“Is that Hugh?”
“No,” Aunt Marguerite says, her voice quaking. “Not Hugh. My Hugh was good.”
“Who’s this man in the painting, then?”
“My biggest regret.” She crumples in on herself, hiding her eyes with her hand. “Cover it, please, Sybil. Cover it up.”
I pick up the cloth and throw it back over the painting. As I do, I swear I see the faintest smile lift a corner of the man’s mouth.
In the wee hours, after the house quiets and Marguerite falls soundly asleep, I decide to go back to the studio. I can’t resist. The mysterious portrait calls to me. Who was the nameless man? Who was he to my aunt? If he was one of her lovers, their affair seems to have ended badly. And if he’s a real person from the past, that means I’ve seen him—or his ghost—a troubling thought that chases me as I light an oil lamp and pad down the hall to the studio.
I slowly turn the knob and push open the door, its hinges creaking faintly. Between the undrawn curtains, trees sway in the indigo darkness. The air, even inside the house, is thick with the promise of rain. My lamp casts eerie shadows over the walls and shrouded easels as I set it on a small table near the man’s portrait. I stand there for a moment, staring at the veiled painting, a tremor of anxiety at one withmy curiosity as I remember the way his lips tilted in that insolent half smile. It might have been my imagination. But the same thing happened with Christine’s portrait. Iris’s as well. Each figure moved. There’s something uncanny about my aunt’s work. Otherworldly.
The hall clock chimes twice, startling me.
“Oh, Sadie, stop being ridiculous.” I take a half step forward and gently pull on the dustcover. It falls away. The man stares out at me, his eyes dark with something dangerously close to desire. My head goes woozy as I study him. He sits in a wooden chair, one arm propped on the back, the light etching his face with shadow and carving away any softness. He’s dressed simply, in a white shirt unbuttoned below the collarbone and black trousers with no jacket.
I step closer, my eyes roving over the surface of the painting as I examine Marguerite’s brushwork. There’s a difference compared to the other two portraits—her brushstrokes are more primitive, as if she made this painting when she was much younger, her talent nascent and still emerging. The swirls of paint are hypnotic, undulating across the canvas.
The wobbly sensation returns, my head spinning. I suddenly feel faint. I reach for something, anything, to steady myself as the edges of my vision begin to blacken. Before I can lower myself to my knees, the floor tilts at an odd angle, a strange, whining roar floods my ears, and I’m falling, the darkness reaching out to embrace me.
Interlude
Weston
Sadie sits up, her eyes wide as she stumbles to her feet and looks about. Confused thoughts knit together in a disarrayed tangle. Just a moment ago she was in Marguerite’s studio ... but she’s somewhere quite different now. The room is lushly appointed, with high ceilings, wood-paneled walls, and velvet draperies. A billiards table sits at its center, brightly colored balls scattered over the red felt. It’s a room familiar and unfamiliar to her all at once ... some memory she can’t quite pin down flits through her mind like an errant moth. She hears the distant tinkle of cutlery on china—a woman’s high, spindle-sharp laughter. She presses her ear to the door, listens to the low hum of conversation in the next room.
A man’s voice comes from behind her. “We can go in if you’d like. They won’t be able to see you.”
Sadie startles, whirls to face the corner. She hadn’t noticed him sitting there, hidden in the shadows. A sinuous trail of smoke threads toward her. She looks down at her silk wrapper, the color rising in her cheeks as she tightens the belt, pulls at the short hem. “What happened? Where am I?”
“Kansas City, Missouri. 1875.” The man takes a drag from his cigar and leans forward, into the frail light from the hissing oil sconce. It’s the stranger she saw in the attic. The man from Marguerite’s painting.
“But ...” Sadie shakes her head, puts a hand to her forehead, as if checking for a fever. “I don’t understand. Am I dreaming?”
“No, not exactly. I’ll explain everything in time.” The man unfolds from the chair, stubs out the cigar.
“You’re him, aren’t you? The man from the painting.”
“Yes. I am.” He closes the distance between them, covering Sadie with his gaze. “Weston Chase. We met the other day, but you were in a bit of a hurry. I regret we didn’t have time for introductions.”
“I was looking for Marguerite. You told me about the tower room. I saw you ...” She shakes her head. “Are you real?”
“As real as I can be. I’m sorry, I don’t believe I caughtyourname.”
“Sadie. Sadie Halloran. I know where I am now,” she says excitedly. “This is my aunt Grace’s house in Brookside. There, that mantel. I had too much wine at a party here last year, and I hit my head. I needed stitches.” Another peal of laughter rings from the dining room, this one familiar. Sadie turns at the sound, a soft gasp escaping her lips. “Is that my grandmother?”
“Yes. That’s Florence. Would you like to go in now?”
“But won’t we interrupt them?”
The man smiles with the slightest air of condescension. “As I said, they can’t see you. You’ll be like a ghost. They might feel a slight draft when you pass by. That’s all.”
Sadie reaches for the doorknob, all eagerness now, but her hand passes through it, her flesh as insubstantial as air.
The man chuckles softly. “Allow me.” He swings open the door, and five heads swivel toward them at once. Weston lightly touches her back, urging her forward. Sadie slips through ahead of him, her eyes widening as she takes in the candlelit table, with its fine linens, crystal, and abundance of food. Her great-grandparents sit at either end—though she never met them, she recognizes them from their portraits. Bram and Adeline Thorne. Their three daughters, Florence, Claire, and Marguerite, are all there, too, dressed in dinner finery. The scene is a glittering palette of Gilded Age wealth. Sadie slinks to the wall, where she watches, taking everything in with awestruck attention.
“Weston, we were wondering where you’d gone off to,” her great-grandfather says, motioning for a footman. “More wine, if you please.”
