Page 143 of Fated

I grasp the old wooden rail and sprint down the uneven stone steps. They were carved hundreds of years ago and are weathered and worn. I could run down these steps blindfolded I’ve walked them so often, from age six to now. And so I keep the lights off and descend into the dark.

I don’t want anyone to see the glow of a light from under the cellar door. I don’t want anyone to come looking for me.

I sprinted from the ballroom. And in the shock no one stopped me.

I didn’t wait to see Max dive over the me of last year. I didn’t wait to make sure he pressed his hands to my bleeding abdomen. I didn’t wait to hear him tell me not to be afraid. I know he did. I know he kept me safe until Dr. Gaertner pushed him aside and the ambulance arrived.

I had to run. I had to get away.

I have something I have to do.

I wind through the labyrinth of the cellar until I’ve made it to the center of the caverns underneath the chateau. There, with my heart pounding and the musty, stagnant air heavy and watchful, I pull the chain overhead and turn on the light.

I blink at the buzzing, electric glow and wait for the blue-white sparks to settle. I’m in the storage room where my Dad kept his favorite wines. It’s cold, the walls are carved from the gray stone under the chateau, and the room stays a chilly autumn temperature year-round. There’s water leaking from the stone, bleeding to the floor in a slowdrip, drip, drip.

The walls are lined with dark wooden wine crates, stacked six feet high. There are hundreds of bottles. They’re covered in cobwebs and dust, and through the dust the bottles sparkle a dull summer-green in the harsh light. The dust tickles my nose and I sniff at the damp, musty scent. There’s a trace of vinegary wine from a bottle that’s turned.

I sneeze and then flinch at the scattering of claws on the floor and a quick squeak.

Rats then.

I wait for a moment, but the cellar is quiet and still. There’s no noise leaking in from upstairs. No one is at the door.

Still, I have to hurry.

I stride to the center of the room, where a large wooden wine barrel is turned upright. There’s a rusty corkscrew there, a dusty wineglass my dad would use to taste the bottles he opened. He’d come down here when he wanted a break from the world. Next to the glass is a small notebook and a three-inch-long pencil. Its lead is dull, the eraser gone. In the notebook is my dad’s neat, precise handwriting. He left notes on all his bottles—the chateau, the year, his impressions.

My heart gives a sharp pang, and then I tear an empty page from the back of the notebook. And I quickly scrawl a note to myself.

I grip the short pencil in my hand and write:

It’s real. You can change what happens. Save them.

Then I fold the note, take the gun, and thrust them both into the lowest wine crate, behind a bottle of my dad’s favorite wine.

If it’s there when I wake, then I’ll know I was really here.

I plunge the cellar into darkness and?—

Wake up.

52

I openmy eyes to the blackness of my bedroom. I gasp and clutch at my pajamas. Then I press my hand to my abdomen. The star-shaped scar, flat and ridged, is still there. It pulses beneath my hand.

The watch lies on the bed next to me, the time stopped. It’s midnight. Christmas Eve.

I still have time.

I can dream again.

I can try again.

But first?—

I grab the watch, fling the duvet back, and then sprint across the cold floor. I fly down the darkened hallway, down the stairs, down the shadowed back hallway, until I’m at the wooden cellar door.

I yank it open and the same musty, stagnant cellar scent heaves over me. I flick on the lights and the buzzing yellow glow illuminates the winding stone steps and the narrow stone walls that lead down. The wet chill of the old stone cellar coats me as I run down the uneven steps. I grasp the cold wooden handrail and then run across the stones. The cold seeps into my bare feet. My hurried steps echo across the stone and I hear the responding echo of scurried claws rushing to dive into a shadowed corner. There’s the dripping of leaking water, the mineral, dusty scent, the muffled quiet of an underground cavern cellar disturbed by my flight.

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