Jane rolled over, away from the fire, trying to get comfortable. She hit her pillow with the palm of her hand and stretched her legs out, long…
Something grazed across her bare foot.
The tag of the sleeping bag?
No, this was too soft for that. This was something velvety and smooth and small.
Jane sat up and reached inside the sleeping bag, leaning forward to find it.
Her fingers closed around whatever it was, and she pulled it out of the bag and held it up so it caught the light of the fire.
For a long moment, she just stared at it, her brow gently furrowed in confusion, her mouth slightly open.
She didn’t know what to make of it. It was so out of place, so confusing to find it here, and her brain struggled to make sense of it, struggled to understand the path it had taken to end up in her sleeping bag, of all places.
It was a single rose petal, a large one, about two inches in length. It was a deep red, and when Jane could finally move and brought it up to her nose, it smelled fresh and rich, like she had just plucked it off the flower.
Am I dreaming? she wondered, because she honestly couldn’t tell; she might have fallen asleep without even realizing it. But what a strange dream this was. What did it mean?
Sleepily, she thought of the flowers from Through the Looking-Glass, the tiger lily and the rose that mistake Alice for a flower herself. Was Jane a flower? Was this petal from her own body? Was she turning into a rose?
She closed her eyes and opened them again when she swayed dangerously.
Lie down, she instructed herself, and she did, slowly lowering herself back into her sleeping bag, her brain half–shut off already, her thoughts confusing and slow.
She laid the rose petal on the floor next to her, eye-level, and it was the last thing she saw before she fell asleep, three seconds later, and dreamed her skin grew thorns.
When she woke in the morning, the petal was gone, and its existence at all was so muted in Jane’s memory that she could hardly even recall it as a dream. Probably it was a dream, but Jane only knew that she’d slept like the dead, falling deeply asleep and not waking up again until morning.
After a breakfast of coffee and toast, Jane and Ruth headed upstairs. It was Jane’s first time seeing the second floor, which was basically just one long hallway with doors on either side of it.
“Nothing up here but bedrooms and bathrooms,” Ruth said.
There were eight bedrooms in all, four at the back of the house and four at the front. Two of these were locked—the master bedroom, where Jane’s grandparents had slept, and the room right next to it, which Ruth said had been used for storage.
“Let’s stay out of those for now,” Ruth said. “I don’t think I’m quite ready to tackle them.”
“You mean I only have six bedrooms to choose from?” Jane complained.
“Ha-ha.”
Jane stuck her head in one room after another and settled on one at the front of the house, with a private bathroom and a four-poster bed and two enormous windows. There were sheer white curtains to match the white bedspread. There was even an empty bookshelf—plenty of room for her mystery novels.
“Good choice,” Ruth said. “I think I’ll be just down the hall.”
“Your old bedroom?”
“Nope. Starting fresh.”
Jane went downstairs to get her boxes, which were stacked neatly in the foyer. She carefully carried each one upstairs and into her new bedroom. The last one was the heaviest; it contained all her journals and a few dozen Agatha Christie paperbacks. She hoisted it into her arms and started slowly upstairs, putting one foot in front of the other, groaning with the effort.
She’d just passed the first landing when the bottom of the box gave out. Books tumbled out in a heavy cascade; one particularly large journal landed on Jane’s foot. She almost lost her balance, but she managed to drop the box and grab onto the railing before she fell backward.
Most of the books and journals slid only a few steps down, coming to a rest on the landing, but a few of them tumbled farther down, toppling over and over until they reached the first floor.
“Shit,” Jane said. “Shit.”
“Janie, you okay? What was that?” Ruth appeared at the top of the staircase. “Oh shoot. Was that the heavy one? Let me help you, honey.”
“Shit!” Jane repeated. Her foot throbbed where the journal had hit it, and even though she hadn’t thought about them all day, she swore the cuts on the bottom of her feet started to sting again, too.
“Honey, not a big deal,” Ruth said calmly, skipping down the few steps to meet Jane. “Deep breaths, okay? Did you hurt yourself?”
“Shit. Yes. No. I’m fine. You don’t have to help, let me just do it myself.”
“Baby, baby. Breathe.”
Jane squeezed her eyes closed. Her body felt hot and itchy. The familiar first pangs of anger. She put a hand on the banister and squeezed the wood as hard as she could, squeezed it until her hand throbbed.
If Greer were still alive, he’d be the one carrying the heavier boxes upstairs, but—Jane realized bitterly—if Greer were still alive, there would be no boxes to carry, because they never would have had to move to Maine. He would have figured out another solution. He would have come here alone, maybe, and fixed up the house enough to sell it. He would have made their money back. He would have made everything okay again.
Jane closed her eyes and suddenly she wasn’t in North Manor anymore, suddenly she was back in their old house, sitting cross-legged on her bed, working on homework, and Greer was nudging the door open with his foot. He came into the room holding an enormous box, and as Jane watched, he dumped its contents out on the bed next to her.
Agatha Christie paperbacks! At least three dozen of them. She picked one up greedily, then looked up at him and asked, “Where did these come from!”
“Mother lode, right?” Greer said, clearly proud of himself. “Estate sale. End of day, no one had taken these yet. Guess how much for the lot of them.”
To Jane, these books were nothing short of priceless, but she did some quick math and said, “I dunno… two hundred?”
“Free!”
Greer began doing a silly dance around the room, stomping all over the carpet, waving his arms around wildly. Jane looked at the book in her hand. Poirot Loses a Client. She couldn’t wait to read it.
Jane could hear Ruth now, gathering books into her arms, picking up the ones that had fallen on the landing. She heard her jostle the box upside down, so the rip was at the top. There were still some books in it; they tumbled around as Ruth carried the box past Jane and up to her new bedroom.
Jane struggled to breathe evenly. She opened her eyes. You’re fine.
She made herself go collect the books that had fallen down there. Ruth reappeared and grabbed another stack from the landing. Jane met her back in her bedroom.
“See?” Ruth said, depositing her load of books on the floor. “No big deal. Are you okay?”
Jane put her own books on the floor and nodded stiffly. “I’m fine. Sorry. I just… It was just stupid.”
“No big deal,” Ruth repeated. “I think I’m going to take a quick shower. You’re good?”
“I’m good, Mom.”
Ruth touched Jane’s hand, then left her alone, shutting the bedroom door behind her. The carpet was littered with journals and books. Jane took a seat in the middle of them and started stacking them into piles, organizing them into groups. Her hand paused as she picked up one of the books. Poirot Loses a Client. The cover had become one of her favorites, made even more special because Greer had given it to her. Poirot’s infamous bowler hat and mustache. An enormous mansion surrounded by topiaries in the shape of giant birds, a revolver, and a skull bleeding red roses from its base.