"Was this mirror broken when you left?" Nancy demanded.
"I-I don't know," Celia said, her voice tinged with surprise. "I was so upset when we—when I—when the ambulance left, I didn't notice." She knelt to retrieve a heavy object lying on the floor amid the silvery debris.
"This was always on the desk," she said thoughtfully, turning a brass paperweight in the shape of an elephant over in her hands. "I didn't even notice it was missing."
"Someone threw this at the mirror," Nancy mused, looking back through the open door of the study. "He picked it up off the desk—and threw it—but why? Was there an intruder?"
Celia looked troubled. "I didn't hear anything that night," she said slowly, "but my room is upstairs. But wait—that morning, when I came downstairs—I only came this way because something caught my eye. Maybe I saw the glass glittering on the floor."
Nancy was silent, lost in thought. "Show me to my room," she said, picking up her suitcase. "And show me your room and Ethan's, too."
Nancy followed her friend up the winding spiral staircase. Celia led her down a narrow, dimly lit hall and opened a door at the end. Light poured from the open door and Nancy was beckoned inside.
The bedroom faced north, and through the large windows Nancy could see the overgrown walled garden and cracked patio sloping down toward the lake. On the far shore, the shimmering lake was fringed with woods.
"It's lovely," she murmured, turning to survey the room. It was ornate but shabby; the walls were papered in faded pink roses and the bedclothes were threadbare. A few brownish water stains marred the white ceiling and the wooden floor was nicked and scratched. There was a fireplace on the south wall. On the mantel was a vase of dead roses and baby's breath, and floor in front of it was littered with dried petals.
"Let me know if you need anything," said Celia nervously, twisting the front of her blouse in her hands. "We're—well, I'm—not used to having guests."
Nancy set her suitcase on the vanity stool and glanced in the large oval mirror. Her reflection was slightly warped, giving her a morose expression and lengthening her features like a Mannerist painting. On the vanity's dust-carpeted surface was a lady's hairbrush with a few blond strands caught in its bristles.
"It's fine, really," Nancy said reassuringly. "It reminds me of something from Jane Eyre."
"I always liked Wuthering Heights better," Celia said, gesturing toward the door. "Come on, I'll show you my room."
Celia's bedroom was right next door. It was similar to Nancy's, except that the dominant color scheme was a delicate lilac and the windows faced west. Nancy stooped to examine a silver-framed photograph on Celia's bedside table.
"Is this your parents?" she asked. A young couple sat on the porch swing Nancy had seen earlier, arms around each other, smiling into blinding sunlight. She could not make out their features.
"Yes, when they were quite young," Celia said, crossing the room to join her. "They met at college and lived out west for a time. That's where Ethan was born. They moved back here after my grandfather Selkirk, my mom's dad, died. And this is Ethan and me when we were little." She lifted the photo beside it to show Nancy.
Celia could not have been more than five, dressed in a frilly white pinafore, her dark hair in fussy pigtails, perched on a stool with her Mary Jane-clad feet dangling in front of her. Behind her stood a tall teenage boy with curly dark hair, a crooked smile on his face.
"Ethan was much older than you," Nancy commented, placing the photo back on the table.
"I think that's why we always got along so well," Celia said. "When our parents died, he was nineteen. He gave up school to come and live here with me." She sat down on the bed, gazing out the window. "He gave up so much for my sake. He always wanted to travel and write for magazines. But when The Children and the Flowers was so well-received, he decided to be a novelist."
Celia glanced up at Nancy, her long dark eyelashes frosted with tears. "I want to find out why he died, Nancy. It's all I can do for him now."
"Why don't you show me his room," Nancy said gently, helping Celia to her feet. "I'll do everything I can to help you, but first I need to know everything about your brother and this house."
Sniffling, Celia led the way down the hall and past the stair landing into the east wing. At the end of an identical hall she opened a door identical to Nancy's. But the room inside was completely different from those on the west except for the tall, north-facing windows.
The curtains and bed hangings were a dark green that seemed to swallow all the light from the room. The paneling too was dark, and the wallpaper was a mottled brownish color.
"We think this must have been the master bedroom at one time," Celia explained. "There's something rather Jonas-like about this room, don't you think?"
Remembering the portrait in the study, Nancy had to agree. There was little in the room that revealed Ethan Laramie's personality. There were a few piles of books and papers on the little writing desk in the corner, and a tan plaid dress shirt was tossed carelessly over the back of the chair. Nancy opened the wardrobe but found only T-shirts, jeans and a broken fishing rod.
She examined the framed photographs on his bedside table: what appeared to be his parents' wedding photo and beside it, Celia's senior portrait.
"Did he have any friends?" she asked his sister.
"Not since he left school, I don't think," Celia said.
"Well, that's about it—" Nancy suddenly fell silent and looked at Celia. "Celie," she hissed. "were you crying just now?"
"No," Celia said quietly, her voice taut. "Did you hear something?"
"Shhh!" Nancy ordered.
From somewhere in the hall came the sound of high, frantic sobs, like a woman in desperate grief. Quickly, Nancy crossed the room and peered out the door.
There was no one there!