17

The Tower Room

When I woke up the next morning, my head was throbbing.

Wine … graveyard … Clarissa.

I rolled over and reached for her, feeling dead air. She had slipped away in the night. My thoughts returned to our time together. Clarissa had teased me, taunted me, enticed me into doing things I had never imagined. Part of the allure had been the sense of danger, the fear of getting caught, and an unexpectedly sublime feeling of rebellion. Yet the warm afterglow I had felt after my first night with Nancy, the feeling that something intense and forever had taken place, wasn’t there. It was sex—uninhibited, incredible sex—and nothing more. No emotions, no insecurities, no strings. In the coming days, like a faithful husband I would make her bed, scrub her bathroom, and prepare her breakfast. And then she would leave, and our encounter would be a titillating memory, free of yearning and heartbreak.

I stretched in bed, letting out a loud, purgative yawn, and rolled back over, closing my eyes. I tried to conjure up the image of Clarissa writhing in my arms like an untamed animal, but less desirable images interfered. Alexander hunched over in his wheelchair, one eye fixed on me accusingly. Lady Graverly’s crestfallen look under the hooded robe. Lincoln’s cloudy eyes and nebulous words. Clarissa kneeling by the tombstone, trying to convince me to look for the cellar.

I sat up, suddenly remembering Clarissa’s threat to break into the private quarters on her own. A beam of light filtered through a gap in the curtain. The sun was unusually high. What time was it? I reached for my watch—10:43 am.

Breakfast. I had told Lincoln I would prepare it. There were thirteen guests in-house! Stumbling to the closet, I caught my haggard reflection in the mirror. I couldn’t go downstairs looking like this, not without a shower and shave. Grabbing my toiletry kit, I headed for the door, but a wave of dizziness stopped me. My forehead was burning. Could I be this hung over? Was I too old for Clarissa’s wild ways? Or … had I been drugged? I thought of her intoxicating potions … Alexander’s medication and its instantly tranquilizing effect. In a moment, the spinning subsided, and I groped for the door. It wouldn’t open. I tugged at the handle, twisted it, jiggled it, gave the door a kick, but it refused to budge. Remembering the lock on the outside of the door, I wondered if it had somehow fallen into place when Clarissa left. But no, a key was required.

I banged on the door. “Hello? Is anybody there?”

The house was silent.

Could all the guests have departed already? It was possible, particularly if no one had been there to serve breakfast. Why hadn’t Lincoln or Lady Graverly come looking for me? I went to the window and peered out. It was a clear, sunny morning. An elderly woman in a leisure suit power-walked by, followed by a man in a long leather coat, smoking, a cell phone pressed to his ear. Where was my cell phone? I was certain I had placed it on the nightstand. I searched under the bed, inside the bed, my pockets, every inch of the room. Had Clarissa confused her metallic red Motorola Razr for my clunky old Nokia? Not likely.

I pounded on the door again, shouting Lincoln’s name, Clarissa’s name, the name of every occupant of the household. I stamped my feet and hollered.

Nothing.

Why couldn’t they hear me? From four floors up, I had heard Alexander moaning. It was Sunday; Lady Graverly should be at church. Clarissa would be fast asleep—unless she was acting on her plan to explore Lady Graverly’s apartment. That thought sent me into renewed paroxysms of pounding and stamping. Eventually I wore myself out, my stamina somewhat compromised by the hangover. I sat on the bed. Elinor would be furious that I had missed breakfast, particularly after last night’s incident. The Tattersalls would have helped themselves, leaving a huge mess. I had five rooms to clean, laundry to do, loads of chores. No arrivals were expected, but for all I knew, another family of eight was on its way.

I told myself to relax. Lincoln would come looking for me soon enough. He was too lazy to do all the work himself. If not Lincoln, then Lady Graverly—if only to tell me to pack my bags and go.

I had to pee. An incident at the Universe Hotel came to mind. A convention of disabled people had checked in, and staff had undergone training to handle their special needs. One night, an elevator broke down, trapping several delegates inside, including a blind couple, a deaf woman, a woman in a wheelchair, and two mentally disabled men. The repair company was called, and I tried to keep the group calm via the elevator phone. After about three hours, the guests began panicking. One of the mentally disabled men couldn’t hold it any longer and peed on the floor. The group was stuck for another hour, their feet steeped in a puddle of urine. By the time the elevator doors finally glided open, the occupants were apoplectic. Offering profuse apologies, I comped their rooms and later sent up hand-written apologies. I got a nasty call. “You sent a handwritten note to a blind person!” That was one of the most blistering rebukes of my career. Now, trapped in the tower room, I fully understood the trauma they had experienced.

