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There was something careful about the energy here. Not calm, exactly. More … preserved in amber.
The whole house suggested pentimenti, original brushstrokes covered over by something else. The same subject in a different style. Past mistakes hidden by fresh paint. What mistakes had been made here?
Anna realized she didn’t trust anything in this house. Not even the walls. Definitely not the people.
Just before she drifted off, in the in-between between consciousness and oblivion, she realized what had bothered her about her nieces whispering in the hall. They’d been speaking Italian.
It seemed to Anna that the concept of “vacation” was antithetical to the concept of “family.” Vacation required vacancy. The abandonment of all scraps of everyday life.
They were alike, Anna and her father, but often in the wrong ways. They were identical magnets, she thought, turned to repel.
La dama bianca. Ricca, potente. Vinaio. Infedele. Ossessiva. Colture avvelenate. Il figlio. Veleno, tutti avvelenati. Attacchi ai vivi. Allucinazione. Esorcismo. La chiave. La chiave del male. La chiave del torre. Mi dispiace. Perdonami, perdonami, perdonami
