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I feel him before I see him. It begins as a prickling along my arms as I wake, then a cold rush of air next to my bed. The faint, grassy scent of vetiver cologne. I lie there, silently, my eyes afraid to open. His presence is as palpable as if he were a living person. My heart thuds inside the cage of my ribs. I blink. Clamp my eyes shut. Then open them again.

Weston’s form is silhouetted against the window, somewhere between ephemeral and corporeal. Watching. Waiting for me to wake. I sit up, startled. The covers slip down my shoulders, exposing my goose-pimpled flesh.

“You needn’t be afraid of me,” he says, his voice gentle. “I’ve no desire to harm you.”

He moves to sit at the foot of my bed, although the mattress doesn’t sink under his weight. “I’ve come because you need to understand who I am. They’re trying to turn you against me. To frighten you into leaving.” He sighs. “I saw everything, earlier. That bit with the knife.”

I pull the covers back around me, shivering. “You saw? I didn’t know what to do. To help her. I was scared.”

“Of course you were.” Weston shrugs. “The nurse and that idiot doctor from town dismiss Marguerite’s episodes as demented ravings. But there’s a reason for her anger. Her pain. She just has trouble remembering what caused all of it.”

I could almost laugh. I never imagined I’d be face-to-face with a ghost, much less holding an entire conversation with one. This all seems like a dream, yet I can feel my bedclothes draped around me, the draft from the open window. Have I gone insane? It wouldn’t be the first time my mind has played cruel tricks on me. I’ve had hallucinations in the past. But Melva and Beckett mentioned that others have seen Weston, too. I’m not the only one. He must be a ghost—the spirit of a real person who lived and knew Marguerite and her sisters. “Who were you to Marguerite?”

“An old friend. Something happened between Marguerite and I, a long time ago. We are tied together because of it, she and I.”

He seems to be implying they were intimate, although Marguerite was visibly repulsed by his portrait and denied that he had been her beau. He seemed far more besotted with my young grandmother in the vision I had.

My fear fades, replaced by curiosity. “I saw you, with my grandmother. In the garden. Did that really happen? Or was it a delusion? A hallucination?”

“No, not at all. It was a memory from the past, stored in time. You’ll find that time moves differently here—the walls between past and present are less brick and stone, and more like sheer fabric.” He smiles. “Iris is here, too. You’ll see her eventually. We’re both tied to Marguerite’s paintings. Her past. What did you think when you saw me with Florence, that night in the gardens?” he asks, elegantly crossing one leg over the other.

“It was shocking. It ... confused me. Upset me.”

He nods, his eyes catching the sliver of moonlight knifing through the curtains. “Because you saw something you didn’t expect. Florence had a side to her that few people saw. A passionate, adventurous side. I adored her. Even though she was already promised to another when we met, I took as much as she was willing to give me.”

“Marguerite said Florence betrayed her. Did she know about your affair? Did Claire know?”

“Yes, Marguerite knew, and it made her angry, because she saw Florence as selfish. And even though I loved her, Florence was greedy. Claire knew about us, but she was like the calm between two storms. Ever mediating. She just wanted everyone to be happy. There wasn’t much room for what Claire wanted, between Florence and Marguerite.”

I laugh, knowing all too well the plight of a middle child. “I understand, completely.”

“Claire was the best of them. Her father hoped we might marry. I was willing, but Florence ... she was jealous.” Weston sighs. “She wanted me all to herself. Claire knew I couldn’t resist Florence’s charms. She would have made our marriage miserable. If I had it to do all over again, I’d never have gotten involved with Florence.”

I’d seen hints of my grandmother’s jealousy and selfishness, certainly—her insistence on always hosting Christmas dinner, despite Da’s closeness to his own family. She’d pouted when Mama refused to leave us with a nanny to travel with her on her yearly holiday to France. Grandmother was petty and vain. Self-centered. But I never saw her as vindictive.

I study Weston, my guard still up, but eager to hear what he has to say. There’s so much I never knew about my aunts and Grandmother. So much I want to learn. “Aunt Claire died. In 1881. Did you know?”

“Yes.” He frowns, looks away from me. “Complications of measles. Florence wrote to me. I was heartsick over it.”

