Warped (Maurissa Guibord)

unicorn somehow. My unicorn."
    Moncrieff's fingers hesitated over the keyboard for a split second, but then he continued, completing the transaction and clicking the window on the computer screen closed. The screen saver popped up--a postcard-type scene of an English castle on a green hillside.
    "Yes, my lady. I'm sure she's responsible." Moncrieff stood. "What do you want me to do?"
    "Nothing. For now," said Gray Lily. She picked up a velvet pouch and opened it, withdrawing a thick green thread from inside. She held it in her palm and stroked it as if it were a pet. "She wants to keep it, does she?" Gray Lily's eyes glittered. "I'll simply send her a visitor." She chuckled. "She won't be able to get rid of my tapestry fast enough. I almost feel sorry for the little snippet."

Chapter 22

She'd never even shown him how to work the shower. Or the toilet. Well, too bad. Mr. Hard Constitution would have to figure out the miracle of indoor plumbing on his own. Tessa swung the door of her room shut behind her and leaned against the solid support with an exhausted sigh. She wondered what Will de Chaucy had made of her disappearing act. She'd run out of there as if Hannibal Lecter were chasing her with a bottle of A.1. sauce.
    Letting him stay in her mother's old studio was probably a mistake. Tessa realized that now. Still, it was the best she could do for the moment. She flopped onto her bed and rolled to her back, cushioned and half cocooned in the soft thickness of her comforter as she stared up at the ceiling. So much for control freak. More like out-of-control freak . The studio had brought back so many memories. Good memories. But it was strange how good memories could make you feel like ... well, puking.
    Tessa frowned and let her eyes wander over the tiny imperfections of the plaster overhead. Would her mother have resented Will's staying up in the studio? No. Wendy Brody might have been artsy and full of flaky whimsy, but when it came to people, she was practical. It was Tessa's father who kept the studio locked up and unused. He never talked about it. Maybe he had the idea that leaving it untouched would make it into a kind of shrine. But neglect, Tessa thought, recalling the dusty room, had made it look more like a crypt.
    With a sigh Tessa hauled herself up and went to her desk. She opened a bottom drawer and rummaged inside until she found what she was looking for. She lifted up a small book bound in red leather and turned it over in her hands. It was her first, last and only journal. Tessa sat back down on the edge of the bed.
    She opened the book. Its spine creaked with stiffness, and the clean white pages fanned beneath her fingers. It was beautiful, lined in the front and back with paper whose intricate pattern looked like peacocks' tails. Her mother had given it to her for Christmas two years before she died. It was so pretty, Tessa had been afraid to write in it.
    Until one day (a cold, gray day, Tessa remembered) she had grabbed a thick black permanent marker and scrawled inside:
    My name is Tessa Brody. This is my journal. I never kept a journal before. I don't think happy people write things down so much .
    Tessa took a deep breath and kept reading. The smudgy writing was uneven, and ink had bled through the pages in spots. It was hard to read.
    My mother's funeral was today at Culway Funeral Home. I can still smell all the roses -- they were disgusting. I never want to see another rose. I have a lot to say but can't say any of it to the people I want to say it to. First of all, I really miss her already, but none of this seems real. Please don't let it be real .
    Do you know what the worst part is? Life goes on. Aunt Peggy said that to me. "Life goes on, Tessa." I wanted to hit her. Hit her hard and make her nose bleed and break her glasses. Life goes on. That is so ugly and wrong .
    Aunt Peggy was her mother's older sister and looked a little bit like her, tall with straight, flyaway blond hair and wide blue eyes. But where her mother's face had been full and dimpled, Aunt Peggy's was thin, with pulled-down wrinkles at the corners of her mouth and deep worry lines on her forehead. On the day of the funeral Aunt Peggy had said lots of helpful things. Everyone was relieved when she left.
    Life should stop. Just for a little while, at least. I hate when I turn on the TV and the news is telling people what the weather is going to be and what the traffic is like on 95. People are going places and meeting