House of Salt and Sorrows(31)

“It’s plenty, thank you. Morella will appreciate it, I’m sure.”

We forced the boat down the beach, letting it meet the water. The sun beamed down, warming everything with a golden glow. My eyes fell on Fisher. Studying the way his forearms flexed as he rowed across the bay, I dared to remember how they’d felt wrapped around me.

A splash sounded ahead of us, breaking my daydream. A green flipper caught my eye.

A sea turtle!

Fisher winced, scanning the waters ahead. “Annaleigh, don’t look.”

A red tentacle thrashed out of the water, flailing aggressively. My smile faded. Red like that meant squid, and it looked enormous.

As the boat sailed past, I wanted to cry. The sea turtle was fighting for his life. The squid’s arms wrapped around him, grasping and writhing and trying to pull the shell apart. Squid, even one as sizeable as this, did not eat turtles.

It only went after him for spite.





My fingers trailed over the piano keys, working out a series of notes. It was a complex piece, full of rapidly descending glides and swooping rhythms, requiring absolute concentration. Unfortunately, my mind was not wholly on the piece, and the sound made even me wince.

Papa had been gone for over a week. He didn’t immediately send word of his arrival, and an uneasy panic descended over Morella, certain the curse had struck. When we finally received a letter, she snatched it from the silver tray and raced upstairs to read his words in private.

She’d begun to show, a small swell in her stomach that quickly expanded into a round curve. The baby was growing too fast. We summoned a midwife from Astrea, and when she emerged from Morella’s bedroom, her face was grave with concern.

“Twins,” she said. “Active ones too.”

The midwife gave me a salve to rub into Morella’s belly twice a day and said she needed to rest as much as possible, keeping her feet elevated and her emotions in check.

After another run of wrong notes, I clunked to a finish and swatted at the sheet music, studying what I should have done.

A maid poked her head into the Blue Room.

“Miss Annaleigh?” she asked, and gave a small curtsy. “There’s a Mr. Edgar Morris here.”

My breath hitched. Edgar at Highmoor? “For me?”

“And Miss Camille.”

“I’ve not seen her since breakfast, but I believe she’s in her room.” Since the ball, she had ensconced herself behind closed doors, snapping at anyone who dared disturb her.

I pressed trembling fingers into my skirt. After the boat ride with Fisher, I’d written a dozen letters to Papa, trying to explain my suspicions and begging him to come home soon to help. They’d all ended up in the fire, reading like the musings of a madwoman. A letter wasn’t the way to go. How could mere words convey the dark feeling growing in my stomach?

“Miss Thaumas, hello,” Edgar said, entering the room. Once again, he was dressed in full black, still observing deepest mourning.

I turned on the bench, watching him take in the room post-mourning. The sconces made the mirrors sparkle, and even with the overcast morning, the room looked a great deal more cheerful than when he’d last seen it.

“Mr. Morris.”

Though it was the height of disrespect, I remained at the piano bench, too surprised to move. It was as though I was truly seeing him for the very first time, spotting details I’d never noticed before. A small scar slashed just above his upper lip, the same lips Eulalie must have kissed. And those were the hands Eulalie had undoubtedly grasped as he secretly proposed to her. Had she run her fingers through that pale blond hair? Taken off the tortoiseshell glasses to gaze into his squinting hazel eyes?

What secrets of hers did this man keep?

“Mr. Morris, what an unexpected surprise.” We heard Camille’s voice before she entered. Edgar still stood near the threshold, unsure of what he ought to be doing. “Annaleigh, have you sent for tea?”

I shook my head.

“That’s quite all right, Miss Thaumas, I don’t intend to stay long,” he stammered, holding his hand out as if to stop her.

“Martha?” Camille called out, overriding him. “Tell Cook we’ll need tea and perhaps a plate of those lemon cookies she made yesterday.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Have a seat, please, Mr. Morris. Annaleigh?”

“What?” I asked, stubbornly remaining on the bench.

“You’ll join us, yes?”

After a long pause, I stood. “Of course.”

Martha wheeled in a tea service. As eldest, Camille set to work readying everyone’s cups. Once we were served, she straightened, eyeing our guest. “What can we help you with today, Mr. Morris?”

He took a sip of the tea, fortifying himself for the conversation to come. “I wanted to apologize for my behavior in the marketplace. I fear I wasn’t wholly myself that day. It was such a surprise seeing you both out in public and looking so…” His jaw clenched. “Well…your faces reminded me of Eulalie. It caught me quite off guard. I also…I hoped to speak with you. About…that night.”

If Camille was surprised, she was far more skilled at hiding it than I.

“What about it?” she asked, stirring her tea so smoothly the spoon never once clinked.

He squirmed uncomfortably. “I suppose I can admit this now, but I was here…the night it happened.”