Free Deception by Lee Nichols Page A

squeaking weather vane spun on a rooftop: Eossss .
    The shadows followed me from street to street with disembodied moans: not Eos , but Neos, Neos, Neos.
    I shoved the shadows away with my mind as I began to run. I sprinted for half a mile, up a hill through the village, looking for signs, until I realized that the darkness was just darkness, the shadows, only shadows.
    I slowed to a walk and caught my breath. I realized I was only a block from the museum, so I sped up again until I stepped through the front gates and felt an encompassing sense of safety. I exhaled, then breathed in the scent of maple leaves and fresh-cut grass. The windows of the museum glowed with welcoming light.
    My backpack lay on the table in the museum’s foyer, and the sight of it made me feel like a high-school kid again. Books and homework assignments and all the boring, stable, comforting routines of normal life.
    Grabbing the pack, I called, “Bennett?”
    No answer.
    “Bennett? Martha? Anyone?”
    Still nothing, as I crossed into the kitchen. A pot of stew bubbled on the Wolf range. A plate of shortbread cookies sat on the counter.
    “I don’t want food,” I said under my breath. “I want company .” I raised my voice: “Bennett! Bennett, are you here?”
    Silence as I crossed into the dining room. The table was set beautifully, with fancy china, candles, and polished silver.
    Set for one again. For me. Alone.
    I screamed in frustration. “How can he not be here?!”
    I stomped upstairs and found my bed made and my pajamas laid neatly on top, like some maid had snuck in while I was gone. Could that be it? But wouldn’t the mysterious Martha at least leave a note?
    I peeled off my wretched uniform and picked up my flannels, an unbecoming but completely comfortable red plaid. I wouldn’t be caught dead in them in front of Bennett, but since that seemed completely out of the question, I cozied into them.
    Still cold. “Wish I could have a hot bath,” I muttered.
    Back downstairs, I served myself the stew and sat at the head of the long formal table, pretending I was normal. Just your average girl, eating stew from Limoges china and monogrammed silver.
    After dinner, I grabbed a couple of cookies and went into the ballroom to do my homework. The walls were a warm shade of yellow, the parquetry floor was polished to a high gleam, and the tall windows were perfectly proportioned. I pulled the pale blue silk curtains shut against the night shadows that I worried still hovered outside the gates. The museum wasn’t quite so comforting now that it had grown completely dark outside.
    I crossed the floor to the grand piano and played a few notes. The sound tumbled around the room, rich and resonant. It was the perfect place for a wedding — a string quartet playing, the French doors open to the rose garden …
    I shook myself, worried I’d feel a sudden whoosh and find myself in some dead person’s wedding. So I grabbed a silk feather pillow from a settee and tossed it to the floor. Then I emptied my backpack and lounged on the pillow as I finished my assignments.
    The clock struck nine but I wasn’t ready to sleep. Despite all the antiques and history, I’d discovered the house had wireless, so I fired up my laptop. Every time I checked my e-mail I hoped there’d be a message from Max or my parents, or that Abby was done with the silent treatment. But I found nothing but school reminders and spam.
    When I got bored with celebrity blogs, I flipped my computer shut and paced the room. I was dying for music, but the speakers on my laptop sounded ridiculously tinny in this ginormous ballroom. I riffled through the built-in cabinets along one wall and found a stereo almost intimidating in its high-techness. There was a Bose iPod dock as well, but my parents refused to get me an iPod, saying, “You already have a computer.” I know that makes no sense, but they’d refused to budge. Don’t even get me started on my cell, which might as well