“I love them so much,” said Sylvie mournfully.
“Yes,” said Simon, kissing her. “And I love you.” Sylvie noticed that he didn’t walk back his comment about sisters being “fraught.” For some reason, Sylvie needed to complain about her sisters, but she couldn’t bear Simon bestowing anything other than praise.
“Nobody’s perfect,” she said, defensively.
“What do you mean by that?” said Simon, his voice sounding alarmed. Sylvie’s radar sensed that something was up; she swiftly changed gears to avoid conflict.
“I just mean I’m glad my sisters are here. I wish I knew how to make it easier between us. Iknowthey love me so much. We never…I guess we just never had a chance to be normal around each other. Mom used to pit us against each other. She got off on us fighting or something; it made her the star, I guess. I don’t know.”
“That must have been hard,” said Simon.
“Yeah, but then sometimes…it was perfect. We had a game we played called ‘Once Upon a Time.’ ”
“Once Upon a Time?”
“We played it when we were supposed to be asleep…it was telling fairy tales, but about each other. Like, ‘Cleo, once upon a time you’ll be a famous movie star living in a penthouse on Broadway. And…Emma, you’ll open a perfume shop and Cleo will bring all her famous friends to shop at Peacock Perfumery.’ ”
“What wasyourOnce Upon a Time?”
“Oh, I’d be an astronaut. Or a writer. Always something introverted.”
Simon laughed. “What about getting married in a castle?”
“That is theultimateOnce Upon a Time,” said Sylvie, squeezing Simon’s hand. She could remember playing the game in the rocks behind their house, or in their shared bedroom. The murmur of her sister’s voices, always soothing, giving one another happy ever afters. They knew, even then, that their best years would happen once they grew up. What Sylvie could never have predicted is that they’d become adults, but not together.
“I’ll show you around our secret clubhouse,” said Simon, “and then you can rest.” Sylvie stopped, closed her eyes, and inhaled, leaning against him. When she opened her eyes, she saw an enormous bird fly overhead, tea-colored wings outstretched. The morning sun was warm on her shoulders.
The garden path Simon had chosen led to a stone building that arched across the main entrance to Mumberton Castle. Wide wooden doors could be closed to seal off the archway. On either side of the central arch were towers, each topped with battlements. Sylvie took in the meticulous stonework and Tudor-style windows.
“The gatekeeper once lived here,” said Simon. “Keeping an eye on the drawbridge that was the only way into Mumberton. See? He could shoot through those battlement indentations without being exposed.”
“Whoa,” said Sylvie.
“I can stay in my old room tomorrow night, if we believe in not seeing the bride the morning of the wedding….”
“We do,” said Sylvie. “Maybe Flo and my sisters can stay over here? A slumber party?”
“Of course; I’ll have it set up.”
“My hen party in my nest,” said Sylvie. In her own ears, she sounded a bit drunk—drunk on love.
Simon led the way inside the gatehouse cum Honeymoon Cottage, stepping into a room with a vaulted ceiling and stone arches. Sun was sliced into geometric shapes as it fell through casement windows. A fireplace was set with a perfect pile of kindling and four logs—even thelogswere charming. Opposite the fireplace was a set of Eames chairs like the ones in Simon’s Miami house, and the room had an ivory-colored shag rug, antique tapestries on the walls, and elegant standing reading lamps next to each Eames.
“I’m never leaving this room ever,” said Sylvie. She moved to the bookcase, which housed what must have been Simon’s own books mixed in with older, leather-bound nonfiction. Sylvie smiled to see some English major standards, in addition to well-read copies of mysteries, thrillers, and (surprising Sylvie) a wide range of short story collections. On a side table she saw a book open and resting on its face. “Possession?”
“Have you read it?”
“It’s about two academics studying the letters of long-dead poets, right?”
“You cannot beat a timeless love story,” said Simon as they moved through the sliding glass doors.
“Agreed. I love epistolary novels. I wish more people wrote letters.”
“Noted,” said Simon. “What’s your favorite point of view for a novel, do you think?”
“I’m really just in it for the story,” she said. “But revolving, limited third.”
“I like the first person,” said Simon. “More immediate. And always, first person inside the mind of the killer if there’s a killer.”
