Chapter 46
Harriet
I load the last box into the van and shut the doors, and then take a good, long look up at the last window on the third floor of Mrs. Morgan’s Curios. My bedroom window for these past thirty-two years.
One of Josie’s main problems with me living with Mom and Granabelle all this time was that she believed I was staying there out of guilt.
She’s not wrong about that.
My failure to follow the rules and pick up James on time that day led to his disappearance.
Mom insists that she was way wilder than I was at the age of twelve; she’s always telling me how she never followed the rules. And Granabelle constantly reminds me that James’s disappearance was not my doing. “You were just a kid, too!” she says.
It doesn’t take away the guilt.
My fingers go to the pendant around my neck. James’s key.
I know they desperately want me to stay. The idea of abandoning them twists something in my gut.
I’ll always feel guilty.
Always.
But now that I’ve hauled the last box out to the van Serena so graciously lent to me, I can feel the smallness of that place. Of my cramped little bedroom, of that little world.
Mom comes out and stands beside me. “I don’t know about this whole thing.”
That makes two of us.
Mom and Granabelle couldn’t believe I didn’t want to take all the furniture from my bedroom. But that furniture was never really mine. It was just a rotating cast of pieces hauled up from the store, depending on various display and collection needs.
I very much doubt I’ll like whatever furnishings are in my new space, considering Alexandru’s taste runs more to Saw than Elle Decor.
Granabelle comes out and gives me a hug. “When are we coming over?” She’s still gunning for that photo shoot, and I guess she’s going to get it now.
“Tuesday. I’ll give you the full tour!” I’ve already warned them about Alexandru’s “offbeat” tastes. Granabelle cannot wait. She’s already teasing it on her Instagram feed with a special caption: Countdown to the great Kingston Manor reveal!
She adjusts her hat.
“Off to mahjong?” I ask.
“Wish me luck!” She turns and heads down the sidewalk.
“Okay.” I turn to Mom. “I’ll see you at Sunday dinner,” I say.
“What are you talking about? I’m riding with you. I’m not going to let you haul those boxes in all by yourself.”
“There aren’t that many,” I say.
“Don’t be an idiot. Half the time with twice the people. Ruth can close up.”
This is a surprise—a pleasant one. “Okay, then! Let’s do this!”
I get into the driver’s side while Mom hops into the passenger seat.
I pull out onto the road, asking more questions about Ruth, their capable new shop assistant. It looks like her hours will be expanding now that I won’t be around to jump behind the counter every two seconds on nights and weekends.
Luckily, as Alexandru’s business manager, I gave myself a big salary bump and move-in bonus, half of which I used to shore up the antique store bank account, so paying Ruth will be no problem.
I turn the van up the steep road that leads to the bluff.
“Does Ruth get on with the customers okay?” I ask Mom.
“Well, she’s not you,” Mom says gloomily. “How’s your replacement at InovaSpire shaping up?”
“There are two of them replacing me, and they’re doing great so far. But I’ll go in for consulting now and then.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing, quitting that place,” she says.
“I do!” I say. “I enjoy being in control of this massive business entity, moving around the pieces and delegating and organizing and tweaking.”
This is somewhat true. I do enjoy running Alexandru’s empire—it’s letting my inner spreadsheet goddess run wild—but in the end, it’s only about making money. In that way, it’s not that much different than my job with Serena.
But solving a mystery and stopping a killer? That was invigorating.
Bo would have kept escalating, of that I have no doubt, and other people would have died. We stopped him.
I head past the music conservatory with its old, gothic architecture and up to the road that runs along the bluff, higher and higher past all the fancy houses until we come to the end.
“Welp. Good for you trying new things—I guess,” Mom says morosely.
I snort. That’s as big a vote of confidence as I’ll ever get from her.
“It does seem a bit isolated, though,” she says as the huge iron gates slowly creak open to allow the van through.
“Literally seven minutes from you,” I say as we ramble down the drive, flanked on either side by burr oaks whose branches look like gnarled fingers. We round the curve, and there’s Gregor—severe coat, severe face, severe ponytail—waiting in the doorway like he’s been standing there for centuries.
“Who’s this guy?” Mom asks.
“Gregor. He’s Alexandru’s butler, kind of.”
“The prince has a butler?” Mom says it like it’s the stupidest thing in the world. “Can’t the man tie his own cravat?”
“Alexandru doesn’t wear a cravat,” I say.
We hop out, and I go around back and fling open the doors, revealing my carefully packed boxes and Liz the monstera plant, who has thankfully survived the trip without tipping.
Gregor comes and takes the largest, heaviest box and leads us in, through the main foyer, past the serpent-coiled-woodwork stairway, and off to the left down a rather elegant hallway.
We arrive at what I presume is my suite of rooms. The living area is awash in late light from soaring windows that frame the Silverton River and all of Ashwood beyond.
