The Evolution of Mara Dyer

28

NOAH OFFERED TO FIND AN EXCUSE TO STAY over that night but I was wary of abusing my parents’ benevolence. He couldn’t stay over every night, obviously, but more importantly, I needed to know that I would be okay on my own.

And that night, I was. I slipped into bed and stayed there until morning. Nothing was out of place when I woke up. The ordinariness lifted my mood; Noah had taken my grandmother’s doll with him before he left and later today it would be gone forever. John was watching my house. Noah trusted John and I trusted Noah, and even though I hated to admit it, that morning was the first time without him that I actually felt safe.

I checked for Jude only once on the way to Horizons, and I was uncharacteristically cheerful as the counselors put me through my paces. The day rushed by in a blur of blissful near-mundanity, considering my situation wasn’t remotely mundane, and I was actually able to worry about something relatively normal for once. Namely: my mother and Noah’s stepmother having tea.

He’d been right about the invitation; Mom really couldn’t wait to meet Ruth. On the way to Noah’s house that afternoon, his parents were all she could talk about. It did not escape my notice that she was more pressed and polished than usual. It almost made me feel guilty for using her as a diversion.

Almost.

My mother went quiet just as I had that thought. I turned to see what warranted the silence, and was unsurprised to find that we had entered Noah’s neighborhood.

My mother’s eyes roamed over each mansion we passed, one completely distinct from the next. When we reached the scrolled iron gate that heralded the entrance to Noah’s house, I told her to drive up. A small camera swiveled in our direction.

My mother shot me a look. “This is Noah’s house?” It wasn’t quite visible behind the trees, not until the tall gate swung open and we drove through.

“Wow,” she breathed. It was the right word. The lush lawn was bordered by white statues and anchored by a huge fountain in the center: a Greek god clasping a girl who seemed to become a tree. Tiny, low hedges sprouted off into paths, forming intricate designs against the grass.

And then there was the house. Large and imposing, architecturally beautiful and grand. My mother was rapt, but I didn’t quite see it the way she did, not now that I knew how much Noah couldn’t stand it.

We pulled up to the landing where Albert, the Shaw butler or valet or whatever he was called, greeted us with a prim smile to match his prim suit. I half-expected Noah to be waiting by the door for us but lo, it was Ruth herself.

“Dr. Shaw,” my mother said, smiling widely.

Noah’s stepmother shook her head. “Please, call me Ruth. It’s such a pleasure to meet you,” she gushed. Ruth smoothed the linen dress that covered her petite frame and ushered us inside as my mother assured her that no, the pleasure was all hers.

No further formalities were exchanged, however, because the second my sneakered feet touched the patterned marble floor, I was charged by Ruby, the vicious Shaw pug. Who was apparently vicious only to me. The snarling fur-covered sausage ignored my mother completely, but even after Noah swooped in and scooped her up in his arms, she continued to growl at me.

“Bad girl,” Noah said affectionately. He kissed her on the head as she bared her tiny, crooked teeth.

I stood a healthy distance away. “Where’s Mabel?” I asked. It would be nice to see her again, all happy and healthy and safe.

“Occupied,” he said lightly.

Hiding, he meant. Hiding from me.

My mother didn’t appear to notice anything amiss, however, not even as the dog strained for my jugular; Noah’s stepmother and his house had her full and undivided attention. “I’ve heard so much about you,” she said to Ruth as we passed beneath a giant chandelier dripping with crystals.

Ruth raised an eyebrow. “Only good things, I hope?” She adjusted a vase filled with bursting white roses on a stone accent table that likely weighed over a thousand pounds. “Never mind,” she said archly. “Don’t answer that.”

Mom laughed. “Of course,” she lied, as easily as I usually did. Impressive. “It really is such a pleasure to be able to finally meet Noah’s family. We love having him around. Is your husband here?” she asked innocently. Knowing full well that he wasn’t.

Ruth’s smile didn’t falter, but she shook her head. “I’m afraid David’s in New York at the moment.”

“Maybe another time, then.”

“He would love that,” Ruth said. She lied as well as Noah.

Noah leaned over and said, “You know, this is rapidly becoming as painful as you indicated it would be.”

“Told you.”

“Right, then,” Noah said loudly. “I’m sure you ladies have much to discuss and would rather do so in privacy, yes?”

Ruth looked at my mother for a cue.

Mom waved at us. “Go on.”

Noah handed the wriggling dog off to Ruth. “I’ll give you the tour,” she said, and led my mother away.

I had no idea how long the tour or their conversation or this meeting would last, so I urged Noah up the wide, curving staircase and raced behind him to his room, taking no time to enjoy the view.

Once we arrived, though, I couldn’t help but stare. At his low, simple modern bed, an island in the middle of a neat sea of books. At the floor-to-ceiling windows that splashed amber sunlight onto the shelves that lined his room. It felt like forever since I was last in here, and I missed it.

