For the next two hours, we dug into the soil, churning it with water and fertilizer, and arranged the bulbs in a horseshoe shape around Lily’s grave. We were both careful never to kneel on the grave itself, instead working from the outside. But it was still extremely creepy—and quiet. Our conversation was about planting, and nothing else. If we weren’t talking about logistics, we weren’t talking. It didn’t seem respectful to carry on small talk here, in this dark, sad little place.

After we finished, we cleaned the tools and put them back, then slid the empty crate onto the shelf. We’d planted something like two hundred bulbs, and it would be weeks before we knew if anything had come of it. But even if nothing happened, it felt good to have a project like this—something meaningful.

I just hoped Laura would find it equally meaningful.

I pictured us working in the garden together some morning, Laura sitting back and looking at me and then deciding to trust me enough to start talking about Lily. About how it felt to lose your sister. All because these lilies had reminded her that your memories could be beautiful in spite of the pain they stirred inside you.

She doesn’t have to like me, I thought as we walked in silence back to the house and upstairs to our rooms. But if I can help her, she might respect me a little.

This time, when I went back into the nursery, Agatha was in her bed, sound asleep. And my room was just as I’d left it.

I washed the dirt from under my fingernails, changed into my pajamas, and got into bed, expecting to fall asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. But I found myself lying on my side, eyes closed, listening to my own breath and feeling my heartbeat gently pulse through my body. I sat up and tried a sip of my tea, but it was cold.

After another long stretch of helpless wakefulness, I took my teacup and went down to the kitchen.

I considered brewing myself a fresh cup, but ended up sticking the cold tea in the microwave instead. Afterward, I wandered out of the kitchen, taking small sips. I had intended to go right back to bed, but as I came out of the kitchen, I glanced across the hall into the drawing room. Through the open doorway, I could see the far side of the room, where there was a line of paintings—family portraits.

I went in and flipped on the gallery lights aimed at the walls, and the portraits were suddenly illuminated. They went from left to right, oldest to newest, featuring each successive generation of Copeland heirs and their children.