Page 57 of City of Liars

New-Mama had funny voices for each character: a voice for the boy, the Nana that came to tidy the nursery, the Rabbit, and the Skin Horse. The girl was very sleepy, but she liked the voices, so she made her eyes stay awake.

“‘Real isn’t how you are made,’ said the Skin Horse. ‘It’s a thing that happens to you.’” New-Mama made Skin Horse’s voice low and grumbly, like the engine of the train.

A strange feeling began to grow inside the girl’s chest. Was she real? What if she wasn’t? What if that was why she had lost her voice, why the wind spoke to her at night?

“‘Once you are Real you can't become unreal again,’” new-Mama read. “‘It lasts for always.’”

The girl had to find a way to become Real. Maybe here, it would finally happen. Maybe that was what it meant to be home.

Desperate, she dug down deep and found her voice. Real things spoke; she would have to do the same, if she wanted to be one of them. “I—have bunny?” she said, each word an effort. “Like the Boy and his Rabbit?”

New-Mama’s face lit up, like the girl’s words had turned on a lamp from inside. “You have a stuffed teddy,” she said. “It was with you when…but never mind. Would you like a rabbit? We can get you one tomorrow. We’ll go to FAO Schwarz, the best toy store in the city. You can choose any bunny you like.”

“I would like a bunny,” the girl said in her creaky, unused voice. “Thank you.”

If she had a bunny, then perhaps it would become Real. And if the bunny became Real, then perhaps she would be too.

“Such nice manners,” new-Mama said, but then her eyes filled with tears again.

The girl was confused. She had said thank you, like Esther Darling had taught her. If new-Mama liked her manners, then why was she sad?

If the girl made new-Mama sad, then maybe she would have to go away again. And if this was home, then where would she go? Worry rose up inside her.

“Not cry,” she said, patting new-Mama’s hand.

“Oh, Ella.” New-Mama wrapped her arms around the girl, holding her close. She smelled of flowers and the syrupy-sweet wine she had been drinking on the train. “I’ve missed you so.”

The girl hugged new-Mama back, the way she was supposed to do. She would be good. She would be Ella. She would not do anything that would make them send her away.

“Read about the bunny?” she said.

With a sniff, new-Mama sat back and wiped her eyes. “It’s very late, Ella dear. I’ll read more tomorrow. Sleep now.” Bending down, she pressed a kiss to the girl’s forehead, slid the rabbit book back onto the shelf, and left the room, closing the door behind her.

Outside the window, the wind sang its siren song. The girl who was now Ella paid it no attention. Instead, she closed her eyes and listened to the noise of the city, letting the blankets take her down and down and down.

37

Liv

When Theo hadn’t called back by 10:00 p.m., I padded off to the guest room, where I changed into yoga pants and a tee, slid into bed, and pulled the down comforter up to my chin. The hum of the traffic outside ebbed and flowed. Soothed, I blinked once, twice…and found myself in the living room of the apartment.

The room smelled of flowers, not lemongrass and cloves. In place of Krista’s couch was a silk divan, embroidered with silver leaf. The same richly colored rug covered the polished floors, and a vase of peonies graced the piano. On the mantel was a mahogany clock, flanked by a pair of porcelain Scottie figurines. Opposite me, in an upholstered armchair, sat Elizabeth Carter, wearing a chiffon tunic dress patterned with falling leaves and embroidered with sequins.

I knew this dress well; my family had donated it to the Met for their costume collection several years before. But why was Elizabeth sitting in her living room with me, wearing a gown more appropriate for a gala than a get-together?

I wanted to ask her, but when I said her name, she didn’t respond. Disturbed, I edged from the room and climbed the stairs to the second floor. At the top, a rich, smoky scent pervaded the air, reminiscent of the cigars my father smoked sometimes after dinner. The scent lured me on, down the hallway to Great-Grandpa Carter’s study. The door was closed, but with a sense of foreboding, I pushed it open.

The shelves were lined with leather-bound books, and a fire blazed in the hearth. Behind the mammoth mahogany desk, scribbling in a small notebook, sat my great-grandfather. I recognized his neatly trimmed mustache, his hooded dark eyes and cleft chin. In the photos I’d seen of him, he always looked composed, even austere. Now, his hair stood on end, as if he’d been running his hands through it. Dark circles ringed his eyes. He set down his pen, picked up a pipe, and drew on it, exhaling a cloud of tobacco smoke—the source of the smell.

“Grandpa Charles?”

His head rose and his eyes widened. One of his hands came down, resting on the notebook he’d been writing in. I caught a glimpse of hastily scrawled words before he flipped it shut. The cover was a deep green, engraved with a curlicued “CC.”

“You came,” he said.

Relief bolted through my body. “You can see me?”

He didn’t reply. Instead, his gaze slid left, to the painting above the fireplace. It was a stylized portrait of my grandmother as a young girl, wearing a light blue dress with a Peter Pan collar and fur-trimmed cuffs. Her blond curls gleamed, and her dark eyes peered out from the frame as if bent on mischief. At her feet sat a small, floppy-eared dog.