The Art of Inheriting Secrets(106)

“No, I don’t see,” he said, taking my wrist in hand. “You’re not a quitter, Olivia. You’re not going to give up like that. Did you see all those people here yesterday? How happy they were? Rosemere is a symbol for the village, a piece of history. There’s been a surge of interest through the television show. You mustn’t give up.”

“He said he wouldn’t develop the land.”

“You’re serious.” He straightened, frowning. “You’re really thinking of selling?”

I took a breath. “I don’t know what else to do. There isn’t enough money to fix it.”

“So it will take longer. You can live here and go inch by inch.”

I shrugged. “Go see your dad. I’ll be fine.”

For one long moment, he measured me.

“Honestly,” I cried. “Would it be so terrible to just let go? I would be very wealthy. Life would be so much easier.”

“Is that what you want? Really? To have an easy life? Jet set around, maybe?”

“Would that be so bad? We could do anything, go anywhere.” A sense of lightness filled my chest. “It would be fun.”

“That isn’t who you are. You’re afraid. And you cannot have a life of great meaning if you make decisions out of fear.”

“Haven’t you ever been afraid, Samir?”

“Of course I have! And I’ve fallen on my face, in public, with the entire world waiting for me to do it.” He spread his hands in the air, like a prophet. “Nothing happened! It all blew by.”

“But you’ve been afraid to let people know about us.”

“Not because I don’t want them to know,” he cried. “Because I don’t want anyone interfering before we understand ourselves what we are, where we are going.” He swallowed, touched his chest. “This . . . thing between us feels so important, and I didn’t want anyone else in it until we solidified it.”

I flung myself at him then, let him wrap me close, my cheek against his heart, his hands in my hair. I held on tight. “This scares me too,” I whispered. “I’m afraid I’ll be broken into a million pieces.”

“But what if we soar? What if we—what if this—is the way the gods rectify some terrible wrong?” He pulled back, held my face. “What if we can make things right for those who lost? Our grandmothers? What if”—he pressed his hands more tightly to my head—“this our test?”

I wanted to believe in his vision of the world, in his hope, but my soul felt as if it were made of lead, some dull, dead thing I was hauling around. I looked into his beautiful eyes, seeing the world in them, the heavens, and I still couldn’t find my way to say anything at all. I could only think of my mother. What she’d done.

What had she done?

He closed his eyes. Pressed a kiss to my forehead. “Rest. I’m going to see my father. I will call you later.”

When he left, I dressed in a warm sweater and green wellies with my jeans, my hair pulled out of my face into a ponytail, and walked out to the rose garden. Police tape guarded the site, but I could see my guess was correct—the orange flower was the one that had collapsed under the landslide, along with the damask roses. A young man stood by the landslide, looking stoic in the continuing drizzle. “Good afternoon,” I said. “I’m Lady Shaw.”

He touched his hat.

“This is where the bodies were buried?” I asked the policeman standing by.

“Aye. They’ve removed the bones to the coroner’s.”

The multicolored rose had tumbled sideways, and its roots stuck up in the air. “Can we move that so that the rose doesn’t die? It was important to my mother.”

“I dunno. You have to ask the inspector. I don’t think you’re allowed to touch it.”

“Hmm,” I said and reached for it, pulling it lower into the mud that surrounded it. “There, that’ll keep it from dying.” I slapped my muddy hands together. “When will they make an identification?”

“I believe relatives have identified some of the girl’s belongings. It’ll take a bit to identify dental records and such.”

“All right.” My hands were cold in the drizzle, and I shook them off. “Carry on.”

As I walked back to the flat, I thought of the roses in my mother’s paintings. The eyes peering out so malevolently from her sketchbook. The little animals in all the paintings. The cabin of safety.

Urgently, I opened my laptop and called up the digital images Madeline had sent me of my mother’s work. Nearly all of her paintings were here, and I went through them in the order they’d been painted.

And the story was all there. Innocent creatures in a malevolent forest. A wolf panting in the shadows, teeth long. Roses growing through, over, around everything. The giant orange-and-pink rose often glowing in the distance.

Something was still missing after I searched them all. It was a simple story, but I didn’t have the end. I needed to see the children’s book I’d given Helen.

The rain had gone again, leaving behind heavy clouds, and I walked through the forest to the village and to Helen’s place. She opened the door and cried out, “Olivia! I saw the fire. Are you all right? Is the house all right? Are you—”