Chapter 5

Was It Only a Dream?

Daphne awoke to sunlight streaming in through her window. She stretched sleepily and started to get up when the events of the previous night came crashing down on her. All of a sudden, the bright room seemed to become forbidding, and she clutched her pillow to her chest. Hyperventilating slightly, she forced herself to get out of bed. Her heart continued to pound with fear as she put a tentative foot on the cold ground. She seemed to hold her breath, waiting for something to happen. Nothing did. There was no scary voice, no terror waiting to get her. She breathed a shaky sigh of relief and finished getting out of bed.

As she dressed, she reluctantly thought back to the previous night's events. After discovering her unconscious on the bathroom floor, her uncle had done what he could to rouse her, but it had seemed as if she was in a coma, and unwilling to wake up. He told her that it had been the scariest moment of his life, hoping that she would wake up. After waking up from the nightmare, her uncle had helped her to bed. When he had asked what had happened, she had quickly told him about the face in the mirror and how it had seemed to attack her. Her uncle had hobbled to the mirror and taken a good long look at it. She had the fleeting fear that he would think her mad, but then he had taken one of the bathroom towels and hung it over the mirror, blocking it completely. She had breathed a sigh of relief. Her uncle had then come to her bedside and had sat there for another hour, rocking her back and forth as if she were a young child. She hadn't complained because at that moment she was a child. She had felt all her childhood fears of the boogeyman and the dark come flooding back to her mind. She had fallen asleep like that, with her uncle holding her and muttering words of comfort.

Now in the light of day, she felt a bit silly from her experience. It had simply been the story and account that had put her on edge, that's all. There's no way that it could have been real, right? She kept asking herself what the nightmare had meant. Turning to the closed bathroom door, she felt rooted from indecision. She realized her palms were getting slick from sweat. Her heart raced, seemingly trying to beat its way out of her chest. Taking a deep breath, she firmly told herself to shelve her fears. To prove it, she stepped forward and grasped the bathroom handle. She almost couldn't turn it, her palms were so sweaty. Walking in, she turned and faced the mirror. It was still covered with the thick towel her uncle had put on it last night. Taking a deep breath she reached out a shaking hand and grasped the edge of the towel. With a mighty fling, she bared the mirror and gasped.

Her frightened reflection stared back at her in the mirror. She began to giggle as she looked at the girl in the mirror. The long bangs that usually curled over her forehead were now plastered there from sweat. Her face, usually a light brown from the sun, was very pale and had a wan look at it. Her dark brown eyes had a slightly manic intensity to them now. She stared in fascination at the stranger. Surely that can't be her! She thought. How odd. She continued to stare for some minutes before giving herself a mental shake. Right then, she thought, back to work we go.

She met her concerned uncle downstairs in the kitchen. He anxiously grabbed her hand and held it. "How are you feeling today, Daphne?" he croaked. To her alarm, it appeared that he had rapidly aged since the previous night. "I'm all right uncle, really. It was just a bad dream." She soothed. Privately, she still had lingering doubts, but she wasn't going to share them with her uncle! "Good, good." He said after a moment's pause. Releasing her hand he gestured to the small table. "I've made us a spot of breakfast and some tea to settle our nerves. Must have been the fumes from those cleaning chemicals, eh, what?" he said quietly. However, his concerned eyes continued to watch her. She felt bad for making him worry, so she quickly at her breakfast and took her first taste of the tea. "Bleargh. What is this stuff?!" she gasped. Her face was all crinkled up and looked as if she had taken a mouthful of sourballs. "It's a root tea made here." Her uncle said. "It's very good for nerves. I've got a bit of a supply laid in thanks to Maude. She makes it herself, you know." Daphne looked at the cup as if it was fish oil. "Yuck. I wish she could do something about the taste!" "Well," her uncle said. "It will grow on you. Why don't you finish up the cup, and we can get started, eh?" Daphne would have rather taken flu medicine rather than that horrible tea. But, to make her uncle happy, she dutifully drank up the whole cup. Her uncle beamed at her as he went to finish the dishes.

