As we wait for someone to answer, I pretend I didn’t hear her.
My mom knocks again, this time harder, but it seems like no one is home. Olivia shoots me a doubtful look as we stand huddled in the entry, and I adjust my worn duffel bag on my shoulder and try to look confident. But the truth is, I’m not sure what my mom will do if no one answers. She’s not exactly good with the unexpected.
Then, just as I’m about to suggest that we call another taxi, a shuffling comes from within, followed by the mechanical swish-click of locks receding. After the third lock releases, the door lurches open to reveal a small, wizened man with glasses so thick, they make his cloudy eyes appear three times larger than anyone’s should be. I’m barely five feet, and the man isn’t any taller than I am. I can’t help but think that if goblins were real, he could almost pass for one.
“Yes?” His voice grates across my skin as he looks us over. I can only imagine what he’s seeing. We make quite a trio with my mother’s wild red hair and even wilder, paint-marred clothes; Olivia’s classic beauty; and me, in my exhausted and rumpled glory. His eyes rest on me last, and his nose gives an odd twitch. His stare is a little too intense to be comfortable, and from the scowl on his face, I can tell he finds something about me lacking.
I glance away and resist the urge to smooth down my soaked jacket.
“Arrangements have been made for us to lease your flat,” my mom says, thrusting the creased papers toward him.
The man stares at her for a long, awkward moment before he finally takes them from her outstretched hand. He reads one sheet and then the other, and when he’s finished, he glances up at us. With another questioning look at my mom, he jerks his head toward the interior and disappears into the house.
My mom follows him without too much hesitation, but Olivia grabs my arm. “Are you sure about this?”
Of course I’m not sure. I give her a halfhearted shrug. “I guess we should go in,” I say instead, avoiding her eyes as I follow my mom into the house.
Inside the smoke-darkened barroom, the boy could scarcely believe that the soldier who sat across from him was the apple-cheeked brother he’d once known. His brother sat stiff and straight, his eyes like flint even as he smiled. “I’m not frightened,” the solider assured the boy. Neither am I frightened, the boy thought to himself. . . .
Chapter 2
INSIDE, THE ONLY LIGHT COMES from A dimly burning chandelier fitted with what look to be gaslights. My mom is already speaking in hushed tones with the goblin-shaped man, so I let my bag slump to the floor and dump my jacket on top of it as I take a look around. I’m not surprised to find the rest of the house is as gloomy as the sky outside.
Everything about the place feels old and worn-out. The air has the thick mustiness found in closed-up attics or forgotten parts of old libraries. Which, actually, isn’t a bad description for what I’m seeing, because everywhere I look the walls are covered with all sorts of junk. Ornate mirrors, decorative plates of all shapes and colors, ancient-looking portraits of stern men and unsmiling women. The carpets are worn dull and smooth from age, and the woodwork has lost any bit of shine it might have once had.
Olivia’s shoes scuff into the hallway behind me, and despite my misgivings about the house, I relax a bit. She didn’t leave. Not yet, at least.
But she will, I remind myself. In two weeks she’ll be gone. And I’ll still be here. At least until my mom decides it’s time to move again.
“Is this place for real?” she whispers over my shoulder.
“Unfortunately,” I say.
She takes a few steps to examine one of the oil paintings on the wall. Its surface is barely visible from a combination of age, soot, and dust. She swipes at the surface and then rubs her finger and thumb together to smudge away the grime.
“It could be worse,” I offer, trying to keep my voice light, but my throat is too tight even to pretend optimism.
“Gwen—” Olivia starts, but thankfully, my mom’s voice interrupts us.
“We’re all set,” my mom tells me, and I realize with some relief that her voice—her whole demeanor, really—has changed. It’s finally started to take on the usual steel each of our moves normally begin with. Sometimes that calm, focused determination will last months before it starts to crack. It can last longer if she’s working on a project or one of her commissions—in Westport it lasted for more than two years.
“My rooms are back there,” the small man is explaining as he jerks his head toward a hallway behind the large central staircase. “If you need anything . . .”