Chapter 6 - THE NIGHTMARE IN THE HALL
Dante was out the door before Clara could draw a breath.
She followed him into the dim hallway, her bare feet silent on the antique runner.
The scream had come from the end of the east wing.
Leo’s bedroom door stood wide open.
Inside, the room was bathed in the pale green glow of an aquarium nightlight.
Leo was huddled in the corner between his mahogany bookshelf and the wall.
He had torn his pillows open.
White goose feathers drifted through the air like snow.
His fingernails were scratching violently at his own forearms, leaving angry red welts.
“No red,” the boy sobbed into his chest.
His voice was hoarse, shredded with terror.
“No red! No fire! The water is burning!”
Two guards stood paralyzed near the wardrobe, their hands hovering helplessly.
“Step out,” Dante commanded.
His voice was a low whip.
The guards backed out of the room instantly, pulling the door partially shut.
Dante dropped to his knees three feet from his son.
“Leo,” Dante said softly.
“Look at Papa. You’re home.”
Leo didn't look.
He kicked his heels violently against the floorboards.
“The ship! The big ship! The fire on the water!”
Dante’s shoulders went rigid.
A spasm of raw agony crossed his face.
Clara noticed it immediately.
It was not anger.
It was old, unresolved grief.
“Leo,” Dante tried again, reaching a hand out.
“Don't touch him,” Clara whispered sharply from the doorway.
Dante froze.
He looked over his shoulder, his eyes dangerous.
“He is hurting himself.”
“Because his nervous system is on fire,” Clara said, stepping into the room.
Her voice was calm, steady, and devoid of fear.
“If you touch him right now, it will feel like boiling water.”
She walked slowly to the bookshelf.
She didn't look directly at Leo’s face.
She looked at the rows of meticulously organized model ships.
Freighters.
Trawlers.
Ocean liners.
All painted in precise shades of blue, gray, and black.
Except one.
A small wooden cargo vessel with a bright red hull.
It lay overturned on the floor, its mast snapped in two.
Clara knelt down, six feet away from where Leo was scratching his skin.
She reached out and gently picked up the broken red ship.
She did not hand it to him.
She set it on the carpet between them, upright.
“Red is very loud,” Clara said quietly.
She spoke into the room, not directly at the boy.
“It hurts the ears when the lights are low.”
Leo’s scratching slowed.
One hand remained clamped over his elbow, but his fingers stopped clawing.
He peeked through the curtain of his dark hair.
“The red ship burned,” Leo whispered.
“Yes,” Clara acknowledged.
“Sometimes things burn. But the fire is out now.”
She reached into the pocket of her cashmere robe.
She pulled out a small velvet pouch Maria had left with her toiletries.
Inside was a smooth, polished river stone.
Dark blue lapis.
Cool to the touch.
Clara rolled the blue stone between her palms, letting the click of the mineral echo in the quiet room.
Click.
Click.
Pause.
“Blue is cold,” Clara said.
“Blue puts out the red.”
She placed the stone on the floor, two inches from the broken red ship.
Then she pulled her hands back into her lap.
Silence hung in the room for twenty long seconds.
The aquarium bubbles hummed steadily.
Dante stayed motionless on his knees, watching Clara with an intensity that burned.
Slowly, painfully, Leo uncoiled his small frame from the corner.
He crawled forward on his hands and knees.
He didn't touch the broken ship.
He picked up the blue lapis stone.
He pressed it firmly against his cheek, closing his eyes.
A long, trembling sigh escaped his small chest.
“Cold blue,” Leo whispered.
“Yes,” Clara answered softly.
“Cold blue.”
Leo looked at her then.
For the first time, his hazel eyes met hers directly.
They were the exact shape and color of his father’s.
Deep.
Searching.
Haunted by memories too large for an eight-year-old brain.
“Mama was on the red ship,” Leo said.
The air left the room in an instant.
Dante’s breath hitched audibly.
His knuckles pressed into the carpet so hard the skin turned white.
Clara felt a cold knot tighten in her throat.
Three years ago, the newspapers had reported that Elena Moretti died in a car accident in the Berkshires.
A single-vehicle crash on an icy mountain road.
That was the official story.
That was what the police had filed.
Leo looked down at the blue stone in his palm.
May you like
“The red ship was in the harbor,” Leo whispered.
“Uncle Luca locked the hatch.”
