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My mother gave a sleepy nod and said, “There’s a gift for you over there. Just a little token from your father and I.”
On the dresser was a small box in pink paper and blue ribbon. Inside was a small snow globe with a miniature Eiffel Tower rising above a row of tiny mansard roofs.
“Shake it,” my mother said, and I did, sending tiny gold flakes spinning around inside the globe.
“I so wanted to take you girls to Paris,” my mother said, as if such a journey were no longer possible. “Promise me you’ll go one day.”
I gripped the snow globe tight and nodded.
“Go to Paris and fall in love, then write all about it. I know how much you love to write. Write down all your thoughts and hopes and dreams as you go on grand adventures. Promise me you’ll do that, my darling. Promise me you won’t remain here.”
“I promise,” I said.
My mother began to cry then. Openly weeping, she reached for the laudanum and lifted the bottle to her lips.
I left just before she began to gulp it down.
NINE
I’m not surprised to discover that there’s no TV in my room, either. I’ve seen enough of Hope’s End to know it exists mostly in the past, from the antique box of a phone I spotted in the kitchen to the old-timey toilet in my bathroom, which can only be flushed by yanking a pull cord. While I don’t mind not having a TV—I never watched much anyway—I am glad I brought plenty of books.
I set the box of them on the floor and open it up, wondering if I have the energy to try to cram them onto the already-full bookshelf. Spending the day caring for Lenora while subconsciously overcompensating for the leaning house has left me feeling sore and exhausted. Being a caregiver is hard work. It uses muscles you never know you have until that first day spent with your first patient.
Or maybe it was talking about my mother that’s left me exhausted. It usually does. Speaking about what happened gives weight to the bad memories, making them feel raw and recent. Right now, I’m so burdened by them that instead of unpacking the box and my suitcase, I’m tempted to collapse into bed and not wake until the sunrise peeks over the horizon. But then I hear a sharp rap on my bedroom door. Mrs. Baker, I assume, ready to either criticize, chastise, or inform me of something else I need to do.
Instead, it’s Jessica I find standing in the hall. Gone is her uniform, which has been replaced by stirrup pants and an oversize Madonna T-shirt. The jewelry remains, however, jangling as she offers a happy wave.
“Hi,” she says. “It’s Kit, right?”
“Right. And you’re Jessica.”
“Jessie. Only Mrs. Baker calls me Jessica.” She starts fiddling with one of her bracelets. “Anyhoo, I just wanted to officially welcome you to Hope’s End. The name fits, by the way. Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.”
I force a smile, even though her joke is more alarming than amusing. For the umpteenth time that day, I wonder what, exactly, I’ve gotten myself into.
“You settling in okay?” Jessie asks.
“Trying to.” I gesture to the suitcase on my bed and the box of books on the floor. “I haven’t had a chance to unpack yet. Lenora—Miss Hope—kept me very busy today.”
“You can drop the whole Miss Hope act around me. It’s only Mrs. Baker who cares about that.” Jessie puts her hands behind her back and stands on her tiptoes. “But since you’ve been busy, I guess you don’t feel like getting a tour of the house now.”
“Mrs. Baker already showed me around.”
“This is an unofficial tour,” Jessie says. “The murder tour. Mary did it for me when I first got here. She said it was good to know where everything went down that night. Who died where. That kind of thing.”
“That’s very nice of you, but I think I’m okay,” I say, repelled by the idea. It’s bad enough knowing what happened here. I don’t need details. “I was hoping to avoid those places.”
Jessie shrugs. “Fair enough. But how do you plan to avoid them when you don’t know where they are?”
A very good point. For all I know, a member of the Hope family could have been murdered in this very room. But that’s not the onlyreason I decide to take Jessie up on her offer. Between my father and Lenora, I’ve spent so much time with people who can’t—or won’t—talk back that I’ve forgotten how nice it feels to converse. Especially with someone under the age of sixty.
“Fine,” I say. “You can show me. And then I’ll know to never enter those rooms again.”
“Impossible,” Jessie says with an impish grin. “One of them isn’t a room.”
She sets off down the hall, going in the direction of the Grand Stairs. I follow, trying to keep quiet, even though Jessie’s rattling jewelry makes her sound like a one-woman wind chime as we pass Lenora’s room. Music drifts from behind the closed door of the room next to it. Something jazzy and old that takes me a moment to recognize: “Let’s Misbehave.”
Jessie lifts a finger to her lips and mouths,Mrs. Baker.