The Appearance of Annie van Sinderen

“You’ll see,” Maddie says.

Just then the woman reappears carrying a tray with a few small boxes on it of varying degrees of antiquity. She sets the tray in front of Maddie and seats herself at the table. I tiptoe up behind the woman and peer over her shoulder.

“So,” she says. “This one’s been dated to 1867.” She passes a large brooch to Maddie, with a woman’s face in profile, alabaster on ebony. The nose looks a bit like Beattie’s, but that could be my imagination.

Maddie glances at me, and I shake my head.

“That’s not it,” Maddie says. “I’m looking for one that’s older.”

“Hmmm,” says the woman, consulting her finding aid. “What about this one? Estimated to be 1840s.”

She opens a small leather box and reveals another brooch surrounded by gold filigree. It’s another woman, with delicate white curls against a pale blue background.

Maddie raises her eyebrows at me. This time, the woman follows Maddie’s gaze over her shoulder, and stares again at the space where I’m standing. I hold perfectly still, not even daring to breathe. Then I shake my head with the tiniest movement I can manage.

“Nope,” Maddie says, startling the woman, who jumps in her seat.

A sheen of sweat has formed on the historical society woman’s forehead. It gleams under the artificial lights.

“Is it cold in here?” the woman asks uneasily.

“Not that I’ve noticed,” Maddie says. But she also is looking nervous.

I retreat a few steps away, withdrawing into a shadow cast by one of the filing cabinets.

“Which is the oldest one?” Maddie asks, stirring the boxes in the tray. She picks up a tiny cardboard one and opens it. There’s a tuft of cotton wool inside, and Maddie starts to peel it away.

“Here, let me,” the historical society woman says, reaching for it.

“But it’s mine,” Maddie says, pulling the box away. The woman’s hand knocks against the box, and in the struggle the box slips out of Maddie’s hand and falls to the floor.

The box lands hard and something small comes flying out, skittering across the floor like a skipped pebble until it comes to a rest against the toe of my slipper.

The gold band is dented and crushed into almost an oval shape, and a thick layer of grime lines the setting that holds the red sliver of shell in place. The carving is less fine than I remember, the white form of Persephone dulled and chipped in places. The shell-red background has faded to a burnished oaken brown. But there’s no question.

It’s mine.

My cameo.

My heart lurches in my chest, a rising pressure as the memory of Herschel floods my limbs, flushing my skin. I catch my breath to choke back a sob.

“Be careful!” the woman remonstrates Maddie, getting to her feet and hurrying to pick the trinket off the floor where it rests against my toe.

She kneels at my feet, her finger and thumb grasping the gold band. She freezes. She’s staring at my shoe, it’s unmistakable. From my shoe she stares in dawning horror at the hem of my dress, up my skirts, tipping her head back to look up to my face, when she lets out a throaty scream.

I flee into the shadows, bringing my fist to my mouth to force myself silent, leaving a coil of burnt smoke in my wake.

The archivist falls back on her heels and stumbles haltingly to her feet.

“Are you all right?” Maddie asks, eyeing her warily.

The archivist is shaking. With a trembling hand, she puts the ring into Maddie’s waiting palm.

“I . . . I . . . I’m . . .” The archivist is staring hard into the shadows where I’m hiding.

Maddie holds the ring up to the light, turning it this way and that. “Persephone!” she says brightly. “This is it. Thank you.”

She slides the ring onto her right ring finger. It fits perfectly.

The archivist’s breath is coming quickly, and a bead of sweat is trickling down her hairline.