Page 69 of Blade

“There’s a baby in there.”

And with that, Mr. M. drew a giant breath into his giant belly. He turned from both of them, Ana standing now, her face beginning to swell. Jolene on the floor holding the duffel bag.

Her mother took his place as he stormed out of the room. She reached for clothes hanging in the closet, pulled them down and shoved them into the bag.

“Get up,” she ordered. And Jolene obeyed, walking meekly to her dresser, opening drawers. Taking out her skating dresses.

When Mrs. M. saw what was in her hands, she grabbed the dresses and tossed them to the floor.

“You don’t need these anymore. Stupid girl. You’ve just ruined everything I did for you.”

Ana stared at the woman, new pieces to Jolene’s story falling into place. The reason she was here. Her mother had sent her away, but not so they could travel.

Mrs. M. walked to the door. “I’ll get more bags from the car,” she said. And then she, too, was gone.

Ana rushed to Jolene, wrapped her in her arms.

“I’m sorry, Ana. I’m so sorry,” Jolene whispered.

Chest to chest, cheek to cheek. They stayed there for a long time, sorrow pulsing between them. Ana had never seen violence like this. She’d never felt it, never been hit by anyone. Jolene, she imagined, had lived with it her whole life, until she came to The Palace. And now she was facing her return to the place where that violence lived.

Jolene let go. Wiped her eyes.

“I have to finish packing,” she said. “It’ll be worse if I don’t.”

Ana sat back, resigned to helping her friend leave. And just then, it occurred to her—where was Emile? Her eyes scanned every corner of the room, confirming what she already knew.

Emile—the traitor, the coward—had vanished.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Ana

Now

I hated Emile Dresiér.

This thought consumes me as I stop the car, put it in reverse. I feel the four tires dig into the snow, skid, and then steady. I follow my tracks until I can see the path to the guest cottage where Emile used to live, nothing more than a break in the trees now, lit up by the headlights and the traces of the moon that make it through the storm.

And now Emile is dead, and here I am. In Dawn’s driveway. In front of his old house. I know I shouldn’t be here, but that doesn’t stop me. The memories have come alive and yearn for a stage.

I step outside and feel my feet sink into the powder, the wet, the cold, sneaking inside my boots. I pull my coat around me as I walk the path to the front door.

Smoke comes from the chimney, the smell reaching my face. The lights are on. I can see in the window as I approach the entrance.

I knock, once and again, but there’s no reply. No voice or footsteps, and I wonder if Dawn has been here. If maybe she uses this cottage now, in the winter months. She’s all alone in that big house.

I reach for the doorknob and turn it until I feel the release, and then the warmth and light spill into the night from inside.

“Hello?” I call out as my eyes scan the room and my memories tangle.

This place is different.

The table that had been small and round is now a rectangle, with eight chairs around it. A couch and two plush chairs face a coffee table and a fireplace with embers still burning.

Against the back wall where Emile’s bed once was, the sheets always strewn about, never straightened or tucked in, are an Eames chair and reading lamp. Another small table where a book is laid open. The light is on. I see a door to another room that wasn’t here before. It’s closed, concealing the bedroom, I imagine.

Then I see a flash of Emile’s bed and Kayla lying upon it.