Into the Dim (Into the Dim, #1)(16)

It was a tapestry all right, the colors faded from smoke and wear. And it looked old. Very, very old.

Against a garden backdrop, two blond women in pink gowns stood on either side of a third, seated woman. The blondes stared into the distance, vague and forgettable.

But it was the red-haired woman in the middle who robbed my breath. Her ice-blue twelfth-century gown rippled across her knees, creating the illusion of motion. An opal pendant rested in the hollow between her collarbones. Blue eyes I knew as well as my own peered out of a wide, freckled face. She wasn’t willowy like the others, and you couldn’t quite call her pretty. Her jaw was too square and the features too strong. Her angry gaze burned through the weave as if she wanted me to feel her rage. The weavers who’d created this work of art had gotten it right. Down to the oblong mole on her neck and the Fourth of July burn scar through one auburn eyebrow.

All the air whooshed from my lungs as I stared into my mother’s face, woven into an object that was nearly nine hundred years old.





Chapter 8


MY FINGERS REACHED UP TO TRACE THE COARSE FABRIC of her cheek. “Mama?”

“What in blazes are you doing here?”

I whipped around so fast, my neck cracked. A man, dressed in a dark blue uniform that looked to be from the American Civil War, stood scowling at me from the doorway of the booth.

Shocked by his sudden appearance, not to mention the bizarre costume, I could only gape at him. I knew the door to the vault hadn’t opened. I’d been facing it the whole time and would’ve seen it. Heard it.

So where on God’s earth did he come from?

“How did you manage to find your way in here?” he said with an incredulous head shake. “You know Lucinda’s going to have a right fit when . . .” He trailed off, and rolled wide-spaced eyes toward the ceiling, as if I was an irritating toddler caught playing in her mommy’s makeup. “Come on. Get out of there.”

“I—” The words dried in my throat. What could I say? Yeah, I’ve been prowling around in your little freak show. And someone better tell me what the hell is going on here.

As his lips tightened in annoyance, I committed bits of him to memory. A little older than me. Broad, sturdy features. Handsome enough, even with the scars of an adolescent bout of acne. The military cut of his straw-colored hair. The perfect posture. The strong jaw clenched in annoyance. Everything about the guy screamed control. Discipline. And irritation.

He also looked vaguely familiar. An image popped into my brain. A face from one of the pictures in the library. Though this guy was blond, his eyes hazel instead of blue, the resemblance to Phoebe’s dead father, Michael MacPherson, was unmistakable.

So, this must be the famous Collum.

“You know what?” I shot a thumb over my shoulder at the hanging. “Don’t worry about what I’m doing here. I just want to know what the hell that is supposed to be.”

“That”—a muffled voice spoke from behind a stack of crates—“is why I invited you here, Hope.”

The boy’s frown deepened when the voice commanded, “Bring my niece out, Collum. Since she’s here anyway, we might as well finish it.”

Finish it?

Oh, I so did not like the sound of that.

When the muscular Collum reached for my arm, I backed out of reach. With a disgusted snort, he stepped back out of the way. I paused, unable to make my feet move.

“Come on out, Hope,” called the shadowy voice, which, based on the “niece” reference, could only belong to my Aunt Lucinda. “There’s no cause for alarm.”

No cause for alarm. Sure. You only caught me breaking into your secret hidden vault thingy.

But the truth was, my aunt’s voice didn’t sound angry. Just very, very tired.

Deciding to go on the offensive, I shoved past the boy and out of the booth. “Where have you been? I came all this way, and you . . .” My voice trailed off as my aunt stepped around the stack of crates and I took in what she was wearing.

Okay. No.

From the ruffled parasol slung over one shoulder to the wide taffeta skirts of her 1860s-era gown, my forty-eight-year-old aunt looked like a stocky, banana-yellow version of Scarlett O’Hara.

“Yes, well.” Blond ringlets from an obvious wig waggled around Lucinda’s plump face as she cleared her throat. “I suppose you have questions.”

“Questions?” I choked.

She went on as if I hadn’t spoken. “Though I didn’t expect our introduction to be quite this abrupt, I suppose it might as well happen this way.” She didn’t smile as she extended a hand. “I am Lucinda Carlyle. Your mother’s sister.”

A velvet drawstring bag dangled, heavy and bulging, from her wrist as she extended a hand. When I pointedly ignored the proffered hand, she sighed and let the arm drop back to her side.

My tongue like a slab of cold meat, I asked, “What is all this? Why is my mother’s image woven into a nine-hundred-year-old tapestry? What am I doing here?”

Collum muttered, “That’s a good question. Why is she here?”

Before anyone could speak, the vault door buzzed and swung open. Moira, wrapped in a plaid bathrobe, her graying hair ensconced in a phalanx of pink sponge rollers, rushed in. Hectic spots appeared on each round cheek as she wheezed. “Hope Walton, how in the name of Mary and Bride did ye get down here? Get back to yer bed this instant!”