I quickly amass as many oil lamps as I can find, and place them on the dining room table, just in case we need them. If we lose power on this hillside, it might be weeks before it’s restored. The roads have already washed out—Harriet phoned to say she couldn’t get to us shortly before I discovered Marguerite missing.
Beckett meets me in the hall, dressed in his rain slicker and hat, his face solemn. “I’ll search the grounds. She might have gotten outside.”
“Did you hear anything last night?”
“No, not a thing. But this noise could drown out anything.” Thunder rumbles through the house again, shaking the floor. He gives me a tight smile. “We’ll find her, Sadie. Try not to worry.”
“Be careful.”
He squeezes my shoulder and goes out the front door, letting in the roar of the rain.
After I’ve finished my fruitless search of the second floor, I go to the library and then up to the tower room, hoping to find Marguerite in her favored hideaway. It’s empty, but the canvas with the likeness of the young girl is uncovered, and a palette with fresh paint lies on the floor, next to a low-burning kerosene lamp and a tumbler of brushes soaking in turpentine. She’s been here. Recently. And somehow, she’d found turpentine, even though I’d taken on the task of cleaning her brushes to keep all of us safe. Lightning flickers all around me, the sound of rain deafening on the ceiling. At any moment, I imagine it shattering in the howling wind, glass raining down and cutting me to shreds where I stand.
“Marguerite!” I shout, desperate. I turn in a circle, looking for anything that she might hide behind or inside.
I hear a low moan. I whirl around, my ears straining. “Aunt Marg?”
I rush to the window seat, remove the cushion, and raise the lid to reveal a storage area beneath. I find old books and papers stacked inside, spotted with mildew, but no Marguerite. A dull thumping comes from the staircase. There must be another hidden room. One I don’t know about.
Sure enough, when I make my way back down the treacherously steep steps, I notice a small door in the stairwell wall, its exterior hasp latched. Lightning flashes, illuminating the space just enough that I can see to pry it open. I spy Marguerite inside, slumped on the floor of the windowless, small room. I go back for the lamp and crawl inside.
Once inside, I can stand, just barely, my head brushing the top of the sloped ceiling. It’s a storage closet. Half-finished canvases lean against the walls, landscapes and portraits of unknown people. I rush to Marguerite’s side. To my relief, she blinks at me drowsily and pushes herself up from the floor. The lamplight reveals a thread of dried blood trailing from her left temple to her chin.
“What happened? How did you get trapped in here?”
“I ... I don’t know. I was working and needed something from this room. I can’t remember what it was. I heard a noise on the stairs.Scratching. I was worried it was those people again—the ones living in the walls. I went to see what it was, and the door slammed shut behind me and wouldn’t open. I hit my head trying to get out.”
Scratching. The same noise I heard on my first night in this house. I shudder.
“Let’s get you out of here. Beckett and I have been worried sick. He’s outside in this weather, looking for you. You shouldn’t be up here without one of us.” I don’t mean to scold, but my fatigue and fear have stolen the better part of my patience. There are so many ways Marguerite’s actions might have resulted in tragedy. Even though her injuries don’t appear serious, she could have a concussion. I think of the tumbler of turpentine next to the kerosene lamp. She could have easily knocked over the lamp and set the house ablaze again. She seems unaware of her limitations and how dangerous her delusions can be. It frustrates and frightens me.
“Here,” I say, moving to a crouch, “put your arm around my neck. I’ll help you up. Watch your head.”
I lift her to her feet as she clings to me, guiding her slowly and carefully toward the door, and down onto the narrow landing, the lamp lighting our way. She stands still for a moment once we’re out of the cubby, placing a hand on her head. “I’m so dizzy,” she says.
“I’m not surprised. I’ll telephone Dr. Gallagher, but he may not be able to make it up the hill in this storm. Harriet called earlier. She said the roads were all washed out.”
“Oh my.”
“Yes. It’s very important for you to stay close to me just in case we lose power. No more wandering off.”
“I’m sorry, Sadie.” She begins to cry, tears spilling down her face.
“It’s all right.” I soften my tone, urging her on with gentle words as we navigate the last few steps into the library. Beckett is there, to my great relief, building a fire in the hearth, his hair and clothing soaked. At the sight of us, he hurries to help, taking on Marguerite’s weight aswe ease her onto the sofa. I kneel and remove her shoes, massaging her feet to warm them, then cover her lap with a quilt.
“She may have a concussion,” I say. “She hit her head pretty hard.”
“Where was she?” Beckett asks, his forehead creasing with concern.
“In a closet, off the tower stairs. She had another delusion about the strangers in the house.”
A hard clap of thunder crashes overhead. The lights flicker, once, twice, then blink out.
“I’ll fetch more lamps,” I say. “You need to go dry off, Beck. You’re half-drowned.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll stay with Marguerite until you’re back.”
I walk quickly to the dining room. The rain drums like fists on the roof, and then the sound becomes sharper still, like rocks fired from a slingshot. Hail. Fear floods through me. The last time I experienced a storm like this was in 1920, when a rash of them broke out across the Midwest on Palm Sunday. We were spared a tornado, but the hail and wind were harrowing. Now, perched as we are on the top of this bluff, I worry that we won’t be so fortunate.
