ellen rimbauer

 the diary of

 ellen rimbauer

 My Life at Rose Red

 new york

 edited by

 joyce reardon, ph.d.

 the diary of

 Photographs on pp. vii, 30, 34, 45, and 253 copyright © 2001 Jimmy Malecki / ABC

 Photograph on p. 65 copyright © 2001 MSCUA, University of Washington Libraries,

 Barnes 171-L

 All sketches copyright © 2001 Hyperion

 Copyright © 2001 Hyperion

 All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner

 whatsoever without the written permission of the Publisher. Printed in the United States

 of America. For information address Hyperion, 77 W. 66th Street, New York, New York

 10023-6298.

 ISBN: 1-4013-9674-7

 Designed by Casey Hampton

 The Diary of Ellen Rimbauer is a rare document, a record

 of the mysterious events at Rose Red that scandalized

 Seattle society at the time—events that can only be fully

 understood now that the diary has come to light.

 Visit www.beaumontuniversity.net to read more about it.

 Joyce Reardon

 Department of Paranormal Phenomena

 Beaumont University

 Seattle, WA

 Dear Reader:

 In the summer of 1998, at an estate sale in Everett, Washington, I purchased

 a locked diary covered in dust, writings I believed to be those of

 Ellen Rimbauer. Beaumont University’s Public Archive Department

 examined the paper, the ink and the binding and determined the diary to

 be authentic. It was then photocopied at my request.

 Ellen Rimbauer’s diary became the subject of my master’s thesis and

 has haunted me ever since. (Excuse the pun!) John and Ellen Rimbauer

 were among the elite of Seattle’s turn-of-the-century high society. They

 built an enormous private residence at the top of Spring Street that

 became known as Rose Red, a structure that has been the source of much

 controversy. In a forty-one-year period at least twenty-six individuals

 either lost their lives or disappeared within its walls.

 Ellen Rimbauer’s diary, excerpts of which I offer here, set me on a

 personal course of discovery that has led to the launching of an expedition.

 Shortly I will lead a team of experts in psychic phenomena through

 the doors of Rose Red, the Rimbauer Estate, in an effort to awaken this

 sleeping giant of psychic power and to solve some of the mysteries my

 mentor, Max Burnstheim, was unable to solve before he went missing

 in Rose Red in 1970. (I never met Dr. Burnstheim, but I consider his

 writings the most progressive in the ?eld of psychic phenomena.)

 Many thanks to my publishers, Beaumont University Press. I hope the

 publication will widen the public’s perception and acceptance of psychic

 phenomena, and ?rmly anchor a fascinating historical period in the

 growth and expansion of the Paci?c Northwest. I have taken great pains to

 edit this document to a readable size, deleting the repetitive sections and

 omitting those I found offensive. For the extremely curious, or the

 voyeuristically minded among you, a portion of those edits can be found

 archived on the World Wide Web at www.beaumontuniversity.net.

 Photos of the house can be viewed on the Web site as well.

 Good reading. In the name of science I will pursue the truth of Rose

 Red, wherever it may lead me.

 Sincerely,

 Joyce Reardon, P.P.A., M.D., Ph.D.

  

 The following are excerpts taken from Ellen

 Rimbauer’s diary, dated 1907–1928. Any and all editing

 has been done at my discretion. Some effort has

 been made to protect the integrity of Mrs. Rimbauer

 and her descendants, though never at the cost of

 content. What follows are the words of Ellen

 Rimbauer, in her own hand, with as few editorial

 comments as possible.

 —Joyce Reardon, November 2000

 ellen rimbauer

 the diary of

 17 april 1907—seattle

 Dear Diary:

 I ?nd it a somewhat daunting task to endeavor to place my

 thoughts here inside your trusted pages, I scarcely know if I am

 up to the task, but as my head is ?lled with lurid thoughts, and my

 heart with romance and possibility, I ?nd I must con?de in

 someone, and so it is to your pages I now turn. I have lived these

 nineteen years in full premonition of that time when a man

 would come into my heart, into my life, and thrill me with love,

 passion and romance. That time has now come. I swoon just

 thinking of John Rimbauer, and some of my thoughts are not at

 all becoming of the lady I am expected to be.

 My physical desire does at times possess me. Am I in?uenced

 by my reading of popular novels, as my mother is wont to say, or

 am I sinful, as my father has implied (no, not with words, but by

 branding me with his raised eyebrows and scolding brow)?

 I must admit here too to the simultaneous impression that

 danger lurks within an arm’s reach. Death. Dread. Destruction.

 Born of guilt, I wonder, for the unladylike fantasies to which I

 succumb when alone in the dark? (Or is the source of these

 images something, some force entirely exterior of myself, as I am

 prone to believe?) Does another world exist? For it seems to me

 it must: a force apart from human experience. A power, all of its

 own, and not one familiar with the God to whom I pray.

 Something darker, external, other-worldly. Something altogether

 unknown. It lurks in the shadows. I feel its presence.

 I would be lying here if I did not admit to a certain thrill this

 looming sense of the future, of the unknown, affords me, both

 the unknown of what John Rimbauer’s touch might bring to my

 life, as well as this sense of a larger, darker force at play.

 John Rimbauer is a partner in a large oil company, Omicron

 1

 Oil, along with a Mr. Douglas Posey, an affable, quiet gentleman

 whose company I’ve had the good fortune to keep, along with that

 of his wife, Phillis. Oil, I’m told, holds great promise as a fuel for

 lighting homes, and perhaps someday even heating them. John

 says that oil water heaters for the home are all the rage in the East.

 Kerosene is being used in motorcars. I hope someday to perhaps

 take the train with John back to Detroit, where he does business

 with the Rockefellers. Oh, but my head spins with such fancy:

 dinner with John D., himself! A banker’s daughter from Seattle,

 Washington! And yet . . . I sense the world is about to unfold at

 my ?ngertips. John is the key to that world. I feel certain we are

 to be engaged within the month. Dare I say that with such honesty?

 Only here in your pages, Dear Diary!

 John has ordered the construction of a grand house. Grander

 than any house in all the state, perhaps in all the land. He tells

 me of it often, as if it is to play a signi?cant role in my life as well,

 which I now feel (nearly) certain it will. (I am blushing as I write

 this!) He has offered me a motorcar ride to the construction site,

 and I have accepted. Within the week we shall ride together to

 what may prove to be the site of our future happiness together.

 (One hopes for happiness. This dread I feel—will it too play a

 role? I can only hope and pray that this sense of impending

 doom will be overcome by the light and love my future husband

 and I shall share.)

 2

 11 may 1907—seattle

 With trembling hand, I ?nd myself reluctant to record in your

 pages the horrible events of this day. Several weeks have passed

 since my last entry, weeks given to one delay after another

 brought on by John’s business affairs (or so I’m told), my own

 in?rmity (a woman’s monthly “ritual of roses” as my mother

 refers to it) and John’s apparent inability to arrange a convenient

 time for the two of us to visit the construction site. At last that

 time was set, for to-day, this very day, and I awaited John’s arrival

 on the front steps of my family home with what can only be

 described as a beating breast. Such anticipation!

 Much to my disappointment (and to my mother’s, too, all

 things confessed) an offer of betrothal has not been received.

 Certainly not by me, nor has John approached my father (my

 mother has informed me in the strictest of con?dences) with any

 discussion of dowry. My, but the weeks have crawled by slowly.

 Twice, I’ve been told by trusted friends that John’s motorcar, or

 one just like it, was spotted late, late at night on the high road

 between the city’s loading wharfs and the Hill where John currently

 makes his residence. I am con?dent that these excursions

 can be easily explained by the importing of barrels of oil to those

 wharfs—as this happens at all hours, night and day. But of course

 a tiny part of the woman in me fears another truth altogether, as

 that part of town is known for its debaucheries. Who is this man I

 hope to marry? I scarcely know!

 My fears have found their way into my prayers, and I ?nd

 myself in sin, making silent requests to the powers that surround

 us to punish John Rimbauer if any transgressions be

 known. Just last week, as I made such a “dark prayer” at the side

 of my bed, an enormous wind—quite like nothing I’ve ever

 seen—took wing and delivered not only a branch but an entire

 tree to my window, shattering glass and throwing debris as it was

 3

 ripped from its roots. Oddly, no other tree in our yard was

 affected, nor did any neighbor report any such wind. I attribute

 that reckoning to the very substantial power of prayer, though

 my mother calls such reasoning foolish, despite her being a

 woman of Christ. Dear Diary, let me tell you this: if that tree

 had anything whatsoever to do with my prayer, it had nothing to

 do with Christ. On that evening, neither Christ, nor God, were

 in my prayers. Oh faint of heart, dare not read on. For it was to

 Him I prayed. The other Him. The other side. For if transgressions

 have been made, then John Rimbauer has already switched

 his allegiance, whether aware of it or not. It is to His Power that

 I pray.

 I have taken a moment to lock the door. (I am staying these

 nights in my sister’s room while repairs continue to my own.)

 Increasingly, I feel as if someone is reading over my shoulder as I

 write. John? My mother? I know not. But it is a disturbing

 notion, and one that requires of me certain precautions to

 which I have now dedicated myself. I not only lock the binding of

 this diary, but I secure it safely in a locked drawer as well, the

 small keys kept around my neck, and hidden down my dress, on

 a silver necklace once worn by my great-grandmother Gilchrist.

 Certain small oddities, events unexplained, continue to perplex

 me and drive me to these precautions. ( Just yesterday my hairbrush

 switched sides of the sink, all of its own, as I ran water on

 my face. I swear it’s true! I lifted my head to ?nd the brush available

 to the left hand, when only moments before it had been

 held in my right!) Some furniture has been found out of place.

 One of my dresser drawers stuck yesterday (the one bearing love

 letters from John) and would not come open, even under the

 efforts of Pilchert, our butler. To-day, I’m told Pilchert will

 remove the back of the dresser in an effort to reach the drawer’s

 contents. If taken individually, not one of these small events

 4

 would matter to me. But collectively? Are they to be ignored? I

 ?nd myself both terri?ed and thrilled—so perhaps I am to

 blame, not only for my sinful prayers to the other Power but for

 my innate curiosity and fascination with the other-worldly quality

 of these apparently disconnected events. The Devil’s due, do

 you suppose?

 But wait! To the events of this day!

 John Rimbauer picked me up this morning at 10 A.M. in an

 automobile made by Olds. It is one of only a few such vehicles in

 all the city. The buggy was quite loud, and the experience altogether

 exhilarating, though bumpy and somewhat terrifying at

 times. John drove—I believe quite well, though who am I to

 know? West on Spring Street to the site of the construction that

 preoccupies him. The trip consumed some ?fteen minutes—the

 house is to be built atop a hill that overlooks the city. Twice I was

 nearly thrown out the side (or so I imagined! John assured me I

 was safe all along.).

 John Rimbauer, ruggedly handsome, is a pragmatic man

 (which possibly accounts for his success in the oil business),

 extremely sure of himself and even given to moments of conceit.

 He remains calm in the face of adversity, whether a fourhorse

 team blocking the road or a storm on the high seas. (John

 is extremely well traveled, having visited Asia, the Americas and

 Europe.) I ?nd his strength both comforting and disarming, in

 that John is often an unpredictable mixture of tolerance and

 intolerance. I have never been on the receiving end of his ill

 temper, but woe to those who are. Of course I don’t wish to be,

 nor will I tolerate such ferocity directed at me or our children.

 ( Just the thought of children ?oods me with a keen, passionate

 warmth, the likes of which I’ve only read about in my novels.

 Perhaps Mother is right!) I should like to relate here my recollection

 of an exchange we had on the trip over.

 5

 “John, dear,” I said, “do you suppose I should have offended

 my mother by my refusal of a chaperone?”

 “You’re a grown woman of nineteen, El.” (I love this nickname

 for me he has chosen!) “Your mother was married and with

 her second child by the time she was your age. I doubt very much

 you could do anything to shock her.”

 “You don’t know her as I do,” I said.

 “I am twice your age. I should imagine that concerns your

 parents. Especially as to my intentions.” He lowered his eyes to

 me, running them down the full length of my dress to where I

 felt faint. He understands full well this power he has over me,

 uses it playfully, but on this occasion—and there have been others,

 truth be told—it was not so much playful as provocative,

 and he made no effort to disguise or conceal his lust. I felt certain

 of it at the time. And what was I to do? I giggled, all

 nerves, of course. Blushed no doubt. I felt the heat in my

 cheeks. But I kept my chin high and my eyes on the muddy

 road ahead.

 “And what are your intentions?” I asked, suppressing a

 smile.

 “To ravish you, of course. To pluck your innocence from the

 vine of youth and leave you for the next man to marry.”

 “And my father will come after you with axe and rope.”

 “And you? Will you refuse me?”

 “Your so-called ravishing, of course. Until we are married.”

 “Engaged or married?”

 “We’ve had other . . . fun, John Rimbauer.” Certainly I

 must have blushed again for I felt it in my face. We had

 touched. We had kissed. His strong hands knew the shape of my

 bosom (though never skin to skin!). Once, while dancing, he

 had pressed himself to me and I had known of his arousal. But

 he had yet to know of mine. Mother’s cautions of “a lady’s

 6

 behavior” fall ?at on my ears. She lived in another time. All the

 girls talk of touching their men—of pleasing them, if for no

 other reason in an effort to quell their desires and protect their

 own virginity, that most sacred of marriage rites. John’s age

 perhaps has accounted for no such need on my part. He is

 experienced. I treasure his worldliness, and believe it affords

 me much opportunity.

 “And more to come,” he said. “I trust we both will ?nd . . . ,”

 he searched for his words, “great reward in marriage.”

 “John!” I blurted out, like some sniveling twelve-year-old.

 “Marriage?”

 “Patience, my dear. Never push me. Never challenge my decisions.

 If you hold to these two virtues, we will never have a single

 quarrel, you and I. I am lord and master of my house. I have

 worked long and hard to earn not only a small fortune but the

 right to stake out my own territory, and that territory includes

 opinion. You understand that, don’t you, dearest?”

 “Yes, John.”

 “No reservations.”

 “None.”

 “Because I am well aware of suffrage, and have no quarrel with

 a person’s striving for individual freedoms. More power to them.

 But not in my home, you understand? You will ?nd I can be a

 most generous, most loving partner, my dear. But just ask Mr.

 Posey what happens when my partners betray my trust or break

 agreements. I am offering you many things in sharing a life with

 me. Freedom is not necessarily one of them.”

 “John Rimbauer, are you proposing marriage to me?” This, I

 fear, is all I was thinking. All that I heard. Only now as I write

 down my recollection of events, only now as I recall those words

 of his clearly, do I feel their full import.

 “Patience, my dear. Patience.” A smug smile. I felt for sure I

 7

 knew what this day held in store. As it turned out, I couldn’t have

 been more wrong. Neither John, nor I, could have possibly foreseen

 events as they were about to unfold.

 The property John purchased to hold his mansion, his grand

 statement of achievement and success, is nothing short of spectacular.

 It is crowned with a tall forest of cedar and pine, and

 workers have cleared nearly six of the forty acres to hold the

 house—if something so large can be called that! (I could not

 believe the plans John showed me!) Though well out of the city,

 the house sits at the muddy end of Spring Street. From this

 location, one can see the entire city below. Spectacular! Just

 west of the property is a tract that I’m told runs all the way to

 Canada, and south as far as Mexico. How my imagination runs

 wild with the thought: one road spanning the entire country.

 Just think! The redwood forests. San Francisco. Los Angeles,

 where they are now making ?lms. (Not quite two years ago,

 when a traveling projectionist brought it to town, I saw Le Voyage

 dans la Lune [A Trip to the Moon], adapted from the novel by Jules

 Verne—I loved this book! The ?lm was ?fteen minutes long,

 the longest ever made at the time, and was shown at Father’s

 bank, of all places, because it had the largest white wall that

 could be found.) I adore motion pictures, simply love actors

 and actresses and hope that John and I will include them as our

 guests when we make our home together—but I’m getting ahead

 of myself! The property is accessed from the west. John parked

 the Olds quite some distance from the construction—a gigantic

 hole in the ground is all!—and, bless his heart, had had workers

 lay a string of redwood planks, wide enough to walk upon, so I

 might avoid the mud and ooze. Horse-drawn wagons came and

 went, burdened and brimming with materials ordered by the

 foreman, Williamson, a big, Irish-looking man with ?orid

 8

 cheeks, a broad mustache and a surly disposition. He did not

 appreciate a woman being on the premises, I can tell you that.

 (He made several insinuations upon my arrival, that is until

 dear John led him aside by the elbow and had words with him,

 after which he ignored me with full contempt though was loath

 to outwardly reveal his disapproval of me. I can only wonder

 now if this brief altercation with my beloved, an altercation

 that resulted from my attendance there, had something to do

 with the events that would soon transpire. Oh, Good Lord,

 pray let it not be so! Nay, do not curse me with the burden of

 lost life!)

 I am forced to wonder now about my musings put forth in my

 ?rst entry to these pages. Was what happened to-day at the grand

 house the sense of foreboding danger that I felt so strongly? The

 end of it, or just the beginning? The manifestation of some dark

 power greater than can be imagined? Am I a part of this darkness,

 or separate from it? Controlled by it, or instead by my prayers?

 The pen trembles under my grasp as I search for these answers.

 Am I, in fact, already possessed? Dare I think that? Dare I write

 it? Dare I keep it to myself, for fear of spoiling the arrangements

 already under way between my beloved and me? But oh, there I

 go again. Back to the day, and the tragedy that befell us.

 The cavernous hole cut into the earth on that forested slope so

 far from the warmth of my family home forewarns of a structure,

 in scope and size, that challenges even one’s imagination. I admit

 fully that I had never visited any construction site prior to my

 journey this day, and that perhaps because of this lacking I write

 with what borders on ignorance, but I am no stranger to architecture.

 I promise you that. Furthermore, I now intend to

 immerse myself in the study of this science, along with that of

 construction, so as to appreciate fully the efforts being undertaken

 on our behalf. The sheer enormity of it! (I can only hope

 9

 this does not match my future husband’s ego or conceit, for if so,

 I am in for a formidable challenge in the years that lie ahead!) To

 my eye, it rivals in size the university building that occupies the

 hill to the south overlooking the city, that building that newcomers

 nearly always mistakenly attribute to be the statehouse. I

 believe John’s house—our house!—will dwarf this structure by

 such proportion as to render it insigni?cant, will so dominate

 that clearing where it will stand that it may be seen for miles.

 Miles! I tell you! A landmark for generations to come. Why, the

 hole in the ground, the foundation, is a marvel of excavation. I

 watched as four-mule teams carved and cut the thick wet soil with

 blades, followed by workers busy with shovels to ?ll wagons.

 Wagon after wagon, hour after hour, and barely a dent in the

 giant cavity. The scale of this project de?es description. I can

 only say that nothing like it has ever been built. Perhaps even,

 that nothing ever will be.

 The event of the day, to which I wish to address myself, however,

 was one of horri?c consequences, something no person,

 certainly not a woman such as myself, should ever have to endure.

 But ?rst to our arrival.

 As we studied the magni?cent goings-on, the laborers with

 their shovels, the teamsters with their wagons, the supervisors

 working their crews with disciplined patience (for the hand

 laborers are almost entirely Chinese or Negro and need much

 supervision), I was struck by the militarylike organization of it all.

 An easy analogy given the sharp tongue of Williamson.

 This man Williamson was given to large bones and a massive

 head; he had a commanding presence. Shouting and gesticulating,

 he seemed to possess a language of hand signals known to all

 who worked for him, but especially those supervisors immediately

 his junior. He lorded from the porch of a rough-hewn

 shanty, calling names and then waving his arms like a frantic

 bird, directing deliveries, the removal of mud and dirt and the

 10

 efforts of the teams. Perhaps John’s attendance contributed to

 this man’s nerves, ?xing him in an agitated state. Having not met

 Williamson previously, on this I cannot comment. However, I

 must tell you, Dear Diary, that on no terms would I have wished

 to be employed by Mr. Williamson on this day. His bilious, perfunctory

 tone carried clear across the construction site, often

 heard echoing right back at us, as if from the mouth of God.

 (Not an insigni?cant reference, given the events to follow.)

 Enough!

 John and I made our way to the edge of the giant pit and

 were witness to the ?rst of the stones being laid for the grand

 home’s foundation. This, as it turned out, was the cause of our

 delay these many weeks. John had wanted us to witness a

 momentous occasion, not simply a hole being dug into the

 earth (although I must confess here that the hole alone would

 have surely impressed me as well). And there below us, a group

 of ten or more Chinese ran—not walked—to and from a large

 pile of stone, inspecting every angle before running—not walking

 —that stone to a cutter who smacked it with a hammer and

 chisel that rained stone chips in small showers all around him.

 From there the stone was whisked to one of several Scottishlooking

 gentlemen (it was dif?cult to discern ancestry, given

 our perspective) who examined the rock, nodded his approval

 and, applying mortar, positioned it in place. Stone by stone,

 the ?rst of many of the grand home’s walls began to grow, as the

 Scots worked as a team. (I am told seven thousand stones will be

 used in the foundation alone!) I found myself mesmerized by

 the sight. John, as I recall, had several conversations, but I

 scarcely heard his words. What beauty. It seemed almost alive to

 me, not as if it were being built, but instead, growing all of its

 own. The thrill of witnessing this is hard to explain here in

 these pages. I found it consumed me, awakened a heat in me,

 not unlike what John Rimbauer is capable of with simply a touch

 11

 or a whisper. Dare I say I was moved by this? The pleasing ?uidity.

 The sweating Chinamen, some bare-chested, ?exing and

 glistening as they bore their burden. I could not take my eyes

 off of this activity. Not until, that is, Williamson’s voice arose

 like an ill wind, cursing a string of profanities that forced such a

 blush on my part my face must have looked like a ripened

 cherry.

 A large, overstocked wagon belonging to John stood in front

 of the foreman’s shack, the driver equally as big as Mr.

 Williamson, and equally verbose. It was clear, even from a great

 distance, that Mr. Williamson did not approve of the quality of

 the items being delivered. I cannot tell you exactly how I discerned

 this, distracted, even repulsed as I was by the language

 involved, but the conversation between them went something

 like this:

 “This is not what we ordered, Mr. Corbin.”

 “This here is what I was told to deliver.”

 “You should have checked your ***** load.”

 “I loaded this ***** load, mister. I didn’t have to check it—I

 loaded it.”

 “Look at this quality. It’s horse***t. Pure horse***t, and

 you’re telling me I’m supposed to use Mr. Rimbauer’s money to

 pay for it? I would ask you to reconsider that position, sir.” (I

 might add that this reference to John inclined me to believe that

 our presence there to-day may have in?uenced Mr. Williamson’s

 response, as well as his aggressive nature.)

 “I ain’t reconsidering no **** position. And it ain’t ****, and

 I’d thank you, sir, not to call it such.”

 “It is ****.”

 “It is the goods you ordered. These are them. Right here in

 Mr. Rimbauer’s wagon. Now sign the receipt, get your Chinamen

 to off-load the wagon and let me get out of this hellhole of a

 12

 stinking construction site. Never seen so much yellow skin in one

 place, except maybe the railroad. And I don’t like railroads!”

 “You will lose your job for those comments, sir. You will

 never be a teamster again, with that attitude and that mouth of

 yours. You just wait until—”

 “Unload the *** **** wagon. I got me a date with a beer at the

 Merchant Café, and you’re getting in the way of that, and that

 there is unsettling me a good deal. That there is what you want to

 do right now, mister. Unload the **** wagon, or prepare to eat

 some horse***t!”

 “That’s it! Enough of you! Turn this team around. Return the

 wagon. It’s the last run you’ll ever make.”

 I recall the teamster—Mr. Corbin—reaching into the back of

 John’s wagon, beneath a tarp, almost as if he were digging for

 something. And then he turned toward Williamson. From a distance

 where I stood, I saw a puff of blue-gray smoke, like a tiny

 cloud. Then felt a punch in my stomach as a dull boom ?lled the

 air. Another small puff. Another boom. The ?rst of these reports

 actually lifted Mr. Williamson off his feet. He looked as if someone

 had tied a rope to the back of his trousers, the other end to a

 horse, and then slapped that horse’s behind. The second of the

 two shotgun blasts caught Mr. Williamson in the neck and face, a

 bloody spectacle so horri?c that I was immediately sick to my

 stomach.

 He lay there on the porch, as still as a statue, rose-colored and

 dead. I’d never seen a dead person. I didn’t know the effect it

 would have on one. The ?nality. The awareness that I too shall

 follow Mr. Williamson to that place. Heaven. Hell. I don’t have

 the vocabulary. Those two offerings don’t help me. I believed in

 Heaven and Hell before to-day. Now, I’m not convinced there

 are only the two places, the black and white of afterlife. I’m of the

 13

 opinion that gray must exist. Mr. Williamson convinced me. I

 can’t imagine a man with that foul disposition in Heaven as I

 write; but what man who dies at the hands of another deserves

 Hell? And what of Mr. Corbin? Where will the afterlife place

 him?

 Did I tell you where they found Mr. Corbin? At the Merchant

 Café, of course. His beer. They found him bent over that beer,

 nursing it. They say he didn’t know where he was, or what he’d

 done. Didn’t remember any of it. They say he must be crazy.

 “Half out of his mind,” John said to me. But of course he means

 fully out of his mind. There are many of us walking around with

 only half a mind. They don’t lock you away for that. You need to

 lose it all before they take you, and Mr. Corbin lost his. And they

 took him. Off to jail, still wondering what it was he’d done.

 I’ve heard the term “possessed” before. I’ve heard it used as an

 explanation for someone “half out of his mind.” A Christian

 woman, I have never given such claim much weight. Possessed by

 14

 what? I wondered. But—dare I write this, when writing seems so

 ?nal an act?—now I better understand the term, now I am

 inclined to accept it. It pertains to the gray in the afterlife. It pertains

 to tragic people like our Mr. Corbin. Not empty, as “half

 out of one’s mind” implies, but instead ?lled, but with the wrong

 element. The bad. Evil. Filled with tainted ?sh, the stomach is

 already informed but has not yet signaled the brain to retch.

 Filled with the gray. The other side. Possessed.

 Mr. Corbin was possessed. In this regard, who do we blame

 for the vicious act perpetrated upon poor Mr. Williamson? The

 possessed, or the possessor? Was Mr. Corbin merely an instrument

 of the gray?

 It won’t matter now. He’ll never be back among us. He will

 hang. Possessed or not, he will hang. And he will die—legs twitching

 in the wind.

 The grand house will never be the same, of course. Mr.

 Williamson’s blood is spilled upon the earth, is mixed with the

 mud and the mortar, is part of that place. And I can no longer

 think of it as I have. The blood is spilled. I saw it with my own

 eyes. Someplace between Heaven and Hell. Some color between

 black and white. And I ?nd myself wanting a name for the place,

 seeing Mr. Williamson lying there. He can’t have died at the

 grand house. He died someplace more lyrical than that. I will talk

 to John about this, for it is his house. But the color I remember

 so vividly is the color rose. Rose red. Blood thinned by a falling

 mist.

 On the way home in the car, John pulled off the road, came

 around and opened my door. He apologized for all that had

 gone before us that day, as if we’d encountered a delay or bad

 service at a restaurant. I recall being amazed by his apparent

 indifference to the fate met by Mr. Williamson. He begged my

 forgiveness for the “aggravation” of that day, whereas I certainly

 15

 bore him no blame for it whatsoever. Then he dropped his right

 knee into the mud, and I knew what was coming, and I must

 admit to both elation and revulsion. John is pragmatic. I told

 you that, didn’t I?

 This was on his schedule, and he refused to allow a small murder

 to derail his plans. As he explained it, he regretted very much

 the events of that day, but his heart and passion would not allow

 another minute, not another second to pass without voicing his

 intent.

 He asked for my hand in marriage. Clouded in rose. Clouded

 in gray. I am to be a wife. John’s wife. (For I quickly said yes!)

 But truth be told, he picked the wrong day to ask, the wrong time.

 I am quite surprised, in fact, that he could not see clear to delay

 this engagement. Even a day or two might have helped. And after

 so long, what difference is in a day?

 But there was a difference in John Rimbauer. I wonder if it

 took another man’s death to create in him a desire to extend his

 lineage, or if one had nothing to do with the other? With life so

 seemingly ?eeting, did he rush to judgment to marry? I feel certain

 we will discuss Mr. Williamson’s demise for many months,

 even years to come. I believe that I saw in John a fascination with

 death. I know that for me, Dear Diary, life will never be the same.

 I wonder where it is that Mr. Williamson has gone. Is there any

 return from there? So many unanswered questions.

 What, if anything, does John’s hesitation to include me in his

 thoughts tell me about the upcoming marriage, this voyage on

 which I’m about to embark? How far, how smoothly, can this ship

 sail if Captain and First Mate are not sharing their thoughts? Are

 we doomed to the rocks? Or is there some lighthouse yet to be

 seen around the next spit of land? Captain, oh, Captain. My

 breast swells with thought of my marriage and all the new experience

 it will bring to me, I tingle head to toe. And yet my heart

 goes cold at the thought of John’s carefully kept secrets and his

 16

 refusal to let me in. He is so reluctant to share his thoughts. Will

 I ever gain entry, or am I doomed to live in isolation despite our

 union? I fear this is how it’s to be, and I dread the thought of a

 life spent in a lie. I dread the thought of this marriage as much as

 I am thrilled by it.

 17

 18 august 1907—seattle

 As the future Mrs. John Rimbauer (it’s the only plausible explanation

 for this) I was invited to join to-day an elite group of

 twenty-three women, led by Anna Herr Clise, to address a health

 care crisis in our great city, namely the lack of a facility to treat

 crippled and hungry children. Over an extravagant lunch at

 Anna’s home, we all agreed to contribute twenty dollars each to

 launch the Children’s Orthopedic Hospital. The press gave us

 great attention, both because of our sizable personal donations

 ( John provided me the twenty dollars, thank God) and because

 our board is to consist entirely of women, unthinkable to the

 bankers downtown.

 I have subsequently invited all twenty-two of my fellow

 founders to our wedding, this November, and expect all to

 attend. I can’t imagine what it would be like to have a crippled

 child, and I hope and pray (yes, even to my darker god) that I

 shall never have to endure such a hardship. John and I plan on a

 large family, and I, for one, can’t wait to get started—though not

 without a great amount of nervousness do I approach my wedding

 night, quite afraid as I am of the actual physical union of our

 love. (The idea of a man inside me both sickens and excites me.)

 I wouldn’t have bothered to even mention the fete at Anna’s

 except as a way to preface my anxiety over one Priscilla Schnubly,

 a ferret of a woman with an exacting manner, pinched face and

 scandalous tongue. Yes, I invited her and her husband to the

 wedding out of proper social intercourse, but my how this woman

 vexes me! When I mentioned John, Priscilla Schnubly snickered

 for all to hear. She then whispered into the ear of Tina Coleman,

 who blushed as rose as the spilled blood of Mr. Williamson and

 went on to refuse to share with me the exchange that had transpired

 there between them. And yet I know in my woman’s heart

 18

 that whatever it was had to do with John and the rumors of his

 nighttime activities.

 Do I dare condemn John for actions taken prior to our marital

 union? Does such an eligible man owe me his chastity before

 we are of?cially wed? All these questions circulate in my mind,

 with me knowing nothing of the truth to begin with. Would I not

 prefer my future husband sow his oats prior to his promises than

 to break those promises later? Am I personally humiliated in

 social circles for his actions, as the snickering Priscilla Schnubly

 would have me believe? Am I to be the laughingstock of Seattle’s

 prominent women because my husband may prove incapable of

 being a devoted husband? Am I willing to trade that for the

 wealth and privilege he is certain to bestow upon me? I am nearly

 dizzy with consideration. Consternation. Concern.

 Is John merely entertaining other women, or, Heaven forbid,

 is he taking advantage of them? Was this the reason for the snickering?

 And why on earth do women like Tina Coleman think that

 their silence somehow protects me? Indeed it does not. I have

 invited Tina to tea this very afternoon. We shall see.

 Tina Coleman is a gorgeous specimen of a woman. Tall. A

 brunette like myself. Flaming blue eyes. I ?nd myself quite taken

 by her beauty. She is the wife of an orthopedic surgeon, famous

 in these parts, and therefore a perfect board member for our new

 cause. She speaks slowly and calmly, and rarely moves her head

 left to right, as if her spine were ?xed.

 We sat down to tea in my mother’s parlor. Earl Grey tea was

 served with cucumber sandwiches and huckleberry scones. I recall

 our conversation vividly.

 “What a lovely home you have,” Tina Coleman said.

 “I have lived here all my life. When I leave to marry John,

 it will be the ?rst time out of this house, except for our family

 19

 travels overseas and six months I spent in ?nishing school in

 Brookline, Massachusetts, outside Boston.”

 “I know Boston well,” she said, maintaining her airs.

 “Tina, we have been raised in the same city, and had our parents

 shared the same circles, we might have been closer friends.

 I’ve known of you, of your beauty, of your ?ne manners, your

 intelligent speech, for many years, as I believe we were both

 courted by Jason Fine, that most peculiar, insolent man, who in

 my opinion will be lucky to ever ?nd himself a wife.”

 “Amen.” When she sipped from her teacup, Tina Coleman’s

 small ?nger raised in the air like a ?ag.

 I said something like, “I would have to have my head in the

 sand not to be aware of the rumors that circulate concerning the

 nightlife of John Rimbauer. You need not sugarcoat it, dear

 friend, but I do ask of you the truth as you know it. What you’ve

 heard, and how much credence and faith you put in these reports.”

 “You ?nd them vexing.”

 “Indeed. Wouldn’t any woman, especially one about to

 marry?”

 “Honestly, I don’t know how you cope. I will tell you this: you

 have the respect of many of the ?nest women in this city, both

 because of your strength in light of the rumors you now mention

 and because of your ability to win John Rimbauer’s heart. Some

 women will envy you, Ellen, and you must be prepared for their

 vengeance. They will stop at nothing to see you fail. I would

 attribute a great deal of the rumor to this and this alone.”

 “But not all,” I said.

 “John Rimbauer is a respected businessman, a man at the very

 peak of society. For me, or any others, to color him this way or

 that without any ?rsthand knowledge is undigni?ed and without

 call. He is twenty years our senior, yours and mine. A man of the

 world. What are we to expect of him? That he spent these past two

 decades in a monastery? Clearly he did not. I would not trouble

 20

 myself over his past. His future is with you, dear child, and a

 bright future I should think. Very bright indeed.”

 “But you’ve heard things.”

 “Words is all. Words can be so destructive, especially when

 they are just so much ?ction.”

 “But we don’t know that. I don’t know that,” I said.

 “I have been married three years. I have given birth to two

 children in that time. One lived. One did not. My husband is a

 brilliant surgeon, a ?ne man and a loving husband. He does not

 always come home when he says he will. Sometimes it is with the

 smell of liquor on his clothes. Not perfume, thank God, but a

 woman’s imagination can paint many a dif?cult picture, can it

 not? I love my husband, Ellen. He is not perfect. Neither am I.

 Neither is John Rimbauer. I’m certain of it. But these are challenging

 times. We live in a challenging part of the country—some

 still refer to it as the frontier. Can you imagine? I trust my husband’s

 love, even if at times I question his actions. Never to his

 face. Never aloud. A woman’s heart is much stronger than a

 man’s. They are weak creatures, dear. Weak, and often far more

 insecure than they present on the outside. Trust your love, child.

 The rest will follow.”

 “What is it you’ve heard?” I asked.

 “Are you listening?”

 “Yes, and I appreciate your sound advice more than I can tell

 you. But I simply must know what is being said behind my back,

 behind the back of my future husband, or am I to be the laughingstock?”

 “There are women who can see the past, and some even the

 future. Have you ever consulted such a medium, my child?”

 “A séance?”

 “They take all forms.”

 I felt ?ushed with excitement. “Have you ever consulted such a

 person?”

 21

 “Oh, I do so regularly. Not always with my husband’s knowledge,

 you understand. So you see two can play at this game of

 carefully guarded secrets. I am trusting you not to betray our

 friendship and share any of this with John Rimbauer.”

 “Of course not.” I felt giddy. A medium. I’d read news

 reports, but I had never met anyone who had actually attended

 such a séance. “What can I expect from such an experience?”

 “Remarkable. Profound. Transcendental. You have never

 experienced anything quite like it. For all my heightened anticipation

 of the union of a husband and wife, I must admit to you

 now, dear friend, that I ?nd a séance quite a good deal more

 stimulating.” She showed her teeth when she laughed. She had

 gold work throughout. She appreciated her little joke more than I

 did, implying that I would be let down by the culmination of my

 forthcoming marriage, the anticipated union of which, only here

 in your pages, can I admit my honest excitement.

 “Is it true the mediums can see to the other side?”

 “I do not know what to believe, but I imagine they can, yes.

 That is, I have experienced such a connection myself, during a

 séance, and I must confess . . .”

 I found her timidity provocative. She teased me with her

 reluctance to divulge all, begging my curiosity. I gripped my

 teacup with both hands and caught myself leaning into her every

 breath, wanting more. “Yes?”

 “I think it far wiser for you to make your own estimations,

 dear friend. My experience . . . Well, you see . . . That is, I

 believe each of us . . . either the connection with the other world

 is there or not. And for me it was . . . is . . . and as to whether it

 might be for you.”

 “But I know it is,” I said, clearly startling her. “My prayers are

 answered, you see.”

 “Yes, well . . . prayers . . . There is more to the netherworld,

 dear friend, than one can possibly imagine. And it would be

 22

 improper and wrong of me to imply it all has to do with angels

 and prayer. Some of what is revealed is most unpleasant. Not at

 all the stuff of prayers.” She placed down her own cup and craned

 forward. When she spoke, it was less a voice than a cold wind. Less

 a woman than a presence. The curtains behind me ruf?ed as if

 that window were open, which it was not. The crystal of the chandelier

 tinkled. I swear the temperature of the room dropped a

 dozen or more degrees. I could see her breath as she spoke.

 “Many of the dead are still living. Whether you believe this or

 not, that is not my concern.” She waved her long ?ngers dismissively.

 She looked pale, almost gray. “One does not attempt to

 make contact with the other side without a certain . . . shall we

 say . . . personal investment.” A wry smile. She was consumed. I

 shuddered from the sudden cold, longing for a shawl or a throw

 over my shoulders. “One does not approach this lightly.” She

 leaned back.

 The curtain stopped moving, as did the chandelier. The color

 returned to her cheeks and the temperature of the parlor was

 restored. I am certain I must have looked the idiot, my mouth

 sagging open in abject horror. For a minute, I swear to you, Dear

 Diary, Tina Coleman was not in that room. It was someone—

 something—else entirely. And I will also tell you this: I am a

 believer. Nothing in that room was of the world I know. Nor can

 I perceive that place from which it came. But I am fascinated and

 intrigued, as curious as a person can be about something so

 unknown.

 I wanted to ask her for the name of her medium right there

 and then, but something prevented me from doing so. Fear?

 Guilt? Was it John looking over my shoulder and cautioning me

 that “no wife of John Rimbauer will be found to be engaged in

 such sinful activities.”

 For I have no doubt as to its sinful nature. None whatsoever.

 God, whoever and however He may be, was nowhere to be found

 23

 in that room this afternoon. And I would be lying if I did not

 admit to a certain amount of enthrallment, dare I say attraction,

 to whatever occupied my new friend for those brief few seconds.

 A power greater than any I have known. A power that both ?lled

 me with a numbing cold and an unspeakable heat that penetrated

 the depths of my soul. This is a friend I long to visit with once

 again. A power I yearn to feel again. To glimpse such a formidable

 presence is one thing. To taste it, to drink of it, yet another.

 To be owned by it—what must that be like? And how soon until I

 can ?nd out?

 24

 12 november 1907—seattle

 I am sitting in my mother’s dressing room and parlor, a room in

 which I doubt my father has ever set foot. I am here, in front of

 the mirror where for years I have watched her brush her red hair

 before bed. I am perplexed, and nearly in a state, some moments

 giddy, some pensive, some nearly in tears, clothed in my wedding

 gown, a garment at once both splendid and lush, yet fetching (or

 so I hope). My maid of honor, dear Penelope Strait, has gone off

 to inspect the route of my descent to the front door and the team

 of two black geldings who shall deliver me to the church in royal

 fashion. She said she would arrange tea to be delivered, and given

 this small break, this moment alone, it is to you, Dear Diary, that

 I now turn.

 I feel a bit like the young girlish child who once picked at

 daisies reciting, “I love him, I love him not.” Petal by petal my

 poor heart labors over my decision to marry John Rimbauer. I

 feel both passion for John and reservation, cloaked as I am under

 the uncertainties that rise to the lips of my friends. The caution

 in their eyes that greets me whenever John’s name is mentioned. I

 fear that in a very short time, I am to marry a ladies’ man, I am to

 be both pitied and scorned by my peers. And I shiver with the

 thought. “Deliver me from evil and leadeth me not into temptation.”

 Why do I ?nd it so dif?cult to move on from these

 thoughts? Why do I weep now at my mother’s mirror, knowing I

 shall never live in this home again?

 Following the reception, John and I are to take the

 Presidential Suite at the Grand, where we shall stay but a single

 night prior to our departure on the Ocean Star, bound for the

 Paci?c Atolls. I am told the native women go bare-breasted there,

 and the men wear loincloths and the water is as clear as an old

 man’s eyes. Much has been made in Europe about the changing

 face of ?ne art, and the in?uence these islands have had, and

 25

 John would like to experience this part of the world ?rsthand.

 Oil is not used on the islands, and he claims he might consider

 starting a small business there, but these islands are said to be

 rustic and quite taken to debauchery and even open fornication,

 and I don’t know whether to believe this or not. If true, what kind

 of a place is it for a woman? Why would John bring his new wife

 to such a place? And is this trip of ours to be made as husband

 and wife, or businessman and wife? I harbor all these questions,

 but I ask nothing of John, for it riles him so when I challenge his

 decisions. He takes it for criticism instead of the curiosity it is.

 And so more tears fall here upon your pages, for I know not what

 I have gotten myself into. Wealth. Position. A darkly handsome

 man who has caught the eye of many an eligible girl. But twenty

 years my senior, moody and private. About our trip overseas he

 has only told me “to pack for a long trip. A year or more.

 Warmth, cold. Prepare for it all.”

 “But where are we going, my dearest?”

 “To the islands ?rst, as we’ve discussed. India, perhaps.

 Burma or Tibet if we can ?nd passage. The British have long

 since installed magni?cent rail lines in this part of the world, and

 how far behind can an oil-burning locomotive be? I tell you,

 Ellen, Omicron is in a position to be an international supplier.

 We have the jump on the Far East because of our base here in

 Seattle. And after that? Persia. I’d like to see Persia. And then on

 to Africa as the seas blow cold and that continent warms with

 summer winds. East Africa, of course. Good hunting. And

 around the Cape and up the coast to Spain, France and Britain,

 if war doesn’t prevent us. New York. Philadelphia. And then by

 rail again. Chicago? Denver? Who’s to know? The world is ours,

 my dear. Five star. The best cabins, coaches and the ?nest suites

 at the grandest hotels, train cars all to ourselves. Six months? A

 year? Long enough for the completion of the grand house, so

 that we have that magni?cent structure to which to return. A

 26

 place of our own. A place to raise the children that I hope you’ll

 be carrying before our return. A family, Ellen. Just think of it.”

 Said with such passion and enthusiasm. Who was I to cut in

 with the voice of reason? To intrude upon my husband’s shining

 moment. Never mind the insects that came to mind, the disease

 carried by every living creature in such places, never mind the

 rumors of bare-breasted heathens (it seemed he had chosen only

 primitive locations). Never mind that I might have preferred San

 Francisco, Paris and London. A year in Paris, Venice or Rome—

 now there was a honeymoon! Long hours spent languishing in

 bed under a down comforter with room service a bell pull away,

 hot bubble baths with Parisian soaps and my husband to guide me

 through the pleasures of being husband and wife. But for him,

 hunting. Natives. Exploration. Elephants, diamond mines and

 the Iron Horse.

 I kept my thoughts to myself the ?rst time he mentioned the

 trip. And the second. And the third. Always telling myself there

 would be plenty of time to set the course straight. That course

 now starts to-morrow. Pier 47. We steam to Victoria, switch ships

 and board for the Tahitian Islands. I see in myself this hesitation

 to confront John, a reluctance to spoil his good moods, or dare

 to enter his bad ones. He lives on these giant swings, like an ape,

 back and forth, high to low. Perhaps the great Sigmund Freud,

 about whom everyone is talking (his publication on the sexual

 theory is under translation into English but is said by Germans

 who have read it to be quite scandalous and intriguing), would

 have some way to quantify John’s moods. For me they are dif?cult

 to read, and dangerous to intrude upon. At his most elevated

 moments, he is so exciting and stimulating to be around: animated,

 courteous and entertaining; at his low points he is sullied,

 dark and brooding. I fear him. I anticipate violence at times,

 though have yet to see—and I hope I never will!—this side of him

 rise to the surface. If John ever does become violent with me, I

 27

 tremble at the thought. He is a big man, strong and imposing. I

 fear he could crush me like an insect.

