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The children were dining downstairs with Miriam. As Rose crept, she heard Kate giggling and Evie talking with food in her mouth. Rose’s heart swelled with what could only be love for them.I’m a sap,she thought now. But she understood that caring for children every day inevitably brought about these sorts of feelings.
Sometimes, Rose wondered if this was proof she wanted children of her own one day. She imagined raising them in a home as immaculate as this: a home with mahogany floors, mid-century paintings, and furniture likechaise longues.She imagined her babies taking their first steps next to sculptures Rose had commissioned artists to make for her. She imagined saying things likeJust throw it out. We don’t need it.
Rose reached the library and inhaled the soft and remarkable smell of thousands upon thousands of pages, stories written across centuries. The walls were lined withwhat had to be two or three thousand books, and the floor was a lush carpeting that she dug her toes into. There were lamps imported from Europe and thickly cushioned chairs and side tables upon which were stacked still more books. Rose wondered if those were specific piles Mrs. Walden had made for herself; maybe she meant to return to them later. It was better not to touch them, just in case she noticed anything amiss.
Mrs. Walden knows the innermost workings of the house. But she can’t possibly notice everything,she thought.
Rose felt like a character in a novel. She touched the golden-laced spine of books; she split books open to smell their pages; she took the heaviest one from the far shelf and tried to guess its weight. Twenty pounds? Thirty? Heaving it back on the shelf was difficult; her arms ached.
Rose hadn’t heard of most of the novels in the library. Back in Mississippi, she’d read whatever was around, most of which had been romance novels and mysteries. However, the Waldens enjoyed a higher class of literature. Rose wanted to understand what that was.
Suddenly, a sound came from the corner of the library. A creak. Rose whipped around and peered through the shadows to make out a figure in one of the red cushioned chairs. Her heartbeat thwacked in her ears.
Who is it?
Rose hadn’t heard anyone come in after her. Did that mean that whoever this was had been here the entire time? Watching her?
A staff member? A friend of the Waldens? Who?
Rose backed toward the doorway with herfingers spread. She finally mustered the strength to whisper, “Who’s there?”
Her eyes remained locked on the dark shadow in the corner. Her brain played still more tricks on her.Maybe nothing is there at all. Perhaps the illness is poisoning my brain.
“You don’t have to run,” the figure stated.
Rose stopped short and gaped at the dark shadow. The voice was Oren’s. She would have recognized it anywhere.
Suddenly, she remembered Mrs. Walden’s warning to stay away from him.Is he dangerous? Did he light his own house on fire? But why would someone do that?
“I thought you went to town with the Waldens,” Rose stuttered. She sounded like a child.
Oren stood and walked toward her so that the gray light of the evening filtered through the window and illuminated him. His eyes glinted.
Rose had the strangest sensation that he was a spider, and she’d just walked into his web.
Oren held a book in his right hand. Rose squinted to make out the title:Jane Eyre.
“What is that?” Rose asked because the silence was killing her.
Oren raised the book and marked his page. “You don’t know it?”
Rose’s cheeks flushed. Was she supposed to?
“It’s quite old. Written by one of the Brontë sisters,” Oren said. His tone was soft and easy. He took a small step and extended his arm to pass the book over. “It was my mother’s favorite.”
Rose was intrigued. She took the book and studied it,noting the gold-lined pages, the yellowed edges, and the sturdy spine. “Did this copy belong to your mother?”
“No,” Oren said. “I found it here.”
Rose raised her chin and felt a surge of fear. Had Oren’s mother’s copy been lost in the fire along with his wife?That house on the other side of the forest feels like a black hole,she thought.
“How many times have you read it?” she asked.
“Two or three,” Oren said. “But I’m really surprised you haven’t heard of it.”
Rose was surprised not to hear a hint of malice in Oren’s tone. Mrs. Walden probably would have made her feel really stupid for not having read the book. She might have made a joke about the “failing nature of the American education system in the South.” Northern superiority.
“I think I saw another copy,” Oren said. “Come on.”
