Chapter 17
Eight years after the gala, Charlotte was eleven.
The east gallery looked almost the same.
Same portrait.
Same restoration worktable style.
Different tapestry rack.
Emma now worked as assistant conservator and complained constantly about donors touching frames.
Charlotte came after school carrying Bunny.
Still repaired.
Still missing a tiny piece of fur around one ear.
She refused replacements.
“He looks cool.”
Fair.
We stood before the portrait hiding the narrow room.
The interior release had been installed years earlier.
The compartment now stored conservation boards and rolled protective paper.
Boring.
Good.
Charlotte opened the door herself.
Stepped inside.
I did not follow.
She looked around.
“So this?”
“Yes.”
“I was in here?”
“Yes.”
“For forty-three minutes?”
Emma had told her the exact number.
Of course.
“Yes.”
Charlotte frowned.
“Long.”
“It was.”
Then she stepped back out.
No trembling.
No grand victory.
Just information added to history.
She closed the door herself.
It did not lock.
Good.
Then she handed me Bunny.
“Hold.”
I did.
She had one unopened letter in her pocket.
Eleanor’s handwriting.
WHEN YOU FIRST FALL IN LOVE.
I raised an eyebrow.
“You’re eleven.”
“I know.”
“Then why that one?”
“Curious.”
I held out my hand.
She pulled the letter away.
“Mine.”
I smiled.
Correct.
“Are you opening it?”
“Maybe.”
“When?”
She shrugged.
“Not your business.”
Eleanor would have been insufferably proud.
We walked toward the donor ballroom.
Emma called after Charlotte:
“Your rabbit.”
I still held him.
Charlotte turned.
“Keep him.”
“Why?”
“I’m eating.”
Priorities.
I looked down at the worn toy.
Years earlier, people nearly tore a family apart trying to control what was hidden inside him.
Now he contained nothing.
The letters were Charlotte’s.
The secrets were named.
The dead were remembered without being impersonated.
The living no longer had to compete with them.
Charlotte returned, grabbed Bunny by the good ear, and headed toward dessert.
I followed.
For years I thought protecting my family meant knowing what happened inside every room of my house.
Isabella had mocked me for failing at exactly that.
She was right about one thing.
I could never control everything inside Sterling House.
I no longer wanted to.
I wanted doors people could open.
Voices that could interrupt me.
A daughter whose mother’s letters belonged to her.
And a home where nobody had to become someone else in order to be loved.
Charlotte looked back.
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“You coming?”
May you like
I smiled.
“Right behind you.”
