"Did you sleep alright ?" Marcus asked Carrie the next morning when she came into the kitchen. She'd wrapped herself in an old house-coat he'd fished out of a chest in the attic for her and she looked terrible. She shook her head.
"The mattress was lumpy," she muttered, pulling up a chair to the table. Marcus slammed a jug of hot coffee down in front of her and followed it up with a pan of eggs.
"This place is ancient, what do you expect ?" he demanded. "I put you in the best room."
"That's as may be," she said archly, "I still didn't sleep well. And my door kept blowing open."
"So did mine," he said. He chewed his lip thoughtfully. "I wonder why ?"
Carrie poured a mug of coffee and wrapped her hands round it, glad of the heat. "Well if you don't know, I sure don't."
"I'll ask Peteka," muttered Marcus. He took a gulp of his own coffee and set to on the eggs, hoping she wouldn't ask the question. He was fairly sure he wouldn't be able to answer.
"Who's Peteka ? No, don't tell me – he's your invisible friend, isn't he ?" Her tone was derisive, her lips twisted into a sneer. Marcus resisted the urge to shake her.
"I don't want you here any more than you want to be here," he said brusquely. "So you can wipe that look off your face !"
"If you don't want me here then why can't I leave ?"
"I don't think I can tell you. Not that I know, exactly." He risked a look at her. She didn't look as angry as she sounded, only frightened. He felt awful. "Do you like books ?"
"Yes," she said, startled by the sudden change of subject, "why ?"
"There is a library here. Maybe you can amuse yourself there while I try and find out what's going on."
Having deposited her in the library, Marcus went off to speak to Peteka. The wizard let him wander around the house for twenty minutes before growing bored with the game and finally showing himself.
"She can't leave until I say," he said insolently.
"I gathered. Why ?"
"Because I say."
"Tell me why, or curse or no curse, I will burn your bones," threatened Marcus through his teeth. Peteka laughed.
"Yeah, yeah, of course you will ! That's up to you. Either way, I'm not telling you."
Marcus stared at him for a moment, then, fast as lightning, bolted. Peteka squawked and flung himself in front of the door, stopping Marcus in his tracks.
"Okay, okay ! I'll tell you. She's here to break the curse, to teach you your lesson you were meant to have learned but haven't."
Marcus drew a deep breath. "I see. But you realise that if anyone finds out she's here, I'll be doing time for kidnapping ?"
"That's the least of your crimes, and anyway they won't find out," said Peteka smugly. "No-one can get in or out unless I say, remember ?"
"Yes, or I'd have left years ago," sighed Marcus. "Very well. But no more tricks with the doors - and sort that mattress out ! I'll have her here happy or not at all….bones, Peteka, remember !"
"Deal," sniffed Peteka loftily, and drifted off, leaving Marcus scowling at the door. He returned to Carrie, and found her curled up in an armchair in the library, reading his journal. He hadn't expected that. Perhaps, with Peteka's attention distracted, he'd forgotten about the journal ? As if on cue, the book flew up out of her hands and aimed itself at his head. He ducked.
"Hey, I was reading that !" she protested. Several pages scattered themselves about the place and Marcus stooped to gather them up again.
"How much did you read ?" he asked, putting the book back together. She shrugged.
"I skipped most of it," she admitted, "there wasn't much there, all the entries were the same ! Boring. Who wrote it ?"
"Me."
Carrie snorted. "Sure, you did. You started it in 1944 and you're still here. Ha. Ha. Ha."
"You'll notice the writing's the same all the way through ?" he pointed out, trying to wrench the book open. It remained firmly shut, like a clam. He flung it aside, irritated. "Well, hopefully you'll have noticed," he said, "anyway I sorted out the doors and the mattress. But you still can't leave."
"Can I at least call my parents ?"
"Try."
She tried. No signal. It didn't surprise him. From the look on her face, it hadn't surprised her, either. She stuffed the phone back into her pocket with a sigh.
"Tea ?" he offered, brightly. She flung him a hostile look. "Yes ? No ? I'll bring it anyway." Anything to get out of her company. It was awkward, having her here, against her will. Against his will. He'd spent so long alone, he didn't know how to talk to anyone, especially if they happened to be a girl. And a girl who really didn't want to be in his company to boot. A girl he'd have killed, in the war. He hated Peteka.
"Got no cause to hate me," said Peteka in his ear, making him jump. He set the kettle of boiling water back on the range and gritted his teeth. "You're the one what got yourself in this situation."
"Bugger off !"
"Now, now. That's exactly the attitude that got you here in the first place. Anyway are you going to make that tea, or just stand around playing with hot water ? Not good for someone who got burned."
"Bones, Peteka."
"Hmm, yeeees, empty threats again. Never worked on me – remember ?"
Marcus poured the hot water into the teapot and slammed the lid on. He remembered alright. He wondered how far he was going to be pushed. Peteka lifted two dainty cups off the dresser and set them on the tray next to the teapot.
"I'm not drinking tea with her," said Marcus. The milk jug stopped in mid air, on its way to the tray.
"Why not ?" asked Peteka, sounding a little offended. "Don't you like her ?" The milk jug continued on its journey, slowly, reluctantly. It landed in the sugar bowl and quickly righted itself. Marcus rolled his eyes.
"I don't think she likes me," he said, "she called me a lunatic. And look at me ! This is your fuc –"
"Language, Marcus," warned Peteka, appearing as a shadowy form by the window. He looked upset. "I didn't do that to you, you did it to yourself. If you hadn't been such a coward and acted sooner…"
"I don't need reminding, thank you !" shouted Marcus. No, what I need is to forget ! But I can't. He grabbed a bottle of vodka from the shelf and rammed that onto the tray as well, and picked it up. "You could carry this," he snapped, realising it was heavy. Too awkward for a hand that wouldn't work properly. "If you want to help, that is." He set the tray back down again, a little shakily. His wrist ached and he rubbed it, scowling. The tray wafted into the air and floated off toward the library, and Marcus followed, fuming, and not looking forward to the next half hour at all.
