THEyellow parlor seemed more down-at-heel than I remembered. On my previous visit I had thought the room a warm place, a patch of life and light in the middle of a dark, stone body. It was different this time, and perhaps the change of seasons was to blame, the loss of summer’s brilliance, the sneaking chill that presaged winter, for it wasn’t only the alteration in the room that struck me.
The dog was panting hard and he collapsed against the tattered screen. He, too, had aged, I realized, just as Percy Blythe had aged since May, just as the room itself had faded. The notion popped into my head then that Milderhurst really was somehow separate from the real world, a place outside the usual bounds of space and time. That it was under some enchantment: a fairy-tale castle in which time could be slowed down, speeded up, at the whim of an unearthly being.
Saffy was standing in profile, her head bent over a fine porcelain teapot. “Finally, Percy,” she said as she tried to replace the lid. “I was beginning to think we might need to gather a search—Oh!” She’d looked up and seen me at her sister’s side. “Hello there.”
“It’s Edith Burchill,” said Percy matter-of-factly. “She’s arrived rather unexpectedly. She’s going to join us for tea.”
“How lovely,” said Saffy, and her face lit up so fully that I knew she wasn’t just being polite. “I was about to pour, if only I could get this lid to sit as it should. I’ll lay another setting—I say, what a treat!”
Juniper was by the window, just as she had been when I’d come in May, but this time she was asleep, snoring lightly with her head tucked into the pale green wing of the velvet chair. I couldn’t help but think, when I saw her, of Mum’s journal entry, of the enchanting young woman whom Mum had loved. How sad it was, how terrible, that she should have been reduced to this.
“We’re so glad you could come, Miss Burchill,” said Saffy.
“Please call me Edie—it’s short for Edith.”
She smiled with pleasure. “Edith. What a lovely name. It means ‘blessed in war,’ doesn’t it?”
“I’m not sure,” I said apologetically.
Percy cleared her throat and Saffy continued quickly. “The gentleman was very professional, but”—she shot a glance at Juniper—“well. One finds it so much easier to speak with another woman. Isn’t that so, Percy?”
“It is.”
Seeing them together like that, I realized that I hadn’t imagined the passing of time. On my first visit, I’d noticed that the twins were the same height, even though Percy’s authoritative character added stature. This time, however, there was no mistaking it, Percy was smaller than her twin. She was frailer, too, and I couldn’t help thinking of Jekyll and Hyde, the moment in which the good doctor encounters his smaller, darker self.
“Sit, won’t you,” said Percy tartly. “Let’s all sit and get on with it.”
We did as she said, and Saffy poured the tea, conducting a rather one-sided conversation with Percy about Bruno, the dog—where had she found him? How had he been? How had he managed the walk? And I learned that Bruno wasn’t well, that they were worried about him, very worried. They kept their voices low, sneaking glances at the sleeping Juniper, and I remembered Percy telling me that Bruno was her dog, that they always made sure she had an animal, that everybody needed something to love. I studied Percy over the top of my teacup; I couldn’t help it. Although she was prickly, there was something in her bearing that I found fascinating. As she gave short answers to Saffy’s questions, I watched the tight lips, the sagging skin, the deep lines etched by years of frowning, and I wondered whether she’d been speaking, in some part, of herself when she said that everybody needed something to love. Whether she, too, had been robbed of someone.
I was so deep in thought that when Percy turned to look directly at me, I worried for an instant that she’d somehow read my mind. I blinked and heat rushed to my cheeks, and that’s when I realized Saffy was speaking to me, that Percy had looked up only to see why I hadn’t answered.
“I’m sorry?” I said. “I was somewhere else.”
“I was just asking about your journey from London,” said Saffy; “it was comfortable, I hope?”
“Oh, yes—thank you.”
“I remember when we used to go up to London as girls. Do you remember that, Percy?”
Percy gave a low noise of acknowledgment.
Saffy’s face had come alive with the memory. “Daddy used to take us every year; we went by train at first, sitting in our very own little compartment with Nanny, and then Daddy purchased the Daimler and we all went up by motorcar. Percy preferred it here at the castle, but I adored being in London. So much happening, so many glorious ladies and handsome gentlemen to watch; the dresses, the shops, the parks.” She smiled, sadly, though, it seemed to me. “I always assumed …” The smile flickered, and she looked down at her teacup. “Well. I expect all young women dream of certain things. Are you married, Edie?” The question was unexpected, causing me to draw breath, at which she held out a fine hand. “Forgive me for asking. How impertinent I am!”
“Not at all,” I said. “I don’t mind. And no, I’m not married.”
Her smile warmed. “I didn’t think so. I hope you don’t think I’m prying, but I noticed that you don’t wear a ring. Though perhaps young people don’t these days. I’m afraid I’m rather out of touch. I don’t get away often.” She glanced, almost imperceptibly, at Percy. “None of us does.” Her fingers fluttered a little before coming to rest on an antique locket that hung on a fine chain around her neck. “I was almost married, once.”
Beside me, Percy shifted in her seat. “I’m sure Miss Burchill doesn’t need to hear our tales of woe—”
“Of course,” said Saffy, flushing. “How foolish of me.”
“Not at all.” She looked so embarrassed I was anxious to offer reassurance; I had a feeling she’d spent much of her long life doing just as Percy bade her. “Please, do tell me about it.”
A sizzle as Percy struck a match and lit the cigarette she’d trapped between her lips. Saffy was torn, I could see; a blend of timidity and longing playing on her face as she watched her twin. She was reading a subtext to which I was blind, assessing a battleground scored with the blows of previous scuffles.
She returned her attention to me only when Percy stood up and took her cigarette to the window, switching on a lamp as she went. “Percy’s right,” she said tactfully, and I knew then that she had lost this skirmish. “It’s self-indulgent of me.”
“Not at all, I—”
