RoseBlood(7)

I’d been so upset on the plane when I realized I forgot to bring either of those keepsakes to Paris. But Mom found a substitute for the red string.

“Wow, Mom—”

“Oh, and there’s this, too . . .” She hands me one other tissue-stuffed bag.

“Hmmm. Maybe I should go off to school more often after all,” I tease, dragging out the tissue. My breath catches at the glossy, brand-new Les Enfants Perdus staring up at me—as though she’s been reading my mind all along.

She shrugs when I turn a questioning glance her way. “It was in a display window at one of the shops this morning. It’s a modern edition . . . and the illustrations are different. But it’s the same story. Now you have your thread and your book to tie us all together.”

My eyes sting. “Thank you.”

She pats my hand and we share another smile. My lips wobble as I thumb through the pages, remembering Dad’s deep, strong voice reading the text to me in flawless French. I miss that so much. Just like I miss him speaking to me with his violin. When he got bad enough that we had to check him into hospice, I took up sleeping with the instrument under my bed every night. It almost seemed like a part of him—maybe because each time he played, he’d cradle it as one would a precious child.

I’d still have it with me to this day, had it not gone missing when Grandma Liliana first arrived in America. Mom suspected she took it, and confronted her. Grandma admitted mailing it back to Paris. Mom was furious, assuming she wanted to sell it due to its value. It was a one-of-a-kind Stradivarius, handcrafted of wood so black and glossy I used to think it had been carved from an oil slick. The scroll curled at the neck’s tip like a snail’s shell, adding to its uniqueness. But Grandma selling it didn’t make sense. The instrument had been a family heirloom since the early 1800s. One of our ancestors, Octavius Germain, had even engraved his initials on the lower bout, just inches from the waist of the instrument. I used to trace my fingers along that O and G, imagining a man in Victorian finery playing the very instrument my dad loved.

Now, sitting here with this book in my hands, I think maybe we misjudged Grandma’s motives. Maybe—just like I needed that piece of red thread to brave being without my parents that day in first grade, and this book to give me courage at a new school—she needed a piece of her son to be waiting at home for her, so when she returned she could survive in a world he no longer occupied.

I glance into the distance and swallow the words I want to say: Mom, I still miss him. Every day. I don’t want to be away from you, too. I don’t want to be alone.

Our limo slows to a crawl as we take a stone bridge over a giant river. I lean into the window, unnerved by how close the water is. Were it to rise just a few more feet, it would overlap the bridge. The river encompasses the academy on all sides, similar to a moat. The only land is the hill where the academy sits, and the eighty-some acres of woods surrounding it. Without any way to cross, it would be like an island unto itself.

I return the stationery box and my book to their bags. Unease roils through my veins in time with the blue-black depths swirling beneath the limo. According to the pamphlet, the water even surges underground beneath the estate’s foundation, flooding the third basement.

Water. My least favorite element, second only to fire. And now I’ll be surrounded by it. The fact that the rain has finally subsided relaxes me a fraction. Fog settles across the landscape, clinging low to the road as we roll off the bridge. RoseBlood Academy rises up, grim and ominous. The baroque architecture, looming and majestic, looks more like a brooding castle than an opera house in this isolated location.

The auditorium’s cupola—a cap of bronze that cuts through the dreary sky like a ghostly crown—descends to a gabled roof where a winged horse stands guard beside Apollo. The god lifts his lyre, as if it were a bow and arrow. In the Phantom book, a similar roof played a pivotal and romantic role in the story line. It’s where Christine met with Raoul and they claimed their undying love. They were spied upon by the Phantom, who then unleashed a series of events to punish them and make Christine his forever. But the school brochure claims this roof’s stairway was sealed off along with the top three floors after the fire.

The driver turns the car onto the long, gravel drive leading up to the opera house. Glistening trees bend over us like sequined actors taking their final bow. As we plunge out from the overhanging limbs, I begin to understand the uniforms. It’s as if we’ve crossed into an alternate time.

Ivy and lichen cling to the huge edifice. The wet fa?ade reflects our headlights so it appears an ethereal white, but as we get closer, the stone’s true color comes into view. Time has eroded it to a scaly turquoise green, like a mermaid’s tail. Antique street lamps—the kind you would expect to see on a Victorian greeting card—dot the front terrace and cast an eerie yellow glow in the grayish haze. So engrossed in the scenery, I barely hear the bags rattle as Mom puts away the stamps and address book.

The boarding school is flanked on one side by an overgrown garden. The early autumn blooms follow their own call; silvery-green leaves, crimson roses, and frothy white flowers tumble like waves across a wrought-iron fence that at one time held them contained.

Behind the garden, off in the distance, sits a graveyard and a chapel. The abandoned stone building stands tall and proud, despite that it’s every bit as old and decrepit as the headstones and statues surrounding it. Busted stained-glass windows glisten like the talons of some violent rainbow creature slashing through the fog. Yet even in its sinister beauty, it seems to cower in fear from the encroaching forest’s shadow creeping closer with evening’s arrival.