Sarah left, and Asia hesitated in the doorway, feeling suddenly nervous.
“Asia. What a pretty name,” the old woman said. “Come in and perch on my bed. If you dig in that top drawer, you’ll find a tin of biscuits.”
“I’m not hungry, thank you.” Asia put her backpack on the floor and sat on the pale yellow bedspread. The room was small and very warm, and cluttered with books and knickknacks. The tiny old woman was watching her with keen bird-like eyes, her hands folded neatly on the afghan.
She doesn’t know, thought Asia. She doesn’t know that her real name is Beatrice Blackmore. She looked away and her eyes rested on a faded photograph in a square frame on the night table. She stared at it, shocked. It was a photograph of Mary Wintergreen in her rocking chair on the porch of the Cormorant Cottage. The big gray cat lay asleep in her lap.
“My mother,” said Daisy, watching Asia carefully. “It was taken just about a year before she died.”
Asia’s body went rigid. “What was her name?”
“Miranda Williams.”
Disbelief and then fear swept through Asia.
Daisy smiled. “I’m what you call an old maid. I never married. My mother and I lived together until she died.”
“In Cormorant Cottage,” whispered Asia. Her head reeled. Mary Wintergreen was really Miranda Williams.
Curiosity flickered in the old lady’s eyes. “Yes, it was my childhood home. We moved there from the Cariboo when I was four. My father was killed the next year in the war, and my mother and I stayed on in the cottage. She died forty years ago, and by then I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. You’ll think this is funny, but I used to feel that she was still with me. I imagined that I could hear her making tea. I made a few changes to the cottage to brighten it up, but mostly I kept it the same.”
Asia’s heart raced. She undid her backpack and slid out the butterfly box. “Ahh,” said Daisy. She leaned forward with interest. “You’ve been to my cottage, I see. I thought that box had disappeared years ago. Wherever did you find it?”
“It was in an old wardrobe,” said Asia. “Monty helped me.” She paused, her face burning. The old lady would have no idea what she was talking about. How could Asia explain what she was doing in her cottage? How could she tell her that she had talked to her dead mother?
But Daisy didn’t seem surprised. “Mama’s wardrobe. The last time I saw that it was in the corner of the attic, full of musty old clothes. I could never bear to go through it. It brought back too many memories. I put a lot of Mama’s heavy old furniture in the attic after she died.”
“It was in the bedroom—” Asia stopped. She had an eerie feeling that if she went back to the cottage, the bedroom would be as bare and empty as the parlor. She took a big breath. “How did you get this box?”
“Well now, that’s something I haven’t thought about for years.” Daisy’s eyes sparkled. “About ten years before my mother died, we went on a trip together. We drove way up into the Cariboo to a place called Cold Creek.”
Asia stared at Daisy. “Was there anybody living there?”
“Oh yes. There was a lovely young couple in a big gray house. I remember the woman served us tea and scones.”
Maddy and Ira. Asia’s heart gave a jump.
“Mama said we had lived at Cold Creek too, when I was a little girl, and she wanted me to see it. She was so excited when she planned the trip, but when we got there she seemed uneasy.”
“Did your mother tell the people who she was?” said Asia.
“No,” said Daisy. “She insisted that we just pretend to be visitors. People in the nearby town had told us about the man’s workshop. Mama said we could pretend to be buying a box. She told me that the big gray house wasn’t the house where I had lived, and after the tea we went for a walk to an old abandoned farm. Mama was terribly upset when she saw it, and I remember suggesting that we leave. But she said that there was something that she had to show me.”
Daisy closed her eyes. She looked frail and exhausted, as if the effort of talking were too much, and she murmured, “My dear, are you really interested in the ramblings of an old woman? And who did you say you were?”
“My name is Asia. And I am interested. But I can come back if you like.”
The old lady blinked slowly and gazed at the photograph on the night table. “No, no. It’s odd. I don’t always know what I had for breakfast but those long-ago days are very clear to me. I think I was going to tell you about the grave. A child’s grave. There wasn’t much there, just some old pieces of fence lying in the grass, but Mama said it was the right place.”
“Did she tell you whose grave it was?” said Asia.
Daisy stared into the distance. “My sister,” she said finally.
“Her name was Daisy too. She died a year before I was born, and Mama named me after her.”
Asia wondered if Miranda had meant to tell her the truth then, but had been too afraid. She frowned. She had explored all around the Old Farm, and she had never seen any sign of a grave. “Do you remember where the grave was?”
