CHAPTER 2

When we’d made it inside the city limits and the increasing traffic slowed our progress, I released my tight grip on the door handle. Arabella’s windblown hair was approaching steel wool status, and George looked as if he’d been electrified.

Arabella reached into a large purse on the floor by my feet and pulled out an Hermès scarf. As she tied it attractively around her head, she said, “Colin’s mother, Aunt Penelope, is eager to meet you. I think she’s a bit worried about you living with Miss Dubose, but I assured her that I knew you well and that you’re trustworthy and kind. That did make her feel better, but at some point, we’ll have to arrange a visit.”

“Sure,” I said. Though I’d seen them only from afar, I vaguely remembered Colin’s parents as seeming elderly to me seven years ago—at least ten to fifteen years older than the parents of the group of friends I hung out with at home and in college. Colin was an only child, and his mother sent frequent care packages of vitamins and scarves and thick socks, as if he’d forgotten how to take care of himself in his parents’ absence. I recalled laughing the first time I’d seen one of the large boxes, telling Colin that I was one of six children, and it had always been survival of the fittest at my family’s dining table. I might have embellished the story, told him sometimes blood was spilled and half of us were missing teeth due to the altercations.

It wasn’t at all true—not with the amounts of food my great-aunt Lucinda insisted on heaping on the table—but I rarely got care packages. Not that I blamed my dad or Suzanne; they had five other kids to worry about. But looking at Colin’s socks and knitted scarves, I’d felt a resurgence of the old grief I’d folded up and packed away, suffocated by thick layers of denial and years of absence. And I’d felt angry, too, that he could be so dismissive of his mother’s care and love.

Arabella slowed the car and turned without signaling into a paved drive between an iron gate and an impressive Edwardian sandstone mansion block with multiple front entrances. Attractive cornices edged the roofline like cake frosting. Arabella was muttering to herself as she looked for a place to park. “Colin usually uses his nana’s parking space since she doesn’t have a car. But he said he’d let me have it today.” She tapped her long red fingernails against the steering wheel. “I just need to remember which one it is.”

I gathered my backpack and looked outside. “Nice building.”

Arabella nodded. “It’s called Harley House,” she said, turning too sharply and hitting the curb. “It was built in nineteen-oh-three to house the Irish servants who worked in the large houses nearby.” She maneuvered the car away from the curb. A man with a dog stood on the sidewalk, keeping clear. “Funny, isn’t it? Decades later, it became home to a lot of VIP types—movie people, authors, that sort of thing. Cliff Richard and Mick Jagger lived here at some point. And Joan Collins, the actress.” She hit the brake hard as a black Jaguar pulled out of a parking spot in front of us, causing me to bite my lip.

“Now it’s mostly filled with American expatriates and the stray Russian oligarch.” She began to back up into a parallel space against the curb, barely squeezing between two other cars. I sucked in my breath, as if that might help. “I sure hope it’s this one, because I’m not certain I can do this twice.” Satisfied with her parking job, she switched off the ignition and turned to give George a scratch behind the ears.

“Aunt Precious first lived in this flat in the late thirties, before the war—I’m sure she’ll tell you all about that. Marylebone wasn’t quite as fashionable then, but it’s always been a perfect location—close to shopping and restaurants. And Regent’s Park, of course.” Arabella unbuckled her seat belt.

“Precious?” I asked. “According to my sister’s ancestry chart, her name is Jeanne Dubose.”

“Oh, sorry—thought I mentioned that. Precious is Miss Dubose’s nickname. Her real name is Jeanne. The story goes that when she was born, the nurse took one look at her little face and said she was precious. From then on, that’s what everyone called her. I think it’s rather adorable.”

“For a baby, but I can’t imagine calling an old woman Precious.”

“Just don’t . . .”

“Call her old,” I finished. “I remember. It’s just going to be hard using her nickname. Although, come to think of it, I grew up with a Sweet Pea and a Stinky, so maybe it won’t be as challenging as I first thought.”

Arabella sent me a sidelong glance as I grabbed my suitcase from her trunk. I followed her and George toward the second block of flats and up a set of wide steps leading to two glossy and dark wooden French doors. They sat recessed behind a broad archway between two mottled marble Ionic columns. A tall man emerged from the outside set of doors as we approached.

