Page 74 of Blurred Lines

Guess it's easier to preach than to practice, or in her case, easier to switch from moral high ground to just … high drama.

Emily's tone is thick now, heavy with either anger, misery, or both. "I need all of you to leave. That includes you, Verona. Get out or I'm going to claw your eyes out of your head and pin them to my fridge. You may like that. It'll help you stalk me better."

Maybe it's her voice, the rage in her eyes, or the way she looks like she means what she says. All of us pool out of the room and leave, one by one. Verona is the first to run.

32

EMILY

The room wraps around me like a blanket, the kind that's been in the family for generations, threadbare but comforting. I'm anchored here, amidst the relics of a past I thought I knew, the photographs capturing moments that seemed eternal, now just whispers of time. The realization that I've hit a peculiar kind of rock-bottom washes over me, not with the crushing weight I anticipated, but with an odd serenity that puzzles me.

My phone vibrates in my hand. It's Flora. Of course, it's her—she's the lighthouse in my stormy sea, the sole beacon I'm willing to navigate towards in moments like these.

I swipe to answer, pressing the phone against my ear, a lifeline. "Hey," I greet, my voice echoing slightly in the cavernous room.

"Where are you? Did you check your social media? If you didn't, you don't need to—" Her tone is laced with concern, the kind that only someone who knows you inside and out can muster.

I glance around, the smile that forms on my lips feels like it's from another era, one of simplicity and unburdened joys. "Flora, I know about the pictures. It's fine. And I'm in a secret room," I confess, the words feeling as surreal as the situation. "I found Dad's treasure. The men were here, they helped."

"What?" The disbelief in Flora's voice is almost tangible. "You did what? What is it—and Em?—"

The invitation tumbles out of me before I can second-guess it. "Come over?" My voice wavers, betraying the vulnerability I've kept at bay. I don't stop to consider why Dad didn't want to involve Flora in this, because this is as much her's as mine. "Unless you're busy. I wouldn't want to?—"

Her interruption is swift, a torrent of reassurance. "No, I'm not busy, I'm never too busy for you. I'll come."

I hang up. Moving further into the room, my gaze drifts over the space, taking in every detail. Beyond the dresser and chest that have already revealed so much, there's more to this room, layers of my past yet to be uncovered. The walls, lined with shelves, hold an array of books, their spines faded with time. Titles of fairy tales and adventure stories I adored as a child beckon me, their pages filled with the magic that fueled my young imagination.

In a corner, a small, wooden table and chairs are set up, a tea set laid out as if waiting for guests. The porcelain, delicate with hand-painted flowers, reminds me of afternoons spent hosting tea parties for my dolls, the laughter and joy of those moments still echoing in the air.

A heavy, velvet curtain catches my eye, its deep burgundy fabric a splash of color against the stone. Pulling it aside, I discover a narrow window seat, the cushion worn but inviting.

Flora's voice, bright and curious, pierces the thick veil of the past that enshrouds me. "Emily? Where are you?"

"In here," I call out, my voice a beacon for her through the labyrinth. As she steps into the secret room, her eyes widen, taking in the sprawling chamber that time forgot. For a moment, she's silent, simply absorbing the sight of the room I've uncovered—a room filled with our shared childhoods, a room our father never wanted her to see.

"Wow," Flora exhales, moving closer to the treasures unearthed. Her gaze flits from the dresser with its rose-shaped handles to the chest of drawers that harbors the fabric of our past. When her eyes land on the blue dress in my hands, a flicker of recognition dances across her face. "Is that … ?"

"My birthday dress," I say, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. "But look, there's more. Not just mine, but ours." I guide her to the other side of the room, where the light struggles to penetrate the shadows, to a corner that's distinctly ours. Here, nestled against the cold stone wall, is a small, wooden trunk, its surface etched with the initials of our childhood games.

With a shared glance, we kneel before the trunk, the key from the dresser fitting its lock as if it were made for this moment. The lid creaks open, revealing a trove not of gold or jewels, but of memories far more precious. Inside, lay the artifacts of our adventures: the tattered edges of a pirate flag we'd fashioned from an old bedsheet, the rusted hilt of a toy sword we'd argued over more times than I can count, and the faded pages of a scrapbook filled with our clumsy attempts at art.

Flora's fingers brush against a cloth-bound diary, its pages filled with the stories she'd invented. She was a Tolkien as a kid, making up worlds and vocabularies to fit these worlds. "I'd forgotten about these," she whispers, her voice laced with wonder and a hint of sadness. "Why do you think Dad kept all this from me?"

I pause, considering her question. Our father, a man of complexities and contradictions, had always had his reasons, though they were often as obscured to us as the contents of this room had been. "Maybe he thought it would be too painful," I suggest, my voice soft. "I don't know, Flora. I wish I did."

With that, I beckon her to me. The tapestry is tucked into the crease of my elbow. I unfold it gently and show it to her, watching the wonder in her eyes with soft joy. "It's beautiful," she murmurs. She nods at the artwork of the man and his daughters, following behind an old woman. "D'you think that's us?"

I shrug. "Maybe."

She extends an inquisitive finger to touch the old woman's hair, so long it cascades to the ground. I don't know what happens, but she lets out a small gasp and tugs the hair pooling at the woman's feet. It comes up, revealing a note tucked inside.

"What—"

Flora takes the note out and reads it. Then, she begins to laugh. She laughs until her eyes are full of tears. "Flo, what—" I ask, alarmed. "What is it?"

"That wily old idiot," she says, showing me the note.

I read it.

---