“Were you related to my mother or father?”
Lottie snorted in disdain. “Your mother. You think that I would be related to that criminal imbecile that was your father?”
Flo felt her cheeks heat. “I’m sorry, I don’t really remember.”
Lottie’s hard expression softened. “Yes, I understand that you’re having trouble with your memory since you were cursed.”
She knows?
Or she overheard. Either way, excitement bloomed in Flo’s chest. “Yes, since I was cursed, I don’t recall anything about it. Do you know anything about that moment?”
“I sort of do, but again, I don’t know what transpired in that room where you were cursed. Honestly, until you came out a few years ago, I thought that you were trapped in there forever, or dead.”
The hope Flo was feeling dissipated with Lottie’s admission. “Right. Because none of you can go in that room.”
“Exactly. There’s something about that room that I don’t understand. We try to go in there and we can’t. We’re sucked right back into the main part of the house. It hurts when it happens.”
“It’s the iron. Sven explained it. I guess my father had it built in that room because if he was using it for his speakeasy, he was trying to keep everything out.”
“It was a waste,” Lottie snapped. “It wasn’t in the house while I lived, that’s for sure. I would never use iron in my house. Well, maybe as a decorative piece outside, but never iron inside the house. A fence would be fine.” Lottie was rambling, but Flo didn’t mind.
“I don’t understand why he did it,” Flo said.
“Maybe he knew what he was doing. Your father came from Tallowfield, and I always had my suspicions about him when my great-granddaughter wanted to marry him. If I could’ve put a stop to it, I would have, but I was gone by then, so it’s not like I had a way to stop it.”
“Tallowfield?” Flo asked, intrigued.
“Tallowfield is home to a lot of witches and wizards. Not usually the nicest of them. I suppose if you had asked me back then, while I was alive, I would have said you were silly to believe in the idea of curses and witches. But now, given that my home is overrun with ghouls and occult-loving tourists, and a witch who explodes feather pillows and enchanted appliances, I tend to believe that Tallowfield is full of witches as the old rumors stated.”
“Well, and I suppose, ghosts,” Flo teased.
Lottie smiled indulgently. “Yes. You’re correct. I did not believe in entities.”
“So you remember my disappearance, but you don’t know what happened to me in that room?”
“I’m afraid I don’t. I do know that you’re not a ghost,” Lottie said.
“How do you know for sure?” Flo asked, intrigued.
“You can manifest yourself, and you can touch things. I saw that you were eating.”
“How did you see that I was eating? Nobody was in the kitchen.”
“I was peering through the walls. You’re not the only Turner who can hide in the wall.”
“My surname is Turner?”
“No, it was Hawthorne. Turner was my family name. We built this home. Still, you look like your mother and always had a kind heart. You’re a Turner through and through.”
Joy bloomed deep inside her. The idea she had family. Not just shady gin dealers and tax evaders, but proud people like Lottie.
“So, peering through walls is a family trait?”
“Indeed.” Lottie looked at her softly. “I wish I could tell you more. All I know is your father tried to curse your memories, not transform you and make you invisible.”
“That I do remember. He wanted me to forget Sven.”
“Yes.”
