CHAPTER SIX

I return to my room, intent on asking Victor about the painting the moment I see him in the morning. I don't sleep a wink the rest of the night. It's all I can do not to dash to his room that instant and demand to know how he knew my sister.

But I don’t. Victor is mercurial, and I’m not sure yet how far that pendulum swings. He certainly won’t take kindly to being woken by his new governess hysterically asking about the subject of a painting he completed over thirty years ago. Besides, if that was Annie, then it’s certain that she didn’t use her real name. There is precious little family resemblance between us, and what little there is must certainly have vanished after thirty years, so it’s not like he could look at me and know that I’m the sister of a woman whose portrait he painted when he was in his twenties.

As soon as the sun is up, though, I shower and dress hurriedly and rush downstairs. I am the first up, of course, but if I greet Victor with coffee and breakfast, then he might be more amenable to talking.

I nearly run headlong into Evelyn. She starts slightly, then sighs. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that,” she scolds. “Would you like some coffee?”

Apparently, I’m not the first person up. I’d completely forgotten about poor Evelyn. “Oh. Yes, thank you. I’m so sorry. I’m used to being the first person awake.”

She smiles. “Well, you’ll have to work pretty hard to get up before me. I get up before dawn.”

“I don’t think I’ll try to beat you at that.”

She laughs a remarkably pretty sound. "Cream or sugar?"

“Just cream, thank you.” I often take my coffee black, but the cream will help it go down faster, and I must speak to Victor as soon as I can. To that end, I ask, “When does Victor usually wake?”

“He’s probably awake now,” she said. “He’s usually in his studio by five in the morning.”

I look at the clock on the kitchen wall. The time is six-fifteen. My heart sinks. If he’s in his studio, he’ll be in no mood to talk to me about an old painting. Perhaps Evelyn knows something.

I take the coffee and risk asking. "I found a painting last night in the basement. There's a woman in the painting: tall, with blonde hair and blue eyes. Do you perhaps know who she is?"

Evelyn shrugs. “Probably an old crush. I don’t know, though. I’ve never seen a woman like that here. Victor doesn’t date much anymore, but when he does, he goes for dark hair.”

I think of Celeste’s raven-black locks and decide that makes sense. She certainly couldn’t have gotten that from Annie.

That, and she’s twelve years too young to be Annie’s daughter. I need to get myself under control.

“Well, I suppose I’ll ask him later.”

“Just don’t interrupt him in his studio,” Evelyn warns. “He doesn’t like that.”

“Yes, I’ve learned that the hard way.”

“Ah. I’m sorry. He’s normally a very sweet man, but he gets weird about his art. I guess that’s normal with painters.”

“I imagine so.” I sip my coffee and ask, “How long have you worked for him?”

“Four years. He hired me after his last housekeeper retired.”

“She vanished?” I probe.

Evelyn frowns. “Huh?”

“Never mind. How have you enjoyed working for him?”

She shrugs. “He pays well, and he stays out of my way. I like when people let me do my job.”

“And do you get on well with Celeste?”

She smiles sadly. “Celeste is a very sad girl. I think you can see that. It’s hard to grow up without a mother.”

“Her mother’s dead, then?”

Evelyn nods. “Passed away when Celeste was six years old. Pneumonia, I’m told.”

“How sad.”

“Yes. It’s too bad Victor’s never remarried. A girl should have a mother.”

“Well, she has you,” I say. “And now me.”

“Yes. But it’s not the same. I have my own family at home to care for, and she is seventeen now. You can help her, but she’s nearly grown. At this age, it will be hard for her to grow past the suffering she’s endured.”

“Has she suffered a lot?”

“I can only think so. It’s hard to grow up without a mother.”

I don’t think I’ll learn anything more from Evelyn, so I turn the conversation to more mundane subjects. I learn that she works here from six in the morning until seven in the afternoon on weekdays. She takes the weekends off as well as three weeks’ vacation during the winter so she can be with her family during the holidays. She is a polite and kind woman, but it’s clear that she values the ability to keep a professional distance from Victor and Celeste, her sympathy for Celeste notwithstanding. I can understand that, but it makes me feel even more alone here. I can’t count on her as an ally as I seek to uncover the mysteries that shroud this house.

That’s all right. I’ve had a poor track record with allies so far. Only Sean has been…

Sean! I’m such a fool! I need to tell him about the painting!

“Are you all right?” Evelyn asks. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Something like that. “I’ve just remembered something important,” I tell her. “I need to go make a phone call. Thank you for the coffee.”

I rush to my room and step onto the balcony to call Sean. The air is chill, but I ignore the cold and dial his number.

He responds groggily. “Mary. It’s been almost a day and a half. I’d dared to hope that you’d forgotten about me.”

“No such luck,” I reply. “In fact, I’ve discovered that Annie knew Victor.”

“Right. The painting. You’re certain that’s Annie?”

“Who else could it be? You’ve seen it, haven’t you?”

