Chapter 3 Bellamy & Co

The chemotherapy chair is made of light green plastic, and it makes a hissing sound when she sits down.

"Warm hands help the vein," says the nurse, a quick, round-faced woman named Moira. She puts a blanket over Seraphina's knees without being asked. "First time's the worst. Not because of the drugs, mind you. Because of the waiting. You'll feel better once it's started."

Seraphina nods. She is staring at the bag of clear liquid hanging from its hook, and thinking it looks so ordinary. Like something you would give a plant.

She did not tell Damon. She left him a note on the hall table, two lines in her neat, upright handwriting: Appointment at St. Catherine's. Back by evening. He had not been at breakfast. Her mother had asked, in a low voice, whether she wanted company, and Seraphina had said no, because she could not bear to be seen like this by someone who was only just learning how to look at her.

The needle goes in. It stings, then settles into a dull, cold line along her arm.

For three hours, she watches the clock. A man in the next chair snores softly. A young woman with a knitted hat reads a paperback with her eyes closed, as if the words are a kind of prayer. Rain runs down the window. Somewhere a baby is crying, thin and furious, and Seraphina turns her face toward the wall until it stops.

When it is over, she stands too fast, and the room tilts. Moira catches her elbow.

"Easy, love. You'll be wobbly. Is there someone to take you home?"

"I'll manage."

"You always say that, I'd bet." Moira's voice is kind, and there is no mockery in it. "It's allowed, you know. Letting someone help."

Seraphina thanks her. She buttons her coat. She walks out into the cold and does not call anyone.

---

She should go straight home. Dr. Reid said so. Rest, fluids, no heroics. But there is a small errand tucked in her handbag, folded into an old receipt, and it has been pulling at her for weeks.

Her father's watch.

It is an old gold pocket watch with a cracked glass, the one he carried every day of her childhood. He used to let her hold it to her ear. Listen, he would say. That's time. It keeps going whether you like it or not. Four months ago, the week before the accident, he left it with a jeweller on George Street to be fixed. The shop has been calling ever since. No one had the heart to collect it.

Bellamy & Co. sits on the corner, all green paint and gold lettering, its windows shining like a treasure chest. A little bell rings as she steps inside. The air smells of lilies and polished wood. Glass cases line the walls, and under each one, necklaces and rings lie on black velvet like sleeping things.

She is halfway to the counter when she hears the laugh.

It is soft and light and perfectly pitched, the laugh of a woman who has never been afraid of a room. Seraphina knows it at once. She has heard it on the telephone in the hall, in the corner of a party, drifting through a half-open door in a hospital corridor.

Vivienne Laurent stands at the far end of the shop with her back to the door. She wears a cream coat cut so cleanly it seems to float, and her dark hair falls in a smooth curtain to her shoulders. A little girl of about four stands beside her, one hand tucked tightly in hers, a stuffed rabbit under the other arm.

A salesman in a grey vest hovers close, glowing with delight.

"Mrs. Whitmore," he says warmly, "the emerald has just come back from the setter. Mr. Whitmore asked for it to be reserved, and I think you'll find it even more lovely in daylight."

Seraphina stops walking.

Mrs. Whitmore.

The words go through her like cold water. She stands there in her plain camel coat with her pulled-back hair and her tired face, a woman who has just spent three hours with poison in her veins, and listens to a stranger give her name away.

Vivienne does not correct him. She turns her head, and her eyes find Seraphina in the mirror. For a heartbeat they hold there, very still. Then she smiles. It is not a cruel smile. That is the worst of it. It is gracious. Almost apologetic.

"Seraphina," she says, turning. "What a surprise."

"Vivienne."

"You look pale. Are you well?"

"I'm fine."

"Mummy," the little girl says. She has been watching Seraphina's face with serious, round eyes. "That lady's sad."

"Isla, darling, hush."

"But she is. She's got a sad face. Like when you read the sad part of the book."

Seraphina's throat closes. She has been held together all morning by habit and backbone, and it is a child who nearly undoes her. She crouches, slowly, so that she is level with those clear brown eyes.

"Do you know," she says quietly, "you might be right. I'm a bit tired today."

Isla considers this. Then she holds out the stuffed rabbit, serious as a judge. "You can hold him if you want. He's called Mr. Buttons. He's good at tired."

"Thank you." She takes the rabbit. Its fur is worn thin from loving. "I think he's the best I've met."

When she looks up, Vivienne is watching her, and something has changed in her face. The polish is still there. But for a second, behind it, there is something else, something almost like fear.

"Isla's had a fever," Vivienne says quickly. "Damon was kind enough to sit with us at the hospital. I'm so grateful for him. He's been-" A small, rueful smile. "Well. You know how he is. Pretending he doesn't care."

"I wouldn't know," says Seraphina. "He's never pretended with me."

It comes out evenly. Vivienne's lashes flicker.

"No," she murmurs. "I suppose he hasn't."

The salesman clears his throat. "Madam, the emerald?"

"Of course." Vivienne lifts the necklace from its velvet. It is a pendant on a fine gold chain, a deep green stone the size of a thumbnail, and it burns in the light like something alive. She holds it up against her throat and studies herself in the glass. "He said it should be today. The anniversary, you know. Of Eleanor."

Seraphina's heart stops.

"Eleanor?"

"Three years ago this week. He always marks it. He never tells anyone, but I know." Vivienne lowers her voice, almost tenderly. "I'm sorry. I thought he would have told you."

He did not. She had not known the date. She had walked through that house for eight months and never once been told the day his sister died. And this woman, with her cream coat and her borrowed name, has known it all along.

The room feels very bright, very small. Seraphina sets down the rabbit on the glass counter. Her hand is shaking and she cannot make it stop.

"I came for a watch," she says to the salesman. Her voice is thin. "Vale. A gold pocket watch, left for repair."

"Ah." His face changes. He glances, quickly, at Vivienne, and then back. "Yes. Miss Vale. One moment."

He disappears into a back room. The silence in the shop is long and glassy. Vivienne has put the necklace down and is smoothing her daughter's hair, not looking at anyone. Isla reaches up for the rabbit, and Seraphina gives it back.

The salesman returns with a small velvet bag and a long white envelope.

"The watch is mended," he says. "Your father was most particular about it. And, miss, he asked us to give you this when you came. He said it was to go to you and no one else." He lowers his voice. "He was very insistent. I hope I haven't done wrong, with Mrs. Whitmore present. I didn't think."

No one else.

Seraphina takes the envelope. It is heavy, and something small and hard shifts inside it. Her name is on the front in her father's slanting handwriting, the loops of the S wide and generous. She would know it anywhere.

She does not open it. She holds it flat against her coat.

"Thank you," she says. She signs the receipt. She walks to the door without looking at Vivienne, and the bell rings behind her, bright and ordinary.

Outside, the wind has picked up. The sky is the colour of slate. Seraphina leans against the cold brick of the shop wall and tears the flap open with her thumbnail.

Inside is a single iron key, old and dark, with a paper tag tied to it by a loop of string. Four words, in her father's writing:

Vale Manor. The study.

And underneath, smaller, as though he had hesitated before writing it:

Forgive me, Sera.

Behind the glass of Bellamy & Co., a woman in a cream coat stands very still, watching her through the window with an expression Seraphina cannot read.