“The article, Miss Burchill,” Percy interrupted. “How is it progressing?”
“Yes,” said Saffy, recovering herself, “tell us how it’s going, Edith. What are your plans while you’re here? I expect you’ll want to start with interviews.”
“Actually,” I said, “Mr. Gilbert did such a thorough job that it won’t be necessary for me to take up too much of your time.”
“Oh—oh, I see.”
“We’ve spoken of this already, Saffy,” said Percy, and I thought I detected a note of warning in her voice.
“Of course.” Saffy smiled at me, but there was sadness behind her eyes. “Only sometimes one thinks of things … later.”
“I’d be very happy to speak with you if there’s something you’ve thought of that you might not have told Mr. Gilbert,” I said.
“That won’t be necessary, Miss Burchill,” said Percy, returning to the table to tip some ash from her cigarette. “As you said, Mr. Gilbert has amassed quite a dossier.”
I nodded, but her adamant stance perplexed me. Her position that further interviews were unnecessary was so emphatic, it was clear that she didn’t want me to speak alone with Saffy, and yet it was Percy who’d dropped Adam Gilbert from the project and insisted that I replace him. I wasn’t vain or mad enough to believe it had anything to do with my writing prowess or the fine rapport we’d struck up on my previous visit. Why, then, had she asked for me? And why was she so determined that I should not speak with Saffy? Was it about control? Was Percy Blythe so accustomed to ordering the lives of her sisters that she couldn’t permit so much as a conversation to be carried on without her? Or was it more than that? Was she concerned about whatever it was Saffy wanted to tell me?
“Your time here will be better spent seeing the tower and getting a feel for the castle itself,” continued Percy. “The way Daddy worked.”
“Yes,” I said, “of course. That’s certainly important.” I was disappointed in myself, unable to shake the feeling that I, too, was submitting myself meekly to Percy Blythe’s direction. Deep inside me, a small pigheaded something stirred. “All the same,” I heard myself say, “there seem to be a few things that weren’t covered.”
The dog whimpered from the floor and Percy’s eyes narrowed. “Oh?”
“I noticed that Mr. Gilbert hadn’t interviewed Juniper and I thought I might—”
“No.”
“I understand that you don’t want her disturbed, and I promise—”
“Miss Burchill, I assure you there is nothing to be gained in speaking with Juniper about our father’s work. She wasn’t even born when theMud Manwas written.”
“That’s true, but the article is supposed to be about the three of you and I’d still like to—”
“Miss Burchill.” Percy’s voice was cold. “You must understand that our sister is not well. I told you once before that she suffered a great setback in her youth, a disappointment from which she never recovered.”
“You did, and I would never dream of mentioning Thomas to her—”
I broke off as Percy’s face blanched. It was the first time I could think of that I’d seen her rattled. I hadn’t meant to say his name and it hung like smoke in the air around us. She snatched up a new cigarette. “Your time here,” she repeated with a stern, slow finality, belied by the quivering matchbox in her hand, “would be best spent seeing the tower. Gaining an understanding of the way Daddy worked.”
I nodded, and a strange unsettled weight shifted in the pit of my stomach.
“If there are any questions you still need answered, you will ask them of me. Not my sisters.”
Which was when Saffy intervened, in her own inimitable fashion. She’d kept her head down during my exchange with Percy, but she looked up then, a pleasant, mild expression arranged on her face. She spoke in a clear voice, perfectly guileless. “Which means, of course, that she must take a look at Daddy’s notebooks.”
Was it possible that the whole room chilled when she said it? Or did it only seem that way to me?Nobodyhad seen Raymond Blythe’s notebooks; not when he was alive, and not in the fifty years of posthumous scholarship. Myths had begun to form around their very existence. And now, to hear them mentioned like this, so casually; to glimpse a possibility that I might touch them, might read the great man’s handwriting and run my fingertip, ever so lightly, over his thoughts, right as they were forming—“Yes,” I managed to say, in little more than a whisper, “yes, please.”
Percy, meanwhile, had turned to look at Saffy, and although I had no more hope of understanding the dynamics that stretched between them and back over nearly nine decades than I did of untangling the undergrowth of Cardarker Wood, I knew that a blow had been struck. A fierce blow. I knew, too, that Percy did not want me to see those notebooks. Her reluctance only fed my desire, my need, to take them in my hands, and I held my breath as the twins continued their dance.
“Go on, Percy,” said Saffy, blinking widely and allowing her smile to wilt a little at the corners, as if perplexed, as if she couldn’t understand why Percy needed prodding. She sneaked the briefest glance at me, sufficient only for me to know that we were allies. “Show her the muniment room.”
The muniment room. Of course that’s where they were! It was just like a scene from theMud Manitself: Raymond Blythe’s precious notebooks, concealed within the room of secrets.
Percy’s arms, the cage of her torso, her chin: all were rigid. Why didn’t she want me to see those books? What was inside them that she feared?
“Percy?” Saffy softened her tone the way one might with a child who needs cajoling to speak up. “Are the notebooks still there, then?”
“I expect so. I certainly haven’t moved them.”
