Daphne allowed her eyes to look around the room. They stood in a large foyer, with an enormous staircase off to her right, ascending to a railed landing where several doors led to what she presumed were different wings of the house. Ahead of her lay a grand parlor, with bright orange flames crackling in the largest fireplace Daphne had ever seen. Off to her left was a corridor lined with large stained-glass windows. The images cut into the colored glass were, of course, swallows.
“You probably want to wash up and rest a bit before you meet the family,” Ashlee was saying. “And I’m sure you have to pee!”
Daphne smiled. The girl certainly was blunt.
“It would be good to maybe change my clothes,” she said.
“Of course.” Ashlee took her bag, which Daphne had set at her feet. “Let me carry it for you. You must be exhausted.”
Daphne smiled. “That’s very sweet of you, but you don’t have—”
“I want to!” Ashlee bounded toward the staircase. “Come on, I’ll show you to your room.”
They headed up the stairs, Ashlee scampering in front, Daphne following.
She was surprised how anxious she was to meet the family. So far there had been no sign, no sound, of anyone else in the house, but Daphne assumed they were here somewhere. Mr. and Mrs. Witherspoon and the little boy, Christopher. Why was she so anxious? She supposed it was natural to worry about meeting people who had hired you, sight unseen. And besides, she had plenty of reasons to be a little more anxious than usual this night. Finding a corpse could do that to a person.
Outside, the rain had started up again, harder than ever. Daphne could hear it rapping against the windows on the landing.
“Your room is through here,” Ashlee was telling her. “Just three down from Christopher’s.”
“Is he home?”
Ashlee laughed, but didn’t pause in her hurry down the corridor or turn around to look at Daphne. “That boy is always home!” Her laughter echoed in the quiet space. “Poor little monster never gets out of this mausoleum. It’s the way his father wants it, but I think it’s crazy.”
Daphne was about to ask Ashlee what her job was here at Witherswood. It seemed odd that she would be so outspokenly critical of her employers when they could come walking around the corner at any moment. But they had arrived at Daphne’s room, and Ashlee walked inside, switched on the light, and exclaimed, “Ta-da!”
By anyone else’s standards, the room was probably moderately sized. But to Daphne, accustomed to sharing a room with two roommates most of her life, it was a suite for a princess. A large canopy bed, draped in pink and covered with a white velvet duvet, stood beside a white chest of drawers. The windows overlooked the estate. Even in the darkness Daphne could tell she’d be able to look out those windows and see the cliffs and the Atlantic Ocean beyond. The crash of the surf rose clearly to her ears.
Ashlee had opened a door and flicked another light switch, revealing a gleaming bathroom of blue marble.
“Is that ... just for me?” Daphne asked.
“Of course it is!” Ashlee laughed. “Sweetie, we all have our own bathrooms here!”
She was quickly moving out of the bathroom and opening another door. A large walk-in closet. Hundreds of padded hangers awaited Daphne’s clothes.
Daphne smiled. “I don’t think I’ll be needing all that room,” she said, setting her single small suitcase on top of the bed.
“We’ll go shopping and get you lots of new clothes!” Ashlee exclaimed. “Oh, Daphne, it is
so
good to have someone my age here at last! I’m so happy you’ve come to live with us!”
She leapt at her again, embracing her, squeezing her in a tight hug. Daphne couldn’t have found the breath to speak even if she had known what to say.
“Now, I’ve got to get downstairs,” Ashlee was saying as she let her go. “Come down whenever you’re ready. I’ll round up the family and let them know you’re here!” She was hurrying toward the door. “And don’t worry, I’ll speak to Axel and find out what happened and give him a piece of my mind for not getting you at the station.”
“Please don’t cause any trouble on my account,” Daphne said.
But Ashlee was already out the door.
Left alone, Daphne took a deep breath and sat down on the bed. Idly she caressed her suitcase, all that she had left from her old life. There were a couple pairs of jeans, several blouses and skirts, a couple of sweaters, underwear, stockings, and a paltry set of cosmetics and toiletries. There was an address book and a pair of sneakers. And there were photographs, of Mother Angela, and Kate, and Ann Marie. That was all. Other than the clothes she was wearing and the tiny gold chain and locket around her neck, that was all Daphne owned in the entire world.
She fingered the locket, then looked down and snapped it open.
Inside was a small piece of fabric.
It was purple brocade, the last remnant of the blanket she had been wrapped in when she was left outside the door of Our Lady’s School for Girls. Over the years the blanket—really more a large swatch of fabric that an actual blanket—had frayed and worn, and finally Mother Angela had suggested she dispose of it. But she had let Daphne keep a small cutting from it, because Daphne, feeling sentimental, had declared it was the only tangible connection she had to her real parents. Her mother, she believed, had handled that fabric, had wrapped Daphne in it, before placing her in the basket and leaving her at Our Lady.
She snapped the locket shut again.
For more than a decade now she had worn that locket close to her heart. She supposed it was silly. She was a practical young woman. She didn’t believe in luck. She believed in fate. She believed in prayer, but only if you were willing to do what you needed to. You couldn’t depend on God to do it for you. God only helped those, Daphne believed, who helped themselves.
For growing up in a convent, Daphne wasn’t really all that religious. The sisters who had instructed her had been unusually independent of the local bishop, and while they’d taught the required religion classes and taken the girls to Mass every Sunday, they hadn’t spent a lot of time on dogma. Mother Angela wasn’t a dogmatic person. She believed in sin, she said, but not in sinners. No one was all bad. No one was all good, either—except Christ and Our Lady, of course. But Mother Angela was an imperfect human being, she told Daphne, and so she didn’t sit in judgment of anyone. She had brought Daphne up to be the same.
