The Writing Retreat by Julia Bartz

Author:Julia Bartz
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780861544448
Publisher: Oneworld Publications

And then, at some point, I was feeling it. The fire in the fireplace became brighter, alive.

“Do you see that?” Taylor asked, and went to the window.

I looked at Wren and she was gazing at me. And I knew she was thinking about the loft party, the bed. That same sliding feeling of timelessness arose. I realized Taylor was talking but I hadn’t been listening.

It’s going to be okay, I tried to transmit to Wren. I wondered if she was more scared than me.

Whoa. When had everyone moved? Taylor was at the buffet table, staring at the candy. Roza was sitting in front of the fire with Wren. Poppy was still on the couch. She looked somewhat perturbed, as if she was trying to remember something.

I got up and looked out the window. The snowflakes sparkled in the light shining out from the parlor, tinged with a neon purple color. For a while I was lost in them, my nose pressed against the glass. The snow went on forever out there.

“Alex.” Poppy’s hand was on my arm. Her large brown eyes were so dilated that I could’ve waded into them. “Can you come with me?”

“Sure.” I really didn’t want to leave the snow, but this seemed important. “What’s up?”

“I have to show you something.”

“Of course.” But as we left I wondered: Why was she asking me instead of Wren?

Wren and Roza were huddled near the fire, as if discussing a secret plan.

“We’re going to the bathroom,” Poppy announced. Maybe unnecessarily, because no one seemed to notice. Taylor was lying on the couch.

The room felt full suddenly, like the site of a full-blown party: I could hear the glasses clinking, little groups murmuring here and there. As Poppy pulled me along, a realization struck: it was a party that Daphne and Horace had thrown. The linear dimension of time was breaking down, the boundaries thinning. I could hear Horace’s voice, loud and deep. A woman laughing flirtatiously in response. Was Daphne here? I couldn’t sense her. But then, where was she?

In the hall it was mercifully still, though the party sounds inside the parlor were increasing: there came a shout, resulting laughter, the sound of breaking glass.

“Great party, isn’t it?” I said coyly, but Poppy ignored me, marching us down the hall. The paintings were moving and I slowed to gaze at the dead cow in the field. It had raised its head and was mouthing something at me that I strained to understand.

“Come on, Alex.” Poppy sounded frustrated. “I have to show you before it’s too late.”

“Okay, sorry.” I allowed myself to be dragged along. We burst into the kitchen. The shiny, flat surfaces felt shockingly severe. There were multiple pots and pans on the stove, burbling merrily. Where was Chitra?

“We’re going down.” Poppy opened the basement door.

I stopped short. The first few cement steps leading down into the darkness looked ugly and menacing. “Wait—why?”

“I have to show you something. I think I found it.” Her voice held both determination and a hint of glee.

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