I’ve never met him before, but I would recognize him anywhere. From what Bee’s told me, from what the movies have told me too. He’s kept his accent, the same as Jane, and he’s kept his old habits too. This is exactly what he used to do at Thornfield—hold lavish parties, invite everyone he knew. There was music on pianofortes and people pretending to be civilized. Now it’s music on high-fidelity turntables, but otherwise, it’s all the same.

There’s another dead giveaway too. The silence in his chest, the emptiness within him. Though to be fair, I doubt a man like him ever really had a heart.

Behind me, the patio door creaks open. Rochester barely looks up.

“Bertha, my love. How are you?”

“It’s Bee,” she says, but he already knows that. He just doesn’t care.

“I’ve been trying to reach you.” He grips his highball glass tighter. “Been calling and calling. You never answer.”

“That should tell you something,” Bee says, and she’s standing next to me now, near the rim of the pool. Something’s shifting in her, her gaze like fire, her voice like stone. This is a side of her I don’t know. A side that maybe he alone has seen.

“Well,” he says, and finishes his drink in one ragged gulp, “we’re glad to have you both here. Welcome to Dahlia Hall.”

I stare at him, incredulous. “You named this house too?”

“Why not?” He exhales a harsh laugh. “If it’s mine, don’t I deserve to claim it?”

At this, his eyes shift to Bee, watching her in a way that makes me squirm. It never ceases to amaze me how obscene some men can be without ever lifting a finger.

But Bee’s used to him by now, and she doesn’t miss a beat. “Where’s Jane?”

Rochester flashes her a slimy smile, and at last, he’s found an expression that looks good on him. “She’s not here,” he says. “Anyhow, I thought she was on her way to find you.”

Bee doesn’t answer, her lips pursed, her face looking ready to crumble, and though she doesn’t say it, Rochester guesses the rest.

“That girl just can’t make up her mind, can she?” He shakes his head ruefully, as his acolytes draw closer. There are more of them now, some even shifting outside through the main patio door to join the throng. These girls in their flowing cotton dresses, their backs stiff, their mouths rigid and downturned.

We’re outnumbered by a mile, and Rochester knows it. He’s got nothing to worry about. Men like him never do.

Still grinning, he rattles the ice in his glass. “I’m sure Jane will be back soon, Bertha. In the meantime, why don’t you make yourself at home?”