Her name is Vivian and she is Mrs. Elliot's sister. She was still talking to someone behind her as she opened the door, laughing, her face turning serious when she saw me. Her skin is pale but not freckled, her hair is the color of oak, creamy brown with a reddish cast and traces of gray, pulled carefully back in a bun. She wore a skirt over softly draping trousers, but otherwise she does not resemble Mrs. Elliot at all.

I handed her the letter.

Her eyes widened. "But you're a day early! And so pale! Come in, come in!"

So I am here. This house is like no other house. It is very simple, almost bare, with little furniture and no rugs. There are paintings on every wall. And books, too, everywhere. She took me into the kitchen. A man and a woman, Hubert and Jane, were sorting papers. She had me sit and bustled around. Hubert offered me a drink and Jane said nonsense, she's just a girl, and Vivian said she's more than a girl, she left her child, give her a drink if she wants it, and put a plate of beef and little egg sandwiches and a gla.s.s of warm milk in front of me. I tried to eat it slowly, but could not. They watched me with kind eyes. When I was finished she showed me up to this room. Then I slept all around the clock.

This house has little furniture but it is always full of people. They come and go, there are meetings and suppers and pa.s.sionate discussions. Some of them do not even knock, they just walk in. And the things they say-Mrs. Elliot is mild in comparison.

The dinners are full of talk and I sit quietly. They are interested in the story of how I came to be here. So I tell them how I used to stand in the hallway when Mrs. Elliot came over and began to talk about the rights of women and the great march she attended in Washington. How I began to slip over to her house when she held her meetings. Cora warned me not to go, but I went anyway. I kept it as quiet as I could. Already my position was in danger; they had not known about you when they agreed I could come. They were sorry for me because they believe I am a widow.

On the day Mrs. Elliot led marchers through The Lake of Dreams, I was working in the garden. The singing came first. Then the women, so many women, maybe three hundred. Their singing voices swelled the air. I put down the garden clippers. I pulled off my gloves, finger by finger. You were upstairs, sleeping. Cora was on the porch and she called a warning, but in that moment I felt such excitement, I did not care. I stepped down the walk and through the gate and I joined them, marching. I sang.

We marched all the way into town, to the park. There was a big table and several women handing out flyers about the right to vote, and other flyers, too, a page I'd seen before and saved. "What Every Girl Should Know". But this time it was blank below the headline, and stamped with black letters at the top saying "NOTHING! Outlawed by the Post Office". I was standing by the table listening to the speeches when an officer came up and took me by the arm and put me into handcuffs. I was very scared. But Mrs. Elliot was arrested, too, and a dozen other women. We spent all night long sitting on the hard benches in the jail, telling stories and singing. They fed us nothing and gave us water in the morning, and by noon the tempers of all of us had begun to fray. That was when we decided we would not be powerless. They brought lunch and we refused to eat it! Dinner, too, we sent away untouched. We declared a hunger strike, and this was reported in the papers.

Joseph came to visit me. He brought food but he was angry. He said I should be reasonable and understand my loyalties. If not to myself, to you. I told him that I was in jail so you might have a better life one day, and then he got a little less gruff, because he loves you, and he said you were safe and well with Cora, even though she was furious with me. So I felt a little better.

Our hunger strike lasted three days. When we were released we hugged one another and spilled out into our separate lives. I walked back to the house, eager to gather you in my arms.

But when I got there, the door was locked. No one answered when I rang the bell and pounded.

I tried the back door, too. I tried the windows and the cellar door, all locked.

They had gone. I did not know where. They had taken you with them.

I did not know what to do. I sat on the porch, too hungry and too hurt to weep.

Mrs. Elliot took me in. Cora and Jesse refused to have me back, they said I was a disgrace and no longer welcome.

So I have come all this way to live with strangers. Mrs. Elliot said I would find work in the city and could save enough money to bring you here, but when I told this to Vivian she shook her head in clear amazement and said her sister was a hopeless romantic and what did she think, there were jobs hanging from the trees?

She asked what I could do and I told her that I sewed. This was the work I did all winter for Cora, her best velvets and silks, while you played at my feet. Some days I staggered out of the room so tired from bending over little st.i.tches that my head felt stuffed with cotton, my eyes burned. But it was better work than scrubbing floors or doing laundry, and you were with me.

"And they paid you how much?"

