The Art of Inheriting Secrets(97)

“Yes,” Mrs. Malakar said, reaching for a chapatti. A trio of bracelets rolled down her arm. “She took my recipe and made it more. I use her recipe now. My daughter, as you have seen, is a wondrous cook.”

“Wondrous,” I echoed. “Yes, that’s a good word.”

We fell to eating in easy silence. Music played quietly from the kitchen, maybe Indian pop music, though I couldn’t make out the words.

Mr. Malakar said, “You asked about the bones.”

I raised my head.

“I was relieved that they were not her bones. It appears that I would rather believe she is alive in the world somewhere, and one day . . . she will walk through those doors.”

The easy river of tears filled my eyes. “I understand that so completely. I would trade a foot to spend one more hour with my mother.” The words were unexpectedly intense, and I flushed. “Sorry.” I glanced at each of them. “I didn’t mean to be so—”

“My mother died when I was twenty-two,” Mrs. Malakar said, “and I have missed her every day since.” She touched my hand, and again the bracelets swam down her arm. I was grateful for the kindness, for the possibility that she might not hate me forever.

But something else caught my attention. “Look,” I said, raising my right arm to show the bracelet I’d found in Violet’s room. “My bracelet matches. Did those belong to Nandini?”

“Yes,” Harshad said. “Where did you find that?”

“In my grandmother’s room. They cleared it out, and I found this on the floor.” I started to take it off, but he waved a hand.

“No, keep it.”

“Sure?” I glanced at Samir, and he gave me a very slight nod.

But it was Mrs. Malakar I wanted to please. I took the bracelet off and laid it on the table beside her bowl.

She only looked at me. Shook her head. “It’s yours.”

“Dad,” Samir said, “I’ve been meaning to ask you if you saw Caroline last summer.”

He didn’t reply instantly. “Why would you ask me such a thing?”

“She visited the earl,” I said, and a pain worked its way between my ribs. “She knew she was dying, and she seems to have set up a . . . treasure hunt.”

“Is that right?” He shook his head. “I don’t know anything about that.”

But again, I had the sense that he knew more than he was saying. “Is there anything about rainbows around here? Legends or stories or a pot of gold?”

“I don’t know any,” he said, and I could tell he meant it. “Samir?”

“Nor do I.”

Rainbows, peacocks, treasure, paintings. The words echoed around and around my head, and I stared down at the bowl of soup with blurry vision, finding myself lost and—

“Olivia,” Samir said at my side. “Let’s get you home, shall we?”

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “Did I fall asleep?”

He chuckled softly. “Yes.”

I reached for his hand without thinking, and he took it, helping me up, his other hand at my back. “Sorry,” I said to his parents. “It’s just been—”

“It’s all right,” Harshad said.

“Good night, Olivia,” Mrs. Malakar said and held up the bracelet. “Don’t forget this.”

I slipped it on my wrist.

I slept a solid eleven hours, falling far away into the other lands where the sleep spirits knitted me back together. When I awakened, my mind was as clear and sharp as the sunlight of the late-spring day outside my window.

I knew three things—that I wanted to stay and try to save Rosemere, that I wanted to move to the carriage house immediately, and that I needed new clothes. My own clothes, in a size that actually fit me. I needed something for the picnic, and I wanted to furnish the carriage house flat as soon as possible.

Unfortunately, Peter was busy, and on such a sunny day, Samir would be working, but these days, a person didn’t need to be anywhere in person. I fired up the laptop, credit card in hand, ready to shop.

But an email from Grant waited. Call off your hounds, the subject read. I opened it curiously. I’ve dropped the suit, it read. Get Madeline off my back.

Cautious optimism bloomed in my chest, and I scrolled down the list of emails. Sure enough, there was one from Madeline. No subject, but an attachment. I opened it.

Please notice the date of the photos here, she’d written. I’ve forwarded them to my lawyer, and he says this is enough to remove all possibility of the common-law suit.

The photos were from a party, dated last October. In them, Grant was shown in a series of more and more intimate poses with a young woman. I recognized her from the publicity that had surrounded her enormously successful debut last summer, an event I’d attended with my mother and Grant.

She was exactly the kind of creature I could never be—waifish, fragile looking with pale skin and a sexy tumble of wild red hair. She’d made all the papers with her first show, and the second was promising to be gigantic.

The second group of photos showed them in a low-lit restaurant, very intimate, just days after my accident.

All the rage I’d been biting back roared up my spine, into my throat, and I wanted to reach through the screen and tear out his hair by the handfuls. How dared he cheat on me like that? And manipulate me for the apartment? And—