Page 8

Interlude

Weston

Sadie sits up, her eyes wide as she stumbles to her feet and looks about. Confused thoughts knit together in a disarrayed tangle. Just a moment ago she was in Marguerite’s studio ... but she’s somewhere quite different now. The room is lushly appointed, with high ceilings, wood-paneled walls, and velvet draperies. A billiards table sits at its center, brightly colored balls scattered over the red felt. It’s a room familiar and unfamiliar to her all at once ... some memory she can’t quite pin down flits through her mind like an errant moth. She hears the distant tinkle of cutlery on china—a woman’s high, spindle-sharp laughter. She presses her ear to the door, listens to the low hum of conversation in the next room.

A man’s voice comes from behind her. “We can go in if you’d like. They won’t be able to see you.”

Sadie startles, whirls to face the corner. She hadn’t noticed him sitting there, hidden in the shadows. A sinuous trail of smoke threads toward her. She looks down at her silk wrapper, the color rising in her cheeks as she tightens the belt, pulls at the short hem. “What happened? Where am I?”

“Kansas City, Missouri. 1875.” The man takes a drag from his cigar and leans forward, into the frail light from the hissing oil sconce. It’s the stranger she saw in the attic. The man from Marguerite’s painting.

“But ...” Sadie shakes her head, puts a hand to her forehead, as if checking for a fever. “I don’t understand. Am I dreaming?”

“No, not exactly. I’ll explain everything in time.” The man unfolds from the chair, stubs out the cigar.

“You’re him, aren’t you? The man from the painting.”

“Yes. I am.” He closes the distance between them, covering Sadie with his gaze. “Weston Chase. We met the other day, but you were in a bit of a hurry. I regret we didn’t have time for introductions.”

“I was looking for Marguerite. You told me about the tower room. I saw you ...” She shakes her head. “Are you real?”

“As real as I can be. I’m sorry, I don’t believe I caught your name.”

“Sadie. Sadie Halloran. I know where I am now,” she says excitedly. “This is my aunt Grace’s house in Brookside. There, that mantel. I had too much wine at a party here last year, and I hit my head. I needed stitches.” Another peal of laughter rings from the dining room, this one familiar. Sadie turns at the sound, a soft gasp escaping her lips. “Is that my grandmother?”

“Yes. That’s Florence. Would you like to go in now?”

“But won’t we interrupt them?”

The man smiles with the slightest air of condescension. “As I said, they can’t see you. You’ll be like a ghost. They might feel a slight draft when you pass by. That’s all.”

Sadie reaches for the doorknob, all eagerness now, but her hand passes through it, her flesh as insubstantial as air.

The man chuckles softly. “Allow me.” He swings open the door, and five heads swivel toward them at once. Weston lightly touches her back, urging her forward. Sadie slips through ahead of him, her eyes widening as she takes in the candlelit table, with its fine linens, crystal, and abundance of food. Her great-grandparents sit at either end—though she never met them, she recognizes them from their portraits. Bram and Adeline Thorne. Their three daughters, Florence, Claire, and Marguerite, are all there, too, dressed in dinner finery. The scene is a glittering palette of Gilded Age wealth. Sadie slinks to the wall, where she watches, taking everything in with awestruck attention.

“Weston, we were wondering where you’d gone off to,” her great-grandfather says, motioning for a footman. “More wine, if you please.”

“Pardon my poor manners, sir. I fancied a smoke and didn’t want to offend the ladies.” Weston takes his seat next to Florence, who turns to him with flushed cheeks and a winsome smile.

Bram waves away the apology. “How’s the writing coming along?”

“Very well,” Weston says. “I’ve the first five chapters complete.”

“Good, good.” Bram smiles beneath his impressive mustache. “Florence writes, you know. You should look at her work sometime, see if it has any merit.”

“Papa,” Florence says, shaking her head. “They’re only silly stories. I’m sure Mr. Chase has more important things to do.” Sadie watches Weston’s eyes rove over Florence, taking in her youthful beauty. She looks so much like her granddaughter Louise, the candlelight suffusing her complexion with a lambent glow.

Marguerite’s fork clangs loudly against her plate. Her green eyes are daggers, pointed at Florence. “Stop it.”

“Marguerite!” Adeline scolds. “Qu’est-ce qui se passe?”

“Look at her,” Marguerite says, her voice rising. “She’s ridiculous. Surely you can see it, Claire.”

Claire looks down at her plate, tracing a path through the cream sauce with her fork. “Marg, please ...”

“You’re all blind to it. Every last one of you.” Marguerite stands, throwing her napkin down. “Well. I’ve had enough. I’m going to my room. I’ve lost my stomach.”

Bram lifts a brow and sighs. “Very well, miss. As you’re so fond of your room, you’ll be spending the rest of the week there.”

“Good.” Marguerite stalks from the table, her bustled skirts swishing as she passes by Sadie, so close that Sadie can smell her lilac perfume. Her great-aunt pauses for the slightest moment, as if sensing her presence, then rustles on, the echo of her feet on the stairs fading into the distance. No one says anything in her wake, although Claire begins to cry, silent tears tracking down her angelic face.

“I apologize, Mr. Chase,” Adeline finally says. “Marguerite is, how do you say ... une rebelle.”

Weston laughs. “I find all of your daughters to be quite charming, Mrs. Thorne.”

“When are you going to take her in hand, Papa?” Florence says, fuming, her eyes now pinched and hateful, the expression ruining her delicate, pretty features. “She’s jealous. That’s what this is about. She’s always been jealous of me.”

“Florence, please.” Bram passes a hand through his thinning hair. “Let’s have our dessert in peace, shall we? I’m weary of all the bickering.”

Weston glances over at Sadie as the footmen begin serving a decadent rum-and-cherry compote alongside fluted canelés de Bordeaux—a dessert her grandmother always favored. Florence lifts the spoon to her lips with a smile as Weston whispers something in her ear.

The scene shifts suddenly, as if a strip of film has been cut and spliced. Somehow, Sadie is now outside, the scent of summer jasmine heavy in the air. While the change in scenery is jarring to her senses, she recognizes this place, too—these gardens. She played in them as a child and once got lost in the boxwood labyrinth when she was small. The marble statues of gods and goddesses always frightened her. Now, up ahead, the cloistered walls of the labyrinth beckon, faintly edged in shadow. As Sadie nears the maze, she hears a soft giggle, then a muted male voice. She pauses, listening.

“There,” he murmurs. “I’ll help you up. But you must be quieter this time.”

Sadie edges closer to the first open-air room of the labyrinth—a temple dedicated to Venus. A frisson of nervous dread wars with her curiosity. Somehow, she already knows what she’ll see. The thought makes her stomach turn. Yet her feet move forward of their own volition.

“Weston ...” Florence’s voice, soft and pleading with want.

“Quiet now, or I’ll stop.”

Sadie rounds the corner of the hedge and gasps. Florence sits balanced on the altar at Venus’s feet, her hair loose and her head tilted back as Weston pleasures her, the moon bathing her bare shoulders in silver light.