“Can you fix it?” Eustace asked him.
“When I come to paint the bedroom,” he said with another curt nod, heading into the solarium.
The second he left the room, Cordelia sagged onto the counter, head in hands.
“He’s not the only one wanting an explanation about that door,” Eustace said, low. “I was there. I didn’t have a finger on it when it flew open like that, and neither did you!”
Cordelia looked into her sister’s face. “It justhappened.”
Eustace scowled, crossing her arms. “Am I to believe house tornadoes are a thing now?”
Cordelia withered under her sister’s scrutiny, but before she could respond, Gordon ducked back into the kitchen. The sisters immediately straightened, Cordelia clearing her throat and Eustace grabbing a dish towel, pretending to wipe at something that wasn’t there.
“I, uh, almost forgot,” he said, inexplicably awkward, his stoicism cracking. “I brought you this.” He pulled a small paper bag from his back pocket, handing it to Cordelia. “It should be enough to get you through the next few days.”
Cordelia took the bag and felt the familiar give of coffee grounds. She immediately lifted it to her nose and inhaled deeply. “Oh, you’re a lifesaver,” she told Gordon, something small and imperceptible shifting between them. “How did you know?”
“Your aunt never touched the stuff. I figured Togers would forget.” A small smile played across his lips. “See you in the morning, then. For the funeral.”
“Is it in town somewhere?” Eustace asked.
His brow wrinkled. “Didn’t he tell you? It’s here.”
“Here?” Cordelia shrieked. “But we aren’t prepared. We didn’t know we were to host anyone.”
“You aren’t,” he said plainly. “There are no guests except the two of you.”
Eustace stepped toward him, dropping the dish towel. “Didn’t she have friends? People in town who would pay their respects?”
He shook his head, refusing to meet their eyes. “Not exactly.”
Cordelia stared at her sister. A family so long-standing in such a small community, and no one wanted to see its matriarch laid to rest? To bring over flowers or casseroles? To reminisce about old times? “But you—?” Cordelia started to ask.
“Pallbearer,” he told them. It was obvious why he was chosen for the job. “See you at five,” he said, turning to leave.
“FiveA.M.?” Eustace caterwauled.
Cordelia rolled her eyes. Twelve years of public schooling and Eustace had never quite adjusted to getting up to an alarm. But her sister was right—it was an unusual time to plan a funeral. The sun wouldn’t even be up yet.
Gordon shrugged his meaty shoulders. “Something about the dawn.”
CORDELIA STOOD INthe doorway of Arabella’s room, the saddest shade of pink she ever did see, like rose-colored tears. The second story housed six bedrooms plus one large bath, a morning room, and Arabella’s secret boudoir. With one room occupied, one room haunted, and one room potentially harboring a fatal disease, she’d wandered the hall with her suitcase in tow, sighing repeatedly.
There wasn’t a room on this floor that didn’t reek of its previous tenants. They hung in the air like a film, so thick she could nearly smell them. Even without Bennett to point them out, she could guess which room had likely belonged to whom, now that she knew a few faces and names. Here was the room of Morna’s brother Linden, and probably later Claude, with soft gray stripes and the scent of tobacco clinging. Here was Opal and Theodore’s room, the floral wallpaper a bitter burgundy, the angles of the turret sharp and accusing. And here was her great-great-great-grandmother’s room, a wilted flower.
With a final sigh, Cordelia wheeled her suitcase inside. It hardly mattered which room she chose; she would be uncomfortable regardless. She wondered how Eustace slept in Morna’s room without feeling the slow surrender to madness. And then she recalled the pungent pineapple scent of Eustace’s pipe and realized how.
She readied herself for bed and climbed between the heavy drapes, propping up against a pile of pillows so thick she felt like the princess and the pea. But she dared not turn out the light. It felt as if the room were breathing the soft, gentle breaths of a woman sleeping. She could feel a wreath of disappointment about her, like a stain splattered across the walls.
When she finally managed to sleep, she dreamt she woke to see a woman glowing like the moon at the foot her bed, with pale hair and gentle eyes, a delicate frame that held too much grace for this formidable house. Cordelia watched as the woman leaned over her and put a finger to her lips, then wafted through the boudoir and out the door to the solarium.
She woke with a chill running over her like ghostly fingers and found the solarium door standing open, the cold stairs beyond empty and silent.
“ARE YOU READYfor this?” Cordelia asked her sister as the coffee finished dripping and she poured a cup. She’d brought a black, belted dress for the occasion but felt unprepared.
Eustace looked through the window to the solarium. Her face was wistful. “Seems a shame this is the closest we’ll ever come to the woman. Who might we have been if we’d been allowed to grow up here? Or even visit?” She turned to face Cordelia. “I’ve been thinking,” she said. “About Mom. The headaches, the way she died.”
Cordelia winced, knowing she’d been keeping her own symptoms a secret.
