“Oh…of course,” I said, feeling small.
She wandered over to the shelves of books before pausing at a small portrait of all our sisters.
Well. Most of our sisters.
Back when there were eight of us.
We’d originally been twelve strong but our three oldest—Ava, Octavia, and Elizabeth—passed away in quick succession after our mother died giving birth to me.
Then, years later, Eulalie followed after them, slipping from the same cliffs Camille had just been in front of. The triplets died months after—two of them anyway—another tragic accident. Rosalie and Ligeia. They left Lenore by her lonesome, like a set of silverware missing its fork and knife. Though I was six at the time, I don’t remember their deaths, only the fallout. Lenore retreated deep inside her mind, a living ghost, eyes blank, lips forever drawn into a grim line.
Then…Papa and Morella, my stepmother. There had been a fire, a terrible one that nearly consumed the entire manor. I should be able to recall that night—I’m told there was a snowstorm, one of the worst our islands had ever seen—but there’s nothing in my recollection of it.
My very first memory is of a sunny afternoon on Hesperus, a little spit of land farthest west in the chain of Salann islands, where my second oldest sister, Annaleigh, lives, tending the lighthouse. My other sisters, Honor and Mercy, and I lived there for part of our childhood as Highmoor was rebuilt. Camille insisted on using as much of the original structure as safety warranted. The rest she faithfully re-created, keeping everything exactly as it had been. Soft gray walls soaring four stories high and topped with a blue and green gabled roof. Two sprawling wings. A solarium filled with koi ponds and palm fronds. A great hall used for feast days honoring our patron god Pontus, king of the seas. A grand and glittering ballroom, almost never touched. All of it exactly as it had been in my early childhood, though I couldn’t recall a single instance of it on my own.
Camille and Annaleigh say it makes sense I’d not held on to the memories of that dark time of grief. They wished they, too, could discard those thoughts, those reminders of how painful life could sometimes be. But nothing about it feels natural to me.
Their faces—my father, my mother, so many of my sisters—haunt me, though I’ve no memories of them alive and whole and here. Their portraits remain, scattered throughout the manor, hung on walls, tucked onto shelves, desks, and bureaus. I should not be so familiar with Eulalie’s easy, winning smile or the dazzling russet hue of Rosalie’s curls, but I could sketch them in an instant. I’ve memorized every curve of jaw, arch of eyebrow. I know how Papa tilted his head while deep in thought, how Mama’s eyes sparkled, but I do not remember the sounds of their voices, nor how they took their coffee. Did Papa and I ever while away afternoons on the lawn, staring up at clouds? Did my sisters swim in little eddies of surf down by the north shore, their limbs long and white against the black sands?
This house has always felt full of ghosts to me—not of spirits in white sheets and chains, nothing as clichéd as all that—but of memories snatched away. Memories I’ll never be able to claim as mine.
Camille adjusted the framed painting before clasping her hands together, decision reached. “So. A family dinner. What do you think?”
Her hope was palpable, written in the crook of her lips, all the way down to her fingertips dancing lightly over the velvet chaise before her.
I couldn’t find it in myself to let her down.
It’s why at seventeen—almost eighteen—I was still at Highmoor, running after my nieces and nephew, watching them grow, watching Camille’s life proceed on ahead of her while mine seemed to be withering away in the wings. She needed me. She needed me here. And so I tried to tuck away my dreams of travel and adventure, my ambitions and desires. They didn’t go down easily. They were always there, always part of me, asking, begging, beseeching for more. More than this house, more than these islands.
Pontus help me, I wanted more.
“All right,” I agreed, forcing my lips into a smile.
For her.
For my sister.
“Hand me your brush, won’t you, dear heart?” Hanna asked.
It was that rare moment of quiet in the house, hours after dinner when the children were mercifully put to bed, their chatter stilled. The days were growing longer and I’d already drawn my curtains closed against the lingering light. The velvet drapes softened the air in my room, shrouding it into a deadened silence.
I sat in front of my vanity, dressed in a long nightgown of ivory batiste and my favorite silk robe, tightened securely around my frame. Hanna, my nursemaid, my friend, and my closest confidante, had been bustling about behind me, tidying the room, turning down the linens. Next would be hair brushing, then tea. We’d had the same evening ritual for years.
Hanna removed the comb holding up my dark tresses and began working her crooked fingers through the waves, seeking out any last remaining hidden pins. Those clinked in the catchall dish at my right, a clamshell Artie had found on the beach last summer. He’d carefully polished the concave surface till it glowed and presented it to me, his round cheeks lifting with unmistakable pride.
“Mercy wrote,” I mentioned, leaning forward to remove the envelope from the drawer I’d cast it in before dinner.
“And how is the young ingénue?” Hanna started brushing out the ends of my hair with practiced strokes, careful not to tug on any knots.
I broke the wax seal and withdrew the contents. There was Mercy’s letter, soft and sinuous curves scrawled across just a single page—short this week—and a second envelope bearing my name in an unfamiliar hand. I flipped it over and studied the seal. Intricate floral vines cascaded over a heart aflame.
“Do you know this crest?” I asked, holding it up for Hanna to inspect.
“That looks like the People of the Petals. In Bloem,” she added.
Bloem was a tiny province near the heart of Arcannia. The people of the region worshipped Arina, goddess of love, beauty, and the arts, and Bloem was known for being the most refined and cosmopolitan area in the country, even putting the capital to shame. Its streets had as many fashion houses as they did theaters and salons.
So I’d read.
I ran a thoughtful finger over the seal. The wax had a deep purple hue, a sign of nobility. “I don’t know anyone from Bloem, do I?”
Hanna frowned. “Not that I can recall. Perhaps Mercy’s letter will explain everything.”
Nodding, I set the envelope aside and picked up my sister’s missive.
“？‘Dearest Verity,’？” I began, reading aloud for Hanna’s sake. “？‘You missed the most marvelous party last night. There were so many guests in attendance. My dance card was never empty but I still managed to take a turn about the room with Princess Beatrice, though of course we pretended it was nothing more than a laugh. Still. Sometimes I think that girl shall drive me mad with her charms.
“？‘Two of the guests were the Duke and Duchess of Bloem, Gerard and Dauphine Laurent. They have a grand apartment in Arcannus, as well as their family estate in the country—Chauntilalie. Beatrice, Euphemia, and I stopped there on summer progress last year. It’s beautifully decrepit and wistful. Lavender fields and so many little hills and dales, truly a bucolic dream. You would love it.’？”