Chapter 4
The key was still cold against my fingertip when Dad folded my hand into his and closed his fist around it. I hadn't realized I was still kneeling on the polished floor until he lifted me. My white tights had a faint gray smudge on the knee from where I'd been sitting beside the overturned dark wooden chair. My dress, with its beaded neckline and pink bow, had ridden up a little and Dad smoothed it back down without making a big deal about it.
Behind us, the dining room was too quiet. I could hear the crystal chandelier ticking faintly as it cooled. The table was still set — white flowers in the middle, wine glasses half full, napkins folded — like nothing had happened, except my small plate was still on the floor where it had fallen and the chair was still on its side.
Stepmother hadn't moved from where she stood behind Dad's hand. When he lifted the key, her face had gone out of focus, but I could see her mouth still open. She wasn't crying anymore. She was watching Dad's pocket.
Dad zipped the ornate silver key into the inside pocket of his navy jacket. The zipper sound was loud. He kept his hand there for a second, over his chest, like he was making sure it was safe.
"Up," he whispered to me, and I stood. My legs felt wobbly. He kept one arm around my shoulders. With his other hand he pulled the brown leather briefcase upright and clicked its brass clasp shut. He didn't pick it up yet.
"That hallway," he said, turning me slightly so we both faced the opening that led away from the dining room. "You remember what Grandma called it?"
I nodded. My throat was dry. "The sleeping wing."
Grandma Hayes had lived in this mansion before any of us. For the last year before she died, she had closed off the east wing. She said the rooms needed to rest. She kept the dark double doors at the end of that hallway locked even when nurses and housekeepers came and went. I'd only ever seen that hallway from the doorway — the wainscoting continuing on, the glossy floor reflecting the light differently than the dining room. The light there was always cooler, bluish and dim, even in the afternoon, because the windows were covered.
Stepmother took a step forward. Her blue eyes darted from the hallway to Dad's jacket pocket.
"David," she said. Her voice was very small. "Please. Not tonight. She was sick at the end. She didn't know what she was —"
Dad cut her off, not loud, just firm. "She knew exactly what she was doing. That document was signed two months before she passed. My mother was clear-eyed to the last week."
He looked down at me. "Lily, have you ever been past those doors?"
I shook my head. "Grandma said I had to wait until she invited me. But she never did."
"She invited you the other way," Dad said. He tapped his pocket where the key was. Our eyes both went back to the dark double doors at the end of the hall. From the dining room they looked darker than any other doors in the house, their polish reflecting the blue-tinted light like still water.
Stepmother tried again. "That wing hasn't been aired in months. There's dust, maybe mold. It's not safe for a child."
That was when Dad finally looked at her directly. "My daughter sat on the floor for supper tonight. Don't tell me about safe."
She flinched. I felt his arm tighten around me.
An older man who'd been seated at the table — I think he was Grandma's friend Mr. Alton — cleared his throat and stood slowly. "David, perhaps the child should —"
"She stays with me," Dad said. He picked up the briefcase with his free hand. Its leather creaked. "We're done eating here tonight. Lily, you're coming with me to the kitchen. We're going to get you a real plate."
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He guided me forward, away from the overturned chair and the food on the floor. As we passed the bright double entry doors where he had come in, the warm golden light from the chandelier gave way to the cooler air near the hallway entrance. I glanced back once. Stepmother was still standing there, her long reddish-brown hair falling forward, staring at the hallway as if she could will those dark doors to stay shut by looking at them.
We didn't open them that night. But as we left the dining room, I could feel the weight of the key in Dad's pocket against my shoulder, and I knew the hallway was no longer just a hallway. It was a question we would have to answer together.
