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I come back to my senses, the last vestiges of my trance fading as the present overtakes the past once more. Yet the feeling of dread lingers, haunting my thoughts. I remember asking Marguerite whether Claire had ever been to the ocean, on the morning after my strange dream where I’d seen Marguerite with the bloody knife. She told me Claire had never been to the coast, that she was terrified of water. Yet in the scene I just witnessed, Weston, Claire, and her sisters had obviously been somewhere near the Pacific.

I think of the conflict and agitation I observed in that room by the sea. Claire’s slightly sanctimonious worry over Florence, my grandmother’s jealousy and distress, Marguerite’s disdainful anger. There was a hard edge to her ire—a flinty look in her eyes that told of her resentment and bitterness. But despite this new insight into my aunt’s past, I still don’t have the answers I’m seeking. Either Marguerite purposely lied to me about Claire going to California, or she’s forgotten it entirely. I’m left with the sinking suspicion that something terrible happened that day. I turn to Iris’s portrait. I need to go back. To see more. I reach out, my fingertips just brushing the surface, when I hear someone come into the library.

Beckett clears his throat. “I couldn’t sleep. I checked your room. Saw you were gone.”

“I couldn’t sleep, either,” I say, turning.

He gestures at Iris’s portrait. “She was my aunt. Iris. The likeness is astounding.”

“Oh? Marguerite never told me she was your aunt.”

“Yes. That’s how my father came to work for Marguerite. Iris was his sister. She married an Englishman and moved away to London.”

I cross to the chesterfield and sit, tucking my legs beneath me. “Come sit with me,” I say, patting the leather seat. “I won’t bite. I promise.”

He sinks down next to me, sighing. “I’m sorry about earlier, Sadie. I am glad you’re back. I didn’t want you to think I wasn’t.”

“You were only worried. I understand.” I look around the library, listening to the soft ticking of the clock on the mantel, the hushed whisper of wind outside. Things seem quiet. Peaceful. The quiet feels less comforting than it should, though. As if a tiger is crouching in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to pounce.

“You should phone Louise. Tell her you’re not coming,” he says.

“I will. She’ll be relieved, I’d imagine.” I laugh. “She and Pauline don’t like me. They never have.”

“They seemed nice enough when they were here.”

“You don’t know my family. They’re like shrikes. Sweet and innocent looking, but ready to barb you with harsh words and hidden knives when you least expect. It’s ridiculous.”

He sighs, twisting from side to side, wincing in pain.

“Your back?”

“Yes. It’s been hurting all day. The weather’s getting ready to turn again.”

“Let me help you. Take off your shirt and lie down on your belly.”

“Sadie . . .”

“I happen to be very good at massage. Now, do as I say.”

He unbuttons his shirt, grumbling, but I can see the hint of a smile on his lips as he shucks his undershirt and lies prone on the sofa. The curvature of his spine is more apparent from above, the sideways shift to the left in the middle of his bare back. I rub my hands together to warm them, hitch up my skirt, and straddle his hips, leaning forward and gently pressing the heels of my hands against his skin. He groans as I begin kneading, slowly building pressure as I feel his resistance to my touch lessen. I can’t help the wave of arousal that warms me as I rock back and forth atop him. What we’re doing is undeniably sensual. Even though it’s not my intention to seduce him—I merely intend to lessen his pain—I feel a shift in the room’s atmosphere all the same. The attraction between us is still there. It always has been.

“You’re driving me crazy,” he says, confirming my suspicions.

“Do you want me to stop?” I ask teasingly, pushing my hands from his tailbone to his neck. He practically purrs beneath me.

“My god, no.”

“I told you I was good. Sit on the floor in front of me, and I’ll do your shoulders.”

He acquiesces, his shoulders pressed between my knees. I knead the firm, knotted flesh until it softens, savoring his groans of relief. After his muscles have relaxed beneath my touch, he stands and stretches. I look away as he pulls his undershirt over his muscled chest, remembering his eagerness when we made love. I push my want and disappointment to the side, go to the liquor cabinet, and pour each of us a finger of whiskey. “This will help your muscles stay loose,” I say, handing him a tumbler. “Sláinte.”