"They fed us".

She sat back in her chair and swept her hand through the air in disgust.

"I'm very good".

She sighed. "Yes. I'm sure you have the finest st.i.tches".

I flushed, because then I knew she was mocking me, but I did not know why.

"I don't know", I told her, speaking slowly. "I had the finest st.i.tches in my village, yes. But it was a small village".

She glanced at me again, her eyes faintly kinder. "Don't pay attention. It's just-so many arrive, every day. I see them streaming off these ships with their suitcases, and then I see them later, spilling out of the factories that take them in when they can find no other work. Take them in and wear them out. I see them when they are ill. I am a nurse. So I have become cynical, I fear. Trust me-you do not wish to work in a factory".

"Do you like your work?" I asked.

She considered this. "No. I like bringing comfort to people when that's possible, though often it is not. I earn my own money, and that brings me freedom, which I do like". She looked at me then. "Have you any nursing experience?" I said I did not.

"I felt free on the boat", I said, remembering the trip we made across the ocean.

She nodded. "Oh, yes. On a boat you are no place at all". She was quiet for a moment. "But now you are here, and we must decide what to do".

Downstairs, they come and go, talk and argue, voices lapping at my door. Sometimes I join them. Other times I stay alone in my room and sleep, or read, or write. I do not know what will become of me.

"Let me see," my mother said. I handed her the pages and sifted through the papers from the cupola until I found the page Rose had mentioned in her letter, the page that had launched my search, the brittle paper with the dense text discussing basic human physiology, and the sc.r.a.p of paper that had been folded inside it where Rose had written her startled and impa.s.sioned thoughts. Such a simple article, such straightforward facts; I wondered if Cora had ever read these pamphlets, or if she'd been too shocked. Rose had fished some of them from the eggsh.e.l.ls and coffee grounds; perhaps they'd been left behind when she went so hastily to New York City, or perhaps Cora had found them only after the move from town to this house on the lake, and had shoved them in the s.p.a.ce beneath the window seat-out of sight, out of mind. and the sc.r.a.p of paper that had been folded inside it where Rose had written her startled and impa.s.sioned thoughts. Such a simple article, such straightforward facts; I wondered if Cora had ever read these pamphlets, or if she'd been too shocked. Rose had fished some of them from the eggsh.e.l.ls and coffee grounds; perhaps they'd been left behind when she went so hastily to New York City, or perhaps Cora had found them only after the move from town to this house on the lake, and had shoved them in the s.p.a.ce beneath the window seat-out of sight, out of mind.

We sat up for a few more hours, my mother and I, going through the letters and the papers, trying to sort out the chronology and fill in the gaps. After my mother went to bed, I stayed up even longer, writing down names and dates on index cards and putting them into little piles. I lay down on my stomach on the bed with my chin in my hands, the facts swirling in my mind. I closed my eyes, thinking I would not sleep, just rest.

In my dream that night I took Rose's journey, stepping from a train into an unfamiliar city. I walked, stopping at houses all along the way, but the doors were locked, or the people who lived there did not recognize me and had no idea who I was. Panic was a steady thrum beneath all my actions. I put my suitcase down and it was gone. I walked until I came to a park. It was spring, new leaves on the trees, and a crowd had gathered, held back by waist-high metal barriers. I was trying to see something, we all were, but no matter how I craned my neck or shifted my position, nothing was visible beyond the heads of the crowd. A woman next to me asked my name. I told her, and she expressed surprise. I have something for you, I have something for you, she said, reaching into her purse. she said, reaching into her purse. Something I've been holding for a long, long time Something I've been holding for a long, long time. You must have lost it You must have lost it. She pulled out a wallet and handed it to me. Inside I found my ID cards, all my identification. I've been looking for these forever, I've been looking for these forever, I said. I said. Where did you find them Where did you find them? Here, Here, she said. she said. Right here, in the museum Right here, in the museum. I looked up then and saw that's where we were, that the walls were filled with paintings and the windows with stained gla.s.s, and as I watched, the figures in the windows began to emerge, beautiful, luminous men and women stepping into the room. I walked from place to place slowly, because everything, and all the people, were so very fragile. Before I reached the door, I woke up.

I sat up, rubbing my neck, the unease of my dream flowering into the still morning. Letters and papers were scattered all over the floor. The lights were still on. Then I remembered: I'd promised Yoshi that I'd call last night, and I'd forgotten all about it.

