A knock sounded behind her. “Hello? Miss Dass’n?”
“Yes. Please do come in.”
Having set the iron on the desk, the clerk attempted to unfold the board, but its mechanism was evidently a mystery to him.
“Please do not trouble yourself,” she said. “I can manage it.”
“Sorry ’bout that. There’s only the one power point in the room, here by the desk. You’ll need to unplug the lamp first.”
She nodded. She would wait until tomorrow to ask about the burned-out bulb. It would be foolish to make any more demands of him tonight. “Thank you very much. Shall I bring the board and iron back to you when I am finished?”
“No need. I’ll tell the maid when she makes up your room in a day or two. If the laundry needs them back any sooner they’ll come by earlier.”
“You are very kind,” she said, wishing she could spare the money for a tip. Instead she shook his hand and smiled into his eyes, hoping that he understood.
“It’s no trouble at all,” he said, his tone genial, and she guessed that he did understand. Or perhaps it was the case that tips were not generally expected here in England. She would have to consult her guide to make sure. “Good night, then.”
The door clicked shut behind him. She locked it, paused until his footsteps faded away, and then took her first easy breath of the day. Alone. Free of strangers hemming her in, free of half-remembered words and phrases that tugged at her brain like fishhooks. Free of the ingrained need to smooth her every expression into a neutral and unthreatening blank.
First things first. She unfolded the board, setting it close to the desk, and plugged in the iron. While she waited for it to heat, she set the larger of her two cases on the bed and extracted her best suit and blouse. Though she’d packed them meticulously, with tissue guarding every fold, they had still become creased. The iron was a rather ancient and unreliable-looking device, but a few hesitant passes on the inside hem of her skirt revealed no scorch marks, so she set about erasing the worst of the wrinkles from her garments.
She was too tired and cold to bother with any sort of nighttime toilette. After changing into her nightgown and hanging up the clothes she’d been wearing, she switched off the light and got into bed. Though the sheets were faintly damp, it wasn’t long before she stopped shivering and began to relax into the comforting embrace of the bed.
It was there, waiting for her, as soon as she closed her eyes: a panel of ivory silk, luminous in the late afternoon sun, stretched tight over a frame. Her embroidery frame, right by the window in the atelier at Maison Rébé, just where she had left it.
She considered her progress. The design, a wreath of flowers, was nearly done; it had occupied her mind’s eye for many nights now. Already she’d finished the bourbon roses, their blossoms pale and tender, and the nodding tendrils of honeysuckle winding between their stems. Tonight she would begin the first of the peonies.
There had been an old peony in her parents’ garden, planted long before they had moved into the house, and every May it had produced armfuls of blooms, some of them as wide as a dinner plate, their petals deepening from palest pink to the cerise of the ripest cherries. It had been Maman’s favorite, and hers, too.
Last year she had forced herself to go. To discover if any trace of her family, of their lives, still remained. The people who had taken over her parents’ house had said they knew nothing. They would not let her enter, so she had begged to see the garden. Five minutes in the garden, and then she would leave.
They had killed the peony. They had dug up her mother’s flowers and put in a vegetable garden. They had destroyed every beautiful living thing her mother had planted. They had—
The peony lived on in her memory. She could see it so clearly, its petals glowing and bright and perfect. Unchanged. Whole and alive.
She blinked back her tears. She threaded her needle. She touched her fingertips to the ghostly fabric. And she began again.
Chapter Three
Heather
Toronto, Ontario
Canada
March 5, 2016
Heather? It’s Mom. I’ve been calling and calling.”
“Sorry. Didn’t hear it ringing. What’s up?”
“Where are you?”
“I’m just finishing up with my groceries. It’s a zoo. Typical Saturday morning in Toronto. Why?”
“It’s Nan.”
The clamor of the busy store, the chatter and complaints of those hemmed in around her, the clang of carts being marshaled outside, the too-loud din of oldies played on crackling speakers—all withered away. In their place rose a drumbeat, dull and steady, pounding insistently against her breastbone. The sound of her own heart.