It was a family portrait, taken on a wildflower-covered hill on a beautiful cloudy day. Mr. and Mrs. Sutton—or should I say John and Laura—stood in the background. In front of them were two young teens: a boy with neatly cut dark brown hair and brown eyes like Laura’s, and a teenage girl who was beautiful enough to be a movie star. She had long waves of golden hair, perfectly chiseled cheekbones, and glinting, intelligent blue eyes.
“That’s our family,” Laura said. Her voice was strained, like she was worried I wouldn’t approve. “Barrett—he’s sixteen. He goes away to school, to St. Paul’s in Thurmond, about a three-hour drive from here. He’s been in Italy with one of his friends, but he flies back in a few weeks.”
“Oh,” I said. “Nice.”
She drew a deep breath. “And that’s Agatha.”
“Does she go away to school, too?”
For a moment, no one answered, but when I looked up at Laura, she smiled almost painfully. “No.”
Oh no. Oh God. She was dead.
Why did everyone have to be dead?
The silence that followed was agonizing. Finally, it was broken by Laura’s shaky inhalation.
“Agatha is upstairs,” she said. “Would you like to meet her?”
CHAPTER
4
I FOLLOWED JOHN and Laura down the long wallpapered corridor and into the grand main hall, with its two-story ceiling of ornamental plaster. I was vaguely aware of faces staring at me from paintings, of glass-doored cabinets packed with figurines—a flock of delicate birds, a squadron of tiny ballerinas, collections of vases and teacups and tiny bowls—but they passed into my head and then out, like snapshots of things I’d seen long ago.
Why couldn’t Agatha just come downstairs to say hi? I tried not to dwell on the question, just as I tried not to dwell on the fact that I was pretty sure I’d asked Mr. Albright if the Suttons had children and he hadn’t said yes.
I don’t know . . . maybe he hadn’t said no, either.
But he definitely hadn’t said yes.
Two separate sets of stairs wound dramatically up opposite walls and met on a shared landing. Laura paused at the base of one set of the stairs. “To the right, here, is our bedroom. Our offices, as well—and straight ahead you can see the library. The door behind the stairs leads to the service hall, which you won’t be needing to visit.”
Shows what you know, Tam, I thought.
She looked over her shoulder. “And obviously, back the way we came, you saw the kitchens, the dining room, and the breakfast room. Plus the drawing room, the music room, and the sitting room.”
Did I see those things? It was all a blur.
When the four of us reached the top of the stairs, I could see that the landing branched off into three halls: left, right, and center.
“This way,” Laura said, starting straight ahead. “You won’t need to use the green wing or the west wing. I keep the doors closed, to save energy. As you can imagine, it’s quite a feat to heat or cool a house this size.”
I nodded, as if I had spent time imagining such a thing. “Are they all bedrooms?”
“Oh no,” she said. “There are anterooms, dressing rooms, bathrooms, the old sauna, a gymnasium, linen storage . . . And several guest rooms, as well.”
My head felt like it was spinning. Was this supposed to make sense to me?
“Actually, Margaret, I think I’ll go see about your belongings,” Mr. Albright said suddenly, reversing course and heading back downstairs.
Coward. I helplessly watched him go.
I tried to ignore the prickling sensation on my skin as we walked farther down the hall, stopping outside the second-to-last door on the left.
John put his hand on the knob, but Laura lightly touched his shoulder. “I like to knock,” she said softly. “Even if—well, we should get into the habit anyway.”
So he knocked. Then he opened the door.
Laura paused in the doorway and turned to me. “She hasn’t always lived in here. We just felt it was . . . simpler.”
And then, leaving me to cope with that extremely mysterious pronouncement, she went inside.
I had nowhere to go but after her.
It took me a moment to figure out where I was, but after taking everything in, it hit me: This was a nursery, a room for small children. The wallpaper was an old-fashioned pattern of fruits and flowers arranged in rings around little scenes of woodland creatures hanging out together—bunnies, squirrels, birds, and turtles, all with the creepy wild-eyed expressions people somehow used to think were normal and cute.
There were no cribs or bassinets, but there was a white wooden toy chest carved with stars and moons against one wall, and a few feet away, a small desk had the same pattern carved in its legs.
I looked around the room. Two beds, decorated with the same celestial motif, were pushed up into the corners against the far wall.
“Agatha,” Laura said softly, “there’s someone we’d like you to meet.”
And then I saw her—sitting in a high-backed wooden chair by the window, her body angled so she could look outside.
My throat went dry. A very bad feeling began to tap-dance in my mind.
She didn’t turn to look at us, but Laura went on walking toward her, talking as she went. “Her name is Margaret,” she said, in a voice as thin and clear as a rod of glass. “She’d like to say hello to you.”
My heart and stomach felt like they were in a wrestling match. I told myself, Calm down, you’re making assumptions, you’re being ungrateful . . .
Laura waved me forward, and I followed a few steps in her wake, because what else was I going to do? Run hyperventilating out of the room?
I was only there to meet Agatha, who was apparently not a very social person.
“Margaret has come to live with us,” Laura said. She put a hand on Agatha’s shoulder.
Up close, I could see that she was as beautiful in person as in the photo—maybe even more so. Wavy hair, pulled back with a white ribbon, reached almost to her waist, and her face, though clear of makeup, was lovely because of her luminous skin and those killer cheekbones. Her eyebrows were slightly furled, coral lips gently pursed.
I saw all this in profile. She never so much as turned to look at me.
Her clothes were like younger interpretations of her mother’s style: a cornflower-blue sweater and a knee-length plaid skirt. Her ears were pierced and she wore small silver hoops. Her shoes were simple penny loafers of smooth gray leather.
Laura gave me a questioning smile, perhaps checking to see if I was planning to run hyperventilating out of the room, and I had no choice but to give her a small smile in return. This was a delicate moment and I needed to play it cool. There would be plenty of time later for freaking out.