"Uncle?" Daphne asked as she paused at the door. "Yes dear?" her uncle looked up. "I thought you said a storm was supposed to be blowing through today?" She asked. "I feel it still in my bones." Her uncle replied, "And the weatherman tells me that we are in for a bit of a blow. However, the storm appears to be stalled out near the coast. He thinks it will be hear tomorrow or Wednesday." "Oh." She said as she walked away. How odd. She thought.

With the bookshelves all done, she tackled the furniture next. While the chairs she and her uncle had been using had been dusted off, there were still five others that needed their dust covers removed and the chairs themselves vacuumed and dusted clean. There were a total of three tables that needed to be dusted and the thick carpet that made up the floor needed to be vacuumed. She spent an entire morning simply on that chore alone. As she worked, she heard her uncle moving about the hall with lots of thumping and cursing. When she heard a terrific crash, she paused from the table she was working on and stepped out of the library. There she found her uncle looking flustered at a painting he had been trying to take down. It was the face of a very lovely woman. "The Countess on the younger brother's side." Her uncle explained. "I meant to take her down for cleaning but I'm afraid she slipped out of my hands." Daphne smiled slightly. The painting was unhurt, and there was only a slight mashing of the corner that had taken the brunt of the fall. Placing a Swiffer in his hands, she told him to dust while she finished up the library. He sheepishly went on his way while she carefully rehung the painting. She glanced again at the painting and thought that the face seemed vaguely familiar. Shrugging it off she returned to the library.

At one, the doorbell rang. "I'll get it Uncle." She hollered. She couldn't hear his response, but went to the door anyway. As she opened the door, her heart skipped a beat. There on the stoop was Jeremiah. She felt a goofy smile blossom on her face, and she tried to smother it immediately. "Hello." He said slowly. "Ma sent me over to see if you could use some help here today." "Oh! Sure." She said She knew she was grinning like an idiot, but couldn't seem to stop. He cocked an eyebrow at her. "Are you going to let me in?" he asked with a hint of a smile. She felt her face flush hot. "Of course! Of course, I'm sorry." She babbled as she stepped back and let him in. As he walked over the threshold, she firmly tried to get a grip of herself. Letting out a breath, she turned to him with a smile and spoke. "Could you help me. I've finished the library and I was thinking about working on the statue outside." He shrugged his shoulders. "Sure." He said. Following her directions, he went to the closet and collected the masonry cleaner that she had bought yesterday.

Outside, the sun showed with a fierceness that nearly blinded her. She held out her hand to block the light and squinted. Slowly her eyes adjusted and she saw the statue again. With the light streaming around him, he had that majesty about him again. She was again captivated by the proud face of the man as he silently screamed his defiance to the world.

"Impressive, isn't he?" Came Jeremiah's voice. Startled out of her reverie, she turned to him a little guiltily. "Yeah, you could say that. There's just something about him. He draws me in." With a broad grin, he slapped the leg of the centaur. "Hear that old boy, you've captivated yourself another filly!" "Shut up!" she said laughing, throwing a mock punch at him that he dodged laughing. Holding his hands up in mock surrender he pulled out the foaming cleaner and a pair of scrub brushes. He tossed her one of the cans and a brush while he took the other. Together they started spraying the lower reaches of the centaur and scrubbing. As they worked, they bantered back and forth about their lives and occasionally laughing. Neither noticed the face in the window of the second floor, watching.

When they had gotten about as high as they could go, they took a break. Sitting in his shadow, they relaxed in the breeze that gently gathered her hair. As she leaned back, she felt the statue. Already, there was a tremendous difference in the top and the bottom. From above, he was still dark and covered in a gray scale. Below, he shone as white marble. She stretched her aching back from the work and smiled at Jeremiah. He smiled back at her and cracked his neck. "What brings you to jolly old Grimesmoor Moor?" he asked. "Um, my uncle." She said. "He invited me out to see the ancestral home, and I thought it would be a great chance to see the world. He didn't know how bad the house was when he sent me the invite." She laughed. He grinned. "Not what you expected, eh?" "Well, no, not really." She confessed. "However, I have found some things I can't explain yet." "Like what?" he asked curiously. "Well, have you heard the story of the Forbes Centaur?" she asked him. He looked thoughtful for a moment. He nodded. "I remember ma telling me one night. Her great-great-great aunt was one of the maids in the manor." "Oh?" said Daphne interestedly. "Yeah. Let me see if I remember what she told me."

