. From a hiding spot outside the doorway, I watch the guests eat my labor. Some of them are too distracted with business to notice what they’re eating. They just shovel it in like they’re in a hurry. But some people take time to savor it.

  Then my first solo, large-scale dinner prep ends.

  Michael tells me to set a table for six in a small dining room adjacent to the kitchen. We’re joined by Amelia and her two maids, a skinny old woman with a keen sense of humor, and a quiet woman who might be related to the sous-chef. To my surprise, everyone eats the same food we just served, including finishing off a bottle of wine the guests left half-filled.

  “The Ambassador treats us like family,” Michael tells me. “He takes care of us, and we take care of him.”

  “To family,” they all say, toasting each other.

  It’s only been a day, but I miss Mamá already. She’s the only family I’ve got.

  I’m disappointed nobody compliments me. I want, no, I need to know how I did. Why aren’t they raving about Mamá’s recipe? Maybe they’re accustomed to delicious things, and this is just one more. Or maybe I forgot the salt?

  Michael just laughs when I carry my dishes to the sink. “Someone else does the cleanup. You bake. That’s all.”

  Before I can object, Amelia shows up to escort me back to my room. “He wants to meet you,” she says casually.

  “Did I do anything wrong?”

  Michael shakes his head. “Tasted good to me. See you tomorrow, kid.”

  I can barely breathe as I march behind Amelia to the Ambassador’s study. He sits behind an imposing mahogany desk but rises when I enter.

  He’s so much taller than I expected! From Mamá’s descriptions of the sad old man, I pictured him to be frail and balding. But this man looks strong enough to swim from one end of Lake Superior to the other without stopping, and then have enough spare energy to shovel an entire driveway of snow. Now I understand why Mamá calls him an enigma.

  “Well,” he says with a slight frown, “you certainly look like your mother. It seems you can cook like her, too. Dessert was the highlight of my day.”

  I try not to cringe as he studies me from beneath his shaggy white eyebrows. “Thank you, sir. Er, Ambassador.”

  “Call me ‘Mr. A,’ if you like. Nobody can say it right, anyway.”

  I test the word on my tongue. “Akakios. From the Greek. Meaning innocent or not evil.”

  He turns to Amelia in surprise. “You told her.”

  She shakes her head. “She must have Googled it.”

  “I remember when kids used to visit the library,” he mutters. “You know, as in books? Reading?”

  “I read.”

  “Really? List five authors for me, then.” When I just stare at the floor, he hmph’s. “That’s okay. As long as your maple-spice cakes are the same as…”

  “Alcott, Burnett, Chaucer, Dickens, and Nesbitt,” I blurt. “Edith Nesbitt, not the other one.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “My favorite authors. Or did you want me to list Greek philosophers, since you’re Greek? Your question wasn’t very specific. Were you trying to see if I really do read books? Or did you want to know my personal style? I can’t tell the question behind your question.” I know my voice is trembling, but I can’t stop it – or halt the words spilling off my lips.

  Amelia gives a sour smile. “I told you she likes to complicate things.”

  The Ambassador chuckles. “I see why your mother calls you her little old lady. Well. Anyone who can list authors in alphabetical order is welcome in my home. Though I must insist some rules. Few, but vital.”

  “She knows to stay in her room,” Amelia says. “She won’t cause any trouble.”

  “I hope not. Children have a knack for finding things that are none of their business.” His eyes cut toward a tiny marble statue sitting on the corner of his desk.

  It’s a Greek goddess with a bow and arrow and a little bear cub at her feet. Artemis, maybe? She looks up at me.

  And smiles.

  And waves.

  And then she’s a statue again, a cloud of blue sparkles sinking into the mahogany wood at the base of her feet.

  Nothing in the Ambassador’s face suggests that he saw his little statue come to life. I try to keep my face straight as I search Amelia’s expression, but she, too, is acting normally.

