One thing was clear even before that. She liked roses.
"A full flush of Dreamweavers," he said, shaking his head in admiration as he looked at the bushes covered with brilliant pink bloom. "And those White Icebergs climbing the trellis.... Ah, but your Moonstones!" He lightly touched an open rose, its petals moonlight-colored but shading to palest pink at the edges.
The young woman - Krysta - couldn't help smiling. Damon felt the information flow effortlessly from her mind to his. She was just twenty-two, not married, still living at home. She had precisely the kind of aura he was looking for, and only a sleeping father in the house.
"You don't look like the type to know so much about roses," Krysta said frankly, and then gave a self-conscious laugh. "I'm sorry. I've met all sorts at the Creekville Rose Shows."
"My mother is an avid gardener," Damon lied fluently and without a trace of misgiving. "I guess I got my passion from her. Now I don't stay in one place long enough to grow them, but I can still dream. Would you like to know what my ultimate dream is?"
By this time Krysta felt as if she were floating on a delicious rose-scented cloud. Damon felt every delicate nuance with her, enjoyed seeing her flush, enjoyed the slight tremor that shook her body.
"Yes," Krysta said simply. "I'd love to know your dream."
Damon leaned forward, lowered his voice. "I want to breed a true black rose."
Krysta looked startled and something flashed through her mind too quickly for Damon to catch. But then she said in an equally hushed voice, "Then there's something I'd like to show you. If - if you have time to come with me."
The backyard was even more splendid than the front and there was a hammock gently swinging, Damon noted with approval. After all, he would soon need a place to put Krysta...while she slept it off.
But at the rear of the bower was something that caused his pace to quicken involuntarily.
"Black Magic roses!" he exclaimed, eyeing the wine-dark, almost burgundy-colored blooms.
"Yes," Krysta said softly. "Black Magics. The closest anyone has ever gotten to a black rose. I get three flushes a year," she whispered tremulously, no longer questioning who this young man might be, overwhelmed by her feelings which almost took Damon with her.
"They're magnificent," he said. "The deepest red I've ever seen. The closest to black ever bred."
Krysta was still trembling with joy. "You're welcome to one, if you like. I'm taking them to the Creekville show next week but I can give you one in full bloom now. Maybe you'll be able to smell it."
"I'd...like that," Damon said.
"You can give it to your girlfriend."
"No girlfriend," Damon said, glad to get back to lying. Krysta's hands shook slightly as she cut one of the longest, straightest stems for him.
Damon reached out to take it and their fingers touched.
Damon smiled at her.
When Krysta's knees went boneless with pleasure, Damon caught her easily and went on with what he was doing.
Meredith was right behind Bonnie as she stepped into Caroline's room.
"I said, shut the damn door!" Caroline said - no, snarled.
It was only natural to look to see where the voice was coming from. Just before Meredith cut off the only sliver of light by shutting the door Bonnie saw Caroline's corner desk. The chair that used to sit in front of it was gone.
Caroline was underneath.
It might have been a good hiding space for a ten-year-old, but as an eighteen-year-old Caroline had curled into an impossible position in order to fit there. She was sitting on a pile of what looked like shreds of clothing. Her best clothes, Bonnie thought suddenly, as a twinkle of gold lamé flashed and was gone when the door shut.
Then it was just the three of them together in the darkness. No illumination came from above or below the door to the hall.
It's because the hall is in another world, Bonnie thought wildly.
"What's wrong with a little light, Caroline?" Meredith asked quietly. Her voice was steady, comforting. "You asked us to come and see you - but we can't see you."
"I said come and talk to me," Caroline corrected instantly, exactly as she always had in the old days. That should have been comforting, too. Except - except that now that Bonnie could hear her voice sort of reverberating under the desk, she could tell it had a new quality. Not so much husky as -