Excerpt:

Watercolors in the Rain

by Beth Bernobich

Shades of green and white colored the hospital room, bleeding from verdigris shadows to a bright frothy snow. The halls were quiet in this midnight hour, the patients asleep, and the visitors gone. Only the occasional nurse passed by on her rounds.

Evann Douai sat in the bedside chair, hands folded together, anxiously studying his wife's face. No change in the last hour. No change in the past three days, and yet he could not bring himself to go home. For what? He could not sleep, and it was too late to answer the many phone messages.

He sighed and rubbed his hands against his trouser legs. Light from the corridor leaked through the half-open door and fell across Gwynn's bruised face. Fair Gwynn, he had called her when they met, thirty years ago. Gwynn with her laughing gray eyes and hair like sunlight.

Ah, Gwynn. What went wrong?

An unreasonable question. He knew what had gone wrong, but every time he asked himself, Evann so disliked the answers that he asked them again.

Gwynn stirred in her dreams. Strange images floated past her inner eye -- those of witches and castles, of thick thorny vines, of light flaring from a needle's tip. Gradually, the dreams gave way to awareness, and her eyes blinked open.

The bed felt strangely unbalanced. Empty and quiet. Evann must have gone already. She turned her head. Not gone, said the plumped-up pillow and smooth quilt. Never there.

She blew out a breath. He must have worked late and spent the night in a hotel. It wasn't the first time.

Ignoring the tightness in her throat, Gwynn threw back the covers and got up. At least it was Saturday, she told herself sturdily. She could spend the morning gardening, clearing the weeds from around the roses. The need to work meticulously, to avoid the thorns and other hazards, would distract her.

Thoughts about drainage and peat moss and phosphorus absorbed her as she dressed and gathered her hair into a knot. She slid her feet into sandals and flung open the bedroom door.

And squeaked in surprise.

Gone were the familiar doors and hallways of her house. In their place, a marbled passageway stretched into the distance, lit by rows of torches, whose light rippled over the blue-veined stone. In the distance, a solitary bell tolled.

Gwynn let out a shaky breath.

I'm dreaming. I have to be.

Or was she? Vertigo swept over her, a feeling at once exhilarating and terrifying. Only then did she realize that her left hand gripped something heavy. She glanced down. It was a leather satchel, like an overnight bag.

Gwynn licked her lips and tasted a sweet perfume in the air. Roses. Hundreds of roses bloomed somewhere close by. If this was a dream, it piqued her curiosity. She shifted her grip on the satchel and stepped into the corridor.

Her hands were warm to his touch, but unresponsive. "Gwynn, Gwynn," he murmured, cradling them within his. "Can you hear me?"

Nothing except that elusive heartbeat. He did not count the monitors with their vivid green lines, nor the faint wheeze from the tubes that kept Gwynn breathing.

The police had called his cell phone. An accident, they said. A combination of black ice and fog. But Evann knew that Gwynn's presence on that road, at that hour, was no accident. They had given him a painstaking description of the scene -- the sharp curve, the old blue Honda crumpled into a stand of trees, the suitcases and cardboard boxes scattered along the road. Evann had collected the wet and broken items from the police station. Spread over the living room carpet, they looked like a jumble of memories -- stockings and hats and skirts, Gwynn's favorite shoes, the jewelry she made at the craft studio. And, of course, her books. The books had suffered the most, their pages wet and the ink smeared, so that Dunsany and Austen and Dunnett were all mixed together. Underneath the books, he had discovered the plaster gargoyle she'd acquired years ago in Paris, carefully wrapped in scarves. When Evann unwrapped the figure, he noted a deep crack along its base.

What if? he asked himself, vehemently. What if I had come home early?

What if? The most useless question in the world. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead on his hands, which still clasped her limp one. The cloying scent of roses filled the hospital room, from the many bouquets sent by neighbors, by their grown children (two children, not three), even from the local church, though neither had attended in years. What if? he asked, more quietly, and with its repetition, some of the sharpness of his anguish dissolved, like watercolors running and bleeding in the rain.

Gwynn drifted along a passageway lined with paintings and tapestries reminiscent of those she'd seen during their holiday in France. Biblical scenes. Portraits of angels, saints, and martyrs. A woman dressed in sumptuous velvets, her throat wrapped in pearls, her chin lifted as she gazed at her supposed audience. Gwynn paused, struck by how well the artist had captured his subject. In the wavering lamplight, you could imagine her chest rising with a breath just taken.