So, my grandmother had stayed in contact with him, even after she’d married. “Did you move on, after Grandmother married Papa?”

“No. Florence and I still found ways to be together, through the years. Fleeting moments of happiness. James never knew about the affair. We continued meeting right up until I died.” Sadness clouds his features. “It was difficult, not having her entirely to myself. But I accepted her sense of duty. She had a family. Children. I tried to be happy with our arrangement, but I was often very lonely.”

I shoot him a wry smile. “That’s something you and I have in common, then.”

“What do you mean?”

“I fell in love with a married man. When my family found out about our affair, they nearly disowned me.” I lean back against the headboard, letting the quilt drop to my bosom. “He said he wanted to marry me someday. Even gave me a ring. He lied.”

“You deserve better. I suppose I did, too. We’re quite a pair, aren’t we?” He smiles sadly. “Some would call us pathetic. I prefer to see myself as a romantic. I suspect you are as well.”

I should be angry with this man who despoiled my grandmother and made my darling, beloved Papa a cuckold. But as he looks at me, I sense a kinship between us. I didn’t intend to fall for Ted, either, but I was swept along with what felt like true love at the time. Our affair seemed bigger than us—so big it consumed every ounce of my common sense and sent my better angels into flight. But even with my regrets, there’s an inevitability to it all that seems fated. “I suppose we want to believe ourselves helpless in the face of love. That it can transcend everything. But it can’t, can it? Not really.”

“Indeed it can’t. Not even death.” He clears his throat. “Well, then. I’ll leave you to your rest.” He unfolds from my bed, eyes soft as he gazes down at me. “Thank you for a pleasant evening. It’s been a long time since I’ve had someone to talk to, Sadie.”

I feel color rise to my cheeks as he looks at me. Even though his arrival at my bedside was unsettling, I don’t want him to leave. There’s something mesmerizing in his manner—a cavalier brashness married with sensitivity. Understanding. “Come again ... if you’d like.”

“I’d prefer it if you came to me,” he says. “I think you might know how.” His lip curls into a mischievous grin that conjures an unexpected flutter—something I haven’t felt in quite some time. “You have her eyes, you know.”

And then he’s gone, his form fading into the shadows.

When morning breaks, I dress for the day, my head pounding with the brandy’s aftermath. I go down to check on Marguerite. She’s sound asleep on her belly, a soft snore parting her lips. While she seems unharmed by last night’s episode, her porcelain ewer is shattered on the floor—the source of the crash I heard—so I carefully pick up the broken shards and place them in the wastebasket near her vanity.

Downstairs, the house is quiet, the sun a burnished copper glow through the curtains. It’s only six. Melva and Harriet aren’t due to arrive for another hour. I open the hutch’s drawers, searching for more sharp cutlery, and find only a butter knife. Still, I take it into the kitchen and stow it in the high cupboard above the sink with the other knives, then scour the parlor and hall for anything else Marguerite might use as a weapon in the future. I remove the poker from the hearth, a pearl-handled letter opener hidden behind a picture frame, and a set of keys on a worn brass chatelaine that I find in a drawer. I take the keys to the attic and put them on the top shelf of my wardrobe, under one of my hats. I’m curious to see whether they’ll fit any of the locked trunks stowed there.

Weston’s visitation last night still lingers as I go about my morning routine, enlivening me. Our conversation about shifting time and family secrets has me intrigued. I’m consumed by the urge to go to the studio, to inspect Marguerite’s other paintings, to see whether they have a similar effect to Weston’s. The pull follows me until I can deny it no longer. With the house still quiet, I creep down the hall to the narrow, closed door and twist the knob. It’s locked. I try again, my frustration growing as the door holds, keeping me out. “Dammit.”

Marguerite must have locked it, sometime during her restless night, which means she has a key. I could search her room, after Harriet arrives. Or perhaps one of the old keys on the chatelaine I found will fit the lock. As I turn to fetch them from the attic, I nearly run face-first into Beckett. He steadies me, hands on my arms. “Miss Halloran. What were you doing just now?”

“I left something in Marguerite’s studio the other day. It’s locked. Would you happen to have the key?”

