Free The Guests on South Battery by Karen White Page A

one other one I know of in Charleston and it’s at the Miles Brewton House. It’s worth a fortune.”
    We moved into the drawing room to glance up at the cloudy chandelier that hung crookedly from exposed wires, the plaster medallion that had once encircled the hole now crumbling beneath our feet.
    â€œI don’t think I’d pick that up if I drove past it at the curb with the rest of the garbage,” Jayne muttered.
    â€œAnd this wallpaper,” Sophie continued. “It’s hand-painted silk. You see the vertical lines that show where each strip is? That illustrates that the owners were wealthy enough to buy multiple strips instead of just one long one. They wanted the lines to show to display their wealth and status.”
    I looked closely but saw only faded wallpaper sagging from theweight of years, weeping at the corners from age and moisture. Where Sophie saw beauty, all I could see was decay. Signs of neglect were everywhere—from the scuffed and unpolished floors, to the mold spots in the wallpaper and the crumbling moldings that were now rapidly turning to dust. I was fairly certain that Jayne felt the same way.
    I practically had to drag Jayne with me as we followed Sophie from room to room, listening to Sophie list all the unique, valuable, and historical elements of a house that neither of us could really see or appreciate.
    I considered my house on Tradd Street separate from my thoughts on this house and most of the old houses in Charleston, if only because it was now my home and where I was raising my young family. My babies had been born there, and would learn to walk and say their first words there. The wooden floors would be scarred by the wear and tear of small shoes, scooters, and wooden blocks, marking the passage of another generation growing up at 55 Tradd Street. And I had visions of Nola getting married in the outside garden, and Sarah walking down the staircase in a prom dress waiting to greet her date. That particular vision also included Jack holding a rifle and looking menacing, but I shook it off quickly.
    The Pinckney house was just brick, wood, and mortar, the longtime residence of a family I’d barely known and had no connection to. I found myself torn on how to advise my client, knowing the mental, physical, and bank-account-draining aspects of restoring a historic home.
    I couldn’t look at Sophie, who was studying her surroundings as if she’d just found the Holy Grail, King Tut’s Tomb, and the Garden of Eden all rolled into one. Telling Jayne to sell it as is would break Sophie’s heart. And leave me vulnerable to her unique form of vengeance. The last time I’d advised a client to sell a house outside the protected historic district in dire need of repair and guaranteed to be demolished, Sophie retaliated by distributing flyers with a Photoshopped picture of me in a turban and one of my cell numbers printed on it, advertising free psychic readings. I’d had to change my number.
    â€œDid you hear that?” Jayne asked when we finally made it to the second floor.
    It had been a tinny, hollow sound. I would have thought I’d imagined it if Jayne hadn’t said anything. “Yes,” I said. “I think it’s coming from the room at the end of the hallway.”
    â€œWhat noise?” Sophie asked from halfway up the stairs. She was busy studying the cypress wainscoting that had been stained to look like mahogany and ran up the wall on the side of the staircase. There were nicks and chips in the wood, little placeholders in time left by people long gone. Or so we’d like to think.
    â€œIt sounded mechanical,” Jayne said. “Like one of those old wind-up toys.”
    I was already walking toward the end of the hall, feeling the odd sensation of being pursued from behind, and a separate, more gentle presence in front guiding me down the dark hall. I still couldn’t see, but I could feel both of