Page 47

October 31, 1925

I discover Weston’s portrait by accident. Beckett and I are in the old barn, making cider with the ancient press, when I see a bit of purple velvet peeking out from behind a stack of baled hay. I do my best to ignore it, handing him apples as he works the press, forearms straining below his rolled sleeves. We’ve begun to ready ourselves for Harriet’s departure, finishing the last of the outdoor tasks before winter’s sharp lash descends.

When Beckett goes to fetch more cider pails, I ease the painting from its hiding place. Ever since the last scene I witnessed with Marguerite and her sisters, my questions have multiplied. Louise always claimed our grandmother was a witch—that she’d seen her doing strange things, late at night. After the events of the past few months, I’d almost believe it. Marguerite’s words from a few weeks ago haunt me. My sister ... didn’t understand what she did. What she called forth. What she made me a party to. Is Weston the ghost of a man who once lived? Or some sort of demonic entity my grandmother summoned in the guise of a man?

I uncover the painting. Weston’s deep-set eyes greet me, his expression mocking mine. The old, uncomfortable desire blooms low in my belly, and I quickly cover the portrait with the velvet drape, replacing it behind the hay bale just as my husband returns.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. “You look upset.”

“Oh, it’s nothing. I only thought I saw a rat. It startled me.” I’m not sure why I lie. I should tell him I’ve found the portrait, so that he might hide it somewhere else before my irrepressible curiosity gets the best of me. The temptation is still there—to abandon my senses and return to Weston’s world and all its dangerous charms. Whether my grandmother invented or conjured him, his allure is potent. Seductive.

Beckett hums beneath his breath, interrupting my thoughts. “I’ll get some traps the next time we go to town. We don’t want them burrowing in the hay and making nests.”

“What?”

“The rats. We don’t want them nesting in the hay.”

“Yes, you’re right. A good idea.”

I return to his side, my pulse thudding in my ears. We resume our work, but my mind is distracted, the pull toward Weston’s portrait unmistakable. I touch my neck, where my Saint Michael’s medal usually rests. It’s gone. I search frantically, pawing at the hay-strewn floor with my feet.

“What’s gotten into you, Sadie?” Beckett frowns.

“I lost my necklace. My Saint Michael medal.”

“I’m sure it will turn up.”

But it doesn’t. I can’t find it anywhere. And that night, when I go to our room, the ever-burning candles on my protective altar are out. I relight them, speak the protective prayer aloud, and turn in, exhausted from my day of chores.

I wake sometime later, to the feel of my husband’s caress, his hand trailing up my thigh and across my belly, his fingers teasing me. I sigh as his tongue flicks against my neck, as he cups my breasts. I roll over, offering myself to him fully. But when I open my eyes, Beckett isn’t there. No one is there. The room is pitch black, the altar’s candles extinguished once more.

I scream and hurtle myself from the bed, fear bristling beneath my skin.

The door creaks open, letting in a cone of yellow light. Beckett squints at me. “Sadie?”

“Don’t ... come in,” I say. “He’s here.”

“Who?”

“Weston.”

Just then, the candles fly from the dresser as if thrown, one after the other. I chant the Saint Michael prayer. The lights flicker on and off, the bed shaking like a child’s plaything. Then everything stills.

Beckett rushes to me, taking me in his arms. “It’s all right. You’re all right.”

I sink down on the bed next to him, trembling. I think of what might have happened, had I not come to my senses. Weston might have ravished my all-too-willing body. Or killed me. Helplessness floods my limbs. I was foolish to think I was safe. That we were safe. It will take more than white candles and incantations to protect us.

Beckett and I go to the kitchen, where he makes a mug of warm chocolate for me. Marguerite shuffles in a few minutes later, no doubt roused by the noise. After I’ve calmed down, Beckett presses a kiss to the top of my head. “I’m going up to bed,” he says. “I’ll make sure the candles stay lit in our room.”

