Page 127 of Dance of Thorns

Outside, I lug the package from Chiara to the ’72 Porsche and plop it down in the passenger seat. I keep the windows down, grinning as I feel the Mediterranean breeze in my hair and teasing over my sun-kissed skin as I drive up the winding cliff roads from town to the villa.

It’s been two weeks, and we're pushing the limit in terms of staying here.

Madame Kuzmina has beenveryunderstanding about my leave of absence in light of all the bullshit…which is weird, and slightly worryingly out of character. But I’ve learned not to ask questions when it comes to her.

No, the past two weeks have been heaven, but we’re going to have to go back to the real world soon.

I make a face as I pull the vintage car to a stop outside the villa.

Best not to think about that now.

The sun is setting. Bane’s outside on the veranda, dozing in one of the chaise lounges, a copy of Bastian Pierce’sFucked Sidewayslying open on his bare chest. I’ve played ahugepart in him not sleeping much the last two weeks, so I let him keep snoozing as I eagerly set the box from my sister down on the coffee table.

Chiara emailed me the other day, saying she’d found a box of Agatha’s things in the closet of her old room at Dad’s house, and would I like her to send it?

Why, yes, I fucking would.

I tear the tape off the top and rip the box open, grinning as I lean over it and poke around inside.

Aww.

Right on top is a framed photo of Agatha hugging Lark and me at around the age of nine, in the back garden of the house. A smile touches my lips, my eyes misting as I set it down on the coffee table and poke around some more.

Agatha’s old pocketbook.

The little metal case with the matching pens inside that she used to write her letters with. She was aprolificletter-writer, and I was always jealous of her incredible penmanship.

There’s also a scarf, and when I yank it out and bring it to my face, I melt a little, smelling the faint vestiges of her perfume.

I remind myself to thank Chiara profusely and get her anawesomeChristmas present.

The rest of the contents are just a few old paperback mysteries, a pair of reading glasses, and…

My brows arch.

An ancient VHS videotape.

I pull it out, reading the title on the side: “My girls” in Agatha’s impeccable pre-dementia handwriting.

Curiosity burns in me. I glance out to the veranda. Bane’s still asleep, and I’m not going to wake him up to ask if this house has an old VHS player.

So I just open the media cabinet set into the bookshelves of the living room. DVD player, CD player, tape deck….

Bingo.

I grin from ear to ear when I spot the old VHS player. My hands shake as I push the tape inside. It takes me a while to figure out how to get it to play on the TV, but eventually, I succeed.

The TV screen flickers to life as the tape begins to play. Ahugegrin tugs my lips as Agatha’s face fills the screen.

And I meanfills.

The video is zoomed super close to her face. There’s no sound, but she’s laughing and smiling broadly as the camera jiggles, like the person recording her is laughing, too.

Then I realize the damn TV is muted.

I scramble for the remote and hit the volume button. Instantly, Agatha’s laughter fills my ears for the first time inyears.

“No, it’s recording, hon!” she laughs, the skin around her twinkling eyes crinkling with smile and age lines. “The little red light is on!”