I eyed the sink, then got up and turned on the tap.

After finishing my business, I ran the tap for a few minutes and then lay back down on the bed. It was a good excuse to sleep off my hangover. The housework could wait. I was expected at my mother’s house at six for dinner, but by then I could gnaw my way out if I had to. The circular room began to spin like an amusement park ride. I closed my eyes, willing it to stop, and my mind began to whirl. Had Clarissa locked me in deliberately to make sure I didn’t interfere while she searched for the cellar? If she was down there now, was she in danger? My suspicions moved to Lady Graverly, furious with me last night. Was she punishing me? Or was this part of Lincoln’s campaign to frighten me into leaving? Or had Sir Fester locked me in to exact his revenge?

I was being paranoid. I needed fresh air. Pulling myself to my feet, I went to the window and tried to open it, pushing and tugging and banging until the glass cracked. I stared out, hands pressed against the fractured glass, and thought of my mother, of my sisters, and their children, and how I had sent them away. The idea of going to the park with them now held enormous appeal. A man walked by with a dog, a rottweiler, and I recognized them from the night of the showing. I pounded on the window frame. The dog gave a cursory look in my direction, and he and his master disappeared down the street. Had I triumphed over the other buyers that night, or had I been selected for some kind of curse? What should have been a simple real estate transaction had turned into a complex, emotionally draining nightmare. If the manor caught fire, I could die here, all for nothing. Clarissa’s Rapunzel story came back to me. The notion of young Sarah imprisoned here suddenly felt very real. Was that why there was a lock on the outside of the door? Had Lord Graverly locked her here after impregnating her, fattening her up like a Christmas pheasant?

No. There was no forced pregnancy, no imprisonment, no murder. Bodies didn’t just vanish. Lord Graverly had fallen in love with Sarah, and they had walked into the sunset, raising their child together and living happily ever after, like Rapunzel and the prince.

I lay down and closed my eyes.

Hours passed. I fell in and out of sleep. At various times, I got up to call for help, shouting foul words and insults to provoke any reaction, banging on the window, stomping on the floor, lunging at the door until my shoulders were bruised. Downstairs, I heard the occasional ring of the telephone, but otherwise there was no sign of life. To quench my thirst, I drank metallic-tasting water from the tap. Every thought led to food. A cheeseburger … a slice of pizza … the rosemary chicken Mom would be placing in the oven about now. Even one of her vile organic concoctions sounded appealing. I pulled the copy of Our Food Is Killing Us from the shelf and flipped through it, licking my lips over photos of diseased chickens, malformed vegetables, and genetically mutated fruit.

Darkness fell. My sisters would be making casual observations about my tardiness. Seven o’clock arrived. Their remarks would carry an air of indignation. Seven thirty. Janet would be mad, Mom stoically optimistic, Wendy worried. I heard the phone ring again, and anxiety gripped me. If I died here, would anyone miss me? I had broken off ties with all friends but Derrick. Shanna would miss me, but she had concerns of her own. Did I deserve to be missed? Wendy was right. I had been acting like I lived thousands of miles away.

I began to feel feverish. My body was bleeding sweat. I thought of Alexander, confined to his wheelchair … Sarah, imprisoned in the tower … Lady Jane Grey, locked in the Tower of London awaiting execution … Lady Graverly, creeping up the stairs with an axe.

I leapt from the bed. If I got out now, I could still make dessert at Mom’s house. I searched the room for something, anything, to pry open the door. Moving the chair to the closet, I inspected the shelf. A thick layer of dust. The chair tipped, and as I struggled to regain my balance, I spotted an uneven patch of drywall in the corner above the shelf. Steadying myself on the chair, I reached out and felt around it. After some coaxing, a square of drywall came loose. Pushing my hand into the hole, I nudged something. It took a few minutes to extract it, but soon I had an old notebook in my hands. Stepping down from the chair, I blew the dust away and inspected it. It was an old leather-bound journal with gold trim. Carrying it to the sink, I wiped it down with a hand towel and held it to the light. It looked identical to the guest books I had seen in the private quarters. Fascinated, I sat down on the bed and opened it. On the inside cover, the name “Sarah Kilpatrick, 1957” was written in flowery script. Sarah’s diary.

