"There is nothing more I should know then? Nothing more you wish to tell me?"

He wipes his palms on his trousers and shakes his head vehemently. "No. Not that I can think of."

"Very well." I rise from the chair, glancing down at him like the scum he is. "As for my wife, you don't exist to her anymore. I don't want you to look at her. Speak to her. Or even so much as mutter her name again in passing. Do you understand?"

"Yes, of course." He bobs his head. "Whatever you wish."

I head for the door, and one last thought occurs to me. "I want the notes from her chart. Send them to me. Now."

24

Ivy

My stomach growls as I make my way down the stairs at the appointed time. I feel as though I’ve been summoned, and I think back to that conversation with Mercedes. About how my husband gave me permission to leave my room. I grow angry with the memory. At the thought of it. It’s been bothering me all day, and the fifteen-minute visit with my father didn’t exactly fulfill his end of the bargain.

The lush carpet pads my steps, muting any sound. I’m generally quiet when I’m not knocking into something, and in this house, I’m even more careful. There’s a depth to the silence here. Even when it was quiet at my house or at the apartment as I sat there alone, it wasn’t like this. There was always some noise, but you don’t realize it until you hear this absolute absence of sound.

My path is illuminated by the chandeliers overhead, ancient gothic things lit with candles.

I stop for a moment and take it in, wonder who is tasked with cleaning them and putting new candles into the dozens of chandeliers in this place. They must have to do it daily. I pass one of the large iron-clad windows. It filters the moonlight to a pretty, eerie silver. Shadow is layered upon shadow here. I wonder if I’ll find ghosts when I start to wander the house. I won’t be surprised if I do.

I walk into the living room with its rose petal windows. The mural on the ceiling is obscured. I peer up at it, then turn a circle to take it in. It’s spectacular still, the art, the architecture of the house itself, all the arches, the nooks, the darkness.

I run my fingers over the closed piano lid. I wonder if anyone plays. I wish I did, but I don’t have much of a talent for it.

A clock chimes. It must be seven thirty. I walk out of the living room in search of the dining room. I find it only because I hear the barest hint of sound. Music. Low and dark and so fitting for this place.