Page 50

December 10, 1925

The telephone rings, startling me. I rub at my sleep-starved eyes and go to answer it, my voice vacant.

“Hello, Sadie, it’s Rosalie.”

Rosalie ... Rosalie ... I don’t recall knowing anyone named Rosalie. “Pardon me?”

“Ros-a-lie,” the woman enunciates, her voice rising. “Your sister-in-law?”

“Oh! Oh yes.” Felix’s wife. “I’m so sorry. I haven’t been sleeping very well lately.”

“Well, I’m calling because we’re planning on coming for a visit, at Christmastime. We’ll bring the boys. They’re very excited to see their aunt Sadie.”

“Oh. Oh, no. You can’t ... I mean, I’ll need to talk to Beck and Aunt Marg ...”

“The boys will be heartbroken if we don’t get to come. They miss you so.”

I think of Felix’s boys, both dark headed and blue eyed. Leslie and Grant. I think. Or is it George? “Won’t they want to be in their own beds on Christmas morning?”

“They’re still too young to care about such things.” Rosalie pauses, her breath soft over the phone. “Is it because of the argument you had with Felix over the will? Is that why you don’t want us to come?”

“It’s not about the will, or anything other than Beckett and I are overworked. We won’t be good hosts. We’re stretched thin, Rosalie. Well and truly. We can’t find hired help and Marguerite’s nurse went on leave. Aunt Marg isn’t doing well.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that. Perhaps I could stay with you for a few weeks, with the boys. Help you get things sorted. I’m used to hard work, you know.”

The last thing I need is Rosalie underfoot, prying into our business, peeking in cupboards, and cataloging everything she finds for her and Felix’s benefit. “Aunt Marg doesn’t do well with houseguests. It confuses her to have new people staying in the house.”

Rosalie sighs. “Look, Sadie. I know you don’t like me. I’ve known it from the start. But I am on your side with all of this. Truly. You’ve really stepped up. I saw how you were with Aunt Marguerite this summer, and I ... I just want you to know, that when the time comes, I’ll do everything I can to help with the estate. And not for selfish reasons. I promise.”

I want to believe her, that I’ve misjudged her. But then I remember her hungry eyes, devouring Mama’s jewelry at every family gathering. Her flattering words. Her shallow compliments. If her intentions are truly altruistic, all will be revealed after Marguerite’s passing. We’ll see then.

“I’ll tell Felix we won’t come, then,” Rosalie says, her voice dripping with disappointment. “He won’t be happy about it.”

“He put you up to calling me, didn’t he?”

The line goes quiet again. “Yes. He did.”

“I knew it,” I scoff.

“Between us, he doesn’t trust your husband. He thinks he’s manipulated you into marriage and coerced Marguerite into leaving everything to you. I told him he was being unfair. But you know how he is.”

“I do. And thank you, at least, for being honest with me, Rosalie.”

“Well ... I’ve known your brother for many years now, dear. We’re not always on the same side of things. And I, for one, am very happy about your marriage. He’s quite a looker, your husband. Those divine eyes! He seems to be levelheaded. And he’s very polite.”

“He is. All of those things. And more.”

“Are you happy, Sadie?”

I think of our recent bickering. But despite our petty arguments, Beckett is a good man. An honest one, without guile. And he hasn’t changed at all from the person he was when I met him. The man I fell in love with is still very much there, weathering my fickle affections and my impetuousness with his characteristic pragmatism.

“I am happy. Very.”

Rosalie sighs again. “Good. Because marriage is dreadful, if you’re not. It can seem very much like a prison.”

I’m not sure what she’s implying. I’ve never considered that she might be unhappy with my brother, cosseted as she is in the lap of luxury. I don’t know what to say, so I promise to write soon and tell her goodbye, then go to check on Marguerite in the tower. She sits ramrod straight in front of her self-portrait, her eyes glazed over in a trance. I glance at the easel next to it, which holds Weston’s unframed portrait. She’s completely covered his image with white paint. I’m saddened by this. Evil or not, it was a beautiful likeness of him. I can see a light pencil sketch on the whitewashed canvas, but I can’t make out what she’s drawn from here.

I pause by the door, watching her, but I don’t want to interrupt her trance. I go to the powder room, let down my hair, and brush through it with my fingers. I hardly recognize myself in the mirror. I look older, dried up, my eyes creased with worry, shadowed in their sockets. A sudden wave of dizziness overtakes me as I’m washing my hands. I lean over the sink, breathless. A faint plop plop hits the porcelain. Blood tracks slowly down the drain. In the mirror, I see the thin line of blood streaming from my left nostril. I pinch the bridge of my nose to stanch the flow and try my best not to panic as the other side begins to bleed as well. Iris appears behind me in the mirror, her form flickering.

She’s making a terrible mistake.

Suddenly, the floor pitches, the hexagonal tiles rise up to meet me, and everything fades to black.