My heart pounding, I carefully turned the brittle pages. In some areas, the ink was so faded the writing was illegible. I flipped back to the first entry, dated November 11, 1957.

The house is lovely but rather large, and minding it is a great deal of work. Lord Graverly is very kind to me, but he is a strange man. I miss Agnes very much.

I turned the pages, scanning the mundane thoughts and girlish musings. Near the middle of the book I came upon a red smudge on the side of the page—a bloody thumbprint. I stared at it, this little smear of Sarah Kilpatrick’s DNA, a drop of blood she had shed like a tear almost fifty years ago. Near the back of the book, I found the final entry, dated November 6, 1958, a full year after the first entry.

I feel like a big wet balloon that will burst any minute! Lord Graverly is a sick man. I shall not rear my child in this house. As soon I am well enough, I shall escape. I truly hope my father will forgive me. He is my family, and I miss him so.

The sound of creaking steps alerted me to the door. Someone was coming up the stairs.

“Hello?” I called out, hurrying to the door and pounding on it.

No answer.

“It’s me, Trevor. I’m locked in! Who’s there?”

When the voice came, it was so close I yanked my head back: “Are you feeling better now, my dear?”

“Elinor? Let me out of here!”

The door rattled. “You’ll have to unlock the door for me.”

“If I could do that, I wouldn’t have spent the entire fucking day here! Get the goddamn key, for god’s sake!”

“Goodness! There’s no need for such language. Wait there, and I’ll see if I can find the key.”

“Hurry! I’m dying in here.”

While I waited, I wiped down the diary and placed it under my mattress, and then sat down, mulling over Sarah’s words. Sarah had not been in love with Lord Graverly like I assumed; rather, she seemed to loathe him, or at least had learned to distrust him over time, and had been plotting to leave. What happened after she wrote her last entry? Had she given birth only to have Lord Graverly kill her? Or had Lady Graverly killed them both in a jealous rage?

I heard a key in the lock. “This cursed lock is jammed again,” Lady Graverly muttered through the door.

“This has happened before?”

“Not in quite some time.”

“Then I suggest you call a bloody locksmith and get it fixed.”

“My, my! So ornery.” I heard her struggling with the handle.

“Why has no one checked in on me?”

“Miss Larch said you were ill and didn’t wish to be disturbed.”

“She said what?”

“We had no reason to doubt her, given where she spent the evening.”

At last, the door sprang open.

I leapt out. Despite my anger, I was so happy to see her I threw my arms around her, feeling a sob of relief burble within me.

“You poor boy, you must be famished!” she said, running her clawed hands down my back. “Come along, I’ll serve you some dinner.”

Sitting me at the dining room table, Lady Graverly said she would be back in a moment and hurried out. I heard the door to her private quarters open and close. A moment later, she returned with a bottle of fine French wine. I watched impatiently as her gnarled fingers attempted to unpeel the foil, then snatched the bottle from her hands and uncorked it. She retrieved two crystal goblets from the cabinet and set them down.

“I’ll get you something to eat,” she said as I poured the wine.

I watched her disappear through the swinging door, surprised she knew where the kitchen was. She was wearing a black silk dress with billowy sleeves, and her hair was fastened at the top with a wiry contraption that looked like a big spider.

While I waited I gulped down wine, tasting blackberry and oak and something faintly bitter. Soon a sense of well-being washed over me. I wouldn’t die in the tower room. Food was on its way. As my head cleared, I felt embarrassed by my delusional thoughts, by my panicked, crazed behavior. I had been locked up for a single day, yet I had acted as though I had been imprisoned for a lifetime.

Needless to say, Lady Graverly had some explaining to do. I now had a written testimonial of Sarah’s pregnancy, and I was certain that Alexander was not Elinor’s son. If Elinor had stolen the baby, I intended to report her and hand over the diary to the police, leaving them to figure out the rest. Then I would pack my belongings and leave. Compared to this house of horrors, the Harbourside Hotel didn’t sound like such a bad place to work after all.

Lady Graverly returned with a plate heaping with roast chicken, potatoes, and vegetables. I eyed it ravenously as she placed it before me, the scent of rosemary wafting to my nose.

“How did you know this is my favorite?” I asked, slicing into the chicken breast.

“Is it really? How wonderful.”

