Page 9 of The Manor of Dreams

She closed the center drawer and opened the one on the left. Hairpins and flakes of paint, an old sewing kit. Nothing of value. Halfheartedly, she opened the deeper drawer on the right.

There was a pile of hairpieces, the pearl scratched and the metal rusted, and silk scarves, which still carried a cloying trace of perfume. Through the folds of fabric Rennie recognized the outline of something and caught a flash of gold. She clapped her hands to her mouth. Slowly, she reached through and uprooted the statue of Ma’s Academy Award.

The statue was buried, as if Ma had shoved it in there and never intended to look at it again. It was heavier than she remembered. The metal was so cold it felt like it was burning her. She shoved the award back in the drawer, closing it with finality before she quietly walked out.

Rennie made her way downstairs and headed for the wine pantry. She grabbed a bottle of dusty merlot and a corkscrew. She tiptoed back up the stairs, her ear trained for any extra creaks as she retreated into her room. She sat on her bed and pried the cork off the wine. Everything in here seemed smaller than she remembered. She was fourteen when she left this house for boarding school. Now, the wallpaper was brittle and cracked. Her bedsprings were merciless.

The cork popped quietly. She took a deep gulp from the bottle, her mouth puckering from the acidity. The signet ring glittered on her finger. She hoped she wouldn’t have to sell it. Twenty grand should be okay for a while.

She closed her eyes. She wanted to be anywhere but here. Scenes from the cities of her youth—Paris, London, New York—filtereddreamily through her mind. Back then, she drifted from one place to another, charming strangers, crowding into sweaty apartments, and lingering on rooftops with a cigarette in her hand and pills dissolving on her tongue with cheap, carbonated wine. She wanted to be twenty-five and auditioning—for movies in LA, for plays in New York, booking shitty commercials in between, chasing down taxis and elusive phone numbers.

Rennie stared at her distorted reflection in the wine bottle. Her eyes were more deep-set and prominent with age, her nose more angular. She had Ma’s cheekbones and Dad’s widow’s peak. But where Vivian was known for her precise monolids, Rennie had double eyelids, the creases deepened from too many nights of not bothering to remove her makeup. Vivian Yin had enviable, jet-black hair, and Rennie’s was a dark shade of brown, the tips lightening to gold in the sun. But besides that, she bore the image of her mother.

Of course, Rennie had always wanted to be just like her. A Chinese actress who’d singlehandedly made a name for herself. Her work ranged all genres, and her presence could summon a room. Rennie had hungered for that kind of success and charisma. Even after that summer when the family ruptured apart. Or maybe especially after that summer. But now Rennie was back, broke, sitting in her childhood bedroom with plans to pawn her late parents’ valuables. A bit pathetic. She took a deep breath and drank. Wine was the only thing that aged well in this place.

Something creaked outside her door. Her heart stuttered. Rennie tried to stay calm. Maybe if she stayed still, nothing would happen. And then she heard the voice from behind her.

“Mèi mei.”

She dropped the bottle. Wine splashed out on the floor, spreading into a crimson bruise. Rennie shoved her forehead between her knees and squeezed her eyes shut.

This time, it wasn’t her mother.

Rennie could feel the presence surround her. She locked her jaw so tightly, her teeth ground into one another.Please go away.

At some point she felt the presence ease, and she knew she wasalone again. Shakily, she sat up and swiped the tears from her cheeks. She hastily threw a shirt on the spill to soak it up. She got into bed and pulled the covers over her head, staring into the darkness under the blanket as she twisted the ring around her finger. Finally, she felt the wine sink through her and drag her into sleep.

four

AUGUST 2024

DAY 2 IN THE HOUSE

NORAwas too tired to study for the MCAT, but she couldn’t put off even a day. Not with the test looming in three months. She’d understudied for her first test the summer after her sophomore year and eked by with a mediocre score. She needed to be serious.

She pored over pictures of the venous system. Vasodilation. Vasoconstriction. She followed the path of veins and arteries with her fingertip. If she stared long enough, she could almost see them expand and ripple, like an optical illusion. She curled around her textbook. Could diagrams sink in through osmosis? She hoped so. The lone light in the room flickered weakly by her bedside. She was surprised it still worked, all things considered.

Nora heard her mother’s snores from across the hall. Her mother had almost claimed the twin bed across from her. “I can sleep here too if you need,” she said. “Just in case.”

“I’m twenty-one, Ma. Take the other room.”

Her mother shifted from foot to foot. “This isn’t a normal house, Jia-Jia.”

“Well, I do have to study. And focus.”

That did it; her mother left. Now it was past midnight and Nora was alone, drifting into sleep in this lumpy bed. Which wasjust fine. This was temporary. This was just a very weird family vacation.

Varying topographies of dust accumulated on every surface. The curtains were soft and made of a splotched, yellowing linen. The wallpaperwas a simple patterned taupe. There was nothing on the nightstand aside from an unplugged digital clock and a fountain pen. The nightstand stood between two twin beds that smelled of white flower oil and mothballs. That???scent reminded Nora of her grandmother. She had never been close to her grandparents. She mostly just remembered spending Sunday mornings with them at the stern, stuffy Chinese church.

Biology terms floated in front of her heavy eyelids. Suddenly her bed jolted, once, twice, and she was jostled awake. The digital clock rattled on the nightstand. The light flickered. The pen clattered to the floor.

Then everything stilled.

Nora picked the pen up off the floor and set it on the nightstand. Was it a small earthquake? What was that?

She glanced at her phone. It was 12:38.

Fully awake now, Nora peered through the slit in the curtains. The stone steps from the terrace arced down into the garden. For a moment, Nora imagined what it would have looked like with flowers in bloom and the fountain full.

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