The silence agrees with me. I swear it does.
Taking a deep breath to clear my head, I head back to Marguerite’s bedroom. I want to see her dresses one more time. Then I promise myself, I’ll get out of here.
The doors open more easily this time. I’m rifling through furs and gowns when heavy footsteps rumble down the inside stairs. I’m so stupid! I was so caught up in reliving The Kiss and looking for more letters that I forgot to listen for Thomas. I have no time to retreat. I’ve got to hide!
“I’m heading there now, Mum,” Thomas’s gravelly voice shouts, sounding way too close.
I sweep silk dresses aside and I’m in. My fingers find a metal bar on the inside of the wooden doors that I use to help me pull them shut. They close with a screech that makes me cringe. Then I pull mothball-smelling furs in front of me and crouch, trying not to breathe, but I end up panting because I’m so scared. I’m positive he’ll hear my ragged breathing and my hammering heart. Footsteps pound into the room.
“We’ll find it,” Thomas shouts. “I’ve got some tools to open that wardrobe.” Oh no. I knew it. I knew it! I suppress a gag. The stale, mothball air is getting to me. I’m positive I’m going to pass out. I gasp for air and choke on a mouthful of fur coat. Then, I hold absolutely still. He’s inches away from me.
Thomas drops something heavy to the floor that lands with a metallic clang. Then, he grabs the handles of the wardrobe doors and yanks. The entire cabinet shakes. I’m surprised to find that my fingers are still gripping the interior metal bars. Somehow, miraculously, they hold tight. Thomas mumbles to himself.
The wardrobe shakes violently. Then the high-pitched whine of a drill screams in my ears and I feel the doors vibrate. My fingers lose their hold. I’ll have to run for it. As soon as he gets these doors open, I’ll jump out and bolt for freedom. He’ll be so surprised that he’ll be too slow to catch me. But as I shift around to get into a good position, my butt and my legs are numb from crouching. Besides, I’m dizzy from the hot, stale, mothball and sweet perfume air. I’ll probably fall out, right smack on top of Thomas. I’m going to hurl.
The whine of the drill shuts off, and a tiny circle of light appears as one of the door handles falls to the floor with a thud. A bony finger reaches inside the hole, tugging and pulling, and I have a wild thought that I should bite that finger off. The thought only makes me feel even more like I’m about to vomit all over the dead animals and silk dresses around me. Then the wardrobe shakes once again as Thomas tugs, pulls, yanks, and wrenches, and I hear him swear, because he’s hurt his finger. Miraculously, I’m still holding the door shut.
Thomas’s footsteps pound away and up the stairs.
This is my chance! I push against the doors, but they don’t budge. I push harder. I hear a screeching sound, but nothing moves. He’ll come back and find me here! I scrabble around and brace my back against the rear of the wardrobe, and push as hard as I can with my feet. The old, rusted hinges squeal and shudder, and at an achingly slow pace, the doors start to move. Light bursts into my eyes and I fall, wrapped in silk and furs. There’s a sickening sound of tearing fabric. I untangle myself as quickly as I can, grab an armful of furs to shove back inside, and I see her. It’s Marguerite.
The portrait was behind the dresses, at the back of the wardrobe. It was hidden behind a panel that must have come loose when I moved around in there or got tangled and fell. The panel is now on the floor and the painting is at my feet. I drop the dresses and gingerly pick Marguerite up, forgetting that I need to get the heck out of here.
She sits on a curved chair and wears a satiny pink dress. Posed in a dramatic way, Marguerite’s face is turned to the side and she smiles. Her curly brown hair isn’t cut short, like that of the woman in the other painting, but is pulled up at the back of her head. Her other hand rests in her lap and her fingers are long and graceful-looking. She’s everything I would imagine her to be. Beautiful, self-assured, perfect. The woman of weak words, who ruled the stage.
A door slams somewhere above my head and I remember Thomas. I shove stuff back into the wardrobe and shut the doors, kick the fallen wood panel under the bed, grab Marguerite and run. Back in my room, I place her flat on the floor, cover her with a towel and slide her under the bed, adding her to my collection.
“Rosie?” émile calls.
“Yes,” I gasp the word out, sticking my head out the bedroom door.
“Dinner’s ready. I hope you’re hungry.”
Not really.
Twenty
Dearest Friend,