know when heâll be back?â
âIn a few days, I would think.â
I didnât know what to say. He turned to leave, and feeling completely awkward, I blurted, âWell, could I at least leave him a message?â
âAnd what message would that be?â he asked dryly, adjusting the silk ascot tied at the neck of his impeccable white cotton shirt.
âCould . . . could I write it?â I stammered, fighting the urge to just walk away. âIâm sorry to impose on your time, sir, but would you mind if I wrote him a message?â
He lifted his eyebrows and studied my face for a moment. And then, opening the door behind him for me to pass through, he said, âVery well.â
I walked into the magnificent foyer and waited as he closed the door behind us. âFollow me,â he said, leading me through a side door into the same room where Vincent had brought me tea. He gestured to a desk and chair and said, âYou will find writing paper and pens in the drawer.â
âI have some with me, thanks,â I said, patting my book bag.
âDo you wish me to send for some tea?â
I nodded, thinking that would win me a few minutes to think of what to write. âYes, thank you.â
âThen Jeanne will bring you your tea and show you out. You can give the note for Vincent to her. Au revoir, mademoiselle .â He gave me a curt nod, and then closed the door behind him. I breathed a sigh of relief.
Pulling a pen and notebook out of my bag, I tore off a piece of paper and stared at it for a full minute before starting to write. Vincent , I began.
Iâm starting to understand what you meant when you said that things arenât always as they seem. I found your photo, and that of your friend, in the 1968 obituary pages. And then, right afterward, I saw Jules. Alive.
I canât imagine what all this means, but I want to apologize for the mean things I saidâafter you treated me so kindly. I told you I never wanted to see you again. I take it back.
At least help me understand whatâs going on, so I wonât end up in a loony bin somewhere, blabbering about dead people for the rest of my days.
Your move.
Kate
I folded the note and waited. Jeanne never came. I watched the minutes tick away on the grandfather clock, growing more nervous with each passing second. Finally I began to worry that perhaps I was supposed to go find Jeanne. Maybe she was waiting in the kitchen with my tea. I walked into the foyer. The house was silent.
I noticed, however, that a door across from me was ajar. Walking slowly over to it, I peeked inside. âJeanne?â I called softly. There was no response. I pushed the door open and walked into a room that was almost identical to the one I had come from. It had the same small door in the corner as the one that Vincent had brought my tea through. The servantsâ entrance, I thought.
Opening it, I saw a long, dark passageway. My heart in my throat, I walked toward a windowed door at the end, with light illuminating its panes. It swung open onto a large, cavernous kitchen. No one was there. I breathed a sigh of relief, and realized that I had been afraid of running into the master of the house once more.
Deciding to leave the note in the mailbox on the way out, I hurried back down the tunnel-like space. Now that the kitchenâs light was at my back, I saw several doors punctuating the long hallway and noticed that one was slightly ajar. A warm light was glowing from inside. Maybe this was the housekeeperâs room. âJeanne?â I called in a low voice. There was no response.
I stood motionless an instant before feeling myself driven forward by an irresistible impulse. What am I doing? I thought as I stepped through the doorway. Heavy curtains blocked the outside light, like in the other rooms. The only illumination came from a few small lamps scattered around on low tables.
I stepped into the room and