It was evening there, and he answered right away when I called him on Skype, his face appearing on the screen with an expression both concerned and annoyed. He was out of sorts to begin with-one of his flights had been canceled, and he'd had to reschedule his whole trip. When he didn't hear from me he'd gotten worried, and his concern came out as anger. We argued, me sitting on my childhood bed, Yoshi in a hotel in Jakarta, ten thousand miles away.

"Maybe I just shouldn't come," he said, finally. "If it's just going to be like this."

"No. No, please come, Yoshi. I want you to come."

"It feels strange, Lucy. Like you've been gone longer than a week."

Had it been only a week? I counted back-yes, but so much had happened that it felt much longer. "When you get here it won't feel that way," I said.

"What's so important that you forgot to call?"

"Nothing," I said, glancing at the cards splayed all over the floor. "Just more news about my family history. I'll tell you all about it when you get here."

"Are you all right?" he asked. "You look terrible."

"Do I?" I looked at all the papers scattered across the floor, covered with dates and facts. I wondered if I'd changed in this short time, if Yoshi would even know me anymore. "I just woke up," I explained. "I fell asleep in the middle of all this research. It was a long day yesterday, I guess."

"Well, it was long for me, too. I was worried when I couldn't reach you. What research are you talking about?"

I explained then about Rose and Iris and the letters, but I was still groggy and the story sounded both confused and boring, too full of detail.

"Anyway," I ended. "How are the meetings going?"

"Okay. We go out to the site tomorrow."

"It will be interesting to see the sacred places," I said, thinking of the chapel and the ancient burial sites on the depot land.

"I don't know if interesting interesting is the word I'd use," Yoshi said. "I have a feeling this is going to be confrontational, though probably in a very pa.s.sive-aggressive way. I have a feeling we won't get much accomplished." is the word I'd use," Yoshi said. "I have a feeling this is going to be confrontational, though probably in a very pa.s.sive-aggressive way. I have a feeling we won't get much accomplished."

"Maybe that's okay."

"Not if I get fired."

"Are you really worried about that?"

"Not really," he said, but I could tell that he was. "Look, I have to get some dinner, and I need to get some sleep."

"At least you're on your way to a vacation, once it's all done."

"We'll have to see, Lucy." Yoshi sounded tense, but I wasn't sure; it might have been my own scattered feelings I was projecting. "This might turn out to be a bad time for me to leave, job-wise."

"But you already have your tickets."

"I know. Look, let's just wait and see how it goes."

"All right," I said. Everything seemed so fragile now, after the dream, and I didn't want to argue with Yoshi. I couldn't believe I'd forgotten to call him, so lost in the mysteries of the past that I'd neglected what was happening all around me. "Let me know, okay? I'm planning that you'll be here, unless I hear otherwise."

"Okay."

"Okay, then. Hope your meetings go well."

"Thanks," he said. "I'll call you soon." And then he was gone.

Chapter 13.

THE REVEREND SUZI WELLS WALKED UP THE GRa.s.sY SLOPE to the chapel, which stood alone in a field, a small red stone building with windows that resembled keyholes, four on each side. She led an odd procession: Keegan followed her, dressed in jeans and work boots and a T-shirt with a small tear at the shoulder. Next came Oliver Parrott in his black bespoke suit and polished leather shoes, stepping gingerly through the long gra.s.s as if he might somehow avoid the dew. A bald reporter from The Lake of Dreams Gazette The Lake of Dreams Gazette walked by Oliver's side, a little recorder clipped to his black leather jacket, asking questions about Frank Westrum, which Oliver answered effusively, in great detail. Suzi had contacted the walked by Oliver's side, a little recorder clipped to his black leather jacket, asking questions about Frank Westrum, which Oliver answered effusively, in great detail. Suzi had contacted the Gazette Gazette, maybe hoping for publicity for the church, perhaps as a smart preemptive action to keep Oliver and his acquisitions committee at bay, but Oliver was losing no time in telling the story of his ill.u.s.trious ancestor and his museum. Behind these two came Zoe, in cutoff shorts and flip-flops and a tank top, a canvas bag over her shoulder, bouncing against her hip. She'd called again, wanting to see if I'd drive her to the mall, and I'd told her about my plans, never imagining she'd want to come. But now here she was, plunging through the tall weeds, pausing to brush away insects or remove gra.s.s that had stuck between her toes, tossing back excited comments on the day, the weather, the adventure of entering this church, which had stood empty for so long.

