Chapter 9
Mulder blinked and shook his head. "Wow, you really put your arm into that."
"Sorry," Scully whispered. Tense exhaustion had driven her palm with pure adrenaline.
Mulder grabbed her wrist and pulled her close again. His movements were stark—like he was forcing her, but his touch was soft, careful. He leaned down to her ear.
"This is the part where I'm supposed to run some line about how I have to have you," he whispered in a rushed voice. "The man in the trunk said that she expects it—it's in the book—and that while we stand this way, we can talk freely."
"The trunk?" Scully whispered back. Mulder's fingers slid down her wrist.
"Have you seen the bodies?"
"Yes."
"They've been here for decades—decades, Scully. The oldest remembers the twenties and talks like he's from that time, too."
"I know," she said. "There was a woman. She said nineteen-fifty-seven, but she looked so young, Mulder."
His fingers tensed on her lower back. He urged her away from the gazebo railing and into the shadow laced with moonlight, away from the peach candlelit wash of the house windows. Scully's hand slipped down the velvet dusty jacket he had on. They remained close, whispering.
"Mulder, I passed a note. Skinner knows where we are—where our car is."
"When? To whom?"
"Owner of a bookstore out past Springfield road. The local law-enforcement was here not twenty minutes back, but Mulder—they can't see us. I was standing right next to them."
He nodded and leaned closer. "The people in the trunk said that's how it goes. They described so many others coming through the house and seeing nothing—teenagers, police, even people appraising the property, considering buying it, but every time, the visitors got a bad feeling and drove away."
Scully bit her lip. "Mulder, our car was running, and now it's dead again. I think we can walk it—the town isn't close, but its close enough."
His fingers on her arm tensed, clenching. "Don't. She can tell. She senses everything that happens on the property. Everyone has tried to walk away at one point or another. They die… at best."
The orange wash of the house's windows flickered, and the record player's music trickled out across the grass as though a door had been opened somewhere to release the sound. Mulder urged Scully back into the light, and drew her close again.
"She's older than a hundred, Scully," he whispered. "The man told me. You and I are trapped in a parallel dimension created by a gipsy's magic. The girl had a great-grandmother—"
"Baba," Scully said automatically.
Mulder tensed. "What?"
"Baba. That's what Greta calls her."
"Scully… You're not Stockholm-ing on me, are you?"
"What? That's ridiculous. Muld—"
"There was a woman here," he cut her off. "A nurse named Nina. She was driving up to Cleveland, to a new children's hospital where she was transferring, when she got stranded. The people in the trunk say that she fell under the girl's finger in a second. She lost her mind."
"Mulder, I'm not Stockholm-ing. I just want to get out of here—I want us both to get out of here."
His eyes caught the glint of the orange wash as he studied her, pressing her close. Scully felt his fingers play the lace at her lower back. "They say we can, but they say it has to happen fast—within two weeks tops, as the man phrased it. I'm not sure why."
"Hunger," Scully breathed.
"What?"
The memory of the pain in her stomach washed over her. "Hunger."
He shook his head. "I haven't felt hungry since I've—"
"And you won't," she leaned into his warm touch. "But it's there. Mulder, I think our bodies are stranded. I think we're dehydrated and losing nourishment by the second, but we can't tell. When I went out onto Springfield road, the pain—"
She froze. The record-player music blared.
Mulder drew closer, his lips almost brushing her ear, "Listen to me—we have to play this out: this is the part where you reject me and walk away, but then we elope and get married—in the book. So, right now, you have to walk away."
Scully's fingertips brushed his velvet sleeve. Walk away? She had been trying to get to Mulder this whole time—four days apparently, according to the cop. She didn't want to walk away. She wanted to grab him and run down the road.
"Walk away," he whispered again.
Scully saw a little figure walking toward them across the grass. Mulder nudged her back with fingers that were both forceful and lingering on her arm. She obeyed their urge and walked out of the gazebo. She glanced back when she heard a rustle: Mulder had hopped over the railing and disappeared in the wall of corn.
"Mademoiselle," Greta called, walking toward Scully in a poufy blue dress she was struggling to track through the grass. "You have abandoned us, and our card game simply fell apart. What are you doing out here?"
Greta seemed distracted, but she said the words like she was reciting them. She was reenacting the plot of the book, Scully realized.
"Just admiring the stars," she improvised.
Greta smiled, pleased. "Well, you shouldn't on a summer's night," the girl hurried. "The stars may give you hope that isn't there to be had."
What was the next line? Scully hadn't read the book.
Greta stepped closer, and placed her delicate small hand on Scully's arm. "Desiree, may I be frank with you?"
Desiree… Ok. Scully bit her lip, still glancing at the corn. "Yes…of course."
"He's not the man for you," Greta widened her eyes.
"He? Mul—Duke Harrington?"
Greta nodded and her little face took on a solemn expression. "Have we not been close friends for all of our lives, Desiree?"
Scully nodded, unsure.
"Well then, you will have to hear this from me, painful as it is: Richard is promised—to another."
Greta hesitated, staring up at Scully. Her little blue eyes were so urgent, so expectant. The orange lights of the house bathed them across the cropped grass. Scully didn't know—she didn't know what she was supposed to do. Mulder was gone, and she was back in the little girl's grasp. She was so sick of it.
Then, out of nowhere, like an irritating loose hair, a mood flew over her, and she— clasped the back of her wrist to her forehead.
"Promised to another?" she cried with maybe a bit too much of a dramatic flair, and collapsed right there on the grass.
"Oh, Desiree," the girl rushed over.
The grass was cold, sharp, moist. And then, Scully's cheek brushed the embroidery of a pillow.
She woke to the sound of Mulder laughing.
"What?" she squinted in the dark. He was close on her—she could smell him.
"Shh," he hissed, still chuckling. "You were so funny."
"What's funny about this?" she hissed back and felt his fingers on her hip.
"Sorry," he breathed. "You were good. We have to get out of here. Now."
"How?"
