The frantic scratching continues, as if something is trying to claw through the ceiling. I remember my older brother telling me when we were children that this house was haunted—that he’d seen a strange lady in this very attic once. She’d simply stood there, staring at him, then faded from view.
Suddenly, a loud cawing screams through the open window, sending my heart into a gallop. A pair of crows take flight from the roof with a rush of wings. The scratching ceases. I let out my breath, chiding myself for my wild imagination. Only birds. Not ghosts.
Once it’s dark, I settle beneath the covers with the well-worn copy ofWuthering Heights. My grandmother’s maiden name is written on the frontispiece in girlish script:Florence Marie Thorne. I smile, imagining her reading this book as a young woman. After a few pages, my eyes begin to close. As I turn into my pillow and switch off the light, I hear the scratching start up once more. While it’s much too late for crows,I comfort myself with thoughts of raccoons or opossums—common enough in the attics of old homes.
Still, as I fall into a wary slumber, I’m unable to shake the uncomfortable sense that I’m being watched, and that there’s more to this house than meets the eye.
I wake to an ungodly screeching, coming from somewhere below. I fling off the covers, feet tangling in the sheets as I scramble out of bed. The screeching continues—as if someone is dragging a heavy piece of furniture across the floor. As I make my way down the narrow, tightly spiraled attic stairs, I catch a glimpse of Marguerite’s white hair on the landing below and see the source of the noise. She’s dragging a small marble-topped table across the floor, rucking up the carpet. I creep toward her as soundlessly as possible to avoid frightening her.
She raises her head when I reach her, green eyes glassy, and I realize she’s sleepwalking. I carefully pry her hands from the edge of the table and place it in the corner of the landing to deal with in the morning. I marvel at how she managed to get it up a flight of stairs on her own without waking me, and vow to keep the attic door open from now on.
I carefully lead her back to her room. I tuck her in, and she turns to me, eyes popping wide. She screams, hands flailing.
“It’s only me. It’s Sadie.” I grasp her wrists, as Harriet showed me, and press her gently to the mattress. “You’re all right. You’re safe.”
“Where’s my penny? I’ve lost my penny.” She begins to cry, tears tracking down her temples.
Go where she is. Don’t argue with her. It only makes things worse.Harriet’s earlier words of advice ring through my head. “We’ll find your penny in the morning. I’m sure it’s here, somewhere.”
She turns away from me, crying. I rub her back in slow circles until she falls into a deep slumber. Bone tired and weary, I curl up in the chair next to her bed, unwilling to leave her alone, and sink into sleep. I wake to the sound of birdsong and the most beautiful morning light I’ve ever seen streaming through the windows.
And that’s when I see the painting.
Chapter 4
I step toward the easel, entranced by the interplay of color on the canvas. It depicts an alfresco party by a river, the revelers’ faces blank and featureless, save one. Though her image is unfinished, the woman at the center of the painting is arresting all the same—more handsome than beautiful, her dark hair piled atop her head, stark against her pale skin, lips outlined in bold crimson. She stares out at me, her blue-green eyes piercing. The background seems to swirl, the colors blending and morphing, as if the scene is in motion. I can almost smell the scent of the white rose tucked in the woman’s bodice, can almost hear the rush of the river in the background. This painting is different from the art my aunt is known for—sweeping, unpopulated landscapes celebrated for their skilled interplay of light and shadow.
“That’s Iris,” Marguerite says, rising from her bed. “Do you like it?”
“It’s beautiful. Lifelike and dreamlike all at once.”
“I had to paint her from memory. It’s been so long.”
“Who is she?”
Marguerite smiles sadly. “An old friend. Another artist.”
“I never knew you painted portraits.”
“I did. Early on. But I couldn’t find commissions. The society ladies all wanted to be painted by men. Sargent and Boldini. Bah.” She waves her hand dismissively. “I left portraits behind for landscapes because that’s what sold the best. But now, I can paint whatever I like, so I’ve gone back to them.”
“Tell me about this scene. What’s happening?”
“Oh, I took this study from life, dear. The summer of 1880. Iris and I were on a retreat in New York—the Hudson Valley. The light there is unlike anywhere else. After our lessons, the artists would unwind by the river, drinking and talking late into the evening. It was all very bohemian, as you might imagine. Papa threw fits about my going there ... but he didn’t have much say over me at that point. I was determined to make my own way in life by then. And I did. I sold my very first painting after that retreat.”
I turn back to the painting, admiring the texture and movement in Marguerite’s brushstrokes. The temptation to touch the swirling waves of paint is palpable. A feeling of vertigo washes over me. I could almost swear the woman’s unfinished lips twitched into the faintest of smiles. I blink twice and shake my head.
“Don’t stare at it too long,” Marguerite says, chuckling. “You might fall in.”
A soft knock sounds at the door and Harriet comes in. “Good morning, Miss Halloran. I hope the two of you fared well last night.”
“We did. We had a small mishap with sleepwalking, but other than that, we’ve done just fine.” I gesture toward the portrait. “Aunt Marguerite was showing me her painting.”
“She started working on that one a few weeks ago. Isn’t that right, ma’am?”
Marguerite’s forehead wrinkles. “I ... I can’t remember. I thought I started it last year. But the paint isn’t quite dry, so I suppose you’re right, Harriet. The days blend together anymore.”
Harriet hums under her breath and motions for Marguerite to sit at her vanity. “Let me take your blood pressure. Melva’s made biscuits and gravy for your breakfast. She’ll bring it up shortly.”