“Where is everybody?” I asked, realizing I hadn’t seen anyone.

“All the guests have checked out, of course. Lincoln and I managed to feed them all, and they were gone by eleven. I made sure of that.”

She watched me closely as I ate, smiling and nodding in encouragement, as though watching me take my medication, all the while muttering sympathetic words about my plight.

“I truly can’t imagine what it must have been like, locked up like that all day,” she said. “Though I suppose it must have given you time to think about what is important to you.”

I glanced up. I had not ruled her out as a suspect in my imprisonment. Was she asking if I had learned my lesson?

She gave a tender smile and patted my hand. “There, there. Eat, my child.” She lifted her wine and sipped, leaving a smear of crimson lipstick on the rim of the glass. “Oh, I almost forgot. Your sister called.”

My eyes moved to the clock on the wall. It was after midnight, too late to call her back now. “Have you seen my cell phone?” I asked.

“Why, yes, I believe it’s on the desk in the front hall. Lincoln found it in Miss Larch’s room.”

So Clarissa had taken it. “Where is Clarissa now?”

“Why, she checked out this morning.”

“Checked out? Why?”

“Miss Larch was always due to check out today.”

“She told me she was here for another week.”

“Why, that’s impossible. We have a tour group taking all our rooms on Wednesday. They’ve been booked for several months.” She poured more wine into my glass. “I can’t say I’m sorry to see her go. Why a man of your pedigree would associate with a person of such inferior breeding is beyond me.”

“Did she leave a note?” I asked, choosing to disregard the comment. “A forwarding number?”

“No, nothing. Would you like another helping?”

“No.” I pushed the plate away, now a pile of bones. Had Clarissa drugged me, locked me in the tower room, and lied about my state of health? Was it all part of her crazy-girl allure, a sick joke—a dominatrix game? What else could explain why she had left so abruptly? Yet, in spite of my misgivings, I felt hurt that she hadn’t bothered to say goodbye. This perfect scenario, this casual, no-strings-attached encounter, suddenly felt very complicated. I didn’t want to believe she had betrayed me. But if not her, then who?

“Where’s Lincoln?” I asked.

“Oh, dear Lincoln,” she said with a sigh. “After five decades as my loyal servant, he has retired. I shall miss him ever so much.”

I was dumbfounded. “He resigned today? Wasn’t that a little abrupt?”

“He has been contemplating retirement for years. His eyesight is failing, his bones stiff and sore, but he has been too loyal to leave. Selfishly, I let him stay. When you arrived, he knew his time was up. Rather than wait for the axe to fall, he took it upon himself to go with dignity.”

I felt a pang of guilt. It was true I had no intention of retaining him, but had I made it that obvious? If he had planned to leave, why had he tried to scare me off? There is evil in this household. Occupants were abandoning the manor like rats from a sinking ship. Did they know something I didn’t?

“It’s just me now, one person to do all the work,” I said bitterly. “This must be saving you loads of money.”

“Mr. Lambert, please. I had no idea this would happen.”

I threw my napkin down. “Elinor, is Alexander your son?”

“I beg your pardon? Of course he’s my son.”

I fixed my gaze on her. “Did you give birth to him?”

She flinched, but her eyes were defiant. “What unsavory thoughts have been planted in your head? Did Agnes share one of her desperate fabrications? Or Miss Larch—was she once again sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong?”

I continued to regard her without replying.

“Lincoln, then?” she said. “What has Lincoln told you?”

I blinked, surprised she would consider Lincoln a potential traitor. Still, I remained silent, waiting to see what kind of lies would come out of her mouth next. Minutes passed. She fidgeted with her wine glass. Her eyes darted around the room as though searching for an escape route. Outside, the wind rattled at the window.

At last, she relented. “I suppose it is time you knew the truth, Mr. Lambert. No, I am not Lord Alexander’s mother. But I have played that role since the day he was born. I have earned that title.”

“Sarah Kilpatrick is his mother, then?”

She looked away.

“Elinor, did you steal Sarah’s baby?”

Her head snapped back in my direction. “Certainly not! I saved that baby.”

“What? How?”

“The poor girl died in childbirth.”

“Sarah?” I thought of Sarah’s girlish script in the diary: I feel like a big wet balloon that will burst any minute. My mother had described my father’s death in a similar way: His aorta burst like a balloon. “Here, in this house?”