“What?” Noah asked, when he noticed I hadn’t moved.

I stepped inside. “I wish I could live here,” I said. I wished I could stay.

“No, you don’t.”

“Fine,” I said, my eyes drawn to all the spines. “I wish I had your room.”

“It’s not a terrible consolation prize, I’ll admit.”

“I wish we could make out in your bed.”

Noah sighed. “As do I, but I’m afraid we have a ritual burning to conduct.”

“It’s always something.”

“Isn’t it though?” Noah retrieved the doll from his desk in the alcove, and I finally tore my eyes from the books, ready to get this show on the road. Noah led me to one of probably a dozen unused sitting rooms; the walls were mint green and dotted with ornate brass sconces; there was some furniture, but it was all covered in sheets.

Noah handed me the doll and began to search the room. I immediately set it down on the arm of what appeared to be a chair. I didn’t want to touch it.

“What are you doing?” I asked him.

“I am preparing to start a fire.” He was opening and closing drawers.

“Don’t you still smoke?”

“Not around your parents,” Noah said, still rummaging. “But yes.”

“You don’t have matches on you?”

“A lighter, usually.” Then Noah looked up, mid-crouch. “My father had the fireplaces rewired for gas. I’m looking for the remote.”

The statement dashed my fantasy of throwing a match onto the crude doll and watching it burn. Until I approached the fireplace, that is. The logs looked awfully real.

“Um, Noah?”

“What?”

“You sure it’s gas?”

He walked to the fireplace then and removed the screen. “Apparently not. Shit.”

“What?”

“They might smell an actual fire all the way down there. I don’t know.”

I didn’t care. I wanted this over with. “We’ll think of something.” I picked up the doll from the chair with two fingers, pinching its wrist. I held it out in front of me. “Light it up.”

Noah considered it for a moment, but shook his head and turned to leave. “Wait here.”

I dropped the doll on the floor. Luckily, I didn’t have to wait long; Noah returned in short order with lighter fluid and kitchen matches in arm. He approached the fireplace and struck a match. The smell of sulfur filled the air.

“Go on,” he said, once the fire was set.

Showtime. I picked the doll up off the floor and threw it into the flames, swelling with relief as they consumed it. But then the air filled with a bitter, familiar smell.

Noah made a face. “What is that?”

“It smells like . . .” It took me a few seconds to finally place it. “Like burning hair,” I finally said.

We were both quiet after that. We watched the fire and waited until the doll’s arms melted into nothing and the head blackened and fell off. But then I noticed something curl up in the flames. Something that didn’t look like cloth.

“Noah . . .”

“I see it.” His voice was resigned.

I took a step closer. “Is that—”

“It’s paper,” Noah said, confirming my fear.

I swore. “We have to put it out!”

Noah shrugged languidly. “It’ll be gone by the time I bring back water.”

“Go anyway! Jesus.”

Noah turned on his heel and left as I crouched over the fireplace, trying to see more clearly. The paper inside the doll was still burning. I leaned in even closer; the heat lit my skin, bringing color to my cheeks as I moved closer—

“Move,” Noah said. I drew back and Noah doused the flames. Steam rose and hissed from the logs.

I immediately reached toward the dying embers, hopeful that maybe some part of the paper escaped unscathed, but Noah placed a firm hand on my waist. “Careful,” he said, drawing me back.

“But—”

“Whatever it was,” he said firmly, “it’s gone now.”

I was stung by regret. What if it was something important? Something from my grandmother?

What if it had something to do with me?

I closed my eyes and tried to stop punishing myself. There was nothing I could do about the paper now, but at least the doll was gone. I wouldn’t have to look at it anymore and Jude wouldn’t be able to scare me with it anymore. That was worth something.

That was worth a lot.

Finally, the fire died out and I stood over it, satisfied that nothing was left. But then something caught my eye. Something silver in the ash.

I peered closer. “What is that?”

Noah noticed it, too. He leaned down to look at it with me. “A button?”

I shook my head. “There were no buttons.” I reached for the thing, whatever it was, but Noah pulled back my wrist and shook his head.

“It’s still hot,” he said. But then Noah crouched down and reached for the ashes himself.

I moved to stop him. “I thought it was still hot?”

He glanced back over his shoulder. “Have you forgotten?”

That he could heal? No. But, “Doesn’t it hurt?”

An indifferent shrug was my only answer as Noah stuck his hand into the dead fire. He didn’t flinch as he sifted through the ashes.

Noah carefully extracted the shining thing. He placed it in his open palm, brushed off the soot and stood.

It was an inch long, no bigger. A slim line of silver—half of it hammered into the shape of a feather, the other half a dagger. It was interesting and beautiful, just like the boy who always wore it.

Noah was impossibly still as I pulled down the collar of his T-shirt. I looked at the charm around his neck, the one he never took off, and then stared back at the charm in his hand.

They were exactly the same.