Key of Valor
Page 9
This was another big occasion, so there was no point in complaining about a few hours of lost sleep.
At midnight she was still too restless to settle, and decided to indulge in a long, hot shower—one that wouldn’t be interrupted by a young boy wanting her attention.
She hung her best sleep shirt, a poppy red one, on the back of the door, then lit one of the jar candles she’d made herself so the room would fill with fragrance as well as steam.
Little rituals, she believed, set the tone for sleep.
She soothed herself with the pulse of water, and the silky feel of the peach blossom shower gel she was considering as stock for her salon. She would let the clue roll around in her head, she decided, try to see it as a whole first. Then as pieces of the puzzle. One piece was bound to lodge itself, and she would pursue that until . . . until the next, she thought.
Step by step, until she began to see the picture. A painting for Malory, a book for Dana. What did that leave for her? Shampoo and face cream? she wondered with a half laugh. Those were the kinds of things she knew. Those and what was important in a young boy’s world. She knew how to make things, she considered. How to build or transform.
She was good with her hands, she reminded herself, and turned them under the water while she studied them. But what did any of that have to do with paths in a forest, or a goddess with a sword?
A journey, she thought as she turned off the water. That had to be a kind of symbol, as she’d never actually been anywhere. And that didn’t look to be changing anytime soon.
Maybe it had to do with her coming to the Valley in the first place, or starting her business with Malory and Dana. Or, she mused as she toweled off, maybe it was just life.
Her life? The daughters’ lives? It was something to work out, she decided as she smoothed peach-scented cream over her skin. Nothing all that interesting about her life, but nothing said it had to be. She recalled that Dana had taken specific words from her clue and worked with them. Maybe she would try that.
The goddess with the sword—that was easy enough. Kyna had the sword, and Kyna was hers. But that didn’t explain how she was supposed to know her in order to find the key to free her.
With a shake of her head, Zoe turned, glanced at the steamy mirror over the sink.
Her hair was long, a spill of black over her shoulders that made her face look very, very pale. Her eyes were direct, intense, and golden. The mists, warm from the shower, drifted between Zoe and the glass, shimmered like a curtain as she lifted her hand to reach with fingers that trembled toward a reflection that wasn’t her own.
For a moment, it seemed her fingers would pass through the curtain, through the glass, and touch flesh.
Then she was standing, alone, in a steamy bathroom, her fingers pressed to the streaked mirror. And staring at her own face.
Imagining things already, she thought, and let her hand fall. Projecting, that’s what it was called. Trying to see herself in the young goddess, and just tired and worked up enough to think she could. Another angle to consider, she decided. In the morning when her mind was sharper.
She got into bed with her files, and went over her supply lists. For the salon, for the day spa she planned to attach to it. For the house itself.
She toyed with some new ideas, made some notes, tried to concentrate.
But the key and the clue kept winding back through her mind.
A forest. There were lots of forests in the Laurel Highlands of Pennsylvania. Did it mean a literal forest, like with trees, or was it a metaphor?
She wasn’t good with metaphors.
Blood, what did the blood mean? Did it refer to Jordan’s blood when he’d been hurt? Or was it someone else’s? Was it hers?
She’d certainly had her cuts and scrapes over the years. She’d sliced her thumb once, when she was, what, eleven? Cutting tomatoes for sandwiches. Her brother and sister had been fighting, and one of them had bumped her.
The knife had cut right along the side of her thumb, from the tip past the knuckle, and the gash had bled like a fountain. She still had a scar, she mused, turning her thumb up to trace the faint line.
But the scar wasn’t hard, and it certainly wasn’t any kind of shield. So that probably wasn’t it.
Pain and loss and blood and despair. Christ, why did her clue have to be so depressing?
She would just have to make the best of it, she decided, and picked up her notes again. She blinked when her vision started to blur, and slid into sleep with the light still burning.
She dreamed of her blood, dripping steadily on a dull brown linoleum floor while children screamed around her.
Chapter Three
SHE overslept. Zoe couldn’t remember the last time she’d done that. Certainly not in the past decade. As a result, it was nearly ten by the time she arrived, boy and dog in tow, at Indulgence.
She parked on the street, as the driveway was already loaded. Flynn’s car, Jordan’s. And one of Brad’s. He had two that she knew of, and probably more.
She managed to snag Moe’s leash before he leaped out of the car, and with a mother’s skill for juggling, grabbed her purse and her cooler, controlled the dog, and kept a sharp eye on her son as she loaded everything up.
“You keep a good hold of this dog,” she told Simon as she passed him the leash. “You make him mind you. We have to find out what Flynn wants to do about him today.”
“He can stay with me. We can fool around out back.”
“We’ll see. You go on, but stay where I can see you from the house until I get sorted out.”
They bounded off while she walked toward the front door.
She loved to look at the place, the big old house with all its possibilities. They’d already put their mark on it, painting the front porch a bright, celebrational blue and arranging pots of mums to flank the front steps.
As soon as she got around to it, she was going to pick up some old pots at the flea market. Clean them up, paint them. Maybe she’d search out half a whiskey barrel as well, and they could plant seasonal flowers in it.
She glanced up at the window above the front door. Malory had hired a glass artist to create a stained-glass panel for that space, using the design from their logo.
That was just the sort of touch that was going to make their place unique.
She set the cooler down, opened the door.
She heard the music. It wasn’t set up to blast, but it was close. Through it, she heard hammering, sawing, voices. The good noise of work in progress.
