She pauses, then looks at me and then at Finn.

“You’ve suffered a loss, but life goes on. You will learn to go on, as well.”

She looks away from us, directing her attention to a paper on her desk. “Sabine!” she calls, without looking up.

Apparently, we’ve been dismissed.

Sabine re-enters and we quickly follow her, jumping at the chance to leave this distasteful woman.

“Well, she’s pleasant,” I mutter.

Dare’s lip tilts.

“She’s not my favorite.”

Understatement.

We share a moment, a warm moment, but I shove it away.

I can’t.

I can’t.

Sabine stops in front of double wooden doors.

“This was your mother’s suite,” Sabine tells me. “It’s yours now. Finn’s is across the hall. Dare’s room is across the house.” After she says that, she waits, as if she’s expecting a reaction from me. When she doesn’t get one, she continues. “Dinner will be at seven in the dining room. Be prompt. You should rest now.”

She turns and walks away, shuffling down the hall on tiny feet. Finn ducks into his room, and Dare stares at me, tall and slender.

“Do you want me to stay with you?”

“No.” My answer is immediate and harsh.

He’s startled and he pulls away a bit, staring down at me.

“I just… I need to be alone,” I add.

I’m not strong enough to resist you yet.

Disappointment gleams in his eyes, but to his credit, he doesn’t press me. He swallows his hurt and nods.

“Ok. I’m wiped out, so I’m going to take a nap before dinner. I suggest you do the same. You must be tired.”

I nod because he’s right, I’m utterly exhausted. He’s gone, and I’m left alone in the long quiet hallway.

I take a step toward my bedroom, then another, but for the life of me, I can’t seem to turn the doorknob. Something settles around me, dread, I think, and I just can’t do it.

The look on Eleanor’s face emerges in my head, the way she was examining me, and I can’t breathe. Something crushes me, that dark thing that I felt in the driveway. It feels like it’s here, pushing on me, lapping at me.

I know it doesn’t make any sense.

Something pulls me.

It pulls me right into my mother’s old rooms.

And there, I sit, surrounded by her memories.

Chapter Twenty-Three

My mother’s rooms are as lavish as the rest of the house. There are no childhood posters taped to the walls here, no teenage heart-throbs, no pink phones or plush pillows.

The suite is carefully decorated, with heavy off-white furniture and sage green walls. The bed is massive, covered in thick blankets, all sage green, all soothing.

But it’s not the room of a child, or a teenager, or even a young woman.

It lacks youthful energy.

But I still feel her here.

Somehow.

Sinking onto the bed, I find that I’m surrounded by windows.

All along one wall, they stretch from floor to ceiling. They let in the dying evening light, and I feel exposed. Getting to my feet, I pull the drapes closed.

I feel a little safer now, but not much.

My suitcases are stacked inside the door, and so I set about unpacking. I put my sweaters away, my toiletries in the fancy bathroom, and while I’m standing on the marble tiles, I envision my mother here.

She loved a good bath, and this bathtub is fit for a queen.

I imagine her soaking here, reading a good book, and my eyes well up.

She’s gone.

I know that.

I pull open the closet doors, and for a moment, a very brief moment, I swear I catch a whiff of her perfume.

She’s worn the same scent for as long as I’ve known her.

There are shelves in this walk-in closet, and on one, I see a bottle of Chanel.

Her scent.

I clutch it to me, and inhale it, and it brings a firestorm of memories down on my head. Of my mother laughing, of her baking cookies, of her grinning at me over the top of her book.

With burning eyes, I put the bottle back.

This isn’t helping anything.

I hang my shirts and my sweaters.

There’s a knock on the door, and Sabine comes in with a tray. A teapot and a cup.

“I brought you some tea,” she tells me quietly, setting it on a table. “It’ll perk you up. Traveling is hard on a person.”

Losing their entire life is hard on a person.

But of course I don’t say that.

I just smile and say thank you.

She pours me a cup and hands it to me.

“This will help you rest. It’s calming.”

I sip at it, and Sabine turns around, surveying my empty bags.

“I see you’ve already unpacked. These rooms haven’t been changed since your mother left.”

I hold my cup in my lap, warming my fingers because the chill from the English evening has left them cold.

“Why did my mother leave?” I ask, because she’s never said. She’s never said anything about her childhood home.

Sabine pauses, and when she looks at me, she’s looking into my soul again, rooting around with wrinkled fingers.

“She left because she had to,” Sabine says simply. “Whitley couldn’t hold her.”

It’s an answer that’s not an answer.

I should’ve expected no less.

Sabine sits next to me, patting my leg.

“I’ll fatten you up a bit here,” she tells me. “You’re too skinny, like your mama. You’ll rest and you’ll… see things for what they are.”

“And how is that?” I ask tiredly, and suddenly I’m so very exhausted.

Sabine looks at my face and clucks.

“Child, you need to rest. You’re fading away in front of my eyes. Come now. Lie down.”

She settles me onto the bed, pulling a blanket up to my chin.

“Dinner is at seven,” she reminds me before she leaves. “Sleep until then.”

I try.

I really do.

I close my eyes.

I relax my arms and my legs and my muscles.

But sleep won’t come.

Eventually, I give up, and I open the drapes and look outside.

The evening is quiet, the sky is dark. It gets dark so early here.

The trees rustle in the breeze, and the wind is wet. It’s cold. It’s chilling. I can feel it even through the windows and I rub at my arms.

That’s when I get goose-bumps.

They lift the hair on my neck,

And the stars seem to mock me.

Turning my back on them, I cross the room and pull a book from a shelf.

Jane Eyre.

Fitting, given Whitley and the moors and the rain.

I open the cover and find a penned inscription.

To Calla. May you always have the courage to live free, and the strength to do what is right.

The ink is fading, and I run my fingertips across it.

A message to me? It’s almost like my mother knew I would be here, and she left this very book for me on these very shelves in this very room.

I slip into a seat with it, pulling open the pages, my eyes trying to devour the words my mother once read.

But I’ve only gotten to the part where Jane proclaims that she hates long walks on cold afternoons when I hear something.

I feel something.

I feel a growl in my bones.

It’s low and threatening, and it vibrates my ribs.

I startle upright, looking around, but of course, I’m still alone.

But the growl happens again, low and long.

My breath hitches and the book hits the floor, the pages fluttering on the rug.

A sudden panic overtakes me, rapid and hot.

I have to get out.

I don’t know why.

It’s a feeling I have in my heart, something that drives me from my mother’s rooms out into the hall, because something is chasing me.

I feel it on my heels.

I feel it breathing down my neck.