House of Salt and Sorrows(74)

Water splashed over the sides and onto her, but she didn’t acknowledge it, only continued to stare at me with a curious blank expression. Her face was shrouded in shadows, long and drawn, and her hair hung in obscuring strands, having come undone from the braid I plaited for her that evening.

“Did you change your nightgown?” I asked, studying the unfamiliar lace trim. “What’s the matter? Did you want tea? I’ll bring it to you when I’m out,” I promised, sinking into the water, angling to cover up as much of myself as I could. I’d never felt the need for modesty around my sisters—we spent half our lives changing in front of each other—but something in her eyes made me long for a bath towel to hide behind.

She blinked once, then slowly turned around and stumbled toward the doorway, moving as though her legs had fallen asleep.

“Lenore!” I called after her.

When she didn’t return, I pushed myself from the steaming water and toweled off. Wrapping my dressing robe around me, I hurried after her.

Lenore was already at the landing of the front staircase.

“What are you doing? I’ll bring you the tea. You should be in bed.”

She turned back to me but then started down the steps, still moving with an awkward gait. With a sigh, I pulled the robe more securely around me and followed her.

Reaching the first floor, I could only guess at where she’d gone. I tried the kitchen, but it was empty, as was the larder.

“Lenore?”

Returning to the main hallway, I caught a flash of a white dress and red hair crossing into the library. I hurried to catch up, but the door across the room was already closing as I entered.

“Lenore, wait for me!”

Down the corridor, a door clicked shut. It sounded like the glass door of the solarium. What could she possibly be doing in there at this hour?

I stepped into the thick and humid air. When we were little girls, we loved to while away winter afternoons in the solarium. Sitting in the midst of a jungle with snow swirling outside the tinted glass windows felt magical.

“Lenore?” I called out again, taking a step forward. “Where are you?”

There was no answer, but a fern frond swayed back and forth. I closed my eyes and listened carefully. The trickle of the indoor pond couldn’t quite obscure the rustle of long skirts dragging on the stone pavers.

Turning, I followed. The gardeners were given the first month of winter off, and the palms grew wild in their absence, spreading out across the paths with no regard for those who needed to walk by. I shifted a particularly large leaf out of the way but nearly tripped on something in the middle of the path.

It was Verity’s sketchbook.

I’d not seen it since that day in Elizabeth’s bedroom. What was it doing in the solarium? Had Lenore somehow brought it with her?

The paper cover flipped open as if caught in a breeze, revealing the drawing of Eulalie ripping the bedclothes from Verity while she slept.

As I bent over to retrieve the morbid book, the pages turned again, though I felt no draft. Images of my sisters, horribly twisted and decayed, flashed before me in rapid succession. Sketches of Eulalie, Ava, Octavia, Elizabeth, and even Rosalie and Ligeia flipped over and over, turned by unseen hands. The book came to an abrupt stop at the final drawing.

It was me.

I lay in the middle of a grand ballroom, with crowds of partygoers leering behind masks. My satin skirts spread around me like a puddle, revealing the unnatural angles of my splayed ankles. Every one of my joints faced a wrong direction, like a puppet with severed strings.

My head was tipped back, and I stared directly off the page with dead eyes. My mouth hung open, soft and slack. One hand reached out, curved as if beckoning the viewer in.

Swallowing a cry of horror, I slammed the horrid book shut, kicking it away from me.

Why would Verity draw such a thing?

Or had she?

“Lenore?” I called out, my voice creaking as my throat closed in fear.

My drawing looked different from the others, its style more subtle and refined. Had Lenore drawn it? She’d been silent ever since our sisters were found. We’d all assumed it was her way of grieving, but what if we were wrong? What if she’d snapped?

I glanced around at the palms surrounding me. Distracted by the book, I now had no idea where she was. She could be anywhere in the solarium, watching me, stalking me with those haunted eyes.

A chill raced down my neck, and I bolted down the path, zigzagging through the plants to avoid being an easy target. Rounding the bend, I stopped short, seeing her silhouetted in moonlight by the window. Her hand pressed against the glass, as if trying to grab at something just out of her reach. She looked back at me, then headed to the left.

I peered out to see what she’d been looking at. The West Wing was clearly visible from this vantage, jutting out across the front lawn. It was dark, save for the light coming from one window on the second floor.

Lenore’s room.

My breath caught in my throat, nearly choking me, as I spotted a dark shape looking out from the window.

It was Lenore.

I froze, the hairs on my arms rising. The palms shifted again, and the rustle of a skirt that was not Lenore’s approached me. Mouth dry with dread, I turned and saw not Lenore but Rosalie and Ligeia, standing side by side, hands clasped together, with matching blue lips and frost in their hair. Their eyes were like milky marbles.