The Splendour Falls by Unknown, Rosemary Clement-Moore Page B

couldn’t be, because I’d been standing in the middle of the kitchen and no one had come in. No one had moved past me but the figures in my imagination.
    But I’d felt her. And seen her. Not imagined. Sensed.
    Forcing myself down the hall was like taking my first steps in physical therapy. An exercise in will. But I had to find the explanation. The drift of curtain or shaft of moonlight that was real and tangible, just transformed by my thoughts, the natural outgrowth of my ruminations.
    But there was nothing. The curtains in the dining room were drawn and still. The only illumination was from a night-light in the corner outlet.
    Oh crap.
    Leaving the room was much easier. I hurried to the kitchen, then out the back door and onto the covered porch, where Gigi was waiting for me in her crate, pawing at the latch impatiently. As soon as I let her out, she jumped into my arms, and I sat down hard on one of the cushioned wicker settees, my trembling legs giving out. Just like my marbles.
    The black-humour barrier between me and my fears had come crashing down. This was bad. Unfunny, unvarnished, undeniably awful. What had just happened was different from my earlier imaginings. This wasn’t just overly detailed fantasy. I had truly slipped. I’d been convinced the figure in the hall was real, right up to the moment I realized it couldn’t be.
    It was Central Park all over again. But I was dead sober. Tired, overwrought, totally freaking out, but very, very sober. And I had to face the question, if it wasn’t alcohol, and it wasn’t Vicodin … did that mean it was me ?
    Gigi licked my cheek. I had her cuddled tight to my chest, and she snuggled trustingly against my neck. At least one of us was confident in my ability to take care of us.
    It was reassuring in a way that logic could never be. I couldn’t crack up, because then who would look after Gigi? Therefore, I would not go crazy. If sheer force of will could keep someone sane, then I was the one to do it. Ballerinas are made of willpower.
    On the porch, the quiet didn’t seem so oppressive. I could hear the wind in the trees and, very faintly, the sound of the river. The night was warmish, but the ceiling fan stirred the air. I grabbed an old quilt from the back of the settee and wrapped it around Gigi and me as we curled up together.
    I didn’t think I would fall asleep, given the turmoil in my head, and certainly not on the creaky wicker settee. But I couldn’t quite face the house and its creaks and sighs. Instead, I stroked Gigi’s silky fur and reachedfor the calm I felt when I dug my feet into the grass. Just like my dad had taught me.
    When I opened my eyes again, the moonlight had changed with the passing of who knew how long. I’d worked my way down on the settee, neck at a painful angle, Gigi snuggled against my chest. She was shivering in her sleep, and I realized I was cold too, even with the quilt around us.
    I thought – as much as I was thinking anything, because thinking meant remembering why I was there – that the chill had woken me, but then I caught a faint sound, the same mournful keen I’d heard earlier in the evening. It rose in a thin wail, and I lifted my heavy head, then winced at the crick in my neck. Gigi gave a tiny, sleepy growl, but even she was too tired to get excited over it.
    The sound faded, and I pushed myself painfully upright, holding Gigi securely in one arm. More than half asleep, I stumbled into the house and down the hall. I limped up the stairs, pulling myself up by the handrail and cursing whatever quirk of ventilation had made the centre of the house so damned cold. Teeth chattering, I found my room, closed the door against the chill and fell into bed, careful not to squish Gigi.
    I pulled the covers over us both, and she tucked her head under my chin, already snoring. I wasn’t far behind.
    The sweet smell of lilacs was strong, and invaded my sleep as I