Her heart pounded so hard that she should have fainted, but anger rose up hard. Swiftly, she dived forward, plunged her arm into the hold and grabbed the child by the ear. A yowl came from the tunnel, and she pulled with all her might until the body of the child—a boy—came tumbling out and lay on the floor. Wide eyes—he looked just as shocked as she felt—stared into hers. The boy lay panting. Eight years old, she guessed. Pale like Carrick, white hair and bright skin.
“Who are you?” She sounded possessed, her words strangled.
No answer. She twisted her grip on his ear. “Tell me, child.”
“C.J.,” he spit out. His little face twisted in anger. “Now leave off.”
“No. I’ll not leave off.” She said. “Who? What?” Her thoughts were tumbling as she struggled to understand exactly what she was seeing. “What in God’s name are you doing crawling around in the walls?”
“I live in there.” He threw the words out. Almost boastfully. “It’s where I belong.”
“No one belongs hidden in the walls. No one.” She let go of his ear. Her hands were shaking. “Who are you?”
“I told you my name is C.J. For Carrick, Junior. Son of the great inventor.” His tone was biting. “Only I’m not his son. No matter what my ma said.”
“Don’t be so hateful,” she hissed. “And what do you mean by your ma said?”
“I mean when she was alive. That’s what I mean. She died. Last summer. That’s why I came here to live.”
“I’m sorry she died. But this is madness! A child living in the walls!”
He looked away and slid his foot from side to side across the floor. “It happens. Life isn’t all roses.”
She agreed with him on that point. “No, C.J., it’s not. But how come...” She struggled for words. “Why aren’t you in a bedroom? In the house?” A horrible thought came to her. “Does he make you stay there?”
He laughed bitterly, a sound no child should ever make. “He didn’t make me go in there. But he sure doesn’t mind.”
“You shouldn’t be so hateful toward your father,” she said. “Surely he must care for you.” But she doubted her words even as she said them.
“That’s what you think.”
“Hey, now,” she said, trying to be friendly. She put her hand on his shoulder, and she noticed with some relief that it had finally stopped shaking.
“Stop!” He pushed her hand away, his entire body curling from her touch.
“Okay, okay,” she replied. “I’m sorry. Listen, it’s strange to crawl about in the walls. Maybe I should talk to Carrick. You need to be out of the walls. For your safety.”
His look turned sly and challenging. “Go right ahead. Miss Penny. Yes, I know your name.” His chest puffed up. “I’m none of his concern. I’m no one’s concern but my own. Least of all yours.” He darted away, quicker than a rifle shot, diving right back into the tunnel.
Though the thought of entering the dark space made her shudder, she dropped to her knees and raced behind him through the little door. Light shone from behind her and lit the way ahead. Once she crawled in, the space opened up, and she was able to stand, though just barely. The walls were tight at her shoulders. The space unnerved her, and she considered turning around but didn’t. “C.J?” she called out. “Come back. Please. I can help.” She wasn’t quite sure how, but she’d at least try. She crept forward until she saw a wall ahead, and just before the wall, the floor opened up into a hole.
Here she stopped, looked over and saw a wooden ladder fastened to the wall. Rough ridges were gouged into the floor. Markings, she realized, so that in the dark the child would know where the hole was, and he wouldn’t fall through it. Peering down the hole, she was afraid and yet mesmerized by it. She wouldn’t dare descend into those depths. Ever.
C.J. made rustling noises as he scooted around in the darkness.
“I’ll know if you come up here again!” she called to him. The movements stopped, and she took it to mean that he was listening. “The next time you come to my room, announce yourself by knocking.” She added, in a kinder tone, “And I’ll invite you in. I could use a friend, you know!” Her voice echoed in the hollow space before dying away.
She made her way back through the tunnel and crawled from the hole. Then she climbed into bed and lay, panting and coated in dust, staring at the ceiling, thinking of the bizarre events of the day until, finally, she slept.
Penrose slept all day. In the late afternoon, a shaft of sunlight bathed her bed and woke her. She stood, went to the window and looked outside. Charleston was glorious. It always was in the summertime, but there was something special about the light in the last days of summer. The colors were bright and rich, almost dreamlike. But she barely enjoyed the sight because she was so very angry at Carrick. A child in the walls. Sickening.
The grandfather clock began to chime, a distant, dim sound. It was time for work. Penrose tidied herself and went downstairs, her mind stewing.
He was waiting for her beneath the chandelier. The second she saw him, she flew down the stairs, rushed right up to him. “How come you didn’t tell me you had a son?” she asked, and then her voice turned shrill and accusing. “A son who lives in the walls? The walls!”
“I didn’t tell you because you didn’t ask.” His eyes were a maddening swirl of colors as a sneer cracked his lips apart. “You said it yourself. You’re not paid to wonder or worry. So don’t. It’s none of your concern.”
“None of my concern!” Her hands flew up in the air. “He’s a child! Who is caring for him? He’s lost his mother. He needs parenting. If you’re letting him run loose in the walls, who feeds and clothes him? And why doesn’t he go to school?”
“He cares for himself. And if you spend some time with him, you’ll see that the last thing C.J. needs is schooling.” He looked at her sharply.
“He’s eight!”
“He’s ten. And raising myself worked out just fine for me. I spent countless years in those walls. I survived, so I imagine he’ll survive.”
“You lived in the walls?” She couldn’t hide the shock in her voice. “Why?”
His back grew rigid. “Sometimes it’s easier not to be seen. Even in your own family.” The last words came in almost a whisper. “Especially in your own family.”
She kept thinking of the little boy’s eyes. Those eyes that looked right into her soul. “But he’s your son!” she said passionately, following him through the hallway.
“I don’t even know if he’s my child. One day, right out of the blue, he just showed up. I found him inside the house. In the hallway. He told me the sheriff dropped him off and left him because he was my son.” A muscle by his eye twitched. “Clara—his mother and a...a woman of the evening—died of consumption. Because of his coloring they assumed he was mine.”
He turned suddenly and began to walk away, heading toward the kitchen. She followed hot on his heels as he sped through the kitchen, lit a candle and then disappeared into the stairwell that led to the workshop. “I don’t even know if these things are passed father to son. My father certainly didn’t have my coloring. And my mother sure as hell wouldn’t lie with a man who had even a single flaw, let alone a grand one like mine.
“Let’s go start our work, shall we?” He began descending the tight spiral staircase, holding the candle for light.
Her steps were quick and fervent as she followed him. “Why didn’t you just deny it?”
He stopped. She bumped into his back.
Slowly, he turned around. They were