“In the very room where you’re residing.”

“And what about your baby? Were you ever pregnant?”

She took a sharp intake of breath. I braced myself for an outburst, but she lowered her head and said quietly, “I cannot bear children.”

“Tell me what happened, Elinor.”

A clump of red hair fell from the spider-like fastener, and she reached up to tuck it back in, revealing a flash of white hair under the wig. Arranging her arms neatly on the table, she began. “When I arrived from England, I knew at once something was the matter. Lord Graverly was not himself. He took me on a tour of the manor, which I found agreeable, if modest, and our last stop was the tower room. There he introduced me to the housemaid, a lovely young lass with hair the color of dark honey. She was very pregnant and looked unwell. In an instant, I knew what had taken place. I would have left that very moment had I anywhere to go. Instead, I retired to what is now the Henry VIII suite to collect my thoughts. Lord Graverly came to beg for my forgiveness, assuring me that Sarah would return to Scotland after she gave birth. I was heartbroken, naturally. I loved Lord Graverly with all my heart and was crushed by his betrayal. I resolved to return to England the next morning.

“Later that evening, Lord Graverly went out for a walk by the lagoon. Soon after he departed, I heard Sarah cry out in the tower room. I rushed upstairs and found her lying on the floor, writhing in pain. She told me she had fallen while climbing onto a chair to reach the closet shelf.”

I nodded slowly and remembered my own near fall. Had Sarah been putting away her diary at the time?

“The girl had gone into labor,” Lady Graverly continued. “I was frantic. Lord Graverly had forbidden me to call a doctor; he did not want to cause a scandal. I fetched some towels and a basin of water. When I returned, she was sitting in a pool of blood. Kneeling before her, I lifted her dress and pressed a towel between her legs. It came back soaked with blood. I told her to push with all her might. I saw the crown of the baby’s head appear. Afraid she would die before she gave birth, I urged her to push and push, until at last the baby came out. Then all at once Sarah grew absolutely still. The poor boy wasn’t breathing. Fearing I had lost them both, I held him against me and sobbed. Then, miraculously, he began to cry. I cut the umbilical cord and started to clean things up, but there was so much blood I must have fainted. The next thing I remember is waking up in bed with the baby in a bassinette and a bottle of formula beside me.”

“And Lord Graverly?”

“I never saw him again.”

I was stunned. “He abandoned you with Sarah’s baby?”

“He loved Sarah, not me. He couldn’t bear to be without her. I had always yearned for a son, and now I had one. He knew I would care for him as if he were my own, and so he left me the house and a small sum of money for its upkeep. It was the best arrangement for all, under the circumstances.”

“For all? What about Sarah’s sister, her parents? All these years they hoped she might still be alive, and you deprived them of her son. How could that possibly be the best solution for all?”

“Isn’t a glimmer of false hope better than no hope at all?”

I grew silent. Was this how Lady Graverly had coped with the loss of Lord Graverly, by maintaining a glimmer of false hope that he would come back to her after all these years? Clarissa had implied as much.

“I did them a favor!” Lady Graverly said haughtily. Then her tone softened. “Caring for the boy is a joy, but it is also a terrible burden. For forty-eight years, Alexander has ruled my life. I fell in love with him the moment I set eyes on him. The boy was so helpless, so indefensible, and I felt responsible for his condition. Sarah Kilpatrick’s family was poor. They would have had him institutionalized, and I couldn’t bear the thought. To support him, I had to take boarders. I built my private quarters to ensure he had a proper home. But the older I’ve become, the more difficult it’s been to do it all. I’ve been forced to take on fewer guests, and yet I need the income to operate the house, to pay my staff. When Lord Wakefield died, a solution presented itself. The Graverly estate would provide the wherewithal to ensure Alexander received the best of care for the remainder of his life, whether I was alive or dead. I put forward a claim on behalf of Lord Alexander, but it was contested by Lord Wakefield’s widow, a vile American woman whose greed knows no bounds. She lives in Graverly Castle and continues to fashion herself as the Marchioness of Middlesex, even though her husband is dead. The courts ruled against us.”

“You got nothing?”

“Not a farthing. An illegitimate son has no entitlement.”

I nodded, slowly piecing things together. “Why did you tell me Agnes’s sister died? She doesn’t have a sister.”

“She had a sister—Sarah.”

“Why did she leave so abruptly?”

