“You told me she ended up there because of Weston.”
“Yes. Itwasbecause of him. Lots of things happened because of Weston.” Her eyes cut sharply into mine. “But there are some things I’ll never tell you, child. I may be losing my mind. But I’ll take some of my secrets to the grave.”
My breath freezes in my chest. Perhaps it’s the way my aunt’s eyes grip mine. Her tone of voice. The way she opens her palms toward me, as if she’s pushing me away. For the past few weeks, so much of what I thought I knew about my family has changed, as if I’ve been looking at them through distorted glass for all these years. Now I see them more clearly. How their well-bred ways were a facade for a well-hidden darkness. Though I don’t want to believe it, there’s a chance my aunt may have murdered her own sister. I think of my dream. The knife at her feet. Her bloodstained dress. My dream may have been just that—adream. But it had felt far too real, the details much too clear. And after all, she’d come atmewith a knife, after an otherwise pleasant night spent drinking and dancing.
If Marguerite had murdered Claire, her estrangement from her family would make more sense. They wouldn’t have wanted her near them, but they also wouldn’t want her to be prosecuted. It would have ruined their good name. Perhaps they’d lied, covering up Claire’s true cause of death with a common illness—something that would be completely plausible. Grandmother told me that only Claire caught the measles, even though Claire still lived at home with the rest of her family in 1881. Even though measles was—and is—highly contagious. Suddenly, it all makes sense. Her cause of death was a lie. Just like my grandmother’s fidelity to my grandfather.
And at the root of it all?
Weston Chase. Somehow.
That evening, I’m not surprised at all when I return to the attic and see Weston’s portrait, completely restored and in pristine condition, the varnish on its surface gleaming in the setting sun as if Marguerite never set it on fire. The cruel twist of Weston’s lips has grown sharper. His steely eyes bore into mine, accusing me. Fear gathers over me, like the dark shadow of some great beast, but I push against it as I touch the canvas and will his world to open to me one last time.
Interlude
Weston
Weston’s anger is a wall as he stands over Sadie, his eyes lit with rage. He backs her toward the bed in the Paris apartment until she feels the footboard against her hips. Even now, even as her fear crawls bitterly up her throat, desire is still there, that tender ache that tempts her into forgetting the real reason why she’s come here. Almost.
“I knew you’d come to your senses, my love.” His hands rove over her as he bends to kiss her neck.
Sadie pushes against his chest, locking her elbows. “No, Weston. No more.”
“We’ll see, won’t we?” He grins and turns from her abruptly, crossing to the enameled liquor cabinet and withdrawing a decanter. “Wine? Whiskey?”
“No thank you.”
He pours himself a whiskey, then leans against the wall, crossing one foot insouciantly over the other. “If you won’t let me have you, why are you here?”
“I want answers. About the past. Marguerite. Claire. Florence. What happened between the three of them? And what did you have to do with it?”
He loosens his cravat, takes a long swallow. “Tell me whatyouthink happened, and I’ll tell you how wrong you are.”
“I’d prefer it if you took me into the past and showed me. I don’t trust a thing you say.”
“I’ve never given you a reason not to trust me.”
She laughs. “Oh, really? I heard about what happened to Sybil. How you encouraged Florence to betray Marguerite’s confidence over Hugh. How you strung poor Claire along for years with promises you had no intention of keeping. Marguerite warned me about you. About how dangerous you are.”
He laughs. “Oh, she told youI’mdangerous, did she? I had nothing to do with that girl’s death. Sybil. She had a melancholy temperament. It got the better of her. Yourgardeneris only trying to scare you away from me, so you’ll run to him.” He gives a haughty sniff. “He’s the least worthy rival I’ve ever had. And as far as Claire and me, Florence was to blame. She wouldn’t let us marry. Every time I tried to end things with her, she’d threaten to kill herself. She was mad.” He smirks. “Florence was delightful when she was happy. A tyrant when she wasn’t.”
“Why should I believe you, Weston?”
He shrugs. “Because I’ve only ever shown you the truth. Told you the truth, unlike your family. You’re wasting your time, asking Marguerite about the past ... she’s full of false memories. Her disease has infected her mind. Made her believe things that aren’t true.”
“Did she kill Claire?” Sadie pins him with her eyes. “I saw her. In a dream. Standing on a cliff. Claire’s body was on the rocks below. She looked dead.”
“Iris,” he hisses, slamming his whiskey glass down on the cabinet. “Oh, Iris, you cunning little bitch.”
“What does Iris have to do with any of this?”
“She controlled Marguerite. Lorded over her. She’s still trying to control her. Now you. I was worried when I saw Marguerite painting her portrait that she would meddle with things, influence you away from me.”
“They were lovers, weren’t they?”
He ignores my questions, paces around the bedroom like a caged lion. “At first, Iris liked me. Admired me, even. She loved it when I posed for her silly little sketches.” He laughs. “I thought she was my ally. She wasn’t. She was party to their deception. She did nothing to stop it.”
“What happened? Whose deception?”
