“This way,” Laura said, starting straight ahead. “You won’t need to use the green wing or the west wing. I keep the doors closed, to save energy. As you can imagine, it’s quite a feat to heat or cool a house this size.”

I nodded, as if I had spent time imagining such a thing. “Are they all bedrooms?”

“Oh no,” she said. “There are anterooms, dressing rooms, bathrooms, the old sauna, a gymnasium, linen storage . . . And several guest rooms, as well.”

My head felt like it was spinning. Was this supposed to make sense to me?

“Actually, Margaret, I think I’ll go see about your belongings,” Mr. Albright said suddenly, reversing course and heading back downstairs.

Coward. I helplessly watched him go.

I tried to ignore the prickling sensation on my skin as we walked farther down the hall, stopping outside the second-to-last door on the left.

John put his hand on the knob, but Laura lightly touched his shoulder. “I like to knock,” she said softly. “Even if—well, we should get into the habit anyway.”

So he knocked. Then he opened the door.

Laura paused in the doorway and turned to me. “She hasn’t always lived in here. We just felt it was . . . simpler.”

And then, leaving me to cope with that extremely mysterious pronouncement, she went inside.

I had nowhere to go but after her.

It took me a moment to figure out where I was, but after taking everything in, it hit me: This was a nursery, a room for small children. The wallpaper was an old-fashioned pattern of fruits and flowers arranged in rings around little scenes of woodland creatures hanging out together—bunnies, squirrels, birds, and turtles, all with the creepy wild-eyed expressions people somehow used to think were normal and cute.

There were no cribs or bassinets, but there was a white wooden toy chest carved with stars and moons against one wall, and a few feet away, a small desk had the same pattern carved in its legs.

I looked around the room. Two beds, decorated with the same celestial motif, were pushed up into the corners against the far wall.

“Agatha,” Laura said softly, “there’s someone we’d like you to meet.”

And then I saw her—sitting in a high-backed wooden chair by the window, her body angled so she could look outside.

My throat went dry. A very bad feeling began to tap-dance in my mind.

She didn’t turn to look at us, but Laura went on walking toward her, talking as she went. “Her name is Margaret,” she said, in a voice as thin and clear as a rod of glass. “She’d like to say hello to you.”

My heart and stomach felt like they were in a wrestling match. I told myself, Calm down, you’re making assumptions, you’re being ungrateful . . .