He pauses briefly, then admits, “It certainly looks like her. Have you asked Victor about it?”

“Not yet. Do you think I should?”

“Yes, but don’t mention that she’s your sister. Just see what he says. In the meantime, I’ll look into this and see if I can learn anything. I’ll look into Elias too. There might be a connection there. And Mary?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t do anything stupid.”

I frown. “What do you think I’m going to do?”

“I don’t know, but it’s a bad habit of yours, so I thought I’d say that just in case.”

I’m about to retort when I hear Celeste’s voice. “Mary?”

I close the phone and turn to see her standing outside of her bedroom. I almost ask how long she’s been standing there. For all I know, she’s just heard my entire conversation.

“Celeste! I’m sorry. Did I wake you?”

She shook her head. “I was already awake.”

“Ah. Well…” I look out at the ocean, and an idea comes to me. I smile at Celeste. “How would you like to spend today at the beach instead of in class? There’s no marine layer, and if it’s anything like yesterday, it will be pleasant and warm in a couple of hours.”

Her eyes brighten a little. “I’d love to.”

“Wonderful. I’ll change into my swim clothes and meet you downstairs.”

She nods, and I even see a little smile on her face as she returns to her room. I feel a touch of triumph. I might be too late to be a mother figure to her, but I can still give her the care and support she needs.

And perhaps when she is separated a little from the stress of this house, she will have answers to some of my questions. Perhaps that’s expecting a lot, but nothing ventured, nothing gained.

When I meet Celeste downstairs fifteen minutes later, I am stunned by the change. It’s as though I’m looking at an entirely different girl.

She is beautiful. She is certainly not ugly when I first meet her, but like many introverted children, she wears baggy clothing and hunches when she sits. Seeing her now, I wonder how she could lack the confidence of a beautiful woman.

It’s not just her appearance that strikes me, though. She stands tall and straight, and her eyes are bright and eager. I wonder how long it’s been since she’s left the house. Clearly, she’s excited to have the opportunity.

She hands me a towel and says, “I’ll go down the path first. You kinda have to watch your step, so just follow me.”

I can’t help but smile at the joy in her voice. She sounds like a young woman and not just a shell. “Lead the way, my princess.”

She giggles and practically bounces through the door to the gate. The path is, as she warns me, steep and slightly treacherous, but I follow her lead and I’m able to avoid the more dangerous portions. The sun is already warming the air, and the breeze is just soft enough to refresh without chilling. It really is a good day to be outside.

I remember her telling me that she didn’t like the ocean. In hindsight, I think it might be her father that doesn’t like the ocean. She’s happier than I’ve ever seen her.

The beach doesn’t reveal itself until we are near the bottom of the path. A staircase—hidden by an outcropping for most of the journey—descends the final twelve feet to a soft white sand beach about thirty yards long and twenty deep. The back ten yards of the cove are sheltered by a smooth limestone outcrop.

“This is beautiful!”

She grins at me. “I call it Fairy Cove. It’s hidden at high tide, but at low tide, it looks like this.”

“It’s wonderful.” I return her grin. “And you said you didn’t like the ocean.”

She blushes bright red, and I’m so glad to see it that I forget about Annie for a moment. These beach outings will have to be a regular thing.

“I want to show you something,” she says.

She sprints toward the water, and old woman though I am, I follow her. The freezing water causes my teeth to chatter almost instantly, but I couldn’t care about that in the slightest. I am witnessing a young girl bloom in front of me, and I will gladly brave the icy waters of the Arctic if I’m called upon to do so.

We wade out about forty feet. The beach slopes very gently, and the water is only at hip height right now. The rocks at the front of the inlet keep the surf mellow, and I’m easily able to keep my balance.

She kneels down and points behind me. “Look.”

I turn around and see sparkling under the water. The sun is behind us now, and the sparkles are soft, but I can easily imagine the fire I would see if the sun was at its opposite point. “How gorgeous! Are those crystals?”

She nods. “Quartz and amethyst. Which I guess is just a different kind of quartz that turns purple because it has iron in it.” She sighs. “It’s so pretty, though. It’s like a buried treasure.”

“A fairy treasure, though, not a pirate treasure.”

She giggles. “Maybe they’re fairy pirates.”

“That would be interesting. Perhaps you should draw a fairy pirate.”

Celeste laughs. “Okay. I’ll draw you one.”

“Mary! Celeste!”

Evelyn’s voice pierces through our happiness and drags us viciously back to the Earth. It’s not her voice itself that does it but the terror in her tone. Celeste and I share a look of alarm, then look back at the beach to see Evelyn wading into the water. She is wearing her pants, shoes and apron.

A chill courses through me. I have seen too much tragedy than to hope that this is some sort of false alarm or minor issue.

We rush back to the beach, thoughts of treasure and fairy pirates vanished from our minds. As we draw closer, I see that Evelyn is crying.

“What is it?” I ask her, “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Victor,” she says. “He’s gone.”