The leftmost one was Jerahmeel, who was thin and unhappy looking, his face strangely birdlike with a small chin and heavy brow. His wife, next to him, looked just as unhappy, but stockier in her wide-skirted and bell-sleeved dress; her mouth was set grimly. Their five children, three boys and two girls, all looked like they’d just realized how unfun their parents were.

The next painting was of Jerahmeel’s oldest son and his wife, who was rather pretty and looked familiar to me—and then I realized that she was the future Widow Copeland, whose portrait hung upstairs in the hall. She was already wearing black, even before she was a widow—a high-collared blouse and a high-waisted skirt. At first, I thought they had only two children, boys. Then I realized that Mrs. Copeland held something in her arms—something that was the size and shape of an infant, but draped in gauzy black fabric.

I hurried onward.

The next guy and his wife looked bored, which could hardly have been possible considering the sheer volume of children seated around them—I counted eight. The youngest was a boy, and the rest were girls. The girls all wore dull-colored, shapeless dresses that reminded me of paper lunch bags.

I was about to pause before the next picture when a familiar face caught my eye in the final painting in the row. This one contained exactly two people: Laura and a man who must have been her father. Laura looked rather grown-up, wearing an off-the-shoulder black top and a string of pearls around her neck. She stood in front of her father, who was staring into the distance, with his hand resting on her shoulder. Laura stared directly out at the room. It was a lovely likeness of her.

Her mother would have been long dead by that point. But where was Lily?

The next spot was empty, waiting for the next generation. I wondered if they would continue the tradition. Maybe they were waiting for Agatha to get better first.

I stared at Laura, feeling the emptiness of her loss, and finished my tea.

“Can’t you sleep?”

I managed to hold on to my teacup, but only barely. I turned around and found Laura, in her old-fashioned high-necked nightgown, standing in the doorway watching me.

I shook my head. “Sorry, I just came down to heat up my tea.”

“I can make you a fresh cup,” she said, reaching for the cup.

“I finished it,” I said. “Sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” she said. “This is your home, too.”

It was a lovely sentiment, although I didn’t completely believe her. But why ruin the mood?