In the fresh gloss of that morning, the House had never seemed to me so beautiful, or so full. Softly, I walked through all the rooms downstairs as if my feet took possession: into the dining room, where the couple on horseback still kissed in midstride; entering the large library with its rows of shelves rising on either side of the great mantelpiece, upon which sat an antiquated pipe stand of fine black walnut; and back across the front hall and into the small sitting room for ladies’ writing. There was the secretary, and in it—I put out my hand to count—Susannah’s seventeen black scrapbooks carefully shelved, books I had never thought to open, though they had rested there before me all the while. And staring at the row lined before me, again I wondered what had happened to the sister who had gathered artifacts instead of stories to keep a history of her days—the sister who had been with Miss Grange when she had borne her child, and had led her to Perdita’s grave.

What was before me—the sharp lines of books and chair backs and the deep rich colors of cushion and sofa—mingled with the scenes that thronged in memory and on the page. The diary had granted me fresh eyes. The diary made me the hinge upon the gate between the present and the living past: I could swing open—or shut—at will.

And must I open it? I asked Susannah’s scrapbooks, and crossed my arms. Must I indeed?

A serving girl passed by, carrying the first of the tea trays upstairs, and smiled pleasantly at me. With a start, I was recalled to the day. Mama! I had forgotten Mama. Another of the girls passed me on her way upstairs and I darted after her, thinking to catch her up and take the tray she carried to Mama myself.

Morning glowed softly into the room, the curtains still pulled across the windows. One of the shades lifted and lowered in a small breeze. I put down the tea tray and threw wide the curtains to let the light in. Then I turned round. Mama lay stretched upon the bed, still fast asleep, her head turned to the side, her long, pale neck gleaming out of her lacy collar. Her hands lay open on either side, perfectly still and cupped, the slender fingers slightly bent.

I crossed back through the door, eased myself out of my dress and slippers, and sought my own pillow for sleep.

Mama did not wake me before descending to her breakfast, and when I arrived below, flushed and hungry, her pale face greeted me like a cold and distant moon from the middle of the deserted breakfast room.

“How does Miss Grange?” she asked.

“She has died,” I replied with a small tremor of voice.