George let out a loud yelp and leapt forward, pulling the leash from Arabella’s hand and nearly toppling the man over. His paws held on to the man’s shoulders, and the giant tongue bathed the man’s face.

Blinking, I recognized the sandy blond hair that threatened to erupt in waves if allowed to grow just a little longer. And the intense blue eyes that were scrutinizing me as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. A brief flash of surprise was quickly replaced by remembered wariness.

“Hello, Colin,” I said stiffly. “It’s been a while.”

When he didn’t respond right away, Arabella interjected, “You remember Maddie Warner, don’t you? From our Oxford days.”

The wariness remained as we continued to regard each other. His eyes seemed bluer against his vacation tan, and he still had a slim and muscled body. I recalled that he’d rowed during his years at Oxford; apparently, he still did. I remembered, too, how he loved dogs and Star Wars. And that he was a stickler for safety and always made sure everyone wore their seat belts when he was driving. Not that I’d ever let him know that I’d noticed any of it.

“Madison,” he said curtly. “I do remember you. Vaguely. You liked your beer ice-cold, and you had quite a portfolio of unusual phrases that no one ever understood. You’d drop them like little bombs into conversations. You enjoyed childish pranks like substituting salt in the sugar bowl. And apparently you are loath to say good-bye, so you don’t.” He bent to scratch George behind the ears, his gaze sliding to Arabella. “Am I to assume she’s the journalist writing the article about Nana?” His tone was between forced politeness and white-hot annoyance.

“Isn’t it lovely? A sort of mini school-chum reunion. I wanted to keep it a secret so you’d be surprised.”

He stood, taking George’s lead in his hand. “I’m surprised all right. Although I’m left to wonder why you didn’t have her come while I was on holiday. The flat will be rather crowded, don’t you think?”

“Don’t be silly, Colin. There’s plenty of room. And when I mentioned the journalist staying here, you didn’t have any objections.”

His eyes touched on me briefly. “Yes, well, that’s because I wasn’t fully informed. I’m glad I decided to work from home this morning, so I’m spared the shock of returning home in the evening after a long day and seeing Madison in my flat.” He held his hand out toward me as if he wanted me to shake it, then said, “May I?”

I looked at him with confusion until Arabella tugged my suitcase from my grasp and handed it to Colin. “He’d never hear the end of it if his mother or Aunt Precious ever heard that he allowed you to carry your own suitcase,” she said.

Before I could protest, Colin had opened one of the outer doors and was waiting for us to walk past him into the lobby.

Tall ceilings, a large brass chandelier, and a nonfunctioning dark wood-framed fireplace greeted us in the foyer. An old-fashioned elevator—or “lift,” I corrected myself; when in Rome and all that—faced us, a small rectangular window in the outer door showing the empty shaft behind.

Colin pressed the “call” button, and we waited for several minutes, listening to the moans and groans of the ancient equipment. When the lift finally arrived, he opened the door, then slid open a black metal accordion gate and motioned for Arabella and me to step inside the wood-paneled space. A leather bench was attached to the back wall. As the elevator shuddered to life, I hoped the bench wasn’t there for napping to pass the time while we were laboriously lifted to the higher floors. We were moving like snails slugging through molasses in winter.

“Why didn’t we take the steps?” I asked, recalling the carpeted stairs in the lobby, one flight on the left of the elevator heading up, the one on the right heading down.

Colin shoved his hands into his pockets. “I didn’t think Americans liked to physically exert themselves, so I assumed you’d rather take the lift.”

“You know what happens when people assume, right?”

“Stop it, you two,” Arabella said, stepping between us. “I do not enjoy playing nanny, so I’d appreciate it if you would both behave like adults.”

The lift dinged, although we could see between the gate slats that we weren’t quite there. We were all silent as we listened to the ancient lift squeak and gasp like an old man. Somehow it managed to grind to a halt on the third floor.

“Lovely,” Arabella said, waiting as Colin opened the door into the middle of a short hallway with a black-and-white-checkered floor. Two massive dark wood doors with leaded glass transom windows dominated each end of the hallway, and Arabella proceeded left to the door with the number sixty-four marked in gold in the center. “Remember,” she said, turning to look at Colin and me. “Behave.” She pressed the buzzer. “To give them fair warning,” she said as she dropped her hand.

