Briar Mountain's Bluebird

The ring was on the table before I realized my champagne tasted wrong. "Smile, Willa," Celia murmured beside me. Her fingers closed around my elbow, firm enough to hurt. "Everyone's watching." I looked across the ballroom at the people gathered beneath the painted ceiling of the Briar House Hotel. My father's old friends. The board members of the Ashford Foundation. A local reporter with a notebook tucked beneath one arm. Near the band, Everett Shaw stood with a drink in his hand and the easy patience of a man who believed the evening had already gone his way. I set my glass down. "I didn't agree to this." Celia kept her smile fixed for the guests. "Not here." "You told me this was a foundation dinner." "It is. And Everett is here because we're announcing a partnership." "Your partnership." Her nails pressed harder into my arm. Across the room, Everett turned toward us. He was in his late forties, silver-haired, handsome in the polished way of men who had their portraits taken for hospital wings. His first wife had died three years earlier. He had two grown children and a company that owned half the hotels along the Calder's Reach coast. He also wanted a road across Briar Mountain. My mother had spent the last decade of her life fighting to keep that road from cutting through the protected bird habitat on our land. The foundation owned the ridge and the surrounding woodland. Under the family trust, I would take full control when I turned thirty, eighteen months from now. Until then, Celia managed the trust with the board's approval. Everett's company had offered the foundation enough money to cover its debts. In return, they wanted a long-term development lease. I had rejected the offer in writing. Apparently, Celia had decided to replace my signature with a wedding ring. "I will not marry him," I said. "You don't have to decide tonight." Her smile never shifted. "The announcement is about the partnership." "Then why is there a ring?" Everett had reached us. He glanced at the ring on the table, then at me. "I'm sorry if Celia got ahead of herself." He sounded sincere. That did not make him safe. "I haven't said yes," I told him. His expression tightened for half a second. "I thought we'd discussed the possibility." "You asked whether I would consider it. I said no." Celia gave a soft laugh, an elegant little sound meant to smooth the air. "Willa's had a difficult year. She's tired. We'll talk in the morning." I pulled my arm free. "Don't explain me to people." The room had gone quiet around us. I saw the reporter's eyes lift from her notebook. Celia leaned close enough that her perfume covered the smell of wine and flowers. "You are going to make a scene over a man who has offered to save your mother's foundation?" "He wants the mountain." "He wants a future with you." "I don't want one with him." She raised her voice just enough for the reporter to hear. "Willa, darling, you've had too much to drink." The floor moved beneath my shoes. The walls seemed to lean inward. I grabbed the edge of the table. Celia watched me carefully. "Let's get you upstairs." "I'm fine." "You're swaying." The champagne taste turned bitter in the back of my throat. I stared at the glass I had left on the table. I'd watched the server pour it. I'd watched Celia take it from the tray and hand it to me. I looked at her. "What did you put in that?" Her smile disappeared. Just for a moment. Then she bent to retrieve the ring. "You need rest." I tried to move away, but the room slipped sideways. Someone said my name. Everett reached for me. I jerked back, missed the table, and caught myself against the wall. "I'm not going with him." Celia's hand closed around my wrist. "You're coming upstairs with me." I pulled free and stumbled toward the side door. The ballroom blurred behind me. A staff corridor opened onto the old west wing, where my father had kept his office and my mother had kept the rooms no one was supposed to use. I made it to my childhood bedroom before my legs gave out. The door clicked shut behind me. The music downstairs became a distant throb. I fumbled for my phone, but my fingers wouldn't work. I could hear Celia outside in the corridor, speaking to someone in a low voice. "She'll sleep it off," she said. "Tell Mr. Shaw we'll explain in the morning." I crawled toward the bureau. My mother's old letter opener sat on top, its handle shaped like a small brass bird. It wasn't a sword, though in my drugged, frightened mind it looked sharp enough to end anything. I lifted it with both hands. My reflection in the dark window looked pale and unfamiliar. I couldn't make sense of the person Celia wanted me to become: grateful bride, obedient daughter, convenient signature. I couldn't see a way through the locked doors, the rumors, or the house that had stopped feeling like mine. The letter opener slipped from my fingers and clattered onto the rug. A man stood in the glass behind me. He was tall and beautiful in a way that felt almost unreal, with dark hair and a face softened by the blue light from the stained-glass window. For a moment, I thought the drug had made him up. "You have a choice," he said. I turned. The room was empty. Then the floor rose to meet me. ***** The man was waiting in a room full of morning light. A bluebird was painted on the glass above him. My mother had chosen the window herself. She used to say the bird was a reminder that even the smallest voice could travel farther than expected. "Who are you?" I asked. He didn't answer. He held out his hand, palm up. A tiny key rested there. I woke before I could take it.