“I don’t think we walked very far from the house,” said Daisy. “Mama said she couldn’t bear to think of my sister being alone. I think it was on a bank looking down on the creek.” She sighed. “It was a long walk back across the meadows, and my mother was exhausted when we got to the house. She was almost eighty, after all. The woman was kind and invited us inside, but Mama said no. She waited in the car, but I insisted on seeing the man’s workshop before we left.”
She gestured at the butterfly box on Asia’s knee. “It’s lovely, isn’t it? I was delighted with it, and I always loved the secret compartment.”
“Did Miranda…did your mother know about it?” said Asia.
“No,” said Daisy. “No, I’m sure she didn’t. She knew I bought a box, and I may have told her about the compartment, but she wouldn’t have paid much attention.” She hesitated. “Mama never liked the box. She was upset by the trip, and I think it just brought back difficult memories.”
There was a long silence. Asia swallowed. “I found your mother’s diary,” she said slowly. “It was in the secret compartment.” She took a big breath. “Did you hide it there?”
Daisy blinked at Asia. “Hide her diary? Oh no, it wasn’t me.” Her wrinkled fingers twisted the edge of her afghan. “I knew my mother had a diary. She was always very secretive with it. When I was a child I sometimes saw her reading it. I was forbidden to touch it.”
Daisy rummaged in a crackly paper bag on the table beside her and took out a peppermint wrapped in cellophane. “Here you are, dear.”
“Thank you,” said Asia, trying to hide her impatience.
Daisy nodded. “Now, we were talking about the diary, weren’t we? How odd it should turn up now. I’ve always thought that my mother destroyed it years ago.”
“But she didn’t,” said Asia. “And then someone hid it in the box. Who would have done that?”
Daisy’s eyes fluttered, but her voice was still clear. “We had a girl living with us from France. Claudette. She was with us for a few months before Mama died, helping with the housework and keeping Mama company during the days when I was working. I was a schoolteacher you know, for forty-five years. Claudette’s the only person besides me who knew about the secret compartment. I showed her how it worked, and she often played with it. She left shortly after Mama died, and the box disappeared then too. I always suspected Claudette took it back to France.”
But she hadn’t. Asia had a vivid picture of the French girl sliding the diary into the secret drawer and tucking the box behind the quilts in the old wardrobe.
“Claudette visited Mama in the hospital the night before she died,” said Daisy slowly. “I think I know what might have happened. You see, Claudette’s English was very poor, and Mama would have known she would never have been able to read the diary. She must have asked Claudette to hide it somewhere until she came home. And then Mama didn’t come home. She died in the hospital.”
Something flashed through Daisy’s eyes—a memory that was painful and hard. She murmured, “Yes, I see it now…I was forbidden to ever touch the diary…It must have been Claudette…” She straightened and looked at Asia steadily.
“And now you have brought the diary to me. You must be my neighbor’s daughter. Your father is so kind…”
Asia took the little book out of her backpack and put it on the table beside Daisy’s chair. “Your mother wants you to read it,” she said. “She wants you to know her secret.”
There was a tap at the door. It was Sarah. She smiled at Asia and then turned to Daisy. “It’s time to take you down for supper, my dear.”
“No,” said Daisy wearily. “No, I’m going to skip supper tonight.”
Sarah tilted her head, but her expression was kind. “I’ll sneak you up some toast and apple juice later,” she promised, and she shut the door quietly behind her.
“She’s a lovely girl,” said Daisy. “They are all so thoughtful here. I’m ninety-five you know. I’ll stay here until the end now. I’m selling Cormorant Cottage.”
Her hands trembled. “Now what were we talking about?”
“The diary,” said Asia. “Your mother’s secret.”
“Oh, yes, the diary.” Daisy’s voice quavered and then she fell silent. Asia wished with a sudden fervor that she had never come, had never brought the diary with its terrible secret to this peaceful old lady.
When Daisy spoke next, her voice was clear and firm.
“I’m afraid I don’t see very well anymore. Certainly not well enough to read something like that. You keep it, my dear, and leave me the box. I was always so fond of that little box.” Her eyes floated shut and she murmured, “And my memories, you must leave me my memories…”
Asia picked up the diary and her backpack and tiptoed to the door. When she looked back, Daisy was sleeping quietly, her hands resting softly on her pink afghan.