 I read the last few paragraphs and wonder that I could put

 such thoughts to ink on our wedding day, of all days. My mother

 tells me that she too had reservations prior to her wedding (she

 told me other things as well, concerning what to expect on my

 wedding night, but they are best left between mother and daughter),

 that it is not uncommon for a woman to question her decision

 and that men go through much the same thing. I must admit

 that John, bless his heart, has never for an instant voiced anything

 but total support for, and faith in, our union. In fact, one of the

 great ironies here is that the concern is all mine. John, for his

 part, seems absolutely giddy with the marriage. He has been a

 saint throughout its planning (has ?nanced a good deal of the

 reception and celebration, a much appreciated gesture from my

 father) and has often been boyish with glee about the approaching

 date. Now he waits for me at the church. I can picture him there,

 in his ?nest London-tailored tails, white gloves clasped behind

 his back like a general awaiting his army. In this case my arm, not

 an arm-me. (I annoy John with my puns, but what liberties I have

 here!) Standing there at the altar, an occasional grin steals its way

 onto his otherwise composed expression. He is a man of great

 vision, and I know that he sees much ahead for us, and I trust him

 to make the most of it. Yes, it is true that at times I fear he

 regards me more as a brood mare than a mate, that as a man

 turned forty with a sizable fortune he is looking more for an heir

 than a companion. That—dare I say it?—women of pleasure are

 there to pleasure, and a wife is there to bear and raise children.

 He will want a son, of course. Will not stop breeding me until I

 throw one for him. I see all this in his eyes, hear all this between

 the lines of his reasoning. As long as the love is there as well—and

 it is, it is!!—I am not deterred by his intentions. Love, true love,

 28

 provides an abundance of good. I go in just a matter of minutes

 to profess that same love before God, family and all our friends.

 And oh, how I do love my John Rimbauer. I go with courage. I go

 with faith. Great anticipation. I go without doubt or expectation.

 Let love carry us where it may. I am ready. I am ready. I am ready.

 29

 13 november 1907—aboard ss OCEANSTAR

 Oh, my. Where to start? The marriage? The reception? Dare I

 ever put in these pages a recounting of the marriage night itself?

 (The pain? The pleasure? The ful?llment of dreams? The fear?

 The feeling of overwhelming consumption, as if possessed by

 him?) Another time perhaps, although some things are better left

 to blossom in memory rather than wither in re?ection.

 Here we are aboard the Ocean Star, a luxurious steamer bound

 for Tahiti, in a presidential stateroom ?t for a king and queen

 (three rooms and a full bath with WC). We dine at the captain’s

 table tonight (black tie and evening dress) and begin our Paci?c

 crossing. If the rest of the trip is anything like our ?rst few hours,

 it is to be spent in the union of marital bliss—we have been

 together twice already, and only on the ship for four hours! John

 has gone topside for a cigar and to hope to collect telegraphs he’s

 expecting concerning both business and the construction out at

 30

 the grand house. The complexity of the project has continued to

 consume him. To my knowledge the only day he was completely

 away from it was our wedding day, and for all I know he had one

 of his many business associates keeping him current even then.

 He has informed me that he wants the house decorated to re?ect

 our travels, to remind him of our various ports of call, and that it

 is my duty to spend as much money as possible to that end! Yes,

 he was kidding, of course. But his eyes twinkled in such a way as to

 tell me he was serious as well. Even now I am only beginning to

 glimpse how wealthy we are. Comments like the one to which I

 refer would have seemed something ?t for one of the tawdry novels

 I read, not for a serious comment from my husband. The

 house alone is costing a fortune—literally. This trip, another fortune

 entirely. And yet I sense these fortunes are but mere play

 toys to John. Could there be a bottomless well from which John

 draws our funds? Is such a possibility anything more than pure

 fancy? Whatever the case, I am thrilled with this challenge of his.

 I expect to collect many objets d’art, decorations and furnishings,

 so that he shall never forget our voyage. (Without John’s knowledge,

 I paid for and kept the sheets from our marriage bed at the

 hotel, crimson stains and all. I wanted a souvenir of that night as

 badly as he wants souvenirs of our trip. I carry them with me in

 one of my six steamer trunks, wrapped in tissue paper and a red

 bow. Something feels so shameful about this action, especially

 preserving my virgin blood, and I hesitate to think of John’s

 anger if he were to ever ?nd out. And so it is that we start our

 marriage with secrets. We start our marriage holding on to some

 small part of ourselves, treasured and kept private. Is this wrong?

 I ask myself. Or does a woman have to hold on to something in

 the face of such overwhelming surrender? He climbs on top of

 me, and he possesses me in a way I never imagined could be true.

 Inside me. Occupying me. Pleasure, and pain. And I wonder,

 will I ever get used to it?)

 31

 Teak from the islands; ivory from the dark continent. I have

 begun to make lists in my head. Thankfully John has brought

 along a complete set of plans to the grand house, allowing me to

 anticipate placement of our forthcoming collection. Now, not

 just John, but husband and wife shall be poring over those plans

 day and night. Now, ?nally, the project can consume us both! I

 have become a part of that great house that owns so much of my

 dear husband. I feel myself inside its walls. He enters me. He

 resides in me. I sweat and I writhe in his presence. My walls shudder.

 My mind reels.

 He comes and goes from our stateroom, having not invited me to

 join him topside. Returning just now smelling of liquor and

 cigar, he pulls the underclothes from my trembling body, lifts my

 skirts and drives me against the far wall, the sound of the ocean

 and the rumble of the ship. He lifts me from the ?oor, pulling

 my legs around his waist, and I am carried away to the point of

 frenzy, the point that any shard of ladylike behavior is lost to his

 lust, his penetration. My lipstick smeared, my breast exposed and

 the object of his attention, I can no longer maintain my composure.

 I cry out into the stateroom, “Oh, John. Dear John!” my

 ?ngers raking the back of his dress shirt, “Dear God in Heaven! I

 have never . . . I have never . . .” And all my shameful release so

 unexpectedly serves to engorge him, to send him into a fevered

 pitch, a furious, frantic pace where the thumping of my bare bottom

 on the wall runs up my spine and ?lls my ears like drumming.

 He pins my arms to that same wall, his face a crimson cry,

 and I wail behind his release like some wounded animal, humiliated

 and reduced to a trembling, panting state of spent excitement.

 And he loves it.

 He leaves the stateroom yet again, neglecting to offer me his

 company. Me, ruf?ed, sitting quietly on a chair, awaiting his

 32

 departure so as I can tend to my toilet. He, his eyes ?ashing, his

 white teeth grinning at me, and without a word, he departs. The

 air is no longer tainted with liquor and cigar, but with our commingled

 scents—dark and somewhat sour. I freshen it with perfume.

 I open the doors to the balcony. I stand with the wind

 whipping my hair, ?ushed with a woman’s satisfaction, embarrassed

 with myself, and yet exhilarated. I am a wife. I have made

 the transition.

 33

 19 november 1907—aboard ss OCEANSTAR

 A brief note in an effort to keep myself company. I have torn out

 and discarded many of your pages, Dear Diary, small knots of

 white paper in the trash as I attempt to come to terms with my

 position. Dearest John is quick to display me at dinner or lunch,

 or an evening reception offered by one guest or another, but the

 remainder of my time on board this ship resembles more prison

 than honeymoon as he con?nes me to our stateroom, where I

 34

 must admit, I am taken to nausea in the early winter seas that we

 encounter. I have begged to go topside to relieve myself of this

 condition, for fresh air and a ?rm horizon can do wonders to

 steady my stomach, but my husband steadfastly refuses me, saying

 that he doesn’t want any “displays” on deck. He points to the balcony

 off the stateroom and suggests its use for my purposes. He is

 afraid I might vomit, or show my pale face, I suppose. (“No

 Rimbauer ever shows weakness!”) He uses me as a charm on his

 bracelet while claiming that the less others see of me, the more

 mystery, the more power I hold over them at the captain’s table,

 afternoon teas and cocktail parties. When he does visit me in my

 con?nement it is to take of me his pleasure. With no other trustworthy

 woman in whom to con?de, I have no idea if this is normal

 or not, though I must admit it is thoroughly exhausting, if in

 no other way in terms of bathing and dressing. I must spend half

 my day being undressed by him, later bathing and ?nding new

 wardrobes to replace the last. What appetites he has!

 I ?nd myself at least a bit unstable, with the only attentions

 his, and these so clearly physical. Only this morning did it occur

 to me, from something he said, that he is hiding me from the

 other men on board, the silliest boyish notion I can imagine.

 John, jealous? The conversation went something like this:

 John asked me, “Did you notice Mr. Jamerson, last evening?”

 “Notice how, dear?”

 “Does the word notice escape your comprehension, Ellen?”

 His tone immediately sharp and coercive. I feel myself being

 drawn into a ?ght, and worse, I ?nd myself willing to go. Why? I

 wonder. Because he locks me in this stateroom, a captive, readying

 myself for his next ?t of womanly satisfaction?

 “It does not. Taken literally, I most certainly did notice Mr.

 Jamerson. He sat immediately to my right, as you will recall.”

 “And the captain placed you to his right for the fourth dinner

 in a row.” He pauses, strutting now about the stateroom. “The

 35

 chair of highest honor on a ship, its occupation to be rotated

 night to night through a variety of guests.”

 “I am honored.”

 “You are the most beautiful woman on this ship, Ellen, by a

 factor of ten.”

 “You ?atter me.”

 “I caution you,” he said. “A ship is a lonely place.”

 “What are you saying?”

 “You needn’t take to their humor quite so vigorously. Your

 endowments, my dear . . . ,” he indicates his own chest, meaning

 mine, of course, “quite an eyeful when you laugh like that.”

 I blush, for I can feel it in my face. Not from embarrassment,

 as he must suspect, but anger. Is he implying that I am purposefully

 being vulgar in such company? Is this the kind of thing husbands

 and wives argue over? “May I remind you that it is you,

 dear husband, who bids me to remove my shawl at the dinner

 table. Such as my bosom may be, and I might remind you—as if

 it’s necessary—that Miss Pauling, our ship’s entertainer, and a

 guest I notice who has come to address you most informally,

 John, has a substantially greater bosom than I, and is in a mood

 to display her wares in what I consider, quite frankly, a most

 inappropriate and lascivious way. Moreover, my gowns are crafted

 by the ?nest San Francisco seamstresses and fashioned to designs

 created by Paul Poiret himself, and that all of this was at your

 request. These gowns were ordered because you heard of them,

 or saw them for all I know, on that business trip last August. I

 take great umbrage at any implication from you that I have

 behaved in any way unbecoming. I was born, bred and raised a

 lady, dear sir, and you will kindly remember that fact before leveling

 such accusations at me.”

 “I meant only—”

 “You meant to say that when I laugh my bosom is on display,

 and believe me this fact does not escape me. I have nearly come

 36

 out of my gown. I am terribly aware of that fact. So perhaps your

 indignation might give way in favor of allowing a woman to wear

 her shawl when she sees ?t, rather than forcing her into compromising

 moments of great embarrassment. Now, leave me alone!

 Go do whatever it is you do on this dreadful ship. But if you

 return with Miss Pauling’s perfume on you, John, as you did two

 nights ago—oh yes! you thought I missed that? how could I? It’s a

 dreadful scent!—then there will be hell to pay!”

 I had lost all composure and found myself shouting at the top

 of my lungs. At my husband. To my regret. But oh, Dear Diary,

 the story does not stop there. For I swear it is true that upon

 mention of the word “hell” did the gas lights in that stateroom

 dim, and the bedroom door blow open. Behind this door came a

 wind that lifted my nightgown from the ?oor and blew my hair

 straight back off my shoulders—and yet John moved not a hair.

 His handkerchief did not wave. The curtains did not ruf?e. As

 my heartbeat did subside, so too did this wind lessen. John and I

 stood perfectly still, a silence between us. The air crisp and

 smelling as it does after an electric storm, both bitter and sweet

 all at once.

 My husband said not a word, a stunned, apoplectic expression

 overtaking him. His eyes narrowed, boring into me. He turned

 and left me then, partly because there was nothing left to say,

 partly out of fear, if I read him right. I have never seen John

 Rimbauer seeming anything less than absolutely certain. Stoic,

 even.

 Until now, that is. This evening the tables turned.

 I attended dinner without a shawl, just to spite him. And I

 laughed as never before.

 37

 for the sake of expediency, and due to any diary’s

 repetitious nature, the editor chose to omit various

 diary entries. ellen rimbauer’s full diary is

 archived in the winslow library of letters and

 memoirs, seattle, washington, a copy of which

 resides along with other materials in the joyce

 reardon collection: observed paranormal activities,

 1982–1999, which resides in the wirmser

 library, beaumont university, seattle, washington.

 —joyce reardon

 38

 15 december 1907—the south pacifIc islands

 I don’t know why they bother giving these islands any name but

 Paradise. Certainly one is no different than the other, a crust of

 sand rising from the deep, palms clinging by shallow roots, wind

 and bright sky and the bluest, clearest water on the face of the

 earth. The cinnamon-skinned women, as bare-breasted as the

 National Geographic Society would have us believe, welcoming

 white strangers with wide smiles and, I fear, open arms. The sun

 beats hot as we enter the part of their seasons that coincides with

 spring and summer, despite it being fall and early winter at

 home. Our world is quite literally turned upside down.

 I lock your pages closed each night, Dear Diary, and then, in

 turn, lock you away in my steamer where I keep my underclothes

 and my toilet, con?dent my husband would never violate that

 sanctity. I scarcely know what would become of me if he ever did.

 And so it is, with beating heart and a certain amount of timidity,

 that I once again turn to you as my confessor.

 It began more than a week ago now, during a nighttime celebration

 as the Ocean Star crossed the equator. There was music,

 much drink, a proclamation by the captain, dancing and a gay

 atmosphere on board. John and I, for all our con?icts, rose from

 our beds in the morning as if we had not a care in the world.

 We had taken breakfast together on the balcony, a peaceful,

 enchanting hour. I do believe that John has adopted a different

 attitude toward me, and that this is re?ected both in our breakfast

 and in the fact that we followed breakfast with a stroll on the deck,

 an extremely social activity where certainly my absence has been

 noticed. We lunched together, in a smaller dining room I’d not

 seen before, but one where all the waiters knew John quite well,

 addressing him as “Mr. Rimbauer,” instead of the “sir” and

 “madam” used on guests less well known. After high tea with several

 new friends, we retired to our stateroom and “rested”—

 39

 John’s new term for our husband and wife activities, which falls

 desperately short of the truth of that time spent together; it is

 anything but restful!—and prepared for a late dinner at the captain’s

 table and the equator celebration scheduled to follow.

 It was sometime during that fabulous celebration, the warm

 tropical night winds playing over the Ocean Star’s rail, the champagne

 playing with my head, the delicious chocolate mousse still

 lingering in my taste buds, that the following events occurred.

 John, I believe, was dancing with a matronly woman named

 Danforth, Danvers—I have a devil of a time with all the names!—

 leaving me to the company of Mr. Dan . . . I can’t possibly

 remember! . . . who rather quickly excused himself to the toilet,

 one brandy over his limit, if I might say.

 “Truf?es, Madame?” A creamy warm voice over my shoulder,

 as welcome as that tropical wind. A woman’s voice. Deep and

 soothing.

 I turned, perhaps too quickly for our proximity, and found

 myself eye-to-eye with a Negro of nut brown skin and enormous

 olive-shaped eyes. Her face was a perfect oval, her lips thick and

 sensuous. I felt myself stir in a way no woman should stir for

 another woman. I am certain I made a fool of myself, the way my

 voice caught, with the blush I must have revealed.

 A waitress, she was dressed in a black costume appropriate to

 her service, with a white apron and a ?rmly pressed white collar

 buttoned nearly to choking. She had a tiny, wasp waist, full hips

 and strong legs, widely set. The shoes they had put her in were

 easily a size too large. She had feet more my size. What an idiot I

 was, just staring into her eyes as I did.

 “Madame?” she inquired a second time.

 “Well, yes,” I answered, having no desire to consume any

 more food. But I picked one off the silver tray nonetheless, and

 bid her to remain in my company a moment longer.

 What I felt is unspeakable, but I push my fountain pen to write

 40

 it here in these pages: I wanted to kiss her. To touch that soft

 skin. Mind you, I did not want to be kissed back—Heaven forbid!

 —nor touched in any way, shape or manner. But I did want to

 undress her and see her God-given body in all its glory, to run

 my hands over her skin and feel it respond to my woman’s touch.

 So horri?ed was I by this response that I left the celebration early,

 feigning a headache, and I returned to prayer in our stateroom,

 kneeling at the side of that bed where my husband and I perform

 acts of increasing indecency, praying for salvation from wherever

 it is my mind seems destined to take me. Is this what marriage

 brings on in women: a heightened curiosity of the forms that

 pleasure takes? If there were only someone to whom I could bare

 my soul! The ship’s priest comes to mind, but he is a rheumyeyed

 man with a proclivity for drink. My one great fear now is

 that in all my isolation of the forthcoming year I will not ?nd

 answers, not ?nd release for such sinful thought. For the better

 part of three weeks I have been shuttered in our stateroom. I am

 currently ensconced in a ?ve-room suite in the only decent hotel

 for a thousand miles. Laughter rolls up from the hotel bar,

 spilling out into the street and then rising like hot air to the

 room’s high ceilings.

 Dare I confess this? Earlier this morning a chambermaid

 entered to service our rooms, to change the sheets that my husband

 and I have soiled with our activities. (I dare not ask where

 John has learned all that he is “teaching” me—his term.) She

 couldn’t have been over ?fteen, if she’s a day. Petite, and fairskinned

 with black eyes and a strong back. Oh, yes, I studied every

 inch of her as she worked. She saw me watching and seemed to

 take great pleasure in it. Giggling. Provocative. She knows not

 what she does to me! I had a kink in my neck that I tried to work

 out—there are no pillows here to speak of, only ?rm square mats

 with cotton slipcovers. I sleep ?tfully, if at all—in part because

 John’s appetites are insatiable (he drinks heavily into the night

 41

 and then arrives to our rooms in a desirous state). Our maid took

 note of my efforts and indicated that I should turn around. She

 touched my neck with her small, warm hands and I jumped, a

 source of great amusement on her part. Then, for the better part

 of a quarter of an hour or more, she kneaded my tight, knotted

 muscle and sculpted it, restoring it to a state of complete relaxation.

 I am told this form of massage is Asian, Japanese or

 Chinese in origin, and spilled down the archipelago over the

 thousands of years of commerce that has come and gone in this

 remote area of the world. I was quite taken by the magic of her

 hands, and I tipped her generously, which she clearly enjoyed.

 But listen, Dear Diary, there’s more! This young beauty then

 indicated that I should lie down on the bed. In her unfamiliar

 tongue and sign language, she ?rst locked the door and then

 motioned for me to disrobe. (I am certain this was the meaning.

 It needed no translation.) She indicated with her hands that she

 would continue her work, the Asian massage with which she had

 soothed me. She appreciated my generosity, no doubt, and saw

 clear to the idea that she might expand on that gratuity by

 increasing the canvas, if I may adopt an art analogy. I declined, of

 course, thanking her profusely, which I’m sure she understood,

 and getting out of it as best I could. I suppose she meant for me

 to remove my dress, and only my dress, so that she could continue

 her work through my undergarments, but given the level of

 undress these natives undertake, my thoughts went elsewhere. I

 had visions of disrobing, becoming naked in front of this young

 girl.

 Even now, many hours past, I ?nd myself excited at the

 prospect. Dare I confess this? To be touched by another woman,

 someone of my own sex, who would know the aches and pains of a

 woman, where to touch, where to relieve the back pain that comes

 of the corsets, the foot and leg pain that comes from the shoes.

 42

 Nothing more than this, you understand! And yet, even this

 seems a sinful act. One woman with another, one in full undress.

 The bright-eyed young girl had such a problem accepting no

 from me, either being driven by the desire for another tip or

 being culturally unfamiliar with such a refusal. This island and its

 simple people are so very foreign to me.

 I am troubled by my desires. There, I wrote it down. Perhaps

 that will help to purge me of them. Perhaps if John included me

 more, allowed me out more often, my mind would have elsewhere

 to go other than to the physical pleasures that have entered my

 life for the ?rst time in these past few weeks. The dark secrets of

 satisfying a man that John continues to reveal to me. But my days

 are just this: food and carnal pleasure. The honeymoon is for me

 more a horrormoon. I have prayed—to both sides—for release

 from this depravity of thought, for increased independence from

 my husband, for the freedom to walk the sands and visit the markets.

 I have prayed for his drinking to temper, for his earlier

 return to our suite, as some nights he does not return until three

 or four in the morning, sweating, smelling of liquor and cigars—

 and—dare I say it, for I am not absolutely certain?—other women.

 He snores as I cry. He snores as I long for home, and most of

 all my dear mother. Her guidance. Her advice. Oh, the ache in

 my heart this loss causes me. The terror with which I face another

 day here, for I know it is but one of many that will combine to

 make up this year of travel.

 There is talk of a European war. John believes the need for

 petroleum will increase dramatically, and with it our fortunes.

 But what good is fortune without love? And if John loves me,

 what strange ways he chooses to display it. Is love at the heart of

 our sweaty embrace? I once felt this—it seems like months ago

 now. But since our arrival here at the islands, it is bestiality that

 my husband brings to bed, not love. He takes me, he does not

 43

 make love to me. It is carnal and awful, and I give myself to him

 only reluctantly and with great displeasure for fear of suffering

 badly should I do otherwise.

 I know not what I’ve gotten myself into.

 And all I want is out.

 44

 19 april 1908—kenya, africa

 Africa. The dark continent. A man’s place. Primitive and

 intriguing. The birthplace of mankind, they say. Eden, they say.

 Skin so black it’s blue. Wild animals in numbers that stagger the

 imagination. Oh, to have a motion picture camera record this!

 John and I, and three other couples, two from Britain, one

 from Cleveland (ironically he and John share some business

 acquaintances there), are escorted into the bush by nearly thirty

 natives, an Australian guide named Charles Hammer and a Negro

 gun-bearer named Hipshoo—at least that’s how we all pronounce

 it. About ten of the thirty are women, two of whom are assigned

 to me, one named Sukeena, the other Marishpa. They tend to me

 like court-appointed maids, at my side the moment I need them.

 Bright-eyed and ?lled with laughter, they have greatly elevated my

 spirits, which had been lagging these past several weeks. Christmas

 away from home was most trying, and though John endeavored to

 explain to me that I had a new home now, it only made matters

 worse.

 45

 That home is, of course, the grand house, and what pieces of

 information we’ve obtained while away are encouraging indeed.

 The walls are up, the roof going on. It is said to have thirty windows

 on the front of the house alone. The glass is being ordered

 for them now. I have continued to collect, starting in the Paci?c

 Islands with lovely wood carvings, some coral and one enormous

 ?sh that John had taxidermied. Its species escapes me, though

 indirectly he’s told me a dozen times as he loves telling this ?shing

 story at nearly every dinner table we enjoy. I believe John

 caught some two hundred ?sh during the course of our stay, and

 with only this one to remember it by, he stretches the story a little

 longer (the ?sh too!) each time he tells it.

 But John started me thinking about the house, and now I ?nd

 I am hard pressed to do otherwise. Planning for its decoration

 and its completion consumes me. I bought a hundred yards of

 silk for wall covering while in Siam; beige, and exquisitely woven.

 Another hundred yards of a similar linen, also for wall covering.

 (We skipped India because of the anticolonial uprisings there.)

 John keeps encouraging me to “buy, buy, buy,” emphasizing the

 enormity of our future home. To my great relief, the home itself

 has drawn us close together again. We talk of it constantly, consulting

 the plans, he inviting my opinion. I can actually see it

 growing as we discuss it, as strange as that may sound. These

 “visions” of mine seem a preternatural connection to the house

 itself, effortlessly reaching across the thousands of miles of

 ocean—a radio of the mind. (Radio has not yet reached Seattle,

 but it was all the talk before we left.) I have kept the existence of

 these “visions” to myself—John has no mind for any of it—while

 all the time actually “seeing” the house grow behind the work of

 the hundreds of men now on-site.

 A most remarkable thing happened two days ago, worth sharing

 here. In studying the plans with John, he was pointing out the

 Breakfast Room, a well-intentioned space left of the Banquet

 46

 Hall and below the Kitchen on our plans, and one obviously

 thought up by a man. I’m annoyed with its placement, as its only

 windows face west into the garden, and any woman knows that it is

 the morning’s east light that so pleases the morning soul. John

 argues that I may take my breakfast wherever it pleases me,

 including the Parlor, which does, in fact, face east and south, but

 with an uninspired view of the driveway. He reminds me that the

 home will be staffed with over thirty, and that if I wish to have

 breakfast in bed every day of my life, so be it. But he misses the

 point, of course, of the aesthetics of the placement of the

 Breakfast Room and my belief that it shall go virtually unused

 because of it. No matter. What was astonishing was this: in the

 course of our heated discussion, John pointed to a second of the

 room’s windows in the plans. I told him no, that the window had

 been lost, as the architect had only recently discovered a need to

 relocate the pantry from north to south, to provide better access

 to cold storage and the china storage in the basement below,

 access to which was to the north of the Kitchen. He’d heard

 nothing of this, he reminded me, even taking the time to sort

 through his many telegraphs. But you see, I knew, quite clearly,

 that this change had been made. I had “seen” the wall being

 erected already, the bricks laid in place, the trowels tossing the

 mortar. I knew, and no one had ever told me. When John

 received a telegraph late that evening, he came to our rooms

 somewhat ashen. He passed me the telegraph and said, “Explain

 this, Ellen.”

 “A premonition is all, my love.”

 “A premonition?”

 “Exactly so.”

 “Concerning the house,” he said.

 “This particular time, yes.”

 “You’ve had others, then?”

 “The world is opening up to me, dear husband, just as you

 47

 said it would. This voyage of ours has already proved most . . .

 illuminating. One might even say, enlightening.”

 “And what else do you . . . ‘see,’ if I may ask.”

 “You dare not ask, I would suggest.”

 “Me? Is it ever me?” He looked nervous, visibly upset.

 “And if it was?”

 “I don’t believe in such rubbish.”

 “Then you’ve nothing to worry about, dear soul.”

 “Do not call me that.”

 “I see you with women,” I answered. “Young women, barely

 budding. I see you performing unspeakable acts with these dark

 women with whom we’ve surrounded ourselves since we left

 home.” I was crying now, but trying so hard not to. I’m sure I

 must have looked the fool.

 He blanched. “Ridiculous!” A hoarse, dry whisper that I fear

 even he did not believe. Void of the usual ?are of temper, he left

 our rooms in quietude.

 To my surprise, he returned later, sober and unusually considerate

 and polite. That night he was husband to me as gentle as

 our wedding night. He luxuriated me in my own pleasures as he

 has never done before, and later I heard him crying in his sleep.

 It’s the heir, Dear Diary, the all-important heir. I am now the

 vehicle through which to deliver him his lineage, and any other

 will be bastard. (I fear we have left a string behind us on this trip

 already!) He needs me in this endeavor, my willingness to take to

 bed with him, or this dream of passing along his fortune will

 never take light. It is this need that compels him to treat me with

 respect and dignity, no matter what the truth of our union be. I

 do believe I have struck the fear of God in him. But truth be

 known, it is the Devil, for who else invoked in me such a lie as I

 told him that night, having never had such visions of him with

 others. Suspicions, to be sure. But brought forward as images, I

 do believe that he brie?y saw them as well, reliving his unfaithful-

 48

 ness, and that perhaps these memories, so vivid and so clear,

 afforded him the opportunity to believe that I too had witnessed

 his depraved acts. Am I to believe he simply invents these things

 he puts me through when in bed with him? He learned them, of

 course, and we both know it, and we also know that I am not that

 teacher.

 And so the little games we play continue. Acting out husband

 and wife. Reviewing our grand house plans as if none’s-theworry.

 Me, beginning to communicate with Sukeena and enjoying

 her company so very much. He, taking off on his safaris for

 days at a time and returning with guilt on his face and a fallen

 impala under his arm. Me, with my visions. He, with his dreams.

 And my womanhood the secret that holds the balance for both of

 us. When my monthly issue does come, he shrinks into the bottle

 and depression for days, only to return to try again, sometimes

 tenderly, sometimes desperately. I am the key to his future happiness,

 and he, in turn, is the key to mine. I am beginning to learn

 the ways of marriage.

 49

 15 may 1908—kenya, africa

 I have not made entries in this personal chronicle for nearly a

 month—three weeks and ?ve days, to be exact. I do so now, only

 weakly, unable to hold this pen for long, I am afraid. I have been

 unconscious for some of this time and delirious for the rest,

 stricken with what our recently departed fellow travelers believed

 was malaria. I have lost no fewer than ?fteen pounds—my rib cage

 protrudes front and back like some of the native women in our

 employ. I have suffered from fever for days at a time, a complete

 loss of appetite, sweats and tremors. Only through the tender

 care of Sukeena and her bitter teas and remedies she has fed me,

 and my own endless prayers for recovery, have I survived. For

 these four weeks I have never left the con?nes of my tent, quarantined

 from all but the natives. Even John has avoided contact,

 standing outside at the far end of my tent and talking to me

 through a small triangle of light caused by a turned-up tent ?ap.

 It is this isolation that has worn on me, driven me at times to the

 very edge of my sanity. Only my rough conversations with

 Sukeena, an awkward combination of words and gestures, have

 maintained my link to this world. In my delirium I have traveled

 to unthinkable places, at times believing it so real, only to have

 Sukeena pull me back. I do believe that no less than three times I

 was within a breath or two of death, hovering in a netherworld

 where at once I felt both refreshed and fearful. This delicate contact

 with what I perceive of as the other side has left me far less

 apprehensive of my own demise, and yet with mixed opinion as to

 whether I was in Heaven, or Hell, or Purgatory. What I know, and

 know for certain, is that God saved my life, but that the Devil may

 have bargained for my soul. The exact conversations escape me

 now (though they were extremely clear at the time), but I know

 for certain I made promises that perhaps I should not have made.

 Sukeena, who has served me as both nursemaid and witch doc-

 50

 tor, as sister and friend, has known the truth all along, that my

 fevers and in?rmity resulted neither from the water nor from the

 jungle insects that do infest this godless place. Instead my illness

 was contracted by contact with my husband, for I am plagued by

 an unmentionable disease carried by men and suffered by

 women. The remedy for my af?iction is most unpleasant, though

 as I understand it, is far less worse than it is, or will be, for John,

 who has no doubt undergone, and will continue to undergo, a

 series of injections to an area of the male body that is also

 unmentionable.

 This, in turn, explains John’s sweats of nearly six weeks ago, a

 lingering illness that put him of foul mood, unable to walk, and

 accounted for his sending for certain medications, of which I was

 unaware until Sukeena recently informed me. His recovery, however,

 appears to have gone much more quickly than my own, for

 he has returned to hunt and safari these last three weeks while I

 lay here in my tent. (I am told, again by Sukeena, that the reverse

 is usually true—that women tend to suffer far less than men from

 this horrible af?iction. What curse on me reversed these odds?)

 Husband and wife have not spoken of this, nor will we ever.

 Of this I am certain. Much have I cried and agonized over my

 husband’s unfaithfulness, his failure to live up to the mutual

 consent of our marriage vows and the lack of respect he has shown

 me. Much have I now suffered for his pleasures, and I ache for a

 way to return such shame and pain to him. It is the heir, of

 course. To deny him the right to continue his line, but I cannot

 throw myself into this cause with much heart, for I, too, would

 welcome the distraction of children. And yet the thought of joining

 him physically I ?nd so repugnant as to literally make me sick

 to my stomach. I vomit if any such image enters my mind. I expel

 it and swear it will never come to fruition. I have now lived the

 error of forgiveness (for certainly I’ve known all along what he

 was up to!). I will never fool myself again. He will be made to beg

 51

 me. He will be made to cry. To pay, both ?nancially and emotionally,

 for the trials he has put me through if he wishes to have

 his heir. This inferno that has lived in my loins and in my head

 these many weeks has taken root in my condemnation of my husband

 and my determination for revenge. If it’s money that he

 loves then I shall bleed him. This grand house of his will never be

 complete. Construction will never stop. No expense will be

 spared. He will watch as the frivolity of my mood directs the

 depletion of his funds in whatever unnecessary and trivial manner

 I can and do imagine. And he will be loath to stop it, to even try—

 for my legs shall close upon his lineage forever, like a springed

 trap.

 The call for revenge drives me to take the soup Sukeena offers.

 To allow my sweat-soaked bedsheets and nightgown to be

 removed and replaced, rather than succumb to the fevers. To tolerate

 the treatments Sukeena puts me through, at once both

 painful and humiliating.

 I will prevail to leave this tent, to face my husband across the

 dinner tables erected beneath what appears to be a banyan tree. I

 will look him in the eye and show him my resolve to right his

 wrong. And he will know. He will wither under the power I have

 gained both through my prayers (to both sides) and from my dear

 friend, Sukeena. She has the power to heal, the power to connect

 to the other side. Her dolls of black hardwood. Her musical

 chants and infusions. In what my husband may only slowly come

 to see, my illness has led to strength of mind, my suffering to

 strength of heart. He will come to regret his in?delity, ultimately

 and forever.

 And I shall triumph, Sukeena at my side. She is coming home

 with us. This is the ?rst of many concessions my husband shall

 learn to make.

 52

 15 june 1908—cairo, egypt

 I cannot imagine any place hotter in all the world than Cairo in

 June. We have sailed down the Nile for days (how strange a world

 this is that north is downstream?). John is foul of mood, and no

 wonder: he has not won my affections since late April when he

 bestowed upon me that horrible curse. And now, in such close

 company as this small ?at-bottomed boat, he cannot ?nd any

 budding young women to pluck except those of the European

 families that people this vessel—girls who can speak, read and

 write—girls who would report him in an instant if he lifted their

 skirts. He broods and drinks and brags with the other passengers,

 wisely leaving Sukeena and me to ourselves, except at dinner at a

 tedious captain’s table where liquor is the of?cial language and all

 but I speak ?uently. I hear him tell his hunting stories and marvel

 at his ability to win friends, and I watch the women swoon, and I

 wonder if that is how I once looked in his company as well. I want

 to hate him, but that vexation is slowly wearing off. Calculated or

 not, he has taken some time to charm me, has helped me pick out

 several splendid rugs from Persia (bought in Luxor) and a great

 deal of woven wicker—baskets and hampers mostly, some seventy-

 ?ve in all. The prize so far is the hand-carved alabaster. We are to

 have dinner, bread and salad plates, soup bowls of two sizes, all

 for a table of forty. It is to be shipped to Seattle within the year,

 each piece carefully packed. John said that if half the cargo

 arrived undamaged we should consider it a victory, at which point

 I increased the alabaster order to a serving for eighty, and

 watched John wince at the increase in price, although these dirtpoor

 Egyptian farmers are practically giving away such wares. I

 could have increased it to eight hundred and not taken a week of

 my husband’s income. Indeed, if I am to have any revenge on my

 husband, I see clearly now that it absolutely must come in the

 53

 construction of the grand house. That is the only weapon I

 possess.

 I have come to detest the Europeans for their treatment of my

 dear Sukeena. Of those who acknowledge her presence (precious

 few, I’m sorry to say), few treat her with any respect above a slave.

 A French couple was nice to her—the woman offered her some

 clothes that would ?t (mine are far too small for her) and she

 accepted. A Canadian woman was quite thoughtful and respectful

 and always greeted Sukeena by name. The rest were brutes. I was

 glad to be free of the Sun Ra, even if it meant the streets of Cairo.

 Few cities in the world are as densely populated as this one.

 Brown bodies by the millions, all covered in long cotton robes of

 soft browns and a few subtle greens. They look like nightgowns—

 as if everyone has just woken up. The men wrap their heads in

 white cotton. The women cover their faces—all but the black eyes

 that stare straight ahead, unseeing and yet all seeing. Water buffalo

 drag carts through the streets but foul the sunbaked brick and

 make a stink that rises with the sun. People wash themselves in the

 river—this river that is the heart of the land—they wash their

 babies, their food utensils, their camels. The river is putrid and

 foul—and they practically live in it.

 But to the story at hand! Sukeena and I were bicycled by rickshaw

 into the city’s main market—deep in the center of humanity.

 We were not, by any means, the only visitors to this city, but it felt

 that way. We collected some trinkets, a good deal of colorful fabrics

 and a few more pieces of alabaster, these ornately carved. All

 our goods were stacked high on the three-wheeled bicycle, our

 driver never hesitating a moment to add to his load. After about

 an hour of this, we took tea in a small teahouse where young boys

 circulated the air by manning large fans. The tea helped me to

 perspire, which in turn cooled me off. I made the mistake of

 showing my coin purse to pay for the tea—a practice John has

 warned me against time and time again, and one I just cannot

 54

 seem to master. At any rate, I committed this mistake ( John is

 right, of course) and must have shown to all those looking a good

 deal of bills within that small purse, for John had just exchanged

 some dollars upon our arrival and had provided me appropriate

 spending money.

 I realize now this must have been staged, but at the time the

 commotion that arose at the front of the building drove Sukeena

 and me to the rear, in hopes of escaping the melee. As we

 slipped out the back, not one, but two very evil-minded men

 approached, their message clear from the knives they carried: the

 purse, or our lives. I nearly fainted at this threat of violence, and

 it did not escape me that as men confronting a white-skinned

 woman they might want more than just my purse.

 I willingly offered the purse, but Sukeena lovingly took hold

 of my arm, shook her head “no” and made me to hold on to it.

 One of the two stepped forward—I believe to challenge us, certainly

 to challenge Sukeena. But that brave woman stood tall. Her

 skin so dark it shined blue. “Nubian!” they called out in their

 foreign tongue.

 And then I witnessed with my own eyes a side of Sukeena I had

 never before seen. She stared at this man—a glaring stare unlike

 anything, impossible to describe. She stepped toward him, her

 body ?uid and ?awless, moving more like a wave than a step, a

 snake than a legged creature. And all the while a deep, low, guttural

 sound pulsated from her throat and chest. This sound

 seemed to surround us. The man, increasingly uncomfortable

 with her approach, took a step back, the ?rst sign she had dominion

 over him. At this point, the guttural sound evolved into language

 —a tongue I had never heard, not in all our travels in the

 dark continent. But this man, and his associate, apparently

 understood the primitive message she imparted. As she waved her

 hands the man stopped, absolutely still. As still as marble. That

 knife carried as an ornament, not a weapon. Both men began to

 55

 tremble—and I swear I felt the earth beneath my feet rumbling—

 like a self-contained earthquake. Then they folded in on themselves

 and writhed in pain on the ground as if stricken by some

 disease to the stomach or bowels. What began as their moaning

 developed into cries of terror.

 Sukeena took my hand, stepped around the one in front of us

 and led me down the alley to our waiting driver. As I looked back,

 the men were still groaning miserably.

 Sukeena has not spoken of the incident, and I, for one, am

 glad of that fact, for I’d know not what to say. But I am less concerned

 about travel deep into these foreign streets now. I feel

 protected, defended against the dark side by my African friend. I

 am more intrigued by her unspeakable powers. Where such powers

 come from, and whether or not a person can learn them, can

 adopt them for her own, I have yet to discover. But with Sukeena

 to teach me, I suddenly feel that anything is possible. Anything

 my heart desires.

 56

 4 july 1908—crete, greece

 Our nation’s birthday was met by much drinking on John’s part.

 He began his celebrations before noon, partaking in the clear

 liquor these ?shermen drink by the shot, said to be a variation on

 grain alcohol. The Greeks, of course, have little if any idea of our

 Independence Day, and must ?nd John’s display of patriotism

 somewhat confounding.

 Sukeena and I toured a ruin, an old port city now inland by a

 quarter mile, rocked above sea level in a seismic shift two thousand

 years earlier. We visited a row of stone tubs used for washing

 laundry, so well preserved that all they lacked was a stopper and

 some soap to be put back into service. This is the land of raw olive

 oil, squid and goats that climb trees (I saw this with my own

 eyes!). A quiet, peace-loving peasant people with a rich appetite

 for café discussion, drinking and coffee so strong and bitter that

 it turns my stomach.

 It was here, this morning, in a spectacular suite of rooms

 overlooking the rich blue depths of the Mediterranean that my

 will surrendered to John for the ?rst time since this past April.

 The morning broke incredibly hot and I slipped out of bed to

 stand by the ocean breeze at the window when my husband took

 hold of me from behind, his massive hands beneath my gown

 before my voice could rise to protest. I grabbed for either side of

 the open French doors and braced myself, casting myself forward

 and clearly inviting his ardor, the hem of my nightgown riding on

 my hips, his brazen intentions driving me to my toes, my knees

 quivering, my heart racing. My God, I must admit here to the

 thrill of it all. Our passions mutually heightened by my months

 of refusal, John’s aggressiveness, so masculine and forceful, yet

 careful and kind to me. I could not maintain my footing, and

 therefore slowly sank to my knees, my husband keeping us joined

 and fervently pursuing his climax, to where, in a dizzying

 57

 moment of unbridled sensation I tried to call out to him, only to

 hear my voice moan through indistinguishable syllables that he

 clearly took as a signal. We collapsed in a gasp of satisfaction, he

 on my back, me with my face pressed to the tile ?oor. “This is

 hardly a situation becoming of a lady,” I said weakly, winning a

 spontaneous eruption of laughter from the both of us.

 “Our morning ride,” he said, and we laughed again.

 When we were apart he rolled me over and we lay together

 again, half in, half out of our bedroom, half in, half out of consciousness,

 basking in the morning sunshine, basking in our

 union. I wrapped my legs tightly around his waist and heard

 myself say, “It’s all behind us, yes?”

 “I have hope it is.”

 “Never again.”

 “Never,” he said, gently touching my cheek. “I was a fool,

 Ellen.” And then the words I had prayed to hear. “Forgive me.”

 “We will not speak of it. Not now. Not ever.” From where this

 capitulation arose, I know not. Perhaps I wanted a marriage back.

 A life. Perhaps my con?dence in Sukeena’s enormous powers

 made John Rimbauer less of an obstacle and more of a game to

 me. I felt more the cat than the mouse. I had what he wanted:

 ability to deliver his heir. He had what I had quickly grown accustomed

 to: position, power and tremendous wealth.

 As we lay there, this forty-year-old man grew ardent yet again,

 and again I capitulated. And for the ?rst time since our marriage,

 I directed him as to the choreography of my pleasure. With each

 instruction I gave, I witnessed arousal in my husband, excitement.

 He would answer each touch I gave to him with a hearty,

 throaty, “Yes!” and do exactly as I wished. I tell you, Dear Diary: I

 never knew . . . I never knew. But under my careful instruction,

 both of the hips and the hands, he did pleasure me, carrying me

 to new sensations that both alarmed me (for my surrender to

 them) and overcame me with pure and perfect delight (my every

 58

 muscle on ?re at once!). My legs still gripped around him, I

 eased my damp head of hair back to resting, my chest a ?orid

 pink, my husband panting like a long-distance runner. “Good

 boy, Johnny,” I said, using a nickname I had never dared use

 before, adopting an attitude—as much a test as a conviction.

 He placed his head on my chest, and brie?y was that little boy

 I had complimented. I cannot explain in these pages, but in that

 moment the tide of our relating husband to wife did shift, wife to

 husband. I gained the strength and courage to express my physical

 desires, and in doing so somehow also gained the upper hand

 over my formerly de?ant husband. I didn’t want to think about

 the past, I wanted to command the future.

 As we dressed and took coffee on the balcony, I felt another

 stirring in my loins, and nearly requested my husband’s favors yet

 again. But this stirring was something altogether different from a

 woman’s urges. At ?rst I blamed this awful coffee and then, later,

 the excitement pent up from my morning discoveries and the

 accomplishment of one part of my dream.

 But then I blamed the act itself (or the acts, if one is counting!).

 For though I’d never experienced the condition ?rsthand,

 could only speculate on the sensation surging through my soul

 (not my body, but my soul), I sensed the presence of another life.

 A life within me. I was pregnant.

 I knew this absolutely and with all conviction. The ?rst ?edgling

 moments of a human being were growing inside me.

 When Sukeena saw me it was all but con?rmed. She met me in

 our rooms, looked deeply into my eyes and smiled widely. “So,”

 she said in her pidgin English, “it has begun.”

 Indeed, it has.

