The Unknown Beloved(78)

“Do you hear voices, Dani?” he asked. “Do you believe you are many people?”

“No. It isn’t like that for me. It has never been like that for me.” She was almost pleading with him.

“Well then. He’s not like you, now is he?” he said simply.

“No,” she sighed. “No. I don’t think he is. But he is odd, Michael. He is very . . . odd.” She sounded precariously close to tears, though her face did not crumple and her gaze did not waver.

Ah. He thought maybe he understood now. She wasn’t upset by what she saw—or not entirely. She was afraid of what he was going to think of it all. Good God.

“When I was young . . . I could see things others couldn’t,” he said.

“Like what?”

“Colors, mostly. Auras. I thought everyone could see them . . . until my mother explained that I was special.”

“Auras?”

“That was her word for it. I called them shadows, though they were colorful, and often not dark at all.”

“What kind of colors?” she breathed.

“Every shade and hue. Even colors that don’t have names. Everyone had their own. My mother’s was grass green. My father’s, a rusty red. Molly’s was violet . . . like the sky right before sunrise. I couldn’t see them all the time, but often enough that it was very normal for me. When my mother died, the colors went away. Or maybe I simply stopped acknowledging them.”

“You don’t see them anymore?”

“Sometimes I do. Yours is warm . . . amber . . . like sunlight on honey.”

She stared at him, dumbfounded, but there was a flush to her cheeks and a softness in her gaze.

He cleared his throat. Enough of that. “You are not odd, Dani,” he said. “Not in the way you mean. You always say that. But you are strong and good and wise. And you are kind. Those things are not odd. They are precious.”

She smiled like he had set her free, her off-kilter eyes brimming as she beamed at him, and he stood abruptly, the water sluicing from his clothes. He unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged it off, wringing it out before tossing it into the sink. He started pulling off his undershirt and Dani’s jaw dropped.

“Cover your eyes,” he barked. She did so immediately, and he peeled off his undershirt and gave it the same treatment. His trousers and socks followed, but he left on his shorts, wringing them out by the fistfuls before he stepped out of the tub and pulled a towel from the cupboard across from the sink. He mopped at the floor so she would not slip when she alighted and wrapped another towel around his waist before setting one within her reach.

“I will go dress and then bring you my robe so you can get out of those clothes. Are you steady now?”

“Yes,” she promised, still covering her eyes. Her nails were shredded, but she hadn’t complained. The sight of her raw fingers made his stomach roil, and he turned toward the door, suddenly reeling once more. Maybe he wasn’t steady. He stepped out into the hall, filling his lungs with cooler air, and pulled the door closed behind him. But he did not leave his post. Instead, he listened for Dani, fearful she would fall. The sounds of wringing and wiggling and the weight of wet clothes being discarded reassured him, and he left her to retrieve his robe as he had promised.

Lenka and Zuzana had retreated to their quiet corners when he climbed the stairs, but there was cold ham and potatoes in the icebox. He made two plates and poured two glasses of milk, and ate his while he waited for Dani, listening to her movements while he filled the hollows of his anxious belly.

She was clear-eyed and composed when she joined him at the kitchen table a half hour later, but she used her fingers gingerly and ate like she was forcing herself to do so. He waited on her, counting her bites and clearing the dishes when she was through. And when she excused herself with a wan smile, pleading for sleep, he trailed behind her like a hovering nursemaid.

“Michael. I am simply tired. That is all,” she said.

“I know,” he said, defensive, and he said good night, but he lingered outside her door and waited for her to put out her light. She didn’t.

He knocked softly and, when she bid him come in, stuck his head around the frame.

“Can I just sit with you for a bit?” he asked, his chest hot and his palms wet. “I . . . I am unsettled, I suppose.”

“All right,” she said, folding her hands beneath her cheek. She yawned and closed her eyes, and he sat down on the chair by her door. The seat was upholstered with twining vines and little yellow flowers, and a fat spool of thread and a stack of doilies sat in a basket beside it. He’d seen Dani’s fingers flying with needle and thread, creating her lace. Her hands were always busy, always working, and he wondered briefly if she enjoyed it or if she’d never had another choice.

He clasped his hands in his lap and rested his head against her wall beneath the picture of George Flanagan and Darby O’Shea wearing new suits and matching smirks. A St. Christopher medallion on a chain was looped around the corner of the frame. Dani’s deference to her aunts had not extended to O’Shea’s gifts, clearly.

It was a good picture. A hopeful one. And terribly sad. George Flanagan was gone, and neither of the men in the picture or the little medallion would protect her. He certainly hadn’t. Every time he shut his eyes, he saw Dani, hanging limply with her hands tangled in the drapes.