To get to the roof, I had to climb to the attic floor, where the main stairwell ended, then cross to the other end, where a small door led to a service staircase winding upward. I didn’t know my way, but it wasn’t difficult, since the attic floor contained only a single long, musty corridor, with failing light coming through its windows, and the dark, closed door to Frances’s room. I followed the corridor, which was empty and silent, until I found the service door, which was unlocked. Then I climbed the smaller, dusty set of stairs.
At the top was a second door, wooden, held shut by a latch. I could hear the low howl of wind from the other side, as if someone were moaning pitifully. I lifted the latch, the damp wood chill against my palm, and pressed the door open.
A gust of wind blew in at me, touching my hair. Outside, all was dark; twilight had given in to full night. The air was cold, stinging, trailing its fingers under the neck of my dress before I’d even left the stairwell, but I felt braced by it after the stifling corridor and the dusty stairs, and I lifted my face.
I stepped out onto the roof. Immediately the wind gusted in my hair again, slapping my skirt against my legs, chilling the fabric of my clothing even as it touched my skin. I was on a landing atop Wych Elm House’s highest gable, a space about four feet square enclosed by a black wrought-iron railing at waist height. To my right and left, the roof of Wych Elm House fell away, as if I were the mermaid on the prow of a ship, sailing into the woods. Before me spread the tops of the trees, the closest ones visibly rippling and shimmering in the wind, the farther ones mere ribbons of black and pewter and dusky silver, blending into a mass that spread for miles.
I stepped to the railing and put my hands on it; it was icy, and even under my touch it barely warmed. My eyes watering in the sting of the wind, I gazed out at the view, vast and beautiful and terrifying, as if I were a queen alone in a tower. A handful of lights twinkled far off to the right, all I could see of the town of Anningley. Through the roaring of the wind in my ears, I imagined I could hear the sea. It was cold and beautiful up here, powerful, hypnotic.
And then I looked down.
The drop was sheer, the precipice of the house falling away from the tips of my toes, past the attic room, the window of my own bedroom, and straight to the cobbled circular driveway below, looking from this height like a child’s drawing. I felt my hands clench the iron railing, the edges digging into the flesh of my palms, my wrists and forearms aching as my grip wrenched tighter. I blinked the water out of my eyes, unable to look away. This was where it had happened. Frances had stood here, placed her feet here, possibly placed her hands where mine were right now. And then she had bent forward, her weight taking her over the edge of the railing, her grip loosening, letting go as she fell down and down and down . . .
Forget.
So simple. Lean out, lean over, let gravity take you. Let go.
Forget.
The wind howled in my ears. Alex gone, no child to love me, my mother mad. What did it matter? I could simply feel the cold wind in my lungs and the rush of air as I closed my eyes.
In the woods, deep beneath the canopy of the trees, a dog barked. Not a happy bark or an alarmed one, but a low, snarling snap, booming in a deep bass. It sounded once, and then again, closer.
The door behind me swung shut.
Cold shot down my spine, and I pushed away from the railing, shoving myself off with my slick palms. I whirled, but there was no one on the landing with me—just the dark and the scream of the wind. I stepped to the stairwell door and wrenched it, expecting to feel the knob slick in my hand, unyielding, the door latched shut. But it turned, and I swung the door open, the latch on the inside swinging limply as the door hit the wall. I quickly moved onto the stairs, turning briefly to fasten the latch again.
What were you thinking? I berated myself as I descended through the gloom. What is the matter with you? To stand there like that and contemplate such things . . .
I dashed the water from my eyes with the heels of my hands as I came through the service door. My hair was tangled, my skin cold. I stepped into the corridor.
Frances’s door was ajar. From behind it, I heard a faint creak.
I put my hand to the striped wallpaper, steadying myself. I could see a faint strip of light between the edge of the door and the doorframe. It hadn’t been there before; the door had been closed and locked, silent. The creak came again.
I stepped softly on the flowered carpet, holding my breath, as the sound came again, furtive. With a chilled hand, I pushed open the door.