 59

 9 september 1908—paris, france

 I am cursed. Ever since our engagement to marry and the tragic

 murder at the site of the grand house, Harry Corbin’s insanity,

 events so strange and peculiar as to foreshadow a life so different

 than a young girl dreams—I should have known! Earlier to-day I

 lost my child. It issued from me, Sukeena nursing me through it

 (she says all women lose the children not made for this earth, but

 that hardly helps). This, following a social calendar here in this

 beloved city that I begged John to constrain. We have been active

 every night for nearly two weeks—opera, dinner parties, business

 dinners. I felt myself weakening under the fatigue, straining to

 keep awake at times, eating food I found utterly too rich and

 unappealing. Wearing corsets too tight. I cautioned John, who

 knows so little of women and their needs. I warned him that if he

 wanted this child, he could not make requirements of me after

 this fashion. And now we suffer the agony of this loss.

 Such complete devastation I have never known. I spent two

 hours in Sukeena’s arms in hysterics, sobbing and incoherent.

 My little child that warmed in my belly is gone. A doctor has been

 brought in. I am to take bed rest for a week to ten days. As if the

 torture of my loss is not enough, my in?rmity now frees my husband

 for the ?rst time in months to roam this city alone in search

 of his favorite ?ower—and don’t think I don’t know it. He began

 drinking heavily this morning, the moment he was informed. I

 can picture her: ?fteen or sixteen. Blond. Blue eyes. So much my

 opposite. My husband lavishing gifts upon her. And she, spreading

 her honey, a sweetness he cannot resist.

 I am sick to my stomach with the thought. Sukeena believes my

 nausea is related to my loss, but I know better. I am livid with

 anger and resentment. Again I brood and consult the dark side

 on how to punish John for never listening to me. Always ordering

 me around like one of his foremen or ship captains. Again I

 60

 know that the power I lord over him is the presentation of an

 heir. Without me he has only bastards. I offer him legitimacy.

 Immortality.

 Sukeena has eyes that smile as I explain this to her. “As long as

 you angry, Miss Ellen, I know you to live.” She wants me to have a

 raison d’être, afraid that my loss will throw me into a slump (for I

 am certain she has seen this before in her tribal friends). So I

 focus on punishing John, on denying him my womanhood,

 denying him his child. Let him roam the streets for his girls, he

 will never know love. He will never know family.

 I conspire in my mind to hurt him, while at the same time

 worshiping him. At times I hate myself for my devoted love of my

 husband—is it the age that separates us? his success and

 strength?—I treasure him, even while disliking him so fully, so

 absolutely. If anything drives me insane, it will be these two

 women who live inside me: one that loves, one that wants to hate;

 one that prays to God to celebrate life, one that prays to Darkness

 to punish my husband. How can I ever reconcile these two in the

 same body, the same woman? I loathe him, I love him. I want his

 attention, and yet I now grieve because he wouldn’t leave me to

 rest; I want independence, separation, and yet I long for our life

 together at the grand house—a family. I want to punish him, I

 want to serve him. Who am I, Dear Diary, that I can be so vexed?

 And so, for the next ten days, I shall mourn the passing of this

 almost-child. I shall beg to be given back the gift of God’s gracious

 blessing. I shall resent my husband, so very much, if he

 takes my in?rmity as opportunity.

 I cannot ?nd peace. I cannot sleep. I am not hungry. My body

 purges. Sukeena nurses me like a sister. My belief builds that if

 God has allowed me to lose this child, there is some hidden reason

 behind it. Why else would He put me through such loss and

 agony, anxiety and pain? Is it perhaps not yet time for John’s

 heir? Are there more tests upon us to come? Or am I de?cient in

 61

 some way, unable to deliver what every other woman delivers so

 naturally?

 How, if ever, will I now ?nd internal peace? How, if ever, will

 I recover my soul? For I fear it has ?ed with this almost-child—

 his little heir running from his father before even entering his

 world. And as I read back what I’ve written, I know that the

 answer to these questions is itself a dichotomy: motherhood.

 That which I seek to deny him is itself the solution to my grief

 and anxieties. I am so confused. Tired now, I must rest. I must

 close my eyes, even if sleep won’t come. I will listen to Sukeena

 humming by my side, those tribal melodies and rhythms. I will

 fall under her spell, this enchanting woman who loves me and

 cares for me like a sister. Where would I be without my dear

 Sukeena? We are bonded now, the two of us. And it shall remain

 so, forever.

 62

 9 december 1908—seattle, washington

 After nearly a year away, John and I returned to Seattle to-day by

 train. Met at the station by my mother and my former governess

 (who now works as my mother’s secretary), I threw myself into

 Mother’s arms like a schoolgirl returning from summer camp. I

 had written home at least a letter a week, and so it is that my

 mother is quite aware of both the pregnancy and the miscarriage.

 She greeted Sukeena, not like a Negro kitchen maid, as I feared

 she might, but as a member of the family, with kisses and the

 warmest of welcomes. This, above all else, meant so much to me.

 My mother took Sukeena to her home. We are to live apart for

 a short time, until John and I are moved into the grand house, an

 event that is expected to take place within a matter of days but may

 stretch out a few weeks due to the holiday season. Oh, how grand

 it is to see this city I love so. Muddy roads and all. Gray, wet skies

 and all. The lush green is a welcome relief to eyes that have

 looked out train windows for days as we crossed the wheat ?elds of

 Kansas and Colorado and the barren reaches of Idaho and eastern

 Washington. These endless rains are not without their lush

 rewards.

 John and I took to his rooms. Sukeena met me later in the day

 and together we began the arduous task of unpacking my twelve

 steamers. Added to our burden is the job of overseeing the

 inventorying of the goods shipped home over the past year. They

 have been assembled in a downtown warehouse—crate upon crate

 upon crate. Some are to be unpacked, some will wait for relocation

 to the grand house, but all are to be counted and accounted

 for. It is a task that will occupy both Sukeena and me for weeks to

 come, as by my count no fewer than ninety-?ve shipments should

 have arrived. Rugs, furs, John’s African shooting trophies, urns,

 vases, lights—the list is nearly endless. Christmas indeed. I have

 63

 never been so excited as to unwrap these treasures. I am like a little

 girl under the tree.

 The long train trip afforded me the opportunity to refuse

 John’s advances time and time again. I gloated in the pleasure of

 it. Con?ned as we were, he had no opportunity to take to the

 streets. Instead, day by day, he became both more frustrated with

 me and more subservient. I had him serving my every need, calling

 for porters, for dining service, acting as manservant to me.

 What a sensation! I cannot explain it here, it is the ?rst time I’ve

 felt so since the loss of the child. He wilted under my glare. He

 trembled when at night we took to bed and I pressed my warm

 body against him, only to deny him the ultimate prize. I will surrender,

 of course. It is hard for me to deny myself his pleasures as

 well (though I never indicate this!). And now that we return to a

 place he can ?nd such satisfactions without me, it is time I give

 in, hoping to stem that tide. I prepare myself for that eventuality.

 John and I spent much of the train trip writing a list of guests to

 be invited to the opening of the grand house. We have scheduled

 a party for January the ?fteenth, allowing several extra weeks in

 case of a holiday slowdown. ( John will devote himself to the

 house fully when not engaged in his oil business. He has already

 left for a meeting with Douglas Posey, his oil partner, to discuss

 the events of the past week, during which time we were isolated on

 the train.) A packet of photographs awaited us at the Ritz in New

 York upon our arrival there by steamer. Oh, such grandeur! The

 facade is brick, the house contained behind a wrought-iron fence

 and a twin set of stone pillars over which hangs the Rimbauer

 crest. The driveway hosts an island, home to one of the many

 statuettes we purchased in Italy. There must be thirty windows or

 more on the front of the house, a half dozen chimneys rising

 from its myriad of rooftops. The interior pictures, of the Grand

 Stair and the Entry Hall, leave me breathless. Oh, to think of this

 64

 magni?cent place as my home! I can’t imagine! (But I shall soon

 enough!) In the Parlor, I saw that the suit of armor (from

 England), the brown bear (shot by John in the Swiss Alps) and

 the pipe organ (from Bavaria) are already installed! How impressive

 a sight it is—these souvenirs and treasures from our year

 abroad. I thrill at the thought of taking tea in my Parlor!

 The party—our homecoming and the dedication of the

 house—is to be a lavish affair: local politicians, entertainers,

 friends and businessmen, perhaps three hundred in all. My

 mother has been overseeing much of the preparation in advance

 of our arrival. John sent nearly ?fty cases of champagne from

 France and another several hundred cases of wine, many of which

 will go to the celebration, the rest to be housed in our Wine

 Cellar ( John wants to boast the largest private wine cellar on the

 West Coast). Beef has been shipped from Chicago and Kansas

 65

 City. Pork from Nebraska. Fresh ?sh is to be delivered from

 dockside on the day of the grand affair. Chocolate from

 Switzerland. Tea from England. Cigars from Cuba. John is leaving

 nothing to chance. This is a party no one in Seattle will ever

 forget.

 And if I have my way—and indeed I will—it is a party we shall

 repeat annually. A party to dwarf any New Year’s Eve event. The

 Rimbauer Party. It shall go down in the society pages for years to

 come. The biggest party in the biggest house.

 I feel myself on track again. I am glad our long journey is

 over.

 Another is just beginning.

 66

 christmas eve, 1908—seattle

 For two painful weeks, John has denied me a visit to our grand

 home as workers complete the ?nal touches. We shall formally

 move into our home on January the ?fteenth, the day of our

 homecoming party ( John has scheduled our “arrival” with a

 greeting by the staff on that day). After repeated requests on my

 part to tour our new home, so that I might orchestrate the delivery

 of our personal items well in advance of our formal arrival,

 John drove me up Spring Street in his new Cadillac this afternoon,

 a trip I remember well from my ?rst journey here so many

 months ago.

 The city is still in the grips of various stages of the regrade,

 accounting for some very silly sights. Some families have elected

 to challenge in court the city’s right to lower certain streets by as

 much as seventy feet, while ?lling in various gulches that make

 passage nearly impossible. This effort, ongoing now for nearly a

 decade, has been a bitter battle. Those families that have brought

 legal suit against the city have not been required to lower their

 homes, leaving some lots and the houses atop them isolated on

 forty- or ?fty-foot “pinnacles,” earthen towers rising from the

 new street level (muddy as it is). The homes are completely inaccessible,

 leaving the families without residence. It is quite obvious

 that at some point these families will capitulate, but oh what a

 sight in the meantime! It seems as if nearly every building in this

 eastern part of the city is on scaffolding of some kind, and intermixed,

 these “pinnacles” rising over ?ve stories into the gray,

 dreary sky.

 Our arrival at the gates of the Rimbauer mansion (for it is

 nothing less!) left me breathless. All these months of reviewing

 plans, moving walls, changing windows, even the photos delivered

 in New York, did nothing to prepare me for this moment! She is

 spectacular! Pretentious! Gorgeous!

 67

 The front of our stone and brick home stretches hundreds of

 feet, north to south, presenting one with a formidable wall of

 brick, roof, glass and chimney. If impression is what John was

 after, impression he accomplished. I could go on and on in my

 description—and perhaps I will when I am less tired—but for now,

 I wish to describe just one or two rooms, rooms that as wife to

 this man will be forever important to me.

 The dining room, to be called the Banquet Hall, is magni?cent,

 with the gleaming walnut table occupying its center. I estimate

 this table can accommodate roughly seventy or eighty dinner

 guests. Cabinets are built into two sides of the room, all with glass

 doors, and are soon to contain our vast collection of china. I

 envision the north wall holding John’s family’s collection of

 teapots, representing over sixty countries around the world. Fine

 paintings from the European masters adorn the walls: landscapes

 mostly, many of which we acquired on our honeymoon, so our

 guests can sit and dream of places far away while six-foot logs

 burn furiously in the ?replace. I can hardly wait for our homecoming

 party! We will ?ll this table and more with our dinner

 guests—what an occasion it is to be!

 John’s and my chambers occupy the entire West Wing of the

 second ?oor, each of us having six or seven rooms to ourselves

 when including parlors, dressing rooms and our studies and

 libraries. My bedroom, the Lady’s Chambers, is everything I

 dreamed it to be! It has a big bay window facing the courtyard and

 overlooking the glassed-in Solarium off the Kitchen, where

 botanical varieties of every sort are currently being planted. The

 windows of the room are hung with white silk curtains with overdrapes

 of heavy green brocade. The bed itself rises up three steps,

 and I can already imagine the staff making comments about my

 “throne.” No matter—I love the look! The woodwork in the room

 is decorated with hand carvings, most of which are from the small

 68

 town of Opede in the south of France, where John and I visited

 not six months ago. Installed into my bedroom, the craftsmanship

 looks sumptuous, ornate and quite rich! To the right of the

 bed, and down the steps, is a three-panel Oriental screen, behind

 which I can quickly undress. The doors of this screen carry fulllength

 mirrors so that I might view all sides before joining my

 husband in bed for his husbandly visits. (I must say that sight of

 this house has erased so much of our ugly past. John is so proud

 of it, and I of him, for this magni?cent accomplishment.) The

 opposite sides of the screen, those facing into the room, are of a

 dark green plush reminiscent of the forest behind our home.

 There are four area rugs, all from Persia, a green velvet recliner,

 two Louis XIV armchairs and a dresser from the Loire. I am ?t to

 be a queen!

 69

 16 january 1909

 I must report, Dear Diary, on the inaugural of the grand house

 and the night of divine romance that followed.

 First, to the weather. We must be being punished for our year

 away to mostly tropical locations. The heat of Kenya and Cairo is

 being more than made up for in the most bitter cold Seattle has

 suffered in memory. The freeze that gripped this city just days ago

 with a temperature of only twelve degrees above zero, and allowed

 skating on Lake Union for the ?rst time I can recall, was reversed

 less than a day later with temperatures in the mid-twenties. The

 cold-weather fun continued for all of that day, and into the

 night. And then tragedy as the thermometer soared to well into

 the forties—a more typical temperature. By early the next morning,

 the paper reported that over twenty thousand pipes had burst

 across the city. Miraculously, our new home, perched high on the

 hill, was somehow spared. We suffered not a single burst pipe—a

 fact that quickly made the social circles. John claims it is the

 result of good planning on his and the engineers’ part, having

 insulated the pipes and run them on interior walls. It didn’t

 hurt, I suppose, that the staff has had ?res raging in every room,

 and the steam heat on as well, preparing the home for our party.

 No matter! Our guests, many without running water in their

 homes, were delighted to join us that evening!

 And now again, to the house itself, for I am smitten with her!

 Such splendor, such lavish expense has seldom been seen, certainly

 on these shores. Perhaps only Rockefeller, Vanderbilt or

 Carnegie has ever built an American home so grand as ours. It is

 still under construction as I write this (will it ever be completed?

 I wonder), and yet we were able to tour our guests through some

 twenty thousand square feet of living space. The front Entry Hall,

 gallery to John’s hunting trophies, is sixty feet long, a stunning

 foyer of rich, African mahogany that leads to the curving two-

 71

 sided staircase ascending to the ?rst of four ?oors. To stand at

 the base of the stairs, one faces a hallway both right and left, forward

 and back. Ahead is the Kitchen and Solarium. To the right

 is a picture gallery and several sitting rooms. To the left is the

 Banquet Hall, more hallways and parlors, the Breakfast Room. It

 has taken me days just to learn my way around this palace. One

 can get lost so quickly and easily.

 Our inaugural was attended by over two hundred and ?fty. All

 ate dinner in one of six rooms, and then there was dancing in the

 Grand Ballroom until well into the wee hours. We had a senator,

 the mayor, the great Broadway stage actress Marjorie Savoy, a

 baseball player whose name I cannot recall but is said to be quite

 famous, the soprano and stunning beauty Jeanine Sabino (with

 whom John spent a little too much time for my liking) and two

 Italians and Chinese, all three of whom are rumored to be gin

 runners or some other form of lowlife and were invited only

 because John’s importing of oil depends on their cooperation.

 (The more I learn of this business, the more horri?ed I am. One

 great advantage of our year abroad was that John took me into his

 con?dence regarding his oil matters and I learned a great deal.

 He seems constantly involved in secret negotiations to bring

 re?neries and minor oil companies together to extort the railroads

 for lower shipping costs, to affect supply, to negotiate better

 labor costs. So much secrecy is involved—I had no idea!)

 I wore a white dress that was such a success with the men that I

 shall wear it each and every year from now on! The women were

 all dressed so beautifully, rich velvets, silks and wool. The men

 wore tuxedos—white tie, so elegant and re?ned. I tell you, we

 were the toast of the town and shall remain in high regard for

 years to come because of it. Few could believe the size of the

 grand house, as close to town as it is. I heard words like

 “museum” and “royal palace” on the lips of everyone who toured.

 The decorations are splendid—our long trip so justi?ed now that

 72

 I see all that we collected so beautifully coordinated. It is sumptuous

 without being gaudy, extravagant without being hideous. I am

 quite proud of both John and myself for what we’ve accomplished.

 I share here a conversation I overheard while approaching the

 Library (6,000 volumes!) between two men—Tanner Longford,

 chancellor of the university, and Bradley Webster, head of a bank

 that competes with my father’s. I point out, Dear Diary, that

 these are not small-minded men—far from it!—and that to hear

 such talk (taken in con?dence, I’m sure) adds a great deal of

 verisimilitude to the content of their exchange.

 Tanner’s is a deep voice that reminds one of a storyteller.

 Bradley Webster is a small man with a choked, nasal exaggeration

 to his conversation. I heard Tanner ?rst.

 “You heard about the murder up here?”

 “Yes, of course. Horrible, wasn’t it?” Bradley Webster is a bit

 full of himself.

 “I hear the man—Corwin, wasn’t it?”

 “Corbin, I believe.”

 “Yes. That’s it. Well, the poor man went insane. Totally mad.

 Sentenced to twenty-?ve years. He clawed his eyes out in his cell

 claiming an Indian had made him do it. Said he came out of the

 hole like the Devil—the hole being the foundation to this house,

 you see—had handed him the shotgun.”

 “His eyes, was it?”

 “Yes. Died from it, I heard. Bled to death. The eyeless bastard

 running around his cell screaming ‘Go away! Go away!’ Claimed

 that same Indian had visited his cell and told him his work wasn’t

 over.”

 “An Indian.”

 “Rimbauer knew, of course.”

 “Knew what, Tanner?”

 “You don’t know about this site?”

 73

 “I’m afraid I don’t.”

 “Lisa told me,” Tanner Langford explained. (Lisa is Tanner’s

 sister, an in?uential woman and a member of our children’s hospital

 board.) “They uncovered Indian remains while digging the

 foundation. Goddamned cemetery is what it was. Skeletons by the

 wagon load, I heard. Some of the Chinamen quit. There was

 some illness blamed on the graves. Fevers, that sort of thing.”

 “I haven’t heard any of this.”

 “Lisa knows all the doctors. I think we can trust her reports.”

 “I didn’t mean to imply . . .”

 “Some relics were uncovered, I heard. A chief or some tribal

 head of state. There was looting. Rimbauer ordered several men

 ?red. But word got out. The state was to send an expert. And

 then he burned the bones.”

 “He what!?”

 “Made a bon?re of them, as I understand it. Had them use a

 few barrels of his oil—I like that little touch—and burned them to

 ash. By the time the state’s man arrived, there was nothing left.

 They were going to shut him down, you see, but they couldn’t do

 that now. Rimbauer put it all off to rumor. A clever one,

 Rimbauer is. But then this man Corbin—what do you make of

 that? ‘An Indian,’ he said. Made him do it. Can you imagine?”

 “A story is all. Nothing more than a story.”

 “I agree. I agree! But still . . . an Indian!”

 At this point in their conversation someone met me in the

 hall and greeted me, and my eavesdropping was interrupted. I

 don’t know what followed. What I do know is that John never

 mentioned a word to me about any Indian burial ground. I never

 heard the story about Corbin either. His eyes! Good God, I can’t

 imagine such a self-in?icted wound! I hope beyond measure that

 it’s purely sensational rumor—my but how people love to spin

 tales about the wealthy! John has been the subject of much discussion

 and rumor for years now. I am a part of that now, and I sup-

 74

 pose it will continue as long as he wields the kind of power he

 does. He supplies this city with some eighty percent of its lighting

 oil, kerosene and gasoline. Portland as well. Forty percent of San

 Francisco. Ninety percent of Denver. The Japanese are buying,

 the British, French Indonesia. He has created an empire (having

 enlarged it during our honeymoon!), and any emperor suffers at

 the lips of his people.

 I related what I had overheard to Sukeena, who is so perceptive

 about matters of the spirit. She tells me the house is “powerful”

 and like nothing she has ever felt before.

 One matter of note: several of our guests at the inaugural

 related to me that they became frightfully lost while touring the

 house on their own. I found myself amused by this, actually, as I

 was myself lost just a day or so ago—for a moment I actually

 believed the hallway had looked entirely different just minutes

 earlier. Can you imagine? I paid little attention to these reports

 until Sukeena warned me to stay out of the Billiard Room. At

 ?rst I thought she meant because John is so possessive about his

 private time spent there with his cigars and brandy. We did not

 speak further of it until this evening when I made a comment

 about how some of the guests could not ?nd their way.

 “The Billiard Room,” she said.

 “I’m not sure,” I told her.

 “Miss Ellen, I tell you—it is the Billiard Room they speak of. I

 seen things there. I feel them in here.” With that she clutched at

 her heart, a mannerism she uses only in the most engaging of

 expressions. (When I lost the baby she sat by my side, holding my

 hand, covering her bosom in this same way.)

 “Feel what, my dear friend?”

 She shook her head, not wanting to speak of it.

 “What?” I repeated, perhaps a little desperately.

 “Not what, Miss Ellen: who,” she said. “I feel them. The ones

 that take us. My parents. My nephew.”

 75

 I shuddered. Sukeena’s parents and nephew were dead. I knew

 this absolutely.

 “The Indians,” I whispered.

 Sukeena looked at me gravely, and she nodded. “We not alone

 in this house, Miss Ellen.”

 As to the romance of this inaugural evening, suf?ce it to say here

 in these private pages that the champagne went to my head quite

 early in the evening, and that by the wee hours, when John and I

 ?nally retired, I was not quite myself, given to my desires and

 overcome by my husband’s passions. Our lovemaking was frantic,

 desperate even, John upon me before my undergarments were

 removed. His affections are so impossible to resist at moments

 like this. His strength, his intensity. Had I not had the wine, perhaps

 I could have found my strength, but as it was I succumbed

 with little resistance. And then I participated. And then I cried

 out my demands and drove him to a frenzy—a practice I have

 learned to time to meet my own needs. We fell to the ?oor of my

 dressing room in a tangle of white silk and a mutual hunger that

 did not abate until the silk was torn and my dear husband carried

 deep scratches down his back. (My gown will need much repair!) I

 fear I screamed so loudly that the maids must have heard. Perhaps

 the whole house. Sukeena gave me a look this morning that

 informed me at least she had heard. Then she made me to lie in

 bed with my rump elevated on pillows for nearly three hours, a

 twinkle in her eye.

 “I will give you child, Miss Ellen.”

 Sukeena knows how badly I want this, how much I fear losing

 another. But just those words ?lled me with excitement. John was

 off to his study early this morning (oh, how his head must throb!)

 in an effort to read a new contract with the Union Paci?c. But

 before he left, he entered my bedroom and left a red rose on the

 pillow next to me, the thorns neatly removed with a penknife, the

 76

 smell so luscious and ?lling me and my dreams with contentment.

 “What color to-day, Miss Ellen?” Sukeena asked from my

 dressing room.

 “Red,” I said back to her, naming the color of the ?ower.

 “Rose Red,” I repeated more strongly. It has a familiar ring to it,

 though I can’t recall from where. And then a realization: my husband

 and I had just named our grand house.

 77

 13 march 1909—rose red

 I hesitate to put down into words my thoughts on this day, for I

 am vexed indeed by what happened here this afternoon. As I

 write, police are still searching the house. Somehow, by putting

 this down here on paper, it seems I am giving it power. And I

 have no intention to do such a thing, for I fear this power (if it

 exists at all) is formidable indeed. But where else can I express

 myself ? Certainly John will hear none of it, and though I love

 Sukeena as a sister, her limited English rarely allows exchanges

 that go beyond the ordinary mechanics of living or the functions

 of a woman’s body.

 I am now two months pregnant with child, and I have never

 been happier. John parades around the house as proud as a peacock,

 barking orders at the servants to take care of my every need.

 He stays home at night and reads to me in the Parlor (the site of

 our unfortunate incident to-day), all the while fretting over me

 and my every squirm. I have just now begun to show ever so

 slightly, and John comes to my rooms at night, lifts my nightgown

 up past my waist and gently rubs my stomach, sometimes with

 lotions, lays his head there and talks to the tiny child growing

 inside me. We have had relations quite often—he has never been

 more tender—and I feel closer to him now than at any point in

 our brief marriage.

 My pregnancy—the news has spread quickly through society—

 was responsible for a teatime visit from my dear friend Melissa

 Ray and her friend, Connie Fauxmanteur. I am less personally

 acquainted with Mrs. Fauxmanteur, although well aware of her

 husband’s lumber fortune and their sizable contributions to city

 charity. She is ?ve or more years my senior, and as such I never

 knew her in school as I did Melissa, with whom I have enjoyed a

 steady and steadfast companionship.

 78

 79

 We discussed John’s and my year abroad, me carefully embellishing

 the journey to sound like the ideal honeymoon. There was

 also great discussion of children, both as infants and older, and

 the mood was quite elevated throughout the long afternoon.

 The Parlor is a magni?cent room, just to the left of the front

 door as one enters. Paneled in walnut, with carpets from the

 East, it houses a pipe organ I acquired in Germany during our

 European travels. It is home to landscapes of France, a portrait of

 John commissioned in England and various other minor treasures,

 such as a Chinese vase and a set of German marksman pistols.

 Although a poor cousin to our central Library, the Parlor

 nonetheless houses among the literature on its shelves ?ve autographed

 works of Dickens and another half dozen autographed by

 Rudyard Kipling, a clever writer who has focused his works on

 India and is becoming quite popular both here and abroad.

 There is a leather-clad globe of the world, purchased in Oxford,

 England, in the far corner, guarding the door into the Central

 Hall West. Mrs. Fauxmanteur was regarding that globe when I last

 laid eyes on her. Melissa and I were engaged in some gossip at the

 time about rumors of Tina Coleman’s brother’s addiction to

 opium, and I only made a sideways glance in the direction of the

 visiting Mrs. Fauxmanteur. I felt an urgent need to warn her that

 Sukeena uses that very globe as a kind of prayer wheel and that she

 tells me this globe is since vested with extraordinary powers,

 including the ability to open a portal into the soul of Rose Red.

 (Sukeena claims the house is alive—that she can feel its presence—

 an opinion with which I have taken great issue and that has been

 the source of argument between us.) Sukeena also believes there

 are many such portals throughout the home and that one must be

 careful where one moves and to guard one’s thoughts in certain

 locations or suffer the consequences—although she has never

 relayed what these consequences might be. All this is communi-

 cated between us in such a clipped, uncertain way that I’m not

 even sure I have it right—although I do know, quite clearly, that

 Sukeena is afraid of Rose Red. Or perhaps cautious is a better

 word.

 At any rate, dear Mrs. Fauxmanteur was in the corner, spinning

 the globe like a small child with her gloved hand. All at

 once, Melissa and I overheard the most astonishing language

 coming from her. She was mumbling as if in prayer, though not

 in any language I have ever heard (and over the course of this last

 year, I have heard many!). The globe spun faster and faster, and

 yet, at least from my angle, Mrs. Fauxmanteur was no longer

 assisting its motion.

 “Connie?” Melissa inquired in a troubled voice.

 “Mrs. Fauxmanteur?” I called out, knowing more about that

 globe than my dear friend Melissa Ray. “You really should not

 handle that globe.”

 And now, I swear to you, Dear Diary, did that woman’s head

 turn all of its own accord—as if unattached from the body itself.

 It did rotate toward us, and that woman ?xed her maniacal gaze

 on us with reddened eyes and twisted lips. But what most astonished

 us both was the ashen quality of her facial skin. Mrs.

 Fauxmanteur arrived under the burden of a great deal of rouge

 she did not need. And yet, as she turned to face us, none of this

 cosmetic remained. Her skin seemed nearly translucent, the blue

 veins showing like a tangle of knitting yarn, her lips bloodless and

 cracking like ice.

 “Step away please, dear woman,” I called out.

 Connie Fauxmanteur did in fact step back and away from that

 globe. And as she did, the globe’s rotation began to slow, and for

 the ?rst time I noticed a noise, like a single high note of a children’s

 choir, dissipating in volume. I had not noticed this music

 until it left the room. Mrs. Fauxmanteur left the room with it,

 81

 stepping through to the Central Hall West (I believe). I thought

 perhaps she might be searching for the powder room, and so I

 called out to her that I would be happy to show her the way. At

 this point, Melissa, I suppose because of my pregnancy (everyone

 is making much too much of my condition!), rose herself and

 motioned for me to stay seated. Melissa did not appear in full

 possession of her senses, I must say, clearly taken aback by that

 translucent apparition of our dear friend. For a woman of such

 poise and grace, she did hurry to the door to the gallery through

 which Mrs. Fauxmanteur had just that moment passed.

 I recall quite vividly that I smelled something bitter in the air,

 could almost taste it—carried as it was with the wind of that swinging

 door to the gallery. Whatever the source of that ?avor, it did

 give me chills and rose the hackles on the nape of my neck. I had

 tasted that same air in the Ocean Star when the great wind entered

 our cabin. Despite the admonishment of my friend, I rose from

 my chair and followed upon Melissa’s heels.

 “Connie?” I heard Melissa call out.

 A moment later, I too stood in the Central Hall West, alongside

 Melissa.

 The magni?cent room was empty of all but its oil paintings,

 cherry and maple benches and some marble sculpture from

 Rome. Mrs. Fauxmanteur had apparently run to the far end and

 left before Melissa had herself reached the gallery.

 “Mrs. Fauxmanteur,” I called out, “I would be pleased to show

 you the way.” For she had it all wrong. The nearest toilet was

 through the Banquet Hall and off a small corridor that connected

 the Grand Stair. The far end of the Central Hall West connected

 again with the Entry Hall and would only serve to lead her in a

 circle. That is, unless by chance she had ventured upon one of

 the room’s many false panels, one or two of which led to storage,

 and another that offered “secret” passage between the Central

 Hall West and the Kitchen, allowing servants more direct access

 82

 during our entertaining. Now that I viewed the Central Hall West

 in this light—indeed the whole house is a veritable warren of such

 false passages—I realized what opportunity existed for a person to

 become brie?y lost in its complexity.

 “Connie!” This time Melissa’s voice carried the concern that

 already beat in my own heart.

 “You take the Entry Hall,” I instructed my friend, pointing to

 a closed door at the end of the long gallery. At the same time, I

 stepped to the wall and pulled on the servants’ cord, summoning

 whoever was on duty at this hour. I had my own eye on the door

 to the Banquet Hall, believing it the closest to the Parlor and

 therefore, given that little time had elapsed, the most likely explanation

 for Mrs. Fauxmanteur’s quick disappearance.

 As I pulled open the door to the Banquet Hall, I found myself

 face to face with Brian, our day butler, who had responded to my

 summons. But our timing was of such coincidence that I did

 jump back and let out a small scream, of no insigni?cance. This,

 in turn, set John and the rest of the house to motion. By the time

 I reached the Banquet Hall, and found it empty, several others

 had hurried to my assistance. Doors were thrown open, false

 panels too. It seemed that ten or more of us were immediately

 engaged in the search for our Mrs. Fauxmanteur. Yolanda and

 Fredrick hurried up the Grand Stair, believing they had heard

 someone up on the second ?oor.

 The louder we called, the more our voices echoed. Mrs.

 Fauxmanteur was nowhere to be found. I felt rather faint at the

 prospect of her disappearance, and I stumbled toward a chair,

 Brian at my elbow. As I sank into its needlepoint and oak, the

 door to the Banquet Hall sagged open, and I could see through

 the Central Hall West and to the door of the Parlor.

 There stood Sukeena, looking vexed and—dare I say it?—terri-

 ?ed. She stood by the globe, still slowly spinning. She wore the

 same red handkerchief over her head as a scarf, a long blue work

 83

 dress with a white apron, her blue-black skin shining in the glow

 of the gas light. She shook her head at me, left to right. She was

 crying.

 This house had claimed a soul, and Sukeena knew better than

 anyone that Connie Fauxmanteur was not coming back.

 84

 14 march 1909—rose red

 The police were much taken aback by the size of our home.

 Perhaps they had heard the rumors and were surprised to see it

 for themselves. (I hear tell it’s called “the palace” and “the statehouse”

 by the people of Seattle.) In terms of the way “the other

 half lives,” John and I are the “other half” and at least John makes

 no apologies for it. He was born to success, or so he says, believing

 success a matter of pocketbook, certainly not of character.

 “What do you make of the disappearance?” I ask over the ?vecourse

 lunch. (We invited the policemen, but they declined to

 join us. So we eat in the Banquet Hall—why John insisted on this

 I know not, since we usually dine in the Solarium or one of the

 smaller dining rooms at mid-day.) It is just us, and four servants

 in attendance (all white glove of course).

 “I don’t believe it for a minute,” John Rimbauer replied.

 “But, John—!”

 “No, no, Ellen. You mustn’t be taken in by it, you see? The

 Fauxmanteur woman simply chose us as her whipping boys, electing

 to stage her little getaway from our house instead of her own.

 It’s simply a case of a wife deserting her husband and responsibilities

 —three children, can you imagine?!—and we are made to suffer

 for it. We are made to bear the brunt of her irresponsibility,

 and I for one am considering bringing charges against the woman

 when they catch her. And mark my word, they will catch her.”

 “No, they won’t catch her, John. They won’t even ?nd her.

 And if they do, it shall be in this house, and by now I fear they

 shall ?nd her dead.”

 “Good God, woman! Whatever’s gotten into you?”

 “Rose Red, dear husband. It’s gotten into us all.”

 “The house? You don’t subscribe to that garbage, do you?

 Dear soul, do not fret over this, do not risk your condition in any

 85

 way. I am so angry at this Fauxmanteur woman, I cannot tell you!

 You are doing so well of late. Please, my dear Ellen, do not spend

 another minute thinking about it.”

 “I want this child most of all.”

 “Of course. As do I. Most of all.”

 “But I promise you, she never left this house.” I added, “Do

 you remember the guests at the inaugural? The ones who said

 how quickly they’d become lost in Rose Red? What of that? What

 do you make of that?”

 “You mean as it relates to Mrs. Fauxmanteur?”

 “Yes, exactly.”

 “I see positively no connection between the two. Besides, dear

 woman, let us not forget all of our guests at the inaugural are

 accounted for.”

 “You’re making light of it.”

 “I’m not.”

 “At my expense.”

 “Never. I assure you, it was not my intention.”

 “Guests complain of getting lost and then two months later,

 one does get lost. She disappears. Coincidence?”

 “I hear it in your voice, dear. Do not trouble yourself over

 this. I tell you, it is simply that we’ve been made to look bad by a

 woman who chose us and our home for her ill-conceived plans.

 The child . . . please . . . do not trouble yourself.”

 “The child is ?ne.”

 “Yes . . . but before . . .”

 “Before I was made seriously ill either by our social calendar

 or by exposure to an unfortunate malady.” I left it at that. I might

 as well have taken out my bread knife and thrust it through him. I

 know not why I raised this issue again, so long after we’d both laid

 it to rest.

 John cleaned his chin with his napkin and stood at his end of

 86

 the long table. He dismissed the servants. I felt the heat of dread

 and regret. I had awakened the sleeping monster in him. His eyes

 burned with disfavor for me. We had never discussed this directly.

 “At the age of eighteen I joined the Army and remained

 enlisted for six years. I took certain liberties that many young

 men of that age take, and I bear the punishment for those liberties

 even to-day. It is rarely with me, this curse, and I regret terribly

 my misspent youth. I can only hope that you can ?nd it in

 your heart to forgive me my past sins, my dear. But I will not have

 my wife speaking to me in this manner. Not ever. And until you

 are prepared to apologize, you shall not see me. Not for meals,

 nor social engagements.”

 Though I believed little of his explanation, I apologized to

 him forthwith, before he could leave the room and make even

 more of this by requiring me to chase him down. I explained that

 my visitor’s disappearance had greatly upset me and that I had

 misspoken just now. The police wandering the house did nothing

 to make me feel at ease.

 “Then I shall drive them out,” John said.

 “No, dear.”

 “Of course I shall. Whatever is necessary to your continued

 good health!”

 As I had ascertained back in Africa: the heir meant more to

 John than anything in this life.

 He stormed out of the Banquet Hall shouting commands at

 servants, police and anyone who happened to be in his way. (The

 house is busy with workers day in and day out as the construction

 continues unabated. No one of society can quite believe that the

 Rimbauer Mansion, as it’s also known outside these walls, is in a

 constant and continuing state of construction.) Within ten minutes

 or so, John had used his considerable presence, as well as his

 keen sense of negotiation, to arrange for all but two police to

 87

 leave Rose Red. These two remained in the hunt for Mrs.

 Fauxmanteur, though I must confess I had already given up hope.

 (Not that I believed John’s explanation for even a minute! The

 problem being that neither John nor I would likely understand

 the other’s position—thus is the scourge of marriage, there are

 those points that will never be resolved because opposite opinions

 cannot resolve themselves; they can either be overlooked entirely

 or tolerated, occasionally respected, though if true opposites,

 even this middle ground is unlikely.)

 I telephoned Tina Coleman to consult her on the disappearance

 and embarrassed myself by breaking into tears in the middle

 of our brief discussion. Tina advised me to consult a “seer” in

 hopes of locating Mrs. Fauxmanteur in places that the police were

 unlikely to ?nd her. This only served to further upset me, and I

 ended the call as quickly as possible, somewhat concerned the

 woman at the exchange may have been listening in, a practice that

 is rampant these days. Our family was always well off, but John

 Rimbauer can only be said to be wealthy, and as his bride I have

 experienced ?rsthand the loss of privacy that accompanies the life

 of the rich. It seems someone is always watching, always listening,

 whether a servant, a maid, a driver or the public. People point at

 John and me as we leave the motorcar for a dinner or to attend a

 performance. They whisper, not bothering to even disguise their

 alarm at having seen us. We live under a magnifying glass, day in

 and day out, and I ?nd the overall effect of this close inspection

 exhausting. John, who has lived with it for so many years now,

 seems either not to notice it or not to care. He conducts himself

 the same way, in public or not—a bit brash yet charming, smooth

 yet easily agitated, a man who takes control of any situation the

 moment he enters it, even parties thrown by our closest friends!

 It is the consistency in him that I believe makes him such a formidable

 businessman. This sense of power he bestows that both men

 and women ?nd attractive, even seductive, though for different

 88

 reasons. John Rimbauer entertains as he frightens. None would

 dare cross him; few dare challenge him.

 And so it is that he must ?nd marriage to me a considerably

 vexing proposition.

 Tina suggested I consult a medium.

 As I hung up from that call, the police collecting outside and

 ?nally dispersing some of the press, I came to consider her suggestion

 more thoughtfully. If a medium was what was required,

 then what was holding me back?

 89

 16 march 1909—seattle

 Dare I confess this? (I think I shall order Sukeena to destroy you,

 Dear Diary, if I should pass at childbirth, or in any way for that

 matter, for the secrets I con?de here should never reach another’s

 eyes.) I lied to my husband to-day—for what was, I believe, the

 very ?rst time. (There have been little white lies, of course—

 telling him I don’t mind his coming home late; pretending to

 enjoy a bedroom encounter when in fact it repulsed me; defending

 some action of his to his face when behind his back I believe

 he handled it incorrectly—but never a lie of this magnitude!)

 This afternoon I told him that Tina Coleman was taking me

 shopping for the nursery. Sukeena was to accompany me and we

 were to return home well after tea, as we planned to take tea at the

 hotel, or possibly even at the bank with my father. John bid me

 farewell barely taking notice of my mention, consumed as he was

 with problems concerning the construction. I have begged to add

 a central tower onto Rose Red. John has denied me. I will get my

 way someday. (It is to hold an exquisite stained-glass window I

 ordered from an artisan while in London. We received a cable

 earlier this week that the window was put on a ship bound for New

 York and is therefore on its way. Now, to convince John!)

 There was no shopping planned, of course. No nursery in my

 mind. The truth was that my dearest Tina had arranged for me to

 meet Madame Lu—a Chinese woman who is said to possess

 extraordinary conjuring powers. And oh, what a day!

 Tina sent her carriage at half past one, insisting we accept this

 offer as her driver knew the way into the underbelly of the city

 where we might ?nd Madame Lu. Just the thought of this journey

 gave me goose?esh! One hears stories about the China district—

 the use of opium is said to be rampant, the young women available

 for pennies, disease and poverty everywhere for those the

 90

 railroads left behind once the laying of railroad track reached the

 ocean. The Chinese ended up here in Seattle, tens of thousands

 of them, without work and desperate. I am well aware that some

 of our husbands “gambled” here—that perhaps part of that gambling

 was with their pants down—and that still others took opium,

 or young boys. But I was completely unaware of any Caucasian

 women venturing into the China district, much less the likes of

 Tina Coleman, one of the most respected women in the community.

 Sure enough, the carriage picked up Sukeena and me,

 returned to the Coleman residence where we refreshed ourselves,

 and then the four of us (Tina brought along her maid, Gwen, a

 Swedish girl of astonishing beauty) returned to the carriage and

 set out south of the city.

 The dirt road went quickly to a thick mud as we left the familiar

 part of town, the stone buildings of center city giving way to

 wooden shacks crowded together, mud, crates and trash in evidence.

 Narrow, dark lanes of mud ran between these shacks,

 small children, half naked even in the cold rain, running side by

 side engaged in games with balls and sticks, their small yellow

 bodies so thin from hunger. Plumes of wood smoke rose from

 metal stovepipes and cooking ?res open to the air, sheltered from

 the rain by tarpaulins or woven bamboo. It is a world only minutes

 from my own and yet one I have never known existed except

 in places like Egypt and the Indias where John and I have traveled.

 My heart was in my throat by the time the carriage arrived at a

 two-story wooden building deep in the heart of the China district.

 I expected at any moment for a Chinaman to leap out of the

 shadows wielding a double-edged knife with a sinister curved

 blade. (I’ve read of such people in Kipling.) I expected our

 purses to be robbed, or worse, the one crime any woman dreads

 above all others: violation. But to my surprise, no such deed pre-

 91

 sented itself. Instead, the driver helped us down to a boardwalk,

 which we crossed, and we entered the building in question.

 The air smelled of sandalwood incense, a fragrance I recognized

 immediately from our year abroad. This ?rst room was

 dark, lit by candle, not gas, as the gas lines do not run this far

 south. It was not a particularly sturdy structure; the wind found

 its way through cracks, moving the small candle ?ames and

 throwing shifting shadows across the walls. An eerie and disconcerting

 environment. Sukeena pulled lightly on my elbow and

 shook her blue-black face back and forth indicating her disapproval.

 I trust Sukeena so much in these matters—she has a prescience

 for anticipating the unexpected. She sensed something

 wrong here—terribly wrong—and even I could feel this along with

 her: a dark, foreboding presence. Sinister and unforgiving.

 “Are you sure?” I asked Tina.

 “A bit dramatic, isn’t it?” she said. “I tell you, Ellen, Madame

 Lu is nothing like this room, this building. I think it to be a matter

 of commerce. The Chinese, who make up a majority of her

 clientele, expect ambience, and she gives them what they pay for.

 They expect something other-worldly, and Madame Lu is only

 too happy to oblige. I tell you, friend, she is nothing like this.

 You will ?nd her to be noble, in?nitely patient and accommodating.

 Gwen was most troubled, the ?rst time I brought her.”

 The pale young beauty nodded her agreement. I considered the

 stark contrast between her and my Sukeena—one so pale and

 translucent, one so dark and opaque. And I wondered, had this

 lovely girl’s hiring been Tina’s idea, or that of her husband?

 Many a housemaid in this city had bastard children to show for

 their service. “But now she is as comfortable as I, for she too has

 met the incomparable madame and knows there is nothing to

 worry about. Remember, dear soul, that these seers are often as

 much show as they are reality. Madame Lu is no phony, I’m

 happy to report. But she must compete with those who are, and

 92

 that competition requires her to invest in the show along with the

 best of them.”

 I heard her words but was not entirely convinced. (Sukeena, I

 knew, doubted this woman’s powers from the start.) This room

 emanated a heaviness, like danger, whether the result of incense

 clouding my breath or the shifting shadows accounting for a certain

 sense of dizziness. Whatever the case, I moved my feet forward

 with caution along with a great deal of excitement, I do

 confess. This was not “the place” for a woman, and just the fact

 that I was here ?lled me with a degree of thrill impossible to fully

 explain in these pages. (There was quiet talk among the women of

 my class that a woman’s “time” was coming. I think now, here in

 this place, for the ?rst time I fully understood that certain

 boundaries were soon to be crossed. In fact, I felt something like

 a pioneer just coming here.)

