Treading through the long grass around the farm, I move far enough away from the road that I can hide in the weeds if I have to, and cut into the woods, walking in the direction George pointed.
A small dirt path leads me to a clearing where metal stars and ribbons hang from sticks planted deep in the ground. A stone cross sits in the center, with a star carved at the top and the name ELDRIDGE underneath it in tall letters. The stone is cracked and surrounded by flowers and folded pieces of paper. There are tree stumps around it, sliced at odd angles, pieces of them crumbling away from age and rot. I don’t know what this place is but I feel drawn to it. I step forward, and my ears start to buzz.
I trace my fingers along the mossy top of the stone, and shadows move in the woods. The sun has begun to set, and the golden rays cut through the branches of the surrounding trees, leaving little drops of light on the ground.
The shadows seem to circle me. They’re closing in, moving across the leaves, flickering with the ribbons, multiplying around me. Suddenly, I don’t like how I feel here. I have to move on. It’s getting cold, and I want to get inside before it’s dark.
When I step out of the woods and crest the hill, I can see straight into the valley. Power lines snake along the woods and down, leading to a giant, white, two-story estate dotted with windows flanked by green wooden shutters. A balcony wraps around the second story, and vines and flowers from potted plants spill out from the railings, hanging so low they almost touch the ground. Long rays of sunlight paint swatches of red on the black slate roof.
Surrounding the property is a neck-high stone wall covered in ivy, and the road leads to a metal gate, which opens into a cobblestone courtyard. There’s a large oak tree by the front of the house next to a dirt area to the side where a few horses are tied, and some carriages are pulled up and arranged in neat little rows, and there’s even a few black automobiles parked in the grass.
This is where the money goes, Mr. Spencer said, and now I’m starting to believe him. This is more of a hotel than a house.
There’s movement in the yard. A woman in a yellow dress slinks around, gliding to the back of the building, where there’s a cemetery of gray stones poking from the ground. She disappears in the dusk. I get a shiver down my arms and wonder if it was a ghost, but of course that can’t be true. Ghosts are made-up things, just like my cotton creations. I know that. I know that.
Still, I watch the house, looking for John and Mr. Spencer. All I can see are blurred figures through the windows. When it gets dark enough, lamps are lit in the windows and the whole place seems to tremble in the breeze, like a hard wind could blow it all away.
Horse hooves clop far in the distance.
Now, Liza. Go.
I run down the hill and kneel in a pile of mud, rub it over my arms and face. I set my suitcase in the middle of the road and slink to a ditch by the side, close my eyes and cover my face with my arms.
It’s getting colder, and the ground makes it worse. My body hurts, and I start shaking so hard that my teeth rattle around in my head.
How long does it take to freeze to death? I wonder. Except there’s no snow or ice and surely you can’t freeze to death in autumn, can you?
The night is still, and I can hear sounds from the house, dinner plates clanging, people talking and laughing. The air smells like smoke and frost.
The faint clopping of horse hooves is getting louder, but they still sound far away, like they’re never getting closer, so I stay motionless, waiting, hoping my fingers don’t turn blue and snap clean off.
Finally, they’re close enough that I can hear the rattling of their straps, and a man yells, “Whoa, there!” The carriage stops in the middle of the road. He sees the suitcase first, grunts in confusion, and then it’s not long till his eyes move over to me in the ditch.
“Whoa,” he says again.
His boots slap against the ground, and then his hands are on my shoulders, pulling me up. A woman’s voice calls out from the carriage, “Excuse me? Why did we stop? What’s wrong?”
“There’s a little girl in the ditch,” the driver answers.
“Oh, heavens!” the woman says.
He presses the back of his hand to my neck. “Looks half dead.”
A moan escapes my lips and I collapse into him. His arms are warm, and I start shivering again and then I can’t stop. He puts me on his seat in the back of the carriage and whips at the reins, driving toward the house.
“Don’t go there,” the woman whispers.
“There isn’t much choice. She needs help now.”
The driver stops at the gate, calling out, “Hello! Is someone there?” and a Black man with a mustache runs out and opens it.
We pass through into the courtyard, and I feel light-headed, like the air is thinner in this place. Different, somehow. A chill starts at my neck and works down my arms and legs. It must all be in my mind. It was so cold on that road, and I’m tired from traveling all day.
