The world won’t greet us as friends, Josephine, but we must stay bold in our convictions. There were so many lines from Bellanger’s letters that felt prescient, like he’d known exactly what I’d need as an adult.
Tom was talking: “I’m not reinventing the wheel. But Bellanger might be the single most important scientific figure that my generation sees. How many scientists have been murdered for their work? Galileo was jailed—Bellanger was killed.” He’d gone somewhere else, his eyes intent behind his glasses. “Bellanger died before he ever got the chance to share his research. His legacy has been fading for years and I want to offer new insight into what he truly accomplished.”
I shifted in my seat, feeling that familiar annoyance, a prickling territoriality that reared up inside me sometimes. Everyone wanted to sniff out some overlooked juicy detail from my past, find some sharp, shiny new angle that would reflect its light back on their careers. I felt like I was alone in wanting to build something new. To move Bellanger into the future. “Funny, that’s what I’m doing too,” I said. “I’m going to re-create Bellanger’s original work. But I’m sure your book will be nice too, Tom.”
* * *
The Clarkson home was a creamy mansion, lined with puffy shrubs. It suited the Clarksons so well it was almost comical, the way some people resembled their pets. The home was mostly hidden behind a high wall of honey-blond brick. Harmony Springs itself was less a neighborhood than an uneasy coalition of walled-off mansions and sprawling grounds, everyone maintaining a haughty distance from each other.
A young man with a clipboard opened the door to us. “Girl One,” he said. “Come in, come in. We’ve been eagerly awaiting your presence.”
The entryway was chilly white marble, larger than our entire house; through the doorways, more marble. The icy veins were like the arteries of the house itself, extending into every corner. An autographed portrait of Deb and Bonnie hung above the stairwell, cursive spidering across their collarbones. I was awed for a moment, and then I remembered why I was in Minnesota. “Is my mother here?”
“Here?” The young man glanced around, confused, concerned. “I was led to believe she’s missing.”
“But has she been here in the past few weeks? Has she talked to Deb?” I balanced my growing desperation to find my mother with the awareness that I needed to keep some things close to my chest. I didn’t need the entire world to know that my mother had been visiting other Homesteaders.
“I really doubt it, Miss Morrow,” the young man said. “Ms. Clarkson would’ve told me if your mother showed up at her doorstep—”
“It’s fine,” Tom said, interrupting. He gripped my elbow lightly for a second, a little signal. Play it cool. “We’d like this to be a private interview. Just the Clarksons, Miss Morrow, and me. Nobody else, thanks.”
The young man made a quick calculation and shrugged, acquiescing. “The girls just got finished with Channel Five. Come with me.”
The Clarksons’ McMansion was even bigger on the inside, a trick of physics. Endless corridors, each one leading outward again. From what I could see through the open doorways we passed, all the rooms were alike—unused, some furniture still in plastic wrap or boxes, like a dollhouse designed by a child who’d wandered off bored. So this was what talking about the Homestead had given Deb and Bonnie. The opposite of my water-stained bedroom ceiling, of Emily French’s attic, of the original compound where we’d been born.
Deb had always been an unlikely member of the Homestead, looking like she’d gotten lost on her way to a sorority mixer. She was both cautionary tale （This could be your daughter, suburban parents!） and inspiration （This could be your daughter, suburban parents!）。 I’d always had the distinct impression my mother didn’t get along with her.
A door opened as we approached, and there she was. Deborah Clarkson, in the flesh. Up close, her TV makeup was expertly applied so that her cheekbones looked hollowed out. Her chignon was architectural and stiff with spray. Deb stared at me for a long moment, face unreadable, then took me by the shoulders, running her hands down my arms. “Looking at Bonnie, it’s like looking in a mirror,” she said. “But looking at you? It’s like traveling back in time. It could be ’71.” She blinked, seeming to break herself out of a spell. “Margaret’s with you?”
“I was hoping she was with you.”
“With me?” Deb stepped back, a frown creasing only her forehead. In her eyes, a flutter of panic, though her voice stayed steady. “Why would she be here, sweetheart?” Before I could grasp her feelings, she was all professionalism again. Glossy and intractable. “Thomas! So lovely to see you again, my dear.” Deb extended her hand to Tom as if it were a precious museum artifact she would loan him.