House of Salt and Sorrows - Erin A. Craig Page 0,18

at its color. When Mama and our sisters died, we all received snips of their hair to keep in memory books or braid into mourning jewelry, but this lock was a pale blond, almost white, far too light to have come from a Thaumas head. I slipped it into my pocket to mull over later.

There was also a vial of perfume and a handkerchief too devoid of embroidery and lace to have come from Eulalie’s collection. It singed my nostrils, reeking of a particularly strong pipe smoke.

“What are you doing?” a voice called out, startling me.

I jumped, dropping the handkerchief. It fluttered to the floor like a butterfly at first frost. Heart pounding, I snapped my head toward the doorway, where Verity stood, sketchbook in hand. Her short chestnut curls were swept back with a large bow, and her pinafore was already dusty with pastels. I let out a sigh of relief, grateful I’d not been caught by Papa.

“Nothing. Aren’t you supposed to be in the classroom?”

She shrugged. “Honor and Mercy are helping Cook with petits fours for the ball. Berta didn’t want to teach just me.” She nodded toward the triplets’ room across the hall. “I wanted to see if Lenore would sit for a portrait.”

“They’re out with Morella. Final fittings on their dresses.” I shifted, letting my back close the pedestal’s door.

Her mouth pursed into a rosebud as she studied me. “I don’t think Eulalie will like you being in there.”

“Eulalie isn’t here anymore, Verity.”

She blinked once.

“Why don’t you go see if Cook needs more help?” I suggested. “I bet she’ll let you taste the icing.”

“Are you borrowing something?”

“Not exactly.” I stood up, letting my skirts cover the handkerchief.

“Did you come in here to cry?”

“What?”

She shrugged. “Papa does sometimes. In Ava’s. He thinks no one knows about it, but I hear him at night.”

Ava’s room was on the fourth floor, directly above Verity’s.

She leaned in, peering about the room with curiosity but unwilling to actually enter it. “I won’t tell if you are.”

“I’m not crying.”

She reached out, beckoning me over to her. I left the handkerchief on the floor, hoping she wouldn’t see it. Verity traced one fingertip across my cheek and looked disappointed when it came away dry. “I still miss her.”

“Of course you do.”

“But no one else does. No one remembers her anymore. All they talk about is the ball.”

I squeezed her shoulders. “We haven’t forgotten her. We need to move on, but that doesn’t mean they don’t miss and love her.”

“She doesn’t think so.”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

“She thinks everyone is too busy with their lives to remember her.” She glanced back out into the hall as if worried our conversation was being overheard. “Elizabeth says so too. She says we all look different now. But she doesn’t.”

“You mean when you remember her?”

She shook her head. “When I see her.”

“In your memories,” I pressed.

After a moment, she held out the sketchbook, offering it to me.

Before I could take it, Rosalie and Ligeia rushed down the hall, carrying a tower of boxes marked with the names of several Astrean shops.

“Oh good, you’re both here!” Rosalie said, struggling to throw open their bedroom door. “We need to go downstairs, all of us, right now!”

“Why?” Verity asked, her shoulders suddenly tense, worry evident on her face. “Did someone else die?”

I winced. What other six-year-old worried an announcement meant someone had died?

“Of course not!” Ligeia said, depositing her treasures at the foot of her bed. “They’re here! The fairy shoes! We stopped by the cobbler’s shop, and he was sewing on the last set of ribbons!”

Verity’s eyes brightened, and the sketchbook was instantly forgotten. “They’re here now?”

“Come and see!” Rosalie tore down the corridor, shouting upstairs for Camille to come quick. She must have retreated to her room after her practice session. Ligeia raced after Rosalie, their footsteps heavy on the back stairs.

“We should go,” I said.

“Don’t forget about Eulalie’s handkerchief,” Verity said, skipping down the hall before I could stop her.

I blinked once before turning to snatch it up. When I left, the door slammed shut after me, as if pushed by unseen hands.

* * *

It was raining again, a cold downpour that chilled the air no matter how many fireplaces were lit. Raindrops raced down the windows, blurring the view of the cliffs and waves below. The Blue Room smelled damp, with a faint trace of mildew.

Morella sat on the sofa nearest the fireplace, rubbing her back, an uncomfortable grimace drawn on her