“It’s just a doll,” said Asia.
She picked it up carefully. It was sewn out of a soft material that felt like flannel. The eyes were two black buttons, and the mouth and nose were stitched with faded pink thread. It hung limply in her hands, the stuffing seeping out of one of the legs.
“Somebody loved this doll a lot,” she said. “You can tell.” “That old thing?” Her fear forgotten, Sierra peered again into the box. It was full of long old-fashioned dresses folded neatly between sheets of paper. Asia put the doll down and lifted out each dress and held it up—a plain black one with pearl buttons, a blue dress with lace, and a deep red velvet one. A soft sweet scent filled the air and bits of pale mauve dried flowers drifted to the floor. “That’s lavender,” she said.
“Maddy grows it in her garden.”
Sierra stroked the velvet. “Are they costumes?”
“I don’t think so. I think they’re real dresses that someone wore a long time ago.”
Asia folded the dresses carefully and put them back in the box. She dragged out a few more boxes from the corners of the attic, and she and Sierra dug through them. They sorted through a collection of old spoons, a wooden case full of coins, some glass bottles and a box of funny-looking pipes. In one box was a lace tablecloth, yellowed with age, and in another high laced boots that reminded Asia of the boot she had found at the Old Farm. But there was no diary.
A heavy box full of old books seemed promising at first. Sierra handed each book to Asia. She thumbed through the pages quickly and then put them in a stack beside her. The books had dark covers and looked very dull, and their musty pages made both girls sneeze. Asia’s hands felt grimy, and dirt was smeared across Sierra’s cheek.
Sierra gave a bored sigh. She wandered over to the little round window. “Hey! The cat’s climbing up the vines!” She stuck her head right out. “Come on, Monty! You can do it!”
There was a wild scrabbling noise. The cat leaped through the window past Sierra and landed with a thump on the floor. He turned his back to the girls and washed his face.
Sierra knelt down and stroked his back. Asia watched silently. After a minute, Sierra stood up. “Can we go now?”
Asia pulled her eyes away from the cat. “Okay,” she said slowly.
Asia and Sierra walked back down the two flights of stairs. Monty slid softly through their legs and darted ahead.
He pushed against a door on the other side of the hall and disappeared.
He wants me to follow him, thought Asia. “Just a minute,” she said. She followed Monty through the door. She was in somebody’s bedroom. The walls were papered with pale pink roses, and faded green curtains had been pulled over the windows. Everything in the room was old fashioned—a big four-poster bed covered in a pale green quilt, a dressing table, and a washstand with a blue and white basin and jug. In the corner of the room, Monty stared down at her from the top of an old wardrobe with a large beveled mirror on the door.
“Monty’s a good jumper,” said Sierra from the doorway. Asia didn’t say anything. She gazed around the room curiously. The walls were bare except for a photograph in an oval frame that hung over the dressing table. She walked over and studied it. The photograph was a faded brown and it looked old. It was a picture of a little girl sitting on a straight-backed chair on a porch. She was wearing a sundress and short socks and shoes with buckles, and her straight dark hair hung to her shoulders. A large cat sat on her lap.
Asia frowned. There was something oddly familiar about the photograph. She lifted it off the wall carefully and turned it over. A piece of faded brown paper, tattered at the edges, had been glued onto the back. Across the top someone had written in black ink Daisy 1915.
Daisy. That was the name on the little pink bed in the bedroom at the Old Farm. She turned the picture over and studied it. A jolt ran through her. She recognized it now.
It was the house at the Old Farm, before the porch had collapsed.
“Come on, Asia,” said Sierra. “I don’t like it here. I want to go.”
“Wait.” Asia had noticed a faint ridge under the thin brown paper, from one side of the frame right across to the other. There was a tear in the bottom corner, and she poked her finger into the hole and touched the edge of something.
She slid her finger back in the tear and eased it along the side of the frame. The glue was old, and a small section of the brown paper separated from the edge of the frame easily. Her heart racing, she slid out a piece of folded yellowed newspaper. She spread it open carefully, trying not to tear the worn creases. She read the faded words with a sense of disbelief.
Drowning at Cold Creek
On June 20, George Williams of Cold Creek Ranch found the body of a man drowned in the swollen waters half a mile above his homestead. Williams identified the body as his hired hand, Ridley Blackmore. A short service was held on June 22, attended by Williams, his wife Miranda and a few curious bystanders. Miranda Williams said that Blackmore was a bachelor with no family.
It was the people from the Old Farm. Shocked, Asia searched the top of the newspaper for a date. June 23, 1915.
Asia had memorized the date on the old auction poster in the museum. June 29, 1915. The man had drowned at the bridge just a few days before Miranda and George Williams decided to leave Cold Creek. Maddy knew. She had sensed the danger and nailed a horseshoe on one of the logs.
Asia’s head reeled. She didn’t understand what was happening. Who was Mary Wintergreen? Why did she have this old photograph and newspaper clipping in her house?
A feeling of dread swept through her. Her hands shaking, she slid the newspaper behind the brown paper and hung the photograph back on the wall. She was dimly aware of Sierra peering over her shoulder. “Oh look! That cat in the picture looks like Monty!”
Asia stepped backward. “We have to go! Right now!”
Sierra’s eyes widened. Asia urged her through the door. The flickering flame of the oil lamp had gone out, and the hall was dark. It felt like the cottage was holding its breath. Her heart hammered wildly as they had made their way down the gloomy hall and back outside. She blinked in the bright sun. A seagull screeched, and the tangy smell of salt and seaweed stung her nose. She took a few deep breaths to steady herself.
“Aren’t we going to say good-bye?” whispered Sierra.
“No.” Asia took Sierra’s hand and half ran to the front of the cottage. Her shoulders sagged with relief. Their bikes were still there. She glanced back at the cottage, her eyes pulled to the little round window high up in the thick vines. A face appeared, thin and pale, and she realized that it was Mary Wintergreen, watching them.
Sierra wheeled her bike ahead of Asia through the blue door. “We aren’t coming back, are we?” she said.
Asia took one last look at the window. Mary Wintergreen was gone. “I don’t know,” she said slowly. As she followed Sierra out to the sidewalk, the faint notes of a piano drifted from within the old cottage.