 We ventured up a ?ight of complaining stairs, ensconced in a

 narrow tunnel of wood, completely unlighted, to a stark reception

 room where the formidable Madame Lu occupied a wicker

 chair as fully as a hand occupies a glove. She was easily the size of

 three or four women, an enormous edi?ce of ?esh and silk with

 two ebony hairpins containing a curtain of rich black hair that

 might have reached the ?oor unbridled. She had a series of chins

 that cascaded down to the upper seam of the red silk gown, and

 pudgy hands that appeared bloated and in?exible. Her voice was

 that of a man’s, deep, resonant and ?lled with ?uid. Her words

 bubbled from her throat.

 “Please, sit.” She indicated the ?oor, covered only by a woven

 mat.

 I glanced at Tina, my astonishment clearly showing. She simply

 smiled back at me, folded her legs and slowly lowered herself,

 with the help of her maid. (Now I understood her insistence that

 I bring Sukeena along!) Sukeena helped me to the ?oor—honestly,

 I do not believe I have sat upon a ?oor since a toddler!—and

 93

 then our two maids stepped to the side and stood alongside two of

 Madame Lu’s keepers, thin young women who were not yet fully

 developed.

 “You welcome here again, Miss Tina. You bring friend.”

 “It is for my friend that I come, Great Lady.”

 “Indeed.”

 Those beady black eyes surveyed me and I felt a heat pulse

 through me as if she had reached into me with her fat hot hands.

 94

 I felt her robbing my secrets, as if she had opened these pages and

 had begun to read.

 Madame Lu commands a formidable presence. As the smell of

 incense made me light-headed and, indeed, feeling somewhat

 under her “spell,” she opened an old tin box from which she

 removed a great handful of ivory white bones, all of them small

 and glistening with the shine of having been handled a thousand

 times. “What question you ask?” she inquired of me, in a voice

 deep enough to be my husband’s.

 “How many questions am I allowed?”

 The big woman rolled her eyes and clearly consulted my dear

 friend Tina with an insolent glance. Tina leaned over and whispered

 that as a matter of etiquette, the Chinese will not directly

 discuss business arrangements, and that Madame Lu charged for

 each reading. I could ask as many questions as I wished, as long as

 I understood each reading would cost me an additional ?fty

 cents. I considered it a usurious amount of money, but agreed

 nonetheless. “Very well,” I said to the Great Lady. I collected

 myself, feeling somewhat indignant about my sitting on a mat on

 a ?oor, and said something like, “Is Mrs. Fauxmanteur alive?

 Unharmed?”

 Madame Lu considered me for a long moment, steadied a

 black enamel table in front of her and dropped the handful of

 bones there. They sounded more like stones. She regarded the

 unruly pile in the un?inching fashion of a dog inspecting the

 unknown: a slight cocking of the head left to right. She nodded,

 hummed to herself and dug through the small pile of artifacts.

 Her voice resonated as she spoke. “Many forms to life. Yes? This

 lady’s spirit lives. I deal in spirit. Yes? Her body? Maybe not live

 as you think of living.”

 I shuddered. Alive, but not alive? Were such things possible?

 95

 To my Christian upbringing this reeked of paganism and sinful

 talk—but I had crossed over long ago in my prayers. Only now was

 the world around me catching up.

 The big woman collected the bones in a greedy hand and

 deposited them back into her tin box, one eye cautiously on me,

 expecting another question. I awaited her.

 “Something else?” she wondered.

 I glanced over at Tina, not wanting her to hear my question

 concerning Rose Red. Could I trust her? I decided I must. “Is

 our home, our house, Rose Red, possessed of spirits?”

 The question won Tina’s attention. She stared at me, but I

 would not look over at her.

 The ritual repeated itself. Her puffy, fat ?ngers reached into

 the dull gray box and deposited a grip of bones to the shiny

 enamel tabletop. Again, her index ?nger prodded through the

 pile, mining it for information. Sukeena let me know with a sigh

 that she clearly put no faith in our hostess.

 Madame Lu said, “You are not alone in this house.”

 “Spirits?” I gasped, suddenly very cold and shaken. Perhaps I

 did not want the truth. Perhaps I was not ready for it.

 “A presence,” Madame Lu answered. “This much I can tell

 you.”

 I did not wish to hear anything more. A presence. Why did

 her con?rmation carry so much signi?cance with me? Why did I

 feel so afraid and chilled to the bone? Worse, Sukeena was nodding

 her agreement. A presence.

 I wanted out of there. I wanted home. That is, until I realized

 that home was Rose Red.

 96

 1 april 1909—rose red

 I pray with all my heart that someone is playing a practical joke on

 John and me, as this is the day for such tomfoolery, but the

 woman in me knows better, for we have seen this before, have we

 not, Dear Diary? I feel nearly mad, delirious with worry.

 Another woman has disappeared without a trace.

 This time it is a maid by the name of Laura, a dear waif of a

 woman, quite fetching in appearance, who works in our chambers

 changing linens, housecleaning and seeing to the cleanliness of

 our toilets and baths. A colored woman, light-skinned and so

 radiant, she was one of Sukeena’s closer acquaintances on the

 staff, rather a younger sister to my African queen.

 When the “Regent”—a fellow named Thomas—informed John,

 I thought my husband might faint, an unlikely event for such a

 man as strong as he. “It’s Laura, sir,” Thomas told John as the

 two of us were just sitting down to tea. (Don’t think I didn’t take

 notice of the similarity in the time of day!)

 “Laura?” John sputtered.

 “Our chambermaid,” I gasped.

 Believing I intended this for him, John snapped at me, “I

 know who Laura is, Ellen. Hush!”

 I felt like slapping him, I was so humiliated. Of course, he

 knows who Laura is; John has had the last say in the hiring of all

 the servants, and despite his claim that this domestic charge is my

 responsibility, it most decidedly is not.

 He bit his lip and chewed, thoughtfully immersed in some

 devilish consideration (of this, I have little doubt given my

 impression of his expression). It was then, for the ?rst time, that

 I gave myself open to the possibility that this curse that af?icts us

 might in some way be John’s doing, not mine at all. Perhaps it is

 John’s prayers, not mine, that have reached the beyond. Perhaps,

 all this time I have prayed to the other side, it has actually been

 97

 my husband’s voice that has been heard. And if so, then to what

 end was he praying? Certainly he could mean me no harm, not

 before the birth—the possibility of an heir! Then what? I wondered.

 And still, I have no answer, though evidence presents itself

 to support my theory, for this disappearance has vexed my husband

 greatly, far beyond the vanishing of Mrs. Fauxmanteur.

 Upon the news of the disappearance, John and the Regent

 gathered all thirty-three servants (Laura being the thirty-fourth!)

 in the Grand Ballroom. A hush fell over all, because word travels

 quickly in this house, believe me. (There is no privacy left to my

 life—all is known.) The Regent and Sukeena, as John’s and my

 personal representatives, stood forefront to the rows of attendants.

 John addressed all in a forceful, dare I say, frightened,

 tenor.

 “I must inquire as to the whereabouts of our own Laura

 Hirtson, master’s chambermaid, in service to Mrs. Watson.

 Anyone with information about Miss Hirtson, please step forward

 now.”

 Thomas is a big man possessing a commanding presence, and

 with a voice that can carry through walls. Some of the girls were

 already crying, though doing their best not to show it. To my surprise,

 a man of eighteen or so, who goes by the name Rodney,

 stepped forward from his line and replied meekly.

 “Sir, if I may . . .”

 “Rodney?”

 The extent of John’s memory never ceases to amaze me. I do

 believe he could recall each of the servants by name, perhaps even

 recall their backgrounds, if required to do so. I know many, but

 not all.

 “I saw Laura late this morning in the Solarium. I am not certain,

 but I believe she was headed out toward the Carriage

 House.”

 John pursed his lips, looked directly at Daniel, the master of

 98

 the Carriage House, and the two exchanged a powerful look. I felt

 for a moment as if a wind swept through the room. “Is that so?”

 John paused. “Daniel?”

 “I never laid eyes on her, sir, and I haven’t left the Carriage

 House all morning until this meeting here just now.”

 Daniel and John go back years, Daniel having cared for John’s

 horse?esh for nearly two decades. I knew, having no need to ask,

 that John trusted Daniel’s opinion absolutely.

 “The Solarium,” John repeated to Rodney.

 “Yes, sir. And if I may say so, sir, her being there . . . she

 seemed a bit . . . suspicious, like. Surprised to see me, you might

 say. Went about an explanation right off the mark, as if I’d asked.

 And I hadn’t! But that’s Laura, isn’t it? Likes to wag her jaw, that

 one.”

 A few of the men nearby Rodney chuckled over the man’s

 deliberate delivery. John saw no reason for levity and squared his

 shoulders, sobering the entire staff.

 “Anyone else?”

 No one stepped forward.

 I raised my voice from the side. “It’s rather important, to say

 the least. Please, if any of you at all has seen her.” I caught an

 expression in Linda’s face—Linda, who is assistant to Mrs. Danby,

 and one of Laura’s dorm mates. I believe the two close, though I

 have little to support that belief. Her eyes widened. I thought I

 saw her hand lift, if not imperceptibly.

 “Linda?” I asked.

 “Yes, ma’am?” A tension in her voice.

 “Were you to say something?”

 A quick glance toward me and then John. “No, ma’am.”

 “Just now, I thought—”

 “No, ma’am.”

 John put me back to silence with one scalding look. This was

 his summons of the staff, not my own. He divided up the group

 99

 and instructed them where to search. By his calculation, the

 thirty-three staff could coordinate to conduct a thorough search

 of premises—every closet, armoire, storage room, steamer trunk—

 within an hour to an hour and a half. Two hours at most. (It was

 there and then, seeing this army assembled before us, and realizing

 this search would still account for a considerable amount of

 time, that I came to grasp the enormity of this house that was still

 under construction—a house that even I, the matron, had lost

 track of. By way of example, there is a new wing of the third ?oor

 open, completed and decorated over three weeks ago now, that I

 have yet to see for the ?rst time.)

 As the staff was dismissed and the search began, my dear John

 showing a color of pale I had never witnessed, I endeavored to

 locate Sukeena and to request she in turn ?nd Linda and bring

 her to me in my chambers.

 “But the search, ma’am,” Sukeena said in her Kenyan

 singsong, her eyes wide with apprehension. She sounds British at

 times. “Mister John.”

 “Never mind John,” I instructed. “I wish to talk with Linda

 immediately.”

 “Very well, ma’am,” Sukeena replied, her determination to

 follow my request apparent. One of Sukeena’s many wonderful

 attributes is her ability to remain calm and consistent. Regardless

 of generation, Africans are quite gifted in this regard, able to

 leave the past behind—an argument, disagreement or other dif?-

 culty—without the slightest timidity, as if it had never occurred.

 (Despite Mr. Lincoln’s intentions, and that awful Civil War

 through which our parents lived, and many fought, I do not

 believe the slaves—nearly all of them African by descent—have

 been provided the opportunity to advance socially as once

 claimed. Indeed, I believe that history will record Mr. Lincoln’s

 attitudes a result of political pressures rather than philanthropic

 intention. The freemen seem rarely better off, often unem-

 100

 ployed, forbidden to buy land and disassociated with regions

 where they lived for generations. There is private talk among the

 women of this city who speak of suffrage that the Negro has as

 much, if not more, claim to ?ght for personal freedoms than

 does the American woman!) As to the moment, Sukeena hurried

 off, and it wasn’t ten minutes before I retired to my chambers in

 the West Wing to discover both Sukeena and Linda there waiting.

 As I requested a tremulous Linda to sit, Sukeena retreated toward

 the door—she never presumes, another of her lovely qualities—

 and I bid her to remain with us. I then took a chair in front of

 dear Linda, clasped my cold hands in her own and we spoke.

 “Dear girl, what was it you wished to say to me just now?”

 “Nothing, ma’am.”

 “Now, now, dear child, we both know you nearly spoke up. I

 saw it in your eyes. If you know something about Laura’s whereabouts

 . . . I cannot tell you how important this is. A matter

 of life and death, perhaps. We cannot forget our dear Mrs.

 Fauxmanteur’s ill fate, now can we?”

 The frightened thing looked ?rst to Sukeena, then to me, and

 her eyes teared.

 “Go ahead, child. No harm will come to you.”

 “I . . . it . . . it is as Rodney said.”

 “The Solarium.”

 She nodded, lip quivering, head lowered.

 “It’s all right, child.”

 “No, ma’am,” she whispered.

 I looked to Sukeena and her in?nite patience and understanding.

 Sukeena studied the child for several long seconds and

 she said, “You saw Miss Laura in the Solarium?”

 Linda shook her head “no.”

 “Leaving the house,” Sukeena said. I knew from much discussion

 that Sukeena believed Mrs. Fauxmanteur had never left the

 house, as police had speculated and continued to believe.

 101

 Linda nodded faintly.

 Sukeena asked, “How she dressed?”

 The girl looked up with wet, saddened eyes.

 I said, “A wrap? Was she prepared for the outside?” It has

 been cold of late, ocean storms from the north. Not terribly

 unusual for this time of year.

 The girl shook her head.

 Sukeena said, “The Carriage House.”

 I felt a shiver, recalling my husband’s questioning of Daniel

 and the fraternity of these two men. What were they hiding?

 Linda’s eyes widened. She bit down on her lips and sprang

 from the chair, removing herself so quickly from my rooms that

 one could imagine she had never been sitting there before us.

 “Oh, my,” I stuttered.

 “This have to do with him, ma’am.”

 “Daniel?” I asked, though in fact I knew to whom she did

 refer.

 “No, ma’am,” Sukeena said, her black eyes boring into me.

 “Him,” she repeated.

 Rose Red was indeed thoroughly searched, top to bottom. Cellar

 to attic. Wing to wing. Floorboard to chimney. I felt a desperation

 in John with each further attempt. He took a keen interest in

 Laura’s disappearance, more so, I must say, than with that of our

 dear Mrs. Fauxmanteur. Perhaps it is the repetition of the event

 that so vexes him. (I prefer this possibility to the other, more

 likely consideration that now occupies my every thought!) He

 became personally possessed with ?nding this girl, requesting the

 Regent to reassign the staff to different locations and conduct the

 search again. At the same time, he put his hunting dogs into the

 woods behind the manor, in search of this girl’s scent—a piece of

 underclothing was delivered from the dorms. We are now some

 six hours into searching, and still no sign of our sweet Laura.

 102

 What troubles me most is John’s decision, only moments ago,

 to not inform the police. With bloodshot eyes, gray skin and an

 eerie, calm stillness to his voice, my husband said, “Servants run

 away all the time.”

 “Not from this house, they don’t,” I said. “We’ve never had

 one leave. You pay the best in the city, John.”

 “There’s always a ?rst.”

 “But what of her possessions? Her clothing? Nothing was

 taken. Nothing so much as disturbed! Who leaves in this manner?”

 “It could involve some young boy on the staff, dear woman.

 Some heartbreak. You know how children are.”

 “Laura was no child, John. She is barely three years my junior.”

 “A young man. Romance. A broken heart, I’ll gamble.”

 “But not to involve the police?”

 “There is our standing to consider, my dear. Our position in

 society. The police, twice in the same year? Do you think we

 would survive such a scandal?”

 “If we talk of survival, John, should it not be Laura’s whereabouts

 that concern us, rather than the vile tongues of this town?

 I can control the tongues. They will not wag to our disfavor.”

 “How can you be so sure? Already there is the difference in

 our age. You know quite well that people talk of this—they give us

 little chance of enjoying our years together.”

 “We have endured much in our ?rst year.” I let my words

 hang in the air where he could taste them. “We shall prevail, even

 if Laura is never found.”

 “Don’t say such a thing!” he said, looking nearly dead himself.

 “John?”

 “What is it about this house?”

 “It has nothing to do with this house. Coincidence is all,” I

 said. Secretly, I did not believe a word of my own explanation. I

 103

 believed either my husband responsible or that the two disappearances

 were somehow related to the child I carried in my

 womb. Fear kept me from examining my husband’s possible role,

 so I focused on the latter possibility. Sacri?ces. My prayers to the

 dark side were being answered, but I had yet to understand the

 language being spoken. Privately, I wondered if another visit to

 Madame Lu was in order. Or, conversely, had my recent visit with

 the Great Lady been heard? One thing is for certain, prayer is a

 powerful weapon, and when wishing one’s husband ill will, one

 must be terribly careful.

 “Coincidence?” he scoffed. Spittle ?ew from his lips as he

 hollered at me, “She was right here, and now she is gone.”

 I have never felt so calm. I spoke with reserve. “Right where,

 John? Did you see her yourself to-day?”

 My words ?ustered him. “What!?” he barked, sounding like

 one of his hounds. “What kind of accusation is that?”

 “I accuse you of nothing. Observation is all. I asked merely if

 you had seen the poor woman yourself?”

 “And if I had?” he roared.

 “A question is all.”

 “And you, so calm, so collected. What of you, Ellen? Did you

 not see Laura to-day?” His large head jerked left to right, and I

 thought it might sever from his body. “She is employed in this

 very wing. Our chambers. She is practically underfoot, this

 woman. At our call, day and night. She serves us both, equally.”

 Oh, Dear Diary, the look in his eyes! The terror this man felt.

 The guilt. A woman knows. A wife, better than anyone. “At our

 call, day and night.” I, for one, have not once called Laura to my

 rooms in the night. Sukeena, of course—more times than I can

 count. But little Laura? I barely knew she existed, except to note

 her unusual beauty. The translucent skin. The noble nose. I realize

 now that my husband did not overlook this beauty either, and

 I made a point of it.

 104

 “A fetching girl, wasn’t she, John?”

 “You speak of her in the past?”

 “I speak of her looks. So innocent. So young and . . . fetching.”

 I said, “Or maybe not so innocent. Looks can be deceiving.”

 I saw pure panic in my husband’s eyes. There, it was done. We

 both knew.

 Perhaps I will have an “accident.” Perhaps I shall call upon

 Sukeena to mix her herbs for me and dislodge the future heir

 from where it lies curled inside me. This is the only true punishment

 I can conceive for him. Accident that it may be, Laura’s disappearance

 is not entirely innocent. I will not ask Sukeena if she

 knows what happened to the girl if she, Sukeena, is protecting

 me. Perhaps Laura did leave Rose Red of her own accord.

 Perhaps Sukeena intervened and sent the girl packing without so

 much as a visit to her dormitory to retrieve her belongings.

 Increasingly, I am convinced that my dear handmaid has powers

 far beyond insight and herbs. She is prescient and clairvoyant and

 somehow divines the thoughts of others. I do not ask, because I

 do not wish to know. If innocent Laura was not so innocent, then

 her departure in any form is welcome. I have said so in my

 prayers before. “Curse the woman who takes my husband for her

 own.” I shall repeat it again to-night as I retire, as I do each and

 every night. If Sukeena has perhaps overheard this prayer,

 through her substantial powers or a slip of my own tongue, if she

 is controlling my destiny in some manner—protecting me—then

 who am I to complain? Who am I to inquire? Laura has left us.

 The police are not to know. Many a latch will be locked in this

 house to-night.

 Many a question remains.

 105

 9 september 1909—rose red

 I write with weak hand, but I will not be denied the opportunity

 of recording the most important day in my brief life. Eleven

 hours ago, in the wee hours of the morning, I gave birth to a son.

 I have called him Adam, for he is the ?rst. I am told by the

 women who attended me that it was “an easy birth.” Three hours

 of labor and a swift delivery. But if that was easy, I never hope to

 experience otherwise! I have never felt such pain, have never

 experienced that part of my body that is only a woman’s in such a

 way that I did not know myself at all. Muscles and cramps and

 contractions, in and out of consciousness, screams of pain, cries

 of joy, and then that damp, pink creature laid atop my bosom

 and already moving for my breast, some primeval instinct overcoming

 him before the cord was even cut from our connection.

 He now lies swaddled in the ?nest linens in a bassinet alongside

 my bed, his small blue eyes closed in peaceful sleep, his tiny

 hands clenched tightly, as if deep in thought. Oh, what a treasure!

 What joy! I’m told Rose Red is abuzz with joy, that all the

 servants are smiling and the master has been heard singing from

 his rooms and has twice ordered champagne to his chambers. A

 son! When Adam had been delivered, his father kissed me as tenderly

 as I can ever remember. He thanked me with tears ?owing

 from his eyes and promised me—us—a life of joy and prosperity,

 and that as a family—“a family!” he roared—we should never know

 pain, loss or sadness. (He must have been drunk, even then, but

 his little speech brought me to tears just the same.)

 Sukeena acted as midwife, sat by my side through the long

 night of “warnings” as she called the early cramping, the early

 morning hours of severe pain, and it was into her sure hands that

 I pushed for the last time and felt that relief that is only a childbearing

 woman’s. My nine long months were done. For this

 alone I would have celebrated.

 106

 Now I contend with milk bubbling from my breasts, a discharge

 from between my legs that Sukeena assures me is normal

 and an abundance of unnatural amounts of skin where my stomach

 should be. I am not hungry, and yet I am starved. I drink the

 coldest water they can bring me, and in amounts I would not have

 thought possible. I sleep for hours at a time, I’m told, and yet it

 feels like only minutes. All this is so new. So much a miracle. I

 look down at his peaceful face and marvel that he was inside me,

 without air, less than a day earlier. This little boy, this breathing

 creature. This Rimbauer.

 I heard music from the general direction of the servants’

 quarters, and Sukeena tells me there is much celebration—food

 and dancing—in that part of the house. John has provided the

 staff spirits and wine. There is much revelry on my account. (I

 fear Rose Red will barely operate to-morrow, given the condition

 of our staff to-night, but no matter.) Word has spread quickly

 around society. Tina Coleman’s coach delivered a card requesting

 a visit, and I fear I shall be much besieged with such inquiries.

 I have asked Sukeena to prepare a bath, and for my girls to assist

 me in washing my hair, but she tells me it is too soon. A sponge

 bath is all she will allow me until my recovery is better contained.

 My hair may be washed, though in a bowl. In the morning, we

 shall make the most of me we can.

 Little Adam is so precious. When he drinks of me, I feel so

 good, so bursting with happiness, that I want to laugh for no reason

 at all. His hunger comes as great relief as my bosom nearly

 bursts at times with mother’s milk. Already we have found a

 rhythm of sleep and feeding and sleep again. He has not relieved

 himself, and Sukeena waits for this event as anxiously as I did my

 delivery. I don’t believe she has slept in the last two days, always by

 my side when I wake, always holding my hand as I slip back off to

 sleep. What a dear friend she has become. How did I ever exist

 without her as a sister? Those hands of hers, inside me, ensuring

 107

 a proper delivery. So gentle, so kind. So careful and understanding

 of my pain. Some day perhaps I shall dare to ask for the

 details, but not now. Now, I drift in and out of sleep, Adam at my

 breast, in the bassinet, at my breast. Sukeena’s blue-black face

 glowing in the gas ?ame. I see love in her eyes. I feel her love. I

 see hope and goodness. I shall remember this day forever—the

 passing of life from life, generation to generation. My husband is

 back in the hall outside my rooms. He is shouting, “I have a son!

 I have a son!” There is joy in this house at last. I only can hope

 and pray that it will last.

 108

 23 september 1909—rose red

 Good God in Heaven, I fear this house has a mind of its own.

 For the past two weeks I have strolled with Adam and Sukeena

 down the long halls of this grand house, just today revisiting the

 East Wing, an area I feel I have scarcely seen before. Here is

 located the Grand Ballroom, last used during the inaugural but

 kept wonderfully fresh and white-glove clean by our dedicated

 staff. I can still see the dancing, hear the orchestra (thankfully, I

 cannot smell the liquor, for since Adam’s birth my senses are

 severely heightened—I can hear at great distances and detect my

 husband’s cigar from opposite ends of this enormous Rose Red),

 recall the dashing band leader, and I am able to envision the

 women’s gowns in all their glory. While Sukeena held Adam I

 strolled the great room, reliving that wonderful party and beginning

 to anticipate the second of its kind, now only a few months

 off. Full preparations will begin in just a week or two, as I will

 organize the staff and we will begin to conceive decorations,

 entertainment, cuisine, invitations and all the details that must

 be attended to prior to this January the ?fteenth. This was, in

 fact, the basis for my visit today: to get a feel for the room again,

 the walnut-paneled walls of the hallway leading to the Ballroom,

 the grand oil paintings—portraits and landscapes—that John and I

 purchased in Paris and London while on honeymoon. I would

 like fresh-cut ?owers in the Mediterranean urns, and this will

 require our gardeners to work months ahead, as the only ?owers

 available will be forced bulbs, and I shall want them in quantities

 of many hundreds. (This climate seems especially favorable to

 bulbs, and I can foresee the day when farmers raise great quantities

 of them. I have already encouraged John to buy and clear

 land north of the city for this purpose, and he is considering

 working a deal with the lumber barons to take over the ground

 109

 they clear-cut, as this ground is virtually worthless to them once

 the trees have been taken.)

 After walking this wonderful room several times and explaining

 aloud to Adam where I envisioned the drinks, the seating and

 the entertainment, Sukeena and I (and Adam, in Sukeena’s arms)

 left the great room and reentered the impressive hall of the East

 Wing.

 That I fainted and Sukeena screamed is the only reason Adam

 remains unhurt, for if I had been holding him he would have

 fallen with me.

 There at the end of the hall, just prior to the top of the staircase,

 stood lovely Laura, our missing housemaid. Missing these

 many months! Her blouse hung open, partially exposing her bare

 breasts and dark skin. Her skirt was missing altogether, her ruf-

 ?ed underclothes untied and hanging open at the junction of her

 legs, her womanhood exposed, as I imagine some street whore

 presenting herself. She looked so terribly saddened—a woman

 recently ravaged—her hair tousled and her skin blotchy. I did not

 hear her voice, but I saw her lips move and understood clearly her

 words, nonetheless. “My skirt,” she said, looking at me and then

 down at herself and making the motions as if tying it back around

 herself. So pathetic. So ghastly!

 It was then I lost consciousness and fell to the ?oor. Then that

 Sukeena screamed—less from fear than it was calling for someone

 to help me. By the time I regained my strength, Laura was gone.

 Lost to this house—or taken by it—as she had been before.

 Leaving young Adam with a chambermaid behind locked doors, I

 ventured outside of Rose Red this evening for the ?rst time since

 the birth. John had gone off on “business,” which meant downtown,

 either to a poker game, to a business dinner or to places I

 had no desire to think about. With Sukeena at my side, we struck

 out for adventure, following a train of logic so easily seen: if

 110

 Laura had indeed been spotted in the Carriage House, and if she

 was now missing her skirt, then what were the chances Sukeena

 and I might ?nd this piece of evidence and help the poor creature?

 Perhaps it was that skirt, and that skirt only, that kept her

 locked in the netherworld in which we had witnessed her. (For I

 swear it was so: that woman at the end of the hall was a ghost, not

 any kind of ?esh and blood. Do not ask me how this is possible,

 for I know not. But it is with absolute certainty that I write this!)

 I must confess to feeling a bit like a teenager, my heart in my

 throat, as Sukeena and I elected to ?ee unseen from the West

 Wing via the narrow servants’ staircase that deposited on the

 ground ?oor between the Parlor and the Central Hall West.

 From there, with Sukeena as lookout, we crossed to the Gun

 Room, out to the exterior hall, between the Tapestry Gallery and

 the structural south wall, and down a long, stone corridor and

 through a door to the spiral stairs that access the west end of the

 West Wing, off John’s chambers. (I swear he uses this hidden

 stairwell to enter and leave the house without my knowledge.) We

 passed through the Bowling Alley to the swimming pool, and

 around the pool to the east doors that face Rose Red’s rear gardens.

 Sukeena is capable of moving without any sound. My

 African queen seems to ?oat above the stone, move ?uidly

 around corners and remain unseen, almost invisible. Upon

 reaching the garden, we both stopped to catch our breaths (me,

 far more than her) and waited for our eyes to adjust to the darkness.

 Oh my, but my chest hurt with the tension! Our ears

 clouded with the sound of the fountain, only a matter of yards

 away—directly between us and the Carriage House—we remained

 in shadow along the wall of the Pool House, well off the perfectly

 laid stone paths, electing a circuitous route through the plants,

 shrubs and ?owers.

 “I’ll have at it later!” came a male voice I did not recognize.

 One of the Carriage House staff, no doubt, preparing either to

 111

 leave the property for a beer or to retire to one of the dormitories

 we provide.

 Sukeena and I had chosen our timing carefully, as the

 Carriage House staff is usually dismissed and done for the day an

 hour or so after the return of the last horse or team. John having

 taken the motorcar to his “business,” it followed that the Carriage

 House would be quiet for the night (although John does park the

 motorcar in a modi?ed stall in the Carriage House and would be

 returning at a later hour). I assumed that Daniel, as head of the

 Carriage House, would make himself available upon my husband’s

 return, but Sukeena had it on good report that Daniel had

 a game of dice planned at this same hour, said to be under way in

 the skeet room of the basement—a room designed to launch the

 clay pigeons for skeet shooting from the Loggia on the north side

 of the ground ?oor, just off the Billiard Room. If true, Daniel

 would be hard pressed to ?nd himself any farther away from the

 Carriage House and still be on the property. That said, I thought

 it in the man’s nature to have a young scout placed somewhere

 about, keeping an eye out for the master’s premature return.

 Probably a son of one of his workers—someone paid by a piece of

 sausage or a few coins for his time. It was this scout that Sukeena

 and I sought to avoid.

 We settled in the shadow of a well-kept rhododendron on the

 northwest corner of the garden, only a piece of the rose garden

 between the fountain and our hiding spot. Directly across from

 us was the dark, looming structure of the Carriage House, now all

 but quiet, given its four-legged residents. (The pool, the west wall

 of the house, and the Carriage House combine to form an enormous

 courtyard, the only escape from the west where we were now

 ?rmly entrenched.) We waited for what felt like an eternity, my

 muscles complaining from the childbirth I had performed,

 Sukeena as still as a black rock. When we ascertained that all

 human voice was gone from the place, we sneaked ahead and

 112

 rushed across a small clearing of mowed grass, making for the

 Carriage House’s west entrance—its only entrance entirely

 screened from the rest of the house. If we were to confront anyone,

 it would be someone inside the Carriage House. (I had several

 rather clever excuses for the two of us showing up at the

 Carriage House unannounced like this, and even one or two that

 might help cover that fact so my husband would not ?nd out. As

 it turned out, we didn’t need them. At least not right away . . . )

 Sukeena led the way across the short open space and into the

 shadow of the Carriage House. I tell you, my heart felt ready to

 burst as I ducked and hurried through the garden and out across

 the short expanse of crushed stone driveway that accessed the

 Carriage House. We pressed our trembling bodies up to the

 building’s cool wall and tried to catch our breath. I glanced at

 Sukeena and nearly burst out laughing, I was so nervous. She

 remained stoic and impassive—hard to read. I don’t know if she

 enjoyed it half as much as I. Perhaps she feared losing her job—

 and it was only then I saw the dif?cult position I had put her in.

 She would not refuse me—not ever, I’m sure of it—and I had

 placed her in the awkward position of leading me into the mouth

 of the lion. (It is not that I am forbidden to visit the Carriage

 House, but to search it for a woman’s missing garment is another

 matter entirely!)

 After a moment of collecting our courage, together Sukeena

 and I calmly turned and entered through the massive open doors

 at the west end of the Carriage House, as if we had not a care in

 the world. The doors had been left open, presumably to allow for

 the return of John’s motorcar later this same night. It afforded us

 easy access as we stepped onto the wide redwood planks, a dusting

 of straw beneath our feet, the gorgeous Carriage House ?ooded

 in dim electric light, not a soul in sight. I have always loved the

 smell of horses, and entering the Carriage House brought me

 back to my childhood. The stall doors are made of wrought iron

 113

 and carved redwood and operate nearly soundlessly. (Daniel is

 the ?nest stable master in the state, by some accounts.) It is a

 two-story barn, the bottom occupied by horse stalls, room for

 several carriages, a tack room and a saddle room and Daniel’s

 of?ce. The upstairs loft is primarily for straw and hay storage,

 though several large rooms were constructed here for cold storage

 as well. I assumed most of these to be empty, as we had occupied

 Rose Red for less than a year, and these rooms were intended for

 “over?ow” storage. (Mind you, I can’t imagine ever running out

 of basement storage in Rose Red—it’s the size of a school playing

 ?eld.)

 Sukeena and I stopped many times, trying to discern the

 sounds and to separate man from animal. Thankfully, we heard

 no one, and so continued into the depths of this large barn. I will

 admit here, where I share my innermost secrets, that I was imagining

 the worst. If Laura was missing her skirt, I feared a man

 responsible. Need I say more? I feared Daniel’s participation in

 this matter—his allegiance to my husband is unquestionable. I did

 not forget Daniel’s disclaimer concerning Laura, made in front

 of all the staff. He had not seen Laura—or so he said.

 We passed stall after stall of some of the ?nest horses in this

 part of the country: Summertime and Rex are my favorites for I

 helped buy them, but all the horses here are extremely ridable

 and elegant examples of their breeds. John knows his horse?esh.

 In the middle of the building, we found the tack room and the

 saddle room locked up tightly. Disappointed, we continued on.

 Daniel’s of?ce was locked as well. We moved silently down the

 center hall, Sukeena careful to check behind us every few seconds,

 looking back toward those wide open doors at the west end, fearing

 someone might ?nd us out and beg an explanation. The stalls

 were bigger in this east end of the Carriage House, large sliding

 doors accessing one carriage after another—six in all, three to a

 side. The ?rst two were ornamental carriages—one a single-pull;

 114

 the other intended for a pair. We peered inside through the

 wrought iron. The pony carriage and the sleigh were next, followed

 by two large hay wagons, the last of which was rigged to hold

 a ?re-?ghting pump, if ever needed.

 I can offer no explanation for why Sukeena stopped in front

 of the door to the second to last storage area, no reason for her

 choosing the hay wagon, except to say that she is a woman of

 uncanny perceptions, an almost magical ability to “see” beyond

 where we mere mortals see. She stopped there as if striking an

 invisible wall, her head angled on her shoulders in a most

 unusual way, her eyes locked intently on the darkness beyond that

 door. “Is here, miss,” she whispered, in a nerve-grinding monotone

 she elects for only the most dire of discussions. That tone

 alone won my full attention.

 “Sukeena?”

 “I think we look here. This place here.”

 “All right.”

 I helped her to roll the large door open on its tracks.

 Intended to double as breeding stalls, these east stalls are substantially

 larger than those on the west end of the Carriage House.

 One learns not to question a sister’s instincts, and I had

 absolutely no intention of engaging my dear Sukeena in any such

 debate. The door opened nearly silently, and we stood facing a

 hay wagon that I knew well, for it was of sentimental value to

 John, having been in his family many years. I found myself trans-

 ?xed by the realization that this was also the wagon that had been

 driven by Mr. Corbin the day he shot and killed the foreman. It

 still carried bloodstains from that gruesome event. I shuddered as

 the door ran on its track again, and Sukeena pulled it shut

 behind us. Only the small viewing window, barred by wrought

 iron, communicated to the stable’s central aisle. I wanted out. I

 wanted to run from there. John spoke of this wagon often—it

 seemed many a childhood event surrounded the cart, including

 115

 the ?rst few dollars he ever earned, won from a neighbor for

 hauling away refuse. ( John entertained dinner guests with the

 story of how he’d started out as a garbage collector and ended up

 an oil tycoon!)

 Sukeena moved closely around the wagon as if it possessed

 some power over her. She touched it, closed her eyes, and I saw

 the hair on her arms stand on end, as if she’d thrown a window

 open to the cold. When her eyes reopened, ?xed now on me

 instead, I felt a wave of fear ?ush through me to my toes.

 “What?” I gasped.

 “We in the right place, Miss Ellen,” was all she said. Moving

 around the wagon, she came to the back where one could load or

 unload its ?atbed. She laid her wide, black hand down onto the

 neatly ?tted planks there and I believe for a moment the entire

 wagon trembled beneath her touch. Her face broke out in a shine

 as fast as anything I’ve ever seen, as if a fever now possessed her.

 Her jaw hung down. From her mouth came the unmistakable

 groans of a woman in pain. And I swear this is true: it was not

 Sukeena’s voice at all, but that of another woman entirely. I covered

 my ears against that cunning agony, for it is nothing a

 woman should ever be made to hear. Sukeena—or whoever she

 had become—snapped her head so quickly then I feared her

 unreal, for it was with the degree of movement an owl might

 demonstrate, and it turned straight back behind her.

 There, hanging from a stout hook, was a thick horse blanket,

 or perhaps a quilted throw used to separate delicate cargo while in

 the back of the wagon. A deep forest green, that blanket was

 stained darkly. Sukeena moved toward it as if in a trance, grabbing

 its bulk in both hands and jerking it away from the wall. As

 she did so, the bed of the wagon began to move again behind us

 all of its own—up and down, up and down.

 There, beneath the blanket, hung a woman’s black skirt.

 116

 With the squeaking of the wagon, we both turned around at

 once—and I for one was paralyzed by fear. There, on the wagon’s

 wooden ?atbed, vulgarly exposed to us, a spectral image of young

 Laura lay, her blouse torn open, her breasts exposed, her arms

 held back as if pinned, her legs spread wide, rocking her hips in a

 most ungainly and ugly manner that was not to be mistaken. She

 was being attacked—forced into this act—though her assailant

 remained invisible to us.

 Sukeena, God bless her, kept her wits about her. She snatched

 the black skirt from the hook on the wall and threw it toward the

 wraithlike creature undulating there on the bed of the wagon, a

 grotesque expression of pain plastered on the girl’s face. She

 threw the skirt as if covering an open ?re. As the skirt landed,

 both it and this poor girl vanished and the wagon came to rest. I

 swear I saw this with my own eyes! A moment later we heard voices

 approaching, male voices, deep and foreboding, and I do believe

 that this was when I fainted, the rumbling of a motorcar also

 approaching from far off in the distance.

 Sukeena shook me awake, having caught me as I fell, one hand

 clasped gently over my mouth to keep me from speaking and

 revealing us. It immediately became apparent that Daniel and one

 of his Carriage House staff had witnessed the approach of John’s

 motorcar and had returned to the Carriage House to help secure

 the vehicle for the evening and to greet the master of the house,

 my husband. All this occurred nearly simultaneously—the boisterous,

 lively discussion between the two men who argued over a

 dice game, the soft putt-putt and clatter of John’s motorcar

 pulling down the long drive and past Rose Red and into the center

 hall of the Carriage House, the oily stench of the car’s

 exhaust. The sudden silence.

 “Hello there, Daniel.”

 117

 “Sir. Earlier than expected.”

 “A visit to the docks and a brandy is all. I tell you, Daniel,

 there’s nothing as satisfying as seeing those barrels of oil safely

 put to bed and on their way to the Paci?c Isles. Money in the

 bank for little Adam is what they are. Money in the bank.

 Providing she has safe passage.”

 “I’m sure she will, sir.”

 “Expecting any ‘visitors,’ Daniel? Should I stay?”

 “You might ?nd the view from the tack room entertaining,

 sir. If I do say so.”

 “Who is she?”

 “A blonde, sir. A new one. Kitchen hand. As young as a green

 apple, sir. But lured to my company by the offer of pure Irish

 whiskey. Be along any moment, sir.”

 “Very well.”

 I overheard the exchange between the two men, and I knew

 Daniel had been the one atop Laura in the back of the wagon.

 Perhaps my husband had watched—for I know so well how he

 enjoys voyeurism. (Sukeena has found two mirrors in the house

 that, from hidden spaces, one can use to look in on both the

 women’s dormitory and the baths attached to it. Needless to say,

 these hidden chambers were not in the house plans that my husband

 shared with me over the course of our honeymoon!) How

 desperately I clung to the notion that it had been Daniel with

 young Laura, not my John. These were Daniel’s stables after all.

 Perhaps my husband knew—perhaps he was attempting to protect

 one of his most loyal employees.

 Sukeena moved us to the rear of the wagon as the voices drew

 closer. John and Daniel stopped immediately in front of the door

 to our room. In the dim light before us, the ghost of Laura reappeared.

 She had redressed herself, though her clothes remained

 torn and tattered. She stood at the driver’s bench, pointing in

 118

 the direction of the two men as if accusing them. She could see us!

 She wanted our help!

 John looked up, sensing something. And I swear he looked

 right at me, right into my eyes. Right through that ephemeral

 girl. He looked right at me, but not expecting me, did not see

 me. Or if he did, convinced himself it was illusion.

 I felt hot with anger—this waif of a girl used up, her disappearance

 lied about. That awful spectral image from the bed of

 the wagon haunted me. Perhaps he had intended to throw her a

 few coins for her service. Perhaps he had promised promotion.

 No matter. She was gone now. Swallowed by Rose Red, the same

 as Mrs. Fauxmanteur. It was then that I understood for the ?rst

 time not only what I would come to know for certain but what I

 intended to take advantage of for many, many years to come.

 Rose Red was on my side.

 Rose Red was my friend.

 119

 24 september 1909—rose red

 I take comfort in my dear child, Adam, his sweet innocence. So

 new is his existence in the world. What a blessing to start with a

 clean slate. I ?nd myself thinking about Mrs. Fauxmanteur and

 the beguiling Laura almost to the point of torment. Mr. Corbin’s

 ?irtation with murder and insanity. What kind of place is this?

 Rose Red, it would seem, discards men while stealing women.

 Sukeena and I talk often of it now, as she worries for me. (I am

 troubled to the point of nervosa—my hand shook so badly at supper

 to-night that I returned the soup saying I didn’t care for it,

 when in truth I couldn’t hold my spoon steady. John catches

 none of this; Sukeena sees all.)

 We wonder aloud, Sukeena and I, why and how the grand

 house makes its choices. Why have Sukeena and I been passed

 over in favor of our two sisters? Why not take all the maids of the

 house—there are some twenty of them? Why not “accidentally”

 kill a gardener or a groomer? Why the construction foreman and

 some of the workers? I look for a message in all this while

 Sukeena states very de?nitely her own beliefs.

 Rose Red, according to Sukeena earlier to-day:

 The house is inhabited by the souls of the Indians whose

 graves were disturbed during its construction. The foreman and

 others were held responsible for this atrocity, but now that the

 house is built and here to stay in all its enormity, its inhabitants

 shall pay, and pay dearly. It looks kindly upon me and Sukeena

 because we are victims of the men who built it as much as Rose

 Red herself. The truth of Mrs. Fauxmanteur may not yet be

 known, but Sukeena believes Laura was chosen because of her

 indiscretion with either Daniel or my husband. Rose Red has

 chosen sides in the age-old war of husband and wife. It does not

 dare kill John because he is the engine behind its continuing

 growth—he is making it bigger and stronger; it will not claim me

 120

 because I am the one demanding this construction of my husband.

 Together, John and I represent its only chance at life—that

 is, according to Sukeena, its continued expansion. The souls of

 the departed Indians have no room for warriors—and men,

 according to Sukeena, are all seen as warriors in the eyes of tribal

 leaders. Women, on the other hand, represent little threat, and

 few would dispute that a tribe’s true history is known only by the

 women, for they survive much longer than the warriors. Sukeena

 says Rose Red is not only punishing John and his mistresses but

 capturing the women to learn from them, to have them as company.

 She believes that as long as the construction continues, as

 long as John and I live here together, Rose Red will gain strength

 and that more men shall die, more women disappear. She advises

 me to order my husband to stop the construction and to sell the

 home. “No good can come of dis place, Miss Ellen. A woman

 should not raise her children here.”

 Over the course of the past two years, Sukeena and I have

 rarely argued. Our occasional disagreements have instead taken

 the form of informal debate, one point following another, with

 no raised voices or harsh expressions. But when she put forward

 her theory of Rose Red earlier this morning I expressed my

 anger in the form of a tantrum (which I now regret!). I told her

 she was meddling in African witchcraft, and I left her and the

 Drawing Room abruptly, without explanation. Since then, I have

 not seen her.

 Dear Diary, what a fool I have been! To risk my friendship

 with the one person on this earth who understands me, when

 deep in my heart I know my resistance comes more from a fear

 that she speaks the truth. Each part of her explanation haunts me,

 for it makes so much sense. And yet for it to make sense, I must

 concede that a house—a structure of brick, stone, wood and

 glass—can somehow be possessed of spirit, and this is a leap of

 faith that perplexes me, for though the eye does see, the heart will

 121

 not accept. A living house? Even one of this size, even built upon

 a hallowed graveyard, can surely not exist in the spiritual realm!

 Or does it? I ask, feeling myself haunted and without stability. My

 mind wanders. I am unable to hold a single thought for very long.

 Is this motherhood, or does Rose Red own me even now, while I

 remain unaware?

