She wandered around the vast downstairs for an hour or so, down halls that seemed never to end, in and out of rooms with ceilings so high it made her head dizzy to look up: the library with the glass-fronted bookcases and Gothic panels, the formal dining room with the giant chandelier that dangled above the table like a bunch of see-through grapes, the sitting room with the velvet chairs and silver urns. Everywhere she went, every room she ducked into, every corner she turned, she was confronted by a Flood, staring down at her from a gilt-framed portrait. The effect was eerie, made her feel oddly self-conscious and exposed, like the house was full of spies, like one of Richard’s forebears might rat her out, tell him what she’d been up to. She shook off the feeling as best she could, hunted for old photographs, keepsakes, mementos from the Martha-Camilla days, basically covering the ground she and Charlie had already covered. She found nothing, of course.

Finally, frustrated, and unable to think of an alternative, she headed upstairs to bed. At the top of the staircase, she turned left, opened the door to her room. As she stepped across the threshold, a breeze from the window above her dresser passed over her, making her skin break out in spiky little goose bumps. And she could hear, only just, the wind chimes jangling on the back porch, a faint, strangely muted sound, like a sound heard under water. Listening to it, it occurred to Alice for the first time to wonder: had this room been Camilla’s?

Chapter Six

Chapter

• SIX •