The twists and turns I think will take me to the east side of the mansion instead curve back in on themselves and deposit me in a place that does not look familiar at all. One moment I am in the reading room, where a ghost of my young mother is holding a séance, surrounded by cold candles that do not flicker; and I am in the Rose Room, where a shape lies beneath a white shroud on the bed, a shape I can only hope will not rise up and prove itself to be something more than the long-forgotten form of Frances Wakefield; and then, inexplicably, as I back away into the hall, I find myself on the first level of the house.

Perhaps I am wrong, I think as I hurry down the hallway, clutching a softly cooing Julian to my breast the way I imagine a mother might clutch her child, but the farther I go, the more sure I am that this is one of the hallways on the main level—and, indeed, when I come to the four-way intersection of identical halls, I know this to be true. Yet I did not descend any stairs; or did I, automatically, the way one sometimes forgets the act of brushing one’s teeth, even though one tastes the echo of mint and knows it has been done?

Each way down the four-way cross, the dark halls shoot off into an abyss. The old wood of the floor creaks and groans where I step, and the dark-paneled walls, briefly dotted with dormant cobwebbed sconces, I see more with my memory’s eye than with my actual eyes, for the dark here is near absolute without windows to guide me, without electricity lighting the sconces. Which way shall I turn? I hear Donovan’s footsteps on the ceiling above as he rummages through the second floor looking for me. I must act before he comes down—but suddenly I am paralyzed with choice.

The hallway to the north will lead me back to the front of the house, to the foyer and the main staircase; to the east lies the billiards room, and the dining room, and the kitchen; west, I will find the den, the parlor, the sitting room; and the hall that takes me south will lead me to the library, the basement, and the back of the house.

The only problem is that I cannot tell which way is which. My heart thudding in my throat, I convince myself it is only the dark that is confusing me—anyone would get lost at this intersection, even one who has lived here all her life, who has found her way in the dark countless times before through touch and memory and spatial intuition, perhaps by feeling the magnetic field of the earth, like a bird.

Wrapped up tight, Julian nevertheless manages to wriggle free his tiny arms as if to punctuate the cries that build from his throat. I try to shush him as I tuck his arms back in, but he cries anyway, to spite me. Then I wonder if I should leave his arms free, his fists flailing, and I realize how very little I am prepared to care for an infant, how little I know about this whole mystery of life. The weight of it is abrupt and appalling.