shoulder. A wrong note was struck, and the hair on the back of my neck rose. Ashley had delighted in playing that note incorrectly; she had played it repeatedly to frustrate Joseph.
The song ended. I held my breath, waiting for what would happen next. The music started again, the same piece. I hummed the melody, anticipating, dreading that one wrong note.
It was struck. My back grew rigid.
Fearing what I might see-fearing what I might not-l crept toward the schoolroom. I'm not crazy, I told myself; I have to be hearing it. But I couldn't imagine anyone currently living in the house playing that song. The schoolroom door was partway open. The nerves in my fingertips tingled as I laid them lightly against the wood, then pushed the door all the way.
Patrick sat on the piano bench. With no moonlight and just a pale triangle cast by the hall night-light, I could see only his silhouette and the rectangular shape of the piano. A feeling of deep uneasiness seeped into me, a sense that something hidden in the dark was watching me, and it didn't want me there.
'Patrick?' I called softly, approaching the bench. 'Patrick.' I spoke it with more insistence, but he didn't turn around. 'Patrick, stop playing!'
He didn't move his head, didn't show any sign of hearing me.
His failure to listen made me bolder. I placed a hand on his shoulder, then leaned over to look at him. Though his hands moved, his face was still, strange, inanimate as a molded puppet's. His eyes were partially closed, the pale irises and whites of his eyes like half-moons, his mouth slightly open.
'Can you hear me?' I asked.
He continued to play.
'Patrick, stop!' I grabbed his hands and held them still. After a moment, he raised his chin to look at me. His eyes slowly opened to full size. He didn't speak.
'What are you doing?' I asked.
He glanced down at the keyboard. 'Playing.'
'What song was that?'
He thought for a moment. ''Little Red Rooster.'' I could picture the page in Ashley's songbook, for she had crayoned a waxy red rooster next to the title. How could he have learned it? What made his hands suddenly able to play the song? 'Who taught you that?'
'I just know it,' he said.
'I think you may have played the song incorrectly. One note was wrong.'
'I played it the way I play it.'
I let go of his hands and backed away from him. The words were the same, the intonation exact, his child's voice no deeper than Ashley's. Each time Joseph had corrected her, that had been her response.
My mind groped for explanations. Brook might have remembered the song, but it seemed unlikely, given that he had avoided the schoolroom as much as possible. Robyn had rarely come to the third floor. Perhaps Trent or Mrs. Hopewell knew the song and remembered how Ashley had played the incorrect note, but how could they have taught it so quickly to Patrick, who had shown no piano skills the previous afternoon?
And why wouldn't Patrick admit that one of them had taught him? There were so many eerie similarities between the playmate Patrick called Ashley and the little girl I had known. It was growing increasingly difficult to pretend there wasn't something haunting this house, haunting this child.
Patrick sat with his hands in his lap, shivering.
'It's cold and late,' I said. 'You should be in bed.'
'I wasn't cold till now,' he told me, then slipped off the bench.
As he did, something leaped from beneath the keyboard. I screamed, then muffled the sound with my hand.
'It's just November,' Patrick said.
The feral cat stopped short of the doorway.
'November! Why is he here? Did you let him in? You know you're not supposed to go downstairs by yourself at night.'
'He was outside my bedroom window.'
'Patrick, there is no way a cat can leap up to a second-story windowsill.'
'My window by the roof.'
I remembered that one of his side windows faced the extension that joined Robyn's wing to the house. Perhaps there was a trellis or some other structure that gave the cat passage to the low roof, then up to the window.
'There was snow on his fur, so I let him in to get warm.'
'I'm sure the snow made him look cold,' I said, 'but he's a wild cat and used to being outside. He has a thick coat of fur. He's probably happier out there.'
'No, he'll freeze. He'll freeze to death like Patricia!' Patrick's voice grew panicky. 'He'll die!'
'Shh! You'll wake the others. November may stay here tonight, just tonight,' I said, hoping I could close the cat in the schoolroom till Roger helped me put him out. I knew better than to fool with a feral animal that hadn't had its shots. 'We'll talk about it further in the morning. Now let's get you in bed.'
As soon as we moved, the cat ran out the door and disappeared down the main stairs. I sighed. There was no point in my bumbling around the dark house trying to find him. Patrick and I crossed the third-floor hall to my room, then took the back steps down to his. When I turned on Patrick's small nightlight, November slunk out from the shadows and leaped onto the bed. Patrick was charmed; I found it creepy. Ashley used to bring in the cat and hide it till bedtime so she could sleep with it. After a lapse of twelve years, what had suddenly drawn this wild animal back to her room?
'He can't stay with you, Patrick.'
'But he likes me.'
'You have allergies,' I argued. 'You're already starting to sniffle. Come on, November. Scoot!'
I waved my hand at the cat. He hissed. Determined to get rid of him, I moved closer. He hissed again and swung a paw, claws extended. He meant business.
'I don't think November likes you' Patrick observed.
'Can you get him off the bed-without touching him, I mean.'
Patrick shooed him halfheartedly, and the cat moved down to the foot of the bed. Patrick happily climbed in at the other end.
'I'm running out of patience,' I said. 'Listen to me. The cat hasn't had his shots, and if he bites you, you could get rabies. You are not to touch him. Do you understand?'
'Yes, but he won't bite me.'
I wouldn't admit it and encourage petting the cat, but I sensed the same thing. I decided I could leave them alone long enough to fetch some bait and get the cat out of the room. 'Stay in bed and don't touch him. I'm going downstairs for a can of tuna and will be back in a minute.'
The hall door had been knocked ajar by the cat. I opened it all the way.
'Someone has turned out the rose lamp,' Patrick observed.
'It probably burned out.'
With all the bedroom doors closed but Patrick's, and his night-light casting no more than a dim glow inside his room, the hall was black as night itself, its walls and corners invisible. Knocking over an antique rose lamp in a clumsy attempt to find and light it seemed a bad idea. Lighting the bright overheads in the hall might wake up Emily and Adrian. The more fuss there was, the harder it would be to get Patrick back to sleep, especially after Emily had strung me up for allowing the cat in his room. The best plan was to walk straight ahead till I reached the steps at the other end of the hall. There I could turn on the stairway sconces.
Holding one hand out in front of me, I walked slowly, slower still as I reached what I thought would be the wall next to the stairway. I finally touched it, but I must have veered slightly to the left while crossing the hall, for there were no switches there. I slid my foot to the right, feeling the wooden edge of the step. I moved farther to