 My temptation is to call upon my dear friend Tina Coleman

 and to arrange another consultation with Madame Lu, and to

 present this possibility to the Great Lady (in ambiguous terms, of

 course) in hopes of establishing her opinions and guidance.

 Madame Lu’s connection to “the other side” could, quite possibly,

 provide me insight as to the validity of Sukeena’s suggestions.

 (Without mentioning Sukeena! The Chinese do not look kindly

 upon the Africans, of this there can be little doubt.)

 Underlying all this suspicion of reason on my part is the consummate

 belief that Sukeena possesses a wealth of knowledge that

 even Madame Lu may not match. Sukeena is my dark angel. She

 not only nursed me back to life in the African bush but in the

 process became part of me, a friend, a sister. There are times—I

 must confess here in the privacy of my writing—that I glimpse the

 small of her back or the curve of her hips, and I am taken back to

 my shameful lust for my Indonesian chambermaid. She rubs my

 tummy with oils in an effort to return it to its former shape

 before the birth, and I long for her strong hands to wander my

 body. (My husband and I have not been with each other in

 months, and since the birth I am loath to even think of our joining.)

 So sinful are these thoughts that I hardly dare write them

 here. But if not put down here, they are left to linger inside my

 thoughts, and that is far more destructive. (You will never know,

 Dear Diary, what a help you are to me. Once my thoughts ?nd

 their way into your pages I am free to start over. I am purged. I

 am certain, for instance, that once I lay my pen down by your side

 here to-night, I shall call for Sukeena and she shall come, and all

 122

 shall be forgiven. There is much talk in society of this foreigner

 Freud, and his formidable insight to the human condition—but I

 see no need to share with others that which I can place in your

 pages. You save me with your listening!) So it is with Sukeena and

 I—a mystery that has yet to fully unfold, not so unlike this house

 and the people who inhabit it.

 I return to your pages now after a brief and wonderful reunion

 with Sukeena. She made no objections to my suggestion of visiting

 Madame Lu, and to my relief will make the arrangements

 herself, having struck up something of a friendship with Tina’s

 handmaid, the woman named Gwen who joined us before.

 123

 27 september 1909—madame lu’s

 I can see now that John’s fascination with his heir is fading. He

 ?nds the smells, the crying, the spit-up, even the breast-feeding a

 bit too much to take. (This, despite the two nannies—one, a wet

 nurse who feeds Adam at night.) I suspect that when Adam is

 eight or nine—an age for hunting and ?shing and the like—my

 husband’s affections may rekindle, but for the time being he is

 absent, showing no interest in the boy whatsoever. His dawdling

 attentions lavished on me during my pregnancy are a thing of the

 past as well. I have carried his child. His ?rstborn was a boy. My

 purpose is served, I fear. Were I to have known that this was the

 life destined for me, I might have expressed reservations in consummating

 this marriage. Now, however, it is far too late for such

 decisions. I can only make the best—or the worst—of the situation.

 I labor for the higher ground, fearing the results if John

 and I entrench ourselves for a protracted battle.

 I will ask my husband back to my bed as soon as I feel my body

 recovers fully from childbirth. I see now that my joy and happiness

 in life is to come from the children. (Adam gives me more

 joy in my heart than I have ever felt. He is nothing short of a

 miracle. I have reason to live. Reason to love!) If I am here to

 make babies, make babies I shall, even though I alternate between

 loving my husband and despising him. Adam Rimbauer holds a

 place special and dear in my heart that no other person shall ever

 come close to occupying. I can’t imagine this feeling multiplied

 by four or ?ve! I can’t wait! I long for the sound of many small

 feet scurrying about this house! Damn John Rimbauer. I shall

 make a life for myself in spite of his womanizing ways.

 My arrival at Madame Lu’s felt considerably different today than

 it did when I viewed this part of town for the ?rst time. I will not

 go as far as to say I’m comfortable with Chinatown, but I am at

 124

 least familiar with this area of it, thus reducing my anxiety.

 Madame Lu, for her part, was most welcoming and accommodating.

 Again, I was in the company of Tina Coleman, and again

 Tina was responsible for much of the social talk to introduce us

 (the Chinese insist on this social exchange before any business is

 discussed). Finally Madame Lu glanced in my direction and spoke

 to me.

 “You wish ’nother visit, child?”

 “Yes, Great Lady.” (I follow Tina’s lead wherever possible.)

 She looked me over. “Something much troubling you.”

 “Our home,” I answered. “Our house.”

 She nodded. That enormous head falling forward like a stone.

 She wore a good deal of her hair in a bun at the back of her head,

 and yet the tail that spilled out of this nest was easily two feet long.

 All told, her hair must run ?ve feet or longer—as tall, or taller,

 than she is herself. “I in contact with people, child, not houses.”

 “Two women have disappeared in our house. One, a chambermaid.

 A young girl. She’s there still, but no longer ?esh and

 blood. I saw her with my own eyes. My handmaid saw her as well,”

 I said, indicating Sukeena. But the Great Lady would hardly

 acknowledge Sukeena’s presence.

 Tina Coleman gasped. Until that moment I believe she

 thought my entreaty might concern my marriage or my childbirth

 —at worst, the disappearance of Mrs. Fauxmanteur. A second

 disappearance (previously unknown to her) and subsequent

 ghost sighting appeared too much for her to bear. She engaged

 her fan, swiping the air with such force that some of her hair

 stood up on end.

 The big woman said, “I be little help to you, child. Not in

 house. Need be in house, speak to missing women.”

 “A séance?”

 “Need be in house. Not for me. Madame Lu never leave

 neighborhood. Dangerous outside neighborhood.”

 125

 “But I could send a carriage,” I said, immediately protesting.

 Tina leaned over and whispered, supplying quickly that

 Madame Lu would never leave this place—any of the powerful

 Chinese caught outside their own ?efdoms were subject to the

 whims of city police. Madame Lu knew better than to challenge

 these long-held principles. The city’s political structure is said to

 be rife with corruption, favor-peddling and nepotism. The city

 runs exceptionally well for its businessmen, and no one is prepared

 to challenge its structure. I didn’t like hearing any of this—

 I wanted to understand the goings-on at Rose Red—but I also

 recognized that despite the in?uence of my husband’s name in

 some circles, in the world of Madame Lu we barely existed.

 Tina spoke to the Great Lady, inquiring after someone who

 might perform the séance.

 “There is one I know,” Lu said. “Madame Stravinski. Only

 one. No other. Come Seattle not often. I write letter and see.”

 “I would be most appreciative,” I said.

 “You suspect husband,” she said bluntly.

 I felt my breath catch in my throat.

 “Tell me why,” Madame Lu said.

 I glanced at Sukeena, who looked as surprised as I did. Tina

 would not look in my direction. I wondered if I could speak

 freely in front of my friend. I saw no other course to take. I told

 Madame Lu about our recent experience in the barn and young

 Laura in that awful state of undress, legs spread on the bed of that

 wagon. Sukeena throwing the skirt. Laura gesturing at my husband

 and his stable master.

 Madame Lu’s face never changed. She looked at me impassively.

 “Has been dancing or celebration at house of late?”

 “My husband is generous with the dispensation of spirit, at

 week’s-end, there is often music heard in the servants’ quarters.”

 “Place where husband or stable hand might seen young girl

 dancing like this?”

 126

 “The servants celebrate. It sometimes goes on all night, I’m

 told.” Again, I checked with Sukeena. Again, Madame Lu did not

 let on that Sukeena even existed. My throat constricted.

 “Other lady missing. She know husband or stable hand?”

 “Mrs. Fauxmanteur?” I said. “Certainly not. She was a friend

 of Melissa Ray’s,” I said, pointing to my dear friend to my left.

 “Tea, was all.”

 Tina Coleman looked over at me with a face I took for the

 dead. It held no color whatsoever. Her lips looked yellow despite

 her application of color there.

 “Dear friend?” I asked.

 “I wish to contradict this notion of yours, sweet Ellen.”

 “Tina?”

 “As to the nature of the friendship between your ?ne husband,

 John, and my dear friend Melissa Ray.”

 “They knew each other?”

 She found her color as she blushed. “John . . . well, he’s

 been to the house on business, you see. Many times. My husband

 is an investor with your John. Did you know that?”

 My head was spinning. “Perhaps,” I mumbled. It seemed to

 me I did know this, though I still did not make the connection

 that I should have made.

 “They had met, several times. Mrs. Ray and the widow, Fauxmanteur.

 Your husband.”

 “Widow!?” I exclaimed.

 “They make friendship,” Madame Lu informed me, as if

 reading Tina’s mind. “Your husband understanding man, yes?

 Feel badly woman lost husband. Make friendship.”

 Tina confessed, “There were several dinners . . . while you

 were with child, and not feeling well . . . dinners John attended

 without you.”

 Madame Lu closed her eyes and added, “Husband offer his

 carriage.”

 127

 “And Melissa’s visit to our house?” I asked, my whole body

 numb. “For tea. It was her idea to bring along her friend. Tell

 me it was so.”

 Tina’s lips quivered. She looked to the ?oor. “Connie

 Fauxmanteur asked Melissa to arrange it. John . . . it seems John

 would not return Connie’s notes . . . and since it seemed unjust

 to Melissa that he should . . . for you see, she had con?ded in

 me the nature of their . . . their friendship.”

 “My husband and Mrs. Fauxmanteur?” I gasped. “Are you

 saying what I think you are saying?”

 Tina was in tears. Madame Lu looked carved from stone. The

 Great Lady said, “One must not look for that which one does not

 wish to see.” It sounded to me as if she were quoting. I’d never

 heard such a complete statement spoken by her.

 “I . . . want . . . the truth,” I said. I swear I heard my words

 echo in that room.

 “Madame Stravinski,” Madame Lu said without hesitation. “In

 Europe. I write note. I call for her.”

 “Do we wait weeks?” I asked. “Months?”

 “Years,” Lu answered. “Patience, my dear. In matters of the

 spirit, time is of little consequence.”

 128

 16 january 1910—rose red

 This day follows another extraordinary celebration at Rose Red,

 this time marking the second anniversary of our inaugural. To

 my great delight, the grand house remains under construction, at

 great cost to my husband. The facade of the house is much the

 same as a year ago, and so to the casual visitor little would appear

 different than during the inaugural a year ago, but in fact much

 has changed. I have ordered the complete remodel of the East

 Wing of the third ?oor, an area of some six thousand square feet,

 now designated “Adam’s Wing.” Once complete, there shall be a

 child’s library holding some two thousand volumes, a recreation

 room, a train room ( John’s contribution), a small gymnasium

 and a classroom.

 I wore the same gown as last year—repaired to look like new—

 and hope to make this a tradition. (I was so pleased to show the

 other women that I had recovered my form a scant four months

 following Adam’s birth! Some women never recover at all!) The

 gowns were among the most beautiful I’ve ever seen, blue velvet

 being the most popular. We served nearly seventy-?ve more couples

 than last year, the invitation list growing with the popularity

 of the event. Thankfully no one got lost or disappeared—how

 ridiculous that looks on your pages, Dear Diary, but oh, how I

 worried! I was in a frightful state all night, pacing the halls, escorting

 guests on tours, believing Rose Red might spoil our fun, and

 although the guests seemed to enjoy themselves, it required three

 tall ?utes of champagne before I fully relaxed. Alas, our grand

 house allowed us to enjoy its existence. (I wonder if it feels the

 presence of all the guests, if it celebrates along with us?)

 There is little to tell, other than the usual rumors of mistresses

 and misconduct. What ills society spawns! Our head chambermaid,

 Mrs. Watson, reported to me this morning that a

 129

 woman’s full set of underclothes was found kicked under the bed

 of one of the guest rooms in the East Wing. (She apparently left

 the party with nothing beneath her gown but that she was born

 with!) Such stories abound at all the best parties. John stayed by

 my side most of the night, and I know even he is not rogue

 enough to attempt such a tryst at his own party, so I’m greatly

 relieved to know he had no part in this, or any other such assignation.

 In fact, after the guests were gone (nearly four in the morning),

 my husband—a bit tipsy—found his way into my chambers

 and occupied us both until the sun skimmed the horizon. He is

 quite the spectacular lover, my husband, and I must say it was

 time we came together as husband and wife once again. I know

 that he harbors certain reservations about my womanhood, well

 aware of the suffering I underwent at childbirth, and since then

 he seems to ?nd it even a bit repulsive to think of touching me as

 a husband touches a wife, but the brandy apparently did the trick.

 He showed no reservation last night, and I returned a great deal

 of enthusiasm for the rite so that I might indicate my own satisfaction

 with his decision to visit my bed. Hopefully another four

 months will not pass before he elects to do so again. I will admit

 here to your pages that I am ready this instant. Just the thought of

 John’s embrace ?lls me with ardor. (I detest myself for succumbing

 to this power he lords over me. After all his transgressions,

 and there I lie in my bed hoping—dare I say it? trembling!—to

 hear his knock at my door! What kind of sickness accounts for

 such behavior in a woman? I dare not broach the subject with my

 friends, although Tina would be safe now that she knows so

 much!)

 Our party was perfect. Following that, our time in my chambers

 was perfect. I wonder if things are on track again. I wonder if

 whatever force brought tragedy into this home is suddenly gone.

 Perhaps Rose Red is a house, a building, and nothing more.

 130

 There is nothing to be afraid of. I repeat this phrase in my prayers

 and yet do not fully believe the words, the memory of Laura’s

 ghost lingers so boldly in my imagination.

 I want so badly to believe: Nothing to be afraid of. If only I could!

 131

 10 july 1910—rose red

 John’s partner in Omicron Oil, Douglas Posey, and his wife,

 Phillis, attended dinner to-night. We hosted six other guests, but

 they were inconsequential to the telling of this story. Our guests

 were invited, in part, to help us celebrate the amending of the

 state constitution in support of the suffrage movement. This

 week, Washington became the ?rst state in the land to allow

 women the right to vote. It has been a hard-fought campaign, led

 by many of my friends on the hospital board, and John has

 brought out the champagne to lift our spirits! We dressed the

 table in American ?ags and will eat off red plates (from the Far

 East) set on blue linen, with white napkins. It’s all very festive!

 I sensed tension between John and Douglas from the moment the

 Poseys arrived. (Douglas has purchased a splendid new motorcar

 that I know incites some envy on John’s part.) Within moments

 of the arrival, John took Douglas rather forcibly by the arm and

 escorted him into the Gun Room off the Central Hall West. I

 heard raised voices—as did all the guests. The Gun Room is a small,

 masculine space, wood-paneled with long glass displays containing

 John’s collection of ri?es. They started in the Gun Room,

 but within minutes their voices were coming from the Smoking

 Room. One passes through a stair landing to reach the Smoking

 Room from the Gun Room, and John must have taken Douglas

 by this route, or Phillis and I would have seen them pass through

 the Parlor. Our other guests were being served smoked salmon,

 Wisconsin cheese and drinks in the Tapestry Gallery. Phillis, as it

 turned out, wanted my ear as badly as John wanted his partner’s.

 I believed the tension between Douglas and John arose from a

 European contract that John had approved but Douglas had tied

 up in legal negotiations. Spain, it might have been. By delaying

 the contracts, another ?rm—Standard Oil, of all companies!—

 132

 had negotiated a separate deal, essentially reducing Omicron’s

 share of that market from eighty percent to less than ?ve, and

 costing John and the company tens of thousands a year. It is

 funny how you can be so sure of something only to ?nd out how

 wrong you are. I could not have been more wrong about the cause

 of their squabble. Yes, Douglas Posey had delayed the contracts;

 yes, it had cost John plenty; but the source of their disagreement

 was to come out in my secret and heated meeting with Phillis,

 Douglas’s distraught wife.

 She is a wife in name only, being some ?fteen years her husband’s

 senior. (In some ways they, as a couple, are a direct opposite

 of John and me. While Phillis has the business acumen,

 Douglas is the socialite. Phillis, previously married and the

 mother of ?ve grown adults, knows the ways of the world. Douglas

 is new to marriage and parenthood, just as I am. Beyond that, all

 comparison stops.)

 Phillis is a homely woman, wide of girth, deep of voice. Her

 black dress could have ?t me twice over. She is in the habit of

 cupping her hand behind her left ear when one speaks to her on

 this side, the result of a childhood injury when a young boy struck

 her with a snowball that proved more ice than snow. She smelled

 too strongly of perfume, and though a pleasant enough perfume,

 I’m sure, it played bitter in her company—tangy and sharp on the

 back of the throat. (She would have done better without it.)

 “I am vexed,” she said, a big gush of wind as from a bellows.

 “And I have no one to speak with, excepting you, dear child, for I

 do believe we are quite good friends.”

 I hardly knew the woman at all. This told me quite a bit about

 her social skills. Her husband was the one with the smooth tongue.

 She should have been business partner with my John. If society

 had allowed it, John might have considered this possibility.

 “What is it?” I asked, somewhat anxious to get back to my

 guests in the Tapestry Gallery.

 133

 “Did John tell you? Oh, my, I can see he did not . . .” She is

 a bit frightening when worked up—I think it’s her size. “John . . .

 It’s Douglas, you see. Perhaps my fault, when you get right down

 to it.” She looked at me, blushed and looked away. “Oh, dear.”

 Agitated to be kept from my guests, I was more forward than I

 might have otherwise been. “If there’s nothing to discuss . . .”

 “Oh, but there is!” She produced a handkerchief from inside

 her sleeve. Dabbing her eyes, although I saw no tears, she continued,

 “It’s our ages, I’m sure.”

 “You’re a young woman, Phillis,” I said as kindly as possible.

 She looks a bit homely.

 “Boarding school, when you get right down to it.”

 “I beg your pardon?”

 “Douglas . . . well . . . you see. He’s always preferred the

 boys’ locker room to the girls’—if you follow me, dear.”

 I did follow her. I hope I didn’t turn too grave a shade of red.

 There had been talk. This was the ?rst Phillis had ever mentioned

 it.

 She said, “It was a young man in the company.” John,

 Douglas, everyone associated with Omicron calls it “the company.”

 “An accountant,” she said. “A bookkeeper.” She lowered

 her voice to where even I, as close as I was, could barely hear her.

 “John walked in on them, you see? Compromised, as they were.

 Douglas’s of?ce, of all places.” She adjusted to her confession

 rather quickly, suddenly quite herself again. “I’ve known since

 before we were married. He was quite up front about it, dear

 man. Needed a wife to make the social circles, to be your husband’s

 partner. I ?t the bill quite nicely, despite the years I have

 on him. For my part, I don’t ask much. I take a young man myself

 every now and again.” She winked, and I found myself about to

 laugh. The idea of this woman with anyone was laughable. “An

 experienced woman knows to marry for position. One’s more

 134

 physical desires are quite manageable outside the con?nes of that

 agreement.”

 Was this how my own husband felt about it? Was our marriage

 made to suit the situation, while his appetites were another matter

 entirely? I did not share this attitude with my robust friend, but I

 kept thoughts on the matter to myself. “Go on,” I said.

 “Well, it’s just that. John caught him. Them! This very day.”

 It explained John’s foul mood. Usually, on the advent of a

 dinner party, he is quite entertaining and enjoyable company.

 To-night he had been snarly and gruff.

 “I do believe he has a mind to punish my Douglas,” she said,

 her jowls quivering. “And what I’ve come to say to you . . . to ask

 you . . . to explain . . . is that Douglas is quite helpless in all of

 this. It’s a bit like me and the gardener,” she said with another of

 those disturbing winks. “I hope John isn’t too hard on him . . .

 in terms of the business, Ellen. Douglas works so very hard.”

 “To let him go?” I blurted out.

 “They’re partners. He cannot ?re him!” she protested. “Not

 for walking the other side of the street.”

 I can tell you this, Dear Diary, my mother and her friends

 would have never discussed such things. Not ever. Not even

 cousins would discuss such transgressions. A man taking a boy was

 nothing new—except when he walked in your front door. They

 were stories, is all. Your friends did not do such things. But having

 had my own devilish temptations with the dark-skinned

 chambermaid, I knew that such lusts surfaced. I knew that fervent

 prayer was the only lasting answer. (I knew that I still secretly

 looked at Sukeena in ways and at times that were more appropriate

 for a man.)

 When Phillis laughed at her own jokes, she looked pitiful. I

 reached out and held her hand. I assured her I would talk to

 John.

 135

 “You are a dear.”

 “But I warn you, John’s his own man.” I doubted this was news

 to Phillis Posey. “Especially when it comes to business. And as to

 this other matter . . . the accountant. I rather suspect John will

 be more upset that it involved an employee, and that it was . . .

 that they were in the of?ce . . . and all.” I didn’t need these

 images in my head. “More that than whatever choices Douglas has

 made.”

 “But it isn’t a choice. Not for Dougie, it isn’t. He’s been this

 way since he was a young boy. He took to swimming, diving . . .

 The suits, you see?” she said, as if this explained anything. I did

 not want to think about it. “All that bare skin.” I assumed her

 amusement stemmed from anxiety, from her nervousness about

 approaching the subject, for she dealt with this problem of her

 husband’s in a most unusual way.

 For me, the conversation was far more revealing of my own

 situation than that of Douglas Posey. I could not in?uence John

 in this matter, nor would I try to do so. John is outspoken about

 homosexuals and has told me so often. He seems less troubled

 with women ?nding mutual romance than men. He has expressed

 openly to me the “indecency of one man touching another in any

 such intimate manner.” This, from a man who installs hidden

 mirrors in the lady-servants’ quarters. I can just imagine him

 lustily looking on as one girl soaps the back of another!

 But Phillis’s explanation of their marriage of convenience

 re?ected foully on my mood. Had I, in fact, been viewed as nothing

 but a brood mare—a fear that had lingered in my heart for far

 too long already? Had John justi?ed his unfaithfulness by qualifying

 our marriage as one of convenience: good family, good

 pedigree, breed her and keep her on to raise the children while

 he takes to the streets to satisfy his more pressing needs? Disgust

 welled in my heart, a bitter taste at the back of my throat.

 I spent the dinner as something less than a gracious hostess, as

 136

 preoccupied by these new concerns. I drank a little too much

 wine.

 John and Douglas Posey had emerged from the Smoking

 Room with their contempt barely disguised. I don’t believe they

 shared another word all evening—not even so much as a handshake

 good-bye. I retired to my room where Sukeena helped me

 get ready for bed, and I nursed dear Adam. (I think he may walk

 any day! He crawls—he’s fast as lightning—and pulls himself up

 and looks at me with the sweetest face as if to say, “Do I dare,

 Mama?” Sukeena and I encourage him: if there’s one thing a

 Rimbauer needs, it’s independence and strength!)

 The air was still, the night terribly hot. I lay naked on my bed,

 debating whether to wear a nightgown on such a sti?ing night.

 (The night nurse had returned Adam to his room.) Sukeena had

 gone to my dressing room to put away my silk hosiery and the

 black heels I’d worn to dinner. I felt the wine as a penetrating

 heat.

 John knocked and opened the door before I answered, and he

 saw me exposed there on the bed. It is odd, but rarely does John

 see me without my clothes. On those nights he comes to my bed,

 it is already dark as he slips in beside me. During our honeymoon

 he afforded me privacy, believing me modest, I suppose (and

 indeed I did blush quite a bit in those ?rst few days with my husband).

 But last night he threw open the door and saw me there,

 fully exposed as I was, and something came over him. He has

 rarely shown me the level of interest as he did in the moments

 after his discovery. He locked the door behind himself and was

 half undressed by the time he reached my bedside. I opened my

 mouth to warn him of Sukeena’s presence, but his mouth was on

 mine before those words found their way out. My God was he

 excited!

 I must confess my attention was not fully on my husband,

 knowing that my handmaid was basically in the room with us, and

 137

 the electric lights still on! Sukeena had no escape, for there is no

 exit from the dressing rooms other than through my chambers.

 She could not have escaped our union if she had wanted to (and

 I’m sure she did!). As John unleashed more ardor toward me

 than perhaps ever before, we had a witness. Was he trying to erase

 the thoughts of Douglas Posey’s fascination with boys? Was he

 drunk to the point that a naked woman prone on fresh linen was

 too much to bear? (Even if it was his wife!) Whatever the case, his

 advances . . . the lengths to which he went (which will certainly

 not be discussed here!) reminded me that a man and a woman

 can still make discoveries about each other well into a marriage. I

 bit down on my wrist and ?nally took to stuf?ng a corner of a

 pillow into my mouth before I woke half the city. In the midst of

 our most excited moment, I glanced over John’s shoulder only to

 see Sukeena’s dark face staring out from the doorway to the dressing

 rooms. Sukeena, smiling back at me. And though I cannot

 explain it, the knowledge of her there looking on drove me to a

 heightened passion. Finally, I slumped back to the headboard,

 sweating and panting, and ?ushed from my chest to my knees.

 Without a word, John redressed, kissed my forehead, and left

 my chambers.

 A moment later, Sukeena slunk from the shadows of the

 dressing room and made for the door.

 “Don’t go,” I said.

 “Sukeena sorry, Miss Ellen.”

 “I’m not, dear friend.”

 “I should not have looked.”

 “I don’t mind that you did.”

 She looked at me timidly. “Sukeena sorry,” she repeated.

 “It isn’t always like that.”

 “The heat, Miss Ellen. The heat do strange thing to a man.”

 She moved toward the bed cautiously, for though she had seen me

 fully undressed a hundred times, never quite in the state I was. “A

 138

 pillow, Miss.” She indicated my bottom. “Use the pillow, you

 want the child.”

 Another child . . . My heart skipped little beats. Use the pillow

 you want a child. I used two pillows, though I suspected none

 was needed. Never had my husband been quite like that. I imagined

 that if ever there was cause for a woman to be with child, I

 had just experienced such a moment.

 And I know that I am right. I am with child. If true, it will be a

 spring baby.

 139

 9 april 1911—rose red

 We will call her April, for that is the month of her birth, but the

 Devil delivered this child and the Devil’s she is. The childbirth

 was unbearable, the doctor working at my bedside for nearly

 seven hours to save my life and that of my child. She has been

 born with a withered arm, and I’m told that arm would not allow

 a proper birth, and so they cut me, and then cut me some more

 and ?nally took the baby by a means only ranchers use—but

 thankfully my doctor was raised on a sheep ranch. She lives—little

 April with bright blue eyes and John’s sturdy looks. She will be

 my last child, I’m told, and I’ve been sick with grief over it. They

 saved my life, but not my womanhood. Whatever accounts for a

 woman having babies, I am now without. Barren. Just the thought

 of it prevents me from getting out of bed. I have not left my bed

 in a week (April was born on the ?rst day of the month—the second

 anniversary of Laura’s disappearance!), not that the doctor

 would let me get up, but I wouldn’t have even if he had allowed it.

 No more children. No more reason to be in this family with this

 man whose seed is so foul as to wither the arms of his young—for

 Sukeena explained that my illness in Africa is to blame for April’s

 deformity. I hate my husband. I hate my life. I hate this house

 that holds us all like prisoners. I shall stop writing now, for I hate

 even you, Dear Diary. I hate reading back and seeing a time where

 a choice still existed in my life. What have I done? Who is this

 creature I have married who would—intentionally or not—poison

 our children in conception!? Who are these whores he takes up

 with that their venom ends up in the roots of our family tree? I

 hate them all. You, them, everything.

 140

 21 may 1911—rose red

 My mood has improved in the weeks since my last entry. I could

 not even look at these pages for so long. Could not review the

 decline of my life and the tragedy of my marriage. Today, in the

 blossoms of spring and the music of the songbirds, I sit in the

 garden with Adam playing ringtoss with his nanny, with April at

 my side, your pages open on my lap, a pen in hand.

 I am delighted to say another maid has gone missing. Giddy

 even. It is a girl identi?ed by Sukeena as having had intimate

 relations with John prior to that hot July night when April was

 conceived. It is a girl I wanted ?red, but one whom Sukeena suggested

 remain in our employ. And then I understood. It was then

 I ?xed my prayers to this girl. Prayers made to the other side. I

 begged for her demise. I offered my April’s withered arm as

 example of evil. And I waited patiently for a response. Sukeena

 made a doll. She covered it in black paper and hid it in a drawer.

 To-day, we have our answer. While John and the rest of the

 house mill about anxiously searching for the young waif, I sit

 proudly quiet in the sunlight of the garden, a wry grin allowed

 upon my lips. Let them bring on the police. Let them bring on

 the dogs. They will not ?nd her. Let them ask all the questions

 they like—they cannot conceive of the truth (ah! there’s that word

 “conceive” again, appropriate as ever!). The police have no idea

 of the spirit that inhabits this place—if they did, they would burn

 her to the ground. Burn her like a witch. Rose Red has claimed

 another disloyal subject. And I swear she feeds off it! She looks

 bigger to-day. She does! More impressive than ever. Or perhaps

 it’s just me.

 Such a ?ne, ?ne day is this. I mark it here in your pages for

 little April to someday know that her arm has been avenged. At

 least partly.

 I’m not sure I’m done with my prayers just yet.

 141

 I laugh into the sunshine. Little Adam looks up and laughs

 along with me. The nanny looks slightly disturbed at this levity,

 given the disappearance. But I laugh just the same. Let them call

 me crazy if they want. I’ve connected to Rose Red.

 I do believe that I’m beginning to understand her.

 142

 23 june 1912—rose red

 With dear little April over a year old, and young Adam growing

 like a weed, I re?ect on the year just past and how our lives here at

 Rose Red have ?nally settled down. Perhaps this can be attributed

 to the fact that John took nearly four months in Europe and the

 Far East, opening up new business for the oil company. (His

 geologists believe there is oil to be found under the deserts of

 Saudi Arabia—of all places!—and John has put this and neighboring

 countries under contract to allow Omicron to explore.) With

 John gone, the house seemed to take a rest, and once again I

 found myself discounting my suspicions that Rose Red could be

 thought of as a person.

 To-day I have dreamed a horrible thing. Just how it will affect

 those of us at Rose Red, I have not the slightest. In my dream, a

 bridge collapsed. It was very high, spanning a torrent of water not

 unlike Niagara Falls, where John and I visited following our

 return to New York from our year abroad. This bridge fell into

 that torrent and killed dozens of people, their screams swallowed

 by the roar that engulfed them. It is not my ?rst vision. It shall

 not be my last.

 I admit to you, Dear Diary, that I have not felt terribly stable

 since praying that young tart into the clutches of this grand

 house. Sukeena, God bless her, has gotten to the truth of the

 young vixen, Delora (the Christian name of the girl), and it was

 nothing like I thought it was. (I bear the burden of a tremendous

 guilt over my prayers now!)

 According to one of our Oriental maids, a girl named Kathy,

 Delora White had complained to her about her situation with the

 carriage master, not knowing what to do. It seems that like young

 Laura, one of her assignments took her to the Carriage House at

 least once a week, sometimes twice. It was here that Daniel began

 to ask questions—often just following a visit (an arrival or depar-

 143

 ture) by my husband, in motorcar or on horseback. The questions

 seemed peculiar to Delora—how often she got out, whether

 or not she had boyfriends on the staff, where she came from, how

 often she spoke to her family. But the real questions that stung

 her were about loyalty to “the family,” the Rimbauers. To John

 and me. To John. She reportedly replied that she owed the family

 everything and would do anything for us.

 This is as much as Sukeena knows, but I fear I have done this

 child wrong by my prayers to remove her. It sounds to me as if

 Daniel, at the very least, and quite possibly John himself, has

 been working with the minds of the young housemaids, testing

 how far their loyalty will carry them. To what end, I need not

 guess. What else could Daniel be asking of girls like Delora, but

 to submit to a man’s needs? Theft? This house does not need

 money. Deceit? To what end? No, I think it is quite clear what

 Daniel asked of her.

 What intrigues me now, however, is my mistaken assumption

 that my prayers were responsible for Delora’s disappearance.

 Perhaps not. Perhaps I do not know this house as well as I

 thought. Perhaps Rose Red herself feels sorry for these young

 girls, holding them in her arms, as she does, while they are in the

 midst of unspeakable acts demanded of them by their employers.

 Perhaps these disappearances are missions of mercy, not of condemnation!

 What if she is protecting them from within? What if

 their blind loyalty to this house later causes guilt on the part of

 the very house to which they’ve sworn their loyalty? What choice

 would Rose Red have but to save them from themselves, to transport

 them through her walls to rooms where they will live safely

 forever? This might further explain why men die and women disappear

 in these halls.

 Now, more than ever, I wish to commune with Rose Red, to

 enter within her and divine answers to these outstanding questions.

 Madame Lu once offered to put me in touch with Madame

 144

 Stravinski, and I am remiss for not following up on this offer.

 Whether a month or a year away, I feel the absolute necessity for a

 séance. Here. On this property. With my husband in attendance.

 (I am amazed that John has expressed an interest in both he and

 Douglas Posey attending. He’s openly curious about the event.)

 Perhaps Laura is there and can speak. Delora? Maybe the grand

 house, the lady herself, would condescend to communicate with

 those of us responsible for her birth and growth.

 I feel light-headed with just the thought! A séance. The

 chance to hear the voice that lurks behind the walls of this enormous

 edi?ce. Rose Red. Here. In person.

 I shall not make another note in these pages until that day

 does come!

 145

 24 june 1912—rose red

 Reading back, I see I lied! (Here I am writing again already! I

 can’t leave your pages!)

 Oh, Dear Diary, tell me this isn’t happening to me! First, my

 daydream about the bridge, during yesterday’s nap. Then, to-day

 in the paper, front-page news that the bridge at Niagara Falls collapsed

 yesterday. Forty-seven people fell to their deaths. How did

 I know? How did I see this as it was happening? What power lurks

 inside me? What is happening to me?

 I know the answer: Rose Red has found her ways into my

 dreams . . . into my soul . . . and I am powerless to stop her.

 146

 23 july 1912—rose red

 John is quite excited by the possibility of war. I will never understand

 men, except to say that John believes it will expand his oil

 business considerably, and if there’s a way to gain riches, John

 Rimbauer is ever aware. There are reports to-day that the Brits

 have ordered their powerful Navy into the North Sea, in a

 buildup against the Germans. These same reports say that the

 Germans attempted to corner the Brits into signing a mutual

 declaration of neutrality, but the Brits would have none of it.

 John believes a business trip to Europe is imminent, perhaps for

 as long as six months or so, and has asked that the children and I

 join him! To be free of Rose Red!! I accepted his offer immediately,

 until he informed me that Sukeena would have to stay, to

 make room for the children’s nannies.

 I am unsure how to interpret his request. Is it that he has

 come to fear Sukeena and her insights? Does he know about her

 questioning some of the staff about Delora’s disappearance? Does

 he wish to leave her behind, with me away, so that harm can come

 to her? Or is it that he’s lifting the skirt of one of the nannies,

 with me unaware? I withdrew my acceptance immediately, and

 John stood his ground: the offer for a European trip stands, but

 Sukeena is to remain behind.

 I postponed my answer for a day or two. Meanwhile, I must

 make Sukeena busy. There is more here than meets the eye.

 147

 10 november 1912—rose red

 I write with little Adam about to fall asleep on my lap, pressed

 against my bosom, his small face warm, his little hands twitching

 as he can’t decide whether to sleep or get up and roam the room.

 I have dismissed his nanny, Miss Susan McConnell, for the present,

 content to be alone with my child, the heir to Rose Red. Oh,

 heart, how can I love so? My children ?ll and occupy a place in

 me that sings of contentment and satisfaction. If only I had

 known life could be so ful?lling and whole! I fear I married for

 all the wrong reasons—society and wealth—when in fact one

 should marry for family and love I know now.

 I am driven to these thoughts, no doubt, because John is still

 away in Europe. I considered taking the children, traveling with

 him, but used the excuse of an epidemic in?uenza in that part of

 the world to remain at home (in protest of his refusal to allow

 Sukeena to attend me on the voyage). I pray for my husband’s

 health. I have had a letter or two. He writes of business and the

 likely expansion of war, one of a very few who might bene?t by

 that prospect. I hear little of his social activities beyond the mention

 of the occasional dinner with a few of our acquaintances,

 and my wife’s heart fears the worst. I know the man he is. Live

 and learn. It troubles my imagination to think of him alone in

 his ?ve-room hotel suite, his chauffeur-driven motorcars, his

 late dinners and his brandies.

 As to events here at Rose Red, I am saddened to report the

 death of our stable master, Daniel—one of my husband’s most

 devoted employees. I have written John of our loss (I know this

 news will devastate him!), but he will not receive the post for

 another several weeks at the earliest, and by then Daniel will be

 buried and all but forgotten.

 One can imagine such accidents are commonplace enough for

 stable hands, and thanks to some quick thinking on the part of

 148

 Daniel’s staff, this house was spared another round of scandal.

 But mark my word, this man’s horri?c death was no accident! In

 point of fact Rose Red reached down and took another man’s

 life—the fourth such “accidental” death in a little over two years’

 time.

 Of?cially, the police determined he was trampled to death,

 found as he was in the stall of a young stallion who is known to get

 quite high of spirits when fed straight oats—a misfortune of inexperience

 on the part of one of the stable boys, who fed him a

 bucketful. In point of fact, Daniel was found in the very same

 wagon stall where Sukeena and I witnessed the ghostly specter of

 Laura’s misfortune. Mind you, Dear Diary, there is no horse in this stall

 to have trampled poor Daniel to death, and as stated earlier, only

 the sharp wit of a stable hand (who moved Daniel’s broken corpse

 to the stall occupied by Black Thunder and then relaid straw in

 the wagon stall to cover the spillage of blood) saved us from the

 undue attention of the police and society. This house and its

 employees have seen so many bizarre events that we have begun to

 protect one another. The fast-thinking stable hand, a boy named

 Dirk, shaken as he was by the events of the evening, was provided

 several bottles of claret, subsequently drinking himself to unconsciousness.

 (Sukeena’s remedy, as she wisely suggested I quickly

 buy this boy’s silence while formulating a plan. In John’s absence

 the running of this house falls ?rmly on my shoulders. In the

 morning I plan to offer him a month’s wages and promotion to

 stable master for his silence.)

 I once believed trouble comes in threes. Now, I simply believe

 that trouble comes. One learns to get out of its way. Daniel

 invited trouble and was, at least in the opinion of this great

 house, expendable. My husband, who may or may not be guilty

 (all evidence suggests he is!), is too valuable to Rose Red to be

 sacri?ced. No matter what others may believe, it is my conviction

 that Rose Red is behind all of this: she brings out the worst in

 149

 men, she gobbles up women—she judges, sentences and condemns.

 (I am told that Daniel was so badly trampled that only his

 belt and boots lent to his identi?cation. He was not killed, but

 executed.)

 Another life passes through Rose Red. Another life is claimed.

 The scriptures have never been more accurate in their promise of

 Hell for those who sin. Just ask Daniel. Why this pleases me so, I

 do not know. I feel guilt over the pleasure I take in such matters.

 Yet whatever force did spirit Mrs. Fauxmanteur and the others

 away (to points unknown) also left the corpses of four men

 behind (?ve, if you count poor Mr. Corbin who will rot in jail!)

 to pay for their part in whatever activities occupy the long nights

 at Rose Red.

 She is watching us all. And though John may claim the title, or

 even pass the mantle to me in his absence, we would all be well to

 acknowledge that there is only one master of this house. It is a

 mistress, indeed. It is the house itself. She governs all. No one

 leaves without her permission.

 150

 4 september 1914—rose red

 The events of the past several years are too numerous to recall.

 Concerned that my writing this diary somehow contributed to the

 disappearances and deaths here at Rose Red, I have abstained

 from these pages for far too long, especially given that two more

 women have vanished from our grounds—one a gardener, the

 second a “gypsy” child whose very presence here is questionable.

 This second disappearance brought the police once again—this

 time at John’s urging, since accusations included that John had

 been seen with the woman in the docklands the night before

 (thankfully this rumor was put to rest!). John was nowhere near

 the docklands that night—he and I had attended a hospital dinner,

 not returning home by motorcar until well after midnight,

 both of us retiring to our chambers.

 Now, with the war raging in Europe, with John away more

 than he is home, with Sukeena claiming that several times she has

 seen all the missing women dancing together in the Grand Ballroom, I

 ?nd I must pick up my pen and write. You, Dear Diary, were

 never the cause of any of this, and I was a fool to think so. Once

 again, I entrust my most private thoughts to your pages, con?-

 dent that only my eyes shall ever read these words. (Woe be to

 anyone, anywhere, at any time who violates the privacy of these

 pages! May a curse be upon you. If you have read any of this, you

 know these pages are for me, and me alone.)

 They picked a new Pope yesterday in Rome. Benedict XV. I

 am Protestant, as is John, but I wish the Pope would visit our

 grand house and explain what or whose spirit it is that possesses

 it. The Indians? I fear it is them. They have graves to ?ll—graves

 that we dug up. Surrogates will do, I suppose. “Please form a

 line . . .” Like a ticket box of?ce for a show.

 Sukeena tells me that the staff thinks I am crazy, that I have

 lost my mind (we chuckle at this together). I do spend a good deal

 151

 of time in my chambers, for my African fevers reoccur, sometimes

 for days or even weeks at a time. The rest of my time is

 spent in the gardens or alone with the children—rarely taking

 dinner with John or showing myself around the house. The children

 occupy my every well moment, my every well thought—and

 let the servants think what they think. No person should be made

 to endure such fevers—and I fear my April, who also suffers horrible

 ills, shall die of my husband’s vile poison if I don’t seek a

 solution outside of what medicine can offer.

 For her part, Sukeena is my sister now—having taken the place

 of your pages these past several years, listening for hours on end

 to my complaints, my fears and my loves. It has brought us closer

 than I ever imagined two people could come. She knows my every

 thought before I think it, anticipates my every need before I voice

 it. If I did not know better, I should think this dear woman is

 reading my mind.

 The reason for my taking up my pen, the news that I write of

 here is this: after nearly three years of waiting, three years of

 repeated appeals, my wishes have been heard. Madame Stravinski

 is to hold a séance, in this house, this very evening. I am so excited!

 We have invited eight guests including the Poseys. John has

 resigned himself to participation (I believe the curiosity is killing

 him). Needless to say, of those invited, all women save John and

 Douglas, some may believe such an endeavor foolish—a necessity,

 in my opinion, for I wish to judge their reactions. Should

 Madame Stravinski connect with the other side, I wish to measure

 my own beliefs against those around me. Sukeena has openly

 expressed her hostility for the Madame Stravinskis and the

 Madame Lus of this world. (Sukeena’s powers and abilities in this

 regard are beyond question.) Partly because of Sukeena’s distrust,

 I have invited only dear friends whose opinions I can rely upon,

 whether believers in the supernatural or not. Time will tell how

 we judge this enterprise. Excitement ?lls the air. All but four ser-

 152

 vants have been asked to remain in the dorms or dwellings.

 (Madame Stravinski does not want any human disturbance inside

 this house when she attempts to make contact.)

 I await this evening in the way April or Adam awaits what lies

 beneath the Christmas tree.

 153

 4 september 1914—rose red, evening . . .

 I had to run back upstairs and jot down this note because I do not

 want to lose these thoughts to the séance that is scheduled to start

 momentarily. The event is to take place in the Ladies Library, to

 the north of the Grand Stair, beyond which lies the Billiard

 Room (we should have never designed such a feminine space to

 adjoin any such male haven, even if not connected by a doorway!).

 Sukeena and I were checking up on Madame Stravinski, a

 withered old woman dressed in colorful silks and shawls and

 wearing excessive jewelry about her wrists that clatters with every

 twitch of the hand, as she had asked to spend time in the room

 alone “preparing” herself for the séance. (Sukeena suggests she is

 “preparing” the room as well, the implication of fraud apparent.)

 As we reentered to check up on her, I did overhear my husband’s

 shrill complaints to Douglas Posey through the bookshelves and

 wall that are shared with the Billiard Room. John made it quite

 clear to Posey that their “interests” were no longer the same, that

 war presented unparalleled opportunities, and that not to exploit

 such times out of a fear of being seen as ruthless was to miss the

 point of war entirely. “War is born of pro?t and loss,” he thundered,

 “in varying degrees, whether speaking economically or in

 terms of human life. Pro?t and loss! Which side of the equation

 would you suggest we fall on? Yes, we’re strangling the competition.

 Yes, we’ve cut deals with the Europeans. But not the

 Germans, Douglas. We are not turncoats! We are businessmen.

 Holding down supply, on the one hand, while pro?ting greatly in

 the other.”

 “And costing our own military in the process,” Posey complained.

 “Pro?ting by denying a free market, pro?ting from government

 war money while controlling that market for ourselves. I

 won’t have it. I won’t be a part of it.”

 154

 “Business! Pro?t and loss. An oil company is in business to

 make money.”

 “I want out. I’m going to sell my shares.”

 “No.”

 “I have every right. Read the partnership papers.”

 “You sell your shares now, and people will question the stability

 of the company. It’s always the case. Now, of all times. No,

 Douglas. You mustn’t.”

 “You can’t stop me.”

 “I’ll buy them from you.”

 “What?” Posey’s shock registered.

 “The partnership also provides for that.”