The sound of a dog barking from inside was quickly followed by footsteps approaching. Then the door was pulled open, and we were greeted by an attractive middle-aged brunette with tortoiseshell glasses and a bright white-toothed smile.

A small, fluffy gray-and-white dog with antennae-like ears and of questionable parentage darted from around her legs and began sniffing our feet in earnest as George pulled on his lead with happy yips.

“Oscar,” the woman chided, “they didn’t bring you food.”

With an almost audible sigh, the little dog slumped and sat at the woman’s feet.

“Laura,” Colin said affably. “And Oscar, of course.” He squatted down and grinned with a warmth I hadn’t yet seen directed at me. The little dog jumped into his arms as if they were old friends. They looked at each other with mutual admiration, and I had to admit that witnessing it improved my opinion of Colin by a frog’s hair.

“Laura, I’d like to introduce you to Madison Warner, the journalist I told you about,” Arabella said, moving forward with familiarity to greet Laura. “She’s here to interview Precious.”

Laura nodded. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve got the guest room all ready. Precious is in a bit of a grumpy mood today, but I know she’s looking forward to meeting you.”

Arabella waved her hand. “Oh, no worries. Maddie will get her feeling better in no time. Everyone loves Maddie.”

I chose that moment to pet Oscar, who was gazing lovingly up at Colin and licking his chin. The dog jerked his head in my direction and growled.

“Don’t take it personally,” Laura said. “Oscar loves Colin. He probably thinks you’re trying to separate them.” She held out her hand to me. “I’m Laura Allen, Miss Dubose’s nurse, although she prefers to call me her companion, since the word ‘nurse’ makes her feel old.”

She smiled warmly and I imagined if I had a need for friends, I’d like her to be one. I shook her outstretched hand. “Maddie Warner,” I said. “You’re an American?”

“I’m afraid so. We seem to be everywhere. I came over for what I thought would be a short-term assignment taking care of Colin’s grandmother Sophia during her last few years. When she passed, Penelope asked if I’d stay on to look after Miss Dubose. Although, as I’m sure you’ll discover, she doesn’t need or want a lot of looking after, even with her recent hospital stay and declining health. So don’t ask her how she’s feeling.”

“Got it.” I stifled a yawn with the back of my hand.

“You must be exhausted,” Laura said, taking my elbow and leading me inside. “I was just about to bring Miss Dubose her tea. Let me get something for you, too.”

We moved inside to a large foyer dominated by a mahogany fireplace that no longer appeared to be functional. The towering ceilings and ornate moldings made me think of the Greek Revival house where my mother and my aunt Cassie had been raised. The highly polished parquet floor reflected the light from the brass chandelier, which hung from an elaborate ceiling medallion. My gaze was drawn to a curved wall of leaded glass casement windows that sheltered a lone chair and a small table holding a rotary-dial telephone.

It was definitely grand, and what I’d imagined an Edwardian flat in London would look like. No dust clung to any surface, and I could probably see the reflection of my tired face and dark circles if I got close enough to the high shine of the brass fittings on the doors and light fixtures. Yet . . . I paused my thoughts, wondering what it was that made me think of those odd days after my mother’s death, when daylight and nighttime melded together in a gray fog that grounded us all.

Yes, there it was. An air of suspended breath, the anticipation like the moment before flipping on a light when you enter a darkened room. The antique furniture and phone all seemed to be waiting for something to happen, to welcome a visitor. To ring. For someone to walk through the front door after a long absence.

A dull pressure formed behind my eyes. It felt strangely like tears—until I remembered how exhausted I was and how my mother used to tell me how when I was small she’d have to lie down with me until I fell asleep; when I was tired, my imagination ran like wild horses.

“Are you all right?” Colin asked, surprising me with what sounded like genuine concern.

“Just jet-lagged. I could really use some caffeine. Or a lie-down, as Arabella suggested.”

“It’s best to stay up and live your day in the new time zone,” Laura said. “Precious is so eager to see you—I’m sure you’ll perk up as soon as we get some caffeine in you.” She pointed to a corner of the foyer. “You can leave your suitcase right there—Colin can put it in your room later—and follow me.”

Laura led us and the dogs into a bright kitchen with tall windows, a black-and-white-tiled floor, and a pretty oak trestle table in the middle of the room. A refrigerator, barely larger than a dorm fridge, sat next to the sink, and two blue dog beds—one large, one small—were tucked neatly into the corner.