A low fire burns in the carved marble fireplace, and shelves line the walls—rows of worn leather spines, with numerous shelves left for my own books.
A comfy-looking blue sofa is flanked by two boxy mid-century armchairs with squared wooden arms. There’s a lovely Persian rug and French doors that lead to a stone patio overlooking the river.
But it’s the chest that stops me cold.
It sits near the French doors, an old oak thing bound in blackened iron. It’s completely out of place in the cozy, colorful environment.
And I don’t need to open it to know what’s inside. I can feel them.
The ledgers.
Their presence hums against my skin—silent, heavy, alive.
My father’s hands touched those ledgers, and possibly the hands of Renfields before him. His mind carved its patterns into their pages. Even from across the room, the knowing coils through me.
“Wow.” Mom sets her box on the floor and lowers herself into one of the chairs. “These are real,” she says, running her hand along the armrests. “Nice.”
“Yes, milady,” Gregor says, setting his box next to hers. I follow suit.
“Milady?” Mom says. “I’m not yours, and I’m definitely no lady. You can call me Lorna.”
Gregor bows from the neck. “Gregor.”
They regard each other strangely for a moment.
O-kay.
Over the fireplace hangs a gilt-framed 19th-century landscape of storm clouds rolling over a craggy Carpathian valley. I’d bet Alexandru chose to remind me exactly whose house I’m in.
That’s not staying.
I wander into the next adjoining room—an office with a massive slab of black walnut for a desk, a leather chair that looks like it was lifted from some midcentury CEO’s corner suite, and built-in shelves.
And then there’s the bedroom. The bed dominates the space—an enormous platform frame in pale wood, dressed in layers of cream linen and a charcoal cashmere throw.
Another fireplace faces it, this one in pale marble veined with gold, with a low armchair pulled close as if someone’s already sat there reading.
The rug is thick enough to swallow my bare feet, and on the nightstand sits a blue vase with a bunch of yellow flowers.
“This is some real princess shit right here,” Mom says. “Not too shabby.”
She’s right. It is princess shit, all shockingly wonderful, right down to yellow flowers. I love yellow flowers and velvety soft things, and there’s not an ant farm in sight.
But that chest of ledgers. I can feel the tendrils of them already trying to hook into my subconscious. I hate how badly I want to go out there and start going through them. It feels unhealthy. The kind of fascination that will lead to no good.
“I don’t want the ledgers here,” I say to Gregor while Mom is inspecting a side table.
“Milady?”
“The ledgers,” I say. “Get them out of here. I want you to put them in the dungeon, and then send them back to Karsovia tomorrow. They don’t belong here. I’m not going to want or need them.”
Gregor inclines his head.
“Right away.”
“Understood.” He goes and gets the chest and leaves.
Mom and I bring in the rest of my boxes and Liz the monstera plant, with an assist from Gregor once he comes back. Afterward, Mom insists on a tour.
I exchange glances with Gregor. “Alexandru is probably working in his study,” I say.
“What? His study isn’t the whole rest of the mansion, is it? Harriet, you said something about a library. Let’s see it.”
In the end, we show her the library, the front room, where some of the stuff from the antique store ended up, and the dining room with the weird, giant sculptural chandelier.
Mom loves the library, but she’s not so sure about the weaponry chandelier. “Very pugilistic,” she says.
I return from driving her home a little while later with some groceries from Gables, and I’m relieved to find that there is a full kitchen.
I wasn’t sure, being that Alexandru doesn’t eat food, and Gregor restricts himself to gruel.
I put my stuff away, except for a nice big family-sized bag of Bugles, which I take to my office for a nice Bugles dinner.
Feeling at a loss for what to do next, I set up my computer and get everything connected. That’s when I catch sight of the calendar on the desk.
There is one date circled—the day we caught Bo.
The date of Alexandru’s last meal.
I pick it up. It’s been four days since then, which means we have twenty-six days until we have to catch the next killer.
I count out those twenty-six days and write five exclamation points on a pink sticky note, sticking it on the last possible day before Alexandru’s hunger turns dangerous.
I feel the charge in the air before I see him.
He’s in the doorway, leaning on the frame, immaculate as ever in a gray suit, eyes gleaming with the promise of trouble.
I press my palms together. The ghost of his kiss still burns between us.
“You can’t just come in here,” I say.
He nods at the calendar. “Best to not leave it to the last minute next time.”
I swallow. His control had frayed toward the end, but how badly? And was that kiss part of the unraveling? What happens if he finally snaps?
Best not to find out. I grab the calendar and move the sticky note up a couple of days. “There. A little extra cushion.”
“Do you have anybody in mind for my next meal?”
“Not yet.” My gaze slides to the window. It shouldn’t be hard; there are probably plenty of killers around.
“Tick-tock, Ms. Renfield.” With that, he turns and leaves.
“Still not my name!” I call after him.
Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed Alexandru and Harriet as much as I did!