After Beckett leaves, Marguerite leans toward me across the table. “He was here again, wasn’t he?” she asks. “Weston.”

“Yes. I found his portrait in the barn, where Beckett hid it. I think I stirred things up again by looking at it.”

“I told you he wouldn’t let you go. He’s angry. Angry that he can’t have what he wants anymore. He wants to keep you captivated, just as he did Florence.”

“What is he, Aunt Marg?”

She smiles sadly. “My invention. Mine and Florence’s. She wrote the story. I painted him. Made a graven image for her to worship, like a god. One that should never have existed.”

“Your . . . invention.”

“You saw us there, in the past—I know you did. I could feel you there, watching me paint.” Marguerite shakes her head. “I had to paint my way back to the beginning, to remember everything. Now I know what I must do to make things right. To protect you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have to return to that day, a week before Florence’s eighteenth birthday, and unmake the past. Unmake Weston.”

“Is that possible? Even if you could somehow undo your part in his existence, if Florence wrote the story, created the original idea of him, how can you unmake him all on your own?”

Marguerite sighs. “I’m not sure. But if I don’t try, you’ll always be in danger. Just like Sybil. Just like Claire.”

“Claire?” I ask.

“Yes, Claire. She fell into his orbit as well, child.”

“She didn’t die of measles, did she?”

“No.” Marguerite squeezes her eyes shut. “That’s the other secret I promised my family I would keep. But you need to know the truth. Claire killed herself because of Weston. Jumped from a cliff in California when we were on holiday. I tried to save her. I couldn’t.”

I remember Iris’s letter, the lines about the “terrible thing” that had happened in California, and the vision of the woman’s body broken on the rocky beach, the bloodied knife in Marguerite’s hand. An uncomfortable sensation claws at my mind. Something is still missing. Claire didn’t seem suicidal at all when I saw the three of them together in California. If anything, Florence was the one who seemed at risk of doing something rash and impulsive. “And you’re certain Weston wasn’t a real person? Only an invention?”

“He seemed real enough, at first. After Florence’s coming-out party, he ingratiated himself with our family, my father. He was our houseguest for months. Lived in our garret. He claimed to be a writer from Connecticut. But something seemed off about him—about his mannerisms. He was amused by conflict. Enjoyed evoking quiet chaos between my sisters and I. Florence wrote him that way, you see. He was always plotting and scheming in that wretched story of hers. Kidnapping ladies. Coercing them into bed. She wrote a devil into life.”

“And what about you, Aunt Marg? Did you ever fall under his spell?”

“No,” she says, with an adamant shake of her head. “Never. I knew he was mine and Florence’s creature, and I knew him for the evil he was. Claire never believed me about the painting. I tried to tell her what he was and what he was capable of. But Claire chose to see the best in people. That was her temperament.” Marguerite’s eyes drop. “As for Florence, she thought he was the love of her life, because he was just like her. A reflection of the worst aspects of her personality. Florence always loved herself more than anyone else, and Weston was an extension of that love. He encouraged her vanity and selfishness. If it hadn’t been for Weston’s influence, Florence wouldn’t have done all the things she did to me. To Claire. To Hugh.”

I drink my chocolate, contemplating Marguerite’s words before saying, “When I’ve visited the past through your paintings, I’m unable to influence anything. I’m only a bystander—a watcher. How can you be sure you can change anything? Influence what’s already happened in the past?”

“It makes sense, don’t you see? You didn’t create the paintings. Your actions didn’t bring about what happened in the past. Mine did. So I can very much influence the outcome. I can repaint my memories from the past, make them reflect a new reality. The right one. The just one.”

“How did the paintings come to be this way? How did they become portals into the past, your memories?”

“I’m not sure. But everything shifted after Weston came along. I can’t explain it. I wish I could. Sometimes I think I sold my soul for a handful of penny candy—as if some unseen devil heard Florence’s wish and granted it, using my talents as a vehicle for evil.”

“Louise told me Grandmother was a witch. Was she?”