She didn't seem to expect me to answer any of this, which was good, because I was still preoccupied, as I had been for the past two days, caught in the secret history Rose had written, consumed with wondering what had happened to her next. It was frustrating, of course, that the historical society was closed, but it had given me time to read Rose's letters again and again, to think about her life as I kayaked and swam and floated on the raft. Her longing to become a priest, her conflicted feelings when Geoffrey Wyndham's attention-unsought, unwelcome-fell upon her, all the ways she had been powerless to choose her life-her story was poignant, and moving, and unsettling. I wished I could march into the past and set things right. And I wondered, also, what her story had meant to my great-grandfather, how these events had shaped him in ways that were perhaps shaping the family still. I'd kept spreading out the index cards with dates and facts, first in one pattern, then another, as if I might finally rea.s.semble them, like the scattered bones of a skeleton which, if I got the pieces in the right configuration, would suddenly take life and rise up and walk away.

Ahead, Keegan paused, stepping out of the procession to wait for me to catch up. His arms were muscled from his work with gla.s.s and fire; he had a long narrow burn just below his elbow.

"Excited?" he asked, falling into step beside me.

"Very. You must be, too."

"Oh, yes." He smiled, nodded ahead. "Not half as excited as Oliver, though."

"No kidding. Have you seen his collections? His archived collections, I mean?"

Keegan glanced at me with interest. "He invited you over?"

"He did. I took my mother."

"You must have impressed him. He doesn't show those images to many people. What did you think?"

I remembered the quietness of the Westrum House, the black auditorium seats all empty and the doors to the world locked, the images flashing up on the screen. I thought of Oliver's pa.s.sion and the exquisite beauty of the windows. As uneasy as I was about Oliver's intentions, I'd also left feeling dazzled by the intricate, luminous gla.s.s.

"They were exceptional. He needs more display s.p.a.ce, though, not more windows. Do you think he'll go after these?"

"Wouldn't you? An interrelated series-that's got to be a very special find. Did he serve you tea?"

"He did. Orange spice. With honey. It was very good."

The tall gra.s.s and weeds reached the hem of the only dress I'd brought, short-sleeved and as soft as a T-shirt, the sort of cloth that never wrinkled, good for traveling. It was black, and I wore black sandals, which had gotten soaked within a few steps. Keegan's jeans were wet to his knees, which reminded me of our wilder days, pulling the canoe out of the water, his legs wet and his feet pale against the shale beach. We'd been so carefree. My departure had been fixed even then, but it was still so far on the horizon I felt we'd never get there. That last spring the present had seemed somehow eternal, as if nothing would ever change. I wondered if Keegan ever thought about those days, the innocent world we'd inhabited until my father died.

"How's Max? I keep thinking of him standing above that rushing water."

"He's good. He probably doesn't even remember, so don't be worrying. I thought about bringing him today, so he could see where they were digging." He gestured to the small cemetery adjacent to the church, enclosed within an ornate black iron fence; beyond this fence, unrecognized for decades and now roped off with dark blue tape, was the site where the Iroquois had once lived, before the village of Appleton was built and razed, before the land was taken by the government. Though it was still early, two archaeologists were already standing just outside the taped-off area, drinking coffee from paper cups. They waved. I found myself thinking of the lake, of the earth beneath my feet, which had seen so many people, so many seasons, come and go.

"He didn't want to come?"

"Oh, he'd have come in a heartbeat. Are you kidding? He's totally into digging. But in the end it seemed like a bad idea. He'd just be all over the place." Keegan waved back to the archaeologists, whom he seemed to know. "They found some bowls yesterday, did you hear? Big stone bowls, with granite pestles, probably used for grinding corn."

"That's interesting," I said, imagining the streets and buildings that had once filled this land, and the trails and patterns of the Iroquois who lived here before that.

Suzi had reached the chapel door. She was wearing black jeans and a simple black shirt with a white clerical collar. The ministers of my youth would have been men, dressed like Oliver, and they would have driven cars like the one he had arrived in, too-sleek, quiet, and black. Suzi, however, had a blue compact car and used her bicycle around town.