  Maybe I’ve got food poisoning. That would explain the hallucinations… For now, I’ll keep my questions locked tight behind my teeth.

  “Anyway, hard workers are welcome here.” He sits back down. “Let Amelia know if you need anything. Anything, all right?”

  Amelia taps my elbow, signaling our meeting is done.

  “Thanks,” I reply.

  He drops a curt nod.

  Back out in the hallway, I kick myself for not answering with a simple “yes” or “no,” the way Mamá always suggests.

  “You’re a timid thing, aren’t you?” Amelia observes as she walks me back to my room. “No matter. It went well enough. By the way, are your ‘mice’ all gone?”

  The way she uses air quotes, her sarcastic tone, and the amused expression on her face suggests she thinks I’m some overgrown baby unable to handle homesickness. I suspect she loaned me that cat to be more a companion than a mousetrap. If I tell her about the ghost girl, she might move me out of my suite. I’d lose the chance to visit Arthur and the dollhouse.

  Arthur… I feel better already.

  “No more ‘mice.” I copy her air quotes.

  “Good night, then.” She pulls the door shut behind me like she’s locking me in my room.

  I could get all insulted at the way I’m being treated, but doors work two ways. As long as it keeps her out while I’m exploring the dollhouse, I’m happy.

  Mouser greets me by rubbing her soft self against my legs, nearly tripping me as I head for the secret door. I’m anxious to visit the dollhouse again, despite my mixed feelings. But I’ve never had a pet before. We move too often. We wouldn’t be able to afford a pet deposit, anyway. She’s such a snuggly cat. So insistent. I give in.

  I pick her up and fuzzle her ears. Her purr starts up. This bedroom is much colder than the rest of the house, so I cautiously walk over to the fireplace, afraid to disrupt this precious snuggle. Ever so slowly, I sink into the rocking chair and shift around until I’m more or less comfortable. The important thing is the cat – she hasn’t run away yet, and I’ll do anything it takes to keep her with me. Wish I could do
the same with actual people.

  That dollhouse is the ultimate mystery. Why is such a gorgeous thing abandoned? If it’s a case of a child outgrowing her toys, where are the other outgrown toys – why is the dollhouse banished to its own room? Arthur’s tune finds me, blending with Mouser’s purr. Maybe I’ll let my eyes close for a minute before I go seeking more answers. I didn’t get much sleep last night. Besides, what could be more important than cuddling a cat?

  CHAPTER SIX:

  EXPECTED

  Screams fill the air. I’m pulled from deep sleep to the sound of a child’s tantrum, except the sounds seem to be inside my mind. Covering my ears doesn’t help at all. But opening my eyes is even worse – the mirror shows that little blonde girl again, flailing her arms and legs so hard she’s kicked the blankets off her bed.

  The lamp on her nightstand flickers on. Its electric glare illuminates a bedroom identical to mine in shape and architecture, except the pastel blankets and animal-themed wallpaper seem meant for a little girl.

  A woman sits beside the bed, murmuring in a soothing voice. It’s Amelia! The little girl’s howls cover the words. I can’t hear what she’s saying or make out why the little girl is so upset. Amelia helps her sit up and drink a glass of water. The child drinks in heaving gulps. Tears shine like midnight diamonds on her chubby cheeks. When she finally leans back on her pillow and closes her eyes, the scene fades.

  Where am I? Oh. Right – the mansion. Night two in the creepy, gorgeous bedroom. The log in my fireplace has burned down to dim orange embers again. The only light in my room comes from the fading green pulses of my ring.

  I’m covered in cold sweat. Mouser yawns and goes back to sleep on my lap. We must have dozed off here in the rocking chair.

  I suppose I should trust Mouser’s animal instinct. If she doesn’t think there’s any danger, then maybe there isn’t. Then again, maybe she can’t sense ghostly visitors or spatial warps or whatever’s going on. Or maybe I’m just going insane here, and this was no more than a nightmare. All I know for sure is I was fine before I came to this stupid mansion.