“I was actually hoping to speak with you,” I say. “About my mother, and her visit five years ago.”
His unruly eyebrows lift.
“I know you’ve already told me about it in a general sense, but I was wondering if you could give me some more specifics.”
He seems to consider briefly, then steps aside—an invitation to escape the cold. He shuts the doors behind us. The sound echoes through the cavernous foyer. “What specifics would you like to know?”
I pull on my earlobe. “Do you remember what you talked about?”
“Simon, mostly. The two were quite close.” He folds his hands behind his back. “I think she was holding on to hope that he might still be alive.”
“What makes you think that?”
“She told me she was having dreams about him.”
“What kind of dreams?”
“She said he was trapped and asking for help.”
The words hit hard.
For a second, I forget how to breathe.
It must show on my face.
Mr. Tulane quickly continues, “It was only natural for her to be haunted by what happened. It was very traumatic. I don’t think it helped that she was sent away so soon afterward. But then, maybe it was a good thing. Perhaps it was better for her, not to be here in the aftermath. Whatever the case, I got the impression she was struggling with guilt. Unfounded, of course. There was nothing she could have done. There was nothing any of us could have done.”
Nothing, except break a curse.
But that couldn’t have happened thirty years ago.
They would have needed Dante’s comet to open the tomb.
And according to Ezra’s revelation, me.
Something creaks above us. I glance from one sweeping staircase to the other, each spiraling outward in a graceful arc before curving back to the upper floor. I slide my hands into the pockets of my coat. “What else did you talk about?”
“She inquired after my health. I asked after hers, and she spoke of you.”
“She talked about me?”
He inclines his head.
“What did she say?”
Mr. Tulane frowns. “She didn’t seem to think she was a very good mother. She said it had been awhile since she’d last seen you, and she was eager to make amends.”
“So, she knew I was here, in Foggy Hollow?”
He blinks his protuberant eyes, obviously confused by the question.
“She never visited me five years ago,” I tell him. “I haven’t seen her since I was eight.”
He leans back a fraction, as though caught off guard.
“I’m worried something might have happenedto her. Do you remember if she said anything about—I don’t know…” I grapple for words. I’m so tired of being evasive. This would be a whole lot easier if I could just speak the truth. But then, my mother tried that and ended up in a psych ward. “Being in danger?”
“Not that I recall. She seemed quite thin. A bit nervous, perhaps. I assumed it was strange for her, being back after so many years. And well, the manor had fallen into significant disrepair by then. It was very hard to manage on my own. She spent a fair bit of time in the library.”