The count had been getting stranger and stranger since his brother left and the Duke had been killed. He had taken to locking himself in his rooms for most of the day, only to emerge in a drunken rage at anyone who was foolish enough to disturb him. Cloe McNearish and the others had been tiptoeing around the manor house for weeks, terrified lest the master should emerge in a drunken fit. Any conversation took place in hushed whispers if they took place at all. Cloe crept silently down the lower hall and eased quietly into the kitchen. Cook was working over the stove, using a big wooden spoon to stir the soup bubbling in a large silver pot. The delicious smell wafting from the pot caused her mouth to water. She moved beside the cook and tapped her on the shoulder. "How is it coming?" she whispered. The cook started. She glanced over and breathed a sigh of relief. "Mercy child!" she whispered back. "You scared me. Dinner will be ready shortly. Tell James to be ready to tell the Master." Cloe nodded and gulped quietly.

She stole away silently to search for the butler, James. She found him straightening a painting while the Count watched. She gave a muffled squeak at the sight of the count and hid behind the suit of armor in the hall. Peeking around, she nearly gasped at the sight of the Count. His hair was long and lank, his clothes were rumpled and unkempt, but it was his face that frightened her. Cold and stern, with dark circles under his eyes and a thick growth of fur on his neck, it was most unlike the Count. Normally a jovial man, he had always been ready with a quick wit and a ready smile. He was so different lately. She noticed his hand in his pocket, where a large bulge was plainly visible. She knew immediately it was that strange statue that had come into the house. She knew it had to be the cause of all the trouble.

"James." The Count said, startling her. "Yes sir?" asked the butler as he finished rehanging the painting. "Tell John in the village that I want to see him tomorrow. I wish to commission a statue for the front of the house." "Very good sir." said the butler. It was then that he noticed Cloe. "Well girl. What do you want." Barked the butler. Frightened now, she came around the suit and curtsied deeply. "Sir, the Cook says dinner will be ready soon." She said quietly. She really didn't want to be noticed right now. The butler saw this and his normally grim features relaxed into a smile. "Good girl. Run along to Cook and tell her that the master will be ready to dine shortly." The Count opened his mouth to argue, but closed it again. He nodded to Cloe and attempted to smile at her, but it came out a horrid grimace. Frightened by the hideous mask, she gave one last curtsy and fled to the kitchen as fast as her feet could carry her.

The next day, Cloe caught sight of John, the village artist, coming out of the Master's den. He was staring down at a thick piece of parchment in his hand as if he couldn't quite believe it was there. He looked so lost and alone that she couldn't help but smile at his confused expression. "Hello John." She said by way of greeting. He looked up from the thick paper he was holding and his eyes widened in surprise. "Oh, Miss McNearish. I didn't see you there. How are you?" He stammered. "Just fine. And what have you there?" she asked, pointing to the paper. "A bit o' work mayhap? A little something the Master wants?" "Actually, you've got it all right except the little part." He told her. Her eyebrow went up and he turned the paper around to show her. Cloe felt her eyebrows climb to the top of her head. There on the paper was a drawing of a centaur. He held a spear or lance in one hand and a shield in the other, and the look of anger and loss on his face was so terrible she felt a flutter of fear in her heart simply from looking at it. She looked up in surprise at him. "A centaur?" she asked in surprise. "Yep." He replied. "He commissioned a second piece too, but this is an actual painting. I'm to finish it about the same time as the statue." "Oooh, a painting!" she said, "What of, O talented one?" "A woman. He's described her features very well, but oddly, he only wants her from the waist up." "Strange." Cloe said. She wondered what it all meant. Catching sight of John walking down the stairs, she felt a frission of fear run through her at getting caught. "Well, have a good day to yeh then, Mr. Gillycuddy."

