Bells of Avalon by Libbet Bradstreet Page A

flutes.   She knew that, even now, he followed her with his peculiar, long strides.  She heard his voice crooning her name. As she ran, her lungs burning, a horrible thought came to her. Maybe none of this was real—other than in her mind. Perhaps he’d already caught her and done as before. Taken her to a forgotten room—a room with polished tables and chairs stacked upon one another like wooden skeletons.  Maybe she’d seen that obscure outline of Catalina from that room rather than from under Irene Kittredge’s arm.  She thought, even now, she was dying under his weight.
    She ran until she found a door that swung open into the night.  She felt a hand grab her dress and pull her back in one brusque motion. Another hand went to her wrist. She felt everything inside collapse and wilt. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she saw a different pair of hands—not quite a man’s but not a boy’s either.
    “You really are crazy, you know that?” he said breathlessly.
                  Her eyes looked back and forth over his face until she was certain it was him. 
                  “What the hell are you doing?”
                  “I—”she stammered.
                  “Well?”             
                  She yanked her wrist out of his hand.
                  “Take your hands off me. Just leave me alone.”
                  “Katie, what’s wrong?”
                  “Get out of here, Danny!” she screamed. It could have been the first time she’d screamed anything. The words were harsh even to her own ears. 
                  He said nothing then turned his palms up in a way that said he should’ve been done with her long ago.
    “Whatever you want,” he said.  He walked away with jerky, aggravated steps. 
    After he left, a rolling breeze swept over her body—as if to remind her that she was alone. She thought for a frightening moment—that if she dared look down, she’d be wearing the bobbin-lace jumper, patent leather tap shoes, and thick white leggings. One look over her shoulder would reveal the Dancer bobbing in that awful way, a flat cap pinned perfectly to his head.  But when she looked down, she saw only her white dress rustling in the breeze. Looking ahead was the trunk of a palm tree staring dumbly at her.  Like the one on Nestle Avenue, the sing-songy voice returned again.  She realized at that moment, it didn’t matter if the Dancer had seen her or not.  Even if he had, he wouldn’t have chased her. Nimble feet didn’t chase. Her little girl’s mind understood that at least. They didn’t run in clomping strides or dance with their own shadows in country clubs. Nimble feet tiptoed and lurked.  They walked in and out of the dark places with soft footfalls.  And when her little girl’s mind grew into a woman’s, she would understand more of why that was true…this unspoken fact that tarried in the minds of women.  What she knew now was only the seedling of what would bloom into harsh truth. The harsh truth a mother could have softened—that is, if she’d had a mother. The Dancer was finished with her—the same way nimble feet were finished with the ground they tread upon.  It was only a flash of thought: a seedling popping prematurely in the soil of her mind. It was a tender, tiny thing—but it was there. For the first time since she’d come to live with the Gallaghers, she felt the numbness of her body subside. She suddenly didn’t mind so much that she was outside—and alone. That was enough for the moment.  The rest was something she’d sort out in her own way and in her own time. She walked towards the highest point she could find.  She would get a closer look at that island in the distance. The same that had whispered a warning to her. She heard again the sound of footsteps behind her, but this time she knew to whom they belonged. She’d seen the