Strange Beauty

By Kate Farrell

Sylvie Dawson has a dangerous secret, an abusive boyfriend who is stalking her. Forced to hide in her godmother's country home for the summer, she struggles with isolation and creeping terror to discover her own strengths. Set among a coastal redwood forest and drawing from elements of ancient myth, Farrell weaves a fabulist tale that is all too real.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kate Farrell
• Release date: Dec 3, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463778272

Kate Farrell

Kate Farrell is a writer and an editor who lives in New York City. V Is for Voting is her first picture book.

Book preview

Acknowledgements

Thanks to my first editor, Nicole Ayers, who encouraged me to write in this new genre of fabulism for young women, to my writing friends in the California Writers Club and Women's National Book Association, and to the perceptive teen beta readers, in particular, Vidhima Shetty, whose combined feedback over the last few years was supportive and invaluable.

Chapter One

In the chill of pre-dawn, dense fog and ocean wind spiraled down the City’s highest hill—Sylvie fought against it to open a dented passenger door. She threw herself inside and slammed the door, pushing down its old-fashioned lock.

A throaty laugh split the tense silence in the truck. Seems you’re headed for the country with me for awhile, Sylvie. Tess looked sideways at Sylvie who pulled her baseball cap down and her jean jacket collar up, hiding her face. Ready?

Stiff with fear and cold, Sylvie managed a nod as Tess maneuvered her pickup down the narrow streets of her hilly San Francisco neighborhood. They crossed Golden Gate Bridge in such a thick blanket of early morning fog that the oncoming traffic was a blur of headlights. Sylvie hugged herself to stop fidgeting, restless in the small cab.

What soup! Tess said. Well, Sonoma County can be downright hot—you’ll see.

In silence, they rode along in the rattletrap truck through Marin County as the fog cleared and the sky brightened. They passed grassy hillsides dotted with oak trees and meadows filled with lazy herds of dairy cows. As they turned off the main highway, Sylvie glanced at farmland with wooden fences and sloping barns ruined with age, forested hills jagged with treetops.

Tess drove north through Sebastopol and then west towards Bodega and the coast. She turned onto an unmarked gravel road that soon became a narrow dirt lane and descended into a thick redwood forest, stopping at a metal gate.

Sylvie took off her baseball cap and watched her godmother as she left the truck, unlocked the padlock on a heavy chain and swung the gate open. Tess, in jeans and a worn gray sweater, was still the short, chunky woman Sylvie had always known. She seemed at home in the country, like a sturdy, earthy pioneer. Tess drove through, jumped out, and locked the gate behind them.

Sylvie looked through the rear window with trepidation when she saw Tess loop the chain through the slats. Her panic of the day before returned and she felt the dread of confinement. What kind of summer was this going to be, isolated with Aunt Tess in the middle of nowhere? Sure, Tess can keep out all the cars, but who’s to stop Eric from walking down the driveway and climbing over the gate? Anyone could just walk through the woods from the Bodega highway to the cabin.

Now Sylvie, don’t worry, said Tess as if reading her mind. I usually don’t lock the gates when I’m here, but your dad asked me to be extra vigilant. There’s one more gate ahead.

I get it, Sylvie said, looking out the open window so Tess wouldn’t see her tears.

The truck slowed as they continued to wind downhill through the towering redwood trees. Gullies on either side were lush with ferns and brush. As they stopped for the second gate, Sylvie saw flashes of sunlight through the treetops. She squinted into the shaded woods, dismayed at its deep, foreboding silence. Each turn of the road made them more inaccessible and yet, Sylvie thought, cornered them, too. If they needed help, no neighbor would be close by. She tried to tamp down her resentments and doubts—her family's decision to hide her.

Just a short drive from here. Tess smiled at Sylvie.

They soon came to a circular driveway and drove into a large, open shed. The trees had thinned and Sylvie saw a wide meadowland ahead.

Is this what you call a cabin? Sylvie leapt from the truck wide-eyed in amazement and removed her jacket.

Her godmother’s country home was wooden, rustic and looked like it had grown with additions, some sections more weathered than others. Set on the west side of the clearing, its front door faced the woods. Sylvie had heard about Tess buying a place, but had never visited—too far away from the excitement of the City and her teen friends who were more important than any adult, back then.

Need help with your bags? Tess called.

No, Tess, I’m good. Sylvie carried her duffle bags to the impressive front doors as Tess struggled to unlock them.

Huge doors! Sylvie ran her fingers in the deep grooves of branches and vines carved into the massive double doors.

Oh, yes, they’re works of art. If only the dead bolt worked. There, got it. Tess pushed open one of the doors.

Aunt Tess, this is incredible.

Sylvie walked into a great room, spacious and bright, with a high, beamed ceiling and a stone fireplace on one side. But the far wall was almost all glass and opened to the broad expanse of a wild meadow.

I hope you enjoy yourself here, Sylvie. The best room for you is up those stairs, in the north wing. Tess pointed to her left, while opening the wide windows of the country kitchen that faced south, an area with copper pots and pans hanging over the gas stove and a round oak table.

Up a short staircase, Sylvie found three bedrooms—each had casement windows with window seats and antique furniture.

Which one is mine?

The one on the right. It opens to the meadow, stays cooler in the afternoon.

Sylvie heaved her bags into a cozy room with Navajo blankets on the walls, a brass bed, and a spindle back rocking chair. For the second time in as many days, she unpacked, hanging her summer clothes in the small closet and stuffing some in the highboy dresser. She changed from her sweats into shorts and a t-shirt. She brushed her long, auburn hair into a tight ponytail. A full-length mirror hung on the closet door caught her eye.

She faced her pale reflection marred with dark bruises on her upper arms, felt the tender red swelling on her jaw, neck and back. Examining her reflection more closely, she was relieved to see no more yellowing around her eyes. How did I let this happen? Why did I stay with Eric? Wincing at her own image, swallowing her fear, she walked out barefoot.

Tess! She called from the open kitchen door.

Out here, Tess said.

Sylvie wandered onto the kitchen deck and saw beyond it a fenced vegetable garden. There she spied her godmother wearing a worn, straw hat, crouched on her knees.

Come on down and see my prize veggies. Tess glanced up, noticed her godchild’s bruised arms and neck, but averted her eyes.

Sylvie knelt next to her godmother and felt like a young girl again, when she and Tess were close. But as Sylvie became busy with high school, Tess had found career success as a professor at University of San Francisco, publishing books and in demand as a speaker. Tess could afford a country home, a necessary study and retreat.

Will you look at all those weeds? That asparagus crop is almost gone to seed, but we might find some to pick. Tess stepped into the raised bed of tall asparagus stalks.

I can weed the other beds, Sylvie said. Just show me what to do.

First, you’ll need shoes, gloves and a hat, Tess said.

Once outfitted, Sylvie began to weed with abandon. She attacked the garden with a fury, throwing weeds into