To my great relief, Matthew’s bedroom was Spartan compared to the rest of the house. Here, at last, was a place I felt at ease. Larger than the apartment I’d grown up in, it was bright and uncluttered, with a four-poster bed, a wide bay window overlooking the lake, and a scattering of worn armchairs and settees. The walls were for the most part bare, which made the one painting tucked in a nook near the bathroom all the more striking.
It showed a young woman walking through the grass, barefoot, a crown of flowers on her head. The artist had given the composition an appealing sense of motion: the woman’s legs were caught midstride, and her hands were tangled in the billows of her white dress. Her hair, a shade between blonde and brown, cascaded over her shoulders, tendrils of it lifted by the wind. Her face was in profile, captured as she turned to look over her shoulder. There was an impression of beauty, but I couldn’t tell exactly what she looked like, as if paint were too solid a medium to capture her essence.
Matthew came over and stood beside me, looking pleased by my interest. “Do you like it?” he asked.
“Very much. Who is she?”
“My aunt Cecily.”
So this was the mysterious woman who’d disappeared into the Labyrinth. I had a dozen questions, but I didn’t want to upset Matthew by looking too eager for family gossip. Safer to hold back what I’d heard from Mabel and get his side of the story first.
“She painted this herself,” Matthew said. “It’s the way I like to remember her.”
I thought it was odd that Cecily would obscure her own face in a self-portrait. Mabel had said she was beautiful, so what did she have to hide?
“You loved her,” I said quietly. I could see it in his eyes, the way he looked wistfully at this woman who would always be turning away, out of his reach. For a moment, Matthew looked as if he were sorting through memories. Deciding which to share.
“Aunt Cecily was the most inspiring person I’ve ever known,” he said. “She lived her life like it was a grand adventure—painting and writing and studying great art. Grandfather loved to boast about her being the first American woman to sit for the ancient languages exam at Oxford, but she wasn’t stuck up. She was always so kind to me and Marjorie.”
It didn’t seem possible that one human being could encompass all those virtues, and I wondered what flaws she might have kept hidden from her adoring young nephew. It’s easy to idealize those who die young.
Gently, I asked, “What happened to her?”
Matthew didn’t answer. He took a few steps back and sat in an armchair, motioning for me to join him. I curled up at his feet and put my head in his lap.
“I don’t know,” he said at last. “It’s eaten at me for years, not knowing. It’s been . . . my God, more than fifteen years since I last saw her. The summer of 1912.”
Matthew stroked my hair in a soothing, steady rhythm. Calming himself more than me.
“Aunt Cecily was like a second mother,” he said. “She lived with us here at Lakecrest. Mum was always so busy; Aunt Cecily was the one who told stories and took me and Marjorie to play at the beach. She was the kind of person who made you feel like anything was possible—for years I thought she was actually magic! In time, of course, I got older, and Aunt Cecily went through some bouts of bad health, so we weren’t quite the chums we’d once been. But I still adored her.”
He paused, bracing himself for what came next. “I was twelve when it happened. Aunt Cecily hadn’t been well, so she kept to her room for a few days. I stopped in after dinner to say good night, but she didn’t want to talk. She barely even looked at me. So I acted like a spoiled brat and stormed out. And that was the last time I ever saw her.”
Matthew sounded so sad that my heart ached for the boy who’d lost his beloved aunt and for the man who still grieved for her.
“I’ve gone over those minutes so many times,” he murmured, “wishing I’d been kinder.”
“You couldn’t have known,” I reassured him. “It’s not your fault.”
Matthew nodded slowly, trying to convince himself. “Later that night,” he continued, “one of the maids was drawing the upstairs drapes when she saw Aunt Cecily walk across the lawn, to the other side of the estate. There’s a building there.”
“The Labyrinth,” I blurted out.
Matthew gave me a puzzled look, and I told him I’d seen it, the day of the fête. For now, I decided not to mention Mabel Kostrick; I didn’t want him to think I’d been gossiping.
After a brief pause, Matthew continued. “The maid didn’t think anything was amiss, because Aunt Cecily often had trouble sleeping and was known to wander around at all hours. The next day, when the maid brought up Aunt Cecily’s breakfast tray, she saw the bed hadn’t been slept in. Mum told Marjorie and me to stay upstairs, so we’d be shielded from what was going on, but I saw the police arrive. They searched the Labyrinth and sent boats out on the lake, but it was no use. Aunt Cecily had vanished.”
“Do you think she’s dead?” I asked.
“She must be. If she left, for whatever reason, I can’t believe she’d never have written.”
“What does your mother think?”
Matthew let out a short, dismissive laugh. “We never talk about it. Not openly, anyway. Mum’s dropped hints about Aunt Cecily taking her own life, but it’s ridiculous. They’d have found her. That is—found her body.”
There was another possibility. That Cecily had been lured away from Lakecrest. Kidnapped, possibly murdered. But this wasn’t the right time to raise such suspicions. Better to nuzzle my head against Matthew in silent sympathy.
“I’ve got something to show you,” he said.
He gently pushed me up so he could stand. Then he walked toward the window and opened the top drawer of a bureau. He pulled out a slim book bound in dark-green leather and handed it to me. I read the words embossed in gold on the front cover: Twelve Ancient Tales. Cecily Lemont.
“My grandfather had them printed for her birthday, years ago,” Matthew said.
I flipped the book open and read the inscription on the title page.
My steadfast, mighty Matthew,
Be the hero of your own life. Dare to live as you dream.
With love from your devoted Aunt Cecily
I could almost see her pen forming the angled letters, and I was overcome with a sudden regret that I’d never known this strange, spirited woman. The pages of text were interspersed with colored illustrations of cavorting nymphs and columned buildings; a bearded god scowled as lightning bolts shot out from his fingers. A word jumped out from the text—Labyrinth—and I glanced at the title of the story. “The Princess and the Bull.” Curious, I began scanning the page.
“Time enough for that later,” Matthew said, pulling the book from my hands and jarring me back to our conversation. “The room,” he repeated. “Do you like it?”
I looked around again. “It’s fine. But your mother told me a woman in my position should have her own bedroom.”
“I like sleeping together,” Matthew said. “Don’t you?”
“Sure.” I blushed when I said it.