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“Of course not.”
“Then how do I take her outside?”
Mrs. Baker comes to a dead stop halfway up the stairs. So quickly that I almost bump into her. To avoid a collision, I drop down a step, which allows Mrs. Baker to tower over me as she says, “Miss Hope doesn’t go outside.”
“Ever?”
“Ever.” Mrs. Baker’s on the move again, quickly climbing the rest of the rickety staircase. “Miss Hope hasn’t been outside of this house in decades.”
“What if she needs to see a doctor?”
“Then the doctor comes to her,” Mrs. Baker says.
“But what if she needs to be taken to the hospital?”
“That will never happen.”
“But what if—”
There’s an emergency. That’s what I try to say. I can’t get the words out because Mrs. Baker stops once more, this time at the landing.
“Miss Hope was born in this house, and this is where she will die,” she says. “Until then, she is to always remain indoors. Those are her wishes, and my job is to enact them. If you take issue with that, then you may leave right now. Am I understood?”
I lower my eyes, fully aware that after less than five minutes on the job I’mthisclose to being fired. The only thing keeping me from being forced to return to my old bedroom and my father’s silence is what I say next.
“Yes,” I reply. “I apologize for questioning Miss Hope’s wishes.”
“Good.” Mrs. Baker gives me a red-lipped smile that’s as brief and cutting as a razor slash. “Let’s continue.”
We start off down a long corridor. Like the downstairs hallways, it runs from one side of the mansion to the other, with the top of the Grand Stairs positioned in the middle. Unlike those wider, better-lit corridors, this one is as narrow as a tunnel and just as dim. The carpet is red. The wallpaper is peacock blue damask. A dozen doors line each side, all of them shut.
Moving through the corridor, I feel a strange sensation. Not dizziness. Nothing as strong as that.
Instability.
That’s what I feel.
Like I’ve just had a few very strong drinks.
I touch the wall for support, my palm skimming across the blue wallpaper. It’s overwhelming. The color is too dark and the print too florid for such a confined space. All those ornate petals bursting open and intertwining give the impression of a garden that’s grown wild and viciousand is now overtaking the house. My hand recoils from the wall at the thought, which sends me listing ever so slightly in the other direction.
“What you’re feeling is the house,” Mrs. Baker says without looking back. “It tilts slightly toward the ocean. It’s not very noticeable on the first floor. You can only feel it on the upper levels.”
“Why is it tilted?”
“The cliff, dear. The ground here at the top has shifted over time as the cliff has eroded.”
What Mrs. Baker doesn’t say, but what’s abundantly clear from the slanted floor, is that Hope’s End has been eroding with it. Someday—maybe soon, maybe a century from now—both cliff and mansion will break apart and slide into the ocean.
“Doesn’t that worry you?”
“Oh, we’ve all become quite accustomed to it,” Mrs. Baker says. “It just takes some time. Like getting your sea legs.”
I wouldn’t know. My sailing experience is limited to a whale-watching field trip I took in the sixth grade. But I can’t imagine ever getting used to this. When Mrs. Baker stops at one of the tightly closed doors on the left, I lean against the wall, relieved.
“These are your quarters,” she says, turning the knob but not opening the door. It does that on its own, creaking ajar thanks to the mansion’s pernicious tilt. “After you’re done changing, I’ll introduce you to Miss Hope.”
“Change?” I push off the wall into a standing position. “Into what?”