The corridor splits into two here. I turn right, and at the next split, another right. It’s like a maze.
At the very end of this tunnel is the room I seek. It’s the only one with a door. I peer in through the small, barred window and push it open, careful to push the door stop into its hole in the ground so it doesn’t close. There’s no way to open the door from the inside. Makes me wonder what they used it for.
From my pocket I retrieve my lighter and light the candles along the jutting stones of the walls that I use as shelves. I switch off the flashlight on my phone and put it away. After walking around the room to light every candle, I sit down on the edge of the cot.
It was me who took her sketchbook. It was one of her first.
And here they are, all those drawings, black and white, the corners curling from the humidity down here, some too wet from the wall they’re stuck to. I sit, and I drink my whiskey and look at them, that night sketched from every angle.
Funny how some minds work.
These sketches, they’re like peering into her head. A glimpse where I’m not allowed.
It’s how she saw that night, the night of the reaping. How she saw the scene that she was forced to be a part of, that lasted mere minutes and that changed everything.
And me looking at these drawings, it feels like I’m spying.
She memorized all the details. Even our faces. Although those aren’t quite right. Ethan is a blur. Sebastian looks like Satan. Me, I look like myself, sort of, but she’s missing something.
I swallow a little more of the whiskey, get up. Go to one of the sketches and take the stub of charcoal from the shelf below. I fix the details of our faces. Add shadow to the corners of the library. Because that’s where the ghosts of the dead Willow Girls lurked in their house.
Her focus that night, it would have been on my brother.
On him and Helena.
I’m surprised at the detail of my face.
I look at the sketch where Sebastian’s lifted Helena’s shift. I added color to that one. It’s one of only two with color in any of these sketches. A smear of red. The marking. I wonder if it was that that drew my brother.
But I would have chosen Helena too then. She was the one who stood out.
Maybe her parents did that on purpose. Binding her like they did. Gagging her. Maybe it was to safeguard their golden daughters and give up the one they loved least.
No.
I don’t know if they loved her less than the others.
I don’t know if they loved any of them at all. Because if they did, how could they have put them on those blocks?
I sit back down smudging charcoal on the label of the whiskey bottle as I pick it up. The liquid burns its way down my throat. I rub my eyes. I’m tired. I should sleep.
What happened up there, at the end, I didn’t expect that. That quiet, desperate sobbing.
And even though I think I understand her, at least in some way, that part confused me.
I know what I said is right. Hell, she confirmed it with just the look on her face. With the reaction of her body.
I bring my fingers to my nose. The faintest scent of her lingers and I inhale deeply, finding it hard to swallow.
She’s different than I thought she would be.
In the time I’ve been watching her, she’s been different than what I expected.
I figured it was her dealing with the knowledge that her parents betrayed her. Betrayed all of the sisters, really. Her mother, who’d survived a reaping herself, who’d witnessed what the Willow Girl legacy did to her own sister, still put her daughters on those blocks.
I can see how that would fuck with you.
But when I went into her apartment and found those sketches, I saw something different. Felt it.
Longing.
It’s what I can’t get out of my head.
It’s what I feel when I see these sketches.
It’s what draws me to her.
Binds me to her.
And that sobbing. Her leaning into me. Almost taking shelter in me.
Me.
I drink a long swallow of whiskey, study the pictures that surround me, and all I can think is that she’s fucked up.
As fucked up as me.
8
Amelia
When I wake up, it’s to that orange glow coming in from the windows. I never closed the curtains.
I look to the other side of the bed, but it’s empty. And it hasn’t been slept in. The bathroom door is open, and the light is out. Same with the closet. I’m alone.
After he left me on the stairs, I locked myself in the bathroom for a while. I thought he’d come back. Honestly, I wasn’t sure if I wanted him to or not.
I took a shower, put my same clothes back on because the only thing I have in my backpack are those sketch books. I don’t think he brought the duffel bag. But I guess he had his hands full with me and my backpack after he knocked me out.
My headache has dulled although it’s not gone completely and I’m so hungry, my stomach hurts. I get up, feeling sticky. Sleeping in a sweater and jeans wasn’t the smartest thing but the alternative was my underwear and since I’m sleeping in his bed, I’m not doing that.
I go to the window, watch the sunrise. It’s beautiful. I never really took time to watch it before. It must be freezing out because snow still coats every branch and where the rising sun hits, ice crystals sparkle like diamonds.
In the bathroom, I wash my face, brush my teeth and hair. My reflection still surprises me, the dark so different to the blonde I’m used to. If I’d had more time, I’d have gone to a hairdresser and done it properly. Well, if I had time and money. The latter is how I got into this mess with Charlie and Madam Liona.
I’d met Charlie a few days after arriving in Philadelphia. He’d introduced himself to me and handed me a business card for his modeling agency. He’d told me I had the look they were searching for and like the dummy I am, I fell for it hook, line and sinker.
I never did have any modeling jobs, but Charlie told me he’d set me up in the apartment. That it belonged to a friend and that I could pay her back when I got paid. He bought me clothes. A phone. Gave me some cash.