She let out her own breath, and felt an ache deep within.

Bridget never had a chance to breathe.

Tears blurred her eyes. She thought she was done with tears. Evidently not. She wiped the tears from her eyes and turned away from the woman's portrait. Stupid useless paintings. Who dusted all these frames anyway?

Restless, she kept walking down the corridor, oblivious now to the statues and bronze figures in their niches. What if? she thought. What if Evann had remained with her that long-ago day when she miscarried? Ah, that one was too painful to contemplate. What if... What if he had chosen a different, less-demanding career? What if he had spent more hours with her and their other two children? (Two, not three.) What if...

But she had not. And he had not.

She slowed, aware that her surroundings had changed. The paintings had given way to looming bronze figures, and the marble walls had become rough stone blocks that glinted red in the torchlight. The place reminded her of the Cluny, with its centuries-old foundations, where the cold dusty air still tasted of antiquity. Her pulse beat quicker, though nothing disturbed the stillness. It was too quiet here, too empty, even for a dream.

She stopped and closed her eyes, suddenly afraid.

If you can't see the monster, it can't see you.

A shaky laugh escaped her. Feeling foolish, she opened her eyes.

And drew a quick breath.

The passage had vanished. She stood in an octagonal room with doors set into three of the walls. Overhead, an elaborate chandelier hung from the ceiling, but otherwise the place was bereft of any decoration.

Gwynn blinked, but the scene did not change. She turned around slowly. Three doors. What lay behind them? Something new? Something...better?

The sense of giddiness returned, as thought she stood upon a new threshold. Choose anything, she thought. Choose for myself. Choose because it doesn't matter anymore.

A childhood rhyme came back to her. Ingle angle, silver bangle, she recited, pointing at each door in turn. Out goes you.

Left then. She undid the latch, which lifted smoothly. Just as she pushed the door open, a shadow flickered over the walls. Startled, Gwynn turned around. Nothing stirred except the dust, whirling and glittering through the lamplight.

With his eyes closed, Evann could almost imagine that he sat in another room -- anywhere but that sterile hospital, any time before Gwynn's accident. Think of a happier day, he told himself. Of that holiday in France, climbing among the ruins of a castle, which time had covered with rose vines. Think of himself, not as a vague, unreliable man, but as a knight errant, come to rescue his lady fair.

Silent laughter shook him. Still, he held the image of that castle in his mind. It stood upon a grassy sunlit ridge, while behind him rose a dark silent forest. Roses, vines, and thorns covered the castle's stone walls. Here and there, he glimpsed a carved figure, but otherwise the castle was invisible, cloaked in dark green leaves and scarlet blossoms. A solitary bird circled overhead -- a crow or raven.

Evann dismounted from the horse (what horse? Oh yes, all knights rode horses) and drew his sword, which gleamed a ruddy gold in the late afternoon sun. He strode toward the nearest vine.

Six times Gwynn noticed shadows gliding over the walls. Six times, she turned but saw nothing. The exhilaration had subsided, leaving her weary and uncertain. She no longer felt like a carefree traveler. She was lost in a maze, somewhere within a strange castle.

"Waiting," said a voice. "For a rescue that never comes."

Gwynn spun around. The alcove behind had been empty; now a tall woman, dressed in swirling robes, stood within. She had pale luminous skin, her lips were the color of rose petals, and her eyes, like her robes, were a blue so dark, they seemed black. She was beautiful, Gwynn thought with a pang. Beautiful and strong in a way Gwynn had always longed to be.

The witch smiled, as though amused by Gwynn's silence. "Well?"

So she wanted an answer. Gwynn swallowed against a suddenly dry mouth. "I'm not waiting."

"No," said the witch. "Not anymore."

She held out her hand and spoke a word. Light flared, and a vial appeared in the witch's hand, filled with a pearly white liquid. The liquid smoked, faintly, and Gwynn caught the scent of summer grass, warmed by the sun. "Magic," said the witch. "Magic to ease your distress, to take away your indecision. To free yourself for all time."

Curiosity pricked at Gwynn, followed quickly by suspicion. It was too easy, this magical offer. Witches always demanded a price, even if they called it something else.

The witch studied her closely. "You don't like my potion."

