Body at the Crossroads

by Cate Martin

  "Thank you," I said, ignoring the sudden growling of my stomach at the mention of food. I didn't want to interrupt the tour, especially as I had inadvertently done so once already.

  The kitchen had two doors that opened onto the central hallway. Having gone in one, Mr. Trevor led the way out the other. Directly across from that doorway was a steep, narrow staircase. Mr. Trevor opened the door on his left, the door that stood at the very end of the hallway. The door itself was largely frosted glass, letting in light but too opaque to see details through.

  "This is the solarium,” Mr. Trevor said, stepping into the room beyond. It was like being inside a greenhouse with plants on tiered shelves on the three glassed walls, a small cast iron table and chairs sitting against the brick wall that divided this space from the kitchen itself. "Miss Zenobia always took her morning tea here. She loved the smell of her plants and the warmth of the morning sun. It's too late in the day now, but perhaps tomorrow you will see what I mean."

  "I'll be sure to check it out," I promised.

  "This door leads to the back porch," he said, opening a clear glass door to show me a narrow porch that ended in a short flight of steps that led to a series of stepping stones. Some of the stepping stones led further back through the raised garden beds to a small orchard at the back garden wall. Others curved around the corner of the house to the side garden of flowering plants that clustered around the dining room bay window.

  "It's all so lovely," I said. "Even for late September. So much is still blooming, and those dark red blossoms are fascinating."

  "I choose the plantings carefully," Mr. Trevor said, and he couldn't hide the pride in his smile although I sensed he was generally a rather humble person. "I like to have something in bloom from the earliest of spring to the latest of autumn."

  "I'll have to take a walk around if I have the time," I said.

  "We'll take the main stairs up to the second floor," Mr. Trevor said, leading me back down the hall past the dining room to the stairs I had passed without noticing when I had come out of the parlor. These stairs were not so steep as the back stairs, only going up five steps at a time before reaching a landing and making a turn. Three turns to go up one level, and I could see at least two more levels above, although the light fixture that hung down from the top of the house dazzled my eyes when I tried to look up to the top floor.

  "The library and Miss Zenobia's office are on this level," Mr. Trevor said as we stepped off the staircase. The low roof over the front porch made sense now as I looked out on the high-walled porch that stood over it. Small trees in massive urns stood at regular intervals around the curve of the porch, and a few more cast iron chairs were scattered around.

  Then we were in the library, and my breath caught. My hometown had a public library, and I had spent many endless hours there as a kid, enjoying the one thing I didn't need any pocket change to get access to. I had thought so many times about how that little building contained more than I could ever hope to read in a thousand years.

  Miss Zenobia's library was three times as large. Shelves ran from the floor to the ceiling high above, row after row of shelves. At the center of the room was another table of heavy, dark wood, narrower but longer than the dining room table. Chairs were drawn up neatly all around it, and four of those places had their own little lights, the brass kind with green glass that directed the light straight down for optimal reading.

  "I didn't know charm schools had so much reading," I said, resisting the temptation to run my fingers along the spines. Books could contain things the same as boxes or flasks.

  "Miss Zenobia's school was quite singular," Mr. Trevor said. The light in the library was dim, but I could swear his cheeks were flushing. He cleared his throat and looked around for some distraction. "Ah, yes. There are many artifacts in this room, on the shelves and in the storage spaces under the window seats. Best not to touch any of them, for now."

  "All right," I agreed. It occurred to me that was the second time he had implied I would be touching things later.

  When I got my feet under me. What did that mean?

  "The rooms at the end of the hall are mine," he said, indicating the closed door with a wave of his hand. "And this is Miss Zenobia's office. Best to avoid that as well."

  I peeked into the room as we walked back towards the stairs. Her office was directly over the dining room. Behind the desk and chair was another matching bay window. I could see the branches of a tree close enough to scratch at the glass if there had been a breeze.

  The room was stuffed full with objects. Something that looked like a cauldron was sitting before a fireplace. It appeared to be full of gemstones and crystals. The mantel was cluttered with little brass machines like antique versions of office toys.

  A carpet was rolled up and leaning in one corner. What was that all about?

  Mr. Trevor, standing with one foot on the staircase up, cleared his throat and I hurried to his side.

  "There is one more level, but that's just the attic space."

  "Full of things not to be touched?" I guessed.

  "Right in one," he said with a grin. "Miss Zenobia's room is here on the left, overlooking the front lawn. No need to go in there."

  "Of course," I agreed.

  "This here is the bathroom. I'm afraid there's just the one. It is a very old house," he said.

  "I'm sure it will be fine," I said as we walked past a room on the left done all in green and gold, and another on the right done in cream and rose with a bay window. The tree was even fuller at this height, thick branches seeming to hug the side of the house.

  "I've put you in here if that's all right," he said, opening the door at the very end of the hall. "It overlooks the back garden."

  "Lovely," I said, barely more than a whisper.

  Or perhaps it was the immensity of the space swallowing up my voice. My entire apartment back home wasn't as big as this room. The bedspread, carpet, and wallpaper were all blue and silver, and the furniture was carved from some type of honey-colored wood.

