by Nina Laurin
“Mom,” I say softly. My face grows warm, and I feel even worse about my outburst. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. Thank our renovation stipend. It turned out there was an extra thousand dollars.”
“Uh, not that I’m not grateful…but isn’t that kind of shady?”
“The stipend covers internet improvements. So let’s just call it something like a super-modem.” Taylor cracks a smile. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”
For the first time in what feels like a while, we share a real laugh. Then, we drive home, deciding to order pizza for dinner. While Taylor calls to order, I tinker with my new phone. Sadly, the newly installed cable is just as spotty as the sorry attempt at a satellite. The Wi-Fi still cuts off randomly just as I try to scroll through Instagram or send a message. My new phone is a beauty, but what good is it when I can’t use it for anything, since, apparently, I’m trapped in the Middle Ages?
I look up from the screen when I hear Taylor curse under her breath.
“Bullshit,” she fumes.
“What is it?”
“Can you believe it? This place called Pizza Town, supposedly the best around here—they just hung up on me! They thought I was prank-calling.”
“Huh?”
“Yeah. When I asked them to deliver to the Granger house, the dude on the other end just said, yeah right, and hung up.”
“So let’s just order through an app.”
Taylor shrugs and takes out her phone. But that plan fails too—it seems the app doesn’t recognize our address.
“It makes sense, I guess,” Taylor muses, looking lost. “I mean, this wasn’t a real address until we moved in.”
Dad isn’t home yet, so Taylor decides to drive to the nearest Pizza Hut to bring in takeout. I’m relieved to have some peace and quiet for a change. I need to get my thoughts together.
When my final attempt at Skyping Eve fails, I look around my room forlornly. Sure, the place is as big as our whole apartment back in Brooklyn, but what am I supposed to do with it? It’s the walls. They’re too thick, so the signal doesn’t get through.
Where’s a sledgehammer when you need one?
Taylor has warned me off the fourth floor entirely, since the wing beginning at the end of the long hallway is compromised. Something about the roof there being in bad shape, which is how humidity got in to ruin the floor in the first place. Well, weakened floorboards or no, maybe I might get a decent signal with a broken roof.
According to that facilities guy, the four floors weren’t so much for the house’s owners but for all the staff required to maintain a place this size, which seems a little self-defeating. But, then again, turn-of-the-century rich people probably had different worldviews. Hence, we chose our rooms on the second floor: a room for me, my parents’ bedroom, a home office for Dad. There’s also that beautiful sitting room we don’t use yet, because the ceiling is damaged and needs restoring. So, for now, that’s where we keep all the antique furniture from the house, wrapped in layers of dusty tarp.
According to Taylor, there’s nothing of much interest above the second floor anyway—the servant rooms are small and not very fancy. There’s supposedly Samuel Granger’s old photography workshop on the third floor, complete with a darkroom, and Taylor is practically salivating at the prospect of getting it for herself. But there’s some work to be done there, too, and the door is locked. No one has found the key yet.
I walk up two flights of stairs and peer into the third-floor hallway—half of the rooms here are locked up, too, because of the structural damage. On the fourth floor, in the hallway on the right side, the walls are plain, and wall lamps simple and lacking ornamentation. The left wing, on the other hand, is blocked off with a striped plank that says DANGER as well as a bunch of tape. This is where the roof is broken and the floors are in bad shape. As I crane my neck, it doesn’t look all that damaged to me. It looks nicer than the right side, with the same wall chandeliers as on the first floor—bronze art deco renditions of swans. From where I’m standing, I can see a tall door with a dark, lacquered finish.
I duck under the tape and step over the plank without too much trouble. I gingerly put my weight on each foot as I advance, waiting for the telltale snap that means the floor might cave, but there isn’t so much as a soft creak. One step. Another, then another—and, before I know it, I’m standing in front of the mystery door. Unlike the simple doors of the servant rooms, it’s gorgeously ornate. Like the ones downstairs, where the mistress of the house would receive her guests, this one is made of lacquered walnut the rich color of coffee, with gilt trim that’s worn away in places but still regal. The door handle is an intricate art nouveau design shaped like a swan atop a cherry blossom. When I tug on it, though, the door doesn’t budge so much as an inch. I’d need the key, which Taylor has…somewhere.
Overcome with curiosity, I lean closer. The delicate whorls of the gilt trim depict more flowers on languid, twisting stems, weirdly sensual. Was this room Isabella’s bedroom? No, her boudoir was on the second floor. What would she be doing all the way up here?
I press my cheek to the walnut panel that feels unexpectedly warm. Behind the door, I hear something—a faint rustling, like the beat of wings.
Birds, I think. The roof must really be broken if they got in. With reluctance, I pull away. The door beckons to me, the gilt flowers nearly glowing in the deepening sunset light.
And turning to the hall windows, I see the sunset is spectacular. The windows of my room, like those of every room on the upper floors, face the inner courtyard—or what little is left of it. Restoration is ongoing, but, right now, there’s not much to see other than some fallen pillars and arches, what used to be a garden hopelessly overgrown with grass and weeds. But the windows in the hall look out front, onto the sprawling field with the imposing towers of the university rising on the horizon like some Scottish castle. Right now, it’s all bathed in tender pink light. I glue my nose to the window and watch as the sun’s last rays ebb away, the sky turning purple, then indigo, right until it’s so dark that the glass ceases to be transparent, reflecting my own face right back at me instead.
