"Dad!" Nancy shouted, shaking him. "Dad! What do you mean?" Behind them, she could hear Hannah's rapid footsteps. Suddenly, Carson blinked and turned to face his daughter.
"What is it, Nancy?" he asked, a puzzled expression on his face. "I'm fine."
"No, you weren't," Nancy said firmly. "You got this vacant expression on your face, and you said 'Beware the shattered mirror.' What did you mean?"
"I can't recall saying that," Carson said peevishly. "Please, go eat your pie. And leave me alone, Hannah." Hannah drew back as if stung; she had been rearranging the afghan around his knees.
"Well, don't blame me if you catch a cold in this drafty house," she muttered, and disappeared into the kitchen. After a few uncertain moments, the girls followed, leaving Carson alone with the singing mermaid on television.
The rest of the evening passed uneventfully, though Nancy tossed and turned all night, her mind clouded with fear. What if her father worsened while she was away? Despite his protests, the incident earlier in the afternoon proved that he was still feeble. And what did he mean, 'Beware the shattered mirror?' Was it merely the rambling of a very ill man, or had the episode been brought on by some distress—perhaps the sight of Celia's locket?
And, even more vexingly, what mystery had Celia been referring to in the cemetery? She had never mentioned it before, although Nancy had to admit that she and Celia had drifted apart since their days at River Heights High School. She smiled a little bit as she watched Celia sleep on the foldaway bed. The loosened hair that had fallen onto her face fluttered with each breath. Nancy was reminded of sleepovers in happier days, with late nights of giggling and secrets and Hannah's pancakes the next morning…
And her father presiding over the breakfast table, making jokes from behind his copy of the River Heights Clarion, strong and handsome and funny. At nine o' clock on the dot, Ethan Laramie would knock on the door and Hannah would let him in. He would sit beside his sister at the table, refusing Hannah's offers of bacon and juice, and respond seriously to Carson's inquiries about his yet-unfinished novel.
"Oh, it's almost done," he would say, waving his hand. "You know how these things are, always revising. But soon I'll send it off to my publisher. He's getting anxious. Worried I'll never get it done. 'Laramie,' he says, 'people are going to forget who you are if you don't finish a second book soon.' But he worries too much. No thanks, Mrs. Gruen, I've already eaten."
As Hannah would slink away, looking resentful at having her cooking refused, Celia would pipe up, through a mouthful of pancake, "And when the book is done, we'll be rich, right?"
"Sure will," Ethan would say, smiling across the table at his much-younger sister. "And we'll leave Selkirk End and see the world…"
The clock striking two downstairs jolted Nancy from her reverie. I'll think about this tomorrow, she decided, as sleep washed over her.
The next morning, Hannah saw the girls off; they had said their goodbyes to Carson earlier, over breakfast.
"Are you sure you've got enough food with you?" she demanded. "It's a long drive."
"I'm sure," Nancy said through gritted teeth. She knew that cooking was Hannah's way of showing love, but having food forced upon her constantly was somewhat tiring. She climbed into the driver's seat of her powder-blue Mustang convertible. The top was up, offering what protection it could against the biting October wind. "Ready to go, Celie?"
Celia nodded, biting her lip. Her small traveling bag was on her lap, and she hugged it close. As Nancy pulled out of the driveway, waving to Hannah, she wondered if she should have asked if Bess and George could come. As much as she liked Celia, she felt that they had little in common now that they had left high school.
Bess would love Selkirk End, Nancy thought, remembering the few times she had seen it herself. It's just the sort of romantic, silly, spooky thing that she likes. Bess Marvin, plump, blond, and flirtatious, was one of Nancy's best friends. Her cousin George Fayne was her polar opposite: boyish, brunette, and practical. Both of them were as dear to Nancy as sisters, and she regretted not telephoning them that morning to say goodbye.
The drive was somewhat uncomfortable for Nancy. Celia was silent, and occasionally Nancy would flick a glance her way and spot a single crystalline tear shimmering on her pale cheek. A few miles out of River Heights, she turned on the radio, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel. Soon she was lost in thought, but she was jerked abruptly back to reality when Celia turned off the radio.
"I'm sorry," she said, responding to Nancy's look of surprise. "I just can't stand to hear that song."
Jim Croce had been singing "Time in a Bottle," which Nancy had to admit was not the most cheerful song in the world.
"That's all right," she said. "Aren't we nearly there? Is this where I turn?"
"Yes," Celia said, and fingered her locket nervously as they bumped down the lane, past the sentinels of oak trees, their branches newly bare. They reminded Nancy of a row of skeletal hands thrusting up from the earth, and she gave an involuntary shiver.
Finally they pulled up in front of the house, and Celia leapt out of the car almost at once. Nancy followed more slowly, taking it all in.
Selkirk End was a huge, senselessly sprawling folly of a Victorian mansion; it appeared to have been designed by a madman. Silly little turrets and towers and oddly-angled rooms jutted out at all angles, and on the very top was an octagonal room with a domed roof that ended in a single lightning rod. The house had clearly seen better days; the wrap-around porch drooped sadly, and the whole structure seemed to be sinking toward the earth in exhaustion.
Nancy followed Celia up the steps onto the porch, gingerly stepping around the stray cats that littered it, snoozing, curled up against the cold. A rickety porch swing rocked back and forth eerily, as if its occupants had just left it. After unlocking the imposing front door, Celia stepped inside and Nancy followed. It was quite dark in the hall, and the sound of the door closing behind them echoed emptily above. There was the flick of a light switch, and Nancy could see Celia disappearing into a room to their left.
"I have to check something," she called. "Just a moment."
Nancy took in her surroundings, from the threadbare Persian rug under her feet to the stack of ancient phone books on the entry table to the dozens of pairs of shoes, some obviously long-abandoned, piled in the corner. Suddenly she heard Celia give a little shriek. The girl rushed back into the hall, her eyes wide with fright.
"Nancy," she gasped, her long white fingers tangled in the chain of her locket, "Nancy, my brother's manuscript is gone!"