Marguerite shrugs. “Oh, she dabbled in things. Girlish magic. Love spells and séances in our rooms. With Weston, she might have stumbled on something beyond her scope of understanding. It’s possible.”

“None of it makes any sense. It seems to defy logic,” I say. “But the granny woman I met told me that the only one who can break Weston’s hold over us is the one who wronged him and created the curse. I don’t know how you can do that alone, since Grandmother was just as culpable.”

“You’re right. I don’t know if I can do it,” Marguerite says, her jaw firm. “But I have to at least try. Righting these wrongs is the only thing that will bring me peace before I die. And it’s the only way you’ll be safe.”

Early in the morning, Beckett and I move Marguerite’s portraits back to the glass tower, where she insists on working in private. A gentle, soft rain patters on the roof as we arrange the easels side by side. Christine. Iris. Hugh. Marguerite. And finally, Weston’s portrait. If Marguerite is successful, his image will cease to exist in this world, taking his vindictive and vengeful spirit with it.

Despite my concerns for her safety and my pleas to accompany Marguerite on her journey into the past, she refuses me. “This is something I must do on my own, Sadie. Your presence might upset the balance—influence me to do something that could jeopardize the future. I must go alone. There are several threads that need to be cut and stitched back together.”

We leave her comfortably seated before the bank of portraits. As we go out, I seal the threshold with prayer and a sprinkling of asafetida powder and salt, hoping it will be enough to protect us all from Weston in the corporeal realm.

She remains in the tower room for hours, as I fret and pace the library. Beckett tries his best to distract me with a game of chess, but my mind is far too addled to concentrate. A dull headache crowds my temples—a common occurrence after my concussion. I take a swallow of whiskey and lay my head on Beckett’s lap, drifting into a fitful sleep.

When I wake, Beckett is gone, but Marguerite sits across from me in her favorite chair, gazing out the window at the muted afternoon sun. I sit up, rubbing my eyes. “Oh, you’re here. Are you all right?” I ask.

Marguerite turns to me. “Yes, dear. Beckett led me down after I finished working. I’ve accomplished a lot today.” Her voice is haunting. Wistful.

“What do you mean?”

“You’ll see. All sorts of things are changing. Perhaps, if I’m successful, I can even prevent Claire’s death.”

“How wonderful that must be to consider.”

“Wouldn’t we all change our pasts, our regrets, if we could?”

“I think so.” I hold my aching head in my hands. The buzzing in my right ear returns, with more intensity. A trickle of warmth runs from my nose.

“You’re bleeding, dear,” Marguerite says.

I wipe under my nose, startled by the sight of fresh blood on my hands.

“It’s probably just the dry air,” Marguerite soothes.

But it’s not dry at all. We’ve just had rain. And I have the uncomfortable sensation that, despite Marguerite’s best intentions, something isn’t right.

In early November, the day after Harriet’s tearful departure, the first killing frost of the season comes, lacing the world in white. In the front parlor, the radio announcer relays rising stock prices, sinking commodities, and news of the wider world as I go through the mail. There’s a letter from Blanche Fitzsimmons. She’s successfully sued for divorce from Ted, thanks to my affidavit, and used the money from the engagement ring to help finance a move for her and the children to Arizona. I fold the letter, pleased with the sense of closure it brings me.

Marguerite is at work again in the tower, obsessed with undoing the past. At dinner, when I ask if her efforts have borne any fruit, she gives me a cryptic smile. “I’m working it all out. Sorting through things. Trying to find the eye of the needle, my dear.” I’ve come to believe her task futile, and somewhat delusional, but even if it is, the effort has given her purpose and her life fresh meaning. I decide to let well enough alone, given that the hauntings seem to have diminished, and Weston has not reappeared, much to my relief.

