To her relief, no one had offered her a cup of tea in well over a year.
The last time an earnest serving girl offered her a cup and saucer, Edith knocked them both to the floor and rushed out of the room, cutting her heels on the porcelain shards as she fled. It was her bad luck that Eunice was there to witness the entire event; no doubt it was she who'd spread the story around town. The invitations stopped coming, not that Edith minded - she was sure they'd only been extended out of pity, and couldn't stand being high society's latest charity case a moment longer.
But she'd so come to hate the smell of tea – be it fresh leaves steeping in a pot, or the bitter whiff of it lingering on a person's breath after four o'clock – she no longer kept it around, not even the smallest tin of it to dip into when entertaining guests. It didn't matter, of course – a bottle of sherry would more than suffice. She hadn't met a single Chicagoan who could turn down a nightcap, especially if it was offered on a Sunday afternoon.
Shortly after the teacup incident, Edith packed her bags and left Buffalo for Chicago, where her publisher had secured her lodgings in one of the famed Rosalie Villas. She told Alan she'd only be gone for a year – two years, tops – while she finished her new novel, and explained that the change of scenery would help her forget the horrors of Allerdale Hall. He'd done his best to appear happy for her in the weeks leading up to her departure, but the look on his face before she boarded the train said it all. Leaving won't help you forget.
Edith sat down at her writing desk and poured herself a glass of wine. Her first novel had been a huge success, celebrated by readers and critics alike. She'd come across a particularly amusing review in the local Chronicle: "Miss Cushing's novel, Crimson Peak, is a stunning achievement, a spectral love story with a heart that pounds so voraciously, the reader can feel it pulsing through every page." Fans recognized her in the street and begged her to autograph their dog-eared copies. Her publisher asked how soon she could deliver her next manuscript. She'd become the woman she always wanted to be: a successful writer who could finally stop dipping into her dwindling inheritance.
It was true; nothing in the world could make her forget what had happened. But she had to be honest: she didn't want to forget. And she felt terrible that Alan, her dearest friend, could tell.
Edith sipped her wine and stared at her trusty Underwood. The first novel came so easily, every word tickling her fingertips as she typed it onto the page, every line weaving in and out with her breath. What was this next tale to be? Another story of love gone dreadfully wrong? Another yarn about hauntings and the haunted? She was sure her publisher would appreciate a second Crimson Peak, since the original was already in its third print run, but did she really want to tread those same waters? She was afraid of being labelled a one-trick pony, even if the pony paid the bills.
Go on, she thought, her fingers circling the keys. Just write whatever comes to mind. You can always commit it to the fire if you don't like it.
She smirked. Excellent idea. Thank you, Lucille.
Eyes closed, shoulders back, she put a single word – a name – down on the page.
Thomas.
Every letter placed a kiss upon her lips. She shivered.
"That's enough for today, I think." She reached for her wine glass and swallowed its contents in one tremendous swig.