“I was unwell,” Clem admitted. “Very unwell. The realm did something to me. You saw, Sam,” she said to me.
“You lost yourself a little bit,” I agreed. “I was quite worried as well.”
“But now you seem better,” Lydia observed. “What changed?”
“It was Sam.” Clem smiled. “Sam reminded me of who I was. None of this could have happened without him.”
Lydia wrapped one arm around Clem and one around me. “Thank the spirits,” she said softly. “Especially you, Sam.” I was touched by this, but I could not say anything in reply, given the speed of Clementine’s driving.
“And now to the last part of our plan,” Clem said. “Hello, I almost missed the turn,” she announced, veering the carriage suddenly off the main road and onto a gravel path.
I looked around. “What? Where are we going?” I spotted a small plaque, bright green with verdigris, on the brick pillar that marked the entrance; it read “The Arbor.”
“This is where the Ainsleys live,” Clementine said by way of explanation, which, in fact, explained nothing. She allowed the carriage to slow its pace.
“Walter and Iris?” I asked, perplexed.
“Walter, Iris, Bernadette, and Georgina. I believe they go by Bernie and George,” Clem noted. “Their parents are on a European tour, so George is in charge. She’s a painter, the oldest, and very reliable. I think you’ll like her, Sam. And Bernie…well, Bernie is a little strange, but in an endearing way.”
I struggled to understand the relevance of the Ainsley sisters to our present situation as the carriage rolled along the gravel path. The house came into view. It was a sizable brick Georgian that stood sedately beside a massive copper beech. On the other side, where a series of gardens descended toward a lawn overlooking the ocean, was the eponymous arbor laden with Concord grapes. Clem leaped down from the carriage and began walking briskly toward the arbor. Lydia and I followed. The house was oddly familiar. I had never been to it, but somehow I had seen this estate before.
Under the arbor, I could see as we approached, three women sat at the patio table. I recognized one of them as Iris, and the other two were certainly Bernie and George. One, who was gazing at the distant ocean view with a dreamy expression, wore a peculiar dress of crushed green velvet that looked faintly historical. Her hair was braided and gathered into buns behind her ears.The other sat comfortably back in her chair, arms crossed over a paint-splattered apron. In the formal gardens just a few steps below, a very odd couple walked arm in arm, considering the last blooms of the season. Walter was in shirtsleeves and a vest, for the afternoon was very warm. On his arm was a woman in a pink dress who wore, of all things, a visored helmet. They walked slowly, leaning toward each other, and anyone with an ounce of perspicacity would have seen at a glance that they were fond of each other. A few feet away from them, near a boxwood hedge, stood a short figure entirely clad in armor. It was Erauso.
I was so confounded by the sight of Erauso that I was momentarily distracted from all other considerations. Erauso? But why was Erausohere, of all places? How had he arrived? When? And whom was he protecting?
At the sound of Clementine crunching on the gravel walkway (Lydia and I were soundless), the residents of the Arbor turned, one by one. “Clem!” Iris exclaimed, jumping up. “We heard. We heard all of it. George was in Salem and brought the news.”
George was apparently the paint-splattered sister, and she rose to her feet with a smile. “Congratulations, Clem,” she said warmly. But she said nothing more, and everyone was now looking at the helmeted person on Walter’s arm, waiting for her reaction. Lydia drifted toward her, eyes bright, as if drawn by a magnet.
The woman on Walter’s arm pulled away from him. When she spoke, her voice, which was already muffled by the helmet, quavered. “Can I really take it off?” she asked.
“Yes, dear,” Lydia said, drawing close to her. She herself helped to pull the helmet carefully upward, revealing a crushed pile of messy brown hair, a pale face, and brown eyes brimming with tears. It was Rosetta.
I realized with shock why the place around me looked familiar. I had seen it in Clem’s thoughts. I had seen Rosetta here, holding hands with Walter, in Clem’sthoughts.
Where Clem had wept silently on her mother’s shoulder, Rosetta sobbed without restraint, causing Walter beside them to draw out an embroidered handkerchief—for his own tears, which he dabbed at quietly. Bernie also appeared quite overcome, and she reached for her linen napkin and blew her nose. George and Iris exchanged looks of satisfaction.
I turned to Clem, utterly baffled and incensed. “Explain,” I demanded. “Rosetta isalive? But how? I was there—I saw the stones strike her.”
Clem turned to face me, her expression remorseful. “That, dear Sam, was my mother. Disguised as Rosetta.”
I stared at Rosetta. “That’s why Roy couldn’t find the body.”
“It couldn’t be helped. I knew from the moment Rosetta saw a semblance of our father’s spirit outside the window that the stones would come for her. I needed everyone—as many people as possible—to believe that she’d really died. Even Wister. Even Roy. I knew the Cisneros Society’s thews would be searching for her.”
“And they would see her reflected in someone’s thoughts,” I realized.
“Yes. Rosetta’s helmet is made of lead. That would protect her from being visible to any thews. And I had to hope that the Ainsleys wouldn’t draw their attention. We’d only just met them, after all.”
I pondered all this in silence. “But when?”
“I brought her here on the night of the fifteenth.”
The fifteenth. That day, and the next, I’d been with Roy, leading him all over Salem and Boston to identify members of theSociety. “And your mother took her place,” I said, putting the pieces together.
“Only for a short while, so that Throckmorton wouldn’t notice.”
I shook my head. “And I thought I was watching you closely.”
