Lamplight from the hallway fell across the plank floor of the den, revealing the dusty fringe of a Persian carpet and illuminating a wide middle section of the room. Julia stood for a long moment. Maybe she should wait until tomorrow, when she wasn’t so tired and overwhelmed. But she had too many things to do and too many rooms to go through to put anything off. She took a deep breath, entered, and switched on the lamp on top of her father’s piano-sized desk.
Mahogany bookshelves covered the back wall, every space crammed with books and maps and files and papers and folders. A sideboard lined with dusty liquor bottles and etched tumblers sat against another wall, and a green upholstered couch sat against the opposite wall next to a silent grandfather clock. Her father’s wingback chair slumped behind the desk, its faded brown leather wrinkled and worn. The air in the room felt close and musty, scented with the stale, sour tinge of cigar smoke and old whiskey. Except for the dust that seemed to cover everything, the den looked like her father had walked out yesterday.
For a few seconds, Julia was too stunned to do anything. How would she ever go through it all? And why hadn’t Mother cleaned and straightened the den after Father died? One of Mother’s pet peeves had been his unwillingness to part with anything, and she had warned him a hundred times not to drop a cigar on his papers and books. Because if there was one thing Mother was deathly afraid of, it was fire. She used to have a fit when Father burned leaves and brush in the burning spot in the side yard, and she always reminded him and Julia that sinners would burn in the fires of Hell. So why hadn’t she cleaned up the den for safety’s sake, if nothing else?
Now Julia had no choice. She had to start somewhere. Maybe that was Mother’s plan. Maybe it was further punishment for her part in his death. She took a deep breath and walked slowly around the perimeter of the room, scanning the bookcases and reading book titles. The shelves groaned under the weight of hardcovers on horse breeds, horse diseases, first aid, training techniques, and veterinarian terms, along with stacked file boxes bearing names like Blue Venture, Preston’s First Run, Dakota Point, Shy Dundee, Whiskey’s Pride, and Fame’s Fortune. Another section held trophies, ribbons, and framed pictures of horses with blue and red ribbons on their halters.
Julia gave the last few shelves a quick glance, then blew the dust off the gramophone player and opened the lid. A record sat on the turnstile, the needle halfway across the track as if someone had turned it off in the middle of the song. She squinted at the name of the record: “Little White Lies.” Of course, she thought, and closed the lid. She moved to the desk and stood staring at it. A film of dust covered the top of the desk, the blotter, the pens in the penholder, the green desk lamp, and the ashtray overflowing with ashes and cigar butts.
She went to the sideboard to examine the dusty liquor bottles, looking for reinforcement. A glass tumbler held the remains of dark liquid, thickened into what looked like a solid sludge. All the bottles were partially empty, except for two bottles of unopened brandy. She picked one up, wiped the dust off with the edge of her sweater, opened it, and took a good swig. It burned her throat and warmed her stomach, and was just what she needed. She took the bottle to her father’s desk and sat down in the leather chair, ignoring the dust wafting out of the seat.
And then she saw the picture.
It was her sophomore photo in a silver frame edged with gold filigree, taken for the yearbook ten months before her father died. High school seemed like a thousand years ago. She picked up the picture, blew away the dust, and bit her lip, trying to hold back a sudden flood of tears. Unlike other people’s homes, where pictures of every milestone adorned the walls—kindergarten and birthdays, weddings and graduations—Blackwood Manor displayed none of those things. Mother said photographs were meaningless and vain. She never bought Julia’s school pictures to hang in the house, and they didn’t even own a camera. But somehow her father had gotten a copy of her school portrait and kept it on his desk. And she never knew. She brushed the rest of the dust off with shaking fingers and used her sweater sleeve to clean the smeared glass.
In the picture, her skin was flawless, her white-blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and her expression was somber. Anyone else might have thought it was a snapshot of a typical teenager having a bad day. After all, there were no telltale signs of the difficult times she had at home, or the taunts she endured because Mother didn’t allow her to wear the latest styles. But Julia could see the sadness in her eyes.
She set the picture down, blinked back her tears, and opened the middle drawer of the desk. Inside were the usual things: pens and pencils, paper clips, rubber bands, stamps. She tried a side drawer and found a stack of unused envelopes, stationery with the Blackwood Farm letterhead, and a box of dried-out cigars. The drawer below that was locked. She tried Mother’s keys, but none of them fit. The rest of the drawers were filled with papers heaped willy-nilly—invitations to various events, statements, bills, and legal documents. She searched the other drawers for the key to the locked one, but found nothing. Frustrated, she stood and looked around the room. Where was that key?
Just then, something bumped and skittered across the ceiling above her head. She looked up. Another, louder thump made her jump. Then there was a grinding noise, like an animal chewing wires inside the second-floor walls. I’ve got to get rid of those rats, she thought. She glanced around the room one more time, then decided to call it a night. She was exhausted, and the weight of all she had to do, and everything she had to figure out, settled on her like chains.
CHAPTER 11
LILLY
After Lilly bolted from the freak-show tent, Merrick dragged her back to the train and locked her in the bathroom to punish her for letting the townies see her for free. Shaking all over, her hands and face and hair smeared with dog shit, she threw up in the toilet, then sat on the lid and sobbed. The stench was overwhelming and she couldn’t stop gagging. After what seemed like forever, footsteps hurried into the car and someone unlocked the door. It was Glory.
“Oh my God,” she said. “Are you all right?”
Lilly shrugged and got up from the toilet, her eyes burning and swollen.
“Did Merrick hurt you?”
Lilly shook her head.
“Come on,” Glory said. “Let’s get you cleaned up. I’ve got buckets of water outside.” She grabbed a bathrobe, a washcloth, towels, and a bar of soap, then led Lilly outside and around to the other side of the car, where no one could see them. She helped her out of the filthy princess dress and gave her the washcloth and soap, then watched with sad eyes while Lilly scrubbed her face and hands.
“I’m so sorry that happened to you,” Glory said. “I swear I’ve never seen rubes act like that. It was so . . . so vicious.”