"I can't tell," Gwynn said cautiously, trying to keep the tremor from her voice.

"Nor could you tell what lay ahead, when you chose the left-hand door."

She saw me. Cold prickled her skin. But of course the witch had observed her. This was her domain -- that of dreams and fairy tales and enigmatic conversations.

The witch tilted her head. "You understand in part. But you don't see the implications yet. I'll ask again later."

With a quick gesture, she flung the vial upward, spinning it end over end. Its contents scattered into a glittering spray. Instinctively, Gwynn reached up to catch the vial. Before she could, it blinked out of sight.

So too had the witch.

Sweat dripped from his brow and stung his eyes, but Evann did not pause to wipe his face. Twilight was falling, and he wanted to reach the castle before full dark. Taking aim, he swung the sword around and drove its blade into the next vine.

Clear red fluid spurted from the gash. The vine shrieked, its leaves unfurling like mouths.

Evann shuddered and closed his eyes a moment. He'd hacked through twenty such vines, and still their cries made him queasy. He gripped the sword hilt, tugged the blade free, and swung again. Once. Twice. On the third stroke, the vine abruptly went limp. Evann paused, panting heavily. His hands were sticky from the strange blood. His head still rang from the high-pitched cries.

"Christ and Buddha and Mohammed," he muttered, as he stamped toward the next one. There was such a thing as taking imagination too far. And yet, he never considered turning back.

"Why not?" said a voice. "You've done so before."

Evann blinked and peered through the thicket of vines. He could just make out a woman's pale face, framed by blue-black hair. If he were a fanciful man, he'd say it was a witch.

"I am," said the witch. Her mouth quirked into a smile. "And why not give up? Because you think to find your wife inside this castle, Evann Douai?"

Evann didn't question how she knew his name or his business. He was dreaming, after all, and such things happened in dreams.

"I have my reasons," he said shortly. "Why is not your concern."

She laughed and flicked her hand upward. The nearest vine whipped into life, catching Evann around the throat. He yelped in surprise and dropped his sword to grab the vine, but the thorns were already digging into his flesh. More vines twined around his arms and legs. They crept up his chest and covered his face, their leaves opening and closing like hungry mouths.

Damnable witch really wants me to stop. He gave a harsh laugh, in spite of the thorns. He'd cut through far thicker, nastier obstacles in his life.

"Maybe the true obstacles aren't visible," said the witch.

She spoke a word, and the vines recoiled from Evann's body. He lay gasping for several moments before he touched his throat with a shaking hand. No blood, but a ripping pain when he swallowed made him think the encounter was real. The witch had disappeared.

He pulled away the now-dead vines and stumbled to his feet.

Go. Turn back. Go. Give up.

But he had never given up before, never backed away from a challenge. Never, he reminded himself, except once.

He sucked in a lungful of air and hefted his sword. Working like an automaton, he hacked and slashed at the vines, pausing only to push away the shriveled masses of leaves, never minding the thorns, which tore at his hands. When he finally cleared away the last vine, he stood, dazed and swaying slightly. It took a moment before he could focus on the door itself.

It was a massive wooden slab, twice the height of an ordinary man, with bolts and hinges that looked stiff from rust and disuse. Evann put a hand against its smooth surface. How on earth am I to open that?

The door swung open. Evann braced himself for another confrontation.

A puff of stale cool air blew against his sweaty face. It smelled of dust and smoke, with a trace of rose petals.

Evann waited but nothing else happened. He leaned inward, one hand against the doorframe. The castle's interior was smothered in dark, and like water poured from a bottle, the shadows flowed outward to merge with the deepening twilight. An illusion, just like the others. But he could not rid himself of the sensation that he might drown in that darkness.

Turn back, the witch had said.

"Like hell," he breathed, and walked inside.

The hall was not entirely dark. Rows of windows, diamonds and squares and circles, were visible high above. Still, Evann found it difficult to see. He moved forward cautiously, his footsteps echoing from the dusty tiles. Far overhead, he heard the rustle of many wings.

"If this is a fairy tale," he said. "I'd expect magic lights. A servant, at least."

The air went taut, and Evann caught his breath, thinking how the witch might challenge him this time. A heartbeat later, torches blazed into life.

