“They know the truth, Cheryl,” Lily whispers. “I just told them.”
Cheryl swivels to face Lily. “You little snitchy bitch. The pawnshop just gave me thirty thousand dollars for that rare first edition. I would have given you a cut, Lily. How could you be so stupid?”
“I told you before,” Lily says, her voice a quiet knife. “I don’t want your dirty money. I just want my job.”
Cheryl’s beady eyes shift from Lily to Angela to Mr. Preston, then finally land on me. “Wait,” she says. “We can make a deal here, can’t we? Split the proceeds of my sales four ways as long as you all keep quiet? We’ll be a hell of a lot richer if you can just hold your tongues.”
If I were to hold any tongue right now, it would be Cheryl’s—for the express purpose of ripping it from her mouth.
“I think I’ve heard enough,” Mr. Preston says. “Do we agree?”
Angela nods and so do I.
“I’ve definitely heard enough,” says Lily, her voice no longer a whisper. The clarion sound fills me with overweening pride.
“Molly, would you mind fetching Mr. Snow?” Mr. Preston says.
“Would I mind?” I reply. “On the contrary, it would be my pleasure.”
I curtsy to Cheryl, bowing more deeply than I’ve ever bowed to anyone in my life, because it’s the last courtesy she’ll receive from any of us for a very long time.
Chapter 21
There are moments in life that are so seismically altering they divide everything, cutting a clear rift in time between Before and After. I experienced this powerfully the day my gran died. But that was not the first time in my life I felt it.
The first time was the day I saw what Mr. Grimthorpe did to Gran in the parlor at the mansion. Though I did not understand it entirely until much later, witnessing that moment turned me from a child to an adult in an instant.
I suppose I should have known all along that Mr. Grimthorpe was a monster. My instincts told me so even before I met him. But as with many things, I couldn’t quite believe what was right there in front of my face. I couldn’t piece together the clues the way I can in retrospect.
Now I know why some days were so hard for Gran, why she’d open my curtains but forget to say “Rise and shine.” How she’d prepare breakfast in silence rather than humming her cheery little tune because she dreaded going to work and was so fearful that Mr. Grimthorpe would force himself upon her. I recall how some nights at dinner she’d sit across from me, her eyes dull, moving her food around her plate but barely eating anything, her mind clearly elsewhere.
She rallied—my gran always rallied—searching for the bright side, focusing on the positive, convincing herself that Grimthorpe was a changed man, that once he was sober, he would never attack her again. That was my gran. She had an infinite capacity to light hope in the dark. And for the most part, she was successful. She certainly convinced me that all was well in our cloistered little world, that our future was impossibly bright. Everything she did was so I would not just survive but thrive. Only now do I know just how much she suffered in the dark, how she carried her burden alone.
In my mind’s eye, I’m a child again. Gran and I are sitting at our old kitchen table having breakfast the day after Mr. Grimthorpe transformed from a man into a ravenous wolf right before my eyes. I’m swinging my legs back and forth under my country-kitchen chair as I always do, but nothing will ever be the same again. At least that much I understand. Usually, in the mornings, I hurl a barrage of childlike questions at Gran, my existential quandaries and would-you-rather quizzes. But not that day.
I push my oatmeal down my throat, but when Gran tells me it’s time to go to the Grimthorpe mansion, I don’t move. I can’t.
“It’s not right,” I say. It’s the first mention I’ve made of what I saw in that parlor. I pause. “Gran, you can’t go back there.” I don’t know how to say what I want to say, because I don’t have words for what I saw.
“Molly, today is a brand-new day.” Gran jumps up from her chair so quickly it screeches against the floor. “The sun is shining. The birds are chirping.” She takes our barely touched bowls to the sink, turning away from me. Her hands clutch the edge of the counter. “Let’s go now,” she announces. “It’s time.”
When she turns to face me, she’s smiling, and I swear to you that smile is genuine. She has willed it from some wellspring deep within, and now she offers it like a bouquet of fresh roses. She dons her bravest face because what other choice does she have?
That rhetorical question had kept me up the night before. I lay awake in bed with Gran’s lone-star quilt pulled up to my neck. I stared into the darkness and contemplated our options. A plan emerged in my mind. Suddenly, I saw it clearly. I knew what I had to do.
Gran once told me that sometimes in this life, you have to do something wrong to make something right. I’ve never forgotten that. It has become a motto to live by.
As I swing my legs under the table, I’ve already decided.
It is a brand-new day. The sun is shining. The birds are chirping. I have a plan, and there’s nothing that will stop me from seeing it through. Nothing.
We arrive at the mansion right on time. The invisible gatekeeper has buzzed us through the gate. Now, Gran and I are standing on the path. Suddenly, I’m filled with doubt. What if I can’t do it? What if it’s the wrong thing to do? What if I’m making a terrible mistake? No. I won’t listen to doubt. We must escape the monster. We must run from the wolf.
I haven’t mentioned a thing to Gran, and I won’t, but my feet are tethered to the ground before we’ve even reached the front door. Gran puts a warm hand on my arm. My feet loosen and release. Together, we walk up the rest of the path toward the Grimthorpe mansion.
The roses flanking us are all expired now, every last one, their blooms spent, their heads bowed and withered. Jenkins is up the path, sweeping crispy fallen petals into a pile that he rakes into his wheelbarrow. There’s a new smell in the air, the sweet scent of expiration.
“Good morning, Flora,” Jenkins says as we pass. “How are you and the little mite on this fine day?”
“Well enough, Jenkins, I suppose,” Gran replies.
“Rose season is over,” he replies, “but there’s always next year.”
“Something to look forward to,” Gran replies.
“We all need that, don’t we?”
Gran nods. “Indeed we do.”
We continue up the path until we reach the front door. I grab the lion’s brass mandible and knock three times. The massive door swings open, and Mrs. Grimthorpe lets us in. Gran and I take off our shoes, wiping them down as usual and slipping them into the space at the back of the vestibule, in the dark corner reserved for the help.
Mrs. Grimthorpe starts in without delay. “Today is wash-and-dry day. Flora, go upstairs and collect all the laundry. Be quick about it. Lots to do.”
Gran flinches ever so slightly. It’s something I wouldn’t have noticed before, but on that day I do.
“Once you’ve got all the dirty laundry, bring it downstairs to the cellar. Stay down there and monitor the machines. The washer has been acting up again. And do be careful with the bleach. Last time, you used so much on the whites, you burnt a hole into one of Mr. Grimthorpe’s shirts.”
“There was a stain, madam,” Gran says. “I was trying to remove the blot.”
“Is burning it to oblivion the only way?” Mrs. Grimthorpe asks. “Surely any half-decent maid knows better.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Gran replies.
“Child, you may read upstairs in the library,” Mrs. Grimthorpe says. “You can polish silver in the afternoon.”