Page 14 of The Mystery Guest

“Spelling bee,” Gran explains. “She’s very good at it.”

Mrs. Grimthorpe’s black-hole eyes drill into mine. “There are rules in this house, young lady. And you shall obey every last one of them.”

“I like rules,” I say.

“Good. Rule Number One: children are to be seen and not heard. Correction: children arenotto be seenandnot to be heard.”

I nod, afraid to speak since doing so contravenes Rule Number One.

“Rule Number Two: no shrieking, no yelling, no whining, no running, no sound at all.”

I nod again.

“Rule Number Three: you are not—under any circumstances—to disturb Mr. Grimthorpe. He will not take kindly to it, and nor will I. His literary endeavors are of the utmost importance, and his work cannot be interrupted. Do you understand?”

I nod yet again as my fingers tighten in Gran’s hand.

“Molly is exceptionally polite and well behaved,” Gran says. “She will be content to sit quietly in the parlor.”

“And how will she entertain herself?” Mrs. Grimthorpe asks. “Idle hands are the devil’s plaything, and I’ll not have her destroying the house out of boredom.”

“I’ll entertain myself with my rich imagination,” I reply, realizing too late that I’ve just broken a rule. I add a “madam,” hoping this cancels out my mistake.

Mrs. Grimthorpe sighs, then steps aside, allowing us to cross the threshold to the mansion.

The foyer is grander than anything I’ve ever seen, with a polished black marble floor inlaid with intricate geometric patterns and a dark oak staircase winding up to a high second story. A full-length gilded mirror on the wall to my left reflects my shocked face back at me. The mirror’s frame is so golden that I’m certain it’s the magic one fromSnow White.When I look up, the ceiling is so sky-high that I get a crick in my neck. Hanging from an impossibly thin filament above our heads is a sparkling modern chandelier made of thousands of icy crystal shards. Down the hall, I spot paintings on the walls, and they really are as Gran said—not images of any figures I recognize, but bold, abstract blobs of color that appear thrown onto the canvas rather than brushed.

Mrs. Grimthorpe shuts the door behind us with a hollow thud.

“I’ll set you up in the parlor, Molly,” Gran says. “You can work on my needlepoint. How does that sound?”

“Get to it quickly,” Mrs. Grimthorpe commands. “The conservatory windows won’t clean themselves, Flora.”

Mrs. Grimthorpe turns on her heel and click-clacks down the hallway, disappearing into the mysterious interior depths of the mansion. Gran gives me a little pat on the shoulder, then leads me through double-glass doors into the first giant room on our right. “The parlor,” she announces.

I feel dizzy and giddy as I take it in—the royal-blue high-back chairs, the ornamental moldings that resemble icing on a cake, the classical paintings that fill every inch of wall—ships and shipwrecks, ladies billowing in pretty petticoats, hunting parties advancing on wide-eyed foxes in verdant forests. And finally, on the mantel above the dark mouth of the fireplace, set dead center, is the most striking object I have ever seen. Resting on an intricate tarnished pedestal,encrusted in diamonds and other fine jewels, sits a glowing, pearlescent ornamental egg. It is not large. It would fit in the palm of my hand. It’s so hypnotically beautiful I cannot look away.

“Best close your mouth, dear, before the flies get in,” Gran says.

I do as I’m told, but I cannot take my eyes off the enchanting object on the mantel.

“Mrs. Grimthorpe claims it’s a Fabergé,” Gran says. “A precious antiquity passed down through generations. Lovely, isn’t it?”

“A treasure,” I reply breathlessly.

“I’ve always loved this room,” Gran says. “They’ve modernized the entrance and some of the other salons, but I love this parlor best of all. Come now.” Gran pulls me from my reverie toward one of the royal-blue high-back chairs. “You sit here and work on my pillow. You can stitch the little pink-and-blue flowers. Remember how I showed you?”

I do remember. The needle is a rabbit—you loop it down the hole, then once it’s under, you tie a knot to keep it safe.

“I best hurry to the conservatory. If you think Mrs. Grimthorpe’sgrumpy now, believe me, you won’t want to see her if I don’t start those windows soon.”

Gran does a funny thing then. She crouches in front of me and grabs my hands. “I’m so sorry,” she says as her eyes fill with tears. “You deserve better, but I don’t know what else to do.”

I have no idea why she’s upset. My stomach curdles as I watch her tears fall. “Don’t cry, Gran,” I say. “Don’t you remember what you always say about me finding my happy place?”

“Once you find it, all will be well?”

“Yes,” I reply. “And, Gran?”

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