She found herself saying in a confident, almost chirpy voice, "Well, could I just talk to her for a minute?
Would you mind? It's just that I have something sort of important to tellher...." She made a move as if to step over the threshold.
Rowan kept on blocking the door. "Oh, I'm sosorry. Butwell, that's not really possible rightnow."
"Oh, is it one of her headaches? I've seen her in bed before." Mary-Lynnette gave a little tinkly laugh.
"No, it's not a headache." Rowan spoke gently, deliberately. "The truth is that she's gone for a few days."
"Gone?"
"I know." Rowan made a little grimace acknowledging that this was odd. "She just decided to take a few days off. A little vacation."
"But-gosh, with you girls just getting here..." Mary-Lynnette's voice was brittle.
"Well, you see, she knew we'd take care of thehouse for her. That's why she waited until we came."
"But-gosh," Mary-Lynnette said again. She felt aspasm in her throat. "Where-just where did she go?"
"Up north, somewhere on the coast. I'm not sure of the name of the town."
"But . . ." Mary-Lynnette's voice trailed off. Back off, her inner voices warned.Now was the time to be polite, to be cautious. Pushing it meant showing this girl that Mary-Lynnette knew something was wrong with this story. And since somethingwas wrong, thisgirl might be dangerous....
It was hard to believe that while looking at Rowan'ssweet, grave face. She didn't look dangerous. But thenMary-Lynnette noticed something else. Rowan was barefoot. Her feet were as creamy-pale as the rest ofher, but sinewy. Something about them, the way they were placed or the clean definition of the toes, made Mary-Lynnette think of those feet running. Of savage, primal speed.
When she looked up, there was another girl walking up behind Rowan. The one with dark golden hair.
Her skin was milky instead of blossomy, and her eyes were yellow.
"This is Kestrel," Rowan said.
"Yes," Mary-Lynnette said. She realized she was staring. And realized, the moment after that, that shewas scared. Everything about Kestrel made her thinkof savage, primal movement. The girl walked as if she were flying.
"What's going on?" Kestrel said.
"This is Mary-Lynnette," Rowan said, her, voice still pleasant. "She lives down the road. She came to see Aunt Opal."
"Really just to see if you needed anything," MaryLynnette interjected quickly. "We're sort of your only neighbors." Strategy change, she was thinking. About-face. Looking at Kestrel, she believed in danger. Now all she wanted was to keep these girls from guessing what she knew.
"You're a friend of Aunt Opal's?" Kestrel asked silkily. Her yellow eyes swept Mary-Lynnette, first up, then down.
"Yeah, I come over sometimes, help her withthe"-oh, God, don't say gardening-"goats. Um, I guess she told you that they need to be milked everytwelve hours."
Rowan's expression changed fractionally. MaryLynnette's heart gave a violent thud. Mrs. B. would never,everleave without giving instructions aboutthe goats.
"Of course she told us," Rowan said smoothly, justan instant too late.
Mary-Lynnette's palms were sweating. Kestrelhadn't taken that keen, dispassionate, unblinkinggaze off her for a moment. Like the proverbial birdof prey staring down the proverbial rabbit. "Well, it'sgetting late and I bet you guys have things to do. I should let you go."
Rowan and Kestrel looked at each other. Then theyboth looked at Mary-Lynnette, cinnamon-brown eyes and golden eyes fixed intently on her face.Mary-Lynnette had the falling feeling in her stomach again.
"Oh, don't goyet," Kestrel said silkily. "Why don'tyou come inside?"
Chapter 5
Mark was still muttering as he rounded the backcorner of the house. What was he even doinghere?
It wasn't easy to get into the garden area fromoutside. He had to bushwhack through the overgrown rhododendron bushes and blackberry canesthat formedadense hedge all around it. And evenwhen he emerged from a tunnel of leathery greenleaves, the scene in front of him didn't immediatelyregister. His momentum kept him going for a fewsteps before his brain caught up.
Hey, wait. There'sa girl here.
A pretty girl. Anextremelypretty girl. He could seeher clearly by the back porch light. She had hiplength white-blond hair, the color that normally onlypreschoolers have, and it was as fine as a child's hair,too, whipping around her like pale silk when shemoved. She was smallish. Little bones. Her hands and feet were delicate.
She was wearing what looked like an oldfashioned nightshirt and dancing to what sounded like a rent-to-own commercial. There was a battereddock radio on the porch steps. There was also a black kitten that took one look at Mark and darted away into the shadows.
"Baaad cred-it,nooo cred-it, dooon't wor-ry,weee'll take you...." the radio warbled. The girl danced with her arms above her head-light as thistledown,Mark thought, staring in astonishment. Really, actu ally that light, and so what if it was a cliche As the commercial ended and a country western song began, she did a twirl and saw him. Shestopped, frozen, arms still above her head, wristscrossed. Her eyes got big and her mouth sagged open.
She's scared, Mark thought. Of me. The girl didn't look graceful now; she was scrambling to seize the dock radio, fumbling with it, shaking it. Trying to find an Off switch, Mark realized. Her desperation was contagious. Before he thought, Mark dropped the pruning shears and swooped in to grab the radio from her. He twisted the top dial, cutting the song short. Then he stared at the girl, who stared backwith wide silvery-green eyes. They were both breath ing quickly, as if they'd just disarmed a bomb.