Moonlight shines through the large recessed window, gleaming off the polished surface of a grand piano. On the opposite side of the room stands a tall, ebony harp with silver inlays. In between is a Persian rug, a settee, a pair of Victorianarm chairs, and a claw-footed coffee table. A gilded mirror hangs above the fireplace, reflecting the soft glow of lamplight near a fainting couch. Dark paneling, damask wallpaper, and medieval tapestries pull everything together, making the room as gothic and elegant as the rest of the home.
Simon’s Bible sits on the coffee table. Along with the pocket compass. Next to it, a silver tray with a steel thermos, a bowl of sugar cubes, a mini pitcher of cream, and two porcelain mugs.
“You made coffee?”
“I figured you might need some.”
“You figured right,” I say, sitting on the settee.
Jude sits, too, and pours me a cup. I say yes to cream and sugar, then take the mug between my palms, glad for its warmth. Once he has his own—no cream, no sugar—I reach inside the pocket of my puffer vest and take out the skeleton key.
I open the Bible and just as we suspected, the key slides into place—a perfect fit.
I try to make sense of the items. My mother had the key, which she must have gotten from Simon. Simon had the Bible, which he hid under his floorboard. And the compass came from Enoch’s trunk. Three pieces of the same puzzle, only they don’t form a clear image.
“I went to the graveyard,” Jude says.
I look up at him.
“You were right. Ezra’s grave was disturbed.”
His words are alarming.
Unsettling.
Certainly worth discussing.
But my brain can only hold so many disquieting things at once, especially when it’s this tired. I take a few sips of coffee. It’s smooth and decadent, perhaps the best coffee I’ve ever had. Outside, birdsong begins—a few isolated chirps as the dark indigo sky gives way to a dusky gray.
I set the mug on the table. “I showed my dad the picture.”
“What did he say?”
“He didn’t know she lived here.”
He looks skeptical.
“I believe him.”
His skepticism grows.
It annoys the crap out of me. “And no, I don’t think it was a coincidence. Obviously something supernatural is at play here, which isn’t a shock. I never believed the Vandenberg cold case was a typical crime. I’ve never believed this town was a typical town. Now we have proof. Simon and my mother traveled through some sort of portal. Ezra painted a portrait of me. And I’m reliving past events in my sleep.”
“They could just be dreams.”
I look at him disbelievingly.
“Dreams don’t always have to mean something,” he insists.
My disbelief expands into incredulity. How can he think my dreams are just dreams? “Jude.”
But he’s agitated.
Visibly agitated.
A muscle in his jaw tick, tick, ticks away.
I could ask him why, access my curiosity. Instead, I double down. “All last night, I kept thinking, how could my mom have been here before me? But she wasn’t here before me. I was here first. In the freaking eighteenth century, somehow a figment of Ezra Vandenberg’s obsession. Then my mom showed up, and Simon just happened to run into her at the library? He and his family vanish. My mom’s sent away, only to disappear years later, but first she leaves me this?”