“She deceived me! She entered this house under false pretenses! The night she left, she accused Lord Graverly of murdering her sister and me of colluding with him. Well, I told her exactly what happened to her sister, and I introduced her to Alexander. But she had no interest in her nephew. She only cares about money. She has no claim to anything! I ordered her to leave at once, and she returned to Scotland.”

“Then why did she scream, Elinor?”

“She screamed in shock upon seeing Alexander. He reminded her so much of her sister.”

“So what happens now?” I asked quietly.

“Oh, Mr. Lambert,” she said, clutching my arm with both hands, “if anything should happen to me, promise me you’ll ensure Alexander is taken care of?”

“Of course,” I said. Seeing fear in her eyes, I said, “Why, are you in danger?”

“It’s more complicated than you can imagine. But don’t fret, dear boy. On Friday I must go away, and before I leave I intend to have everything in place. Graverly Manor will be yours, and you will be able to forget that Lady Andrew Graverly ever existed.”

I sat with Lady Graverly for a long time, listening to her reminisce about her early years in the manor. She told me how she had loved to welcome guests, adored entertaining, was an attentive and fun-loving host who was beloved by her guests. Every week, she had held a salon in the parlor, welcoming distinguished guests, wealthy travelers, performers, and local artists.

“This was long before I started despising my guests,” she said with a cackle. “They called me the Grande Dame of Graverly Manor. My parties were legendary. You shan’t believe it, but I was quite beautiful back then. Many men courted me.”

“You’re beautiful now, Elinor,” I said, gazing at her fondly. I wished I had known her in her prime. She was formidable now; imagine her back then.

She gave a sad smile and reached over to caress my cheek. “You are so very kind, Mr. Lambert.”

“Did you ever consider remarrying?”

She shook her head. “My heart will always belong to Lord Graverly.”

“You don’t think he’s still alive?” I asked gently. “That he’ll come back?”

“I do not know.” A girlish smile spread across her lips, and her eyes became glassy and distant, as though she were keeping a secret she was desperate to tell.

I realized she was still waiting for Lord Graverly to sweep her off her feet. My heart ached for her. Here was the real story of the haunting of Graverly Manor: Lord Graverly existed, but only in Lady Graverly’s head. Clarissa was right: she had gone insane.

“Goodness, how late it is,” she said. “Will you help me to my quarters?”

She rested her head on my shoulder as we walked, seeming older and frailer than I had seen her before. I ushered her down the creaky hallway, past the images of her husband in happier days, and laid her on the bed. I pulled off her shoes and stockings, glancing briefly at her gnarled feet, and began to undress her.

“No,” she whispered, reaching for my hands to pull me to her. “Just lie with me, please. If only for a moment.”

I climbed onto the bed and settled next to her, listening to her breathe. Betrayed by the man she loved. Witness to the tragic death of his lover. Left to raise the brain-damaged boy on her own, a burden for fifty years.

Emitting a soft sigh, she turned on her side and nuzzled against me. I stared up at the canopy, its striped pattern and peaked roof like the inside of a circus tent, and felt her breath on my neck. I was in her bedroom at last, yet I hadn’t even looked around. I searched the room with my eyes. A red, old-fashioned telephone sat on the bedside table next to a pair of eyeglasses and a glass of water. The walls were grey and peeling, decorated with portraits, their faces dark. The furnishings leaned to one side or sat hunched over in defeat.

“Elinor, are you awake?” I whispered.

She lifted her head. “Yes, my darling?”

“What do you want from me?”

She was silent for a moment. “Nothing. I simply want you to have the manor.”

“Nothing else?”

“Let us talk another time. I’m ever so tired.”

I rolled over to face her. “I need to know your intentions.”

She smiled and reached out to caress my jaw. “My darling, if I were to find a way to take my rightful place as head of Graverly Castle, would you come with me?”

“In what role? As your butler? The innkeeper?”

Her eyes glittered. “As so much more.”

“Such as?”

She pressed her fingers against my lips. “It’s time to rest.” Moving closer, she rested her head on my chest.

I lay still, waiting for her to fall asleep so I could slip away.

“Oh, Trevor,” she breathed. “I’m so lonely.”

I stiffened. She had called me Trevor for the first time. I felt her leg move over my thigh. The hard bone of her knee pressed against me. She placed an arm over my shoulder, clinging to me. Reaching down, I extracted her leg and pushed it away. My fingers felt something silky and coarse on her thigh. Sitting up, I looked down. Her gown was riding up her legs, exposing a large, unsightly mole on her inner thigh. I sat up and put my feet on the floor.

