The Ruby Locket by Anita Higman, Hillary McMullen Page A

time to time, if no one minded, that is. I gave him a quick thank you and strode off before he told me to go into the house and sit in a corner. My mood had obviously turned sour, and I still could hardly believe that Mr. Marley had sold my car without even asking me.
                  In the distance I could hear the man call to me, “Need to be careful out there. There’s—”
                  “Yes, yes, I know. There might be hail.” There might be pestilence. There might be earthquakes. That is, anything and everything to keep me from going into town! I didn’t call back to him again. I didn’t turn around. I just kept walking.
                  Marley yelled some other kind of warning but the words got swallowed up by the wild winds. Good. I didn’t want to hear another word.
                  My brisk walk turned into a jog. I’d made it all the way to a bank of eucalyptus trees when I finally slowed down. That felt good. I lowered my hands to my knees to catch my breath. Ahh, one of my favorite scents—eucalyptus. I yanked down a few leaves from the tree, crushed them in my hand and lifted them to my nose. The thunder lessened, giving me a reprieve from its wrath. I might survive this day after all. As my spirit unwound a little, I began a gentle stroll through the woods.
                  I plucked a fern—one that had an intricate primeval design to it—and twirled it in my fingers. What beauty here in the woodlands of Belrose Abbey. On impulse I lowered myself to the ground and lay back on the blanket of green with my arms resting above my head.
                  A sunburst streamed out from one of the billowy clouds and flickered like lacework on the forest floor, warming my face. Intoxicating. I could grow to love this. My eyes drifted shut, and I would have fallen into quite a blissful dreamland had I not heard the faintest sound—a sound that almost hinted of a growl. I raised my head. A throng of dragonflies whorled around my head, their delicate wings glistening as they lighted on a patch of poppies. All was well. No snarls. Just the kiss of dragonflies.
                  Then I let myself enter that slumber that was beckoning. Mmmm. There was almost a whisper in the air. Come, Dauphine. Come find your rest.
                  Come…

 
     
    Chapter Thirteen
    Anne
     
    I found Wyatt polishing silver at the dining room table, his curly black hair falling over his eyes as he scrubbed at a punch bowl.
                  Leaning against the doorway, I said, “Ivan makes you do that?”
                  Glancing up, Wyatt’s sharp blue eyes fixed on me. “What do you want?”
                  Biting my lip, I entered the room and sat across from him. “Listen, I’m sorry for writing you off in the kitchen last night. What do I know, after all? You’re the one who’s lived here for years.” I rubbed my eyebrows with my fingers. “And besides, I have to admit, this place is pretty creepy. Dark passageways, catacombs with psycho graffiti, a housekeeper who seems stuck in the 1800s. Much as I hate to admit it, you could be right.”
                  Wyatt went back to his polishing, but the edges of his mouth softened a little.
                  I wasn’t exactly sure I really believed the things I just told him, but I hated the idea of Wyatt thinking that I was insensitive to his grief. I understood his pain and I wanted to be there for him, even if he sounded a little unhinged. Looking up at the large oil painting of the woman hung high on the wall, I asked, “That’s your mother, isn’t it?”
                  Without looking, he said, “Yes.”
                  The woman had heaps of thick black curls and piercing blue eyes. “You really take after her.”
                  Wyatt glanced up at me, and I could tell he was