The Catswold Portal

She rose and went down the room. At the far end, above the stacked paintings, glassed-in bookcases faced the windows. Art books filled them now, but once there had been china animals. She and Alice used to play with them, making up stories. She reached beneath a glass door and slipped the hidden latch and felt the weight of the door as she drew it open. She imagined the set of white china horses they both had loved. But this was another unconnected memory; she couldn’t bring it all together. She turned suddenly, sensing that Braden watched her.

“How did you know to do that? Open the latch?”

“I suppose I’ve seen one like it,” she said quietly. “How long were you and Alice married?”

“Four years.”

“And you lived here in the studio, and worked here together. But before that, who lived in this house?”

“Alice’s aunt. We moved over from the city after she died; she left the house to Alice. We remodeled—tore out some walls to get the studio space.”

“Aunt Carrie,” she said softly, the pictures flooding back of a square, stocky Aunt Carrie, her short white hair always mussed, her thick ankles hidden in opaque stockings.

“When did she die, Braden?”

“A year before we were married,” he said quietly. “Of heart failure. She was diabetic.”

“Yes. Insulin shots.” Pale white skin, the needle.

He looked at her evenly. “You gave me the impression you were a stranger.”

“I suppose I did.” The memories were fitting together now, the memory of her childhood far sharper now than any fragmented memory of the Netherworld.

He was very still, hadn’t touched his drink. “Turn your head, Sarah.”

She held the profile until he said, “All right,” as he would if he were drawing her. He stood moments more looking at her, then turned away and knelt before an oversized chest with long, thin drawers. He pulled out the bottom drawer and began to shuffle through drawings. He removed one, studied it, and handed it to her.

She looked down into the face of a child, in profile against the door of the cats. The cats’ faces surrounded hers. Braden got his sketch pad and held, next to Alice’s drawing, his own drawing done an hour earlier as she had stood against the dark woods, her profile sharply defined in the library window.

They were the same. The child’s wide mouth was turned up at the corners. She had the same nose, the same dark lashes and light brows. Only the hair was different. The child’s hair was a patchwork of pale and dark streaks, several shades mixed together, tumbling down her shoulders.

He rose and went out to the veranda, and stood looking up the garden. She laid the drawings on the coffee table side by side, stared at them, then escaped to the bathroom.

She shut the door and stood looking into the mirror. She saw, superimposed over her present reflection, the face of the child who had, years ago, stood looking into this glass.

She and Alice used to come here to stay with Aunt Carrie for weekends. The door of the cats had been her special place. She remembered when Alice had drawn her there. “Just a few more minutes, Melissa—you can be still just a little while more…”

She remembered the last time she was alone by the door. Alice had gone into town to get something for Aunt Carrie. She had been playing and talking to the carved cats. She had been grabbed from behind and jerked into the tool room. The oak door slammed as she kicked and bit. Her screams were muffled by a hand over her mouth. A woman’s voice hissed words she didn’t know—rhythmic words.

The voice had been Siddonie’s.

The next memory that would come was of riding double behind Mag, looking down the rocky cliff, seeing a thatched stone cottage, not knowing where she was or how she had gotten there.

When she came out of the bathroom, he was standing before the coffee table looking at the drawings. He looked up at her. “Melissa.”

“Yes.”

“Alice thought you were dead.”

“My memory was dead. For years I didn’t know my true name—I thought it was Sarah. I didn’t remember anything. I came here to try to remember. I saw you in the studio working, and I remembered this house.”

“You met me on purpose today.”

“Yes.”

“And in front of the tea shop?”

“I had started to come in, then I saw you and I was afraid suddenly,” she lied. “I knew you lived here but I didn’t know who you were. I didn’t remember Alice then—only the house.”

She sat down on the edge of the couch. “Maybe I was afraid of finding out more.” It was hard to tell him half the truth. She found it hard to lie to him. “I didn’t even know what color my hair was. Someone kept it dyed. I…” She felt shaken because he was so angry—silent and pale and angry. “It—sounds silly but I—I would like to wash the dye out.” She looked at him openly. “It would—maybe I would feel more like Melissa. Maybe be more like Melissa.”

He nodded curtly. “The towels are in the bathroom cupboard, the shampoo on the shelf in the shower.”