“Who?” Chris asked, bewildered.
Regan fussed with her hair, then checked her phone. He hadn’t called. Yet he was sitting outside her house.
“Felix,” she hissed.
“Really?” Chris popped his head around the corner. “Ohmigod. He is smoking hot.”
She knew this. Knew it very, very well. “I told you!”
“Why is he sitting across from your house?” Jen asked, peeking around the corner for her own look. “Whoa. Hot is right.”
“I have no idea why he’s sitting there. What do I do?”
“Well, we can do two things. You can pretend you don’t see him and we’ll just sail on past to the front door. Or you can glance over, pretend to see him for the first time, and wave and go and say hello. Your choice.”
Regan bit her fingernail. She had a slight buzz going on and was feeling a little vulnerable. Like if she spoke to Felix she would say something incredibly stupid. “Let’s just pretend we don’t see him. I don’t know what to say to him.” Maybe it wasn’t the mature thing to do, but everyone was entitled to a moment of immaturity, weren’t they? She was going to claim hers.
Taking a deep breath, she said, “Okay. Let’s go. Don’t look left, anyone.”
“Do you think it’s a coincidence he’s sitting there?” Jen asked in a low voice as they started walking, crossing the street.
“Hello!” Chris made a face. “I don’t think so.”
Could they walk any slower? They were only halfway across the street and Regan’s heart was racing, afraid Felix would suddenly call out her name, and then she’d be forced to confront him, feeling flushed and weird and insecure.
“Slow down,” Jen hissed at her. “You’re practically running.”
Great. By the time they got to the cover of her house, Regan was stress-sweating. “Did he look? That was horrible.”
“How would I know if he looked?” Chris asked. “I didn’t look. Sweetie, you need to get a grip.”
“You think?” she asked sarcastically. It took two tries to get her key in the lock, and after a quick good-bye, she retreated into the house and leaned against the door.
Yeah. Getting a grip was a solid plan.
After jogging upstairs she changed into pj shorts and a T-shirt, turned out the light, and went over to the balcony doors. Hanging against the wall to the left of the doors, she leaned and peeked out through the glass. Felix was still sitting there.
Taking Moira’s monkey out from under the nightstand and hugging it, Regan climbed into bed and tried to sleep.
Two hours later she was still staring at the ceiling.
Tossing back the covers, she crossed the dark room, and strained to see the street. Her nose was against the glass before she spotted him. Still sitting there. Staring up at her.
Regan drew back so fast she tripped over the ivory silk drapes.
What the hell was he doing? Did he honestly think she was going to sleepwalk again? And if he did, why didn’t he just knock on her door and come inside?
Because while he wanted her safe, he didn’t want her.
That was a fun thought.
Determined to get some sleep and stop running on three hours a night, Regan got back in bed and closed her eyes.
When she woke up in the morning, she was lying on the floor of the bedroom down the hall, one completely empty of furniture, with no idea how she had gotten there.
Chapter Thirteen
Camille snapped at her maid, “Hurry up, damn it.”
The fool was taking a veritable hour to get Camille out of her evening gown, and she wanted to be in bed. Now. She had taken liberties with the remains of her father’s liquor cabinet, and now that the best of the floating, buzzing sensation had worn off, she felt sick to her stomach and dizzy. It was time to lie down.“Yes, miss. Sorry, miss.”
The maid started unlacing her corset more swiftly, which only resulted in chaffing Camille’s skin. “Never mind.” She jerked away from her. “I’ll sleep in it for God’s sake. Just get away from me.”
She wanted no one touching her anymore. No one but Felix.
Gown pooled at her waist, corset loose and gaping at her br**sts, she glanced at her bed and felt a fresh wave of anger. She had shared this room with Isabel, and the other bed stood still, empty, its coverlet untouchedfor months.
This house taunted her, every inch of it filled with memories, with clothes and trinkets and furniture that had meant something to each of her sisters, her mother, her father. It mocked her with its daily silence, rooms big and daunting, bereft of conversation, of laughter, of music, of the clang of silver at the dinner table.
Lurching toward the door, she flung it open and went into the hall.
“Miss, you’re not dressed!”
Camille whirled back to her maid, and only by the greatest restraint managed to prevent herself from slapping the insolent cheek of the pretty and concerned girl. What the hell did she know? Had she had her heart torn out of her chest, yet had to still live, to breathe, to function without it?
The maid backed up, fear replacing concern.
Lowering her hand, Camille gave a shriek of frustration and ran out of the room. She passed her parents’ room, her sisters’ rooms, the long-empty nursery, and went to the room at the top of the stairs, the one that overlooked the Rue Royale. Her hand trembled on the door-knob, but she forced herself to open it and enter. She shut the door behind her and paused to let her eyes adjust to the darkness.
The sickroom, which had become the mourning room. It was still draped in black, the mirror covered. Camille tore the black fabric off and stared at her dim shadow in the glass. If it were possible for spirits to become trapped in a mirror, she prayed with all her heart and soul they would look back at her. That she could see the face of one who loved her, who valued her.
There was nothing but her in the reflection, corset drooping, gown crushed at her waist, hair half in pins, half undone.
She took the fabric and laid herself on the bed with it, crossing her hands in an X on her chest, the black cloth draped over her lower half, silent tears running down her cheeks.
Camille never slept in her own bed again.
For the third morning in a row, Regan woke up on the floor of the front bedroom, body stiff from sleeping on the hardwood.
“Oh, my God,” she groaned, rolling onto her side, muscles protesting. What the hell was going on? And if she was suddenly sleepwalking, why did she have to keep picking the same room that had no furniture? It was killing her back.The only plus was that the room faced Royal Street, so the morning sun streamed in, preventing her from oversleeping for work. Other than that, the whole thing was miserable and frustrating.