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In the summer of my eighteenth year, I went blind. At first, my vision narrowed to a pinprick, then fell to a darkness as fathomless as the sea. I didn’t see again for a week. Profound shock and grief, the doctors said. The mind shielding itself from trauma. The days that followed were a blur of white walls, nurses, bland food, and pills. So many pills. Mama had called it a “rest cure” for my nerves. But Elm Ridge had been anything but restful. After Da, everything changed. I went from a bubbly young debutante, ready to fledge and fly, to an object of pity.

My coming-out party had been scheduled for the first of June. At some point during the day, Da must have stolen away to the attic. Busy as we all were with the preparations for my party, no one noticed he was missing until later that afternoon. I was already dressed in my new white gown when I found him. I’ll never forget how he looked, hanging there from the rafters, his eyes emptied of life.

Mama said I blabbered nonsense for three days straight. I don’t remember. I remember only the darkness. The scent of rotting flowers. Tumblers of iced whiskey pressed to my lips. A cold washcloth on my forehead.

I didn’t go to Da’s funeral. They wouldn’t let me.

They took me to Elm Ridge instead.

Da had been my world, and his loss left me unmoored. Broken. He’d hidden his darkness deep inside, behind his jocular wit and charming smile. If I’d only known how sad he was, I might have saved him.

Now I think of Marguerite, sleeping downstairs.

I couldn’t save my father. Or my mother. Not even my little brother, Henry. But I still might save Marguerite.

I blink as my eyes adjust to the dim light in another attic, this one much larger than the one where my father took his own life. The ceiling balloons above me like a cathedral. Four windows face each cardinal direction. A simple iron bed, much like the one in my room at the boardinghouse, sits under the eaves, a colorful quilt spread across the mattress. Although it will be impossible to spend time up here during the hottest part of the day, it’s pleasant enough now that the rains have tamped down the heat.

“You’ll have more room to yourself up here, miss,” Melva says. “It’s quiet, too. The view is lovely, out over the valley.”

I step over to one of the open windows. The sun has just fallen beneath the distant mountain ridges, throwing the hillside into purple shadow. “It’s perfect. Thank you.” I eye the edge of the bluff, with its perilous drop-off. “Why isn’t there a fence? Guarding the bluff?”

“Miss Thorne won’t allow it. She says fences are vulgar and they block the view.”

Surely Marguerite’s safety matters more than her view at this point.

“I’ll leave you to get settled,” Melva says. “Harriet will give Miss Thorne another check-over and put her to bed before she leaves for the night.”

“And what about Beckett?”

“He lives in the stone cottage, up the hill above the grotto.”

“He’s the only one, then? That always stays on the property?”

Melva shifts uncomfortably under my question, crossing her arms about her plump waist. “That’s right. The rest of us leave at night. But the sheriff is quick enough to come if you ever need anything. Doc Gallagher, too.”

A nervous shiver runs through me like a many-legged centipede as I remember Marguerite’s delusional spell this morning. Even though Harriet spent the better part of the day showing me what to do—how to calmly and gently restrain Marguerite—the thought of handling her on my own concerns me. I can’t help but wonder if I’ve made a mistake in coming here. But where else was I going to go? What else would I do?

After Melva leaves, I roll my shoulders back and sigh, stretching. The attic floor creaks underfoot as I explore the expansive space. Furniture and heavy steamer trunks sit mounded under dustcloths along the walls. Near one of the other windows, I uncover a sofa and a wingback chair, its worn velvet seat stacked with books: Gulliver’s Travels , Moby Dick , Wuthering Heights . I’ve read all but the last. I place the book on the nightstand and switch on the lamp. Someone brought my suitcase up earlier and left it next to the bed. Beckett, likely. I imagine him grumbling at the inconvenience. The man already goads me, although his earlier tenderness with my aunt showed an unexpected side to his character. I wonder how long he’s been in her employ. He can’t be much older than I am.

I begin unpacking, hanging my day dresses and dinner clothes in the wardrobe near the washstand. As I’m lining up my shoes at the bottom, I hear a strange sound—a faint rustling that carries through the cavernous room.

I pause to listen, kneeling there on the floor.

The frantic scratching continues, as if something is trying to claw through the ceiling. I remember my older brother telling me when we were children that this house was haunted—that he’d seen a strange lady in this very attic once. She’d simply stood there, staring at him, then faded from view.

Suddenly, a loud cawing screams through the open window, sending my heart into a gallop. A pair of crows take flight from the roof with a rush of wings. The scratching ceases. I let out my breath, chiding myself for my wild imagination. Only birds. Not ghosts.

Once it’s dark, I settle beneath the covers with the well-worn copy of Wuthering Heights . My grandmother’s maiden name is written on the frontispiece in girlish script: Florence Marie Thorne . I smile, imagining her reading this book as a young woman. After a few pages, my eyes begin to close. As I turn into my pillow and switch off the light, I hear the scratching start up once more. While it’s much too late for crows, I comfort myself with thoughts of raccoons or opossums—common enough in the attics of old homes.

Still, as I fall into a wary slumber, I’m unable to shake the uncomfortable sense that I’m being watched, and that there’s more to this house than meets the eye.

I wake to an ungodly screeching, coming from somewhere below. I fling off the covers, feet tangling in the sheets as I scramble out of bed. The screeching continues—as if someone is dragging a heavy piece of furniture across the floor. As I make my way down the narrow, tightly spiraled attic stairs, I catch a glimpse of Marguerite’s white hair on the landing below and see the source of the noise. She’s dragging a small marble-topped table across the floor, rucking up the carpet. I creep toward her as soundlessly as possible to avoid frightening her.

She raises her head when I reach her, green eyes glassy, and I realize she’s sleepwalking. I carefully pry her hands from the edge of the table and place it in the corner of the landing to deal with in the morning. I marvel at how she managed to get it up a flight of stairs on her own without waking me, and vow to keep the attic door open from now on.

I carefully lead her back to her room. I tuck her in, and she turns to me, eyes popping wide. She screams, hands flailing.

“It’s only me. It’s Sadie.” I grasp her wrists, as Harriet showed me, and press her gently to the mattress. “You’re all right. You’re safe.”

“Where’s my penny? I’ve lost my penny.” She begins to cry, tears tracking down her temples.

Go where she is. Don’t argue with her. It only makes things worse. Harriet’s earlier words of advice ring through my head. “We’ll find your penny in the morning. I’m sure it’s here, somewhere.”

She turns away from me, crying. I rub her back in slow circles until she falls into a deep slumber. Bone tired and weary, I curl up in the chair next to her bed, unwilling to leave her alone, and sink into sleep. I wake to the sound of birdsong and the most beautiful morning light I’ve ever seen streaming through the windows.

And that’s when I see the painting.