“She didn’t die of measles, did she?”
“No.” Marguerite squeezes her eyes shut. “That’s the other secret I promised my family I would keep. But you need to know the truth. Claire killed herself because of Weston. Jumped from a cliff in California when we were on holiday. I tried to save her. I couldn’t.”
I remember Iris’s letter, the lines about the “terrible thing” that had happened in California, and the vision of the woman’s body broken on the rocky beach, the bloodied knife in Marguerite’s hand. An uncomfortable sensation claws at my mind. Something is still missing. Claire didn’t seem suicidal at all when I saw the three of them together in California. If anything, Florence was the one who seemed at risk of doing something rash and impulsive. “And you’re certain Weston wasn’t a real person? Only an invention?”
“Heseemedreal enough, at first. After Florence’s coming-out party, he ingratiated himself with our family, my father. He was our houseguest for months. Lived in our garret. He claimed to be a writer from Connecticut. But something seemed off about him—about his mannerisms. He was amused by conflict. Enjoyed evoking quiet chaos between my sisters and I. Florence wrote him that way, you see. He was alwaysplotting and scheming in that wretched story of hers. Kidnapping ladies. Coercing them into bed. She wrote a devil into life.”
“And what about you, Aunt Marg? Did you ever fall under his spell?”
“No,” she says, with an adamant shake of her head. “Never. I knew he was mine and Florence’s creature, and I knew him for the evil he was. Claire never believed me about the painting. I tried to tell her what he was and what he was capable of. But Claire chose to see the best in people. That was her temperament.” Marguerite’s eyes drop. “As for Florence, she thought he was the love of her life, because he was just like her. A reflection of the worst aspects of her personality. Florence always loved herself more than anyone else, and Weston was an extension of that love. He encouraged her vanity and selfishness. If it hadn’t been for Weston’s influence, Florence wouldn’t have done all the things she did to me. To Claire. To Hugh.”
I drink my chocolate, contemplating Marguerite’s words before saying, “When I’ve visited the past through your paintings, I’m unable to influence anything. I’m only a bystander—a watcher. How can you be sure you can change anything? Influence what’s already happened in the past?”
“It makes sense, don’t you see? You didn’t create the paintings. Your actions didn’t bring about what happened in the past.Minedid. So I can very much influence the outcome. I can repaint my memories from the past, make them reflect a new reality. The right one. The just one.”
“How did the paintings come to be this way? How did they become portals into the past, your memories?”
“I’m not sure. But everything shifted after Weston came along. I can’t explain it. I wish I could. Sometimes I think I sold my soul for a handful of penny candy—as if some unseen devil heard Florence’s wish and granted it, using my talents as a vehicle for evil.”
“Louise told me Grandmother was a witch. Was she?”
Marguerite shrugs. “Oh, she dabbled in things. Girlish magic. Love spells and séances in our rooms. With Weston, she might have stumbled on something beyond her scope of understanding. It’s possible.”
“None of it makes any sense. It seems to defy logic,” I say. “But the granny woman I met told me that the only one who can break Weston’s hold over us is the one who wronged him and created the curse. I don’t know how you can do that alone, since Grandmother was just as culpable.”
“You’re right. I don’t know if I can do it,” Marguerite says, her jaw firm. “But I have to at least try. Righting these wrongs is the only thing that will bring me peace before I die. And it’s the only way you’ll be safe.”
Early in the morning, Beckett and I move Marguerite’s portraits back to the glass tower, where she insists on working in private. A gentle, soft rain patters on the roof as we arrange the easels side by side. Christine. Iris. Hugh. Marguerite. And finally, Weston’s portrait. If Marguerite is successful, his image will cease to exist in this world, taking his vindictive and vengeful spirit with it.
Despite my concerns for her safety and my pleas to accompany Marguerite on her journey into the past, she refuses me. “This is something I must do on my own, Sadie. Your presence might upset the balance—influence me to do something that could jeopardize the future. I must go alone. There are several threads that need to be cut and stitched back together.”
We leave her comfortably seated before the bank of portraits. As we go out, I seal the threshold with prayer and a sprinkling of asafetida powder and salt, hoping it will be enough to protect us all from Weston in the corporeal realm.
She remains in the tower room for hours, as I fret and pace the library. Beckett tries his best to distract me with a game of chess, butmy mind is far too addled to concentrate. A dull headache crowds my temples—a common occurrence after my concussion. I take a swallow of whiskey and lay my head on Beckett’s lap, drifting into a fitful sleep.
When I wake, Beckett is gone, but Marguerite sits across from me in her favorite chair, gazing out the window at the muted afternoon sun. I sit up, rubbing my eyes. “Oh, you’re here. Are you all right?” I ask.
Marguerite turns to me. “Yes, dear. Beckett led me down after I finished working. I’ve accomplished a lot today.” Her voice is haunting. Wistful.
“What do you mean?”
“You’ll see. All sorts of things are changing. Perhaps, if I’m successful, I can even prevent Claire’s death.”
“How wonderful that must be to consider.”
“Wouldn’t we all change our pasts, our regrets, if we could?”
“I think so.” I hold my aching head in my hands. The buzzing in my right ear returns, with more intensity. A trickle of warmth runs from my nose.
“You’re bleeding, dear,” Marguerite says.
I wipe under my nose, startled by the sight of fresh blood on my hands.
“It’s probably just the dry air,” Marguerite soothes.
But it’s not dry at all. We’ve just had rain. And I have the uncomfortable sensation that, despite Marguerite’s best intentions, something isn’t right.
In early November, the day after Harriet’s tearful departure, the first killing frost of the season comes, lacing the world in white. In the front parlor, the radio announcer relays rising stock prices, sinking commodities, and news of the wider world as I go through the mail. There’s a letter from Blanche Fitzsimmons. She’s successfully sued for divorce from Ted, thanks to my affidavit, and used the money from the engagementring to help finance a move for her and the children to Arizona. I fold the letter, pleased with the sense of closure it brings me.