I look terrible. Tired. There are circles under my eyes like I haven’t slept in a million years, and my hair is a mess. I reach out to touch the glass, but, when my fingertips brush against the smooth surface, I pull my hand away. It’s so cold it burns. I stumble back, and, suddenly, my face isn’t the only one I’m seeing. I only have time to catch a glimpse: eyes like deep, dark crevices, slits of nostrils, skin like a smeared wax mask.
I back away until I hit the wall behind me. A small decorative table topples, and the antique vase it housed shatters on the floor.
My gaze darts momentarily away from the window, and, when I look up, the other face is gone.
The breath rushes out of my lungs when I understand what I was seeing: it’s just a reflection of the portrait on the wall. I hadn’t noticed it was there—otherwise, the walls are bare. A trick of the light, or some dirt on the glass, must have distorted it. Isabella Granger’s face is serene, her soft gaze directed vaguely toward the window. It’s one of the plainer portraits, no lavish costume or artistic devices, just Isabella against a blank wall, dressed simply in a high-collared dress the color of ashes. As I look at it, the expression starts to seem mournful somehow, brimming with sadness.
Thanks a lot, you Edwardian bitch, I think as I survey the mess on the floor. Crouching to pick up the shards, I reach out—and pull my hand away with a shriek. Blood spurts from a deep cut in my index finger like a little fountain. It runs down my palm and into my sleeve.
“Izzy?” comes my mom’s voice. I glance over my shoulder to see Taylor racing toward me down the hall. “Sweetheart, what happened? Where have you been?”
“What—what do you mean?” I’m disoriented. I notice abruptly that it’s become dark outside—really dark. The n
ight is impenetrable, no stars, no moon. The hallway windows look like a row of coal-black mirrors.
“Where have you been?” I ask Taylor. “You went to get pizza and disappeared somewhere.”
“Disappeared? I’ve been back for an hour. I’ve been calling your name, but— Why are you up here, anyway? Oh my god. Your hand!”
I remember the cut. I look down at my hand, uncomprehending. The cut is still there, and my index finger is smeared red, but the river of blood is now just a trickle.
“I broke a vase,” I say.
“Be more careful, honey. None of this stuff is ours. Come with me. I’ll put a bandage on that.”
As I follow my mom, I fume. Sure, worry about the stuff. Who cares about the stupid vase? I just almost—
Almost what? Nothing really happened. I thought I saw something, but it was just ole Izzy the First over there on the wall.
* * *
As Taylor finishes up wrapping my finger, I hear the service door open and shut, which means my dad is home. It’s loud, since the high ceiling emphasizes the echo of every step. Then why didn’t I hear my mom arrive?
By the time we’re ready to eat, the pizza has gotten cold, and everyone is too hungry to properly reheat it or sit down at the table in the vast dining room. We share the tepid pizza at the kitchen counter. I’m not that surprised that conversation doesn’t flow. Apparently, no one else had such a great first day either. The university messed up some schedules, so Gordon Brixton’s long-awaited first meeting with the fundraising team fell through. And at the photo lab, equipment had been mislaid, so Taylor’s first workshop session had to focus on theory. Adrenaline makes me shaky, and the cold pizza sits like a rock in my stomach. I can’t get away to my room fast enough.
As a peace offering, my parents agreed to bring my old furniture even though it wasn’t necessary since the house is brimming with antiques we could use. In here, it looks small, plain, and out of place. I wish I’d just let them keep the antiques, which had been moved to another, vacant room: a beautiful, massive mahogany dresser, an elegant little desk I now know is called an escritoire, a wardrobe, and, of course, the big canopy bed. They did keep the original artwork where it was, though, because, when they lifted the biggest painting, it turned out to be covering an ugly stain on the wall. Another Isabella, of course, her hair flowing, her eyes downcast, her delicately painted white hand holding an equally white rose.
I often find myself staring at it with a feeling of wistfulness. Sure, the lady lived before lip injections, Tarte highlighter, and camera filters, but, even without all these things, I’ve got to give her credit: she was kind of beautiful. They say art says as much about the artist as it does about the subject, and, in this case, I think the artist must have had a big crush on her, at the very least.
Nobody ever looks at me this way, that’s for sure.
I go to the window and gaze out. There’s a lone lamp on the rent-a-fence the workers left, casting its weak light on what used to be the courtyard. I imagine Isabella Granger with that flowing hair, dressed in some elegant gown and gloves, coming downstairs to have dinner with her circle of admirers, basking in their attention, in their admiration, in their love. She wouldn’t have had to compete with literally everyone on the planet, who all have social media accounts; she could be secure in the knowledge that, at least as far as her coterie was aware, she was unique.
I have to check myself. It’s kind of dumb to be jealous of some woman who died a hundred years ago. But the picture my imagination drew has momentarily became real, and I have a hard time getting rid of it.
Something moves in the corner of my eye.
