Page 136 of The Dravenhearst Brides
The stained-glass window loomed overheard, the violet flowers dark in the night. Inky black.
Margot reached for the receiver. The line crinkled with static as the connection was established.
“Name, please?” the switchboard operator asked, her tone pleasantly clinical, bored.
Margot’s voice came out breathy and high, nervous. “Alastair Pendry. Frankfort.”
“Hold, please.”
Margot waited. Her grip tightened on the receiver.
“Hello?”
She took a deep breath. “Alastair, it’s Margot Dravenhearst. Margaret.”
A long silence. She imagined his shock at the other end of the line.
“Margaret?”
“Yes.” She swallowed. “I have a few questions for you. I’d like to start with the simplest, if you don’t mind.”
Silence.
She’d take that asno, he didn’t mind. He might in a moment though. The switchboard operator’s night was about to get a whole lot more interesting, assuming she was still listening.
“There’s no easy way to ask this,” she said, chewing her lip. “Did you poison my husband?”
46
December 7, 1913
Jean-Philippe,
You’ve done it again. Truly, I’ve only one thing left to say.
“Let them eat cake.”
Yours,
Babette Dravenhearst
Thehousealwayscamealive at night.
Margot awoke at the witching hour with a shuddering gasp, chest arching toward the ceiling. She tasted jasmine in the air. Light flickered beyond the French doors. Margot slipped from Merrick’s bed and went outside.
She stood on the balcony in her nightdress, watching a streaming lineup of ghostly motorcars approach the manor, headlights circling the roundabout, passing up and down the drive under the magnolias. The moon hung low overhead, as thin and sharpas the blade of a scythe.
Margot turned toward the house. The master bedroom was dark, but the companion suite was brightly lit. She slipped back inside through the other set of doors.
Babette was there, wearing a gown of ivory lace with a high neck and full voluminous sleeves that tapered at the wrist. Her hair was pinned up with two glittering diamond clips. A bridal veil tumbled down her back. She stared at her reflection in the mirror, one hand gliding over her stomach.
Without a backward glance, Babette strode to the door.
Margot followed.
The hallway was dark and impossibly long. Longer than it should be. Colder too. Jasmine hung heavy in the air.
Babette glowed ahead, her white bridal gown cutting through the darkness. Doors flew open as Margot passed, but she didn’t look inside. The only memory she was interested in was the one unfolding before her—Babette’s final night at Dravenhearst Manor.