 “With what? We have every cent into that Texas pipeline.”

 “Leave that to me,” my husband said. I confess, I feel John is

 making a huge mistake. Douglas Posey’s shares have to be worth

 millions. John will have to go to every banker he knows. He might

 bankrupt us. “I will pay cash, and though we must report the sale

 to regulators, we will make nothing of it in the press. Neither

 you, nor I. You owe me that, Douglas. Where would you be without

 Omicron?”

 “A good deal happier, I expect,” Posey said. “I owe you nothing.”

 “You owe me your shares,” my husband said in a voice that

 brought chills even to me, a room, a world away. I expect had it

 been the Gun Room instead of the Billiard Room, one or both

 would have laid dead on the ?oor.

 “And you shall have them,” Douglas Posey said.

 With haste, Sukeena and I made it into the Central Hall East

 in advance of my husband and his partner leaving the Billiard

 Room, the click of the door opening behind us. We hurried the

 length of that splendid corridor and ducked into the Grand

 Ballroom instead of allowing ourselves to be spotted loitering at

 155

 the base of the Grand Stair. John would not take kindly to even

 the possibility of eavesdropping—he guarded his business dealings

 in the cloak of extreme secrecy and attributed his success in part

 to this.

 Winded, and out of breath, Sukeena and I pressed our backs

 alongside the great oil paintings that dominate the Grand

 Ballroom. We could reach the Entry Hall to our right, and the

 Parlor just beyond, where my guests were waiting the commencement

 of our séance.

 I have sneaked up just now “to powder my nose” to make note

 of this encounter in your pages. I shall now return to the Ladies

 Library to meet our guests and our guest of honor.

 I know not what lies in store, but it has been an eventful

 evening already—and it hasn’t of?cially started!

 156

 5 september 1914—rose red

 I could not wait until the light of morning to put to pen the

 events of this evening! I shudder with fear and delight at what I

 have just experienced and shall endeavor to put it down here just

 as it happened, from start to ?nish.

 Madame Stravinski is seated when my guests and I are summoned

 to the Ladies Library. A little giddy, perhaps apprehensive, as it

 were, we were directed into our seats by the wizened woman and

 told to remain silent. Only Sukeena stays standing in de?ance of

 the instructions (directly behind our guest of honor). The two

 exchange furtive glances, Sukeena winning the day, and Madame

 Stravinski makes no more of it. At this point, not to be outdone,

 my husband stands from his chair and starts an energetic pacing

 that continues from this point forward. Madame Stravinski,

 understanding from whose pocket her hefty fee was to come,

 proves in no mood to challenge John, and a good thing too,

 given his obvious agitation and disapproving nature. This leaves

 Douglas Posey the only man at the table. I sit facing her, at the

 opposing head of the table. Between us, in the center of the great

 oval table, rests her crystal sphere, a glass object the size of a

 human head, which sits upon a jeweled base of gold, or similar

 metal, and proves to be within the extended reach of the

 medium.

 She calls for the lighting of candles and the extinguishing of

 all electric lights in the grand house. Thankfully, she made these

 instructions earlier, upon her arrival, for it required three of our

 four staff on hand and nearly forty minutes to render the house

 in darkness. Alas, it is but a minute or two to secure the various

 rooms of the ground ?oor and for our staff to return to light the

 candles and dim this room’s electric lamp for good. At that time,

 157

 our medium calls for total silence. Only our breathing and

 John’s impatient footfalls disturb this peaceful blanket.

 Next, Madame Stravinski calls upon us all to connect by hand.

 Only Sukeena refuses this instruction. Even John joins in the

 fun, moving his chair between me and Tina, taking my hand, but

 interlacing his ?ngers in hers. (This was my ?rst experience with

 jealousy where Tina is concerned. What was it I sensed between

 my husband and my best friend? Dare I think such a thought?

 Are such suspicions founded, or do I see deceit and deception

 around every corner now?)

 With all of us holding hands, and only the dim ?icker of candlelight

 shifting shadows on the walls of books, Madame

 Stravinski closes her eyes, asks us to bow our heads and speaks in a

 chilling, unvarying tone. “Great house that does surround us,

 open your doors to a visitor who has come to greet you.” She

 speaks in Russian or German next, perhaps repeating herself, I

 cannot be sure. My husband speaks a little of both, perhaps he

 understood her mumblings.

 I must admit to a certain degree of awe. Whether it was just my

 own body or an effect divined by Madame Stravinski, I swear to

 your pages that the temperature of the room did drop substantially.

 I also swear that the ?ickering ?ames of those candles did

 dance from the wicks as if a door had been thrown quickly open

 and a gust of wind had entered the room.

 Madame Stravinski is, by now, locked in something of a

 trance, her head bowed slightly, her eyes closed. I see across the

 table to my guests, my friends, and observe their astonishment—

 for clearly they expected a hoax, not the events we have just witnessed.

 The medium’s mutterings gain volume and clarity as she

 speaks to no one, her words gaining speed to where they pour

 from her mouth in a waterfall of syllables and half-formed sen-

 158

 tences. She is calling upon the house, the “grand house,” and

 requesting she be allowed through its doors, through its walls. In

 the midst of this chanting, she opens her eyes at half-mast and

 reaches out for the glass orb before her on the table. She looks

 different, not at all herself, younger perhaps, yet frozen in time.

 Again a great gust of cold ?lls the room and runs up my legs.

 That glass orb begins to glow—I swear it!—and tendrils of light, like

 a goo, climb up out of it and stretch for the ceiling. At once, the

 candles are extinguished by this wind, the only light from the

 swirling blue and green tendrils overhead and that glowing specimen

 of glass held between her withered hands. I think of my

 daughter, April, and her poor withered right arm, I think back to

 my prayers so many years ago as I was forming the children’s hospital

 that I would never know what to do if one of my own children

 was born deformed. Did I bring this upon April? Or did

 my husband, by passing me the African curse? Can I save my

 children? Mustn’t my husband pay for his sins? Question after

 question is running through my head, as I sit perfectly still while

 confronted with the agitations of my guests. Only Madame

 Stravinski, Sukeena and I remain unmoving and un?inching.

 Even John is visibly upset as he breaks his handhold with me and

 jumps to his feet.

 As he does, there is great chaos in the room. The shelves rattle

 and books start slipping to the ?oor. Only one or two at ?rst,

 then a score or more. The next score of books take ?ight, sailing

 across the room, aiming themselves at John and careening into

 the opposing wall of letters.

 “Sit down, please.” It is from my throat that my husband

 receives his instructions, and yet it is not of me. This voice, dark

 and clouded, jumps from me to Madame Stravinski, and then

 back to me again. “Sin is where it starts, sin is where it stops.

 Build me to the heavens, or the next man drops.” First from my

 159

 mouth, then Madame Stravinski’s. A moment later, everyone at

 the table is chanting in unison, and my husband shakes in his

 chair, to which he has returned. Douglas Posey stands to leave the

 room, and a volley of ?ying books strike the door and push it

 shut before he can escape. I tell you, Dear Diary: all that I write is

 true, as far as it is from any experience on my part.

 The room’s twin electric lamps begin to swing. Slowly at ?rst.

 Then huge sweeping arcs, back and forth, back and forth. And

 there’s that wind again.

 “Build me to the heavens or the next man drops.” We are

 shouting now, loudly, all of us. Even John, whose jaw appears to

 move independently of him, to move in spite of him.

 Without warning, Madame Stravinski seems to shed a skin of

 dark shadow, like a snake in season. This darkness rises out of

 her, and over her, part ghost (like that I saw in the barn, only

 black not white), part alive. It looms over the table, and we all

 stop chanting at once, for it seems about to do something, to

 attempt something, and it’s quite clear that whatever it intends

 involves those of us surrounding the table. “Come to me . . . ,”

 says that darkness in a dry, deep voice that raises my hackles.

 Sukeena steps forward and grabs Madame Stravinski’s glass

 globe, attempting to wrench it from the table. She is consumed in

 a sudden burst of light, she appears to be nothing but a vague

 shadow as she strains to remove it.

 In an instant, Sukeena is thrown back off her feet, sailing

 through the air like the books only moments earlier. Crashing

 into the closed door, she sinks to the ?oor, out of breath and

 dazed. I leap from my chair—ducking from the books I expect to

 attack me, and am surprised when none ?ies.

 If this wasn’t enough, it is only as I break from the séance to

 rescue my dear friend that the wind and the sound of it stops—

 stops as if a window were shut—and, here’s the impossible part to

 160

 believe, the candles reignite themselves. Silence settles over us all.

 That dark shadow that loomed above our medium is gone.

 Madame Stravinski is awake. Eyes wide open, she stares directly at

 John Rimbauer.

 “What?” my husband calls out, dangerously loud, for his ears

 have not yet lost the singing of that cold wind.

 The medium merely stares at him.

 “What?”

 She does not answer.

 John storms from the room, Douglas Posey immediately on

 his heels. “Rubbish,” Posey says, though not terribly convincingly.

 He’s as wide-eyed as the rest of us.

 “My God!” I exclaim, feeling the knot on Sukeena’s skull.

 “What have you done to her?”

 “Everyone out!” Madame Stravinski declared. “You two stay,”

 she added, indicating Sukeena and me. “The door,” she said, once

 the room was cleared (the guests were only too happy to oblige).

 “You’ve hurt her!” I complained.

 “She interfered,” Madame Stravinski explained without

 remorse. “But I heard the message just the same.”

 “What message?”

 “The message for you, child. The message from Rose Red.”

 I glanced around the room at the devastation. A full half of

 the books were now on the ?oor—the wind had driven droplets of

 wax from the candles, spilled them onto the bookshelves. I shuddered.

 That spilled wax made the wind very real to me.

 “What message?” I asked, though more weakly this time.

 “It has promised you life. Life forever. Life without fear of

 death. Life without fear of illness. Your fevers will never return.

 As long as you keep building, so you shall live. This, I believe,

 answers a prayer once made by you. Your prayers are answered

 now. Life without death. Life . . . without . . . fear.”

 161

 The medium collapsed in her chair, sagged across an arm, half

 on the table, half on the chair. She appeared unconscious.

 “No listen, Miss Ellen.” Sukeena muttered her ?rst words.

 “No listen to this evil.”

 “Life without fear,” I whispered. “Life without death.” I

 looked around the tossed room again, held my friend tightly in

 my arms and squeezed. “Rose Red has answered my prayers!”

 162

 10 october 1914—rose red

 To-day, as Lyman C. Smith, of Smith-Corona typewriter fame,

 dedicated the tallest of?ce building in all of Seattle, the Smith

 Tower, construction on the newest wing of the largest private

 home began. (I often think Lyman and others are jealous or

 envious of John and challenge him with these engineering

 accomplishments!) Here at the house, horse-drawn teams

 dragged plows and broke the earth while hordes of Chinamen

 shoveled furiously, ?lling wagons by the score. It is as if my former

 fevers—I have not taken ill since the séance—have spread to

 the project itself. I have hardly slept in the last month, working

 tirelessly around the clock on the plans and the arrangements to

 continue the construction of Rose Red. I fear I am leaving the

 children a bit too much to the governesses—I am told that April

 will sit for hours sometimes in front of the great working model

 of Rose Red and talk to the house in words that no one but she

 understands. They have called this state a trance, though I am

 loath to accept that. All children spend time in their makebelieve

 worlds, April just a bit more than most. She’s an unusual

 girl. Nothing wrong with that. More important now is that I live

 on for my children, that I live to help them through this life, and

 Rose Red has made her promise, and I am not inclined to dismiss

 it as lightly as my dear Sukeena. (She remains infuriated with my

 acceptance of the séance and Madame Stravinski’s “performance”

 as she refers to that captivating evening. We were the talk of the

 town for weeks!)

 Hour after hour the workers outside the window toil. The new

 wing is to extend beyond the Pool House and Bowling Alley so as

 to not be seen from the approach, to not damage the continuity

 of the look of the grand house. It will add some six thousand

 square feet on two ?oors, twelve thousand square feet in all. A

 163

 pittance of what is to come! We are adding three visitor suites, a

 four-room home for Sukeena, complete with her own kitchen, a

 Bird Room, a Map Room and more schooling facilities for the

 children, as well as a Projection Room so that we might view

 motion pictures in the comfort of our home. There is to be

 another pool—a hot pool this time, with salts from Europe, for

 cleansing of the spirit and treatment of arthritis, from which I

 suffer since the birth of our second child. This pool will be made

 available to my women friends—women only!—for those who wish

 to purge the ills of city living. John has no doubt arranged for

 another of his viewing closets to overlook this women’s pool, and

 though loath to accept it, I see no way to stop its construction,

 given that the ?nal say with the foreman is John’s and John’s

 alone. (This condition I could not negotiate with my husband.) I

 know such a room will be built and that I shall never ?nd its

 entrance. I can imagine my husband enclosed there, my dear

 friends without garments (for the salt will harm the fabric), seen

 as God will have them. My husband leering. And him not knowing

 that I know. (If possible, I may try to arrange an act or two to

 stun his curiosity! I am not without a sense of prank when it

 comes to John.) I will not blame him for these transgressions. I

 have brought it upon myself by denying him any access to my

 chambers. Those days are over. With motherhood prevented by

 April’s unfortunate birth, I see no reason for union with this

 horrible man. He can ?nd his pleasure elsewhere. (And he does,

 I’m sure!) I take my pleasure from motherhood. It suf?ces for

 me. It ?lls me as a man never could. As a man never will again.

 The new wing shall rise from this hole in the ground now

 being dug. It shall rise and give me extended life, as promised by

 Rose Red herself. I swear at times I hear her. Not just the creaking

 of an old house but the voice that inhabits it. A woman’s

 voice, low and foreboding. A voice I heard utter from my own

 164

 mouth. A voice that perhaps my little April hears too as she sits

 playing with her model.

 As to that, take note, Dear Diary. With these complaints of my

 daughter’s continuing meditation on the brilliant model of Rose

 Red, I elected to take tea on the upper Loggia. I instructed for

 April to join me, and that her model be placed there as well, so

 that I might see her playing with it, might come to understand the

 nature of these complaints from the governess.

 Daughter and mother did spend a lovely afternoon basking in

 the fall sunlight, warm and pleasant on the skin. I had tea and

 scones, and April ate a scone or two herself, a rare treat for me

 since it is dif?cult to get April to eat anything at all. She played

 with the large working model of the home while her mother

 angled her wicker chair to face west, where the new wing’s excavation

 was partly to be seen. I must have spent the hour there, April

 just behind me and to my right, explaining to my child the construction

 yet to come, how the new wing would rise from where

 once only lawn existed, would rise to ful?ll our dreams and to

 hold our love, one to the other.

 Finally, the sun cooling and my fever beginning to rise again

 as it does so many late afternoons, I turned to instruct my little

 wonder with her withered arm that it was time to move inside for

 the day. I turned to offer my hand to her, to help her stand. I

 turned, my voice catching in my throat.

 There on the red Italian tile of the Loggia’s ?oor, I looked

 down upon the architect’s model that April had so long ago

 claimed as her dollhouse. I reached out for my daughter’s one

 good hand. And I gasped at what I saw beneath my child’s pointed

 ?nger, a devilish grin owning her face.

 The working model of Rose Red had a new addition, complete

 and perfect, every window, every chimney in its place. The new

 wing, exactly as I imagined it in my mind.

 165

 That wing had not been there on that model when our tea

 began. Under my daughter’s care, that model had grown the wing

 all of its own. The model of Rose Red is alive, and the grand

 house along with it.

 166

 12 october 1914—rose red

 It is with heavy heart that I report the latest tragedy. As wife and

 mother of his children, I appreciate John Rimbauer’s business

 acumen, the wealth he has accumulated, and I avoid, as much as

 possible, contradicting him in this regard or offering unsolicited

 advice; this, despite the fact that I do not hold the man himself in

 much regard. Today, however, I am desperate with dread over his

 treatment of his former partner, Douglas Posey, a man whom

 others continue to view as his partner despite secret negotiations

 that have reduced Douglas to an employee (though a rich one at

 that!), for I fear my husband’s actions were motivated by disapproval

 of Douglas’s private choices rather than the man’s business

 wherewithal. Oh, if that’s not the pot calling the kettle black!

 While John lifts the skirts of his dockside whores he condemns

 Douglas for taking up with his pale young men.

 This morning Douglas appeared at the front door of Rose Red

 and was announced by his footman there. A butler hurried

 through the house searching out John and found him in the vast

 library and study off his chambers, where my husband puts in

 much time. John took his time responding, ?nally descending

 the Grand Stair in a slow procession that I am certain was

 intended both to make Douglas wait as well as to indicate John’s

 regal attitude as concerns his former partner.

 I had made a rare visit to the Kitchen, just beyond the Grand

 Stair, to sample a soup to be served at a ladies’ luncheon (I am

 hosting the board of the children’s hospital lunch) and so was in a

 position to overhear the Lord and Master of Rose Red as he

 greeted our guest.

 “What is it, Posey?” John Rimbauer called out, still sixty feet

 down the Entry Hall. Lined with his African game trophies, the

 Entry Hall is a very masculine, very ominous place, all those glass

 eyes bearing down on one. The dead heads of former predators.

 167

 Dead souls. I hate the place at night—being watched like that.

 Teeth glaring. The architect’s working model of Rose Red has a

 home on a corner table by the front door and is only moved at

 April’s request, shuttled around the house by butlers each day for

 her entertainment. We keep a bouquet (nine dozen fresh ?owers)

 on a sideboard in an Egyptian urn halfway down the Entry Hall, a

 new bouquet every three days, and the ?owers throw color into

 the hall where much is needed. I bought that urn the same day the

 bandits tried to rob us in the market, the same day Sukeena

 reduced them to cries of abdominal pain as we walked past to our

 safety. That urn serves as a reminder to me that to pass by it is to

 acknowledge such powers as Sukeena possesses. Nothing is as it

 seems. The African maid is a witch doctor. The house is alive.

 The lady of the house is half crazy—or more than half, depending

 on the day.

 My husband stops halfway down that long hall, his eyes as dead

 as those of the beasts overhead. “Servants’ entrance is in the

 back.”

 “I’ve made some mistakes, John,” a quivering voice acknowledged.

 “I would like to talk to you about coming back on.”

 “Not possible. I’ve a company to run. I’m busy.”

 “You cheated me!”

 “Nonsense!”

 “You convinced me to sell my stock. And now, in just six

 months—”

 “You threatened to sell your stock, Douglas. Is your memory

 so poor? I offered to buy it from you—above market value, you

 may recall—in order to keep that transaction, those shares, from

 ?ooding the market and setting off a selling spree. You were only

 too happy to sell. That our shares have doubled in six months is

 tribute to a good product and ?rm management—management of

 which, as of today, you are no longer a part. This, because of

 your own despicable actions and promises made that were bro-

 168

 ken. End of discussion. Walter!?” John summoned our doorman,

 who appeared miraculously through the doors of the Grand

 Ballroom. “Show our guest out.”

 Walter obediently opened the door. It is cold this October.

 Colder than I remember.

 Douglas did not move. “I’ve gambled some in the market,

 John. I could use some help.”

 “Our guest will be leaving.”

 “Please.”

 “Now!” John said sharply.

 “Go to hell,” Douglas Posey mumbled, not really meaning it,

 I fear.

 169

 thanksgiving day, 1914—rose red

 Young Adam is ?ve years old, April three, and for the ?rst year

 both children understood the signi?cance of Thanksgiving. John

 was delightful with the children, telling the story of the Pilgrims

 and the ?rst Thanksgiving. The sun blessed us with a fall day to

 remember. It had been cold of late, but not today.

 The servants had their own gathering in the Carriage House—

 nearly ?fty for Thanksgiving dinner. John provided them seven

 fresh turkeys and bushels of yams, carrots and peas. Cases of

 wine. The day was one of much celebration and served to remind

 me how peaceful a place this can be when in high spirits. I think

 that John’s break with Douglas Posey has proved to be a wise

 move. He has been much calmer these past several weeks, less

 given to unexpected outbursts of temper. He even played with

 Adam—something unheard of these past several months. (He has

 arranged for the construction of a giant toy train to occupy an

 entire room in the children’s wing. Complete with mountains,

 forests, bridges and stations, it is to be an exact replica of the

 Seattle area and to utilize some nine hundred feet of toy railroad

 track, a quarter ton of modeling clay, a dozen gallons of paint

 and six thousand toothpicks—in one bridge alone. Adam is to

 have the Christmas of his life!)

 Oh, Dear Diary, thank you for the good times that outweigh

 the troubled. Thank you for Sukeena, for the children, for our

 good fortune. Bless those who have gone missing when inside

 these walls, and give them rest.

 We have had no grave tragedy within this house for some time

 now. I hope and pray it shall stay this way. Perhaps Madame

 Stravinski saved us. Construction continues unabated. This

 house is growing daily.

 170

 20 february 1915—rose red

 This family continues to pay for the sins of its father. I fear my

 children may never recover from this latest incident, and I am

 loath to prevent it, to stop it now for it has already happened.

 The events of this story were not personally witnessed. Instead,

 they are put here in ink through my own interpretation of

 Sukeena’s having spoken in con?dence with young Adam. (He

 would only speak to Sukeena, and no one else.)

 This afternoon, Douglas Posey came to visit. He did not

 announce himself at the front door, was not greeted by one of the

 doormen. In fact, if the events of this day are to be explained—

 sawdust was found on his shoes—it would appear that Douglas

 entered the house via the new construction to the west. His

 motorcar was found parked alongside the main road, pulled off

 into the trees. From there, he hiked the hill and crested to the

 west of the new construction, approaching Rose Red from a side

 where he might go unnoticed, as alas, he must have so done. His

 next accomplishment baf?es me, as mother to our children, for

 we employ no fewer than two governesses, Miss Crenshaw and

 Miss Dunn, and three other dedicated nannies, including April’s

 wet nurse, Miss Helms, whom we held over to care for the children

 when her primary purpose had been served. The sole

 responsibility of all these women is to watch over the children.

 Nonetheless, for reasons that are not immediately explained, the

 children went unattended on this day, at the particular hour that

 I now relate here to your pages.

 Somehow Douglas managed to make his way from the new

 construction through the Pool House and the Bowling Alley to

 the south stairs. If one goes down these stone stairs, one is led to

 the Game Room, where John butchers and hangs his deer and elk

 after a hunt. Up these same stairs leads one to the West Wing and

 our chambers—John with ?ve rooms including his private study,

 171

 and me with seven, including my dressing and ?tting rooms. It

 was a cunning move on the part of Douglas Posey, for excepting

 the chambermaids who clean and service the linens, and the butlers

 who attend our ?replaces and chimneys, these rooms and

 hallways go unoccupied—except when I am in?rmed, of course,

 more often than not these days, but as it happens, not on this day

 when I felt quite well.

 Particularly vexing is that had any of those under our employ

 encountered Mr. Posey, he or she is not in the position to report

 it. John has long had installed in this house a strict rule of con?-

 dentiality, as he carries on secret business meetings (or at least

 that’s the reason he gives!) and can’t have word getting out. (He

 is, in fact, said to be investing in an aero company with his good

 friend Bill Boeing. I think it’s a waste of money, personally, but

 John says aeroplanes will be important to the military.) So had

 any of the servants seen or encountered Douglas Posey, they

 would not have mentioned it anyway. They would be loath to do

 so. Whether anyone did see Douglas as he entered remains

 unclear. We all saw him leave.

 It is no easy feat to reach the Parlor undetected, especially from

 where Douglas Posey began his surreptitious entrance into our

 grand home. He understood the house well enough, and its

 internal politics, to increase his chances. The Parlor’s window

 looks out on the U-shaped pebble driveway, the Fountain

 Garden, which offers a welcoming splash of color year-round,

 thanks to our busy staff. He has been to the second ?oor plenty of

 times himself, to partake in one or another of John’s many secret

 business meetings, and even knows several of the staff by name.

 One can only imagine why a person would go to such lengths as

 did Douglas Posey, but if there is one thing I have learned from

 my time in the company of John Rimbauer, it is that there is no

 predicting the human condition. The man Freud can make all

 172

 the claims he wants (he is said to attribute nearly every phobia and

 fear to the physical intimacies between man and woman—sex!—

 disregarding in the process the drive for sustenance, survival and

 power). I trust someday his ?ndings will be disproved, despite

 their apparent accuracy where my husband is concerned. What I

 will never understand, since I once imagined Douglas took a keen

 liking to the children, is why and how he chose the Parlor, knowing

 how fond Adam is of playing there. Perhaps his decision

 stemmed from the presence there of an oil portrait of John that

 hangs over the ?replace. My portrait hangs in the Entry Hall,

 along with John’s game trophies—the similarity of our situations

 has not escaped me. These portraits were commissioned while we

 were in London at the end of our honeymoon, and I must say

 they seem lifelike, the work skillful though unimaginative.

 Indeed, John’s portrait—looking so digni?ed—hangs with a view

 across the Parlor and out an opposing window toward the drive,

 as if surveying his domain and contemplating his dominion over

 same.

 I can scarcely write the words, and without the high spirits that

 ?ll my glass would feel helpless to do so, but the story must be

 told, and so, what I have been told of it follows.

 Adam was the ?rst to enter the Parlor, on one of his “safaris”

 where he encourages his sister, April, to forage ahead of him in

 the great hallways and make like game, as Adam attempts to track

 her. (Little does poor Adam see or understand the signi?cance of

 this practice to Sukeena and me—like his father, the game he

 stalks is a young girl! He must wonder why we discourage it so.)

 He had missed a cue and lost April as she dodged into the

 Smoking Room—a room she is forbidden to enter, but girls will

 be girls. Adam swung open the door, his popgun held at shoulder

 height and ready to “?re,” and apparently looked down that ri?e

 barrel at Douglas Posey, who was himself halfway up a small

 wooden stepladder that is kept in a closet off the gallery to assist

 173

 in the positioning and hanging of the artwork. Around the man’s

 neck was a length of hemp rope fashioned as a noose. He stared at

 young Adam, the boy’s physical similarity to his father impossible

 to miss.

 A moment later, dear April with her withered arm clutched

 tightly to her spare frame ran in behind her brother, in anticipation

 of surprising him and winning their little game. She too was

 confronted with the sight of John’s former partner up that ladder.

 Douglas Posey tossed his hat to the boy (for he had come to

 our house dressed head-to-toe as a cowboy!). Then he saw the

 girl and made a gesture toward her as well. Through the air

 ?oated a long-stemmed red rose. (Douglas is very much aware of

 the nickname of our grand house.) April’s one good hand swiped

 the air and stole the rose from its descent, the thorns tearing her

 ?esh and eliciting from her a sharp cry of pain.

 Douglas Posey stepped off the ladder and bounced in the air,

 his eyes never leaving my little girl until they bulged from his ?orid

 head, a blue pallor overcoming him. Adam claims he heard a loud

 snap, like a limb succumbing to the wind of a northwesterly blow.

 He pulled the trigger of his popgun and its cork ?ew through the

 air and struck Douglas square in the chest, for Adam is a crack

 shot like his father before him. Adam said Douglas “danced,” his

 legs “jumping like when the Negros do the tap at their parties.”

 His tongue sprang from his mouth, a swollen stiff mass, which

 was when both children screamed at the top of their lungs.

 April was found with her hand bleeding slightly, the rose still

 clutched ?rmly in her grip. Her eyes had never left the body.

 Adam was called back from his hands and knees where he tried

 unsuccessfully to retrieve his cork from just beneath the body,

 fearing he had somehow killed Douglas himself and not wanting

 anyone to ?nd the evidence.

 Across the Parlor from where Douglas swung from the hemp,

 his distorted eyeballs nearly bursting from their sockets, he stared

 174

 (if the word is appropriate here) at the life-sized portrait of his

 former partner, my husband, who, it just so happens (and some

 say that Douglas surely knew this), was at that very moment

 pulling into the driveway and up to the house returning home.

 From his vantage point in his motorcar, John saw Douglas

 Posey, his stated enemy, swinging from his neck in the large

 expanse of window that ?lls the center of the Parlor. Douglas

 offered him only his backside, stained as it was with life’s ?nal

 excretion.

 I think every servant on the property heard April’s scream.

 She hasn’t spoken a word since.

 175

 26 february 1915—rose red

 For the last week I have devoted every waking hour to my children,

 dividing my energies between Adam and April, though

 spending far more of my time with my daughter. I do not know

 how the male mind works, but suf?ce it to say Adam’s recovery

 seemed almost immediate. Whether there will be longer-lasting

 effects of his witnessing the suicide I do not know, and I do confess

 to these pages that I am fearful Douglas Posey’s death will

 linger within him and surface for some time to come. Little April

 is another matter altogether. Neither John nor I, nor the governesses,

 nor Sukeena, can get her to utter a single word. She sits,

 for endless hours at a time, staring at the architect’s model of

 Rose Red. She dragged it in front of the ?replace in the Parlor

 and there she sits. She screams wildly if anyone attempts to move

 it, or her, for that matter. The staff has been directed to work

 around her, to leave her alone, and not to address her unless

 instructed, for her outbursts are paralyzing. I am apparently the

 only one she will tolerate even near her. So, mother and child

 occupy the Parlor, the hissing of the logs, the sharp popping of

 the pine sap combusting the only sounds. I have taken to knitting,

 for I ?nd reading impossible in this state. In truth, I stare at my

 daughter’s back, awaiting some sign of a return to normal. Twice

 I have lost my temper, though not for several days now, ?nding

 her silence insolent and enormously frustrating. I also, for a

 time, felt her prisoner, as if she had concocted this state of hers,

 taking advantage of the poor man’s suicide as a means of capturing

 me into her web. I have spent more time with her in this week

 than in the previous six months combined. (I fear this re?ects on

 me poorly when viewed in the written word, but one must be

 reminded of my own in?rmity.)

 I have secretly ordered Abigail, one of the children’s understudy

 nannies, to photograph the Rose Red model each night

 176

 before retiring to bed. This, on account of my troubling impression

 that it is subtly changing in appearance. I could swear that

 wings appear and disappear from one day to the next, and that

 the degree of these changes directly re?ects the amount of time

 April sits staring. (I fear, Dear Diary, that she is, in fact, not

 “staring” so much as “sharing” herself with the model, with Rose

 Red. As absurd as this sounds, I tell you it is true: she enters a

 kind of trance in the company of that model and does not come

 out until the ?re dies and the room goes cold.)

 This leads me to another entry here in your pages that I have

 resisted putting to ink for several nights now. It is time, for I fear

 the results if I keep such things locked inside me:

 My dear Sukeena came to me the other night with a look of

 pure fright on her deep blue face. I inquired immediately what

 was ever the matter, and she would not speak to me until we

 found ourselves sequestered in my chambers, with the door fully

 bolted. Our conversation went something like this:

 “Sukeena! What is it?”

 “It’s her, Miss Ellen.”

 “April?”

 “The house. Her! Rose Red.”

 I awaited her, expecting to hear more. When she was not

 forthcoming, I prodded her, compelling her to speak. She

 appeared spooked—there is no other word for it. “Please,” I

 ?nally obliged her.

 “Maybe not the Indians,” she said.

 “What is not the Indians?” I asked.

 “Me thinking, miss. Me listening. Listening to April, miss.”

 “But April has not spoken for nearly a week.”

 “Not to us, miss.”

 “Sukeena?”

 “It like a wind, miss. A wind all ’round that child. A wind like

 a voice . . . like many voices. Whenever she ’round that toy . . .

 177

 that Rose Red dollhouse. It why she no want me near. She knows I

 hear.”

 “What are you saying?” I felt exasperated. “My daughter is . . .

 is, what? . . . speaking to this house?”

 “The house speaks to her, miss. Me think maybe not the

 Indians.”

 “You’re speaking of the disappearances.”

 She nodded, still afraid. It is not often I have seen her afraid.

 Not Sukeena.

 “What if . . . miss. If you think of it as ?re. Fire, miss. Fire

 on our insides, Miss Ellen. Like that.”

 “Life?” I gasped.

 “The power of life, miss. Yes. The ?re. And what if . . . what

 if the house needs this ?re for itself ? The way you and me need

 our food. Like that. Fire, like that.”

 “Not Indians.”

 “No, miss.”

 “Not the burial ground.”

 “Not saying the Indians aren’t here as well, miss. This place

 feels crowded at times.”

 She was right about that. We’d all felt it. Even the servants. We

 weren’t alone in this house. The occasional, unexplained Indian

 artifact surfacing in our collection seemed to support this spectral

 presence.

 “Are you saying . . . ?” I found myself grinning nervously. I

 felt terribly uncomfortable. I did not want to express what I was

 thinking, but we had come too far for such reservations. No walls

 exist between Sukeena and me. “Are you saying the disappearances

 . . . ?” She nodded, knowing exactly where I was taking us.

 “That Rose Red is feeding on these disappearances?”

 “Sucking the ?re out of them, miss.” She nodded solemnly.

 I sputtered a little laugh, not at all comfortable now.

 She said ominously, “I think it has to do with you, miss. No

 178

 question about that. This house loves you. But I think it takes

 them others for the ?re that’s inside them. It living off that ?re,

 Miss Ellen.” She added, “And the bigger she gets, the more she

 need to eat.”

 I shuddered. “But we’re building her bigger,” I reminded her,

 willful of Madame Stravinski’s decree.

 “Maybe that woman,” Sukeena said, meaning Madame

 Stravinski, “she working for the house. Maybe that was the house

 talking, not her.”

 “I don’t believe that,” I whispered. Construction on the house

 is scheduled years ahead. “As long as I keep building . . .” I did

 not say it, but I was thinking: then I’m immortal! What I did say was,

 “I trust Madame Stravinski and what she told us about Rose Red.”

 I added, “My fevers are gone.”

 Sukeena knows me well enough to leave it at that. I suppose I

 should not have been so heavy-handed as I was, for I fear I put to

 an end any further discussion on the subject. Sukeena rarely

 glares at me, but on this occasion she did just that: a wide-eyed

 leer of contained anger. I attempted to begin again.

 I asked, “It’s living off the life of the girls that have disappeared?”

 She would not answer me.

 “And what of the men who have died?” I inquired.

 “That between you and the house, miss.”

 “Me and the house,” I echoed, feeling a chill. A window

 open? I wondered.

 “The house protecting you.”

 “Mr. Corbin was not protecting me,” I objected. “We had

 never met.”

 “That man done shot the one man running the construction,

 Miss Ellen. That man Corbin—he been sent by the gods to stop

 this house being built, stop her before she ever started.” She

 added, “He done his best.”

 179

 It was true: Corbin had shot Williamson on the day the ?rst

 stones had been laid. Coincidence? It added fuel to Sukeena’s

 theories. “Maybe that was the Indians,” I suggested, knowing full

 well Sukeena remained suspicious of the Indians’ involvement in

 the goings-on.

 She did not look pleased. “It sucking the ?re out a them

 young girls, ma’am. The bigger she grow . . . the more girls be

 disappearing. Sukeena know this . . . in here.” She placed a wide

 hand across her bosom.

 I experienced another spike of cold—like a draft. Sukeena

 rarely committed to her convictions with such words. She had

 done so when she had been convinced I was pregnant, and again

 when convinced young Laura would never be found. And now

 this.

 I fear I have grown susceptible to such suggestions, and I wonder

 at the woman I have become. Would the girl of nineteen have

 believed a house could be alive? Could she have envisioned her

 closest friend being an African high priestess capable of divining

 truths where no others could? A mother of two: one mute, with a

 withered arm, one admiring and emulating a man of questionable

 convictions? In just seven short years my life has so drastically

 changed to where even I do not recognize it. I cannot discuss

 such matters with my mother, for she is certain to misunderstand

 —to label me intemperate and harebrained. It leaves me in

 the care of my dearest Sukeena and her keen observations, her

 frequent connections with the “other side.” It leaves me wanting.

 I want my April back. I want her arm to be right. I want

 Douglas Posey to die someplace else, to leave this poor house and

 all of us in it alone.

 What if that model of Rose Red is growing? What if my daughter’s

 voice has been lost to its greed? What if April is trapped, half

 in, half out of these walls that surround us? What is to be done

 about that? How do I return her to her mother, her family?

 180

 I feel the need to shower even more love and attention upon

 the poor girl. I have ordered that she is to sleep in my bed alongside

 of me. I want her to ?nd her mother’s warmth when she

 seeks it. To hear her mother’s voice when she awakes. If I am

 made to ?ght for her, I will. (If you are reading these words, Rose

 Red, mark my word on that!)

 I want to leave, but I know that is not possible. You will never

 let me go. Any of us, for that matter. We are your captives here.

 Immortal captives, but captives nonetheless. Whatsoever does it

 all mean? How long can I tolerate being under this roof with

 John Rimbauer? As powerful as he is, as rich as he is, I feel none

 of his love anymore. Adam has replaced me in his eyes. He brings

 presents for Adam. Builds rooms for Adam’s train. Takes Adam

 on his business trips (along with the prettiest nanny! This does

 not escape a wife’s eye!). I am condemned. Rose Red owns me,

 not the other way around. I am a prisoner here. I must get April

 out at all costs. Her grandparents, perhaps. Ah . . . why had I

 not thought of this?

 What have I waited for?

 181

 13 march 1915—rose red

 The cruelty of marriage! It has been several weeks now since I

 mentioned to my husband my desire to get April out of this

 house. This morning I intercepted a letter delivered by a most

 unusual postman: well over six feet tall, a bum right leg that

 caused him to limp and the thickest of glasses! He came to the

 front door, mumbling something about a town in Italy . . .

 Florence, was it? No, Pisa. That was it! He said something like,

 “Pisa for Rimbauer.” I have no idea where the postal of?ce

 obtains its deliverymen! (I hope our regular man, Floyd, returns

 to our service.) The letter was posted three days hence from the

 Cheshire Academy, Portland, Oregon. I opened it immediately

 (with steam, so that I might reseal it) and saw it to be a letter of

 acceptance—for Adam. It appears John is far more interested in

 protecting his precious lineage, his heir, than his daughter with

 the withered arm and silent tongue. (He believes April’s “dif?-

 culty with the language” to be a re?ection upon her intelligence,

 and probably her gender, if truth be known; John suffers behind

 a single-minded, simpleton view of a woman’s purpose on this

 earth—to provide men certain unspeakable pleasures and to bear

 children. Nothing more.) I am a tangle of anger and grief, for I

 know my arguments will be lost on his ears. April will remain.

 Adam will leave us to attend the ?rst grade. April is condemned

 with the rest of us; Adam is to be saved.

 I prepare myself to defend my precious daughter, but I know

 in advance it is not an argument I shall win. Nonetheless it is a

 ?ght I shall give him. And if he ever returns to my bed with other

 matters in mind—which he’s bound to do at some point—he shall

 ?nd young April under the covers with me. So it shall remain,

 until he entertains a change of heart.

 Two can play this game. Three, if one counts Rose Red. And

 woe be to him who discounts her. Woe, indeed.

 182

 9 september 1915—rose red

 It is with heavy heart that to-day I said good-bye to little Adam as

 he and his father left to deliver him to the Cheshire Academy. A

 mother’s heart cannot bear such loss, especially in the face of my

 increased (and failed) efforts to evoke some manner of speech

 from my daughter, who remains in her nearly comatose state.

 To my horror, any attempt we have made to photograph the

 model of Rose Red has failed, as the images that are developed

 show a glowing white light where the model should be. It is as if

 the model itself were emanating some energy, some light, that

 spoils the photographs. (In one, dear April was captured as well—

 these same white clouds extended from her hands and fully surrounded

 her head. If a trick of the people developing these

 photographs, it is no laughing matter, and I pray for them to

 stop. John blames it on “dodging” the images while they are being

 developed and claims they are nothing but a practical joke.

 April’s “condition” is known all over town.)

 The European war is all anyone can talk about. John travels

 incessantly: Denver, Portland, San Francisco—even Cleveland

 and New York, his exports growing rapidly. The more he is away,

 the easier life is at Rose Red. (So much of the tension here arises

 out of John’s presence and the staff ’s fear of the man.) The newspaper’s

 front page is covered in worldly events: Germany offers

 not to sink ocean liners, a little too late for the Lusitania; another

 city in Poland falls to the Austro-German army; Haiti is in rebellion;

 Switzerland hosts a meeting of the European Socialists. Our

 lives here at home seem to have such little purpose any longer.

 There is war everywhere. The German submarines sink dozens of

 ships every week. President Wilson is under pressure to join the

 ?ght. I know not where any of this might lead, but none of it

 looks promising. In terms of our lives, there are fewer social

 events, as so many of our husbands seem overworked by the run-

 183

 up to war. Although the heads of staff and I have had our ?rst

 meeting concerning the annual January Ball, there is less excitement

 this year. The guest list is much larger, as John has added

 dozens of business contacts to the list. I have used my friendship

 with the Mastersons in order to arrange the invitation of a

 famous opera singer, Elizabeth Paige, who will be in the city at

 that time. Miss Paige, along with the ?lm star Charlie Chaplin,

 should make it an interesting evening. John says William

 Randolph Hearst may attend. But he is most excited about some

 general he plans on inviting (this general has business with Mr.

 Boeing, and John, being a major investor with Boeing, is

 attempting to connect the two men socially prior to any discussion

 of business).

 My larger concern is Rose Red herself. She has been “quiet”

 for many months now, content, I suppose, to use her energies to

 grow with the construction. ( Just listen to me! How foolish this

 sounds!) This construction, however, is scheduled to slow substantially,

 though not stop completely, this winter, as John

 believes the winter will be particularly severe (he reads the

 almanac and believes every word!) and sees no reason “to ?ght

 old man Winter.” What, if any, effect this may have on Rose Red I

 cannot be sure, but my instincts tell me that a woman in want of

 attention will attention receive, and after all this frantic building

 these many months, how will she react to her workers leaving her,

 her men deserting her?

 How will her mood affect our annual inaugural? Will she leave

 well enough alone, or will she seek some company? With John

 gone so much, a part of me says that Rose Red has nothing to

 ?ght for, that her dormancy results from the lack of a need to

 protect me; but if Sukeena is right—and who am I to challenge

 her understanding of such matters?—then it seems possible our

 house may ?nd herself in need of substance, the subsiding construction

 no longer stealing her attentions. If so, to whom will

 184

 she turn, and when? I am reluctant to invite a soul into this

 house. I am of a mind to call off the party altogether for fear of

 guests disappearing. But never mind, Dear Diary, my attentions,

 my energies remain focused on my sweet child April and my

 attempts to win her back from wherever she has gone since

 Douglas Posey’s cruel departure from this earth.

 Why has it taken me until this very moment to realize what

 must be done? How could I be so blind? Why must I write my

 heart to these pages in order to see clearly the way of it all?

 Sukeena would never suggest it, for she doubts the powers so, but

 where have I been that I did not see this sooner? I must call Tina

 at once! For I now understand the course of action required to

 free my dear daughter from the slavery of her silence: Madame

 Lu! Madame Lu! If anyone can unlock this mystery, it is the

 Great Lady herself.

 We must go at once!

 185

 12 september 1915—rose red

 With John still in Portland getting Adam settled at Cheshire, I

 took advantage of my independence, and telling the staff we were

 headed to Sunday church, we were off. Sukeena snuck through

 the back forest and out to the road where, with me driving a twohorse,

 the three of us squeezed onto the carriage and headed off

 for Chinatown! Sukeena, God bless her, had made the arrangements

 in advance, delivering a letter for me that was posted to

 Madame Lu. This morning, by return post, I welcomed con?rmation

 that we would be received by the Great Lady at our earliest

 convenience. The wording of Madame Lu’s note, and the steady

 hand that did write it, implied a translation, for the English was

 most correct and sound. (I am under the assumption that one of

 her young, lithe attendants is also quite versed in the English language

 and came to her assistance in this matter. This, in turn,

 warned me that the conversations taken between Tina and me in

 this woman’s presence were probably better understood than we

 believed possible or likely. I made note to myself not to say anything

 to Sukeena that I didn’t want overheard.)

 I must say that fear is entirely connected to familiarity. That

 is, when I ?rst arrived at the door of Madame Lu’s establishment,

 I can remember nearly shaking from vexation, given the condition

 of the place, and feeling intimidated and more than a little

 afraid. On this, my third visit, I felt no such apprehension whatsoever.

 To the contrary, I found myself excited, enthralled even,

 at the prospect of seeing the Great Lady again. Now it is that I can

 understand Tina’s calm that day, the almost perverse peace she

 demonstrated upon our arrival.

 For her part, April demonstrated no enthusiasm for the

 change of environment (something I’d secretly hoped for!). I

 suspect the condition of Chinatown must have registered in her

 186

 to some degree, but this failed to manifest itself in any facial

 expression or noticeable change. Sukeena, April and I (hand in

 hand) climbed the dimly lighted stairs to the pungent odors of

 incense, ginger and tea. The Great Lady occupied her throne like

 a monarch and bid us to take rest upon her woven straw mat. As

 before, Sukeena remained standing, slightly behind the two of us.

