Cleo
When a lovely young woman wearing an old-timey bonnet gave Cleo a sample of gingerbread, she jammed it in her mouth and savored the incredible taste—for some reason, she’d expected it to taste like a graham cracker, but it was more like a thin, soft, buttery cake. She bought six squares of Sarah Nelson’s Celebrated Grasmere Gingerbread nestled in a sweet little tin box with a purple label, paying with a twenty-pound note and stuffing the change in her pocket.
On the van, Danny was pretending to be asleep. His face was so sad, defeated. Cleo sat next to him. They wound through picturesque streets on the way back to Mumberton Castle. She ate five squares of gingerbread.
Cleo slipped the last warm cake to Danny, who didn’t open his eyes but—keeping his face turned away from Cleo—ate the gingerbread, chewing quietly.
6
Emma
-$53,170.91
Cassidy Rose had been calling Emma’s phone repeatedly. Emma didn’t answer the calls or follow-up texts. She felt frightened. Maybe it was jet lag. After their bucolic birding sojourn, Rich and the boys settled in for a nap (Rich) and iPad time (Jameson and Guinness), but Emma was wired. She wandered down the main staircase of the castle, locating a quiet room that looked like a sumptuous living room except for an unmanned bar in the corner.
Emma eyed a decanter containing dark red liquid, labeledSloe Gin.She filled a tiny glass—it was like a crystal thimble with a stem: a glamorous British shot glass, no more than a sexy sip. The aromatic elixir tasted like someone had mashed up and fermented a bush, including the branches.
Emma sank into a yellow sitting chair flanked by a couch made of red-and-gold patterned silk fabric and a red tartan love seat. She leaned against a square-shaped pillow embroidered with an “M” over a “C” in gold thread. Brass side tables and low coffee tables around the room held dainty tea sets. Someone had decorated this room with great care. Castle interior designer—what a dream job!
More elegant than selling sex toys, that was for damn sure.
Emma refilled her little thimble and gazed up at three multitiered chandeliers, eyeing endless, shimmering strands of crystals. Metallic petals clasped little lamps, each with its own little lampshade. The multipaned windows held colored-glass family crests. The rain had abated; sun poured through windows and glittered across the wooden floors and five different (but complementary) carpets. Emma was dazzled.
She admired everything, wanting to stay here, wantingthis,whatever it was. It felt like this room represented the epitome of splendor, of something precious preserved with (she knew) an enormous amount of effort. This room—this castle—struck Emma as a worthy obligation. Such a straightforward and important goal: keep its magnificence intact, make it sparkle and shine. She wished she had such a clear sense of purpose.
For some reason, Lionel Richie was playing loudly through a hidden speaker system: “Oh oh oh oh, sail on! Honey! Good times never felt so good!”
The sloe gin made Emma feel more and more tranquil, so she kept imbibing, turning things over in her mind. What if she took the kids’ suggestion seriously anddidoffer to stay on, with her family, after Simon’s dad was gone? Rich could design woodwork masterpieces. She could run the various businesses, create medieval fragrance kits, raise the boys amongst lakes and fells and climb Black Combe Peak.
I’m home,Emma whispered to herself, though this made no sense at all. Maybe it was the gin, but she had the glorious feeling that she could be at peace, for once in her life, if she could stay inside Mumberton Castle.
7
Sylvie
Sylvie sank into a hot bath filled with bubbles. Her birding clothes lay wet on the floor of her opulent bathroom. Simon had kindly installed a wire rack to hold a book and a candle over the tub, but Sylvie struggled to sit up and read—she kept sliding into the bubbles. Finally, Sylvie dropped her hardcover to the side of the tub, savoring the ridiculous extravagance of owning a new book she could splash on. Her brain clanged like an alarm bell, but she tried to ignore it. She didn’t need to figure out what was wrong, and she didn’t need to find a way to escape. She was no longer a child in danger—why couldn’t her body get the message?
Sylvie took a deep breath and let it out slowly. If it was the right thing to keep fighting her panic-fueled disassociation and marry Simon, why did her stomach feel as if it were filled with acid? Why was she still dreaming of Alexander?
Sylvie heard a phone ring. She hadn’t known there was a landline in the cottage, but she heard Simon’s low tones as he answered. Sylvie closed her eyes. Simon’s voice rose in volume and sounded upset.
“Please,” whispered Sylvie to no one.
(She didn’t believe there was anyone watching over her.)
She wanted her body to be wrong.
Simon’s voice went silent. If there were something amiss, he would come and tell her. Sylvie waited. She floated in the water and then she drained the tub and wrapped herself in a robe.
There was a knock at the bathroom door. “Simon?” said Sylvie.
“I’m so sorry,” said Simon. He did not open the door but slid a cream-colored envelope underneath. Sylvie picked up the envelope, and she opened it.
8
from the desk ofSimon Rampling
Dear Sylvie,
