A chill dances over Sadie’s skin—a chill that has nothing at all to do with the wind ruffling through the window. “I’m ready. I want to see. I want to know the truth.”
The scene shifts, warping and fading. Sadie finds herself alone, standing on the same desolate cliff she saw in her dream, the sea pounding against the rocks below. In the distance, silhouetted against the sun, she sees a man and a woman. From their agitated motions, Sadie can sense that they’re arguing.
She approaches, weaving through the thorny chaparral and scrub sage. It’s Weston, with Claire, her face streaked with tears. “She’ll hate me if I do,” Claire says. “I cannot go through with this, Weston. I’m sorry.”
He reaches for her, but she turns from him and walks away, arms clutched around her waist. “Claire!” Weston calls, his voice ragged. “Please!”
The scene shifts once more. Marguerite and her sisters are having a picnic on the same cliff, the sun a beacon in the afternoon sky as gulls scream overhead. Nearby, Weston poses for Iris as she sketches him in profile, looking out to sea.
Sadie approaches the plein air tableau cautiously, but no one seems to sense her presence. Marguerite cuts a tea sandwich, serves one half toFlorence and the other to Claire. “I’m not hungry,” Claire says, pushing away the plate Marguerite offers.
“Claire, please, you need to eat.”
“Nowyou’rethe sour goose,” Florence chides. Her hair is mussed, gathered in a tangled clump atop her head. Her eyes are swollen into slits, as if she’s been crying all day. Sadie remembers the scene from the past she witnessed in Florence’s bedroom—the tantrum Florence had thrown. This must be later, on the same day. The picnic she promised to attend.
“I’m going for a walk.” Claire rises, shaking out her muslin skirts. She walks away in a meandering line, toward the edge of the cliff. Apprehension fills Sadie’s gut, remembering Marguerite’s words.Claire killed herself because of Weston. Jumped from a cliff in California when we were on holiday.
“Please don’t,” Sadie whispers, following Claire as she comes to a stop on the perilously loose shelf of rock and sand. Claire bends and picks up a handful of stones. She pitches one over the precipice, her mouth knotted in concentration as it bounces down to the sea.
Florence approaches, her blond curls whipped loose by the wind. “Come away from there, Clairey. You’re getting too close to the edge.”
Claire says nothing, a look of placid calm on her face as she pitches another stone.
“If you think pouting is the way to get his attention, you’re wrong,” Florence says. “Now, come away from there before you fall.”
Claire whirls on her older sister, her freckles sprinkled like stardust across her nose. “Why can’t you let the rest of us be happy, Flor?”
“Happy? Do you thinkI’mhappy?” Florence asks, exasperated.
“You’re far happier than you have a right to be. Do you know what Marguerite calls you? The Monster. And she’s right. You take whatever you want, and you hurt people. You don’t care what happens to anyone else.”
“You’re wrong. I caretoomuch. Marguerite can’t see that, and neither can you. My affair with Weston has been my solace. My joy. Butthe guilt has made me miserable, Claire. Do you think this is how I imagined my life? You can’t fathom all the lies I’ve had to keep straight. The stories I’ve had to tell. It’s exhausting.”
Claire says nothing, her eyes narrowing.
Florence looks out to sea. “Do you know I’ve never been able to be my true self outside of his arms? Not once! My only choice as the eldest was to please Maman and Papa. To do their bidding. To placate. To be a good example for you and Marg. I don’t love James. I didn’t want to marry him. I wanted to break off our engagement and marry Weston instead. From the first moment I met him, I knew he was the love of my life. We were two halves of a whole. I tried to tell all of you that, but no one would listen. All Maman and Papa saw was James’s money and how it would bring us back from the brink of ruin. Papa was too worried about our reputation to let me have the life I wanted. ThehusbandI wanted.”
“And so, because you can’t have what you want, you’ll destroy all of us.” Claire’s lip trembles. “You want to keep Weston, yes. But it’s not because you love him—only because you can’t bear to lose. Because you’reselfish. Heartless. Weston wantsme, Flor. Me. Not you. He’s sick to death of you.”
Florence begins to shake, her eyes brimming with tears. “That isn’t true.”
“Ask him, if you don’t believe me.” Claire laughs. “You find it impossible, that he could choose me over you. Plain little Claire. Quiet little Claire.” She chucks another round stone over the ledge. “I told him I wouldn’t marry him because you’d make our marriage a living hell. But I might change my mind, after all. Why should I sacrifice whatIwant to appease you, when you’d never do the same?”
It happens so quickly, so unexpectedly, that at first, Sadie doubts her own eyes. She sees Florence strike Claire, sees the slap land so hard that Claire’s head jerks to the side, so hard she stumbles and loses her footing on the perilous bluff, her arms wheeling for balance. Claire’s blue eyes pop wide, and then she falls, tipping over the cliff’s edge, herhair a scarlet flag against the sky. Sadie and Florence scream in tandem, the sound echoing off the rocky shoreline.
“Claire!” Marguerite shouts and runs toward the bluff. Iris and Weston follow, their faces marked with horror. “Oh, Florence, what have you done!” Marguerite wails, peering over the edge to where Claire’s body lies broken on the rocks, blood trailing from her head.
“She ... she fell,” Florence says, frantic. “I warned her she was too close to the edge. She wouldn’t listen.”
“You were arguing,” Marguerite says. “I saw you!”
“No. You’re wrong. She tripped over a rock and fell.”
A low moan of grief leaves Weston’s throat. He falls to his knees, hands knotted in his hair.
Florence paces back and forth, her face pale. “No. She—she jumped. That’s what happened. She was upset over Weston, and she jumped.”
“You liar! You hit her! I saw you!” Marguerite screeches.
