“I do. And thank you, at least, for being honest with me, Rosalie.”
“Well ... I’ve known your brother for many years now, dear. We’re not always on the same side of things. And I, for one, am very happy about your marriage. He’s quite a looker, your husband. Those divine eyes! He seems to be levelheaded. And he’s very polite.”
“He is. All of those things. And more.”
“Are you happy, Sadie?”
I think of our recent bickering. But despite our petty arguments, Beckett is a good man. An honest one, without guile. And he hasn’t changed at all from the person he was when I met him. The man I fell in love with is still very much there, weathering my fickle affections and my impetuousness with his characteristic pragmatism.
“I am happy. Very.”
Rosalie sighs again. “Good. Because marriage is dreadful, if you’re not. It can seem very much like a prison.”
I’m not sure what she’s implying. I’ve never considered that she might be unhappy with my brother, cosseted as she is in the lap of luxury. I don’t know what to say, so I promise to write soon and tell her goodbye, then go to check on Marguerite in the tower. She sits ramrod straight in front of her self-portrait, her eyes glazed over in a trance. I glance at the easel next to it, which holds Weston’s unframed portrait. She’s completely covered his image with white paint. I’m saddened by this. Evil or not, it was a beautiful likeness of him. I can see a light pencil sketch on the whitewashed canvas, but I can’t make out what she’s drawn from here.
I pause by the door, watching her, but I don’t want to interrupt her trance. I go to the powder room, let down my hair, and brush through it with my fingers. I hardly recognize myself in the mirror. I look older, dried up, my eyes creased with worry, shadowed in their sockets. A sudden wave of dizziness overtakes me as I’m washing my hands. I lean over the sink, breathless. A faintplop plophits the porcelain. Blood tracks slowly down the drain. In the mirror, I see the thin line of blood streaming from my left nostril. I pinch the bridge of my nose to stanchthe flow and try my best not to panic as the other side begins to bleed as well. Iris appears behind me in the mirror, her form flickering.
She’s making a terrible mistake.
Suddenly, the floor pitches, the hexagonal tiles rise up to meet me, and everything fades to black.
Interlude
Iris
Sadie finds herself in the sunlit room at the sanatorium again. Marguerite is sitting on her narrow cot, heavily pregnant, rocking gently back and forth, her mouth an angry slash. There’s a light tap on the door. Florence enters, dressed as she was the first time Sadie witnessed this scene, in striped summer poplin.
“Good morning!” Florence chimes. “You look—”
“I’ve changed my mind,” Marguerite says, cutting her off. “I’m keeping the baby.”
Florence wilts. “Marg, we’ve been over this. It’s for the best if James and I raise her. It is. You can’t see it now, but it is.”
“Oh, I see it now. I’ve seen it all, because I’ve already lived it once, Flor. I’ve endured watching her grow up from a distance, on holidays, through pictures. You told me you’d let me see her as often as I liked. You lied. You’ve lied about so much.”
“You’re not making any sense, darling. Are you sick?” Florence crosses the room, sinks down next to Marguerite. She places the back of her hand on Marguerite’s forehead, frowns, her dainty rosebud mouth pinching. “You don’t feel feverish.”
“I tried. I tried to make things right with you. Tried to accept our differences and forgive you for your selfishness. Because that’s really why you want the baby. You’re selfish. At least you’ve lethimgo,” Margueritemutters beneath her breath. “At least perhaps, now, Claire might live. We’ll see in two years, I suppose.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” Florence’s brow furrows. “Are you quite well, sister?”
“I’m fine! It’s all ofyouwho are broken. You with your vanity, your hypocrisy. Your hidden darkness. Maman and her creditors, trying to heal her heartache over Papa’s affairs with pretty dresses and jewelry. Papa, with his drinking. The drinking will kill him, you know. And you, too, eventually, because you’re going down the same road.”
Florence looks at Marguerite, aghast. “You’re not making any sense.”
“Oh, but I am. Claire was always lying down and letting you walk all over her. She hates you for it, secretly. We all did. But I see everything now, Flor. All of it. And I’m fed up. I’m fixing things. I am. For once and for all. For Sadie’s sake.”
“Sadie? Who is that?” Florence asks.
“Never mind. You’ll think I’m mad if I tell you.”
“Marguerite, what on earth are you talking about?”
The scene shifts, the light fading to a dull coppery orange outside the window. Sadie watches as Marguerite goes to the dresser, frantically removing clothing from the drawers.
Iris comes in, just as she did before. “Marg, what are you doing?”
“I’m leaving this place.”