Suddenly, there’s a swarm of people around me, running from the house and surrounding the carriage.
A big woman with gray hair clipped in a bun on top of her head pulls me from the seat and sets me on the ground. She pries open my eyes and stares into them.
“Is she all right?” the driver asks.
“She’s alive,” the woman says. “Looks to be in a rough state.”
I give another moan, louder this time, but it starts a cough that I can hardly stop, and my lungs burn from the cold air.
“Found her by the side of the road,” the driver says, hat in his hands. He looks at the house and all the people in the yard, no doubt having heard tales of the people here. “She only had this with her.”
He lays my suitcase down beside me and steps back, as if leaving a piece of meat to a rabid dog. Suddenly, he seems to have a change of heart.
“Actually, if she seems well enough, I can take her to the next town. There’s a doctor there that can—”
“That will be all right. Thank you for your help,” the gray-haired lady says. The driver returns to the cab and hops back in, racing away from the place like that rabid dog might break free and give chase.
The woman in the yellow dress, the same one I saw walking around the gravestones, comes and feels my hands.
“Ice cold,” she says. “I’ll boil a bath.”
“Thank you, Margaret,” the gray-haired lady says. She stares into my eyes. “I was expecting you, darling, and here you are, right on time. Tell me your name.”
I don’t say anything yet, still pretending to be too weak to speak. Stories are so important at the beginning. There’s an awful lot you can get wrong.
She scoops me up and carries me toward the front door, where I see Mr. Spencer leaning against a pole on the porch, smoking a pipe. John sits beside him, his hands folded in his lap and his hair neatly combed to the side. A small, orange corgi sits beside him, panting heavily. The dog whines at me as I pass by, and John seems to look right through me, like I’m not even there.
Good, John, I think. Keep pretending.
The crowd follows us back into the warmth of the house, and the lady sets me down in a room with a fireplace. It’s so warm that I nearly giggle with joy.
“Ms. Eldridge, should I call the police?” the man with the mustache asks. His voice is deep and commanding, but the way he asks tells me he’s not in charge here.
Eldridge. The same last name that I saw on the stone in the woods.
“That won’t be necessary, Charles,” Ms. Eldridge says, clucking her tongue. “They’d love any reason to poke their noses around, and I won’t give them a chance without cause.”
Charles is wearing a blue suit, a bit too big for his thin body, but he’s handsome in it. His hair is neatly cut, peppered with gray, and he wears little round glasses that reflect the light of the fire. Charles slides my suitcase over and she opens it, sorts through my clothes and pulls out a pair of wool pajamas.
“Filthy old things, but this looks warmer. Take it back to Margaret.”
“Any name on the handle?” Charles asks.
“Nothing,” she says, sorting through my clothes and tossing a blue dress on a chair. Luckily, she doesn’t dig too deep. “She’s a little mystery, isn’t she? Just a few ratty dresses and socks. Poor thing looks like she’s running from something.”
“We really should call the police, ma’am.”
“Charles!” Ms. Eldridge says, and when she stands, I can see what an imposing figure she is; tall and thick, with rough hands that look like they’ve done a good deal of hard work. “I will not tell you again.”
Charles slinks off, holding my pajamas in his hands.
Soon, Margaret reappears and tells Ms. Eldridge that the water is boiled, and the two women pull me away from the fire and lead me through the house.
I pass a crowded room and see Mr. Spencer has moved inside to the parlor, legs crossed, fingers pulling invisible strings in the air, telling stories that I know are full of lies. John sits on the floor beside him, a smile on his lips as he pats the small dog’s head.
The house seems even larger inside, constructed of long hallways with creaky, uneven floors, and we pass gas lamps on the walls that flicker with our movement.
“You’ll bathe back here,” Margaret says, pointing at a room filled with people.
Shocked, I almost open my mouth to protest, but when I get closer, the people fade, morphing into mere shadows cast by curtains and furniture. Tricks of the light—and now I see that it’s just me and the woman, alone. My heart beats faster at the surprise. I swear I saw eyes looking at me, I was sure they were—
No. No. I blink and take in the room again. It’s attached to the back of the house. It was probably a porch once, but now it has solid white walls and large windows on three sides. There’s a bath in the center, surrounded by an overhanging circular curtain. The room is warm and hazy with steam, and I slip inside the curtain and peel off my dress, stepping into the hot water.
I melt like ice.