House of Salt and Sorrows - Erin A. Craig Page 0,31

in the garden.

My knuckles were white as I gripped her. She’d have to take Verity’s drawings seriously now. “You saw that, didn’t you?”

“Saw what?”

“The shadow. The laughter…it sounded just like Eulalie, didn’t it?”

Camille raised a questioning eyebrow at me. “You’ve had too much champagne.” She turned with a swish of skirts, heading back inside and leaving me in the fog.

Heels clicked behind me again, though the garden was empty, and I scurried after her.

My eyes fluttered open, blinking back sleepy grit from the corners. It felt far too early to be awake. The party had ended after three, perfectly timed with the tides to send the guests back to Astrea. Tinted-glass buoys filled with luminescent algae lit the docks, giving the partygoers an enchanting sight as they hurried away from Highmoor as fast as their court heels would carry them.

After the conversation with Camille in the garden, it had been difficult to ignore her words. I watched as sister after sister approached a conversation only to be met with half smiles and glazed eyes. Papa and Morella seemed oblivious to it.

I rolled over with a groan, wanting to hide under the warmth of the covers. Then a glint of light on my vanity caught my attention.

Eulalie’s pocket watch.

I’d meant to show it to Papa days ago, but it slipped my mind after seeing Verity’s sketchbook. Even now, a shiver of unease rustled down my spine as I remembered the lurid drawings.

Removing the lock of hair from the watch, I twirled it between my fingers, studying the golden strands. The bit of wire had baffled me at first—I’d always seen hair tied with ribbons or lace—but as I looked at the inner workings of the pocket watch, it suddenly made sense.

Edgar was an apprentice clockmaker.

He worked with coils of wire and springs.

Had he clipped off a bit of hair as a love offering to Eulalie?

I frowned. Eulalie’s killer was undoubtedly a rebuffed suitor, someone upset his affections weren’t returned. If Eulalie had kept this watch and lock of hair secreted away, it stood to reason she shared his feelings. Why else would she have kept them?

But such a strong, fidgeting anxiety had radiated off him in the marketplace. Edgar couldn’t get away from us fast enough.

Edgar knew something. He must.

I tinkered with the pocket watch, mulling over what to do next. I obviously needed to speak to him, but what would I say? This was too big to handle on my own. I snapped the watch shut with a resolute click and went downstairs to find my father.

* * *

I burst into the dining room, but it was clear I’d come in at the wrong moment.

Camille, her fingers deathly white around the fork, was smashing her kippers into little bits until they resembled a massacre more than a breakfast. Rosalie was sullenly nursing a cup of tea, and Ligeia, riddled with anxiety, kept gnawing at her silver-polished nails. Lenore was still in bed, presumably sleeping off a well-earned champagne headache.

Papa sat at the head of the table, his jaw clenched and a tense weariness surrounding his eyes. “It was everyone’s first social gathering. Perhaps having so many of you out at once made people uneasy.”

Camille frowned, her lips thin and pale. “I agree with you, Papa. The cursed Thaumas sisters did make people uneasy.” Her fork screeched across the china plate before she shoved it aside.

She must have filled him in on everything she’d heard last night.

He sighed, waving away her accusation with a flip of his hand. “No one believes in curses but those ridiculous peasants in the village.”

She struck the table in a fit of rage. “Robin Briord is hardly a fishmonger, and I heard it directly from his mouth! We’ll never find a match, none of us! We’ve all been tainted by our sisters’ deaths.”

Rosalie had tears in her eyes. “He really said that?”

Camille nodded. “I suppose we ought to consider our good fortune. We’ll always have Highmoor. Once Papa di— When I am the Duchess, you’ll always have a home here.” She snorted, her eyes dark and moody. “The House of Cursed Spinsters.”

There was a small noise beside me. Morella had crept in, still in her dressing gown. I didn’t know how much she’d overheard, but it was enough for the blood to run from her stricken face. I offered a small smile, but she pulled away, clutching her belly.

“Is my son to be cursed as well?” she asked with a glint of despair, her