“Yes.” She smiles sadly. “And this one will be my last.”
“Don’t say that.”
She shrugs, dabs her brush in a bright crimson. “A person just knows these things.” She turns back to her work. “Beckett is working in the rose garden. You should go to him. I’ll stay right here, I promise. I want to get this part finished before it gets dark.”
“Harriet’s lying down. You’re sure you won’t go wandering?”
“Yes, dear. I’m sure.” She lifts a small porcelain bell from the folding table that holds her brushes. “I have this bell if I need anything. It rings loudly enough you can hear it from the rose garden.”
I leave her to her work and go out the french doors to the rear terrace. Beckett is cutting back the roses, pruning the spent flowers one last time before the cold sets in. He looks up as I approach, an inscrutable expression on his face. I cross my arms over my waist, awkwardly.
“I saw the cab. Why did you come back, Sadie?”
I sit on the ground, my legs folded to the side. “What wouldyouhave done if you were me? Really, Beckett. Don’t lie.”
He turns back to the roses, pinching a thorny branch between the blades of his pruners. “I don’t know.”
“You’d come back. If not for me, for Marguerite. You know you would.”
He looks at me, pain darting from his eyes. “I can’t protect you, Sadie. Do you know what it was like for me, watching that happen to you?”
“Yes. But I’m the one who nearly died. I’m afraid, too. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t. But I talked to someone. And she gave me some answers. Charms—to help protect me from Weston.”
“Charms?”
“Yes. I saw a granny woman,” I say. “She told me Weston’s spirit is restless because of something that happened in the past. A mistake. Someone in our family must have wronged him. That’s why he’s vengeful. Angry. She said that if I use these charms and wards, it will protect us.”
“And you believe her?” He shakes his head. “Sadie, the only way you’ll be safe is if you leave. I’ve told you that, a thousand times.”
“You say that, but what if I go back to Kansas City and that accursed portrait turns up there? Who’s to say he won’t follow me? He didn’t leave my grandmother alone. Not until she died. This entire situation confounds logic.” I stand, my chin lifted. “But whether it takes charms or spells, or ten thousand prayers on my rosary, I refuse to live the rest of my life in fear. I’m going to find a way to break this curse. Because that’s what it is.” I stand there as he looks at me in silence, my breath coming in sharp pants.
“If you’re determined to stay, I can’t stop you. But we can’t go back to how we were, Sadie. It’s too dangerous for you. Every time he attacked you, it was after we were together.”
“But can’t you see that’s why I want to fight? To try. Because I can’t bear not being with you, Beckett. This is our home.Youare my home.” My fists clench at my sides, my frustration welling at his stubbornness. “While you decide whether or not I’m worth fighting for, I’m going to fight for myself. For us.”
I turn and walk away, squeezing my eyes shut against my angry tears.
Late that night, I arrange Marguerite’s finished paintings side by side in the library. Hugh, Iris, Christine. I try not to think about the other portrait, hidden somewhere on this property, in a place only Beckett knows. I hope to never lay eyes on it again. I spread the asafetida powder across the threshold, finger the amulet around my neck, and whisper my prayer to Saint Michael. If what I’m attempting works, chances are I’ll encounter Weston, somewhere in Marguerite’s past. I need all the protection I can get—there, and in the present, too, where my vulnerable body will remain while my consciousness travels beyond the temporal plane.
I stare at the images of Marguerite’s lovers, in turn, perched on their easels. I could attempt to go back the furthest in time again—to Hugh’s time, in the brightness of his and Marguerite’s youth. But when I touch his painting, there’s no spinning sensation of vertigo like I’ve had before. No invitation to enter. I move to Iris’s portrait. Weston mentioned that she was once his ally, but something changed. He insinuated Iris was party to some sort of betrayal and had manipulated Marguerite, yet Marguerite still held Iris in fondest regard. There was something missing. Some obscure thread that bound everything and everyone together. And at this point, I trust Iris to show me the truth more than I trust Weston’s words. I tentatively touch the surface of the painting, which ripples like water on a pond. I suck in a deep breath, close my eyes, and let oblivion take me.
Interlude
Iris
Sadie finds herself in a room with a view of the sea, draped with sheer lawn curtains. Outside the open window, she hears the muted susurration of waves and the shriek of gulls. Wind-twisted trees stand stalwart through the lifting fog, and the scent of sage drifts on the wind. This place is familiar and foreign all at once.
Sadie turns just as a perfume bottle sails through the air, shattering on the wall near the window. The smell of gin fills the room, woodsy and sharp.
“How could you!” Florence collapses on the floor beside a four-poster bed, in a heap of lace and satin.
“I’m sorry,” Claire says, her voice steady. “But we’ve waited long enough for your sake, Flor. Too long.”
Florence laughs madly, her blond curls shaking. “He was with me just last night!”
“I don’t believe you.” Claire kneels and begins carefully gathering the shattered pieces of glass in her hands. “You’re very good at making up stories.”
“So are you, Claire. You’ve concocted a happy ending in your mind, but he won’t be loyal to you. Even if I deny him, he’ll find someone else to seduce. It’s who he is. What he does.”