  "It's really lovely," I said again.

  "I'll leave you to settle in then," Mr. Trevor said. "I ring the bell for dinner at precisely 6:30. Oh, and the wifi password is on the card on the nightstand."

  "Thank you so much," I said.

  Mr. Trevor gave me one last welcoming smile then hastened to join Cynthia downstairs. I looked around the room at the antique furniture; the elaborate rug spread out before the fireplace, the lushly thick bedspread.

  Even the little bench at the foot of the bed looked like something that should be in a museum. Far too fine of a piece of furniture for the likes of my bag. The bag I had used through every year of high school to carry my books, now repurposed to be my one piece of luggage on the only trip I'd taken out of my hometown since high school.

  I didn't fit in here at all.

  But there was hope yet. I didn't know a thing about the others that Cynthia had summoned to also attend the reading of the will, but surely at least one of them would feel as out of place as I did.

  A little bell at the end of the hall started ringing. Was that the doorbell?

  Forgetting both my hunger and my need for a nap, I left my bag there on the hardwood floor and went back to the top of the stairs.

  I had to get a look at who was at the door now.

  Chapter 5

  The third floor landing was level with the top of the light fixture, making looking down to the first floor and expecting to see anything a questionable proposition.

  I glanced up at where the chain and electrical cable were anchored at the highest point of the sloped ceiling another level above me and felt a momentary stab of curiosity. What had Mr. Trevor failed to show me? Was he hiding something up there?

  But then I heard Cynthia Thomas downstairs swinging the heavy door open and calling out a cheery hello, and that same curiosity stabbed me again, this time poking me until I started creeping down the stairs to where I could get a better look.

>   Honestly, it was like my curiosity was a pirate sometimes, pushing me out on precarious planks over shark-filled waters with constant pokes from the end of a sword. Someday it would likely get me killed.

  But not today. Today, it just wanted me to get a better look at the other girls who had been summoned to Miss Zenobia's Charm School for Exceptional Young Ladies. Did the "exceptional" label fit them better than it did me?

  "Did you find the house all right, Miss Brianna?” Cynthia was asking.

  "Um, yes," a young woman said distractedly. I still couldn't see her. I crept down a few more steps. This was just the sort of house that would have a trick step, one that would squeak loudly and give me away. At least my shoes were silent. I had been wearing the same pair of Converse high-tops since my senior year of high school, and the soles were nearly paper-thin, but a ninja couldn't ask for anything stealthier.

  "You look flustered," Cynthia said.

  "Oh," Brianna answered, as if she hadn't realized her own emotional state. "There was a woman next door…"

  "Say no more," Cynthia said with a smile in her voice. "Mrs. Olson has that effect on everyone."

  "Oh," Brianna said again. She sounded like someone constantly startled to find herself in the middle of a conversation.

  I reached the landing at the second floor and was finally far enough below the light and at the correct angle to see the reception area in front of the door. But Cynthia was just leading the girl into the parlor. I only caught a glimpse of a girl about my age in black tights and ankle boots, a plaid skirt and burgundy button-up top that made her look like a hip librarian, especially when she looked back over her shoulder and I caught the glint from her cat-eye glasses. Very librarian.

  I would have thought that burgundy would clash with the deeply red hair that hung in a sleek sheet to the middle of her back, but the two colors complemented each other, and felt very appropriate for the autumn that was just beginning to touch the trees outside.

  "Miss Amanda,” Mr. Trevor said, suddenly at my elbow. I just managed not to yelp in surprise. "I'm sure Mrs. Thomas would be delighted to introduce you to Miss Brianna Collins. Having you all meet ahead of time is why we asked you to arrive the day before the reading."

  "Yes, of course," I said. "Do none of us know each other?"

  "Not yet," he said with a smile, then brushed past me to lead the way down the stairs.

  In the parlor the monosyllabic Miss Brianna had somehow transformed into a monologuing motormouth. The flood of words pouring out of her were all but drowning Cynthia, who looked almost panicked but somehow managed to keep the polite smile on her lips, her hands clasped together in front of her as she nodded at every pause that slipped into Brianna’s speech.

  "It's crucial, you see. Crucial," she said. "I worked in a break to come here because you said it was so very important, but it can really only be the tiniest of breaks. I brought books with me, but not nearly enough, and I'm losing so much time."

  She slipped the backpack off of her shoulders as she said this and set it on the ground at her feet. It landed with a deep thud. I doubted it contained anything but books, although there must be a toothbrush and a change of clothes in there somewhere.

  She had walked up Summit Avenue with all that on her back? She looked so scrawny.

  "Mrs. Thomas," Mr. Trevor said, and the look of relief that washed over Cynthia's face was pronounced.

  "Ah, Mr. Trevor. And Miss Amanda! Excellent!" she said. "Miss Amanda, may I present Miss Brianna Collins? And Miss Brianna, this is Miss Amanda Clarke."

  "Hello," I said. The little word sounded all wrong after all that formal speech.

  "Pleased to meet you," Brianna said. I assume to me; her eyes were focused somewhere in the vicinity of my feet.

