Mo inspected the twisted pile of feathers. “I’m pretty sure it’s a crow, but I’m gonna clean it up. Don’t worry.”

While they fussed, I went out to the hallway to look around. More paintings and photographs lined the walls—some in color, some in black and white, and some were paintings that looked like they should be hanging in a museum. At the end of the hall was a narrow door with a bronze handle. I pulled it open and found myself at the foot of a short flight of stairs.”

“There’s another floor,” I called out.

Mom and Mo joined me at the bottom of the staircase. A dim light streamed down from somewhere above.

“Want me to go up first?” Mo asked.

She didn’t have to ask twice. Me and Mom stepped aside to let her through.

“Man, y’all are cold blooded,” she said, shaking her head. She trudged up the stairs. A few moments later she called down to us. “Come on up.”

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 6

I climbed the stairs, ducking so I didn’t hit my head on the stairwell’s slanted roof, and emerged in a small room with a conical ceiling.

“We’re in the turret,” I said, peering out a small oval window that overlooked the driveway.

Shelving went around the entire room. Every nook was filled with books, boxes, and a bunch of old furniture. Paintings hung on the walls, but unlike the ones downstairs they all featured the same person—a woman, her skin rendered in the warmest golden brown, her hair and eyes dark. In one gold-framed portrait, she sat at a table scattered with an assortment of strange items. A small fire burned in a dish in front of her as she poured liquid from a cup into the flames. Next to the dish sat a large green toad, an abalone shell, and a coiled red string. The woman stared out at me, her full lips parted, like she was about to say something.

“Do you think she’s related to them?” I asked. “To Circe and the other people in the portraits in the hall?”

Mo studied the painting. “Maybe. She looks a lot like them, like you.”

“We should probably start moving some of the junk out of the bedrooms and get the sheets in the wash so we have a clean place to sleep,” Mom said.

“Good idea,” Mo said. They went to the stairs.

“I just need a minute,” I said.

Mo nodded and ushered Mom down the stairs. I didn’t want to leave yet. Not until I’d had a chance to look at the other painting of the mysterious woman. In it, she was seated next to a man, her right hand extended over a small copper-colored dish, eyes fixed on her work. I could see the painter’s brushstrokes in the red of her dress. The woman looked absolutely focused on whatever was in the dish, and the man next to her sat in rapt attention, his brown eyes wide, regarding her with some mix of fear and intrigue.