Talk about the perfect scam.
Not to mention the perfect fool.
It’s cliché, really. A young, naïve girl from the Midwest gets to the big city on her own and immediately falls victim to a con man.
But did Gregory save me or did I jump out of the frying pan and into the fire?
I think about what he said. Did I want to be the Willow Girl? Did I want Sebastian to have chosen me?
These are the questions I’ve been avoiding outright asking myself for months. And he saw it in a matter of hours. He read me like a book.
When I return to the bedroom, I hear a quiet knock on the door. I know instantly it’s not Gregory because I am sure he would never knock and if he did, it wouldn’t be so soft.
I go to it, open it.
The woman I met yesterday is standing outside. She’s holding a tray with coffee and slices of steaming bread with butter, jam and a plate of cheeses.
“You haven’t eaten,” she says with a warm, concerned smile. Her accent is pretty.
My mouth waters at the scent of coffee and freshly baked bread.
I look beyond her, almost expecting him.
“He’s gone,” she says. She gestures as if asking if she can come inside.
I move aside. “Thank you,” I say, and I feel like I want to cry at this kindness.
She sets the tray down on a table in the corner.
“Do you know where he is?”
She shakes her head.
“Or when he’ll be back?” God, I sound pathetic.
“No.”
She leaves and closes the door and I pour myself a cup of coffee with a generous serving of cream. The first sip is heaven and I sit down to butter the bread and I eat every bite.
When I’ve emptied the carafe of coffee an
d only crumbs remain of the food, I get up, take the tray, steel my spine and walk out the door.
First thing I do is find the kitchen to return the tray. The woman takes it from me, and I thank her again before going inside. I’m cautious at first, but pretty soon, I know he’s not lurking around some corner somewhere, waiting to pounce.
I spend the morning looking into various rooms of the house, peering down hallways that are under construction. No one is working on the house today. I guess the weather is keeping them all away.
The second floor is the closest to being finished with only two rooms still sealed off. I take the stairs to the third floor, taking care as some of the stone has crumbled. But when I reach the landing, it’s almost pitch-black and each of the three doors are boarded up.
And, quite frankly, it’s creepy up here, so I make my way back downstairs.
On the main floor are the grand foyer, the living and dining rooms, kitchen, a locked room and a library.
The library is in the middle of construction and it’s chilly in here. The windows must be original. They’re stained glass and as beautiful as they are, they do nothing to keep the cold out.
I hug my arms to myself and make my way around the room. The style in here is more gothic than the rest of the house, darker and seeming older. I wonder if he’ll try to keep it looking like this.
There’s an ancient looking armchair that’s so worn, there’s a rip in the faded leather of the seat. I touch a spot where the brass buttons are missing as I make my way around some of the construction materials to get to the bookshelves.
I scan the books. They’re dusty, like they were left here ages ago. I wonder about the history of the house.
A flutter draws my attention and I look up at the ceiling. This one, like the one in the foyer, is frescoed. Beautiful flowers create a sort of garden in shades of sky-blue, green, magenta and yellow. It’s so pretty, I turn a circle to look at it when I see the flutter again.
It makes me jump because it’s a bird. It must have gotten trapped inside while the workers were here.
It flies across the ceiling again. I recognize the type of bird. A robin. It makes me smile because I see robins everywhere I go. But this one, she’s obviously in distress. I wonder how long she’s been locked up in here.
I inspect the windows more closely and try to pull on the lever to open it, but it’s either stuck or sealed so I stop. Looking up higher, there’s a break in the glass big enough for the bird to have flown through. Which explains the puddle of water on the floor where the wind blows snow in.
The armchair is too heavy to move, but I see an old table covered in inches of dust in the far corner. Picking my way around the debris on the floor, I get to it, distracted by the shelves of books, like a maze, the room bigger than it appeared when I first entered.
I sneeze when I clear off the dust and test that it’s sturdy enough to take my weight before carrying it to the window. It’s low enough for me to climb on and if I stand on it, I should be able to reach the hole in the window, but I’ll have to catch the bird first.
She’s perched on a high shelf watching me. I’ll need to coax her down.
Taking care to close the door quietly behind me, I head back into the hallway and to the warmer part of the house. Irina is cooking something and smiles at me, watches me slice off a piece of the same bread I ate earlier. She doesn’t ask any questions as I take a bite of it and walk back out.
I return to the library and the bird is still in the same place. I whistle softly and make crumbs of the bread, setting most of them on a shelf and stepping away. When I’m far enough, the bird flies down and starts to pick at the food. Poor thing must have been starving.
As quietly as I can, I approach her and I’m sure she’s going to fly away, but she doesn’t. Instead, she stops eating and looks at me for a moment before returning her attention to the crumbs.
I reach out, my palms open. She sees the crumbs in my hand and hops on to peck at them, her little beak sharp, like a pin prick. When I close my other hand around her back, she chirps, flaps her wings.
