House Of Shadows. Jen Christie
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Her gasp when she first saw the mechanical man was the single most heavenly sound he’d ever heard. They both saw the same thing in his invention—potential—he knew it in his bones. Of course, he’d become too excited, got too close and scared her. Scared her. Scaring people was something he was far too good at.
Even with that painful disappointment, his spirits were still riding high because she just might work out. Her intellect was apparent. Other assistants worked methodically but without vigor, and he felt the burden of constantly explaining task after task to someone who didn’t care to learn the concepts or take leaps of initiative. He held out hope that she might work out just fine.
“How long have you been designing the mechanical man?” she asked, turning to look at him with those blue, blue eyes, and he found himself struggling to pay attention to her words.
“Six years.”
“Six years?” Her perfect lips made an O of surprise. “That’s a long time to remain committed to something that still hasn’t born results.”
“The results? The end?” He laughed. “What’s that? Every morning when I go to bed, I have to restrain my mind from dwelling on my project. I would think of it all day, every single moment, if I could.”
* * *
Penrose returned to her desk and began working again, but the uneasy, flighty feeling in her chest lingered. The feeling was strange, excitement and fear mingled together. He was exciting to be around, but he was a volatile person. And mysterious. Her stomach twisted at the memory of his hand on her shoulder.
He paced the room while he spoke. She took notes. Scribbling furiously, she did her best to keep up with him. His ideas were explosions of brilliance, and as he spoke, she slipped into a kind of trance, channeling his words directly onto the paper.
He spoke of the function of the mechanical man, of ways to solve the dilemma with the gears, of the possible need to retool some of them and the supreme need for flexibility of design.
It was revealing to hear his thoughts aloud and easy to take measure of his mind. He had an organized way of thinking, linear and clear. His ideas were concise and simple to understand, and her pen flew across the paper. At times, he paced the floor or hesitated before speaking. She waited, pen in the air, and as soon as his words began to flow once again her scratchings on the paper renewed.
He came and stood behind her. After discussing the particularly difficult redesign of a gear, he put his hand on her shoulder and asked, “Did that make sense? I think if we change the ratio, the output will be stronger.”
A twist of nervousness tightened within her. She looked up at him, her eyes wide. The sight of him—tall and regal, with his white hair framing his handsome face—affected her, making her breath heavy.
“Yes,” she said, nodding as if she understood perfectly. But the only thing she understood was his hand and those long elegant fingers resting on her shoulder.
She couldn’t breathe. More than anything she wanted to rest her cheek on that hand, to feel it caress her skin. Never before had she reacted in such a way. Something strange was happening.
Somehow, her pen kept moving, danced across the paper and finished the last sentence. The realization that she wanted more of that touch made her hand shake and her script wobbly.
He had such passion. A singular-minded obsession. She wondered what it would it be like if he lavished that passion on her.
The thought flamed her cheeks, and she pulled away from him, turning her head. Instantly, his hand disappeared from her shoulder. She wanted to face him and say something, but what could she say? Nothing at all.
Stepping away, he continued speaking, pacing the floor. And she continued writing as if nothing had passed between them.
She wrote so much her fingers hurt, and the tips of them became stained with ink. It felt like an instant later the grandfather clock tolled the midnight hour. Time seemed to speed up when she was with him.
She stretched her tired, achy fingers, waiting for the chimes to stop and Carrick to start lecturing again. But as soon as the clock fell silent, another sound rang out.
It was the sound of crashing noises coming from outside, and the second she heard them, a terrible sense of foreboding settled over her.
* * *
As soon as Carrick heard the crashing sounds coming from outside the workshop he was up and out the door. He didn’t know what he was expecting—C.J. maybe, up to some antics—but when he went outside only the summer breeze greeted him. He looked around. Nothing.
He heard the faint sound of a woman’s gasp. It was light and breathy with an air of surprise and something else, something he couldn’t name.
He looked in the direction of the sound and saw a woman standing just outside the circle of light that came from the window. She wore all white and had a sheen of yellow hair that trailed just below her shoulders.
An angel. That was his first thought. She floated out there in the darkness, hovering with a strange look of fear and longing on her face. Such longing.
She couldn’t be a ghost. No such thing. “Hey,” said Carrick sharply. “What are you doing out here?”
Instead of replying, she shook her head slowly and began to back away.
“Hey!” he called again, louder now.
The woman began backing away, the shadows swallowing her. “Stop!” he said, “Don’t go. Tell me who you are.”
Penrose came and stood right behind him, her body pressed against his.
“What is it?” she asked, craning to see outside. “No!” she shouted, surprising him so much that he startled. “Go away!” The tone of her voice was frightened. More than frightened.
“Do you know that woman?” Carrick asked.
The woman turned to Penrose, and something passed between them. He felt it like a bolt of lightning.
The woman outside looked angry, beyond angry. Her posture was rigid. She lifted her hand and pointed at Penrose. For a moment, it looked as if the blonde were about to speak, but she shook her head again and, in a swirl of white skirts, turned and fled.
Some primal instinct flared inside of him, and he took off running after her. No one should be on the property. He didn’t know what she was up to, but he fully intended to find out.
“No, Carrick!” screamed Penrose. “Don’t follow her!”
He paid Penrose no attention. “Stop!” he shouted to the woman. It was dark. He had trouble enough seeing at night, let alone running through the trees.
He heard her crashing through the woods, and this made her easier to follow. He loped along behind her, his long legs closing the distance between them. Her crashing sounds were getting louder by the second. Once he caught her, he would get to the bottom of this little mystery.
* * *
A heavy, oppressive feeling settled in Penrose’s chest. As soon as she saw the woman, she knew her ruse was up. Her breath died in her chest at that moment. So did the little feeling of hope that finally she had started to feel. She should’ve known the scheme would end badly.
Anytime she tried to get ahead, something came along and set her back. Now Carrick was out there, chasing that woman, that beautiful, perfect woman who by all rights should be standing right where Penrose stood.
Now alone in the quiet workshop, feeling numb, Penrose looked around her. The budding hope that had begun to grow inside of her was already dying. She looked around, trying to memorize everything in the room because she knew she would be leaving. Carrick would show up any minute, yell at her and kick her out. She’d never see the workshop or Harris again. Or Carrick. Her reaction surprised her.
In one quick fix, she had thought she