“No, I don’t. But even if I did, you shouldn’t be in there alone.”

“Why not?”

“There are weak places in the floor, for one thing. And there are reasons I hinted about before, though I doubt you’d believe the whole of things.”

“I’m in the mood to believe all sorts of things this morning,” I say. “Try me.”

Beckett eyes me warily, taken aback by my frankness. Part of me wonders whether he’s still the shy boy I remember, and his thorniness is merely testimony to his lack of social graces. He’s been cloistered here with my aunt since childhood, after all.

“Well, for one thing,” he says, “I’ve heard Marguerite calling you Sybil. Do you know why she calls you that?”

“I assumed it’s just her memory lapses. That she’s confused. I gather she’s had several maids. Perhaps she’s confusing me with one of them.”

“She is, but ...” He looks away from me. “Sybil wasn’t a maid. She was the cousin I mentioned. Marguerite’s last companion. She didn’t leave like the others. She fell from the bluff behind the house and died. She was sleepwalking. Just like you were yesterday.”

I’m taken aback by this revelation. “Goodness. I’m so sorry.”

“I wouldn’t have told you about Sybil, but I’m concerned by your similarities. Sybil was a lot like you—young, pretty, naive.”

“I appreciate your concern, but I’m hardly young, sir, and the furthest thing from naive, although I’ll accept your barbed compliment on my looks, thank you.” I cross my arms, glaring at him. “I’ve never sleepwalked, Mr. Hill. It was only a fluke.”

“That may be, but all the same, Sybil was obsessed with Marguerite’s studio, too. Her work. One painting in particular.”

I pause, considering him. “Was it the portrait of Weston Chase? Our ghost?”

He sighs, resigned. “Yes. She’d look for any excuse to visit the studio. I’d often find her, sitting and staring at his portrait, her eyes glazed over. And at night, she’d wander. I took to watching for her on the grounds. I saw some very disturbing things, Miss Halloran. Things I can’t explain. I did my best to protect her, to keep her safe. But one night, I couldn’t get to her fast enough.”

“How dreadful.” My pulse beats faster, thinking of the sheer drop of limestone behind the house—the deep gully below it paved with unforgiving shale. It would be nearly impossible to survive a fall from that height.

“Sybil was convinced Weston was real. She told me all about him one evening. How they’d fallen in love. I thought it all a young girl’s harmless fantasy, at first.”

I shudder, remembering how real Weston seemed to me as well. While there was a slight transparency to his features last night as he sat by my bed, when we visited the past, in Kansas City, he was just as real as Beckett is now. I’d felt the press of his hand on my back as he guided me through the door into the room where Marguerite and her family dined.

“And you believe he was responsible for her death?”

“I do. Whether he pushed her or she jumped, she wasn’t in her right mind because of him.” He looks away from me, then back. “Marguerite asked me to burn the painting after Sybil died. I did, but the next day, it reappeared, right where it had been. I’ve seen a lot of things I can’t explain in my life, but that painting trumps them all. It’s cursed. Evil. That’s the reason it’s locked away.”

“That’s quite a story,” I say, lifting my chin, despite the tingle of fear dancing on my skin. But the jump in logic is a bit too much for me. Burned paintings don’t reappear on their own. I’m still unsure of Beckett, of his intentions. It’s possible he’s only trying to frighten me away. It’s obvious he wants me gone, and despite his protestations otherwise, I have a feeling it’s not over any concern for my safety, nor any supernatural reason, but because we’re at odds over Marguerite.

Last night, after Marguerite’s violent spell, my first inclination was to leave. But now, my stubborn streak rises—the strong Irish will I inherited from my father. If Beckett thinks telling me scary stories will drive me away, he has another thing coming. Marguerite is my family, not his. I have a right to be here.

“Have you given any more thought to leaving?” he asks, confirming my suspicions. “I can take you to the station anytime you’d like. I’m going into town tomorrow. The depot is on the way.”

I take a step back, regarding him coolly. “Thank you for the offer, Mr. Hill, but I’ve decided I’m not leaving. Marguerite had a bad spell last night. She threatened me with a knife.”

