When I wake, it takes a moment for me to place it—the gown, the room, the tray of cold tea, untouched toast and eggs, and a half-eaten sausage lying diagonally across its plate. None of it making any immediate sense until it slowly starts to creep back—who I am, where I am, and why I’m dressed like this.
I raise my hands up high over my head and stretch from side to side. Amazed by how I could just fall asleep like that, right in the middle of eating, but then, that’s what jet lag does—whacks out your body clock and throws you completely off balance.
But none of that’s important, what matters is the dream. As I stand before my canvas, I’m amazed at how easily it flows, how these new images fit so perfectly into the scene I painted earlier. I’m just finishing up the last stroke of my subject’s shiny, slicked-back hair when there’s a knock at my door.
“Hey, Violet,” I say, still focused on painting. “You can take the tray if you want. I guess I was more sleepy than hungry. I totally passed out.”
“Great! Only problem is, I’m not Violet.”
I turn to find a guy about my age leaning in the doorway, his voice containing just the slightest hint of a British accent, one that’s been heavily Americanized, when he says, “I’m Bram.”
I lift a brow. Not really a name you hear all that often these days.
“My mom’s a goth, what can I say?” He shrugs.
“And your dad? Is he a goth too?” I ask, taking in the dark, skinny jeans, the gray hoodie, and the black blazer he wears over it, thinking he looks so normal this apple must’ve fallen miles from that particular tree.
“My dad’s dead.” He nods, voicing it in a way I haven’t been able to manage quite yet when it comes to my mom—totally neutral, without the slightest trace of quiver or tremble. Just a simple stating of the facts, with no room for emotion.
“I’m sorry.” I place my brush on the ledge, then immediately regret it since I have no idea what to do with my hands.
“Don’t be. I’m pretty sure it’s not your fault.” He shrugs, and when he smiles, his whole face lights up in a way that feels really familiar—or at least the parts I can see—the dimples, the straight teeth, the clear skin, but the rest is obscured by a pair of dark shades. “So, what’s the deal around here? This is Sunderland Manor, right? Don’t tell me I just broke into the wrong place.”
I nod, still studying him closely, wondering if he’s one of the missing students and really hoping he is.
“First good news I’ve had all day.” He sighs, dropping his backpack onto the ground and making his way toward me. “First the airline lost my bag, then my train was delayed, and then I couldn’t find a taxi to bring me here. Finally had to take three different buses and hoof it the rest of the way, oh, and I ripped my pants when I hopped the fence to get in. Not to mention this fog—what’s up with this fog?”
“Mist,” I say, my voice sounding ridiculously prim and proper, and wondering why I said it that way.
“Mist—fog—whatever.” He drops onto the velvet settee, eyeballing the tray of food when he says, “You gonna eat that?”
“It’s cold,” I warn, coming around and perching on the chair to his right.
“Doesn’t matter,” he mumbles, already digging into what’s left of the sausage. “I haven’t eaten for—” He squints as though trying to calculate just when his last meal occurred, then quickly giving up and reaching for another bite.
“Didn’t Violet offer to make you something?” I ask, remembering the warm welcome I received.
But he just looks at me, still chewing when he says, “Who?”
“You know, the house servant, or maid, or—whatever.” I shrug, unused to living in a place where people actually wait on you, and unfamiliar with the appropriate terms. “She works here.”
“All I know is no one picked me up at the station and no one answered the door. Took me forever to find this place, and I wasn’t about to sleep on the porch, so I let myself in and went from room to room until I finally found you. Which, I gotta tell ya, is more than a little strange. I mean, where the heck is everyone? Aren’t there supposed to be more of us? Teachers—students—and what about all those great-sounding classes they went on and on about in the brochure? From what I saw, there’re no classrooms, no studio space—nothing even remotely resembling it. A little peculiar, don’t you think?”
I watch as he finishes what’s left of the sausage, my gaze lingering on the way his long, dark bangs fall across his forehead and land on his cheek. Strangely unbothered by anything he’s just said, but knowing I need to reply in some way, I shrug and say, “Apparently there’s been a mist delay.” Absently picking at the folds of my dress, continuing to study him, I add, “So—what’s it like? The house, I mean. I pretty much crashed just after I arrived, and I’ve yet to even leave this room.” Cringing when I realize how I must sound to him—incredibly unadventurous, nothing like the real me, who would’ve fully investigated this place from the start. But for some reason, I just can’t seem to summon that girl. Maybe it’s the dress, the jet lag, or the sausage they keep feeding me, but the fact is, it feels so homey and comfortable right here in this room, I’ve had no desire to leave.
“Well—it’s quiet,” he says, wiping his mouth with a white linen napkin. “And appropriately creepy. My mom and her gang would totally love it.” He tosses down the napkin and rises from his seat, turning toward me as he says, “Wanna go explore?”
“So, is this your thing?” He motions toward my dress, tracing the line between my head and my toes and back again, calculating, appraising, though not necessarily in a bad way.
I squint, having forgotten all about how odd I must look until he mentions it. Pressing my hands into the folds of the fabric, feeling inexplicably shy, and hoping he’s not staring at the ridiculously low neckline, since I can’t see his eyes behind his dark glasses.
“Oh, no—I—my bag got lost too—and they sent my clothes somewhere to be cleaned—so I had a choice between wearing a robe all day, running around naked, or raiding the closet—or the armoire, as the case may be—and, well, I chose this.” I shrug, my cheeks heating as I quickly avert my gaze.
Not daring to look at him again until he says, “It’s nice. Naked would also be nice.” He laughs, the sound of it so oddly familiar, though I’m sure I’ve never met him before. “But trust me, I didn’t mean anything by it. You look really pretty. If you ask me, more girls should dress like that. Though I guess it’s probably not very comfortable.”
“You’d be surprised,” I say, remembering how I managed to fall asleep in it with no problem. “It’s not so bad.”
“Anyway, I think you’ll find it’s pretty hard to shock me. I just came here from a goth convention in Romania, Transylvania to be exact. My mom’s band was headlining, and you can’t even imagine the stuff I saw there.”
“Your mom’s in a band?”
“Yeah.” He sighs and rubs his chin. “I try to be supportive and all, but—” He shakes his head and decides to let that one hang. “Anyway, I figured the dress was your thing. You know, art school, body as canvas and all that. Nice juxtaposition with the shoes, though.”
I look at him, watching as he moves a few steps ahead, his black Converse sneakers making their way down the rug. And I can’t help but compare him to Jake, who would never use a word like juxtaposition. Wouldn’t even know what it meant.
“And the glasses—is that your thing?” I ask, my voice a mix of nervous flirtation and unadulterated geekiness, though unfortunately veering much more toward the latter.
“No. Not a thing, more like a necessity. I have issues with the light. I’m—sensitive.” He glances over his