“Tea for everyone?” Laura asked, filling a kettle. She must have seen the disappointment in my eyes. “I’ve got iced tea for Miss Dubose if you’d prefer that, Maddie.”

I felt as if I’d just been given a hug. “I would love that. Is it sweet tea?”

“Oh, yes,” Laura said, nodding her head with conviction. “I always add two teaspoons of sugar to Miss Duboses’s glass to make it sweet enough, but I’ll let you add your own.”

“I . . .” I stopped, not wanting to appear rude. But no Southern-born person would ever make sweet tea by dropping a teaspoon or two of sugar into a glass of cold tea. It had to be brewed with the sugar to be authentic. I knew a person’s sense of taste diminished with age, which had to be the only reason why Precious hadn’t revolted and demanded the real thing. Or her Southern roots made her too polite to say anything that might hurt Laura’s feelings. That was the same reason why I smiled and said, “That’s fine—thanks.”

Laura chatted with Arabella and Colin as she added tea leaves to a rose-spotted pot and poured boiled water from the kettle over it. Both Colin and Arabella nodded when she held up a small pitcher, then poured a generous amount of milk into two empty teacups. While waiting for the tea to steep, she pulled out a glass pitcher of iced tea from the refrigerator. “Lemon?” she asked.

“Sure,” I said, wondering how I was going to drink an entire glass of regular tea with undissolved sugar clumps floating in it.

“Shall we?” Laura asked as she placed a plate of McVitie’s Digestives onto the tray along with our various cups and glasses. “It’s good you’re here, Colin. Seeing you always brightens Precious’s day. You work so much that she considers it a treat to see you during the daytime.”

Colin picked up the tray. “Is she in her sitting room?”

“Yes. I’ll get the door.”

Laura gave treats to the dogs and left them in the kitchen. We followed her through a swinging door that led from the foyer to a long hallway with doors on each side. Framed photographs covered the walls. I lingered at one of them that was larger than the others: a black-and-white picture of what looked like a car from the nineteen thirties or forties, with the steering wheel on the right-hand side. An elegant, slender man with slicked-back dark hair and wearing a tuxedo stood beside the back door of the car where a woman in an evening gown appeared in the opening. His head was turned from the photographer, obscuring his face, his attention focused on the woman. His hand was held out toward her; her long, slender arms were bare of jewelry. One delicate foot in a high-heeled stiletto had emerged from the car, only one slim ankle and her white face visible above a heavy fur collar. But what a face. It wasn’t simply the beauty of it that I found so compelling. My stepmother, Suzanne, was a professional photographer. She had taught me that was the easy part of photography—taking pictures of things that most people want to look at, things that didn’t challenge them too much. To the professional, the secret was finding what lay behind the obvious beauty and figuring out whatever it was that made the viewer want to keep looking.

The woman’s bright hair and light eyes shone with vibrancy; the thrust of her shoulders and chest showed a level of confidence I usually didn’t see in women that young. But it was her expression that made me pause, step closer. Her mouth was partially open, as if she’d just spoken, and I found myself leaning forward as if to hear what she was saying. Looking closely at her eyes, I imagined I could: Help.

“Maddie? Aren’t you coming?” Arabella looked back at me.

“Sorry. I was just admiring the photographs.” Before I turned away, I spotted an elegant box-shaped purse clutched in the woman’s right hand, the paleness of her fingers stark against the dark fabric.

“You’ll have time to look at them later. Did you see the one of Colin’s grandparents on their wedding day? It was right before the war, and his grandfather is wearing his army uniform, although I believe he never saw active duty. But he looks quite dashing. Remember how we used to play dress up, Colin, and you paraded around in that same uniform?”

“That’s enough, Bella.” Colin glanced over his shoulder to glare at his cousin.

I followed them down the hallway, passing a large gold oval-framed photograph of a bride in white and a groom in uniform. They were perfect in their beauty and innocence, and appeared so very young and hopeful that it almost hurt to look at them. The groom held his hat, showing off a thick head of dark hair. He leaned into his bride as if he couldn’t bear to be apart from her. Her small hand rested in the crook of his arm, pulled close to her side.

I hurried after Arabella. “Did he survive the war?” I wished I hadn’t asked, not wanting to hear the answer if he hadn’t.