  "Brianna joins us from Boston, Massachusetts," Cynthia said and seemed to have more to say, but Brianna swiftly interrupted.

  "I'm a student there," she said, still looking at various points around my feet. "I graduated last year with a double major in physics and library science. I'm getting a masters degree now, following a course of study of my own design. It's crucial I don't fall behind on my research. Very, very crucial."

  "I imagine," I said, casting about for something more to say. "The school year just started, after all."

  "Yes, precisely!" Brianna said, and for the quickest of seconds she glanced up and looked me in the eye.

  Then she was looking at the floor near Cynthia's feet. "I really shouldn't have come. I don't have the time, and it's such a distraction."

  "I do realize," Cynthia said with deep sympathy. "You will see how important it is for you all to be here in person tomorrow night, I promise you."

  Brianna nodded absentmindedly, but then another thought hit her like a bolt of lightning and her whole body tensed up. She looked directly at Cynthia, her eyes narrowing behind the cat-eye glasses.

  "Did you compel me to come? Mental suggestion? Something in that tea?" she asked darkly.

  "No, Miss Brianna!” Cynthia said, horrified. "I assure you, I don't have those sorts of skills. And I would never do such a thing!“

  Brianna's eyes narrowed further, but then her full-body tension broke into a loose shrug.

  "I suppose not," she said, and turned her attention to the room behind her.

  Cynthia looked over at Mr. Trevor as if begging to be rescued.

  "Mrs. Thomas, I wonder if I might pull you aside for a moment?" Mr. Trevor asked. "A small matter about dinner."

  "Yes, of course," Cynthia said. "I'll just be a moment." She smiled at Brianna, who didn't seem to have heard any of that, then at me. Then she and Mr. Thomas disappeared down the hall.

  What were they canoodling about? The oddness of Brianna Collins?

  Brianna stepped up to the mantelpiece over the fireplace, gazing closely at each of the objects on display there. She reached out a delicate hand, barely grazing the surface of a sterling silver box lid with one fingertip then, to my puzzlement, touching that fingertip to her tongue. Her eyebrows drew together as if she had a hard time placing the taste.

  "This might be okay," she said. I wasn't sure if she was talking to me, herself, or the box.

  "What do you mean?" I asked.

  "There could be things to learn here," she said, and again I wasn't sure if she was speaking to me. It was a very odd feeling. If she kept it up I just might start questioning whether I still even existed.

  "It's strange here, isn't it?" she asked.

  "It's an old house," I said.

  "Not so very," she said with a dismissive shrug.

  "No, I suppose in Boston there are houses which are much older,"

  I said.

  She shrugged again. "Parts of this house are older than others," she said and looked around the room. Nothing looked out of place to me, but I didn't know much about architecture or historical periods or anything like that. "It pulls to one side, kind of like. Doesn't it?" She tipped her head to one side and I was certain she was asking the house itself this question, but then her eyes darted back to mine, that briefest of glances meeting before her gaze dropped away.

  "I really don't know," I admitted, then found myself adding, "I didn't go to college myself. I work in a diner. So."

  Brianna pursed her lips and almost scowled. "What we know doesn't come from colleges," she said, her voice practically dripping with disdain at that last word. "That's why I design my own course of study. None of the teachers are ever going to willingly teach me the good stuff."

  "What's the good stuff?" I asked.

  "You know," she said with a dismissive wave and turned her attention to a leather-bound book standing open on one of the end tables next to the sofa.

  "I don't think I do," I said.

  "This is interesting." She said under her breath as she turned the pages. She seemed to have completely lost the thread of the conversation, and I was delighted to let it drop.

  "There's an entire library upstairs," I told her. "More books than we had
in the public library in my hometown. Although I suppose the same wouldn't be true for you."

  "A library? Here?" she asked, her green eyes dancing with excitement.

  "Yes, a library," Mr. Trevor announced as he appeared in the doorway. "The highlight of the tour, but not where we begin. Shall I show you around?"

  "Yes, please," Brianna said, bending over to pick up that massive bag. The thread that ran through the seams was stretched thin, tested to its very limits, but she got the weight of it back up onto her shoulders with barely a grunt.

  She was stronger than she looked.

  "Please, make yourself at home, Miss Amanda,” Mr. Trevor said to me. "Remember the kitchen is at your disposal, although do be sure not to spoil your dinner. Beef and sweet potato stew, loaded with herbs from Miss Zenobia's own plants. You'll want seconds, I'm sure."

  "I'm looking forward to it," I said with a smile, putting a hand against my belly as if that could somehow quiet the loud growl that just naming the food out loud had provoked.

  Alone in the parlor I was still reluctant to sit on any of the furniture, but I did lean in to examine all the little items. I even closed my eyes and tried to sense the building itself all around me.

  The library in my hometown was still my favorite place. I had a little TV with all the local channels in my apartment, but most evenings I curled up in my sofa bed and consumed novels. The library didn't get enough new stock for me to be too picky about what kinds of stories I read, but I always grabbed the new horror novels first. And I loved haunted house stories the best. I've read The Haunting of Hill House more than a dozen times and it still gives me the chills.