Of course, she’d known that much already—I could tell by the way her eyes gleamed. “And now you have. Am I as charming as you remember?”

“As charming as I remember, and then some. I do remember you taller, but then, last time I saw you, I was a lot shorter. Honestly, though, you don’t look any different.” I was still being truthful. She hadn’t aged a day, although that wasn’t the compliment she took it to be, considering I’d thought she looked like a mummy when I was eight.

Eliza knew cheap flattery when she heard it, but she let slip a wry half smile to match the one I must have flashed. “You think you’re pretty slick, don’t you, girl?”

“Oh yes. Terribly slick.” I sipped at the alcohol and tried not to grimace. It tasted like piney kitchen cleaner. “But I’m not trying to snow you, Tatie. I came here for information, not for money or to provoke you.” I choked down another small mouthful.

Eliza did not appear relieved to hear this. She did not relax at all, but instead clutched her crystal glass tight and held it to her mouth. She swallowed the liquor full and deep, the way I treat wine. I watched the gulp slide down the wattle of her throat and disappear past her collarbones. She was positively skeletal, as nearly a ghost as I’d ever seen a living human being. If she stood in front of a good stiff light, I could have watched her insides tick through her parchment skin.

“You can’t threaten me,” she said firmly, trying to convince me that her frailty only extended so far.

I dipped my jaw enough to indicate shock at the very idea. “I wouldn’t dream of it. I only want answers, and no one on my side of the family is very forthcoming. You’re the only person who might could help me, so I’ve come to you.”

“Hmm.” She downed a little more of her drink and swirled the remaining contents of the glass with a winding of her wrist. “What sorts of answers?”

“For starters, I want to know who A is.”

She jumped, almost sloshing the clear beverage free of the clinking ice and over her fingers. “What are you talking about? What A? What is it you think you know?”

Her reaction startled me as much as my question startled her. “I was just wondering—the A who wrote to my mother when she was in Pine Breeze. I think he must have been my father.”

Eliza’s shiny snake eyes glistened, but she settled back into her chair and set the glass on a small table to her left. She had misunderstood me, and she was relieved to realize it. I couldn’t help but wonder what she thought I’d meant. “Oh. So you want to know about Arthur.”