“Pardon my poor manners, sir. I fancied a smoke and didn’t want to offend the ladies.” Weston takes his seat next to Florence, who turns to him with flushed cheeks and a winsome smile.
Bram waves away the apology. “How’s the writing coming along?”
“Very well,” Weston says. “I’ve the first five chapters complete.”
“Good, good.” Bram smiles beneath his impressive mustache. “Florence writes, you know. You should look at her work sometime, see if it has any merit.”
“Papa,” Florence says, shaking her head. “They’re only silly stories. I’m sure Mr. Chase has more important things to do.” Sadie watches Weston’s eyes rove over Florence, taking in her youthful beauty. She looks so much like her granddaughter Louise, the candlelight suffusing her complexion with a lambent glow.
Marguerite’s fork clangs loudly against her plate. Her green eyes are daggers, pointed at Florence. “Stop it.”
“Marguerite!” Adeline scolds. “Qu’est-ce qui se passe?”
“Look at her,” Marguerite says, her voice rising. “She’s ridiculous. Surelyyoucan see it, Claire.”
Claire looks down at her plate, tracing a path through the cream sauce with her fork. “Marg, please ...”
“You’re all blind to it. Every last one of you.” Marguerite stands, throwing her napkin down. “Well. I’ve had enough. I’m going to my room. I’ve lost my stomach.”
Bram lifts a brow and sighs. “Very well, miss. As you’re so fond of your room, you’ll be spending the rest of the week there.”
“Good.” Marguerite stalks from the table, her bustled skirts swishing as she passes by Sadie, so close that Sadie can smell her lilac perfume. Her great-aunt pauses for the slightest moment, as if sensing her presence, then rustles on, the echo of her feet on the stairs fading into the distance. No one says anything in her wake, although Claire begins to cry, silent tears tracking down her angelic face.
“I apologize, Mr. Chase,” Adeline finally says. “Marguerite is, how do you say ... une rebelle.”
Weston laughs. “I find all of your daughters to be quite charming, Mrs. Thorne.”
“When are you going to take her in hand, Papa?” Florence says, fuming, her eyes now pinched and hateful, the expression ruining her delicate, pretty features. “She’s jealous. That’s what this is about. She’s always been jealous of me.”
“Florence, please.” Bram passes a hand through his thinning hair. “Let’s have our dessert in peace, shall we? I’m weary of all the bickering.”
Weston glances over at Sadie as the footmen begin serving a decadent rum-and-cherry compote alongside fluted canelés de Bordeaux—a dessert her grandmother always favored. Florence lifts the spoon to her lips with a smile as Weston whispers something in her ear.
The scene shifts suddenly, as if a strip of film has been cut and spliced. Somehow, Sadie is now outside, the scent of summer jasmine heavy in the air. While the change in scenery is jarring to her senses, she recognizes this place, too—these gardens. She played in them as a child and once got lost in the boxwood labyrinth when she was small. The marble statues of gods and goddesses always frightened her. Now, up ahead, the cloistered walls of the labyrinth beckon, faintly edged in shadow. As Sadie nears the maze, she hears a soft giggle, then a muted male voice. She pauses, listening.
“There,” he murmurs. “I’ll help you up. But you must be quieter this time.”
Sadie edges closer to the first open-air room of the labyrinth—a temple dedicated to Venus. A frisson of nervous dread wars with her curiosity. Somehow, she already knows what she’ll see. The thought makes her stomach turn. Yet her feet move forward of their own volition.
“Weston ...” Florence’s voice, soft and pleading with want.
“Quiet now, or I’ll stop.”
Sadie rounds the corner of the hedge and gasps. Florence sits balanced on the altar at Venus’s feet, her hair loose and her head tilted back as Weston pleasures her, the moon bathing her bare shoulders in silver light.
Chapter 8
July 21, 1925
“Miss Halloran.” I open my eyes at the sound of my name. Blades of grass poke at my skin. I place a hand on the dewy lawn and sit up, my head spinning. The labyrinth is gone. The Brookside mansion is gone. Blackberry Grange looms in front of me instead, its dark windows cold and dismissive. The rising sun cuts a red gash in the sky.
“Miss Halloran.” Beckett’s voice comes to me again, hollow. I push myself up from the ground and stand, drawing my thin robe tight around me. The faint reddish light paints Beckett in monochrome as he rushes to my side. “Are you all right?”
“I ... I don’t know.” I press the heel of my hand to my eye, where the beginning of a headache throbs. “I don’t know how I got out here.”
“You were sleepwalking.”
But I’ve never sleepwalked. Not a day in my life. I shake my head. “I was in Marguerite’s studio. Something happened ... I was in the past.”