 A level of formality had developed between her and Madame Lu,

 if not outward respect.

 “So this is child,” Madame Lu said.

 “April,” I said.

 “Pretty name. Pretty child.”

 “We . . . I—”

 She cut me off. “Come here, child. Sit with Lu.” She

 extended her pudgy, swollen hands behind stiff arms that looked

 like tubular balloons knotted at the elbow. To my complete surprise,

 my daughter stood, walked the distance and scooted up into

 the large woman’s lap. For a moment, she seemed to get lost in

 the Great Lady’s garment, like stepping behind a curtain and

 then peering out again. I smiled at her. Then my heart stopped:

 my daughter smiled back at me. It was the ?rst such expression

 since Douglas Posey’s suicide, and it brought tears to this

 mother’s eyes. (I am softened by the simplest gifts!)

 The bearing of the Great Lady was formidable. She seemed to

 ?ll the entire room all of a sudden. The ?ames of the candles in

 the room (and I swear this is true!) all bent toward that throne as

 if victims of a dozen simultaneous winds, as if water were running

 past them and down a drain directly beneath the Great Lady’s lacquered

 chair. The room ?lled with added light, and for a

 moment my heart danced in my chest, and I thought I might be

 faint. She said, “Mother tell me child, that you seen a man take

 his life.” No beating around the bush for Madame Lu—this was

 the ?rst that anyone, to my knowledge, had spoken so openly

 187

 about Douglas’s tragedy, and I feared repercussions. Again to my

 surprise, April nodded. “Madame Lu understand you no talk

 since this day. You hold your tongue. Madame Lu think smart

 child. Good girl, little April.” April looked up at the woman’s

 swollen cheeks and beady, slit eyes. “You no talk because the

 question not answered, isn’t that right?”

 I bubbled out my surprise and began to sob as my precious little

 girl nodded right along with the Great Lady—this was, by all

 accounts, a conversation, and as such, nothing short of a miracle.

 Lu said, “No one here answered the question for you, did

 they, Child?”

 April looked over at Sukeena and me and shook her head.

 “Until question answered,” the Chinese woman continued,

 “no sense in risking anything and ending up like that man—dead

 as dead can be. Am I right?”

 April nodded vigorously.

 “Oh, yes. Oh, yes.”

 The candle ?ames stood straight up again, the wind suddenly

 lessened, or perhaps it was gone completely. I worried immediately

 that Madame Lu had missed her opportunity, and my heart

 sank like a stone. She read me from her chair and ?ashed me a

 look that urged I reconsider, and I realized this woman was inside

 me: she heard my every thought. I forced an awkward smile.

 Lu asked, “Do you know the question, Mother?”

 I shook my head no.

 “You, Darkie?”

 Sukeena remained impassive. I wasn’t sure where Sukeena was

 at that moment—I had a feeling that she, too, was inside me, also

 reading my thoughts. Perhaps protecting me, standing sentry at

 my door. I struggled to stay conscious.

 “The question,” Madame Lu said privately to April, “is where

 did the man go? Isn’t it, Child?”

 April looked shocked. I let out a yelp and again was repri-

 188

 manded by the big woman’s glance. “If he were no longer, where

 he gone? If still here, why he not talk?” She said quietly, and

 calmly, “So you no talk.”

 “Where did he go?” April said, speaking for the ?rst time

 since the tragedy and causing me to sob with joy.

 “To the other side, my child,” Madame Lu said, still calmly.

 “You seen him there, yes? You talk, you and this man. Talk, with

 no need to use mouth. He the one tell you no talk to others, yes,

 Child?”

 “He said they’d never understand.”

 “Ohhhh,” I sobbed into my handkerchief, so overcome with

 grief and joy that I failed to hear the rest of what was said. It was

 over quickly, Madame Lu grinning, showing gaps where her teeth

 were missing. April hopped off her lap, cheerful as a bug, and

 scurried over to me. We hugged, and she must have thought me

 queer for my display.

 I waved over Sukeena and requested she complete the business

 with Madame Lu—I would pay anything, offer anything she

 requested. Sukeena promised to relay the message. April and I

 descended the dark stairs, my sweet, loving child already telling

 me all about the “awful man who jumped from the ladder.”

 If ever I doubted the power of the other side, to-day this

 mother’s heart was convinced. To-day, I became a convert.

 189

 17 february 1917—rose red

 For the last eighteen months, suspicious again about your role,

 Dear Diary, in the strange and entangled events of this grand

 house, I have kept thought and soul to myself, never sharing them

 with your pages, no matter how great the temptation. No ghosts

 to look over my shoulder, goes my reasoning, if nothing is being

 put to paper. Alas, my plan has had little consequence. I sit down

 here to write in an act of desperation (this is not one of Poe’s

 gory inventions of ?ction: no young girl who can set schools

 a?re; no dog that behaves as if possessed; no giant pendulum

 swinging to cut one in half!). If there exists some wraith, some

 bodily spirit here in this room with me, if he or she can hear my

 thoughts as the wet ink travels from my pen to parchment, if in

 fact said entity has any modicum of compassion still held in

 reserve, then you—it!—must certainly heed a mother’s cry: my

 sweet child has gone missing. Help me!

 I offer anything in return if sign be shown to indicate such an

 exchange. Money? My own soul? My life. My husband’s. “What’s

 that?” I ask . . . a voice in reply? A wind? (It is at this point I

 notice my east window has slipped open, and I fear the woman’s

 voice I did detect was nothing more than nature’s idle callings

 from the forest that surrounds these walls.) Nonetheless, Dear

 Diary, I do speak again into the privacy of my room, after securing

 this window shut and locked. “Did you speak to me? Is anyone

 there?”

 Again—and I swear this on my life—a rumbling grew from

 beneath my trembling legs and swept through my ears like a whisper.

 “Hello?” I call out.

 Another window open! This time in my reading room, a

 lovely place for meditation and study just off my bedroom chamber,

 opposite the ?rst of my two dressing rooms. I hurry

 through, about to shut it against the swirling wind and rain that

 190

 engulf this awful tomb, when I think that perhaps this is how you

 speak to me, Rose. A mother’s hysterical anguish? I ask myself.

 Or is there reason behind this assumption? As your “voice” grows

 stronger I can picture my sweet April in the bed behind me so

 vividly, her golden curls thrown back against a pillow, her high

 little voice whispering to me: “Whales don’t have noses.” Or is it

 you? “Are you there?” I call out into my chambers. “Are you with

 me, Rose?” Nothing comes back at me. No sign that I can take to

 heart. No indication that my girl has only been borrowed, not

 stolen instead.

 I tremble, my head unstable. I swear I hear the words return:

 “T . . . h . . . e d . . . o . . . w . . . e . . . r.” Though these

 words make no sense to me, I am grateful for any sibilance, any

 sustenance to what previously was discerned as only wind. “The

 dowry?” I wonder, reminded of my marriage. “The dowager?”

 “Help me, I pray.” I return again to the empty reading room,

 my head spinning as I turn on my heels, a blur of the books’

 leather bindings ?oor to ceiling, the stained-glass lamp I bought

 in Venice, the carpet from Constantinople—all these and more I

 would trade in a beat of the heart for even a sign that my child has

 been spared, never mind what I would surrender for the child

 herself—this mother’s life in an instant! Just give me a sign!

 I stand now, the window thrown open to the storm, debating

 throwing myself to the slate of the garden path below in sacri?ce.

 All I await is the sign. Give me such a sign, and I am yours! A

 ?ash of lightning. A cry from the forest beyond.

 I see instead the unsteady ?ickering of the policemen’s ?ashlights

 as they patrol our woods, and wish it were a sign. I hear the

 thundering voice of my husband, a world away, in the Entry Hall

 below: “Find her! Find my child!” He is in a ?t of rage, ordering

 staff and police alike (there are ?fty police here searching for my

 April). I fear that like me, John, too, is making his prayers heard

 to your spirits, Rose, making offerings for an exchange. How this

 191

 parent’s heart breaks at the thought of any harm coming to my

 April.

 The main focus of the search began in the Kitchen, where

 April was last seen playing tea—the enormous architect’s model of

 the grand house just out of reach. Sukeena reports that the child

 was playing by herself and seemed quite content at the time. (I

 fear that John has directed his fears to Sukeena herself, for I am

 told by Millicent that Sukeena has been sequestered in the staff

 kitchen, where she is being questioned by the police. Try as I

 might to intervene, to free her from this unfair suspicion, John

 sent me to my chambers, and this is one time I dare not challenge

 my husband, for his mood is aggressive and even frightening.)

 April was left for a moment as Sukeena neatened the pantry (she

 believes the pantry another of the house’s portals). When

 Sukeena turned around April was gone. Oh, how my world is

 turned upside down all of a sudden! (Indeed it has been quite

 askew for some time, but only now do I admit to the full effects of

 such behavior. I would never doubt Sukeena’s explanation of

 events whatsoever. I trust my friend beyond any other.) She

 explained also that at no time did April leave the Kitchen nor did

 she call out. Nor was there any cause for alarm, nothing whatsoever

 out of the ordinary. When next she looked the Kitchen stood

 empty, only the tea set and that model, a grotesque representation

 of our grand house, planted ?rmly in the center of the

 kitchen table, the house’s wings and extensions growing from its

 original form like some tumorous root. Not a lock of hair, not a

 ?ber of clothing. Just the empty room and, of course, Sukeena.

 A moment later a scream: John claims it was Sukeena;

 Sukeena says it was the house itself.

 I stand at my window, eyeing it as my escape from this pain. I

 never imagined a heart could endure such torture. I never

 understood the depth of this great love, how encompassing, how

 whole and complete. Dare I say it here? Yes, there were times I

 192

 wished the children would go away. Yes, there were times I longed

 for that simplicity of husband and wife in the cabin of the Ocean

 Star with nothing but time between great lavish meals, the best

 wines, and the intrigues of physical discoveries. But now! Just the

 thought of such sel?shness is enough to make me sick! How gladly

 I would recapture the slightest whisper of such wishes! How simple

 that window looks to me. How effortless to end it here.

 I drag the Louis XVI settee to rest before the window and

 think to remove my shoes before stepping onto her pink and

 green silk upholstery, my dress held high around my thighs, and I

 awkwardly squeeze myself into the open frame, looking down

 between my feet at the looming darkness. I teeter there, half in,

 half out, whispering prayers repeatedly, the drumming of my

 blood in my ears, as images of sweet April swirl and ?ll the void

 in my chest where once my heart resided. Oh Wind, talk to me

 now. Summon me now! Say but a single word—J . . . U . . .

 M . . . P—and you shall own me forever, or what is left of it. I

 can see beyond the slate rooftop of the Pool House, to the rising

 wing I commissioned at the instruction of Madame Stravinski. I

 would haul it all down in a second for the af?rmation of life in

 my precious child. I shudder at the thought of immortality that

 fails to include my children, fails to include those I love:

 Sukeena, my mother and father. Who would wish for the curse of

 the endless extension of a life without family, a life without love?

 If Rose has taken my dear child, is it because I built too slowly, or

 because I built at all? Is it because I have shared my bed with the

 sweet child for nearly two years, or because I allowed my husband

 to send the boy away to school? How much is a product of those

 things I control, and how much those I do not?

 Do I confess my sins now, from the pious mount of this open

 window, the ?re?ies of ?ashlights blinking in the woods? “He is

 unfaithful!” I shout from my pulpit. “I am unfaithful!” I hesitate.

 I hear a voice. Rose Red? I wonder. I shout, “I live torn by lust,

 193

 corrupted by a woman’s gentle, loving touch.” I want Sukeena to

 hear this. I want her to understand. The guilt has been too much

 to bear. Rose Red has punished us for what we’ve done in secret

 these many months. She has taken my child to show me the ways

 of such wickedness. Such sweet wickedness it was! Love, as I have

 never known. I want my husband to hear, to pierce his heart the

 way he pierced mine so many years ago.

 Alas, it is not to be. My rumblings from my perch echo from

 the acres of rooftops and I spot Sukeena through the glass roof of

 the Solarium. She has broken free of her interrogators and is

 appealing in cloistered silence to me, with the pained expression

 of the only one who cares. “Don’t do it!” her expression calls out.

 “Don’t jump!”

 I look on as a uniformed policeman approaches her in the

 Solarium, the policeman not seeing me but me seeing him. I look

 on as Sukeena spots his arrival. She lifts her arms like a musical

 conductor and throws her head back in a haunting display of the

 quiet powers she possesses. He retches, gripped by a pain in the

 stomach, and I am reminded of our encounter in the Cairo market,

 all those years before. I watch, as impossibly the thorny vines

 of Sukeena’s remarkable indoor garden, lush as it is with African

 creepers and exotic botanical varieties from our year abroad,

 come alive with alarming speed. I watch as that dense greenery

 runs up the glass as if a thousand snakes, sprouts racing from the

 soil demonically. I watch as that policeman, already halted in his

 approach, is suddenly tangled and overcome by the twisting,

 creeping choke of that instant jungle. As he is consumed.

 Sukeena shaking her hands invitingly. The density of the tangle

 overcoming even my view of the events below as the glass is

 obscured.

 And then, I see the policeman no more. My maid’s delicate

 hands fall back to her sides. In stunned amazement I watch as the

 overgrowth recedes as quickly as it came, suddenly alive with color

 194

 and bloom—a paralyzing red of bougainvillea, orchid and, dare I

 admit it, roses. More red roses than I have ever laid eyes upon.

 With that canopy removed from overhead, my friend dares to

 look once again in my direction. We are quite some distance, and

 yet her face is close enough to feel her warm breath, to drink her

 earthy perfume. She shakes her head in denial. She will not allow

 me to jump, will not allow me to end it. Will not leave April

 unfound and Adam without a mother, only that monster of a

 father, my husband, to help him fashion a life, to control her

 destiny. I am condemned by my love. Of this blue-skinned

 woman. Of my magical son. Of a driven man I once allowed to

 impregnate me with his seed and thus spoil my fertility forever.

 What a fool I feel, exposed like this in an open window, as several

 of the of?cers break from the forest with their lights, called by my

 shouting and ranting and raving.

 And then I see him. John. Below me and to my left, at one of

 the many doors leading to the garden. Sukeena sees him too,

 195

 though he does not take note of her. The three of us. Me on the

 ledge. John, blithering and drunk and terri?ed he has lost his

 daughter to this tomb we call home. Sukeena, surrounded by her

 murderous blush and bloom of a thousand red blossoms.

 I laugh wildly. Hysterically. Maniacally. I laugh for the policemen

 to hear. I laugh for my husband to be sick. I laugh at the

 moon and the clouds, the wind in my ears speaking as Rose Red.

 “She lives,” says the wind. “She lives in the dower . . .”

 Only then do my ears forgive me, only then do clarity and

 alacrity impose themselves, a comprehension by the ear prepares

 me for the understanding that is to follow. It is not “dower,” as I

 once supposed. The word I am to hear is “tower,” and Rose Red

 is whispering clearly that this is where my daughter’s future lies—

 where my daughter now resides.

 The Tower.

 A tower not yet built.

 196

 3 a.m.—rose red (sukeena’s chambers)

 I shudder to relate to you, Dear Diary, the tragic events of the

 past several hours.

 Not long after the dramatic occurrence in the Solarium, and

 my brief encounter with my husband, did a sense of dread invade

 me that rivaled the disappearance of my dear child only hours

 earlier. I knew in an instant that this dread involved Sukeena and

 that my own intervention was required to spare my sweet friend. I

 have suffered much in?rmity these several years, nearly always

 cautious in my walking about not to lose balance and fall to the

 ?oor like some invalid. Yet on this night the eyes I must have

 raised with the staff as I ran down the West Wing’s second-story

 halls and ?ew down the Grand Stair, my feet barely lighting as I

 descended. Drastic action was required of me—I knew this without

 so much as a single thought. My response was born from

 within me, having little or nothing to do with any kind of thought

 process—and for this reason I trusted it, I suppose, or at least I

 followed it without question.

 “No, John!” I heard myself calling out in an unfamiliar tone,

 a tone a wife should never use to address her husband. Especially

 in public. (I tell you, Dear Diary, it was not my voice at all, but

 one given to me, just as the quickness of limb was given to me.

 Just as the voice in the séance was given to me. This, in turn, begs

 a greater question upon which I hope to expound at a later date:

 that is, if not my voice, if the voice of Rose Red, as I ?rmly

 believe, then why was she speaking through me in an attempt—

 vain, as it turned out—to save Sukeena? Has this house come to

 listen to my handmaid? To talk to her? Do they share some connection

 about which I am previously unaware?) “You let her go!”

 I roared at him in a voice that was not mine.

 John knew that other voice. He is smarter than other men.

 Wiser. More experienced. He recognized that voice immediately

 197

 as being the voice of the grand house. Paralyzed, he stood, ?atfooted,

 as I ran—ran!—toward him, my dress rising behind me

 like a shadow. Two policemen had Sukeena by the arms and were

 dragging her toward the open door, beyond which I could see a

 car waiting. The police in this city are a model of corruption and

 in?uence peddling. (Mayor Gill, now in his third term, has

 attempted to change our image by closing the bawdy houses and

 198

 saloons that people the water frontage. He would not dare touch

 the police, for they control this town, including the actions of the

 mayor!) If Sukeena was placed in that car, I knew well that I might

 never see her again. As I approached my husband at full speed, a

 thought sparked through me: what if April had not disappeared at

 all? What if my husband had ordered her removed brie?y by one

 of the loyal staff ? What if this evening’s anxiety was nothing more

 than the result of a deftly scripted act of deceit intended to lay

 blame on my maid and win her forcible removal from our home?

 What if his plans called for her beating, her jailing and the pox or

 other illness that seemed to claim the lives of so many of this city’s

 jailed? April is removed for one night, and John reclaims the

 power over his wife and destroys the one person in this house who

 has more power than him. (Discounting the house itself, of

 course!) Had my husband tricked me, tricked us all, including

 the police (whom he may have bought off ) in an effort to regain

 his single authority?

 John caught me unawares. He extended his arms in advance of

 my fast approach and knocked me off my feet, throwing me down

 onto my behind, where I skidded across the polished wood and

 came to rest against the wall, directly beneath my own portrait.

 “She . . . heard . . . her . . . scream!” he roared. “The only

 person to claim to hear anything!”

 “She heard the house scream,” I cried, for I was quite aware of

 Sukeena’s ?rsthand report.

 He snorted derisively at me. “It was our daughter, Ellen. Our

 daughter’s last sounds. And this woman must answer for it.”

 “Answer for it? This woman? Does she answer for the disappearances?

 For your partner’s suicide?” I caught him with my

 de?ance. “It . . . is . . . this . . . house. And you know it!”

 “I know nothing of the sort.”

 An of?cer remained in the open doorway. Beyond him, I saw

 Sukeena violently thrown into a police wagon, her head striking

 199

 200

 the frame. She glanced back in my direction. It was the last I saw

 of her. I have not seen her since. John nodded toward the of?-

 cer—my husband clearly giving his okay—and again my thoughts of

 conspiracy surfaced. John had a greater hand in this than I

 thought. The man pulled the door shut.

 “No!” I cried out.

 “A cop has disappeared, Ellen,” my husband said.

 “The woods,” I said, making no mention of the sudden bloom

 in the Solarium. “There are dozens of them in the woods. One is

 lost is all.”

 “They found a belt—a policeman’s belt—on the ?oor of the

 Solarium. Sukeena was in the Solarium at the time. I think it’s

 time you faced up to the fact that your . . . what is she

 exactly? . . . your friend . . . grew jealous of your time with our

 daughter and has brought her harm. Indeed, has removed her

 from the face of this earth.”

 “You bastard, John Rimbauer.”

 He bent down and slapped me across the cheek. Tears leaped

 from my eyes, like beads of juice from an orange slice.

 “I’m sorry . . . ,” he mumbled. In our ten years together, my

 husband had never laid a hand on me in this way.

 Perhaps it was the jarring that this blow caused me—my husband

 unleashing his anger. Perhaps it was simply the right time

 for me to see the truth, as unadorned as it so often is. For me,

 that slap of his was like sunlight through a magnifying glass—

 directed, ?erce and intense. A light so bright as to be blinding.

 Surprisingly, my husband had it half right. He had nailed it

 on the head: jealousy. The clarity of that thought! I thought I

 heard the voices of choirs in my ears. Jealousy. But half right was

 all. He was wrong about the source of that jealousy—felt over the

 past two years as I focused my every waking moment on the love

 and progression of sweet April. Not Sukeena at all. But Rose Red.

 201

 She’d grown jealous. And she’d fed off the substantial life

 force of my child as a way of extending her own longevity and

 striking out at me all at once. Two birds with one stone. Rose Red

 has claimed April. She has removed Sukeena as well.

 She has me all to herself now. And I shudder at what that

 means.

 202

 20 february 1917—rose red

 Horror of horrors, do I dare relate what I know now about the

 events of the past three days? I know not how much of what has

 happened was the result of my husband’s instruction, his determination,

 and how much simply the result of a corrupt and bigoted

 police force. Naturally, I would prefer to believe the latter,

 as I must continue through this lie of a marriage to the former,

 and thereby, perhaps, the blame for it all should be laid at my

 feet, and mine alone. When I think back now to what I might have

 done to save my dear Sukeena . . . Had it not been for fear, had

 it not been for grief over the loss of my sweet April, perhaps I

 would have been in the presence of mind to formulate some plan,

 to articulate my degree of concern, to make demands upon my

 husband and those clearly under his control.

 Sukeena has failed to return from the police station, or wherever

 it is they have taken her. Three full days have passed since

 April’s disappearance, and I am teetering on the brink of suicide,

 haunted by my husband’s continued stalking of this house like a

 cat after a mouse and his approval when the police hauled off my

 handmaid late that night in a pitiful rainstorm. Finally, about an

 hour ago, I received word, through surreptitious means that I

 dare not go into, not even in your trusted pages, Dear Diary

 (except to say that one of the staff is close friends with a young

 woman whose brother serves on the police department, and that

 through this connection I have been privy to information that

 otherwise should have never reached my ear). The word is this:

 Sukeena has been under lock and key in a basement room in City

 Hall for the past three days and nights. She has been denied food,

 sleep and even the common decency of a toilet. I am of information

 that she has been beaten, berated and quite possibly violated

 in the way only a woman can be violated, while her captors con-

 203

 tinue to demand and await her confession–a piece of ?ction she

 has quite properly, steadfastly, refused to provide them. I am of a

 state, so wrought with grief and overcome with anxiety that I am

 in one of my fevers, con?ned to bed, and only weakly able to

 make this account in your pages tonight. Immediately upon hearing

 of Sukeena’s treatment, her predicament, I wrote my husband

 a brief note upon my personal stationery and had it delivered by

 Yvonne, a woman I trust implicitly. My note read something like

 this:

 Dear Husband,

 It has come to my attention that persons unknown (namely, the

 police, or persons masquerading as the same) are torturing and

 mistreating my dear friend and African handmaid in their pursuit of

 the truth as concerns our dear departed daughter. I am quite aware

 that you continue to attribute the random spirits of this house to

 Sukeena, and to place her in the blame for events here. This, despite

 my many objections to such an attitude. You now apparently harbor

 suspicions that include the disappearance of our dear April. I beg you

 to review the events as they stand.

 What I hope to remind you of is that Mr. Corbin’s actions

 predated my even meeting Sukeena by over a year. Furthermore,

 during the séance with Madame Stravinski, it was Sukeena, and only

 Sukeena who attempted to stop the events of that evening—to

 disconnect us all from Rose Red, not to encourage us to listen. On the

 night of April’s disappearance, only Sukeena heard this wretched

 house scream.

 Your suspicions are incorrect and ill founded, and I beseech you

 to use whatever relationships with which you are bestowed to return

 home at once my most senior staff member, be they, these

 relationships, with the police, the politicians, or with her abductors

 themselves. If any more harm, any lasting harm, comes to Sukeena,

 204

 I shall hold you personally responsible, John. Any resulting

 investigation will, by necessity, include you and your role in her

 initial removal from this household.

 Your wife,

 I signed it “Ellen Rimbauer,” as I have found deliberate use of my

 formal name to be suggestive of a strong attitude on my part and

 quite a successful technique where negotiations with John are

 concerned. I licked the envelope, sealed it and wrote his name on

 the front: Mr. John Rimbauer, all informality gone.

 Since that time I have turned to your pages as a means of escape,

 for I cannot bear the thought of my dear Sukeena in the condition

 in which she presently ?nds herself. About the only good any

 of this has done is to distract me from a mother’s sorrow, however

 brie?y. Sitting here just now, I have heard John’s motorcar

 depart the property. My heart swells with hope that Sukeena is to

 be returned! But there is a second sound as well, which I shall

 now investigate. It comes from inside the walls, and sounds ever

 so much like the sawing of wood. Perhaps not inside the walls,

 exactly, but overhead instead. Guest chambers occupy the space

 directly above my own rooms, and above these, the attic. I shall

 return to your pages, but ?rst I must ?nd the source of these

 peculiar sounds, if for no other reason than to put my mind at

 rest that little April isn’t still to be found here, having been mistakenly

 overlooked while having gotten herself injured. Hope

 clings to every branch. I quiver in the wind. I shall dress in pants

 and a sweater, and I shall explore Rose Red like never before.

 Damn them all!

 4 A.M.

 I have always taken your pages in con?dence, but never so much

 as now, as the darkness of this place makes itself so plainly evi-

 205

 dent. My curiosity drove me to the ?oor above my own West Wing

 chambers in search of the mechanical noises that sounded to me

 like wood being sawed. To no great surprise, I found the chambers

 above my own unoccupied. However, in a keen search of the

 hallway there, I found a panel that when pressed upon with both

 hands sprang open far enough to admit a person. I slipped

 inside, studied the panel to make sure I knew I could reopen it,

 and deciding I could, pulled it shut. I entered a dark, narrow

 passage, no wider than my slim frame, and moved around a corner

 to where I found myself standing at a cloudy window—yes, a

 piece of glass, large and substantial—that looked in on the principal

 dressing room off the guest quarters’ master bedroom. Only

 then did I realize this piece of glass was the dressing room’s mirror,

 and that I was on the other side of it. I continued on down

 the narrow corridor past the next turn, ?nding a panel that

 moved out of the way. Climbing up a step clearly intended for

 same, it allowed me to insert my head into a wooden box and to

 ?nd my eyes looking out the mouth of one of John’s African

 game trophies—right at the guest bed itself! Farther down the

 corridor, another back side of a mirror, this time inappropriately

 looking in on the sink, toilet and bath. My husband’s fantasies

 might very well include watching women dress and undress, might

 include watching the couples invited to stay the night as they are

 engaged in the most intimate courting rituals. But the idea of my

 husband, or any man, leering at a woman in the privacy of her

 toilet made me sick to my stomach. I had heard of such observation

 stations built into the staff quarters. Having never found

 one, I had not protested. But locating such a nefarious viewing

 platform as the mouth of a dead beast, and another allowing study

 of a woman’s toilet habits—and both directed at our dear guests—

 ?lled me with anger.

 Worse, this hall of delight did not stop there. I followed it

 more deeply into Rose’s walls, turning left twice, a fraction of

 206

 light seeping in through holes I gather were drilled for this purpose.

 A right-hand turn and then, at my feet, a perfect square of

 white lines. Light. I knelt, tried to move the square panel there in

 the ?oor, and ?nally made it slide open exactly an inch. I put my

 head to it, lying on the ?oor as I imagined was intended.

 I was looking down onto my own bed, the electric lamp by my

 pillow strong enough to turn the sheer suspended over my fourposter

 into a transparency. I could see clearly enough to read the

 Holy Bible in gold on the nightstand. I panicked as only a guilty

 person can. First in anger, then in guilt. Not everything in that

 bed had been innocent. Not every moment of tender loving in

 that bed had included my husband. Now I thought I understood

 his jealousy and anger toward Sukeena. Now I knew, his fantasies

 aside, he had witnessed me—us—there, and that no matter how it

 may have excited him, it had repulsed him as well, and he had

 taken action. For the faintest moment I even allowed myself to

 believe my husband had done something to little April, or (and

 I’d thought this earlier) had hired one of the staff to take her away

 brie?y to allow suspicion to fall upon my maid, to satisfy the convenience

 of the police being in attendance. Perhaps more than

 one of the staff, perhaps his loyal core of servants—the children’s

 young governesses had been acting strangely of late. Conspiracy

 worked hard to replace my own sense of debauchery and unfaithfulness,

 and I managed to turn my own misgiving into a strong

 resentment of my husband in no time.

 I continued on. Shortly thereafter, the corridor did rise and

 climb via a set of steep stairs to a padded trapdoor that led directly

 into the attic. Here were kept many of the dozens and dozens of

 items collected while on our honeymoon and still not put to good

 use. Here were sewing stands, pottery and a second set of stairs

 that, when descended, led directly into the back of the lesser closets

 in my husband’s primary changing room. This second set of

 stairs afforded him escape to his rooms if overheard or pursued,

 or a way to reach from his rooms into the attic, back down to the

 guest quarters and out into the hallway. I was guessing already that

 I had missed a secret door leading right into the guest bedroom—

 a way for John to enjoy the pleasures of our single women guests

 while escaping attention. A certain opera star came to mind. For

 a while, a year or so ago, she had lived with us while performing

 downtown. I sensed she had been performing in my house as

 well. (When I look at it this way, there is much for Rose Red to be

 angry about, Dear Diary—we have abused her repeatedly.)

 I did not return immediately, for what took my breath away,

 what startled me to the point of swooning and nearly fainting,

 had nothing whatsoever to do with John’s philandering, or even

 207

 his secret passages. I’d come to grips with my husband’s perverted

 shortcomings years ago. No, Dear Diary, not my husband! It was

 the fresh board, the steel carpenter’s saw, the horses and the fresh

 pile of sawdust that caught my eye. A door that I did not remember.

 I inspected this work. The saw’s blade felt warm to the touch!

 The sawdust smelled of fresh cedar. There, a framed door stood

 in the middle of the attic. Alone, and all by itself. A door to

 nowhere. Connected both top and bottom. For unexplainable

 reasons, I picked up the saw, inserted its warm teeth into the

 sawed slot, and put my hand to it. A moment later, the end piece

 of wood broke free and fell with a clatter, for I had neglected to

 hold it, or to catch it.

 Someone had been up here working while I lay in my bed trying

 to pray for Sukeena’s release to freedom. Someone had been

 building Rose Red. But who, Dear Diary? Who on our staff works

 this time of night? What carpenter saws in the dark?

 And why did I see that board and that handsaw much more as

 an invitation? Far less mystery than mastery. I am to help build

 this house—the tower where my captured daughter is said to live

 and from where she will seek her freedom. A tower that has yet to

 be built.

 I am to help build it. I know this with absolute certainty. To

 build it in secrecy. Perhaps Adam will help when he’s home from

 school. He, too, will want to reach April as soon as possible.

 Am I losing my mind? As quickly as I’m losing those I love?

 I must schedule my day to make room for this endeavor. I

 must prepare to wear blisters on my hands—to smuggle lumber

 stolen from our other construction and into the attic late at night

 when no one else suspects. April, I fear, lives on the other side of

 that unbuilt door. April awaits her mother.

 John has just now returned from his journey into town, and I

 could wait no longer. I ran—yes, ran!—down the Grand Stair to

 208

 209

 that very same spot where he had shoved me days earlier, and I

 pleaded with him for some news of my friend.

 “Your friend?” he asked.

 “Yes, John. She is my friend.” I practically dragged him into

 the Parlor, the suit of armor our only eavesdropper. I secured the

 doors shut and beseeched him, “Dear husband, I beg you for

 news of my friend.”

 “You call me husband and yet do not allow me into your

 chambers, woman. What kind of husband is that?”

 It had never crossed my mind that the man wanted into my

 chambers. Our child was missing—how could any other words

 escape his mouth? All these months of not so much as a kiss

 between us, I had assumed his transgressions with the women of

 the night had satis?ed whatever urges a man like John Rimbauer

 has—substantial urges indeed. But now I saw before me another

 man altogether, pitiful, and I wondered (a deeper, darker

 thought) if some curse had not befallen my husband, some curse

 that is said to af?ict some men, and that if, in his twisted, selfcentered

 way, he had attributed that curse to Sukeena, and that

 this explained her abduction by the police and therefore, quite

 possibly, my missing daughter. Had John not dared to harm

 Sukeena himself, because of her substantial powers? Had he concocted

 the disappearance of our daughter as a means to rid himself

 of my maid with the help of the police? Or had he spent time

 in secret observation of my bedroom and the acts that have taken

 place there between me and my friend? Was jealousy his master

 now? Had I somehow risen to a level of power over him that to

 this moment I had been unaware of?

 “I was unaware you had interest in my bedroom, John. I have

 not heard your knock upon my door for many months.”

 Or (I was thinking) had the act of man with woman become

 meaningless without the sense of love? Had the only curse upon

 my husband been a curse he had brought upon himself? Perhaps

 210

 he was now incapable of the other kind of love and in need of the

 love he and I had once shared, however brie?y. Perhaps April’s

 disappearance had something to do with this—making John aware

 of external powers that he could not, in fact, control; powers he

 associated with Sukeena, and hence his lashing out at her.

 Perhaps this man was boy again, and in me sought a mother to

 whom he could turn.

 It was everything I could do, Dear Diary, to remain composed

 under the weight of Sukeena’s prolonged absence and the disappearance

 of my lovely daughter. For these were the only two subjects

 of my inquiry, and I found John’s diversions annoying and

 entirely self-centered, which should not have surprised me one bit.

 “I believe you’ve had other interests,” he said. “You’ve been

 preoccupied with April and Sukeena.”

 And they were both gone. This fact did not escape me. I

 shuddered, head to toe. Had my husband conceived of this

 grand plan to remove my two loves and refocus my ardor upon

 himself ? Had I misread him all these years—was he, in fact,

 more deeply in love with me than I’d ever understood? I prayed

 for composure, understanding fundamentally that these next

 few minutes were to determine the fate of my maid. In truth, I

 feared the fate of my child had already been decided, and that

 my husband had had nothing to do with it (no matter how my

 mind schemed!). My discovery in the attic, the voice in the wind

 telling me of the tower—it all made so much sense to me now:

 John was jealous, and so was Rose Red. I swallowed my pride

 and said, “My bedroom door is always open to you, dear husband.

 You will ?nd me a most needing and willing partner, in

 this regard.”

 “Will I?”

 “Oh, yes.” I hated him for this. Me, picturing Sukeena being

 beaten, or worse, while my husband negotiated his visitation

 211

 rights—and my obligations to his depravity. Always the businessman.

 John Rimbauer got what he wanted, and he played any card

 necessary to that end.

 “I know you’ve been with her,” he said. I lowered my head in

 shame. I could not look at him. Why, I wondered, did this man—

 this man in particular—possess the power to make me feel guilty?

 How could such an exaggeration be allowed? I nodded, acknowledging

 his accusations.

 My lips quivered, my breath drew short. “Your needs are

 physical,” I whispered dryly. “I need love, John.”

 “And you’ve found it?”

 I said nothing. I felt afraid. So terribly afraid. Not of him,

 this weak excuse of a man. But afraid of losing both April and

 Sukeena—afraid of being driven to a place where my only friend

 might turn out to be this witch of a house, Rose Red herself. I

 could see myself driven to torment over her construction—my

 hands raw, my eyes ?lled with sawdust, my clothes dirty and dusty,

 as I worked furiously to build her bigger and stronger. I feared

 the future. I wished then—wished with all my heart—that I had

 been brave enough to jump those several nights earlier. Only

 death would offer silence. Sanctuary. I knew this absolutely.

 I said, “I’ve found companionship. Solace. I’m at peace,

 John.” I lied.

 “I will taste this peace as well,” he said, stepping up to me.

 He’d been drinking. Heavily, I thought. Another consideration

 entered me, ?ooded me with possibility: he was tormented himself.

 He’d not been sleeping. I knew this. Had been drinking too

 much of late. Perhaps his past sins had ?nally caught up to this

 man in the late stages of middle age. Perhaps he saw that the end

 was near—at least nearer than the beginning—and that he had isolated

 himself in a place where peace was only a word, not a form

 of existence, a concept, not a reality. Mistakenly (as always) he

 thought this peace could now be negotiated—bought, instead of

 earned. “You, and this woman,” he said. He could rarely bring

 himself to say her name. “I will join you in your chambers.”

 The rumblings of a drunken man? I wondered. Or had he

 witnessed the affection, the kindness, the pure love that transpired

 between my maid and me and believed he could include

 himself in this exchange?

 Shaking from fear, I stepped even closer, my voice now more

 like that wind I’d heard whispering in my ear. “Whatever you

 want, John. It’s yours for the asking.” I felt nauseous. I wasn’t

 going to make the mistake Douglas Posey had made. I said, “I am

 here to serve you.”

 He took his hands and placed them on my shoulders. His ?ngers

 extended like antennae, they gently rained down my body,

 lingering over my breasts, my waist, and hugging the curve of my

 hips. He let his hands once again hang at his side. He looked

 pale, and quite frightened. Later, I would realize it was excitement

 at the thought of his proposal. His touch was eerily electric

 —I felt it like a poison running through my veins.

 “I believe I can help her,” he said.

 He stormed from the room and back out the house. I heard

 his car sputtering toward the gates. I fell to my knees, and I

 retched.

 Regardless of the price I had just paid, my Sukeena was coming

 home.

 212

 22 february 1917—rose red

 John has worked tirelessly to free Sukeena and at last has brought

 her home. To see her, my dear friend, in such a state as this

 brought me to tears and for a time threatened to return me to

 fever and the echo of my African illness, but to my credit I held

 these symptoms at bay, determined to be of help. Part of the long

 delay in my receiving her was John’s delivering her to the hospital

 for the setting of bones and the mending of wounds. She is missing

 three front teeth and has a broken left wrist and a bandaged

 nose. In the privacy of her room, as Donna and I help her out of

 her bloodied and torn clothes and into a nightdress, we are

 painfully aware of the other atrocities that did befall her—atrocities

 that a woman readily recognizes and that need no detailed

 explanation here in these pages. Suf?ce it to say her black skin is

 deeply bruised from ribs to loin, from her breasts to the soles of

 her feet, and there is tearing and bleeding in places that make

 childbirth appear tame. I weep openly at the sight of what they’ve

 done to her, the uniformed men assigned to protect us. What

 cowards. They should all be made to hang for these crimes.

 Instead, they will return home to their wives, a bit weary, explaining

 away their fatigue as just another day on the beat.

 For her part, Sukeena is sanguine as usual. She stops short of

 making jokes about her condition but manages to impress us with

 a wincing smile, half pain, half delight, at her return to those who

 care for her. Donna is eventually replaced by Carol, a nurse that

 John has hired speci?cally to care for my maid in her weeks of

 recovery. Carol changes dressings on Sukeena’s wounds, applies

 ointments and feeds her medicines. Sukeena tolerates these

 efforts but bids me to prepare her own herbal treatments, which

 include the burning of ropelike grasses, teas and salves made

 from a variety of herbs she keeps in a rosewood chest in her

 changing room. I try to follow her instructions, requiring her to

 213

 repeat them several times. I touch her all over, applying these

 African remedies, and reel when she winces in pain. There are

 clearly broken ribs and, I fear, the bruising of internal organs,

 for her abdomen is quite enlarged on her right side, and she is

 refusing all food.

 Hours on end I pray for her, reading scripture aloud. She

 seems soothed by this, and we’ve talked about how Christian

 scripture can heal given devotion and faith behind the words.

 Morning comes, another day passes.

 214

 13 march 1917—rose red

 There is little doubt that April (whose month approaches with

 great sorrow) is not coming home. John did not hide her in some

 pretense or scheme. She is gone, lost to the walls of this place.

 Her residence here ensures that I shall never leave this place,

 never leave my child, not for more than a luncheon or dinner in

 town. (I wonder if Rose intended this fate for me, thinking back

 to Sukeena’s claims that the house was jealous of my devotion to

 my daughter, and knowing that a mother would never leave her

 child when distant hope is held that my April may someday walk

 right out of the walls that have apparently claimed her. If, indeed,

 there was method to this house’s madness, it has won that battle: I

 am here to stay!)

 Sukeena’s recovery impresses me greatly, and I attribute that

 recovery in no small part to both her herbs and my prayer. Some

 of the bruising remains. Bandages have been removed from her

 nose, and other areas as well, and she is able to spend some time

 on her feet now and to tend to her toilet herself. Her wrist

 remains in plaster, her breathing shallow and quite evidently

 painful. She chants herself to sleep in that singing language of

 hers, almost like humming as it resonates inside her. I brush her

 hair and pat her head and rub her limbs when her legs go numb.

 She smiles and climbs to her feet and struggles around the room

 slightly bowlegged. I wince, unable to conceive of the awful things

 they did to her during her days in captivity.

 A policeman, a detective, returned to our home, ostensibly to

 follow up on April’s disappearance, and upon sight of him, I

 ordered him from our home. I shouted, quite undigni?ed, until

 the man, paralyzed with fear, ?ed from this place, hat in hand.

 No policeman shall ever set foot in this house again. Not without

 proper paperwork and the order of a judge. I’ve had quite

 enough of the “protection” the police provide us. If they think

 215

 they’ll ever ?gure out Rose Red, they are fooling themselves.

 There is no earthly explanation for the events of this place. I have

 lived within these walls more than eight years now, day in and day

 out, I have consulted Madame Lu and Madame Stravinski, and I

 am wont to explain the goings-on. Young women disappearing.

 Men, dead of everything from suicide to murder. My daughter

 claimed. My husband now tortured with sexual inadequacy.

 I shudder with this last thought, recalling my negotiations to

 win Sukeena’s release, and dreading the day I must report to my

 maid the price we both must pay for her freedom. Dreading even

 more the moment of payment itself. When will my husband come

 to my chambers? When will that demand be met?

 216

 19 april 1917—rose red

 A grim mood envelops us all as we mourn the loss of my dear

 daughter on this, her day. The staff feels this loss as painfully as

 John and I. (The house maids elected to forgo their white aprons

 today, leaving them in all black as they mourn.) For the most part

 the house is quiet and the only activities amount to the bare

 necessities to keep it operating. Construction, for the ?rst day

 since Christmas, has been suspended. About the only occurrence

 of note was a shuddering growl heard by all sometime around 1

 P.M. this afternoon. There was no mistaking the source: this

 house.

 This same time of day—1 P.M.—has lately been the hour of my

 retiring after lunch for “rest.” In fact, I have used these two hours

 to tend to my carpentry in the attic, making good headway on the

 stairs that are to lead to the Tower. Only Sukeena has noticed the

 splinters and callouses on my hands—and in typical fashion has

 thought better than to ask me their source. I wonder now, has

 this sound we all heard anything to do with my absence from the

 attic on this day? Is Rose Red so “alive” that she can even sense

 time and absence? If so, what is it she demands of me, and what

 am I to do to appease her?

 I take a late tea at four o’clock in the Parlor, at ?rst made

 weary by the unexpected arrival of Tina Coleman, but then made

 happier as I realized how badly I needed this distraction. Tina is

 very much aware of the signi?cance of this day and comes to help

 me forget. (She even brings a ?ask of alcohol, and laces my tea

 with same!) As our discussion wanes, I note that she can’t take her

 eyes off the large leather globe in the corner of the room, recalling

 perhaps the stories of one of our ?rst disappearances here.

 Do I see temptation in her eyes? Does she too want to spin this

 globe and see if Rose Red will claim her? (She could try if she

 liked, but the truth is I had one of the staff place a screw into the

 217

 globe to prevent its spinning many years ago. Each and every time

 Sukeena identi?es what she believes to be a portal into this house,

 I order it closed or shuttered. The stall in the Carriage House,

 for instance, had been nailed shut following Daniel’s brutal

 stomping.)

 I must admit to a sense of melancholy and distress as the afternoon

 wore on. All the small talk in the world could not rid me of

 memories of my sweet little girl, and I fear the alcohol only served

 to increase my unease. Finally, too late, I’m afraid, Tina excused

 herself and took her leave, returning home by chauffeured

 motorcar.

 I skipped dinner, ?lled with scones, and headed to my rooms

 to write here in your pages.

 2 A.M.

 Do I dare write openly and honestly of the events of this evening—

 the evening anniversary of the birth of my missing child? If I do

 not, I fear that I shall carry this with me to my detriment, for I

 experience such relief when applying my pen to your pages. But

 oh, Dear Diary, so private are these words, so frightening, that I

 scarcely dare repeat what has happened. Unable to sleep, unable,

 barely, to sit down, I have paced my chambers for the last hour

 debating whether to share here in your pages the events of the

 past several hours, and now, alas, I take to your pages like the sinful

 to the confessional.

 It was shortly after eleven o’clock when I heard a knock on the

 outer door to my chambers. I had already let the staff go and so

 was made to answer this inquiry myself. Believing it to be

 Sukeena, who has found it dif?cult to sleep since her ordeal with

 the police, I approached in my nightgown, not bothering with a

 robe.

