Chapter 10

My bedroom door cracks open.

“Rise and shine,” Dad’s voice.

Morning rays beam through my glass doors and I bury my head in my pillow.

“I can’t,” I snap. “Cramps.”

Dad’s footsteps are heavy on the floorboards, inside my room now. “No, Morgan, come on. I need your help today.”

“You don’t know what this feels like,” I whine. “I’m in pain. I’ll draft up your documents later. Please just let me sleep.”

I’ve never made a habit of pulling the period card, but the truth is, I do have cramps—they’re just not as miserable as I pretend. My enthusiasm, though, is swampy-green at best. Dad can handle the day without me and he knows it. Documents can be created any time.

“You’re making things difficult,” Dad says. But a moment later, the door shuts, and the stairs creak beneath his descent.

Soon, the stink of breakfast sausage wafts under my door. My stomach growls, and I growl right back. I’m not about to let the stench of greasy meat tempt me downstairs before he leaves.

When the front door slams, I peek through the glass door and watch Dad’s truck speed off.

A grinch-grin takes over my face. “Auspicious.”

Mom’s back-pocket word. Even saying it out loud fills me with hope. She has this way of playing under-used words strategically like aces up her sleeve. She always knows the perfect word. Today feels auspicious, she’d say of her sunburst hues. Or, that’s an auspicious sign.

With Dad gone and my day open, auspicious spins a pastel rainbow of possibilities around my morning.

I change into my high-waist denim jeggings, ribbed white tank over a blue bra and tie my jacket around my waist. Downstairs, I open my drawing tablet and work over coffee and toast. Last night swims through my head. I woke twice in the night, convinced I’d heard howling. Who knew fear like that would become precious inspiration? Did Varujan know? Those wolves stirred panic in me I didn’t think I was capable of—even more than with the bear. But then, with the bear, Dad had a rifle and, well, he’s Dad.

Varujan couldn’t have planned the wolves, but it’s like he arranged it for me to face my fear. There’s something so frustratingly thrilling about him.

I glance at my shadow thistle. It shimmers turquoise beside my tablet. Transylvania is Varujan’s home. He’s used to things I’m not.

And the fact is, my foot’s tapping a mile a minute beneath the table at the thought of seeing him again.

Onscreen, I add more strokes and filler to my piece—bright and dull tones of gritty greens, stormy grays, and gothic blacks, each complementing the other. Lines both sharp and blurred. It’s become a digital illusion of pencil sketches combined with charcoal smudges. Brush with Fate, I call it.

It has to be ready for the contest by next week if I want to enter.

Vaujan’s voice drifts through my head: how true artists live … what freedom means … secrets of muse.

His words are a drug and I want more.

After a few more needless strokes, I grab my bag, slip on my jacket, and head out to the moped. I ride into Veseud with my best workout playlist blaring through my earbuds—wind in my face, music in my ears. Cramps gone. Pretty damn close to freedom now if you ask me.

I left a note for Dad explaining I went up to the café. I didn’t say which one.

When I arrive in Veseud, the looming clock tower catches my eye. Ideas dance through my head—new images to draw, colors to blend … of wolves and woods and moon flowers in the night.

A dance for the wicked. What does that even mean? Some kind of idiom? Wolves on one side, freedom on the other?

My brush with fate.

I grip the handlebars tighter and locate the tall green gate Varujan mentioned. It waits on the right, a block from the clock tower on the hill. I park the moped in front and give the gate a push. Locked. Beside it, a small open doorway lets me right out into a lush green lawn. It slopes down into a second garden with a vine-covered gazebo. Farther down still, deep within the valley, rows of cornfields and vegetable crops sit in front of a patchwork of hills.

The inn is a one-story, L-shaped structure thick wooden doors and black metal latches. Posy-filled flower boxes hang at the base of large shuttered windows. No evidence of guests. Only stillness.

And smells.

All kinds of smells. Food cooking somewhere. Fresh bread, maybe ham.

No sign of Varujan, but it’s only noon.

I sit at the picnic table beneath the gazebo and pull out my tablet. Time to get online. But the Wi-Fi signal is password protected.

I was hoping to upload Brush with Fate to Instagram. It’s been a while since I’ve uploaded new art, not that anyone’s furiously awaiting, but some feedback could be helpful.

I design a new piece to bide the time. Minutes turn into an hour, which turns into two. Just as I notice the time, a youngish dark-haired woman passes beside me. Wire glasses rest on the bridge of her nose and they look too old-fashioned for her face.

“Buna,” she greets me.

“Buna,” I reply. “Any English?”

She pauses, wiping her hands on the red double apron tied over her blue jeans. “Um, little bit.”

“Wifi?” I point to the satellite on the far corner of the inn’s roof. “Password?”

She glances at my phone. “Ah, yes ...” She nods and opens her hand.

I give her my phone and she types in the password.

“Multumesc,” I say. “Oh, have you seen a black-haired guy with a goatee? Silver hoop earrings, maybe bare feet?”

The waitress’s lips sink into a frown, and she shakes her head.

“Varujan? Thought you may know him. He stays in the clock tower with his band …”

The waitress shakes her head again.

“I’m Morgan. From America.”

“Oh, yes, America.” Her face brightens. “Long way from home. You stay here, at inn, no?”

“No. Just stopping in for some Wi-Fi. I can order something, I have money.” I pull the lei from my jacket pocket.

“If you like. There is food in dining room, across the lawn.”

She steps closer to the table. “If I may say so, take care here in Veseud.” Her brown-eyed gaze narrows.

“What d’you mean?” I glance around at the empty lawn.

Her frown deepens. “Clock tower is dangerous.”

I stare until her words register. “I get it. Because it’s falling apart, right?”

Squinting, the waitress studies me. “Why you come here? Family?”

“Just for Wi-fi.”

Caw!

A white-eyed rook lands on top of the gazebo. It cries out again before settling its wings into its stance. I never thought I’d be so glad to see that bird. Varujan is taking forever.

The waitress glances at the rook, backs away, and pins her eyes on me.

“Take care,” she whispers. “Or the darkness will blind you.”