Page 73 of Savage Blooms
“What the fuck is going on in this place, Eileen?” Adam said, pulling his arm out of her grasp and stopping at the foot of the stairs. She looked down at him from a few steps above, irritated with the pushback, but Finley saw clearly that Adam had scraped the bottom of the barrel of his patience and come up with nothing. The air between Adam and Eileen was tense, pulled taut as a bowstring as they stared each other down.
At Finley’s side, Nicola slipped her hand into his own and gave a nervous squeeze.
“I’ve told you exactly what the fuck is going on,” Eileen said crisply. “You’re the one who refuses to believe me.”
“I’ve bent over backwards to believe you. I’ve certainly taken everything you’ve said in stride. But it feels like every time I go outside something attacks me and—”
“You’re right,” Eileen said with a nod. “It’s probably safest if you don’t leave the house for a while.”
“You can’t keep me on house arrest becauseTinkerbellis outside—”
“Watch the way you talk about our neighbors,” Eileensaid, hissing through her teeth as though warding off the devil.
“This is exactly what I’m talking about,” Adam said, stomping halfway up the stairs before turning to look back down at her. Finley thought about breaking up this brewing domestic, but even he wasn’t brave enough to come between Eileen and whoever she was locked in battle with. “I don’t know what’s real and what’s superstition, and I don’t know what happened to my grandfather here or why he left. I don’t even know how long I’m going to have to stay.”
“As long as it takes, I’m sure,” Eileen said nastily, probably showing more of her hand than she intended to. Eileen was incredibly calculating, but she got sloppy when she was mad.
“Lay off him, Isla,” Finley said, desperate to shut her up before she said too much. “He’s just had a scare.”
“Taking his side now?” Eileen demanded. “How very like a man.”
“I can handle this myself, Finley,” Adam said, just as ferociously.
Finley relented. No good deed went unpunished, apparently.
“Can you please at least tell me what happened to your grandmother?” Adam went on. “I know that you know why she disappeared, I can feel that there’s something you’re not telling me—”
“I don’t know what happened to her,” Eileen said.
“You’re lying!” Adam said, smacking the banister with a force that made Eileen start. The Kirkfoyle temper ran just as deep as the charm, it appeared. “What’s the point of me being here if you can’t even tell me the truth?”
“You’re here on my pleasure, Adam Lancaster,” Eileen said, voice cold as ice. “And you would do well to remember that.”
Adam looked Eileen up and down, as though finally seeing her for the first time. The expression that crossed his face next was pure disgust, like he had turned over a rock and found Eileen wet and wriggling on the underside.
“I’m going to shower,” Adam said, and he looked right through Eileen when he said it.
With that, he turned and disappeared up the stairs. Nicola hurried after him, calling his name sharply one moment and then pleadingly the next. Finley was left staring up at Eileen. She looked every inch the miserable fallen angel wreathed in the red halo glow of the stained glass behind her head. Without another word, she stormed up the stairs to her bedroom.
Two hours later, after she had hopefully had enough time to cool down, Finley climbed the narrow set of stairs to the third floor and knocked lightly on her door.
“Go away,” Eileen said from inside.
Finley unlatched the door and pushed inside.
Eileen’s childhood bedroom was small, by no stretch of the imagination the grand quarters of the lord of the manor. The dark wood paneling of the baseboards andtrim contrasted starkly with the sky-blue wallpaper, dotted with little vines. The walls were crammed with framed paintings, mostly of foreign locales, and one large tapestry of a man hunting a unicorn that hung over a small fireplace. A modest bookshelf tucked in one corner boasted books of poetry, myth, fiction and picture books, many of which were antiques.
Finley had asked Eileen a dozen times if she wanted his help moving into a larger room, or into her parents’ old master bedroom. Every time, Eileen said no, making up excuses about hauling furniture down stairs and already having the best fireplace in the house. Finley knew, though he was too kind ever to say it out loud, that Eileen refused to abandon the final vestiges of her girlhood, the last time she was truly happy.
Eileen was sulking, fully dressed, under a sheet, looking considerably worse for wear. She was reading a book of poems (probably an affectation to cover up for the fact that she had obviously been crying moments before he arrived, as Eileen hated poetry) and studiously working through the decanter of Scotch by her bed. She drank it neat from a highball glass: no ice, no soda.
“Would you like to come down for dinner?” Finley asked. “If not, I can bring you something from the kitchen.”
“I’m not hungry,” she mumbled, staring unseeing into her book.
Finley sat down on the edge of the bed, and put out ahand to squeeze Eileen’s socked foot. Even through the covers, she was cold. She was breathing shallowly, her forehead pale and speckled with sweat. The fight with Adam hadn’t helped her health, and neither, Finley suspected, had the whisky.
“I shouldn’t have told him anything,” Eileen said, flipping a page aggressively, like it had personally wronged her. “Now he knows enough to ask questions, not to mention he hates me. It’s never going to work.”