“David? Oh, yes. Thankfully. He and Sophia only had one child, James—Colin’s father—but by all accounts they lived long, happy lives.”

“That’s a relief.” I was gladder than I probably should have been, considering they were strangers to me. Yet one of the reasons I loved old photographs was because of the stories they told, usually by omission.

Arabella followed Colin, then held open the door at the end of the hall. I stood blinking, trying to acclimate my eyes to the dimness, as she latched it behind me. Everything seemed swathed in dusky peach, from the silk wallpaper to the heavy drapes on the tall windows. Even the thick carpet was the same soft hue, all of it reminding me of my little sister’s Barbie mansion.

“Precious says the light is more flattering to her complexion,” Arabella whispered.

“I can hear you, you know” came a soft Southern voice from an upholstered chaise beneath a large bay window. Her words dripped like melted butter, the familiar accent an unexpected tug on my heart, making me homesick.

Laura pulled open the drapes, exposing a small balcony railing outside the French doors and illuminating an open doorway into an adjacent bedroom behind the chaise. Colin placed the tray down on a small table, and Laura excused herself.

I tried not to stare at the woman on the chaise, but then I imagined she was used to being the focal point of any room. She wore a long peach silk robe with floating feathers around the neck and peach satin kitten-heeled slippers on her slender feet, her ankles currently crossed. Thick blond hair in perfect waves rested on her shoulders, making me wonder if she wore a wig like my aunt Lucinda, who placed hers on a plastic head on her dresser each night.

She had the same high cheekbones as the woman in the photograph in the hallway, the same patrician nose and jaw, the angles of her face still sharp. Yet she was slighter, too, all extra skin and tissue jettisoned, as if she’d paid a balance due each year, leaving behind a woman who at first glance appeared diminished.

Or not. Maybe if I’d seen her first with her eyes closed, I would have believed that. But her eyes weren’t the eyes of an old woman nearing the end of her life. Her pale blue eyes were like those of a cat perched on a ledge, deciding between the approaching stranger and a leap into oblivion.

“Good morning, Aunt Precious,” Arabella said as she leaned down to kiss the old woman’s lifted cheek.

This was definitely the woman in the photograph stepping out of the car. Even at her age, her bone structure and poise, the long limbs and elegant neck, the near-perfect alabaster skin still made her a beautiful woman. I recalled a book I’d read in high school lit class about a man who’d sold his soul to the devil so that he would have eternal youth. I’d never believed such a thing was possible. But now, looking into those eyes, I almost believed it was.

“Hello, Nana.” Colin bent to kiss the offered cheek, and when he went to straighten up, Precious took his hand and held tight.

“Sit next to me,” she said. “So I can get a good look at you.”

“Of course,” he said. “But allow me to introduce you to the journalist who will be interviewing you for the Vogue article.”

“I’m Madison Warner,” I said. “My friends call me Maddie.” I reached out my hand, and she dropped Colin’s so she could place soft fingertips in mine, much like I imagined the queen did when meeting her subjects.

Precious peered at me closely. I wondered if she didn’t wear glasses out of vanity, or if she didn’t need them. “It’s such a pleasure,” she drawled, her voice lingering over syllables the short word wasn’t meant to have. I wanted to let go of her hand, but she kept looking at me.

“Arabella tells me we’re kin.”

She hadn’t indicated that I should sit, and Colin wouldn’t sit until Arabella and I did, so we remained standing awkwardly. “We are. Arabella and I found out by accident when we were at Oxford. My sister had sent me a copy of our ancestry chart, and Arabella saw it and recognized your name. That’s how I learned that you’d been a model before and after the war.”

She continued to examine me closely, and I had to resist the impulse to squirm. Standing this close, I could see the ashen pallor beneath the makeup on her face, could feel the brittle, birdlike bones of her hand. It reminded me too much of my mother, and I wanted to jerk away. But she continued to hold on tightly, her eyes studying my face.

She let go of my hand. “I’m a very good observer of people, and if I had to guess, I’d say you have your own story to tell. I see it in your eyes.” Precious didn’t wait for me to respond. “I’ve changed my mind. Maddie, please sit next to me. Colin, why don’t you and Arabella take your tea in the drawing room while I get to know Maddie better.” She didn’t bother with an inflection at the end of her sentence; it hadn’t been a question.

