We drove between two slightly crumbling columns made of the pinkish-gray tabby concrete and down the sandy drive, which was lined with palmetto trees. Frances had described the tabby in Kitten. In fact, she’d described everything about the place, down to the most minute detail. Asa had been right. From the looks of it, Frances had just written what she’d seen.
At least, the version she experienced forty years ago. Now Ambletern appeared to be long past its glory days.
The estate encompassed four acres (I’d read that), the whole expanse of smooth lawn ringed by pines, magnolias, and live oaks festooned with Spanish moss that waved in the light breeze. The mansion loomed at the center in the settling dusk. It was made of that same mottled tabby and arranged in a haphazard hodgepodge of wings and porches, towers and chimneys, each ascending higher than the part next to it. The windows were all grouped in sets of three—arched and Gothic—and there was a turret-looking thing that rose up in the center. I’d never seen anything like it. The place resembled a complicated, multitiered wedding cake. I wondered if anyone had ever gotten lost in it.
The tabby blocks had an even rosier tinge to them in the light of the dying sun. Lush ivy had grown over a better part of the walls, almost up to the trio of turrets crowning the house. It looked like it might be home to all manner of creepy, crawly creatures.
The perfect setting for a horror novel.
“The original plantation house, built in the seventeen hundreds, burned,” Koa said. “This one was built in the eighteen-eighties. Doro says her ancestors grew Sea Island cotton and oranges, too, I think.”
“What was that wall I climbed up at the beach?”
“The middens. Built out of clamshells by the Guale. They probably started off as a dump spot, maybe doubling as a fortification later.”
I nodded and stood for a minute, allowing myself to settle. Everything expanded in this viscous air—my hair, the pores of my skin, my fingers and toes. I felt swollen here, without boundaries. Like my body had spread and overrun its personal space.
He started up the wide tabby front steps, which were flanked with iron lanterns, all of them flickering with gaslight. The windows, at least the ones on the first floor, glowed warmly. I hobbled behind him; my feet were once again tingling with the familiar, infuriating neuropathy.
“I’ll take this up to your room.” He hitched my bag. “Then you can . . . do whatever you need to do for dinner.”
I wondered how ragged I looked. Judging by the expression on his face, extremely.
“Do we dress?” I asked.
He looked at me blankly. “Uh, yeah. Yes. We dress.”
“I mean, like . . . up. Dress up. For dinner.”
“Oh.” One corner of his mouth lifted, and for a split second, I thought he was going to laugh, but he didn’t. “Ah, no, not really,” he said.
I felt a pang. He probably had a really nice laugh.
He led me inside, and I took in the vast front hall—flagstone floors, plaster and wood-paneled walls. Gleaming timbers arching overhead. Oil paintings, deer heads, all manner of strange antique swords and shields covered the walls. To my left, I caught a glimpse of a cavernous room crammed with massive carved Victorian furniture. Silk chaises, dusty bookshelves, and rococo screens.
To my right was a long, gleaming, dark wood desk sitting between two arched openings. The closest one led into the dining room. The other, Koa said, led back to the library and Doro’s quarters.
In the front hall, I stopped in front of a curio cabinet containing mounds of arrowheads, potsherds, antlers, and beaded necklaces. Portraits of Native warriors and chiefs, turbaned and befeathered, were propped along the shelves. In one etching, the man wore a green tunic and a red turban that held a drooping feather. At the bottom, in a fine cursive, was written Osceola.
Koa cleared his throat from halfway up the wide staircase, which was carpeted in threadbare red wool.
“Sorry,” I said and caught up to him. We twisted and turned, to landings and down hallways until, finally, he stopped. We were standing in front of a door at the deserted end of a short corridor. On the third floor, if I’d been paying attention.
“Your room,” he said and pushed the door open.
The room was a suite, actually, made up of three interconnected spaces—a vast bedroom with a canopied bed, a spacious sitting room, and an attached bathroom. Each space was cluttered with mismatched antiques, everything else upholstered in a dingy pale-blue fabric. The walls were hung with paintings, and there were elaborate, fringed silk draperies over the windows and double doors that led onto a balcony.
It was definitely nowhere near as nice as places I was used to—forlorn was the word that came to mind as I took in the moth holes in the curtains, worn carpet, and chipped paint. But it would do. My princess days were behind me. Koa dropped my bag at the foot of the bed and looked at me.
“Okay?” he said.
“It’s lovely.” I dropped my tote on a doll-size blue chair, hoping my face did not betray my thoughts. “I just hope I can find my way back through that maze of halls in time for dinner.”
This would’ve been where a guy smiled and said something flirty, but Koa just stared at me, like he felt uncomfortable standing in the room with me. I suddenly felt immensely tired.
“Okay, then,” I said. “Thanks for the help.”
After he was gone, I staggered to the bed and fell face-first onto the spread. A vivid loop of the day—the plane ride, the ferry, and especially the horse stampede—played through my exhausted brain. I was on Bonny Island. In Ambletern. With Kitten. I rolled over and gazed up at the ceiling. I should probably call Asa to let him know I’d arrived safely. Or let Aurora know what I was up to.
I fell asleep instead and didn’t wake until sometime in the deep of the night, at which point I shed my dusty clothes, crawled under the covers, and drifted back into unconsciousness.
KITTEN
—FROM CHAPTER 5
One overcast morning, Fay lost track of Kitten. Most of the guests had been taken to tour the mission ruins on the north side of the island, so she was able to search the house unnoticed. Coming upon Dr. and Mrs. Cormley’s room, she heard voices. She shrank back into an alcove that held a bamboo chair and potted fern.
“It’s so pretty.” It was Kitten’s voice, wheedling and insistent.
“I hardly think a child has any use for a silk scarf,” came a man’s voice in answer. Carl Cormley.
“Your wife said I could have it. Beverly did.”
He chortled. “Oh, she did, did she? Beverly said that?”
“Yes.”
Cormley’s voice was a growl. “You’re a right little liar. And a nasty girl, too. Lurking around, nosing into people’s business.”
“What about this?” came Kitten’s voice from inside the Cormleys’ room. “Is this yours?”