Page 46 of The Manor of Dreams

Lucille curled her fist around the pen in her hand.

“I heard you grew up with live-in nannies. Did you eat dinner on plates of gold? Have expensive paintings on your walls?”

“You seem angry. Did my mother do something to you?”

There was a long silence.

“You know, our mother used to call yours every year. Chinese New Year and the holidays. She’d send letters. She was worried. Your mother seemed alone, all isolated out there with him. But she stopped answering.” Mary paused. “Families look out for each other, you know. Ma cared for Vivian and took her in like she was her own daughter. But once she got where she needed to be, she cut the rest of us out. She chased her dreams and left us behind.”

“She—” Lucille’s words wedged in her throat. There was nothing more she could say, nothing that could move the conversation where she wanted to. “I’m sorry for bothering you. Take care.”

She hung up. Mary’s words grated on her. What, was it a crime to pursue your own career? No wonder Ma didn’t want to be involved with them. They seemed insufferable.

But at the same time, Lucille was coming to the realization thatthere was no one alive now who knew her mother, not any more than she and her sister did. There were no more connections. Her mother had died alone, truly alone, and all Lucille had was a screenplay, photos, magazine clippings, and a form from the psychiatric facility.

Lucille stood. Was she just hotheaded with anger or was this room warm? She wiped sweat from her forehead. She faced the bookshelves again and noticed that a new book seemed to be jutting out today. Someone had been touching them, and she hated the thought that it could be Elaine or Nora. Lucille reached out for Ma’s copy of???.Dream of the Red Chamber.

A pressed flower fell out, along with a few crumbles of dirt.

Lucille jumped back and slammed the book shut, scattering dust. She went to a different shelf and pulled out another. There, between the cover and title page, was a bright orange poppy that looked so fresh and vibrant, its colors seemed to bleed onto the page. She threw the book on the table. Now she was shaking. Even though she didn’t want to know, she couldn’t stop herself after that from taking out book after book after book.

Flowers were pressed in every copy.

There was no way.

Hadshebeen here all this time? Was she living in this house right now, watching them? Slipping flowers between the pages just to mess with Lucille’s head?

Lucille picked up the next book and found a rose petal inside. She hurled the book across the room and it struck a wooden panel with a splitting crack.

She stood in shock.What was she doing?She rushed over and picked the book up, brushing the dirt off, she checked the inside cover again.

Nothing. No mark or residue. No flower.

She sat back on her heels, on the floor of the library. The wall panel that she hit had splintered and a corner had come loose from the wall. Had she really thrown the book with such force? She tested the wood like she would a loose tooth. It came away under the slightest pressure, and a rotten, fleshy odor oozed from the gap.

Lucille lurched back for a moment. Then, holding her breath, sheprobed farther into the crack, behind the back of the paneling. Her fingers met something spongy and warm.

Something crawled onto her arm. She yelped and scurried away backward on her hands and heels, stomping at the thing as it fell. She stared at her stained fingertips and then looked down at the crushed shell of a small bug.

These walls were packed solid—filled—with dirt.

Dirt trickled from the gap in the loose paneling. Something, a tendril, a vine—slithered out.

Lucille shoved the panel back in place, trapping the vine, and tried to force it to stick. The wood felt skin-warm, and she swore it pulsed for a second, bulged slightly, before it went still.

Panic seized her now. She stood and kicked it, once, twice, and finally it stuck.

Lucille stared at the wall, breathing heavily. Dirt in the walls. Dirt in the sink.

She wiped her hands on her pants. She felt hot and sick. She focused on holding back the revulsion that shuddered through her body. The smell lingered; that earthy, ripe, rotten smell.

She went back to her desk and paged through the books. Still no flowers.

Was she seeing things? She couldn’t stay in this room for another minute. It could be grief. Or lack of sleep. But above all, she needed to be able to trust herself. The address book was open in front of her, and she finally remembered what she was doing an hour ago.

Lucille stared at the name: Eugene Lyman. She called the number. A terrible screeching sound emitted from the phone; the line was long out of use. Finally, she called another number— the one she had saved only days ago.

“Hello?”

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