Daphne closed her eyes and listened to the crash of the waves far below. As soon as she did so, the horrible image of Maggie’s bloody body came right back to her, and she realized she hadn’t told Ashlee what had happened. Partly because the young woman had given her barely any time to speak for herself. But also partly because, Daphne realized, it would have meant explaining she’d been at the inn, and that it had been Gregory Winston (“the third, if you’re keeping count”) who had actually given her a ride from the station. And she knew her new employers, for whatever reason, did not care for Gregory.
She’d have to tell them, though. Her name was going to be in the papers tomorrow. There had been a reporter at the inn, and while Gregory had kept her away from Daphne, Sheriff Patterson had said the police report would include Daphne’s name, and the police report was public record.
She stood. Better get unpacked and washed up, then head downstairs. She snapped open her suitcase and carefully placed her jeans and underwear in the bureau and hung her blouses and skirts in the closet. She barely took up one drawer and used just three hangers. Washing her face, she looked again at her eyes. They seemed far more bloodshot and tired than they had when she’d glanced in the mirror at the inn. Of course, that was right before she’d found the dead body. Once more, she shuddered.
She took a comb to her long straight hair. The soft lighting in the bathroom picked up golden highlights in her auburn tresses. She decided she wouldn’t change out of the green plaid knee-length skirt she was wearing—it was her nicest skirt—but she’d change her blouse. She selected a white one, with brown stitching around the collar and sleeves.
One more glance in the mirror. Bloodshot eyes or not, it was time to go downstairs and meet the people who had brought her here.
Heading out her door, she found the corridor as quiet as it had been earlier. If she didn’t know better, she’d think she was the only person in the house. She wondered how many people lived here. All Mother Angela had known about were Mr. Witherspoon and his son. She’d mentioned the boy’s mother had passed away. But Gregory had said there was a new Mrs. Witherspoon. So young Christopher had a stepmother. Was there any other family? Daphne didn’t know. Then there would be servants. Whether they lived at Witherswood or came just for the day, Daphne had no clue. But in a place as big as this house, she expected there’d be at least some live-in staff. There would be a cook and a housekeeper and a groundskeeper and a chauffeur. Was Axel, the man Ashlee mentioned, the Witherspoon chauffeur? And just what was Ashlee’s position here anyway?
Daphne presumed she’d find out soon enough. Taking another deep breath, she began her walk down the long, dark, unnervingly quiet corridor.
She wasn’t sure she could ever get used to living in a place as large or as grand as this. The dormitory at Our Lady had been spartan. She felt as if she might get lost here.
Somehow the idea of getting lost inside Witherswood terrified her.
Daphne smiled to herself. She was feeling edgy. Why wouldn’t she be? She had just seen a murdered woman. Never in her life had she ever seen such a thing. And she hoped she never would again—though she was certain she’d never forget it.
She prayed once again that the police would find the person who had killed poor Maggie. And she prayed that a house as large as Witherswood would have an impressive and efficient security system.
She was nearing the staircase when she heard her name.
Daphne paused. Had she heard someone call her? Or was it the rain?
She listened again. Nothing. So she resumed her walk.
“Daphne,” came a voice once more.
This time it was clear. Someone had spoken her name. Whether a man or a woman, she couldn’t tell. It was little more than a whisper, but it was distinct. And nearby.
“Hello?” Daphne called. “Is someone calling me?”
“Daphne,” the voice came again.
It seemed to come from the room to her right. The third door, in fact, from hers. Ashlee had said it was the boy’s, Christopher’s.
“Hello?” Daphne called again, taking a couple of steps toward the room.
“Daphneeeeeee ...”
This time the voice drew her name out into many syllables. It was obvious someone knew she was there. It must be the boy.
“Christopher?” she asked, approaching his door. It was ajar. Although the room was dark, she detected motion inside. “Yes, it’s me, Daphne. I’d love to meet you.”
She knocked on the door. But there was no response.
She waited. “Christopher?”
Laughter. The boy was inside the room, and he was laughing at her. Low, soft, hushed. But he was laughing all right.
Mother Angela had urged her to be firm with the child. She had to set parameters right from the start. She should be warm and friendly, but also clearly set the ground rules. Daphne was to be in charge. She was the authority. It was the only way homeschooling could work. The boy would likely try to test her, Mother Angela had warned. Daphne had to establish that she was the boss, not the other way around.
Daphne held on to that advice as she paused at the boy’s door. She’d have preferred to turn and leave. She didn’t like intruding into the boy’s room. But Christopher had to know he couldn’t manipulate her. He couldn’t play games.
“Well,” Daphne said, pleased that her voice sounded steady, “if there’s a joke, why don’t you share it?”
She pushed open the door. The room seemed empty. Daphne stepped inside.
“Christopher?”
She looked around. Through the dimness she could make out the boy’s bed, and a desk, and a standing globe. There was little else discernible. But she was certain she’d seen motion in here a few moments before.
Then she heard the laughter again.
It was coming from the closet. If it was like hers, it was a huge, cavernous place, and the boy could be hiding among clothes or boxes. There was no way Daphne was being drawn in there. She decided she’d deal with Christopher later. There would be other opportunities to set the ground rules.
She turned to leave, but then the voice came again: “Daphneeeeeee ...”
She stopped. She couldn’t walk away while the boy was saying her name. That just wouldn’t do. Steeling her nerve, she turned on her heels and strode quickly and decisively over to the closet.
“Okay, Christopher, it’s time we made our acquaintance,” she said, her hand on the closet door. “I’m going to be your teacher and you’re going to be my student, so we might as well—”
She pulled open the door and stared into the darkness.
“Christopher?”