At midnight she was still too restless to settle, and decided to indulge in a long, hot shower—one that wouldn’t be interrupted by a young boy wanting her attention.
She hung her best sleep shirt, a poppy red one, on the back of the door, then lit one of the jar candles she’d made herself so the room would fill with fragrance as well as steam.
Little rituals, she believed, set the tone for sleep.
She soothed herself with the pulse of water, and the silky feel of the peach blossom shower gel she was considering as stock for her salon. She would let the clue roll around in her head, she decided, try to see it as a whole first. Then as pieces of the puzzle. One piece was bound to lodge itself, and she would pursue that until . . . until the next, she thought.
Step by step, until she began to see the picture. A painting for Malory, a book for Dana. What did that leave for her? Shampoo and face cream? she wondered with a half laugh. Those were the kinds of things she knew. Those and what was important in a young boy’s world. She knew how to make things, she considered. How to build or transform.
She was good with her hands, she reminded herself, and turned them under the water while she studied them. But what did any of that have to do with paths in a forest, or a goddess with a sword?
A journey, she thought as she turned off the water. That had to be a kind of symbol, as she’d never actually been anywhere. And that didn’t look to be changing anytime soon.
Maybe it had to do with her coming to the Valley in the first place, or starting her business with Malory and Dana. Or, she mused as she toweled off, maybe it was just life.
Her life? The daughters’ lives? It was something to work out, she decided as she smoothed peach-scented cream over her skin. Nothing all that interesting about her life, but nothing said it had to be. She recalled that Dana had taken specific words from her clue and worked with them. Maybe she would try that.
The goddess with the sword—that was easy enough. Kyna had the sword, and Kyna was hers. But that didn’t explain how she was supposed to know her in order to find the key to free her.
With a shake of her head, Zoe turned, glanced at the steamy mirror over the sink.
Her hair was long, a spill of black over her shoulders that made her face look very, very pale. Her eyes were direct, intense, and golden. The mists, warm from the shower, drifted between Zoe and the glass, shimmered like a curtain as she lifted her hand to reach with fingers that trembled toward a reflection that wasn’t her own.
For a moment, it seemed her fingers would pass through the curtain, through the glass, and touch flesh.
Then she was standing, alone, in a steamy bathroom, her fingers pressed to the streaked mirror. And staring at her own face.
Imagining things already, she thought, and let her hand fall. Projecting, that’s what it was called. Trying to see herself in the young goddess, and just tired and worked up enough to think she could. Another angle to consider, she decided. In the morning when her mind was sharper.
She got into bed with her files, and went over her supply lists. For the salon, for the day spa she planned to attach to it. For the house itself.
She toyed with some new ideas, made some notes, tried to concentrate.
But the key and the clue kept winding back through her mind.
A forest. There were lots of forests in the Laurel Highlands of Pennsylvania. Did it mean a literal forest, like with trees, or was it a metaphor?
She wasn’t good with metaphors.
Blood, what did the blood mean? Did it refer to Jordan’s blood when he’d been hurt? Or was it someone else’s? Was it hers?
She’d certainly had her cuts and scrapes over the years. She’d sliced her thumb once, when she was, what, eleven? Cutting tomatoes for sandwiches. Her brother and sister had been fighting, and one of them had bumped her.
The knife had cut right along the side of her thumb, from the tip past the knuckle, and the gash had bled like a fountain. She still had a scar, she mused, turning her thumb up to trace the faint line.
But the scar wasn’t hard, and it certainly wasn’t any kind of shield. So that probably wasn’t it.
Pain and loss and blood and despair. Christ, why did her clue have to be so depressing?
She would just have to make the best of it, she decided, and picked up her notes again. She blinked when her vision started to blur, and slid into sleep with the light still burning.
She dreamed of her blood, dripping steadily on a dull brown linoleum floor while children screamed around her.
Chapter Three
SHE overslept. Zoe couldn’t remember the last time she’d done that. Certainly not in the past decade. As a result, it was nearly ten by the time she arrived, boy and dog in tow, at Indulgence.
She parked on the street, as the driveway was already loaded. Flynn’s car, Jordan’s. And one of Brad’s. He had two that she knew of, and probably more.
She managed to snag Moe’s leash before he leaped out of the car, and with a mother’s skill for juggling, grabbed her purse and her cooler, controlled the dog, and kept a sharp eye on her son as she loaded everything up.
“You keep a good hold of this dog,” she told Simon as she passed him the leash. “You make him mind you. We have to find out what Flynn wants to do about him today.”
“He can stay with me. We can fool around out back.”
“We’ll see. You go on, but stay where I can see you from the house until I get sorted out.”
They bounded off while she walked toward the front door.
She loved to look at the place, the big old house with all its possibilities. They’d already put their mark on it, painting the front porch a bright, celebrational blue and arranging pots of mums to flank the front steps.
As soon as she got around to it, she was going to pick up some old pots at the flea market. Clean them up, paint them. Maybe she’d search out half a whiskey barrel as well, and they could plant seasonal flowers in it.
She glanced up at the window above the front door. Malory had hired a glass artist to create a stained-glass panel for that space, using the design from their logo.
That was just the sort of touch that was going to make their place unique.
She set the cooler down, opened the door.
She heard the music. It wasn’t set up to blast, but it was close. Through it, she heard hammering, sawing, voices. The good noise of work in progress.
