"It depends on how you regard the dead," said Madeleine. "They were part of us in life. Shouldn't they be part of us in death?"
"Will you be buried here someday?" he asked.
"I intend never to die," she said.
"Statistically, almost every woman who marries is signing on for widowhood at some time in her life."
"Do you want to be buried here?" she asked teasingly.
"Not unless I'm really dead," he said. "No fair burying me while I'm still snoring."
"You admit you snore?"
"Everybody snores," said Quentin. "But they only hear the other guy's snoring."
"And sleep through their own," said Madeleine. "Isn't that the way it goes."
"Does my snoring annoy you?"
"I think it's sweet," she said. "And when it keeps me awake, I pinch your nose and then you think you woke up to go to the bathroom and while you're in there trying in vain to aim somewhere near the toilet, I fall asleep very very quickly."
"What an efficient system. By the way, I may miss sometimes, but I've never yet peed on my feet."
"Or if you did, it didn't wake you," she said.
"You're as gross as a kid," said Quentin.
"It's one of the things you love best about me, though."
"Maybe," said Quentin. "But you have to promise to act shocked when our children talk gross. It's no fun if your parents can match you, ick for ick."
"I promise to be shocked."
They were back at the house. The dining room was empty. So was the library, and the table had been de-leafed and turned the other way, so it didn't take up the whole space between the vast walls of books. It wasn't as warm and inviting as the library in the grande dame's house had been. Instead of ladders, there was a balcony around three sides of the room, with a narrow spiral staircase leading to it. It all looked cold and uncomfortable, like a high canyon that you could only scale by taking your life in your hands climbing up a rickety narrow ladder. He went to the shelves to examine the titles, but Madeleine caught his arm almost at once. "Quentin, there's nothing readable there."
"In a house this old," he said, "there are bound to be some real finds."
"There aren't, trust me. Nobody actually reads. When this room was remodeled into a library, they bought books by the yard."
"Oh." Quentin was disappointed. He had once held a first edition, first printing of Uncle Tom's Cabin. In his hands, a book that started a war and changed the world, perhaps one of the very copies that had done it. But if the library was recent instead of old... still, even books bought at estate auctions sometimes had gems.
Nevertheless, he understood that Madeleine was more eager to open her treasure box than she wanted to admit. He let her lead him out into the entry hall and then into a parlor in the northeast corner of the house. It was lighted only by the windows, which on a winter afternoon meant the room was dim indeed, especially because heavy brocade curtains were closed at the top and swagged open near the base, so they more than half covered the glass.
Everyone was gathered here, though all but Uncle Paul and Grandmother seemed to hang back as close to the walls as the furniture allowed. Grandmother stood firmly, despite her shrunken, ancient appearance, her hands atop an intricately engraved mahogany box that stood on a small table in the middle of the room. Uncle Paul hovered near her, looking down at the box and then up at Madeleine and Quentin.
"Oh, darling, do hurry," said Uncle Paul. "I'm so eager to see what's left for you in there."
"I can bet you are," said Madeleine dryly. "Try to contain yourself."
Nevertheless, Paul's hands kept darting down toward the box, though he never quite touched it.
Grandmother's eyes stayed fixed on Quentin.
"Tin, dear," said Madeleine. "Why don't you open the box?"
"Oh, it's really not my place," said Quentin. "Your treasure, after all, and wanting to open it all these years."
Grandmother's eyes bored through him.
"Tin, I know it's silly, but now that it's come down to it, my hands are trembling so much I—isn't it silly? I guess this meant more to me than I thought. Won't you please help me out?"
"Is there a key or something?"
"No key!" Uncle Paul offered.
"Do keep your helpful information to yourself, Uncle P," said Madeleine.
"Oh, I know, darling, it's your prize."
"It is," said Madeleine. "There's nothing in there you can use. Count on it."
"Oh, I know," said Paul. "But we're all just so... intrigued with it. Like Christmas—you're dying to find out what's in everybody's packages, not just your own."
"Quentin," said Madeleine. "Please don't say no to me."
Quentin sighed and stepped to the box and put his hands on it. The wood was warm and smooth, the surface clean and polished. The geometric etching was intricately done, almost lacy in places. It was a beautiful box.
It was also a box with Grandmother's hands on it. Not to block him; her fingertips touched only the back corners of it. But her eyes still drilled into him, and even though she said nothing, he couldn't help but assume she was forbidding him to open it.
"I don't think your grandmother wants me to open it."
"Did she say so?" asked Madeleine.
"She hasn't been very chatty so far today," said Quentin, "but as you said, she lets people know what she wants."
"Quentin, everybody else here knows it's my right to open it. And my husband's right—what's in there is as much yours as mine, isn't it? You didn't ask me to sign a prenup, and I didn't ask you to sign one, either."
"You know what just occurred to me?" Quentin said, laughing. "Wouldn't it be a kick if it turned out that the box itself was the inheritance? You know, a keepsake. Nothing in it at all, just the box itself. The magical dreams of childhood, preserved forever."
"There's something in it, all right," said Madeleine.
"It's just chock full of stuff," said Uncle Paul.
"Something is chock full of something, anyway," said Madeleine. "You're not helping, Uncle Paul."
"I'm not?" said Paul. "Oh, foo. Fum. Fee fie foe."
"Tin, aren't you going to open it for me?"
"Sure, of course," said Quentin.
"Then do. Just open it."
"I am," said Quentin.
"You are what?" said Madeleine.
"Opening it."
"The evidence of my eyes says otherwise," said Uncle Paul, leaning close and looking him right in the eyes. "Open the damn box, you impotent lickspittle."
The venom in his voice almost stung. Quentin took a step back, removing his hands from the box.
Grandmother was still looking at him, but was she smiling a little?
"Tin!" wailed Madeleine. "Just go to the box, take hold of the corners of the lid, and lift it up. There's not even a latch!"
He stood there in embarrassment, unsure of why he couldn't quite bring himself to do this simple thing for his wife. "Is this a joke? Is something going to pop out at me?"
Madeleine abruptly began to beat the air with her fists like a tantrum-throwing child. "Open it open it open it!" Her face twisted into a grimace of weeping.
"Good heavens, Mrs. Fears, what a display!" cried Uncle Paul.
"Madeleine," said Quentin. "What's going on? This is too weird for me."
Abruptly she stopped the tantrum and was in control of herself, but the damage had been done. Quentin had seen a side of her he didn't know existed. Like a spoiled child. That's how she had acted ever since coming into this house. Like a bratty kid who was used to being able to say anything to anybody and no one would reprove her.