Chapter 4: The Shoe on the Stair

"Maud," my mother said. "Pick that up and leave us."

Maud Cuyler didn't bend.

"Mr. Henry's chair stays empty for thirty days," she said. "Every Aldercott knows it. The ribbon stays on until the thirtieth."

My mother's mouth tightened.

"That's an old superstition."

"It is the custom of this house, madam," Kendrick said from the sideboard.

He didn't raise his voice.

Several of my father's oldest friends were nodding already, and my mother saw it.

"Of course," she said, with a smile like a knife laid flat. "How foolish of me. Gwendolyn, sit beside me."

Gwen sat.

She glared at her mother across the room, and it was the first honest look I had seen on her all weekend.

Maud picked up the potatoes one at a time.

She never once looked at the chair.

By three o'clock the guests had drifted out to the foyer with their coffee.

I slipped up the back stairs to my old room, and found the door open.

The closet was empty and the bed was stripped.

The cook's helper was carrying out my father's atlases in a laundry basket.

"Mrs. Aldercott said these go to the attic," she whispered. "I'm sorry, Miss Lydia."

"Leave them here," I said. "I'll carry them myself."

I had a stack of four in my arms and the compass pressing against my ribs when I heard the scream.

It was a long, high scream, followed by a heavy, soft thump.

I dropped the atlases and ran.

The main staircase curves down to the foyer in one wide sweep, and I came out on the landing above it.

Gwen lay at the bottom of the stairs, one arm flung out, her blue dress spread around her.

Thirty people were standing in a ring around her.

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