His first thought was that he'd stepped into a fantastical summer sky. Blue marble tiles covered the floor. Huge columns, decorated with figures of men and beasts, rose upward to the domed ceiling, which was also blue. Unlike the fairy tales, there were no sleeping servants, nor a feast preserved by enchantment, only an empty castle, with halls extending off in all directions and one grand staircase leading upward.

The next time Gwynn encountered the witch, it was in a bell-shaped chamber, whose walls were decorated with mosaics of courtly scenes. Though Gwynn had not climbed any stairs, she had the impression of having ascended to a great height. The air here felt cooler, clean of dust and smoke. Only a faint trace of incense lingered.

"One last warning," the witch told Gwynn. "Turn back now, and you can ride into oblivion, the eternal traveler."

Gwynn had had enough of riddles. "What happens if I go through there?" she said, indicating the door.

"The choice is yours."

"I don't believe you. Whenever I choose, the opposite happens. At least, that's been my life so far."

The witch shrugged. "You do have choices. What comes after, however, might be difficult to control."

Gwynn hesitated. The witch had given her a deliberately oblique answer. Did she mean that Gwynn could choose a different life? And if she did, could she choose its direction as well?

Choose what you like, said the witch.

Easy for you to say, thought Gwynn.

She set down her satchel and opened the last door.

Six times he nearly stopped before he reached the tower room. The witch had gone. More unsettling, he realized she had removed every obstruction. He had light where he needed it. When his throat closed from dryness, a flagon of cold water appeared at the next landing. He even heard low sweet chords of music, as though to urge him onward.

She made it too easy, he thought. With every physical obstacle gone, he had only himself to fight against -- his own natural hesitation, his tendency to glide around the difficult patches, or to avoid them altogether.

So he wasn't surprised when the next landing contained a padded bench, its curved back and smooth broad armrests calculated to please his tastes. Evann sank onto the bench, trembling. The witch knew him too well. He'd wanted to rest, to consider what he was doing.

Turn back, said the witch.

It would be easier if he turned back. Easier to give in. To let the future have its way. After all, Gwynn had made the choice when she left him. Wasn't it selfish of him to pursue her?

He leaned back against the wall and tilted his head back. Far overhead, the stonework made a spiral, overlaid by shadows in another pattern, equally complex. One hand ached where a thorn had pierced his palm. Absently, he rubbed at the wound, which had scabbed over.

Two children, not three. Years had leached some of the anguish, but not all. Never all.

What if? he thought. What if I had wept at home and not alone in my hotel room, that week?

But he had not. Not that week, nor the next. However much he wished, he could not change today without altering his entire past. And the past, he reminded himself, was immutable. Only the future remained.

The future.

He let his breath trickle out. Yes.

Evann stood up. Abruptly, the bench vanished and a jangle of trumpets reverberated through the tower. Ignoring that, he mounted the stairs quickly, passing landing after empty landing until he arrived at the top.

An arched doorway stood opposite the stairs. Evann crossed the landing and entered an airy room with tall windows open to the skies. A full moon lit the scene, and by its clear blue light, he picked out the sleeping figure within its alcove.

Gwynn.

She lay upon a bier draped with green and ivory silk. A breeze stirred the folds and Gwynn's long hair, which took on a silvery cast in the moonlight. Heart beating fast and hard against his chest, Evann crossed to her side and looked down. Gwynn, fair Gwynn. Her face was unmarred, her lips curved in a faint smile.

Kiss her.

The witch's voice sounded clear within his mind. He looked up in time to see a shadow outside the window and heard the slow heavy beating of wings.

Never mind the witch, he thought. He'd do what he liked, without regard to her schemes.

He bent over Gwynn and kissed her softly.

The taste and scent of summer clover. The warmth of her breath tickling his cheek. Gwynn's eyes blinked open; in the moonlight, they gleamed like silver. "Evann," she murmured. "Have you come to share my dream?"

"If you like."

Gwynn frowned. "I don't know what I want. I almost did."

Somewhere in the background, Evann heard muted laughter. Here was the true obstacle. Not the thorns, not even the long trek through this deserted castle, but in this room, facing Gwynn. Hardly knowing what he did, Evann held out a hand. "Stand up. We'll both think better."

After a moment's hesitation, Gwynn allowed him to help her down from the bier. They stood in uneasy silence, then, studying each other from a few paces apart.

She looked beautiful to him. He looked strangely battered.

