And did the well-loved dead also wake to hear the foghorn’s low cry? I thought of him, lying in the curve of the hill above the town, and of his face turning cross the distance toward my own. Perhaps that note, that lonely note, was the open O of his call.

Thinking so, my eyes rested vacantly upon the ridge of my bed through the doorway. Against the spare white of the room, the intervening door frame appeared more massive than it was, making of the door less a portal than a marker. My mother’s arms still hung around my shoulders. Papa! How I wished he could find his way back to us, lying here.

Dawn gave way to the yellow light of a sickly morning. I watched as the room around us grew more distinct, the dark brown furniture contrasting with the rose-patterned wall. Upon the wall before me, several smudges marred the paper. Sliding back the covers, I slipped my feet onto the cold floor and crossed closer. Some child had been let free in here and had pressed her dirty hands upon the wall. I passed through the doorway and back into my room, where I stopped and turned slowly back around to regard that wall.

My heart raced. Some child? I crept back to the smudge and stared.

At last I placed my own hand over the mark upon the wall. And heard the House then—half truth and half phantasm—so full of its multiple vanished chorus who sang and sang—and never ended.

We were to visit Papa’s grave that very morning—an appointment I dreaded on Mama’s part, as I thought she should rest from our travels before setting out toward certain tumult. Thus, it was with great discomfort that I came out of the breakfast room and onto the piazza that morning, to see my mother dressed and ready for the ride.

“Go find your hat, Maisie. Mr. Coates is willing to take us into Middle Haven right away.”

“But, Mama,” I began to protest.

“Is it in your trunk, or does Jessie have it?” She smiled at me, though there were tears in her eyes.

Reluctantly, I turned toward the front hall.

“Hurry, Maisie. I don’t want to be late.”

I wheeled round to look at her again. Late? But she had turned away and was already proceeding around the House to meet Mr. Coates and the Grange House wagon.

Late? I thought as I retrieved the hat from Jessie’s room, crossing into mine. Late? I dashed some cologne at my neck and wrists in a rising impatience with her tone. Mama flew to see Papa’s plot as though to an assignation.

And what did I want? I grumbled to myself as I marched down the stairs, through the hall, and out the door. I jabbed the tip of my parasol into the grass, leaving behind tiny punctuations. Stop. Stop. Stop.