"Well, that was quite a trek," Oliver said, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe off his shoes. Keegan caught my eye and we both smiled.

"Totally cool," Zoe said. "How long has this place been locked up?"

"Since 1941," Suzi said, taking a key from her jacket pocket. It was ornate, made of iron, probably fashioned at Dream Master. Our great-grandfather or grandfather might have made this key, but I didn't say so. "No one really expected it to be closed for this long. But as far as I know, no one's been in here since, not until they came to uncover the windows."

The key stuck, and Suzi jiggled it; finally it caught, and the door, stripped of its paint by years of weather, swung open. One by one, we stepped across the threshold into the musty stillness of the chapel. Except for a few pews at the back, the sanctuary was still intact, as it had been when the last services were held so many decades ago. The floor, beneath a layer of softening dust, was tile. The room smelled of cold, damp, and mildew. But I noted these details only later.

What captured me, what captured us all, were the windows.

In the darkness of the chapel-there was no other light-the windows seemed to float. Like the Wisdom window, the colors were bright and vibrant, the images stylized and elongated in the Art Nouveau style. Each window had the familiar border of vine-encrusted spheres along the bottom, iridescent white against the jewel tones that surrounded them. No matter how much I'd hoped and even expected to see it on these windows, the pattern riveted me even as the others began to disperse through the sanctuary, Suzi to the closest window in the west wall, Zoe trailing behind her, and Keegan and Oliver to the east windows, where the early morning light was strongest.

"Oh, it's certainly Frank's work," Oliver said, his voice both excited and proprietary. "Exquisite work, just breathtaking." He turned in a circle, taking in all the windows. "What a find this is for the Westrum Foundation. What an absolute treasure."

He turned back to the closest window and began to look at the detail. A sense of possessiveness flared through me, too. I didn't think of these as Frank's windows. To me, they belonged to Rose. I couldn't bear the thought that she might be obscured, cast as a footnote to Frank Westrum.

Oliver and Keegan began to speak in low, charged voices, talking about the nature of the gla.s.s, the quality of the leading, remarking on how well preserved the windows were, how clean-the wooden panels that had protected them all these decades had only just been removed. The reporter was taking rapid notes. "You see," Oliver said, trying unsuccessfully to mask how thrilled he was. "You see this pattern right here, and here-this is the Westrum trademark, these are his windows, that is certain."

Maybe so, I thought. But they also belonged to Nelia, who had paid for them. And in some way I was only beginning to understand, they belonged to Rose. I thought. But they also belonged to Nelia, who had paid for them. And in some way I was only beginning to understand, they belonged to Rose.

The words of her letters were still so present, all the love and loss of her early life. I walked around the chapel once, taking in the images. Suffused with light, the glowing windows cast color across the floor, across our faces and our hands. Luminous colors, the yellow of marigolds, the red of blood, the vibrant dark green of late summer gra.s.s. I walked from window to window studying the figures. A woman, pensive, holding an alabaster jar, stood beside Jesus, who was seated at a table, a silvery light around him. In the next window, two women, both visibly pregnant, spoke together in a garden. In the third, a woman turned from a cave, her hands open, her skin pale and radiant, her expression filled with wild amazement. In the last window on this wall, a woman stood in front of a temple holding an unrolled scroll while a group of men gathered around, waiting, listening for her words. I touched the bottom of this window, tracing the row of overlapping vine-encrusted moons.

"They are exquisite," Suzi said softly, coming to stand beside me. Her face was flushed and animated, and it struck me that she was moved by the windows, that for her they were not simply an artifact of the past or a clue to a forgotten life but a connection with the stories themselves, with whatever mystery they attempted to catch. What Suzi seemed to be experiencing in this chapel was something that resonated from my past, the sense that there was something numinous present, real and potent, that I could not understand. Rose, too, must have felt this. She must have felt it strongly to want to be a priest at a time when that was impossible, to have helped create this extraordinary chapel full of windows. I thought she would have liked seeing the Reverend Suzi here. Maybe she would have understood even me, with all my doubts and wrong turns and seeking.

"It's the same gla.s.s," Keegan was saying across the chapel. "It has the same tonalities and composition as in the Wisdom window. I'm sure, even without an a.n.a.lysis. Just look at the consistency of the color. These windows were clearly all made at the same time, for the same commission, don't you agree? I wonder-when would you place them, Oliver, in the Westrum work?"