 To my great surprise it was my husband. Further to my surprise

 was his apparent sobriety. I had not seen him since before

 218

 tea, and had presumed him to be drinking quite heavily on this

 day.

 “Ellen,” he said, his voice barely a whisper, “the pain is too

 great.” I admitted him and we embraced—hugged each other in a

 way we have not done in years. I cried. My husband remained

 stalwart, though was visibly shaken. As we hugged, his large hands

 held me from behind, rubbing me and pressing me to him, and I

 sensed immediately he had turned his grief into need—he wanted

 physical soothing.

 He kissed my neck, my throat, and I confess I shuddered with

 apprehension. I, too, needed this expression of love, needed

 some escape from my grief. He stopped my heart with his next

 words. “Send for her.”

 I stammered, unable to draw a breath. There was no question

 to whom my husband referred. “John . . . ,” I pleaded, but he

 pressed his ?nger to my lips and repeated himself, and I knew

 there was to be no arguing.

 I approached the door, preparing to summon one of my staff.

 I turned to him again, one ?nal attempt to win favor. “John, dear

 husband, I offer myself in whatever regard you do wish. You may

 dress, undress me. Position me any way you like, ask anything of

 me you so choose—but do not ask this. I have yet to inform her of

 our . . . negotiations. I dare not tell her this way.”

 Clearly, he considered my offer thoughtfully. He touched

 me—touched me as only a husband may touch a wife. Then he

 stopped abruptly and bid me to summon her. “Send for her,” he

 repeated.

 I knew better than to challenge him, especially in the face of

 his rescue, which may have saved Sukeena’s life. “Very well,” I

 said. “But leave my chambers for a time. Let me speak to her in

 private. Grant me this favor, my only request. Return in thirty

 minutes. You shall have what you wish.”

 Sukeena arrived quite promptly—never one to dismiss a sum-

 219

 mons from her mistress. I sat her down and spoke quite plainly of

 the arrangements I had made to secure her release from jail and

 torture. I informed her of my discovering of John’s viewing hallway,

 and how I believed he watched every woman in this house

 from similar vantage points. I had no doubt whatsoever that he’d

 visited Sukeena in this regard for several years now.

 “You ask me to do this thing for you, ma’am, you know I do.”

 “You loathe him, I know, sweet friend.”

 “He bad man, Miss. Not bad in soul, but bad in action. Bad

 for the children, bad for you, Miss Ellen.”

 “We must do this thing,” I bid her. “We must grant him this

 whenever he asks, and he has asked for to-night to help rid him

 of the haunting that results from the loss of sweet April.”

 “You ask me do dis, I do dis.”

 I kissed her, kissed her on the lips long and tenderly. “I had

 hoped nothing might ever spoil our privacy, dear friend.” Her

 eyes burned into mine and I felt her displeasure with me—perhaps

 she would rather have died in jail than take to bed with my

 husband. I didn’t blame her for this.

 “This one night, he never forget,” she said. “Sukeena make

 sure of that.”

 “It’s a night none of us shall forget,” I said.

 “Oh, no,” she contradicted. “Me, ma’am? I forget this before

 I return to my own room.” And she smiled.

 When Sukeena smiled—missing teeth and all—the whole room

 grew brighter. She slipped out of her robe and nightdress and

 stood before me naked, a powerful and wildly attractive female

 form. “Take off the nightie, miss.” She stepped forward and

 helped me out of my nightgown. “You say he coming,” she said.

 “Then we give him an eyeful.” With that, she took my hand and

 led me toward my bed.

 220

 editor’s note: as arbiter of these entries, after

 much discussion with my publisher, it was decided

 that the speciFIc references (1 april 1917) were far

 too graphic and disturbing to be printed here,

 where readers more interested in the history of

 rose red should not be made to be burdened with

 the personal exploits (and exploitation!) of the

 author. we have, as a concession, made this, and (a

 few) other excerpts available on the world wide

 web at the following address: www.beaumontuniversity.

 net. users familiar with the web will note

 there is no “link” to these excerpts from any of the

 web-published pages. you must therefore type in the

 url given here (exactly as it is written) in order to

 reach this private library of ellen’s most personal

 moments. a further warning: some of the content

 therein is explicitly sexual, and is not intended for

 persons under the age of eighteen.

 in point of fact, ellen rimbauer apparently

 became obsessed with recounting her nearly

 nightly bedroom activities over the next several

 months, writing almost exclusively about her husband’s

 increased addiction to these events and the

 elaborate acts he conceived for both his wife and

 his wife’s best friend and servant. there are virtually

 no entries other than these (often repugnant

 and degrading) until early in 1918, an editorial

 time jump i readily make in order to spare you, the

 reader, the sordid descriptions of the debauchery

 to which john rimbauer stooped. the only element

 you lose because of my red pencil is the growing

 frustration on the part of ellen and sukeena at

 221

 222

 being used in this way, to have what was once a pure

 love between them corrupted and poisoned by a man

 who could no longer FInd any satisfaction in life.

 even physical pleasure now robbed him of any victory

 over the senses. he was consumed in grief, he

 felt himself a failure, and the deeper he sank, the

 more bizarre his requests, the more desperate the

 two women become. (there is even an account of a

 late night spent in the barn!) by the time we join

 back up with ellen in the pages to come, there have

 been hints of a conspiracy FIrst forming, and then

 growing, between the mistress of the house and her

 maid. ellen will not allow the speciFIcs of this conspiracy

 to reach her pages, for fear of her diary’s

 discovery, but it is quite evident that john rimbauer

 is the target and that plans have already

 formed to set into motion john rimbauer’s demise.

 —joyce reardon

 223

 9 march 1918—rose red

 To look back at the entries herein, it is quite obvious to me how

 nothing has affected me quite so much as the late-night encounters

 with John and the disturbing nature of his demands upon the

 women of this house. The events of this day ?nally are cause for

 re?ection on the larger nature of the problems with Rose Red

 and her apparent need of “fuel,” both in terms of her physical

 expansion (her continued construction) and whatever spiritual

 needs she has.

 To-day, she killed again.

 The coroner will put the death of George Meader down as an

 allergic reaction to a bee sting. But that bee sting came inside the

 Health Room [Editor’s note: Health Room = Ellen’s term for the

 Solarium, post 1917] and that room did burst with color upon his

 death, the same way it exploded with color on the tragic night of

 April’s disappearance and Sukeena’s confrontation with the

 policeman there.

 Meader, a railroad executive who has stayed the week with us,

 was a big drinker, and clearly a womanizer. He ?irted with many

 of the staff and may have had relations with more than one. It was

 the attention he paid poor Sukeena that may have led to his

 untimely demise. More than once he cornered her. (For she tells

 me everything that happens in this house.) More than once he

 attempted to grope her. (Who knows if John had a part in any of

 this? I cannot see John sharing stories of our “alliance,” our

 triad, but I put little past the man.) For her part, Sukeena ?nally

 arranged for George to meet her in the Health Room at the

 stroke of midnight.

 George appeared, quite drunk, but on time. Alerted to

 Sukeena’s plans, I kept watch of the Health Room from above,

 alert to any lights coming on in various hallways or the Kitchen.

 224

 If I saw any such activity, I was to switch the lights of my room

 repeatedly. Sukeena would be able to see my chamber’s windows

 from inside the Health Room.

 All went according to plan.

 George showed up in the Health Room, and Sukeena immediately

 began dancing in a most ?uid, provocative and suggestive

 manner. Even distanced as I was, I felt the power of that dance.

 No man could fail to respond to those hips, the loose-jointed

 nature of her body as it expressed itself. I could see George

 Meader reach for his collar (for the Health Room is considerably

 warmer than the rest of the house, even without Sukeena dancing)

 and attempt to unbutton it. He slipped off his coat—perhaps

 at Sukeena’s instruction. Only moments after he had removed his

 coat, Sukeena sank to the ?oor, her legs crossed, and apparently

 set her mind to prayer, or whatever it is she does exactly. Barely

 seconds passed before I saw George Meader swat his arm—the bee

 had stung him, summoned, I remain convinced, by Sukeena’s

 substantial meditative powers. Sukeena waited only brie?y for

 George to sink to his knees. Then she slipped quietly into the

 garden, and through the Pool House returned by the south stairs

 to her rooms.

 Meader died without so much as a sound. Upon his death, the

 ?rst blooms of red roses appeared, vines wandering and growing

 and extending themselves before my eyes. Within minutes, I

 could no longer see inside the Health Room, overgrown as it was

 by the wandering vines.

 Nothing was found of George Meader for several hours,

 except that coat he had removed. Only the next day, as the vines

 impossibly receded and returned to their previous state, was the

 body found. (The ?esh was torn by thorns as if he’d been rolled

 in a bed of roses.)

 John instructed the stable boys to cart the body downtown,

 225

 knowing I would refuse the police entrance into my home for

 anything but outright murder, and even then only with the

 proper documents.

 Was it Rose or Sukeena who took George Meader from this

 world? Does it matter any longer? I feel half crazy with it all.

 (More than half, if you believe the staff.) I have nearly abandoned

 my own suspicions of the Indian burial ground, and yet Indian

 artifacts continue to surface in the house—and one, an earthen

 ceramic bowl shaped as a beehive, did ?nd its way into the Health

 Room, as I recall!

 Perhaps the mysteries of this place will never be solved.

 Perhaps some scientist will come along in future generations to

 explain what I, sadly, cannot. Who’s to tell? One thing is for certain:

 I will continue to build Rose Red until the day I die—or

 until I myself am claimed—even with my own hands when necessary

 (as I continue to construct the Tower). I will continue to

 attempt to negotiate a longer life for myself that I might outlive

 my husband—this I pray for more than anything. That I might

 ?nd my child still alive. (Adam is barely a part of my life, as John

 will not allow him to return to this place—I know my son only

 through letters, and these letters are less frequent each year.)

 Another has died. I barely mourn the loss. Rose Red has her

 needs. Sukeena and I must protect ourselves. Arthritis has found

 my ?ngers, I am in excruciating pain, and I fear my entries here

 in your pages, Dear Diary, shall be fewer and farther between.

 What more is to be said? I live in a world, condemned. Made

 into someone I am not by night, in my husband’s desperate

 attempts to ?nd satisfaction, reduced to prayer and silence by day.

 Sneaking off to build with my hands what this house demands of

 me. “The Tower,” she whispers at night. My little April.

 Soon, our reunion, as I have ordered the exterior of the

 Tower to be built, my stairway nearing completion. A year or two

 at most, I’m told, following on the heels of projects already

 planned. A golden cherub has been ordered, cast in Italy by artisans

 in Florence. This cherub will stand high atop Rose Red and

 lord over our property. Perhaps over Rose Red herself.

 Plans are taking shape. My daughter is coming home.

 226

 editor’s note: although the subsequent lack of

 diary entries is attributed to ellen rimbauer’s

 arthritis, there is some evidence that this period

 proved traumatic to her and that she suffered at

 least one breakdown. with the doctor’s recommendation

 she attend “a clinic” (see 16 november 1921)

 in switzerland, ellen rimbauer refused to leave

 rose red and her beloved sukeena. recently recovered

 documents (the diary of tina coleman, for

 one) promote the idea that john was behind ellen’s

 “illness,” and that switzerland was his attempt to

 remove her from rose red once and for all. this

 plan failed, regardless of its source. on 17 october

 1920, a serious FIre claimed an entire wing of rose

 red. the cause of that FIre has never been named. it

 must be considered as a possibility that ellen set

 that FIre herself in protest to john’s attempts to be

 rid of her.

 a study of the contractor’s notes and plans

 show no work on the tower scheduled for nearly

 twenty months. another theory behind the FIre and

 all their relationship problems was that ellen

 found out john was purposely delaying work on the

 tower. regardless of disagreements, construction

 on the tower began in earnest in early november

 1920. to this day, three important questions remain

 surrounding the period 1918–1920: (1) ellen’s mental

 state; (2) the “activity” of the house (e.g., there

 are reports of nearly a dozen disappearances in this

 twenty-four-month period); and (3) john’s growing

 fear of his wife; his wife’s maid, sukeena; and the

 house that together the rimbauers continued to

 build, and remodel, at an alarming pace.

 227

 228

 there are writings (though no substantial evidence)

 that suggest it was john, not ellen, who had

 lost touch with reality, and that during this time

 he became badly addicted to laudanum, spending

 days at a time in the opium dens south of the city

 and away from the monstrosity of a house he had

 come to fear.

 —joyce reardon

 19 june 1921—rose red

 Sparks. I see robins outside my window. Twiddle-dee, twiddledum,

 I smell smoke in the auditorium. Where have I been? I ask

 myself, looking back at your pages. Is it possible I have not written

 my thoughts down here, except once in a blue moon? I feel as if I

 write here every day, but perhaps that is just my imaginings. I

 have been overcome with fever quite regularly. In truth these

 fevers always seem to follow my nights spent in the company of my

 husband—a pleasant way to write down here what is not often

 pleasant at all. For several years now he has included Sukeena in

 our . . . participation. I’d rather not say. Twiddle-dee, twiddledum.

 Sparks. The servants are out testing explosives for our

 annual Fourth of July party. I watch from my window, singing

 songs I recall from my childhood. How can childhood seem so far

 away, a part of another person’s life, surely not mine? Sparks.

 Boom, boom, boom. If once I held any innocence, it has burned

 away like the gunpowder in these displays I watch. No innocence

 in the bedroom. No innocence at the window (at least not the

 night I helped Sukeena wrap George Meader in thorny vines). No

 innocence inside my head, where I spend an increasing amount

 of time trying to foresee my husband’s maneuvers to remove me

 from this place. I’ve hidden from him—up in the attic, still working

 on the stairs to the Tower—for days at a time. John wandering

 the house calling out, perhaps secretly hoping Rose has claimed

 me once and for all. Me, waiting. Waiting. Letting him wet his

 whistle on this notion, letting his heart beat with excitement at

 the possibility I’m gone forever. And then I waltz into the

 Breakfast Room, as if not away from him for more than a few

 minutes. I watch his face sag. I smile enormously and greet him

 with bright, rested eyes and good humor. Later, he stews. Angry.

 Alone. I like him that way: angry and alone. I want him to pay for

 all the innocence he has taken from me. From us.

 229

 I talk to Rose openly now. No longer afraid. I tell her I want

 to see my daughter. I offer myself to her walls. But she asks

 strange things of me. We have remodeled an upstairs hall to

 become the Perspective Hallway: it diminishes in the same fashion

 as train tracks, one end to the other. It’s in honor of the late

 George Meader and his rail company, but this is a hall—and the

 deeper you enter it, the lower the ceiling, the tighter the walls. It

 is not unlike my life itself—the longer I have lived, the more con-

 ?ned I feel by my surroundings. (At thirty-four, I feel more like

 eighty years of age.) I have hidden doors off the Perspective

 Hallway, in the same manner my husband has hidden his viewing

 rooms throughout this palace. Some go nowhere. Others lead to

 mazes of hallways. (In one such secreted hallway I hung a great

 nude on the other side of glass, just to annoy my husband should

 he stray inside. Life imitates art, they say. Or is it the other way

 around?)

 To-day marks the grand opening of the Tower. (Our friends,

 I hear tell, are referring to my endeavor as “the tower folly.” Be

 that as it may, I’m quite proud of the addition.) It includes the

 stairs that lead from the attic to a single room of generous proportions

 offering a full, panoramic view of all of Rose’s wings,

 our property and its forests, as well as the commanding sight of

 the city and Elliott Bay beyond. It is the most beautiful, most

 important addition to our grand home, and is certain to take its

 place as one of my favorite spots. Now that it is open—complete

 with the lovely Venetian glass window and the twenty-four-karat

 gold-plated Italian cherub that adorns the peak of its roof—I feel

 as if I have a retreat of sorts, a place to hide, a place to pray, a

 place to seek my missing daughter.

 John has not been in favor of the Tower. (He fears I put too

 much faith in the Tower helping me to locate April, and I admit

 here that he is quite right about that—my faith, that is—but our

 beliefs differ so greatly that John also trusts that there is little or

 230

 231

 no hope of any such physical structure providing a conduit, a

 medium that might reconnect us with our missing April, a fallacy

 in him I strive to correct!)

 My mind wanders so frequently now, led as I am in so many

 directions. My “wonderings” come with more frequency and last

 longer. I see the staff steer clear of me in the hallways, shaken by

 my pale face, no doubt, or my unsteady walk. They have never lost

 a child, as I have. They have never compromised their existence as

 I have, obeying my husband and tolerating untold embarrassments

 in order to remain in the house of my child’s disappearance.

 (To leave John would certainly mean leaving Rose—and that

 is even more unthinkable now than it was before.) Sukeena and I

 have agreed to meet at midnight (providing John does not call for

 our services) and, with the completion of the Tower, attempt to

 summon sweet April. We will climb and listen for the winds that

 have instructed me for these past several years, my hands bloodied

 with my efforts as a carpenter. It seems to me I shall always be

 putting ?nishing touches on my attic stairway, which ascends,

 through three turns, to the Tower. It will never be perfect, will

 always require attention—but so does a child, of course. This

 Tower is my child, just as my child is this Tower. How could I

 ever neglect it for even a single day? But alas, I am late for my

 rendezvous with my maid.

 Sukeena and I meet in the upstairs hallway, alongside the panel

 that I had discovered previously, and let ourselves in. I carry a

 battery-powered ?ashlight, heavy as it is, and lead the way along

 the now familiar route, past the guests’ quarters, up and into the

 attic. We stand at the base of my stairs, where the early work of my

 carpentry is seen for what it is: crude and poorly done. Through

 the door, the bottom stair is crooked, as are the next three, those

 in lessening proportions. The wood is still raw and untreated, as I

 232

 have much work yet to do and will not allow any of the workers to

 touch a thing here. We climb slowly, to cries and complaints of

 the poorly assembled stairs, and I shine the light on Sukeena as

 she lags behind. Even she appears frightened. I take this as a good

 sign and encourage her on. I certainly must look a bit ghostly

 myself, drained of color as I am of late, standing there in my

 sheer nightgown, the yellow light ?ashing around unsteadily as I

 wave the ?ashlight unintentionally in my right hand, directing

 her. Perhaps Sukeena is more afraid of me than this Tower. I

 shouldn’t be surprised, everyone else seems to fear me and my

 condition.

 Now, as we approach the second turn, I ?nally hear what it is

 that has frightened my dear friend, what she has heard that I did

 not—the creaking of the stairs no longer sounds like lumber rubbing

 on lumber, nails straining against nails—increasingly it

 sounds like a voice, a familiar voice, a child’s voice. April! The

 higher we climb, the more the creaking goes to wind, the wind to

 voice: “Ma-ma . . .” it calls, and I hurry my ascent, climbing all

 the faster. Sukeena, protective perhaps, is nearly running to keep

 up with me. “Miss Ellen!” she calls, the condition of warning carried

 in her tone. It is as if she fears that the door at the very top

 of these stairs, a door that grows larger by the moment, will lead

 not to the panoramic view I anticipate but to some dark, foreboding

 place, where young April is kept hidden. And those who

 enter, along with it.

 Alas, as I burst through the upper door and out into the brisk

 night chill (the Tower is not heated) I am bathed in colorful

 light. For a moment, I feel as if I’m in the “light of God,” and I

 wonder if indeed Rose Red has not claimed me and is in the

 process of transporting me to wherever April lives. (I always think

 of April as alive, but in another place; my motherly ways will allow

 no other consideration.) Then I see Sukeena circling the Tower

 in front of me. It is the moon and the stained-glass window that

 have poured this light across me.

 “April,” I call out, the wind rushing up the stairs below and

 encompassing me: “Ma-ma, ma-ma.” I feel dizzy. My child is so

 very close. I can smell her. Taste her sweet cheeks as I kiss away

 her tears. I fall to my knees, trembling. I am pointing. Sukeena

 misunderstands, believing I am pointing to her. Then, she slowly

 looks around behind her, in the same direction as my ?nger is

 aimed.

 She, too, falls down onto her knees. She lowers her head and

 kisses the boards we kneel upon—the ?oor to the Tower. The

 Temple, I shall think of it from now on. I ordered that stainedglass

 window of the rose more than a decade earlier, while on my

 honeymoon with my husband, before the birth of Adam, before

 the birth of April. And yet here, backlit by the full moon as it is,

 the sound of my daughter’s voice swirling through the rotunda,

 so clear, and crisp and young, this multicolored window does not

 depict a rose at all. The tones and patterns have shifted in this

 shimmering light, the moon playing tricks on the eyes—or so

 some would say.

 Instead of a rose in that window, it is a face that Sukeena and I

 now see. As clear and as apparent as if I’d instructed the artisans

 to fashion it in this regard so many years ago. But how could they

 have? She wasn’t born yet. For you see, Dear Diary, the image in

 that lovely window is not a rose at all, but a portrait. It is the face

 of my child, April. Just as she looked the day she disappeared. As

 the wind blows eerily in our ears, her lips move. And she talks

 to me.

 233

 16 november 1921

 I return to your pages after too long an absence. John’s proclivity

 toward moodiness has increased with each month. He seems tired

 so much of the time. He returns from the city late, late at night

 with odd smells on his clothing. (The closest I have come to experiencing

 these same odors was while visiting Madame Lu.) His

 husbandly appetites have subsided. He has not visited my chambers

 in nearly three months. I cannot speak of my fears on these

 pages, but I imagine the worst for poor John. While his fortune

 continued to grow, his partnership dissolved, a good friend had

 “an unfortunate accident” in his Health Room, his daughter disappeared

 and his home began building itself without him. (A

 protracted battle erupted between John and our contractor when

 the contractor accused my husband of shopping out work to a

 moonlighting crew, for a great deal of carpentry work is often

 accomplished overnight within the walls of Rose Red. No explanation

 has been given, but the contractor has been replaced by

 one who asks no such questions.)

 In the midst of his “depression” (what the doctors are calling

 it) John has twice tried to force me to travel to Switzerland (once,

 this summer, and again, in late September) to attend a health

 clinic where he hoped I might ?nd peace from my af?iction with

 fever. Reunited with my daughter as I am in my late-night visits

 (wisely, I have told John nothing of this), I refuse to budge.

 Nothing can take me from Rose Red now. (Sukeena believes this

 was the intention of the house all along. Perhaps a bit jealous

 herself, my maid believes this rambling palace is somehow in love

 with me and wants me all to herself.)

 The reason for this entry in your pages, the cause of my

 alarm, is that to-day John issued an ultimatum that I was not to

 visit the Tower any longer. He ordered it boarded up and padlocked.

 Although I long to understand his reasoning—does he

 234

 sense a change in me?—I cannot, of course, allow him to make

 such impossible demands. I wonder if John himself did not stray

 up to that lofty place late one night and see the face, hear the

 voice himself? Perhaps it proved too much for him. Perhaps he

 snapped and has slid downhill ever since. Perhaps, only now, can

 he begin to come to grips with what happens in that magic place

 and strive to prevent me from experiencing it myself. I have never

 understood John Rimbauer, and I understand him even less now,

 but we have had a conversation about this demand of his, and for

 the ?rst time in our marriage, I threatened my husband with his

 life.

 I suggested that poison might ?nd its way into his food, a

 mechanical failure might befall his motorcar, a dockside whore

 might run him through with a knife. The biggest threat of all, I

 saved for last. I offered to reinvite his recent houseguests—we’ve

 entertained a series of prominent bankers of late as John negotiates

 a pipeline deal—and to parade them down the back hallways

 that afford my husband the opportunity to regard their wives in a

 full state of undress and while taking their toilet. (I dare say the

 loans would dry up quite quickly!) After a brief consideration,

 John removed his ultimatum, but the look he gave me chilled me

 to the bone.

 I fear what little peace still exists in this house is now destined

 as a part of our past.

 235

 236

 9 june 1922—rose red

 My husband has taken a turn for the worse. Violence surrounds

 him, follows him like a shadow. He eats alone, leaves the house

 early in the morning and sometimes stays away for days at a time.

 I’m told by those who should know that he has been seen gambling

 (quite heavily) in the Chinese district south of the city, that

 he has lost a considerable amount of money and that a certain

 intemperance has left him in need of regular visits to that community,

 sometimes several times a day.

 To-night, he threatened our headwaiter with a carving knife,

 ostensibly because the beef was prepared too rare. (I don’t see the

 problem—John is hardly eating at all any longer.) He then threw a

 tureen on the ?oor, shattering it, and causing the girls who work

 in the Dining Room to ?ee and not return. Our headwaiter

 quit—walked out. We will need to replace him to-morrow—that is,

 if news of John’s temper has not reached everywhere in this city,

 which I fear has resulted in a protracted dif?culty in Mr.

 Tammerman securing domestics of any quality. Rose Red has

 turned. She is in a season of decline. I attribute this to John’s

 reduction of the construction budget—he has cut building by

 half. And whereas our ?ne home now accommodates over thirty-

 ?ve thousand square feet of living space, can sleep forty-two and

 feed several hundred in grand style, she could have been more

 grand, more luxurious had John not started pinching his pennies.

 To-night, Sukeena and I spoke of this at length—for even she

 now acknowledges that we have seen less of April during this time

 of slow growth. Rose Red must be allowed to expand. The faster

 the construction, the more visits from my daughter. My husband

 and I vary greatly in our opinions on this matter. I do not know if

 my maid suggested it, or if perhaps it was I, but a very clear need

 exists for the departure of John Rimbauer. He is in my way, in

 Sukeena’s and the staff ’s way and is now in the way of the house

 herself.

 Something must be done. I fear it is up to me to decide exactly

 what.

 237

 AFTERWORD

 my great-grandmother’s diary ended here, and were

 it not for the work of joyce reardon’s recent expedition

 into rose red, it might have ended here forever.

 however, i was a part of that expedition and

 had the good fortune to discover in the attic a

 second installment to the diary, hidden in the wall

 of the tower, ironically, on the other side of a

 false door installed behind an old discolored

 watercolor of a red rose hanging on the wall. (i

 believe great-grandma may have painted that

 watercolor herself.)

 the entries that follow are disturbing to say the

 least, but they do conFIrm some of what was discovered

 during the reardon expedition, the intention

 of which was to psychically awaken the slumbering

 beast of rose red. as the old sage has said, “be careful

 what you ask for . . .” we know now, through

 this conFIrmation, the cause of at least one fatality,

 and perhaps in the years to follow we shall

 uncover more. much of the late diary is written in a

 “code,” an encryption that has yet to be broken. my

 great-grandmother had either unspoken talents or

 a connection to a place that few, if any, of us will

 ever access. what follows are excerpts from the

 second diary.

 —steven rimbauer

 seattle, washington, september 2000

 (joyce reardon’s FInal editorial was respectfully

 moved to conclude the diary.)

 238

 19 february 1923—rose red

 4 P.M.

 Winter has proved especially vexing and tiresome. I put into your

 pages now what never must be revealed to any living person. I

 have, for this reason, made amendments to my last will and testament,

 ensuring your destruction, Dear Diary, should anything

 happen to me.

 For the past several months, and more so, in recent weeks,

 Sukeena and I have conspired—yes, I choose my words carefully—

 on some way to do away with John Rimbauer. Try as I have to

 drive him from this home in recent months, my efforts have been

 to no avail, in part because my husband is no longer the man he

 once was. His trips to the Chinese sector are more a part of his

 life than anything here. He returns disoriented and confused,

 and he strikes out in terror at anyone in his way. He has become

 far more than a nuisance. Last week, when he violently took liberties

 with Julie, the ?fteen-year-old-daughter of Mrs. Cruthers,

 our housemaid, I promised an end to it. This very evening, my

 maid and I shall deliver on our promise.

 8 P.M.

 I am told by Sukeena that the ?rst part of our devious plan is now

 in place. She visited my husband in his upstairs of?ce at teatime—

 a visit she had never made once in all her years in our service—

 and I’m told the conversation went something like this:

 (To give you the bene?t of imagination, Dear Diary, I should

 tell you that Sukeena’s full black form when clothed loosely in

 white Egyptian cotton is so provocative that my husband banned

 her from this dress early on in her service. I should also add that

 during the days of John’s visits to my chambers with my maid “in

 attendance,” he never “knew” her, in the biblical sense. He

 watched. He leered. But he never knew her. As odd as this may

 239

 sound—and it does so to me even here on your pages—I believe

 this omission of the act has been out of respect to me, and I also

 believe it has thrown him into internal turmoil that has, these

 many months, resulted in a string of self-destructive acts.)

 “Evening, sir.”

 “Sukeena.”

 She says he was seated behind his great English partners desk,

 a ?re burning in the ?replace, a brandy held in hand. His dark

 blue velvet and black satin smoking jacket. Charcoal gray trousers.

 Ascot. Cigar. The snifter of brandy.

 “Is there anything you are needing, sir?” Sukeena is my maid,

 not his. Surely her approach—this arrival in his private chambers

 —must have struck him oddly.

 “Such as?”

 “Anything at all.” I can just imagine her lilting tone, the shifting

 from one broad hip to the other, the way she does. When

 Sukeena moves, it is like a cheetah. John has always been slightly

 afraid of the big cats.

 “Anything?”

 “Anything, sir.” She added, “Miss Ellen, she asleep, sir. Took

 some bourbon with milk not an hour ago.”

 I am prone to ?nding my sleep quickly when under the in?uence

 of spirits. No one is more aware of this than my husband.

 He looked at her with a cocked head and curious eye.

 “I be wondering, sir. About things. About you. About you and

 me, sir. A woman can’t help but wonder.”

 “You’ve been wondering about . . . ?” Astonishment. I imagine

 the laudanum must dull my husband’s good senses. (He has

 not shown any such senses in many months.) Lull him. Fool him.

 How else could others trick him into parting with his money so

 easily? This man who amassed a fortune only to squander it away.

 I wish, Dear Diary, I could summon even a modicum of sympathy

 for my dear John, but reason does not allow me such luxury.

 240

 Except for a brief period of courting, I have known him to be a

 sel?sh man. I served a purpose in his life—the same way a railroad

 tycoon can provide his oil transportation—I offered legitimacy of

 his offspring. He poisoned my womanhood with his dalliances,

 made me barren and robbed me of the one thing I could offer.

 He takes women like he takes meals—often and hungrily. He lavished

 no love upon his daughter and yet offered his son anything

 he desired, including a way out of this house. With his good looks

 and winning smile, he has cajoled many a businessman and every

 woman into surrendering whatever it is they hold dearest, all the

 while believing John Rimbauer was doing them a favor. The only

 thing I’ve ever see frighten him is this house—my dear Rose—and

 so it was to Rose I turned in my hour of need.

 “I . . . I told you not to wear that clothing around this house,

 woman! It’s not proper.”

 “I be having a problem sleeping, sir. Thinking about . . .

 Sukeena sorry if my dressing gown does not please you.”

 “Please me?”

 “Yes, sir.”

 He rose slowly out of his chair, the ?re crackling. “Please

 me?” he repeated.

 “It’s not something I ever speak to the Miss about. You can see

 that, sir.”

 “Indeed.”

 “Something I got-to know. A woman got-to know.” She paused,

 then turned for the door. “Was thinking about da Tower, sir. Put

 a quilt in the Tower, I did. Heavy quilt. The one from Sveden.

 You know the one. Maybe Sukeena take her sleep in the Tower.”

 She left his study then, fully con?dent that behind the haze of

 the laudanum and the brandy, the cigar and that ruddy con?-

 dence of his, my husband would follow like a puppy to its mother.

 Sure enough, he did just that.

 She walked luxuriously, strolling down the great wide halls of

 241

 Rose Red as if in a processional, my husband trailing a few yards

 behind. Down the hall, she turned into his own changing room,

 and this must certainly have shocked him. She walked straight

 into his closet, opened the secret panel at the back and entered

 the narrow hallway that led directly to the attic. By now he must

 have thought her possessed of black magic, for he never missed a

 step, ducking through his own clothing and following that path

 he had followed so many times before. Even then with lurid

 thoughts occupying him.

 I see it in my mind’s eye as a spectacle: Sukeena in front of

 him by a few steps, my husband’s slightly drunken gait following a

 few paces behind. His heart racing with anticipation—this cherished

 prize that has remained out of reach all these years. In our

 African camp, I got to Sukeena before John did, as she was

 assigned to me as my handmaid. I can only imagine the frustration

 this caused in him now that I know what was always on my

 husband’s mind. Now that I know it was there in that camp that

 he exposed himself to sinful disease. I have wondered many times

 what our lives might be like had I taken to God the way so many

 women do. Would we now be blessed? Why did I choose to pray

 to the dark side, make alliances with powers beyond my understanding?

 God, too, is beyond my understanding, so why not

 God? How much better this might have all turned out.

 Forgiveness instead of revenge, faith instead of accusation and

 hardship. (Perhaps now is the time. I hear it is never too late to

 turn to the Christ. Just think: all that I have imagined, all that I

 have suffered through, and yet still a chance for salvation!)

 Up my twisting and complaining staircase did they come,

 Sukeena now leading my frightened husband by the hand. The

 winds began calling behind the creaking of that lumber, “Da . . .

 da. Da . . . da.” My husband’s blood ran cold; despite the

 brandy, his eyes grew large with fear. He stopped his ascent,

 nearly pulling Sukeena over, who had the lead.

 242

 243

 “Come,” she said.

 “I can’t. Do you hear that?”

 “Hear only the wind, sir,” she lied. “Mustn’t be afraid of the

 wind.”

 “Is that all it is?”

 “Oh, yes, sir. The Tower get all sort of the winds.” She

 reminded him, “The quilt, sir. When we to lie down, the wind no

 longer make the sound.” She tugged on his arm. “The master not

 afraid of a little wind?”

 When one needs John to budge, one resorts to his playing

 against his own impressions of himself. This trick worked. He

 ?uffed himself up, expanded his chest and took after my maid

 once again, slowing ascending the misshapen staircase leading to

 the Tower.

 She threw the door open.

 It had to be the right night. We knew that in our early stages of

 planning. First, a full moon—for these are the nights that April

 will visit. Second, that time of night when the moon sits just

 above the horizon, fully lighting the stained-glass window there.

 We knew what would be said. The stress of an in?rm wife. His

 daughter disappearing like that. The gambling. The visits to

 Chinatown. The social pressures that wealth can bring.

 Sukeena entered the Tower ?rst. The voice was so clearly

 April’s now. “Da . . . da . . . ,” it said. John stepped in behind,

 and the door gently swung shut behind him. In the stained-glass

 window, the lovely rose changed before our eyes into a ghostly

 specter of my daughter’s misshapen and withered arm. The wind

 asked, “These are your gifts to your children?” My husband stood

 as if his shoes had been nailed to the ?ooring. The hand in the

 window, my daughter’s hand, plain as day, beckoned him, her

 ?nger waving him toward her. “Da . . . da. Come . . .

 Look . . .”

 If all those years ago in Africa a person had told me that

 someday the spirits would join me in the ful?llment of my wishes,

 I might have imagined pure love between husband and wife—

 worldly travel and long sumptuous meals that added not a pound

 to my frame. A family of six children. Songs by the ?re in the

 evenings and a game of whist with friends after supper. I might

 never have imagined this.

 John took one ?nal step closer to the window. He looked to

 his feet: no quilt. He looked up and saw me hovering behind the

 door, for it had been me who had shut it, closing him in.

 The power of two women can be formidable, especially when

 combined with the determination of years of struggle and anger

 that had steeped inside both Sukeena and me. She took an arm

 and yanked, spinning him. I charged with all my strength. But in

 the end it was neither Sukeena nor me. I only wish it were so. It

 was April—that enormous wind—that did the job for us. I threw

 my weight into John, certainly. Sukeena pulled with all her substantial

 strength. A look of shock and surprise—the hunter

 hunted—my husband lifted off his feet in an ungainly and weightless

 manner. There, he faced our daughter in the stained-glass

 window. April smiled and blinked and repeated one last time,

 “Da . . . da.” (At that moment I wondered, had it been

 Sukeena’s and my idea, or had it been April’s all along?)

 John Rimbauer planted his feet. He skidded across the

 wooden planks, and I swear I smelled burning wood as his heels

 dragged. He ?ew up and through the window, exploding it into a

 thousand pieces, and plunged down and off the slate roof from

 some ?fty feet above the ?agstone terrace. I recall him insisting

 upon the construction of that abysmal front terrace. I had never

 cared for it.

 I like it a lot better now that it’s rose red.

 244

 26 february 1923

 My son came home to-day and together we buried his father.

 Hundreds attended, from women whose names I did not want to

 know, to the dockhands who thought of him as a personal friend,

 to the bankers, businessmen and public of?cials who have made

 their careers off him. I stood in all black, crying real tears, holding

 my son ?rmly by the shoulder—the ?rst time I have seen him

 in nearly three years.

 It is dif?cult to express in these pages the acute sense of loss,

 of grief that I am experiencing. Despite all the atrocious things

 John Rimbauer did to me, the pain he brought to my life, I

 admired him greatly, loved him at times and marveled at his success.

 Even with the gambling losses he leaves behind a dynasty, a

 king’s fortune as it turns out.

 Adam and I spent the later part of the afternoon walking the

 woods where he and his father hunted squirrels and rabbit. After

 some reminiscing and retelling of stories about his father, Adam

 ?nally brought up the subject he had avoided for years.

 “Is it haunted?” he asked, looking not at me but at his own

 boots in the wet leaves.

 “It’s possessed,” I answered honestly. “That’s the best way I

 can put it.”

 “As in ‘ghosts’?”

 “Spirits.”

 We stopped on the trail, overlooking Lasky Pond.

 “And April?”

 Here was the discussion I had so longed to have with my son. I

 knew that John had colored his opinion. The newspaper, perhaps

 at John’s bidding, had reported a day or two later that the ice on

 Lasky Pond was found broken, and that April might have fallen

 through. (I wonder, then, that we never found the body!) This

 became the generally accepted view: an accident on the pond; a

 245

 bear who had gotten close to the city; a mountain lion. Anything

 but the truth.

 “She’s in the house, Adam.”

 “That’s preposterous, Mother!” It was my husband’s voice,

 though carried in my son’s body, and the effect was disarming.

 How quickly they learn.

 “Why do you think your father found ways all these years to

 keep you from returning to the house? You think he was afraid of

 the woods? This pond? He was afraid of the walls.”

 “Father was afraid of nothing.”

 “We’re all afraid of something, dear. Your father was a great

 man. But he was afraid of the truth. He ?red Douglas Posey to

 avoid facing the truth; he kept you from this house, your home.

 Never fear the truth, Adam. It’s the only real passport you have to

 reach new levels of understanding. You may ?nd it corny, but the

 truth can set you free.”

 “It is corny.” He toed the fallen leaves, burrowing a wet hole

 into the forest ?oor and overturning a small, shiny rock.

 “If you stay long enough, it may be possible for you to hear

 her voice.”

 “Mother . . .”

 “What? I’m crazy? You can tell me, Adam. You tell me.”

 246

 247

 1 march 1923

 So it was that on a perfectly still night, three days later, my son

 and I climbed the creaking Tower steps toward that place where

 his father had met his death. Adam is a good-looking, strong boy

 of thirteen, with wide shoulders and thoughtful eyes. Despite his

 adolescent strength, he moved cautiously and nervously up those

 stairs, the wind rising in our ears. Wind, at ?rst. Then the soft

 calling of his sister’s voice.

 As their mother I had forgotten how close these two had

 been—nearly inseparable, until Adam was shuttled off to boarding

 school. They had grown up nearly as twins—Adam helping his

 slightly incapacitated sister; April as foil for his games and test

 subject for his inventions.

 My young boy, whom this school had developed prematurely

 into a young man, collapsed down onto the steps and wept

 openly, falling into his mother’s arms, and knowing this was no

 trick. He was afraid, and I should have thought about his tender

 age and realized it was too soon for him. There would be plenty

 of time for all this. Why had I insisted on rushing it? Why had I

 felt nearly desperate to prove my sanity to my child? (Is such a

 thing provable anyway?)

 As it was, mother and son eventually reached the Tower, sitting

 on its wooden ?oor. The open hole that had been the

 stained-glass window was now boarded up. Someday I will manage

 to replace that window. We huddled together, crying, laughing.

 Adam tried to talk back to that whispering voice, and though I did

 not understand the exchange, I would swear here on these pages

 that he spoke with his sister. I know for a fact that he returned to

 the Tower each and every night and spent hours up there.

 He is back at school now. But he’s writing me, nearly daily—

 this son who had been virtually absent from my life. I feel whole

 again. Woman. Mother. John’s absence is more tolerable each

 passing day. Peace has returned to Rose Red. Adam and I are a

 family again.

 Nothing so sweet.

 248

 249

 19 february 1928

 Dear God in Heaven! Give her back to me!

 Sukeena has gone missing! Last seen in the Health Room! No

 sign of her anywhere, I wander this tomb’s endless hallways wondering

 why everyone who becomes so close to me ends up stolen

 from my life. Robbed from me. I hate this house. Despise it! I

 will never invite Adam back again.

 The staff is nearly sick with looking for my maid, so many

 hours—days now!—have we been at it. The house is impossibly

 large. Believe this or not, Dear Diary, we all have witnessed physical

 transformations. Hallways change structure and appearance

 behind your back. Rooms disappear! What is going on? How can

 it be? A physical structure, a building, and yet ?uid as water. A

 chameleon. She no longer requires growing larger—she reinvents

 herself internally. Once a hallway, now a ballroom; once a basement,

 now a dungeon!

 I ordered all Sukeena’s plants uprooted from the Health

 Room (for upon her disappearance, it bloomed more richly than

 I have ever seen—every plant at once in full blossom!). I watched

 that task carried out—watched it with my own eyes from up in my

 chambers, recalling my past observation of other events down

 there as well. Seven workers took three hours to clear the room

 down to bare soil. By the time they reached the west end, the east

 had sprouted new plants. By the following morning, the plants

 were six feet tall—taller than they’d ever been, and in full bloom.

 That is Sukeena providing that bloom—her love, her energy, her

 powers.

 We all—every one of us!—heard Rose Red laugh last night.

 Laugh at me. At us. It was the most frightening sound I’ve ever

 heard.

 If there is a game to this, she has clearly won. They are all

 gone. My loved ones. I am alone. Alone in my thoughts, alone in

 my silence, alone in this house.

 I shall ?re the entire staff (before she gets another of them!).

 I shall dwell in this place alone for a time. Let her suffer. Let

 her fail. Perhaps then we can strike a bargain, this house and me.

 Perhaps then she’ll allow me to visit Sukeena as I do April. My

 husband taught me well: everything is negotiable.

 250

 editor’s note: bookkeeping records substantiate

 ellen rimbauer’s claim of FIring the thirty-four

 staff members for a period of four months. during

 that time it is believed she lived in rose red completely

 alone and without a single visitor. whatever

 her mental state going into this solitude, she

 came out the worse for wear. over the subsequent

 two months, she reinstated a staff of twenty. she

 threw parties. at the last, 1946’s annual inaugural

 ball, one of that period’s greatest FIlm actresses,

 deanna petrie, disappeared in rose red (there are

 unconFIrmed rumors that her friendship with ellen

 went beyond the norm). this was the last great

 party thrown in rose red. the staff was reduced to

 FIfteen at the start of the u.s. involvement in

 world war ii. by 1950 ellen rimbauer had disappeared.

 in 1950, as she was approaching the age of seventy, a

 nearly blind ellen rimbauer is said to have entered

 the perspective hallway never to return. staff

 there claim to have since heard sawing and hammering

 in the attic.

 at the time of her death, ellen rimbauer, once

 the most beautiful and envied woman in seattle’s

 high society, was a wizened old lady, feverish, half

 blind and slightly mad. it is said that from time to

 time rose red can be heard laughing or crying—that

 the sound carries for miles and is often mistaken

 for either a wild animal or a ship’s horn.

 251

 252

 • • •

 soon i shall venture inside rose red, armed with

 sophisticated detection equipment; steven rimbauer,

 a descendant of ellen and john rimbauer;

 and some of the most powerful “perceptionists”—

 psychics—in this part of the country. we hope to

 awaken the “soul” of this enormous structure, the

 being that lies within the walls, and to open communication

 with either april, sukeena, ellen or

 rose red herself. it is this last option that i fear

 most of all. this diary conFIrms a formidable presence.

 as always in the study of psychic phenomena,

 one accepts a certain amount of the unknown, the

 uncharted. spin a globe, open a door and who

 knows what may happen? we shall see. life is an

 adventure. rose red offers the research opportunity

 of a lifetime. who, in my FIeld, would turn

 down such an opportunity? and so i go forward,

 uncertain and yet excited. we cannot discover the

 psychic boundaries that exist if we don’t dare look

 for them. what we FInd is ours for a moment, science’s

 forever. it is that moment i cherish—that

 singular moment when whatever is out there is

 mine, and mine alone. in that winking of an eye, the

 world is limitless, and i along with it.

 —joyce reardon, p.p.a., m.d., ph.d.