Be careful not to bump your head on the low ceiling. The floor is uneven. But after a few minutes of twisting and turning, you will see a spiral stone staircase. It’s narrow and tight but will lead you to me.
I will be waiting, my love.
4
Sylvie
Sylvie put down Simon’s letter, which she had just read for the twelfth time. Her body, clanging with foreboding, had been right all along. Hope was a hole through which despair could enter her. It was time to go home and heal.
Despite her deep desire to connect with Simon, to love him and be loved, she could not bear it. She did not believe there was a plan, or a point, or someone watching over her. Alexander could no longer surprise her: There was safety and calmness in choosing his ghost and the steady ache of loneliness.
At the window of the Gatekeeper’s Cottage, Sylvie watched the castle and she watched the moon. She thought about her sisters, feeling pierced by sorrow thinking of them as kids, just little girls, desperate for an adult to protect them.
Sylvie wanted to feel comfort in her sisters’ presence, but being with them just reminded her of how sad she had been for so long. She had reframed their nights under the stars as something beautiful, but they had been desolate girls. Her sisters had nothing for Sylvie.
But she could return to her Miami library, a place where shewas known. She had her house on Hibiscus Street. She had Alexander’s ghost, who could not hurt her anymore or ask for more than she could give.
In her pajamas, Sylvie sat down at a small desk Simon had placed in the corner of the room for her. She reached into theNew Yorkertote bag she used as a purse, rummaged until she found a Bic ballpoint.
Sylvie ripped a clean page from a tiny notebook. She wrote,
I’m sorry, Simon.
I’m going home.
It’s over.
Sylvie signed the letter and heard the sound of someone banging on the cottage door. Sylvie moved downstairs, unlocking the entrance. “What is it?” she said.
“I’ve ruined everything,” said Emma, stumbling in, reeking of alcohol. “I’m going to be sick,” said Emma.
Sylvie helped Emma to the bathroom, then walked her upstairs and put her to bed without even trying to change her out of her stained dress. Emma kept repeating, “I had everything and I lost it all.”
Sylvie got a cool towel for Emma’s forehead, situated a bucket by her side. She texted Rich that Emma was asleep. Rich gave the message a thumbs-up, then typed:Thanks. She needs the rest.
Rich was a sturdy oak; they were lucky to have him in the family.
Emma fell into slumber, and Sylvie heard another rap at the door. It was Florence and Rashid. Flo had changed into sweatpants and herCoconut Grove ChoirT-shirt, her bags packed in their rental car. After a long hug, Florence said, “Rash, honey, can you wait in the living room?”
“Of course. I love you, Syl,” said Rashid.
“I know you do,” said Sylvie.
In the other room, Rashid clicked on Simon’s tiny television. A newscaster was excited. “Ladies’ day is usually synonymous with fancy hats and fizz, but tonight in Penrith, it was all about the racing!”
Florence and Sylvie climbed the stairs to cross over to Sylvie’s section of the gatehouse. Sylvie handed Simon’s letters to Florence, who read them in silence.
“Well, we knew it was something shady,” said Florence.
“I don’t want to do this anymore,” said Sylvie. “I’m sorry I made you come.”
“I don’t know, Syl. At least he’s come clean.”
“It’s not the money,” said Sylvie.
“Then what is it?” said Florence. “Tell me, just open your brain and talk.”
“This was all a mistake,” said Sylvie. “I tried…you know I tried. But I don’t want this. I feel just sick with wanting to be home.”
