there are still several old trunks and boxes I haven’t had time to go through.”
He rose, touching Ava lightly on the shoulder. “I’ll be back,” he said. He walked through the butler’s pantry into the dining room and a moment later they could hear his footsteps on the stairs.
“The attic?” Ava said, looking around with interest. Outside the breakfast room window, a profusion of hydrangea blooms pressed against the glass panes.
“Don’t go up there,” Fanny said, shuddering so that the cat opened its eyes and regarded Ava lazily. “It’s a morbid place.”
“One of our ancestors was a doctor,” Josephine said before Fanny could say anything else. “You can still see the outline of the staircase that once stood at the rear of the house. He used to occasionally see patients up there.”
“He was an anatomist,” Alice said. “A vivisectionist.”
“He was a man of science,” Josephine said. “Of natural curiosity. And in those days anatomy was a relatively new field of study. An unpleasant thing to be talking about at any time but especially over the breakfast table.” She glanced severely at Alice and Fanny as if to put an end to the discussion.
“I can’t imagine why he was allowed to perform his grisly experiments in the house,” Clara said, ignoring her. “That’s the part I’ve never understood, why Randal and Delphine would have allowed that.”
“Experiments?” Ava said.
“Dissections.” Fanny shivered again and the cat arched his back and yawned.
“It was illegal in those days,” Alice said. “Dissection. He had to pay grave robbers to bring him bodies in the middle of the night.”
“Resurrection men,” Clara said.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” Josephine said, one of the veins in her temple showing blue against her pale skin.
“He was one of Randal and Delphine’s two sons who survived,” Fanny explained blithely to Ava. “Great-Uncle Jerome. Out of sixteen children, they only had four who lived to adulthood. Great-Uncle Jerome, Grandfather Isaac, Great-Aunt Louisa, and Great-Aunt Sophia.”
“That’s terrible,” Ava said.
“Not so uncommon in those days,” Alice said.
“I was terrified of the attic,” Fanny said, stroking the cat and staring pensively through the window. “Papa used to keep it locked. We weren’t allowed to play up there. It was above the nursery where Josephine and Celia and I used to sleep as girls, and at night I could hear things moving around up there.”
“Oh, Fanny!” Josephine said, glancing sharply at her. “You were always so fanciful as a girl.”
Fanny tilted her head with a mildly surprised expression. “Was I?” she said.
Ava chewed her toast, aware suddenly of an undercurrent of tension in the room. She thought of the nightmare that had awakened her in the middle of the night, but like all nightmares it had already begun to fade, and she could remember only snatches of it now, a fleeting impression of fear and speed and glittering water.
“Listen to us going on about things that happened so long ago as if it were only yesterday,” Josephine said briskly, taking off her apron and folding it neatly over the back of a chair.
“You’ll have to get used to that in this house,” Clara said to Ava, patting her hand. “The past mixed up with the present.”
“I don’t mind,” Ava said.
As if to change the subject, Josephine said, “Will tells us you’re a writer.”
Ava coughed lightly and put her fist to her mouth. It was the moment she had come to dread, her stilted confession of being a writer, followed by the inevitable moment of silence and then the bright retort, “Oh, really! What do you write?” She could never seem to pull it off.
“I’m working on a novel,” she said. “A coming-of-age story set partially in Chicago.”
“How wonderful,” Josephine said.
“I do love a good English mystery,” Alice said. “Murder in the rose garden by the crazy vicar, that sort of
He rose, touching Ava lightly on the shoulder. “I’ll be back,” he said. He walked through the butler’s pantry into the dining room and a moment later they could hear his footsteps on the stairs.
“The attic?” Ava said, looking around with interest. Outside the breakfast room window, a profusion of hydrangea blooms pressed against the glass panes.
“Don’t go up there,” Fanny said, shuddering so that the cat opened its eyes and regarded Ava lazily. “It’s a morbid place.”
“One of our ancestors was a doctor,” Josephine said before Fanny could say anything else. “You can still see the outline of the staircase that once stood at the rear of the house. He used to occasionally see patients up there.”
“He was an anatomist,” Alice said. “A vivisectionist.”
“He was a man of science,” Josephine said. “Of natural curiosity. And in those days anatomy was a relatively new field of study. An unpleasant thing to be talking about at any time but especially over the breakfast table.” She glanced severely at Alice and Fanny as if to put an end to the discussion.
“I can’t imagine why he was allowed to perform his grisly experiments in the house,” Clara said, ignoring her. “That’s the part I’ve never understood, why Randal and Delphine would have allowed that.”
“Experiments?” Ava said.
“Dissections.” Fanny shivered again and the cat arched his back and yawned.
“It was illegal in those days,” Alice said. “Dissection. He had to pay grave robbers to bring him bodies in the middle of the night.”
“Resurrection men,” Clara said.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” Josephine said, one of the veins in her temple showing blue against her pale skin.
“He was one of Randal and Delphine’s two sons who survived,” Fanny explained blithely to Ava. “Great-Uncle Jerome. Out of sixteen children, they only had four who lived to adulthood. Great-Uncle Jerome, Grandfather Isaac, Great-Aunt Louisa, and Great-Aunt Sophia.”
“That’s terrible,” Ava said.
“Not so uncommon in those days,” Alice said.
“I was terrified of the attic,” Fanny said, stroking the cat and staring pensively through the window. “Papa used to keep it locked. We weren’t allowed to play up there. It was above the nursery where Josephine and Celia and I used to sleep as girls, and at night I could hear things moving around up there.”
“Oh, Fanny!” Josephine said, glancing sharply at her. “You were always so fanciful as a girl.”
Fanny tilted her head with a mildly surprised expression. “Was I?” she said.
Ava chewed her toast, aware suddenly of an undercurrent of tension in the room. She thought of the nightmare that had awakened her in the middle of the night, but like all nightmares it had already begun to fade, and she could remember only snatches of it now, a fleeting impression of fear and speed and glittering water.
“Listen to us going on about things that happened so long ago as if it were only yesterday,” Josephine said briskly, taking off her apron and folding it neatly over the back of a chair.
“You’ll have to get used to that in this house,” Clara said to Ava, patting her hand. “The past mixed up with the present.”
“I don’t mind,” Ava said.
As if to change the subject, Josephine said, “Will tells us you’re a writer.”
Ava coughed lightly and put her fist to her mouth. It was the moment she had come to dread, her stilted confession of being a writer, followed by the inevitable moment of silence and then the bright retort, “Oh, really! What do you write?” She could never seem to pull it off.
“I’m working on a novel,” she said. “A coming-of-age story set partially in Chicago.”
“How wonderful,” Josephine said.
“I do love a good English mystery,” Alice said. “Murder in the rose garden by the crazy vicar, that sort of
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