“That hardly sounds like an argument for your staying.”

“It was frightening. But I can’t just desert her. What might have happened if I hadn’t been there?”

He sighs, removing his cap and swiping his chestnut hair back. “You’re determined, I’ll give you that. Do you need anything, when I go to town?”

“Actually, I wondered if Marguerite and I might ride in with you. The outing would do her good, I think.” I lower my defenses a bit and smile, doing my best to convey we’re on the same side. That we both care deeply for the woman under our charge. “I’ve talked her into getting a radio.”

He laughs, returning my smile. “Really? I told her we should get one years ago. It seems you’re much more convincing than I am.”

I resist playing smug, although his concession on this small, insignificant thing feels like a victory all the same. “You should come to the house in the evenings, after you’ve finished your chores. Have a listen with us.”

“I might, at that.” His eyes soften, the chipped edges of his demeanor falling away, just a bit. “I’m off to mow before the rain comes.”

“How can you tell it’s going to rain?” I ask, casting an eye toward the sun-drenched window above the stairs. “There’s not a cloud in the sky.”

“I can feel it in my bones, Miss Halloran,” he says with a wink.

His wink leaves me flabbergasted and a bit off my feet as he walks away. I can’t get a read on him, which is unusual. Normally I can read the intentions of men rather quickly. His story about Sybil and the painting has me rattled, but not enough to diminish my curiosity. I fetch the chatelaine from the attic, and I’m in the process of trying the keys on the studio door when I hear Harriet come in and call for me. I pocket the chatelaine and go down to greet her. She seems out of sorts this morning; her uniform wrinkled, as if she rushed out the door to get here quickly.

“I won’t be able to stay all day, Miss Halloran,” she says. “My mother-in-law is sick and can’t watch my boys.”

“I’m sorry. I hope it’s nothing serious.”

“I’m sure it’s not, but I’ll need to leave around noon. How was Miss Thorne last night? She seemed a bit agitated before I left.”

I hesitate a moment before telling her the truth. I don’t want her to think I’m incapable, but she should know what happened, all the same. “We had an ... incident. I managed to calm her, but she came at me with a knife.”

Harriet’s eyes widen. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine.”

“Where did she find a knife?”

“The hutch in the dining room.”

“Oh, I must have missed it. I thought I took away everything she could use to harm herself or anyone else with, the first week I came here.”

Harriet’s tone isn’t defensive, only matter-of-fact, but I touch her arm lightly to convey I’m not blaming her. “I didn’t know it was there, either. She might have hidden it.”

“They do that sometimes. We’ll need to be watchful. It’s the dementia. It makes her unpredictable. Especially at night.”

“The brandy may have also been to blame.”

Harriet hooks an eyebrow upward. “Brandy?”

“We were listening to records, and she asked for a drink. She had too much. We both did.”

Harriet sighs. “Where is it?”

“What?”

“The brandy.”

“I left it in the parlor.”

Harriet marches into the parlor and snatches the mostly empty bottle off the floor. She upends it into one of the potted palms by the window, then hands me the bottle. “Put this in the rubbish bin. And for heaven’s sake, no more alcohol of any kind. That goes for the both of you. You can’t be off your wits with her, Miss Halloran. Not for a minute.”

A part of me rankles at Harriet’s authoritative tone. My grandmother would have never allowed hired help to talk to her in such a way, but I’m not my grandmother, and Harriet is right. And so I take the bottle to the kitchen, shamefaced, and bury it in the waste bin.

I shouldn’t be drinking, anyway. Not with our family history. Grandmother was a closeted lush, with a proclivity for hiding gin in pretty crystal perfume bottles—something I discovered as a young girl. The habit caught up with her, and she succumbed to liver failure. I think of all the other secrets she might have been hiding. Did her guilt and regret over her affair with Weston drive her to drink? It’s possible.

Weston’s words from the night before sit heavily on my mind. If there are more secrets, more lies to uncover about my family’s past, it all seems to begin and end with him. I reach into my pocket for the chatelaine and its keys. There are two keys I haven’t yet tried. With a furtive glance behind me, I ascend the servants’ stairs to the second floor, where Weston, and the past, await.