“Of course,” Arabella said brightly. “I need to get back to work anyway. My phone has been blowing up with texts.” She leaned over and gave Precious a peck on the cheek. Colin moved the iced tea glasses to the table, then removed the tray. With a quick glance in my direction, he followed Arabella from the room.

I suddenly felt as if I’d been thrown from the side of a boat without a life preserver. I bumped into the small table as I maneuvered my legs beneath it, feeling like Alice in Wonderland as I overshadowed not only the table but the chaise, too. I wondered how Colin would have managed it.

“I’m glad you’re here to write about the clothes and not about me. I don’t like to talk about my past,” Precious said without preamble. She reached for her iced tea glass, her hand shaking slightly. I somehow knew better than to offer assistance. “Although I suppose it’s about time. Everybody tells me I’m dying, so I figure I’d better pay attention and tell my story to someone before it’s too late. Maybe I’ve just been waiting for the right person to tell it to.”

She leaned close, studying me intently. “I do believe I see the family resemblance.” Her voice was more breath than words, the effect almost wistful. As if she wished that her words were true. Precious sat back. “Perhaps that’s why Arabella thought we might get along like biscuits and gravy.”

I watched as she brought the glass to her lips and took a small sip. I picked up my own iced tea and did the same, trying not to shudder at the blandness and avoiding a small clump of undissolved sugar. Our eyes met with silent understanding. Precious stared into her glass at the sugar clumps floating at the top like little icebergs. “Poor Laura—she’s so kind to make sweet tea, and I don’t have the heart to tell her that she’s doing it wrong.” She grimaced as she replaced the glass on the table, looking relieved either because she’d managed a sip or because she hadn’t dropped the glass.

“One thing you should know about me is that I’m very good at noticing details about people. Why does Colin call you Madison if your friends call you Maddie?”

I considered evading the truth, but knew that her sharp gaze missed nothing. If I wanted her to be frank and open with me, I needed to do the same. “Because we aren’t really friends.”

She raised an elegant eyebrow. “And why is that?”

I felt her discerning gaze upon me again, seeing the truth behind my smile. I took a deep breath. “Because I dated some of his friends.”

She frowned. “Did Colin never ask you for a date?”

“Actually, he did. We even went out once.”

She didn’t say anything but continued to look at me as if waiting for me to say more. I sighed, deciding to be candid. “We had a great time. That’s when I realized that Colin is the kind of guy a girl could really fall for. In a permanent way. So I never went out with him again even though he asked. More than once. With his buddies, there was no danger of anything permanent.”

She was quiet for a moment—digesting my answer, I supposed. “And now?” she asked. “Do you still only date temporary men?”

I met her gaze. “Yes.”

“In my day, they had a word for girls like you.”

I swallowed. “Yes, well, if that makes you uncomfortable, I’m sure Arabella can find another journalist.” I began to slide off of the small chaise, my legs bumping the table so the liquid in the glasses sloshed over the sides.

“Wait,” she said, the force of the word surprising us both. “Don’t go. I’m the last person in the world to judge.”

I stopped and looked at her, trying to decipher the emotions crossing her face.

“Did you lose someone you loved?” Precious asked, and I knew she wasn’t speaking of misplacing someone or leaving someone behind. And I wondered if that was one of the details she was in the habit of noticing.

“Yes,” I said. “A long time ago.”

She nodded. “Whoever said time heals all wounds is a liar. Grief is like a ghost, isn’t it? Haunting our reflections.”

My eyes prickled. “I’m sorry,” I said, standing, my hands on the table to keep it from moving. “I’ll leave now. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

“Good-bye, Maddie. Please take the tea and tell everyone that I’m going to rest for a bit. We’ll speak again tomorrow after lunch. We can talk about the clothes then. And how they transformed my world.”

“But . . .” I stopped. She’d closed her eyes, and although she couldn’t possibly already have been sleeping, it was clear she was done speaking.

Knowing I’d been dismissed, I walked to the door, then turned to look at her again, admiring the beautiful lines of her face and wondering at the stories I knew lay hidden behind her closed eyes. Grief is like a ghost.

Yes, there were stories there. I just hoped there would be time to hear them all.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Miss Dubose,” I said to her still form, then shut the door quietly behind me.