She’d grabbed Rose’s Book of Trees from the shelf where it sat next to Rose’s ashes and taken it to the reading nook at the top of the lighthouse stairs. Before she’d opened it, she had stood for a moment looking out toward Baker’s Island and the blackness beyond.
Rose had been heavily on her mind since the grounds crew had uncovered the roots of the tree. Callie had entertained the idea that she might scatter Rose’s ashes under the stump. But after the vision of blood she’d had, she knew the area was not fit for Rose’s final resting place. So many things she’d experienced recently were hidden, things that lay beneath: the reef at Norman’s Woe, submerged and treacherous; the frescoes concealed for centuries under layers of smoky soot; the root hole, now covered with sod. There were caves beneath the palazzi of the Sassi, and there were caves under Pride’s Heart. Indeed, there seemed to be things just below the surface of life itself, revealing themselves only at odd moments or when accidentally or intentionally disturbed.
She’d wanted to figure out a better place for Rose and had been hoping the journal would give her some ideas. So she’d sunk into the nook’s overstuffed chair and turned on the light, extinguishing the panoramic seascape and creating multiple reflections of herself in the angled glass walls of the lighthouse. Taking a deep breath, she’d opened Rose’s Book of Trees, fearing she would find a paranoia-laden manifesto, the scribbled prose of a disturbed mind. Rose had been penning in it so furiously in her last few weeks. Instead, Callie had discovered a work of art. Laced in a continuous pattern were sketches of trees, their branches extending from one page to the next, sometimes bared by winter, sometimes fully leafed. Veined oak leaves sprouted at the tips of random twigs. And then…what she’d thought of as a sampling of many trees resolved itself, and Callie had realized with a start what she was looking at. It was a single tree spreading across the pages. A Tree of Life, like the fresco in Italy. Its upper branches reached toward the sky, and its matching roots grew far into the ground, extending as deep as they were high. As above, so below.
The only words in the book had been names. The roots held the names of both the accused and the executed of July 1692: Rebecca Nurse, Sarah Wildes, Elizabeth Howe, Sarah Good, and Susannah Martin, the five petals of the rosary she was wearing. She looked at the corresponding branches and saw names she didn’t recognize, names sitting on branches that led higher and higher up the tree. At the very top were the names of Olivia, Cheryl, and Susan, each on a branch that had been broken. Near the highest branches, Callie found Rose’s name, and just above it, on a branch that extended from Olivia’s severed one, was her own. It was an unfinished work: There were many gaps, places Rose had not yet filled in, but the meaning was clear. This was a family tree.
Callie had stayed in that chair all night, in a trance, paging through hundreds of names, until the rising sun pulled her out of her reverie.
Now Zee’s question pulled Callie back to the reception. “Have you ever seen anything so adorable?” she asked, indicating the flower girls as they continued presenting a plate to each diner.
“They are—”
“Excuse me,” Ann interrupted. Without another word she dashed across the lawn and snatched a long-stemmed purple flower off a plate. “Where did you get this?” she asked the little girl who had served the dish. “These are fairy’s bells. See this bell-like blossom? They’re not good to eat, sweetie. They can make you very sick.”
The girl started to cry. People turned to look.
Marta rushed over. “What are you doing, Ann?” She didn’t hide her concern.
“Go back to your table,” Ann said, waving her away. “I’ll take care of this.
“Can you show me exactly where you found them?” Ann asked the child, as she scanned the other tables. She found two more fairy’s bells and quickly snatched them off plates. The girl nodded and said she could.
“What was all that about?” Towner asked, when Ann rejoined their table.
“Nothing,” Ann said. “Crisis averted.”
Callie was looking at Ann. “Crisis?”
“Foxglove. Fairy’s bells. Those purple flowers grow wild in this region. They are beautiful but very poisonous.”
“Where were they, exactly?” Callie asked.
“In a patch just beyond the new kitchen garden, a section that must have been hidden by that tree stump they removed,” Ann said.
Mickey looked at his plate as if it might bite him.
“Go ahead and eat, everyone, it’s fine,” Ann said, reassuringly.
Callie made her way back to the main table.
Marta picked up her fork and began to eat, and the guests followed suit, reassured that whatever crisis had gotten Marta’s attention was now resolved.
The little girls, finished with serving, took seats at the long table by the orangerie and ate lunch together.
After the dessert course was served, the waiters filled the guests’ glasses with the thousand-dollar port for the wedding toast. A large carafe of an even more valuable port had been poured earlier for the wedding party. Callie knew it was from the barrel that Paul had served her from that night in the speakeasy. Finn and Paul had both consumed quite a bit already. After the waiter refilled their glasses, Finn stood and raised his. He spoke directly to Marta: “To my wife, Marta. It’s you. It has always been you.” Finn downed his entire glass of port in one go.
What followed was a prolonged and numbing silence. Finally, Helen Barnes raised her glass and, following her lead, the rest of the shocked guests joined in the toast.
Feeling Marta’s eyes on her, Callie took a sip.
Marta smiled but didn’t drink.
Paul hadn’t taken his eyes off his father. Though he’d already consumed quite a bit of the port, he didn’t join the toast.
“Everyone, please join Mr. and Mrs. Whiting for dancing in the ballroom,” Darren announced.
Marta stood and took Finn’s arm, and the two left the main table and walked directly toward the house and then through the French doors just off the ballroom. Paul stood unsteadily and followed; he did not take Callie’s arm, and she trailed a few steps behind the others. The crowd remained seated, staring after them until an usher appeared and gently escorted the guests to the house.
“Where are you going?” Callie asked Paul. While the rest of the guests had turned left into the ballroom, Paul had veered right, into the library.
The elevator was there, its iron grate open and waiting.
“The wine cellar’s unlocked for a change. I’m going to get more port.” He held the elevator door for her, almost losing his balance. “Alcohol’s the only way I’ll get through this ridiculous charade.”
“Let’s go back,” Callie said to him. “To Matera. Right now. Let’s drive to Logan, and we’ll get a plane out tonight. We could be at the monastery by morning.”