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With infinite care, Scarlett set the two items down on a clean spot on the floor and went back up on her knees, peering once again into the trunk and pulling out what appeared to be old photos, each encased in a thick paper frame. The first one was of a man in his mid-fifties with silver hair and distinctive sideburns. He sat looking to the side, his mouth set, expression stern. Scarlett pulled the photograph from its covering and turned it over. H. Bancroft was printed in the bottom right corner. Hubert Bancroft. Scarlett turned it right side up and stared at the man for a moment, thinking about the things she knew about him, the evil deeds he’d performed, the lives he’d ruined. She turned the picture back over and returned it, face down this time, to its frame.
The next few photographs were of Lilith House in various stages of construction. Scarlett looked through these with interest, noting the things that were different about the house in its infancy, and the things that remained unchanged.
Under those was a photograph that looked just as old as the original Lilith House photos. It was of five figures dressed in what looked like ancient war garb. A deep shiver went down Scarlett’s spine. One of the figures wore a horned headdress, two held long, sharp spears, another was dressed entirely in furs, a mask that looked like a pointy bird beak covering his face. Could this be a picture of the man Camden had mentioned to her? The one who had donned an outfit just like this before he died, and now supposedly wandered the woods beyond?
She set it aside, but paused for a moment, waiting for the deeply unsettled feeling to pass before moving on.
The next photograph was of a group of men, all wearing similar white suits standing in front of Lilith House, a photograph she’d seen before hanging on the wall of Sister Madge’s office. She studied it close up now, looking at the men who stood shoulder to shoulder, one more austere than the next.
She removed the photo from its frame and looked at the back. Religious Guild, was written in the corner in the same handwriting as had been used to identify Hubert Bancroft on the back of his photograph. She turned it back over, her eyes moving from one face to the next. Hubert Bancroft was in the center. She recognized his stern expression and those notable sideburns. Something skittled under her skin, racing up her spine. Were the rest of them the men in Bancroft’s ministry? The ones who’d joined him in brutalizing and murdering the natives? She was tempted to use her fingernail to scratch Xs over each of their villainous faces.
Still, as with Hubert Bancroft’s photo, Scarlett turned it over and placed it face down in its frame.
The last photo was again of a group of men, all in white suits, standing in front of Lilith House. Only this photo was much more recent.
The sons of Farrow. They’ve held the moral line for centuries.
Scarlett frowned, looking closer. She didn’t recognize any of the men except one, the sheriff, though he looked about fifteen years younger. She turned the photo over but no information was written on the back, not even a date. She flipped it again. This must be a more recent photo of the Farrow Religious Guild. But if so, why were they standing in front of Lilith House? If the photo was fifteen years old or so, then Lilith House had been a reform school. What did these men have to do with that? For some reason—most likely because of the photo that had been hung directly next to the picture of the original Religious Guild in Sister Madge’s office—the old nun’s words about fallen women came back to her.
I like this depiction, because she’s seeking atonement by reaching for the blessing of a righteous man. So many do not, you know. Atone.
Was that what they’d been at Lilith House to offer? Some form of atonement? A religious ceremony wherein the girls might absolve themselves of their sins? And how exactly did that work? These were not prophets, nor deities. They were just men who’d joined some church group. How exactly were they qualified to offer atonement to anyone?
After a moment, she set the photos on the floor and knelt forward again, peering into the trunk once more. She removed one book, then another until she got to the musty, fabric-lined bottom. Nothing else remained.
Frowning, Scarlett glanced around at the books. Whose had they been? Who had been the keeper of Taluta’s and Narcisa’s stories? Who had obtained the old photos of Hubert Bancroft, Lilith House, and different generations of the Religious Guild? It all seemed . . . connected in some way she didn’t have enough information to understand. She hesitated a moment and then began placing the books back in the trunk. When she got to the Bible, she paused, opening it again and flipping to the back. Still no name. No information about who had once owned it.