How could I have been so naïve? She wasn’t interested in me as an adopted son or as an innkeeper. Her feelings were deeper than that: she wanted me to be her lover and husband. Disquieted by the notion, I stood up and began making my way to the door. Halfway there, I stopped. I heard the sound of labored breathing and smelled a faintly acrid odor. Slowly, I turned around.

Alexander sat slumped in his wheelchair in the far corner of the room. A part in the curtains cut a slash of light across his neck and face. He was staring at me.

“Hello, Alec,” I said softly. I made my way over, trying to steady my breathing, telling myself there was no reason to fear him. A mother’s fall, a few minutes of oxygen deprivation, and he had suffered for life. My eyes moved back to Lady Graverly, who lay asleep, her grandeur reduced to a tiny figure, a pile of bones on the bed.

I squatted down before Alexander and smiled to put him at ease. How long since he had been outside, since he had breathed fresh air? “Would you like to go for a walk?” I whispered, taking his clammy hand in mine. Feeling a slight squeeze, I took it as consent and steered the wheelchair toward the door.

“Oh, Trevor,” Lady Graverly breathed somnolently. “My prince …
my handsome prince.”

Outside, the night was perfectly calm. The wheelchair veered in my hands, as though having a mind of its own, and we turned down the street. “O! lure of the Lost Lagoon,” I said aloud, remembering the poem. I chattered to Alexander as we made our way toward the lagoon. The grade dipped, and the wheelchair felt heavy in my hands. Fearing I would lose my grip and the wheelchair would hurl down the street and into the lagoon, I turned it in the other direction and pushed it up Chilco Street and away from the lagoon.

After a few minutes, I sensed Alexander’s spirits lift. Like me, he had been trapped in that suffocating house all day, perhaps longer. How could one not feel a sense of elation to breathe the city’s fresh winter air?

An hour later, I wheeled him back to the house. Lady Graverly had changed into her nightclothes and was snoring loudly under the blankets. The hair fastener sat on the nightstand next to her like a giant spider. Pushing the wheelchair into Alexander’s bedroom, I found a pair of pajamas in his dresser drawer and readied him for bed.

“Good night, Alec,” I whispered, standing over him. “Sweet dreams.”

His eyes fluttered open, and I thought I detected a glimmer of gratitude. I flicked off the light and made my way down the hallway. As I entered the foyer, I was startled to hear footsteps on the verandah. It was past three am. Clarissa? I went to the door and peered out the window. A heavyset woman in a dated pink-and-blue ski jacket was pacing the verandah. I flung open the door.

“Wendy?”

“Oh my god, you’re alive!” Her look of relief quickly changed to anger. “Where the hell have you been? We thought you got into an accident!”

“I was locked in my room all day.”

“What? The crazy lady said you were out with some girl.”

“Lady Graverly said that?”

“If you forgot about dinner, at least have the decency to tell the truth.”

“I am telling the truth! The lock on my door got jammed. I was trapped all day.”

She let out a huff, not buying it, and resumed pacing. “Mom and I were so sure you’d show up. I kept telling Janet to be patient, you promised, but she knew better.”

“I intended to come, Wendy. Believe me, there’s nothing I would have wanted more.”

She stopped pacing and turned to me. I noticed her eyes were red and puffy. “Didn’t you get my messages? Why didn’t you call?”

“I lost my cell phone. It was too late by the time I got out.”

She was trying not to cry. “I was so worried about you.”

“I’m sorry, I’ve been preoccupied by this house, by Lady Graverly.”

Anger flashed in her eyes. “What about your own mother? Did you forget about her?”

“Of course not. I’ll call and apologize. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

“It’s too late!” The words came out as a shriek. “You missed more than dinner, Trevor. A lot has happened since you opted out of the family, but you don’t seem to have any desire to catch up. Remember that game we used to play when we were kids, when you were a king and Janet and I were peasants? You still treat us that way, like we’re begging at your door.”

“I do not! That’s not fair. You’re overreacting.”

“It was an important dinner, Trevor.”

Wendy’s knees gave out suddenly, and she fell to the floor.

I rushed to her. “What is it, Wendy? What’s wrong?”

“It’s Mom. The cancer is back. She has less than three months.”