My heart gives a leap, and I lean toward the window so abruptly that my forehead connects with the glass. Ouch. But, this time, it’s not a reflection or a trick of the light. I saw something. Something moved down in the courtyard—a shadow, a silhouette, a wolf?—that darted at the very perimeter of the light to vanish again in the darkness.
Six
The next day at school, there’s no need to find Alexa because Alexa finds me. Too easily, in my opinion. It’s almost like she’s been waiting for me inside the main entrance, because, as soon as I step over the threshold, there she is.
Still, it’s kind of nice to see her. Not just because, for now, she’s the only familiar face in the entire school, but because she’s the only one who seems to be friendly and normal.
“I found you on Instagram,” Alexa says. “I’m kind of dabbling in photography myself. If only I had a better camera—it’s just my stupid phone for now. Can’t do much with that.”
I nod. Taylor doesn’t think phone photography counts as true art and believes phones ruined the whole thing. But I wisely decide not to say so to my new friend.
“You can see my stuff on my account,” Alexa says. “I followed you.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t see. There are…some problems with the internet at our new place.”
Alexa’s eyes light up. “At the house,” she says.
I nod. Well yeah, I live in a house, not in the dumpster out back.
She’s looking at me like a hungry puppy at a bowl of kibble. “I can’t believe you get to live there.”
So that’s why she’s following me, I think with a tinge of disappointment. Not because I’m so appealing and charismatic, but because of the house.
“It’s a very beautiful house,” I say airily. “So much more beautiful than the place we used to live in. And it has all these antiques.”
“And the artwork. Can you believe it? It’s stood like that for, what, half a century, with the doors practically open? And no one has stolen a thing, even though it all just sat there under a tarp.”
“Well, that sure wouldn’t happen in New York,” I say with a laugh that comes out a bit forced.
It turns out we have first period together, history, so we walk to class side by side.
“The woman who lived there was a legend,” Alexa says. “This gorgeous socialite and artist’s muse. I can’t believe the college would just let the house stand empty like that for years.”
“They tried to renovate some years back,” I reply. “But they ran out of money or something. My mom and the college builder guy told me.”
I follow Alexa as we take seats next to each other in the second-to-last row. Finally, someone to sit with.
“I wonder if her clothes are still in that house,” Alexa goes on, although she lowers her voice a little. “And her jewelry. Imagine what a photo shoot you could do!”
To be honest, that’s the farthest thing from my mind. Working internet would be a nice start. But I can’t help but think that, if Isabella’s things are really still in the house, they must be in that locked room on the fourth floor.
The teacher arrives, cutting our conversation short. But, when I try to take advantage of the better cell signal to check my notifications, Mr. Delgado notices and confiscates my phone for the duration of the class. Brilliant.
Left to my own devices—or without them, as it were—I let my daydreams float back to Isabella Granger. I rebuild the earlier scene in my mind: a sitting room, soft piano music, Isabella reclining on an antique fainting couch (for some reason, it’s specifically a fainting couch) making scintillating conversation with a handsome young artist who’s dressed like Colin Firth in the Pride and Prejudice adaptation but has the face of my middle-school crush. I’m just going over details of her dress and her jewelry when the bell rings.
Looking down, I see the notebook in front of me doesn’t contain a single line of notes. Instead, there’s a sketch, very rough, like I drew without looking at the paper: the side of a face, eyelashes over a downcast gaze, a hand and a rose. Just like the painting in my room.
And, right below that, an ornate number 6 drawn with a complexity I couldn’t imagine coming from my own untrained hand.
* * *
<
br /> I’m not the only one who notices the other Isabella. That evening, taking advantage of a rare moment of five-bar signal, I Skype Eve. Eve takes a while to answer, but, finally, her grinning face splashes across my screen.
“Hey, girl! I thought you’d forgotten about me.”
I grin wistfully. Like, what could be so exciting out here that I’d forget my actual life? They all feel sorry for you, a thought flits through my mind. Where’d that come from?
“You didn’t message me yesterday,” Eve says. “I’m a little hurt.”
“Shitty signal,” I grumble.
“I’m starting to think that’s an excuse.”
“The new school is nuts,” I say, ignoring the comment. “Can you believe it? They confiscated my phone this morning. I mean—hello, 1980 called. Everyone has a phone; they should just cope.”
“That sucks,” says Eve. “By the way, guess what happened…”
“I miss you guys so much,” I rant on. “Everyone here is a weirdo. They dress like extras on Clueless and, believe it or not, there’s a dress code.”
“That’s so sexist.”
“Totally! And the drama class here still does Shakespeare…straight up unironically. I feel like I’ve fallen through a time warp, but not the fun kind. The crappy kind that goes right back to sixth grade.”
“Well, on our end—”
“The only person who deigns to talk to me is this weird goth chick. Nothing against that. If anything, she’s the only one with any sense of style, but she’s a little intense. And apparently—”
“Hey,” says Eve out of nowhere. “Who’s the chick on the wall there?”
“Huh?” I managed to forget where I am. I check over my shoulder and, sure enough, the portrait is right behind me, visible to the webcam. “Oh. Her.”