Page 41 of The Golden Spoon
“What is that?” I whisper, finding myself reaching through the dark for Stella, our hands finding each other, entwined.
There’s a beam of light beyond the doorway that moves like a lightning bug through the air toward us. The sound of heavy breathing follows it. I feel Stella squeezing my hand.
“Hello? Is anyone in here?”
“Pradyumna?” Stella calls out.
“We’re here,” I say, my voice shaky.
The light comes closer, bright and comforting. It shines over us, and I can see Stella’s face. Her eyes are tear streaked, afraid. She stands suddenly, catching herself in the beam of the flashlight. I pull myself up shakily next to her, turning to the doorway. The light is so bright I have to shield my eyes at first, blinking as the person comes closer until finally, I can see that it is not Pradyumna at all.
“Gerald?” Stella says.
He stands across from us. His suit is ripped and soaking wet.
“What are you doing here?” I ask nervously. He approaches the table, limping.
“Are you okay? What happened to you?” Stella’s voice quavers.
“I came back. I’m trying to save the show. Someone has been sabotagingBake Week. I know who it is too,” Gerald says a bit uncertainly. “Well, I know who one of them is.” I feel Stella’s hand relax as she realizes what I do, that this is Gerald, not some killer on the loose. Even though I’d found him so irritating before, I am relieved to see him now.
“I think it’s a bit late for that,” I snort, trying to laugh and then feeling my chin crumple again. Stella’s hands grip my shoulders as though she is trying to physically hold me together.
There is another sound at the door, a scrambling of footsteps that makes us all jump. Out in the hallway, someone swears in the dark. There’s a scuffing noise, followed by the sound of a match being struck. Gerald turns the flashlight onto Pradyumna. His hair is disheveled, the rapid rise and fall of his chest visible as he tries to catch his breath. His eyes move rapidly between us, widening in surprise when he sees Gerald.
“Gerald? What are you doing here?”
“I had to look for clues—” Gerald starts, but Pradyumna cuts him off.
“Actually, explain later.” Pradyumna shakes his head. “As if things couldn’t get any weirder. Okay, give me that flashlight, would you?” When Gerald hands it over to him I notice that his right hand is wrapped in newsprint, stained dark with blood. “Look!” his voice a mix of excitement and fear as he waves a piece of paper in front of us. The flashlight catches something shiny, an official seal in one corner.
“Pradyumna, what is it?” Stella asks. But Pradyumna is already backing out of the door into the main house.
“Come with me. We have to find Lottie!”
The way he says it, the fear darting in his eyes, makes me worried that something has happened to her. I don’t want to see another horrible thing today. I have had enough of the storm, enough of the spooky old house, enough even ofBake Week. I just want to go home. But mostly I don’t want to be left alone down here in the dark. So I follow them, leaving the safe feeling of the kitchen and edging out into the hallway. Pradyumna takes the lead, holding the flashlight. Heis followed by Gerald, who holds out his phone. We follow these two fragile beams of light down the hallway, slowly picking our way out into the foyer and to the bottom of the stairs. I cling to Stella as we go up the staircase. I know where we are going, though I can’t bear the thought of returning to the East Wing. There is a chill at my back as I follow the others up. I do not turn around. I’m certain if I do, he’ll be standing there, soaking wet, blood dripping from his head, his mouth parted in a permanent scream.
LOTTIE
“Little Elizabeth Bunting. You’ve hardly changed at all.” Betsy tents her fingers, leaning back in her chair. “I’m not sure how I didn’t see it earlier. A terrible oversight on my part.” It’s that same unreadable tone. No hint of warmth or familiarity. I shudder.
“We were friends, remember? My mother, Agnes—”
Betsy shrugs and turns her face to the fire. I step toward her.
“I didn’t want to do it this way,” I say, opening my palms to her, pleading. “I tried writing letters to you for so many years. You never answered.”
“Do you know how many letters I get, Elizabeth? You must know some would slip through the cracks.” The record on the Victrola has stopped playing music but continues to drone with static as it spins.
“You have to believe that I’ve been wanting to tell you who I am this entire time. I’d always imagined if we were to meet again, we’d have so much to talk about.”
The light from the fireplace dances on the side of Betsy’s face. “Oh, you expected a big warm welcome from me? I think not, Elizabeth. You tricked your way onto my show to gain access to Grafton for some unfathomable reason? I must say, I don’t know what you are playing at.”
“But I’m not playing at anything.”
She snorts derisively. A log cracks, sending a spray of sparks across the hearth. I am trying so hard to be brave, but I feel shaky and wrung out, like my legs might give out at any moment. It has taken all my strength to confront Betsy, and now I am desperate to sit down. “Don’t you see? I’m here to find out what happened to my mother.”
“You know what happened, though, don’t you?” She sneers.
