The doorbell rings downstairs, echoing through the house.
“That must be Claire,” Beckett says, rising.
“I’ll get it. If it’s Aunt Claire, I should be the one to break the news to her, I think.”
I descend the stairs, my nerves jangling. I’m about to meet someone who should be dead, but isn’t any longer, for reasons I have no way of explaining.
I ease open the door cautiously, unsure of what to expect. The woman on the porch is petite and compact, her bobbed hair gray now instead of red, but her blue eyes are still as round and wide as they werein her youth. She smiles at me, then pulls me into her arms, kissing both my cheeks. “Sadie. So good to see you again.”
“Good to see you, too, Aunt Claire,” I say, my head spinning. “How was your trip?”
“Oh, it was fine. You know how the trains are. Tedious. I got here as soon as I could, but I’m already too late, aren’t I?”
I duck my head. “Yes. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be, child. We can’t control these things. Where is she?”
“Upstairs. In her room.”
I follow Claire up the stairs but stop short on the landing. One of Marguerite’s paintings hangs there—one that wasn’t there before. It’s the autumnal landscape I saw in my vision of Iris and Marguerite at the gallery. It’s eerily realistic, the brilliant, jewellike leaves lit by sunlight, the rolling hillsides drifting like waves into the distance, shifting from gold to deep violet.
“The Last Light of Autumn.That’s what she called that one,” Claire says. “It made her entire career. She bought it back from the Met. She wanted Laura to have it someday. I suppose it’s yours now, dear.”
“I suppose it is.”
Beckett looks up when we enter Marguerite’s room. Claire goes to her sister’s side, crossing herself as she kneels on the floor. She doesn’t cry, only takes Marguerite’s limp hand in hers. “What a rich life you had, sister. A full one. May you go easy, knowing you were loved.” She kisses the back of Marguerite’s hand, then replaces it on her chest with a tidy pat.
The rest of my family descends over the next few days. Louise, accompanied by her husband, Toby, and the children; Pauline; Aunt Grace; Felix, Rosalie, and their boys. Though Harriet is still on strict bed rest, she phones to offer her condolences, with a promise to visit with the new baby in the spring.
Despite my worries, Felix is curiously generous, taking charge of the funeral arrangements and, after meeting with Marguerite’s attorney, reassures me he won’t interfere with the probate proceedings. Rosalie pullsme aside at the wake and confesses to having smoothed the way on my behalf. “I wasn’t going to tell you this, but Felix was gravely ill recently. He and the boys came down with some terrible, sudden anemia—the doctors couldn’t figure it out. Things were touch and go for a few days, but they’ve made a remarkable recovery.”
“Oh my.” I feel my skin blanch. But of course, it makes sense. I was ill with the same thing. If Marguerite had succeeded in changing the past, I would have ceased to exist, and so would my brother. His boys. We all narrowly avoided annihilation.
“I told Felix he was being selfish, fighting with you over this house. His illness softened him. Made him see that he needs to change.”
“I suppose I can’t really blame him. Selfishness seems to run in this family. It’s our curse, I think.”
“Well, we must do better, for our children, mustn’t we?” She smiles, eyeing my belly. “Beckett told me your news. Congratulations.”
“Thank you. It was unexpected. I don’t know that I’m ready to be a mother, but now’s just as good of a time as any, I suppose.”
“I felt the same way with Leslie and George. But it comes to one naturally. Most of the time.” She smiles. “I brought some of your mother’s jewelry with us. I’d like you to go through it tonight, pick out whatever you want. It should have been yours to begin with.”
“How kind of you.”
Rosalie presses my hand into hers. “I’d like us to be sisters, Sadie. I never had a sister, but always wanted one.”
“I did, too. I’m sure you can imagine what growing up with two boys was like.”
“Oh, I know. Too well.” She laughs, then grows somber. “It must be difficult for Aunt Claire, being the only one of her sisters left.”
“Yes. I’d imagine so. Although she seems matter-of-fact about it all.”
“I suppose as one gets older, the inevitability of death becomes a part of life.”
“Perhaps. Although I’m in no rush to find out.”
“Nor am I.” She squeezes my hand. “I’m glad everything worked out for the best, Sadie. I am. Marguerite was very lucky to have you looking out for her.”
