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He turned back to the door, seeking Iris. She was still hovering on the threshold as if wishing she could turn to stone. Blair held out his hand, and she reached for it tentatively, allowing him to lead her inside.

His mother’s mouth pressed into a single line as she regarded Iris, her eyes lingering on their clasped hands. But she quickly traded in her expression, her plum-painted lips curving into a thin smile. “You must be Iris.”

“Yes. It’s so nice to finally meet you.” Iris said earnestly, extending her right hand.

Jocatta merely smiled tightly at it before inviting them into the sitting room. “Please, sit down. I’ll bring us some tea.”

Blair raised his eyebrows at Iris in an I’m sorry about her kind of way as he led the way into the parlor.

Silvery turn-of-the-century wallpaper popped out at them from all sides, while heavy gold portraits of long-dead relatives—and one of Joan of Arc in a suit of armor in honor of his mother’s French heritage—gazed imperiously down at them. An antique oriental rug stretched beneath their feet, faded but not frayed. The faint sound of the ocean lapping the shore permeated the thick, tall windows that spanned the back wall, their heavy curtains dusting the mahogany wood floors.

“Where should I sit?” Iris whispered, biting her thumbnail as she peered anxiously around the room.

“Just not the rocking chair, that’s my mother’s spot.” He squeezed her hand. “It’s alright, Iris. Try not to panic.”

They settled onto the velvet settee near the fireplace, which crackled and popped, radiating its heat throughout the room. Blair spotted the vase he had placed wildflowers in the morning he’d departed. It was in the same spot where he’d left it on the mantle, but empty now—though he noticed that a few dried petals littered its base, an unusual oversight in his mother’s otherwise meticulous cleaning regimen.

Footsteps echoed down the hallway, and a moment later his mother rounded the corner, carrying two silver teacups. They rattled against their tiny saucers as she handed one each to Blair and Iris, before lowering herself onto the rocking chair. She smoothed her hands over her ice-blue dress, her torso draped in the flowing cashmere sweater she often wore around the house. Though she’d always been lean, Blair thought she looked diminished somehow.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” she asked. Her smooth forehead was clenched, and the undersides of her eyes were rimmed in dark circles, a telltale sign that it had been too long since she’d known a full night’s rest. Blair felt a pang of regret for the anxiety his leaving must have caused her.

He sucked in a deep breath of the sea and smoke-scented air, trying to arrange his thoughts into a neat and orderly package. The quicker he got to business, the faster they could leave. Already, the air felt oppressive, the fire burning too hot in the grate, so unlike the gentle heat of their wood stove at home.

Blair sipped his tea. If he closed his eyes, he might have been able to convince himself that he was back in Vitford, seated on the futon with his journal, with Iris at his side and Gabriel flipping through a magazine in the armchair across from them. But this room smelled all wrong, the sofa was too stiff, and the waves lapping the shoreline reminded him he was most certainly somewhere else entirely. A place he had sworn to leave behind for good.

How funny it was that a house he had lived in for only a few short months felt so much more like home than the one where he’d lived for well over two hundred years.

Blair cleared his throat, fixing his mother with a determined expression. “I want to hear everything you know about Lucy.”

Her practiced smile folded into a frown, deepening the faint lines around her solemn eyes. She opened her mouth, but no sound escaped.

“You do remember her?” Blair asked, automatically tightening his grip on Iris’ hand.

“Of course I do,” his mother breathed. Her right hand hovered over her mouth, obsidian tears pooling in her eyes. “But I thought you already knew.”

Whatever Blair had expected her to say, it wasn’t that. He was about to respond, when a second figure appeared in the doorway. His father froze at the sight of him, his readers falling out of his grasp and clattering to the floor.

Unlike the concoction of conflicting emotions that had coiled through Blair when he’d first seen his mother, Thomas’ gentle presence sent a wave of ease through him. Blair stood to accept his father’s gruff hug, taken aback by the comfort it brought him.

“We’ve missed you, son.” His father’s words were quiet, meant for him alone. Blair nodded against his shoulder.

His mother wiped a knuckle across her cheek, before rearranging her features, blocking out any trace of vulnerability. She rose suddenly from her chair. “Are you staying the night? Perhaps I should show Iris to the guest chamber. Come, Iris.”

Iris jumped up and followed his mother out of the room before Blair could protest. His eyes followed their retreat, and he listened to the sound of their creaking footsteps as they ascended the staircase, marveling at his mother’s ability to slither away from disquieting conversations with the ease of a snake.

“I’m surprised to see you back here,” his father said, scratching his forehead. He dropped heavily into his chair, wedged at an angle between the rocking chair and the couch. “Your mother has been lost without you.”

“If you’re going to ask me to come back⁠—”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” His father leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “I’m proud of the life you're carving for yourself.” He smiled. “It’s about time.”

Blair nodded, surprised by his father’s candor. It was unusual for Thomas to express any opinion that didn’t match his wife’s, so Blair appreciated the sentiment.

While they waited for his mother’s return, his father peppered him with questions about his life in Vitford. Blair told him about his attempts to find a place to rent in town to further his apothecary ambitions, details about Iris and Gabriel’s professions (how some evenings Iris would turn up with a bag of spare toothbrushes, how Gabriel sometimes brought home signed novels from the newest authors), and a little about what the three of them got up to during their time off. In turn, his father filled him in on the goings on in the family, including Venetia’s happy news (which of course Blair already knew), how Espirit’s children were enjoying preschool, and Jocatta’s long-awaited promotion at work.

Blair was just about to thank his father for the money he’d sent through Venetia, which he imagined was almost enough to put a down payment on a car (though he had other plans for it), when his mother walked back into the room and resumed her chair. Her presence sent storm clouds into Blair’s thoughts, darkening his mood.

He wasn’t sure what would be worse, if she were to refuse to tell him anything about Lucy, or to have to hear the truth he’d avoided for all of these years. Deep down, he’d always suspected that Lucy had to be connected to his family in some way. But Iris’ discovery about the ring had pretty much verified it. Why had he never thought to research the signet for himself?