"Wait." Said Daphne. "Gillycuddy?" "Yep." Replied Jeremiah. "My great, great, something grandfather. When the count commissioned that statue, they met and fell in love. Do you want me to finish the story or not?" "Okay," said Daphne, "Sorry."

Over the next three months, John became a bit of a regular around the Forbes Manor. A huge block of white marble had been delivered and he spent much of his time out working with hammer and chisel, carefully carving out the centaur. As he worked, Cloe would sneak him out bits of food or drink from the kitchen and they would talk. For hours they discussed the life both wanted, and plans for the future. Cloe wanted to see the world, while John wanted nothing more than a good wife and home. Cloe asked him how the painting was going, and was surprised when John asked her to model for him. They would meet late at night after James had gone to bed and he would paint her in the sitting room. It felt incredibly nice and a bit naughty to sit on a chair in her nothing and pose for him. Cloe began to realize that perhaps all the world she really needed to see was right here in the village.

On the last day of the new moon in the month of March, John finally finished the statue. John brought Cloe out to see the final product. "John, what's going on. You've been so mysterious over the past few weeks." Cloe laughed. She was feeling good as for once nothing had gone wrong that day. "Well, I wanted to show you the statue." He said slowly, grinning. "All right. But hurry! This weather is going to turn me blue from cold." Indeed, it was a very cold day, in a month of particularly cold nights. Already several of the local farmers had lost their livestock to cold, and wood was getting scarce again. With a flourish, he lifted a corner of the tarpaulin that covered the statue and gestured for her to go in. With a saucy smile, she flounced in and looked at the statue. Her smile faded as she took in his enormous size and fury. "Come with me." He whispered behind her, causing her to jump and turn in alarm. "Don't sneak up on me." She scolded him, smacking him on the arm. Laughing, he took her up the scaffolding he had been using to work on the statue's upper reaches. When she was at eye level, she gasped in surprise. "Do you like it?" asked John. "It's the Count!" she exclaimed. "Yes. It was what he wanted. Himself as a centaur. He wanted it holding a spear, for some reason or another. I finished the painting too, with your help." She nodded, not really paying attention. The eyes of the statue held her riveted. The flesh seemed so life-like, she feared he would alive. She turned and clutched John for a moment. He took her arms and held her. "John, you did amazing work." She whispered. "I had an excellent muse." He said. He seemed to be struggling with something. "What is it." She asked. She was rudely surprised when he thrust her back from him. She felt her mouth open to ask him what the hell had gotten into him when he fell to one knee and produced a ring of gold from his coat pocket. "Cloe McNeary, will you marry me?" he asked. She felt stunned, but quickly nodded yes. She couldn't trust herself to speak. He carefully slid the ring onto her finger and she felt as if the statue seemed to be smiling at her. She held on to John as if she never wanted to let him go.

"And she never did." Jeremiah finished. "They traveled around the world for three summers after John had finished his commissions and Cloe left the household. The Count gave them enough money to build a life for themselves, and they created the shop in town that Ma owns today. It was originally designed as a sort of studio for John to display his art and get custom, and it worked."

Daphne chewed on her lip slightly as Jeremiah pulled himself off the statue and stretched. The story fit with what she had read in the diary, and it explained so much more. The count had seemed to fall into the classic pattern of depression that characterized the loss of a loved one. She wondered which painting the count had commissioned, and if it was really Cloe or Seraphia that was on it.

"Who was the duke?" she asked as she got back up. Jeremiah looked at her in surprise. "Which duke?" he asked. "The son that inherited the title. Didn't he come around looking for revenge?" she said, thinking about what she had read in the diary. Jeremiah looked thoughtful for a moment. "You know, I remember hearing about a duke. Yes, I remember now. The duke had tried to seize the Forbes manor, but disappeared soon after. Everyone assumed the Count had killed him in battle, but they never found the body. Or that of the Count's for that matter. Good thing too. The way I hear, the man was a sight. Very pale featured with piercing eyes, a weasel like face and an evil temper." Cloe felt herself go cold at the description. It was the same as the face in the mirror.

"Jeremiah," she said, "I think there's something I need to tell you…"