Unhooked(3)

I glance away and resist the urge to smooth down my soaked jacket.

“Arrangements have been made for us to lease your flat,” my mom says, thrusting the creased papers toward him.

The man stares at her for a long, awkward moment before he finally takes them from her outstretched hand. He reads one sheet and then the other, and when he’s finished, he glances up at us. With another questioning look at my mom, he jerks his head toward the interior and disappears into the house.

My mom follows him without too much hesitation, but Olivia grabs my arm. “Are you sure about this?”

Of course I’m not sure. I give her a halfhearted shrug. “I guess we should go in,” I say instead, avoiding her eyes as I follow my mom into the house.





Inside the smoke-darkened barroom, the boy could scarcely believe that the soldier who sat across from him was the apple-cheeked brother he’d once known. His brother sat stiff and straight, his eyes like flint even as he smiled. “I’m not frightened,” the solider assured the boy. Neither am I frightened, the boy thought to himself. . . .





Chapter 2


INSIDE, THE ONLY LIGHT COMES from A dimly burning chandelier fitted with what look to be gaslights. My mom is already speaking in hushed tones with the goblin-shaped man, so I let my bag slump to the floor and dump my jacket on top of it as I take a look around. I’m not surprised to find the rest of the house is as gloomy as the sky outside.

Everything about the place feels old and worn-out. The air has the thick mustiness found in closed-up attics or forgotten parts of old libraries. Which, actually, isn’t a bad description for what I’m seeing, because everywhere I look the walls are covered with all sorts of junk. Ornate mirrors, decorative plates of all shapes and colors, ancient-looking portraits of stern men and unsmiling women. The carpets are worn dull and smooth from age, and the woodwork has lost any bit of shine it might have once had.

Olivia’s shoes scuff into the hallway behind me, and despite my misgivings about the house, I relax a bit. She didn’t leave. Not yet, at least.

But she will, I remind myself. In two weeks she’ll be gone. And I’ll still be here. At least until my mom decides it’s time to move again.

“Is this place for real?” she whispers over my shoulder.

“Unfortunately,” I say.

She takes a few steps to examine one of the oil paintings on the wall. Its surface is barely visible from a combination of age, soot, and dust. She swipes at the surface and then rubs her finger and thumb together to smudge away the grime.

“It could be worse,” I offer, trying to keep my voice light, but my throat is too tight even to pretend optimism.

“Gwen—” Olivia starts, but thankfully, my mom’s voice interrupts us.

“We’re all set,” my mom tells me, and I realize with some relief that her voice—her whole demeanor, really—has changed. It’s finally started to take on the usual steel each of our moves normally begin with. Sometimes that calm, focused determination will last months before it starts to crack. It can last longer if she’s working on a project or one of her commissions—in Westport it lasted for more than two years.

“My rooms are back there,” the small man is explaining as he jerks his head toward a hallway behind the large central staircase. “If you need anything . . .”

“Thank you,” my mom murmurs, but I know she’ll never take him up on his offer. Once her supplies arrive, she’ll keep to herself and her art, like she always does. Until something sets her off and she decides we need to run.

“Come on, then.” Assuming we’ll follow, the old man turns to the stairs and starts up. When we reach the second floor, he pulls out a large ring of skeleton keys and uses one to unlock the first door we come to. “This ’ere’s the flat.”

The door swings open, and he steps inside a room that smells like it hasn’t been aired out in at least a decade.

With a wet snort, he looks around the sparsely furnished apartment as though approving of what he sees. I can’t imagine why—the apartment looks like it was last lived in about fifty years ago. “The other bedroom is this way,” he says. Without bothering to make sure we’re following, he heads farther into the darkened flat.

We follow him back through a narrow hallway lit by the strange and ghostly glow of more gas lamps and up another staircase so narrow, we have to climb single file. At the top, though, we find a room that is surprisingly airy. Here, the ceiling follows the sharp point of the roofline, and windows line the far wall, helping to make the space feel more open. Even with the overcast skies outside, this room is by far the brightest place in the house.

A studio, I realize. Because my mom will need the light to work.

The lower level of the apartment had been decorated by someone who had a thing for avocado green, but the décor in this room might be original—it looks Victorian and seems to have been untouched by any previous tenants. The walls are washed in a soft blue, and a large bed stands against the back wall. A massive carved fireplace that now houses a small heating unit takes up most of the wall to the right.

On the wall opposite the fireplace is a large and intricate mural. Time has faded its colors, so the design is barely an impression of its former beauty, but even so, it’s striking. Wispy figures that look like they might have once been beautifully rendered fairies dance beneath flowered trees as bright, starlike orbs swirl around them.