As the days grow short and the nights long, sleep eludes me. Despite my husband’s presence, I find myself growing more and more restless. I’m distracted. Forgetful. I long for the relatively carefree days when Melva and Harriet were here to help. Marguerite’s decline has become precipitous. Between her confusion and increasing physical frailty, I’m worn thin, making sure she remains safe while also completing my daily household chores. With his tasks—weatherproofing the house and gardens for winter, and preparing our meals, I know Beckett is just as exhausted. Our marriage begins to show the strain. We’re more agitated. Short tempered. One morning, after gathering firewood for the kitchen stove, I forget to latch the screen door. A few moments later, while Beckett makes breakfast, the bitter north wind rushes across the hillside, ripping the door from its hinges with a sharp crack. I watch it tumble end over end across the lawn, before it comes to rest against a bare-limbed hedge apple tree.

“Dammit, Sadie!” Beckett scolds. “I’ve told you a thousand times to latch the door when you come in.”

“Well, if you’d filled the hod last night, like you usually do, I wouldn’t have had to go out to get more wood.”

“Watch the bacon.” He stalks outside, slamming the door behind him.

I watch the bacon sizzle for a few minutes, my eyes smarting with tears, then sit at the table, thumbing through the new Sears and Roebuck catalog. Then I remember my coffee cup, which I left in the parlor. When I return to the kitchen, the bacon is charred, acrid smoke filling the small room. I throw open the window over the sink and hurriedly wipe out the skillet before Beckett comes in and sees even more evidence of my carelessness.

I pull fresh rashers from the icebox and start again. I hear Beckett hammering new nails into the door hinges, cursing as he works. After breakfast, we spend the day in stony silence. He doesn’t apologize, and neither do I. My grudge settles in, as I consider all the ways Beckett has fallen short of my expectations since our wedding. He’s often aloof. Emotionally stilted. Driven by his work. Today wasn’t the first time he’s shown a lack of patience with my mistakes. With the weight of our responsibilities and Harriet’s departure, our pleasure in one another’s company has diminished. Our lovemaking has fallen to the wayside as a result.

As the days roll toward December, the lapses in my memory grow sharper. I find myself forgetting what day of the week it is. And when I insist that it’s 1922 and Harding is still president, Beckett shows me a newspaper to prove otherwise.

“Sadie, what’s gotten into you?” he asks. “You sound like Marguerite.”

Worse yet, my urges to seek out Weston have returned. Late at night, while my husband sleeps beside me, I find myself longing for the scrape of teeth against my flesh, for the carnal, wicked pleasures I once enjoyed with Weston. It’s shameful. Dangerous. Yet the temptation is ever near. If Marguerite succeeds in destroying his painting in the past, or never painting it at all, I may never see him again. And so one frigid night in early December, when the moon hangs low and yellow, I’m far too weak to resist my own curiosity. In the wee hours of the morning, I find myself walking, trancelike, to the library and Marguerite’s tower, where Weston’s portrait awaits.

I place a lantern on the table next to the easel and uncover the painting. It’s changed. It’s no longer in its gilded frame, and there’s a dull sheen over Weston’s features, as if a wash of translucent white paint has been applied. When I touch the surface, nothing happens. Nothing at all. I try again, frustration and longing flooding through me. “Why won’t you open to me? I’m here, Weston. Don’t you still want me?”

Sadie . . .

The whispered sound of my name startles me. I snatch my hand back from Weston’s portrait, glancing up. There’s no one there. But out of the corner of my eye, I see Iris move inside her portrait. I gasp. The background of the painting has changed—the scene by the river is gone. In its place, the same seaside bluff I saw in my dream, the soft sound of breaking waves audible even though we are hundreds of miles from any ocean. It no longer looks like a painting; it looks like what it truly is: a window into another world.

Come, Sadie. It’s time you learn the truth.

Iris’s lips don’t move, but I can hear her voice inside my head. I hesitate, for the briefest moment, my emotions tangling. I have a feeling if I go through that painting and see what Iris wants to show me, it will change everything. Still, I step toward her portrait and reach out, unable to resist the pull of my curiosity. Vertigo washes over me, sending my senses into a spin.