Shimmer (Riley Bloom #2)(25)

I was already reaching for the glass.

Already plucking a sparkle from her dress and tossing it in.

Already bringing the brew to my lips.

Already committing to the journey no matter what sort of scene I’d find myself in.

Bodhi’s voice a mere trace of an echo as he begged me to stop, begged me not to go through with it.

But it made no difference.

I’d already entered her world.





19


It wasn’t at all like I thought.

I mean, not that I can really explain just exactly what I was expecting since it happened so fast I hadn’t really allowed myself all that much time to think about it. But still, if I hadn’t downed that tea so quickly, if I’d stopped long enough to actually ponder a few things, I don’t think I would’ve envisioned anything even close to the scene in which I found myself.

I was a baby.

No, scratch that. Because actually, Rebecca was the baby, and I was just along for the ride. Observing the events from her point of view, immersed in an event so vivid, so detailed, so real, it was as though I was her.

I could see the morning sun eke its way around the scalloped edges of the curtains as her mother’s soft arms circled me, cradling gently, as she gazed down in the most loving, deeply profound way.

I could feel the depths of Rebecca’s sorrow, the full range of her confusion, from that very first morning when her mother failed to appear—and all of the mornings that followed—to the moment when it came as no surprise that her first word spoken was “Mama!” soon followed by “Dead” and then “Buried.” The two most often used words to explain the absence of the first.

I grew along with her, transitioning from a crawling baby to a walking child, feeling her body stretch and grow as the soft rolls of baby fat melted away, allowing her to slim down for a time, before she began to blossom into a pretty young girl whose thirteenth year found her with a closet full of sparkly dresses and drawers stuffed with colorful ribbons and bows. Longing for her father to take notice of her, to appreciate the way she looked in them. But he had neither the time nor the interest, viewing his daughter as a nuisance that was best left to the servants to deal with.

And so they did.

So fearful of her father’s legacy of anger, they indulged her every whim in hopes she’d never bad-mouth them. Giving her sweets and treats and presents of every kind: a vast array of delicacies she only vaguely desired; a vast array of delicacies they’d long been denied.

It was the recipe for making a monster.

And there was no end in sight.

If there was resentment in their eyes, Rebecca remained unaware of it. She barely paid them any real notice. To her, they had no other purpose than to fulfill her demands—she was sure that was the sole reason for their existence. Her indulgent life had turned her into the kind of brat I’d only seen on reality TV but never once in the reality of real life.

She was a brat of mammoth proportions.

A spoiled-rotten, clueless, friendless girl, who was so firmly entrenched in her fantasy world—one where everything revolved solely around her—she had no idea how awful she’d become.

No idea that the people who served her had not actually asked to be employed by her father.

No idea of the sadistic game of “bowling” he played with those he’d deemed unworthy of a job they didn’t even want in the first place.

And yet, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for her.

Couldn’t help but pity her.

Even though there was no getting around the fact that she was just as beastly as that dog of hers, there was also no denying that she just didn’t get it.

Like the prince would say—she was resisting the truth.

And the next thing I knew, she was on the move.

Running so fast I could actually hear the huff of her panting breath in my ears, could actually feel the moment of confusion when she lost her footing and sprawled across the dirt. Her body hitting so hard, I was jolted even deeper inside her.

So deep, I’d become her.

I lifted my face from the ground, snorting out a pile of dirt I’d inhaled while clearing a bunch of small rocks from my mouth.

Spitting and gagging as I struggled to stand, wiping my sleeve hard against my face, then spitting and gagging some more as I paused long enough to look around.

Aware of a voice in my head, urging, “Move!”

And though I tried to obey, I was so unused to being her, so unused to having limbs so much longer than mine (not to mention the stiff, pouffy dress and tight shoes that were practically binding my feet), it was pretty rough going at first.

But when the voice repeated, adding, “Hurry! There’s no time to waste! They’re coming!”

I stumbled forward, feet fumbling, heart beating frantically, turning toward the house just in time to see a man racing away from the barn, a man I immediately knew was my father, with a confusing array of emotions held in his gaze.

“Git!” he yelled, pointing at the house, allowing no time for pleasantries. “Git upstairs and hide in that closet in your mama’s old sitting room, and don’t come out till I git you myself. Do you hear me?”

I tried to read his gaze, wondering what it was he was hiding from me, but then he said it again, louder this time, and I couldn’t help but obey.

“Do not come out for anyone but me. No matter what! Now, git!” he practically screamed.