This house was where it all would end, Yuk Fong had told her.
“No wonder they didn’t tear it down for a new construction,” Edison was saying. “The place looks haunted. Something really bad must have happened here, like a suicide or a murder. Or both. Terrible feng shui.”
Marigold shivered, noticing the barbed wire atop the gate and the spikes on top of each pineapple finial. Those hadn’t been in her vision.
“My mother lived in this house,” she murmured. “She left something inside that she needs.”
“Are you sure this is it?” Edison protested. “It doesn’t look like anyone’s still living here.”
“I’m sure.” That was all she’d divulge. She got out of the car. “Thanks for the ride. Please send your mom my apologies for missing lunch.”
She didn’t wait for him to offer to accompany her. Slinging her backpack over her shoulder, she headed up to the gate.
Chapter Fifty-Six
The air in the house was musty. The wallpaper was peeling, dust powdered the intricate carvings of the rosewood furniture, and the piano keys had turned yellow. This much Marigold glimpsed while peering past the octogenarian maid blocking the door.
The maid scowled at Marigold. “How did you get up here?”
“The gate was... open,” Marigold explained, still winded from the stairs. “I’m here to see Seet Ling. She’s my...” Marigold faltered, not knowing what to call her. “My grandmother.”
“Ma’am doesn’t have any grandchildren.”
“Wait!” Marigold put out her foot before the door shut in her face. “I’m Yut Ying’s daughter.”
Upon hearing the name, the maid gave Marigold a funny look. She let go of the door. “Take off your shoes and follow me. Ma’am is in the parlor.”
Marigold wove through the house, carefully brushing the backs of her hands across the staircase, the walls, the cabinets, to assemble a mental map of the house’s four levels. There was no warmth at 12 Harbourage. Everything felt cold, leaking gusts of bygone fears and pains. As she approached the parlor, music resonated through the open door and lavender infused the air. The barest brush of the doorknob triggered the ghost of a gunshot in her ear.
With a sharp gasp, Marigold stumbled, nearly colliding with the maid.
She glared at Marigold darkly. “Don’t touch anything without permission.”
Marigold was still catching her breath. She’d forgotten how to speak.
“You’ll have to excuse Susu,” spoke a voice from within. “She’s been with us forever. The house is like her own child.”
There, on a rosewood settee, lounged a woman in her mid-sixties. She looked as if she’d been sitting there all day posing for a portrait: Her gray hair was pinned into the perfect architecture of a bun, her legs gathered to the side with a pair of silken house slippers parked in front of her chair. She balanced a long cigarette holder between her fingers, the sort Marigold had only seen in movies.
So this was Seet Ling.
She had pictured Helen’s stepmother to be a Miss Havisham sort of character, aggrieved and eccentric. Not this.
“Are you just going to stare?” Seet Ling drawled, sounding amused. She sat up, swaying as she put on her shoes. “Introduce yourself.”
She was drunk, Marigold realized, and it wasn’t even noon yet.
“I’m Marigold,” she responded. She extended a hand, bracing herself to read Seet Ling’s memories. “Yut Ying’s daughter.”
“You’re shorter than her.” Seet Ling ignored Marigold’s proffered hand. “American?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t think she would go so far,” Seet Ling murmured. “Good for her. It’s just a pity she isn’t here with you.”
Marigold drew back her hand. “My mother?”
“Yes. I should have liked to reconcile with her.” Seet Ling poured a liberal splash of whiskey into her glass. “Are you old enough to drink? This is straight from Scotland, very expensive.”