He tips his glass to mine and takes a long sip.

We sit in silence for a long time, watching the flames die in the hearth. “There’s something I never told you about Sybil,” Beckett finally says. “I’m the one who convinced her to come here. That’s why I feel so guilty.”

“How could you have known what would happen, Beckett?”

He ignores my question, as we listen to the embers pop and crackle. “She was just out of finishing school and wanted to earn some money over the summer to go to Hollywood. Become an actress. She idolized Marion Davies. Mary Pickford. The first few months were fine. Marguerite loved her. She brought new life to this place. When that painting arrived, we didn’t realize what it was. How it would change her.”

“When it arrived? I thought it had always been here.”

“No. It came after your grandmother died. She left it to Marguerite in her will.”

I scrape my memory, trying to recall whether I’d ever seen Weston’s portrait in my grandmother’s house in Kansas City. I hadn’t. But once, I wandered into a room when I was very young, while I was playing hide-and-seek with my cousins—the old schoolroom on the third floor, where Grandmother and her sisters had studied under a governess as children. Apart from three dusty desks and a chalkboard, a shrouded picture leaned against the wall. I’d started to lift the velvet covering, exposing the gilt frame, when Grandmother stormed into the room, snatched me up, and put me in the hall, locking the door behind her. “You’re never to go in that room again! Do you hear me?”

Had it been the portrait of Weston? Had she kept it locked away, all those years, so she might go to him whenever she liked? I think of the scene I witnessed in the gallery, the first time I entered Iris’s world—the art show where Marguerite had debuted her work. Marguerite told Iris she was going to send the portrait to Florence. She obviously had. Her deep-seated anger toward her eldest sister was apparent. Florence’s betrayal over Hugh, and her continued dalliance with Weston had left a wound that Marguerite couldn’t forgive. Everything that’s happening to me, everything that’s happened to our family, points back to my grandmother and her sisters and all the secrets they kept for all these years. I think of the granny woman’s parting admonition to me: You must confront the wrongs of the past and make atonement—or the one who wronged him must, if they’re still alive.

My grandmother has been dead for almost three years. Aunt Claire for much longer. If either one of them was the source of the curse, it will never be finished. That leaves Marguerite.

“Did your aunt ever talk about anything tragic that happened to Marguerite, in the past?” I ask, pushing back my growing apprehension.

“Nothing of note, that I recall. They became companions for a few years, traveled, studied together, before Iris met my uncle in London.”

“When did she die?”

“Nearly ten years ago. She had a stroke. It was sudden.”

“I’m sorry.”

He shrugs. “I barely remember her. She and my cousins would come for the holidays occasionally when I was young, with piles of steamer trunks loaded with presents. She brought me those blocks I gave your little cousin to play with. She came to see my father, of course, but she was mostly here for Marguerite.”

“They were more than friends, I think.”

“Yes. My father always suspected as much.”

I glance over at the portrait of Iris, wondering whether her spirit is here, listening to our conversation. The ties between my family and Beckett’s are deep, going back generations. If Iris was anything at all like her nephew, she’s the most trustworthy source at my disposal. If I’m to get any answers, they’ll come from her. From her memories of the past.

As the liquor seeps into my bones, and weariness begins to take me over, Beckett eases me down onto the sofa and covers my shoulders with a blanket, then dozes off next to me, my feet resting on his lap. I imagine I see Iris’s spirit as I drift off to sleep, standing by the fireplace, her eyes gentle but determined. She lost a granddaughter to Weston’s machinations. Now I wonder whether Weston targeted Sybil as revenge against Iris. He obviously holds contempt toward Iris over some perceived betrayal. But for what reason? Perhaps Iris wants vengeance, just as much as I do. Perhaps together, we’ll get it.