Page 32 of Cackle

In the gummy darkness, I think I see movement.

“Sophie?” I call out.

There’s a quick succession of sounds. Fast stomps getting louder and louder, a rush of volume. It’s as if she’s running up the stairs, but no one’s there. I expect the top of her head to emerge from the dark of the cellar, but it doesn’t. Nothing does.

If she’s not making that sound, if she’s not approaching, who is? It’s sudden excruciating confusion. I ready myself to turn, in case I’ve somehow mistaken the direction of the stomping and it’s actually coming from behind me and something is fast approaching my back. But before I can move, a gust of air hits my face. It breaks like an egg, a cold yolk dripping.

The shock of it, the frigid bitterness, robs me of breath. I close my eyes.

“You all right, darling?” Sophie asks. When I open my eyes, she’s standing in front of me, right there in the pantry. She follows my eyes behind her.

“I . . . I didn’t see you,” I say. “I heard . . .”

“What is it?”

How can I explain? Say that I heard stomping and was attacked by a cool breeze? I’d sound crazy.

“Um. Never mind,” I say. “I thought I heard something.”

“It’s a creaky, drafty old house. It likes to complain,” she says, closing the cellar doors. “I chose a bottle of rosé. Whenever I can’t decide between red and white, I go pink.”

I touch my face. My cheeks are freezing, my lips stony.

“Shall I show you the ballroom?”

“Yeah, okay.” I can’t shake the cold. It’s a chill in my marrow.

But then Sophie puts her arm around me, rests her hand on my shoulder, and I feel an overwhelming sense of safety. She smells so good. I need to know how she smells so good. I inhale her. I don’t even care if she thinks it’s weird. I breathe her in.

Everything else melts away as she walks me out of the kitchen, through the mirror hallway, through the foyer. We go through a different wing, down another long hallway, but instead of mirrors, this one is lined with paintings. Mostly oil paintings, landscapes. A few seascapes. There’s the occasional tapestry.

“I feel like I’m in a museum,” I tell her.

“I do call this the gallery,” she says. “But no museum would hang my paintings.”

“You painted these?”

She nods, gazing at the paintings with her lips curled in. “I’m not very good.”

“What are you talking about? They’re amazing!”

She squeezes me. “You’re an absolute dove. Pure sunshine.”

Every compliment from Sophie is like a straight shot of dopamine.

“All right, here we are,” she says. She opens a set of towering French doors. We walk into a dark room, and by the echo of our footsteps, I know it’s big. Lights above us begin to glow awake, slowly illuminating our surroundings.

Even considering the truly extraordinary size of the house, it’s a struggle to understand how this room could ever fit inside it. It’s titanic.

A dreamy sea of marble. Ornamental plastering, appliqués, crystal chandeliers. It’s somehow even more ornate than the rest of the house. The tall ceiling is painted a rich aqua, and there are delicate gems of constellations strewn across it.

“Wow,” I say. “I mean, goddamn!”

She laughs. “I thought you might like it. I never come in here! But it’s such a beautiful room.”

She releases me and glides onto the dance floor. She does a spin, her dress levitating; then she curtsies to me.

“Really, Sophie?”