House of Salt and Sorrows(16)

“Are you borrowing something?”

“Not exactly.” I stood up, letting my skirts cover the handkerchief.

“Did you come in here to cry?”

“What?”

She shrugged. “Papa does sometimes. In Ava’s. He thinks no one knows about it, but I hear him at night.”

Ava’s room was on the fourth floor, directly above Verity’s.

She leaned in, peering about the room with curiosity but unwilling to actually enter it. “I won’t tell if you are.”

“I’m not crying.”

She reached out, beckoning me over to her. I left the handkerchief on the floor, hoping she wouldn’t see it. Verity traced one fingertip across my cheek and looked disappointed when it came away dry. “I still miss her.”

“Of course you do.”

“But no one else does. No one remembers her anymore. All they talk about is the ball.”

I squeezed her shoulders. “We haven’t forgotten her. We need to move on, but that doesn’t mean they don’t miss and love her.”

“She doesn’t think so.”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

“She thinks everyone is too busy with their lives to remember her.” She glanced back out into the hall as if worried our conversation was being overheard. “Elizabeth says so too. She says we all look different now. But she doesn’t.”

“You mean when you remember her?”

She shook her head. “When I see her.”

“In your memories,” I pressed.

After a moment, she held out the sketchbook, offering it to me.

Before I could take it, Rosalie and Ligeia rushed down the hall, carrying a tower of boxes marked with the names of several Astrean shops.

“Oh good, you’re both here!” Rosalie said, struggling to throw open their bedroom door. “We need to go downstairs, all of us, right now!”

“Why?” Verity asked, her shoulders suddenly tense, worry evident on her face. “Did someone else die?”

I winced. What other six-year-old worried an announcement meant someone had died?

“Of course not!” Ligeia said, depositing her treasures at the foot of her bed. “They’re here! The fairy shoes! We stopped by the cobbler’s shop, and he was sewing on the last set of ribbons!”

Verity’s eyes brightened, and the sketchbook was instantly forgotten. “They’re here now?”

“Come and see!” Rosalie tore down the corridor, shouting upstairs for Camille to come quick. She must have retreated to her room after her practice session. Ligeia raced after Rosalie, their footsteps heavy on the back stairs.

“We should go,” I said.

“Don’t forget about Eulalie’s handkerchief,” Verity said, skipping down the hall before I could stop her.

I blinked once before turning to snatch it up. When I left, the door slammed shut after me, as if pushed by unseen hands.



* * *





It was raining again, a cold downpour that chilled the air no matter how many fireplaces were lit. Raindrops raced down the windows, blurring the view of the cliffs and waves below. The Blue Room smelled damp, with a faint trace of mildew.

Morella sat on the sofa nearest the fireplace, rubbing her back, an uncomfortable grimace drawn on her face. My heart went out to her. Planning and hosting such a large affair was trying even under the best circumstances. Doing so while pregnant must be exhausting. And the triplets had clearly run her ragged.

“Lenore, do you think you could find your father? I’m sure he’d enjoy seeing the shoes. My ankles have swollen something fierce with this storm.”

I grabbed a small tufted pouf hiding under the piano. “You should put your feet up, Morella. Mama had lots of problems with swelling during her pregnancies. She’d keep her feet elevated as much as she could.” I positioned the stool beneath her legs, trying to make her comfortable. “She also had a lotion made of kelp and linseed oil. We rubbed it into her ankles every morning before she got dressed.”

“Kelp and linseed oil,” she repeated, and offered a small smile of thanks.

I paused, sensing a way to both help her and make up for my outburst the morning after Eulalie’s funeral. “I could mix some up for you. It might help.”

“That would be very nice…. Has your gown arrived yet?”

It was the first time she’d shown any interest in what I was wearing to the ball. She was trying too, in her own way.

“Not yet. Camille and I have our final fittings on Wednesday. If you’re feeling up to it, maybe you’d like to come with us?”

Her eyes lit up. “I would enjoy that. We could get lunch in town, make a real afternoon of it. Remind me what color it is?”

“Sea green.”

She paused, thinking. “Your father mentioned something about a chest of Cecilia’s jewelry somewhere. Perhaps there would be something suitable for you. I remember seeing a portrait of her wearing green tourmalines.”

I knew exactly which painting she referred to. It hung in a study on the fourth floor where Mama had wedged a small writing desk into a sunny nook. On clear days, you could see all the way to the lighthouse. Papa hung the portrait there after her death.

“I would love something of hers for the ball. Camille would too, I’m certain.”