“Shh. It’s okay,” I tell her as I carry her to the window.
Getting on the table is harder without being able to hold on to something but I manage it and a moment later, I push my hands through the broken glass and set the bird free. The last of the bread crumbs fall from my hand as I watch it go. When I go to pull my hands in, I’m not as careful and wince as the sharp glass cuts the back of my hand.
Blood slides over my skin, a deep, dark red. It doesn’t hurt, but I stand there momentarily mesmerized, holding my arm up, watching it trail over my thumb and to my wrist. Only when it drops to the floor do I wipe it away and climb back down.
I find a roll of paper towels probably left by the construction crew and hold a sheet over my hand as I return to the back of the library, to the maze of shelves, running my fingers over the spines of the books, looking at the binding, mostly leather, taking a few out and reading the publication dates, late 1800s or very early 1900s.
I wonder if he’ll keep the books. I hope he will. Maybe he’ll let me clean them, dust them off, organize them. Some are too old and in too poor shape to be salvaged but many are fine.
Most of the shelves are neat, even for the dust, but when I get to the end of one, there’s a stack of folders and notebooks. I pick through the stack and find the original plans of the house, looking at notes in the margins, unable to understand most as they’re in Italian.
In one of the notebooks, someone’s sketched various rooms, interiors and exteriors, even the gardens. It’s fascinating, and when I get to the two faded photographs of the house and the family posed in front of it, my curiosity gets the better of me.
It’s a couple and their little girl, the man and woman smiling, their daughter beaming. The mom has her hands on her little girl’s shoulders, and it looks like she’s about to run after her puppy who is a blur.
I walk it to the window for better light and wipe it clean of dust and peer more closely at their faces. The man is bearded and looks to be in his forties. He has dark hair and is wearing a formal wool suit. From the foliage, it must be fall.
His wife—I assume it’s his wife—is beautiful. She looks quite a bit younger than him and is dressed in a flowing white dress, not as stiff as his suit. Her hair is blonde and her eyes light. The little girl is an exact replica of her mother.
It’s only when I look closer that I see the man has his hands on his wife’s shoulders and that one of them, it appears to almost be wrapped around the back of her neck, like he’s holding on to her, like he’s afraid she’ll run away if he releases her, just like their daughter who is about to sprint after her little puppy.
I also notice that they’re gloved, his hands.
I look more closely at their smiles after noticing this detail and see the tension in his, like it’s forced. Like he doesn’t belong there with them, the woman and the girl too light, too bright because there’s a darkness to him.
A sudden chill makes me shudder and I rub my arms. I return the photograph to its folder but take it and the notebooks to the armchair.
I sit down, slipping off my shoes and tucking my feet underneath me and set them on my lap to begin going through them. The one that captures my attention is from an English paper, the article cut out, the headline sensational.
Count Leonardo de Rossi Cleared of Murder!
Late Saturday night, police released Count Leonardo de Rossi and took him home to Villa de Rossi after weeks of questioning.
When asked to comment, the count’s attorney said it was a terrible crime to hold a man who is clearly grieving for the loss of his family in a prison cell and made sure to point out there was no evidence to link the count to the gruesome murder of his wife and the disappearance of their beautiful daughter.
The detective in charge of the investigation has been removed from the case.
There were few clues at the scene the count discovered upo
n returning from a weekend abroad to find his wife dead, her face badly disfigured, a crime of passion. According to the coroner, she’d been dead for hours when he discovered her on Christmas morning.
Even more eerie is the disappearance of the little girl. Only four years old, one of her shoes was found at the entrance of the catacombs, but a thorough search has led to nothing.
Any hope to find the killer is growing dim as police have exhausted every lead.
The article ends abruptly.
It happened on Christmas. He found her on Christmas morning. The timing makes it even more terrible.
I don’t recognize the name of the publication, but this is so old, they’re probably out of business. Is it a gossip magazine or a reputable paper? Because there’s no doubt the assumption is that the count killed his wife and maybe his daughter?
I leaf through more clippings and come across another one dated almost one year after that article was published. It’s torn but from what I can make out, the newspaper was marking the one-year anniversary of the gruesome crime and the fact that it has never been solved. They also state that the count abandoned the house, a home he’d built for his family, and returned to San Gimignano, the city of his birth.
One more clipping from six years later shows the house in terrible condition with a note that it is for sale.
From the bits and pieces I can make out from the Italian clippings, the count’s wife’s first name was Margot and his daughter was named Belle.
I am more curious than ever.
I rub my eyes and glance to the window to see the sky growing dark. It’s late afternoon.
Sorting the sheets of paper, I replace most of them on their shelf but take the sketchbook of which the second half is still empty and tuck the photograph inside along with the two newspaper articles in English. I check the hallway before slipping out of the library.
Still no sign of Gregory. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.
I’m hungry so I head into the kitchen, Irina points out the table set for one and I sit down. I sip the wine and eat the meal she’s prepared, a homemade pasta with red sauce and a salad.
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