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I wasn’t aware that anyone else lived in the Hall with Iphigenia. “Joseph?”
“He’s my son. He works for some big-wig tech company, but he’s the CEO, so he can work remotely while he oversees the renovations to the house this summer. I’m much too old to keep track of contractors and dash back and forth to rearrange the attic. You’ll meet him tonight at dinner.”
“I look forward to it,” I say. My raincoat squelches as I slip my boots off onto a nearby shoe rack.
“Oh, let me take your coat, dear. I don’t want you to catch a cold your first night here,” Iphigenia insists. I hand her my dark green raincoat, and she hangs it on a nearby hook. I didn’t know how to dress since my job doesn’t technically start until Monday. I went with a pair of plaid silk trousers and a short-sleeve black blouse. My red hair hangs in a loose, damp braid down my back.
“Would you like a tour?” Iphigenia asks. There’s a gleam of excitement in her eye.
“I’d love one.”
Iphigenia leads me into a polished dining room painted forest green with a massive oak table decorated with several iron candelabras. Portraits of Idylewylde’s past decorate the walls. I recognize Martin Idylewylde’s unibrow and crooked nose. His wife Adelaide’s portrait hangs next to him. She’s beautiful, with alabaster skin and rose-colored blush coating her round cheeks, and part of me swears that her expression changes as I study her intricate pale blue silk dress.
“Ignore the wires,” Iphigenia says, gesturing up toward the ceiling. It’s only then that I notice several loose wires hanging down like tendrils. “We’re in the middle of re-wiring the house. The last time this place had a facelift, Nixon was still president.”
“Oh, it’s fine,” I say.
“I wish it was! We’ve had a beast of a time getting a contractor to stay on longer than a week. That reminds me. The attic’s getting new floors next month, so you might have to transport the bulk of your research materials to the library.”
“That won’t be a problem at all,” I reassure her as we move on to the next room: a lush living room full of vintage lamps and plush couches with sagging seats and thinning brocade.
“This is the parlor. If you’d like, we can have tea around three on the days when you work onsite. It’s been too long since I’ve had a tea service.”
“That sounds lovely,” I say. The more I take in Idylewylde Hall, the less it seems like a haunted house, and the more it feels like a place of respite for an eccentric elderly woman. It smells like incense and rain. Upstairs, Iphigenia and I dote over the first editions in the gorgeous library.
From the next room, I hear a gruff voice. “Well, figure it out, you imbecile!”
Iphigenia grimaces, “Joseph gets a little heated during his work calls,” she says as we make our way back into the hallway.
The door slams and a furiously gorgeous man emerges from the other room. He’s got the same ice-blue eyes as Iphigenia and a chiseled jaw shaded by dark stubble. He looks like an actor. The first two buttons of his blue button-down are open, revealing a sprig of chest hair. I find myself staring as he wipes his hand across his forehead, swearing to himself and radiating raw power.
“Joseph, meet Eleanor!”
“Not now, Mother!” he snaps. “I’m in the middle of a meeting!” He turns on his heel and slams the door behind him. The portrait on the wall next to it shakes. Iphigenia sighs as she straightens it.
“He’s so moody. I swear, they never knew each other, but Joseph’s the spitting image of his father sometimes.”
Iphigenia studies the holes in the moth-eaten Persian rug beneath our feet, and I know better than to ask what happened to Joseph’s father. I doubt it’s good, given the Idylewylde’s track record.
“Your room is up on the left here. I hope it’s not too small.”
I open the door. The room is double the size of my studio apartment back in Portland. A four-poster queen bed sits in the middle of the room, along with a large oak dresser to the side and a small vanity table. I can see the beach from the east-facing window. I run my hand along the dresser and peek inside the spacious closet, trying my best to not seem too excited.
“This will do just fine.”
Iphigenia smiles. “Wonderful! I’ll have Joseph bring your suitcase upstairs in a bit.”
I wave her away. “Josephs in a meeting. I’ll get it.”
“Oh, are you sure?”
“It’s no trouble at all,” I reassure her.
By the time I throw my suitcase onto the bed, my cheeks are red, and I’m sweaty from exertion. I change out of my blouse into a T-shirt. To my delight, the closet is already stocked with hangers.
I hang up my blouses and chunky cardigans—librarian wardrobe staples—before setting my shoes on the floor in a neat row.
As I get up, I notice a loose piece of wood jutting out along the back wall. I trace my index finger along the raised edge. My finger catches beneath the wood, I wiggle it, and a gap appears. I form my index finger and thumb into pincers and pull. The wood starts to give. I yank once, then twice.