"What happened?" she asked.

Evann glanced down. Dirt stained his trousers; bits of leaves clung to the rest of his clothes. There was blood underneath his fingernails, and more spattered down his shirt front. "Ah. I had some trouble getting into the castle."

Her smile was pensive. Trouble. How like him to understate the matter. He must have encountered the witch, and she wondered if he had managed to offend her. Was that a bruise around his neck?

Evann looked anything but amused. He rubbed a hand through his disordered hair and vented an unhappy breath, before he finally met her gaze. "Gwynn, I'm sorry."

"About what?" she said warily.

"Everything." He made a sweeping gesture. "I wasn't -- It wasn't right of me to leave you alone after Bridget died."

Her heart stilled, and for a moment she could not breathe or speak. "It's not -- It's not just Bridget."

A petty complaint, but the truth.

He nodded, a quick jerky motion. "I know. I -- "

"If you knew, why didn't you say anything before?"

Evann flinched. Gwynn held up both hands, as though to recapture her words. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

We're both of us worn out, Evann thought. Both of us over-sensitive and ready to flee. But he'd promised himself to make one last attempt. He'd gone over the words a dozen times as he climbed the stairs, reviewing and rearranging them in his mind, wanting to say it just right.

"What if," he said. "What if we try again? What if we stop trying to change yesterday and change tomorrow instead?"

Unconsciously, he'd reached toward her. She took his hand, careful of his injured palm. "Isn't it too late?"

"I don't know. But it's worth finding out."

They heard the rush of wings outside, followed by a thin reedy note. It might have been a flute, or the wind gusting over the stonework. Shadows rippled upon the stone walls; Gwynn heard whispers, and Evann sensed the company of other people. It was as though the castle had drawn a breath.

Again the suggestion of music floated through the air, and a familiar voice said, Dance.

The witch. Gwynn smiled. Evann tilted his head, his expression unexpectedly shy. "Will you?" he said. "Dance with me, I mean. It's not so bad an idea."

She hesitated. "I'm not so good with dancing."

"Neither am I. But we could try."

Try. And stumble. And know that every step would constrain her, and in turn, would constrain him. He must have read her thoughts from her expression, because he withdrew his hand and turned away with a sigh.

"Wait," Gwynn said and reached toward him.

He looked half-afraid, she thought. As well he might. She hadn't given him much encouragement.

"Please," she said. "You said yourself we should try."

Now it was his turn to smile. "So I did."

Evann circled her waist with his arm. Around them, the tower room stretched outward to become a ballroom. The breeze quickened, its keening transformed into the first notes of a dance. Wing beats marked the time.

"I remember this song," Evann said. He moved to take the lead, then paused. "You start."

Less sure of herself, Gwynn took a first step. Evann moved in counterpoint, awkwardly but without treading on her toes. Another followed. Gradually the urge to quit receded from their thoughts. Step reflected step, painfully conscious at first, and then becoming more natural as the music lifted into a polyphony of horns and drums and sweet-toned violins. On and on they danced, whirling across the polished dance floor, until the music reached its glorious crescendo, bright and dark chords cascading over them.

They paused, his lips close to hers.

"I love you," he said and kissed her.

"I love you," Evann said, turning his cheek against Gwynn's wrist. Her skin smelled of powder and disinfectant, but underneath was a trace of her perfume, a sweet cinnamon scent that spoke not of this hospital, nor of death, but of Gwynn herself. Sweet Gwynn. Fair Gwynn. Gwynn, my one true love.

A shadow flickered against the wall -- one of the night nurses, no doubt, checking on her patient and the visitor -- but before Evann could turn around, the nurse had vanished.

Evann kissed Gwynn's hand, his touch as light as air. A strand of hair had fallen over his eyes. In their courting days, the strand would have been a glossy black, now it was streaked with gray.

"Will you dance with me again?" he said. His eyes were bright from the dancing and no longer shy.

Ghostly figures twirled around them, like memories of older days. The music too had not stopped. The castle had awakened, and the music would continue, Gwynn realized, no matter what her answer. Only Evann remained still, waiting.

Do what you like, the witch had told her.

Choose. Today and tomorrow and ever after. No longer a solitary traveler but perhaps just as free.

Gwynn touched Evann's cheek. "Let's dance again."

He smiled and drew her close. "I would like that."

And again they began to dance.