Chapter One

Whitney Darling | 2023

If I returned to Savannah, to Darling House, I would die there. 

Either the curse I’d accidentally unleashed on my family would finally catch up with me, or I’d flatline at the sight of Ephraim Callaghan.

Charmed.

That’s what they used to say.

About the Darlings and our glass.

We couldn’t be sure what it was that allowed us to speak with it, or why the glass chose to communicate with us at all. What we did know was that William Darling seemed to be the first. And the glass had stayed with us, generation upon generation, whispering into the ears of its chosen Darlings, telling us everything it wished to be. 

And as we gave the glass its form, it grew our fortune.

Charmed.

That’s what they called us.

Before the curse.

I chewed my lip and gripped the steering wheel harder. Somber grey sky and endless, golden marsh stretched on either side of me. I couldn’t remember a colder, rainier autumn. 

Almost there. 

My pulse kicked up a notch.

When Seth, my twin,  died, he took my heart right along with him. He’d been the curse’s first victim two years ago. And in many ways, I had been its second. 

It had seemed clear to me at the time that since I’d awakened the curse, it would not only haunt me, but continue to put those dear to me in danger. So, I’d packed up my grief, and left behind my loved ones and my ancestral home, headed for the next best place I knew, Charleston, South Carolina.

But despite my absence, my family suffered.

Out of guilt and misplaced precaution, I hadn’t come back for my brother-in-law, Caleb’s funeral, or when Aunt Rose had her stroke, or when Daddy took an opportunity in Paris and finally left Mama alone for good.

But this time I had no choice. 

I couldn’t miss another funeral. 

Not this one.

Even if it meant the end of me.

Not that my life had turned out anything like I’d imagined.

Turning thirty this month had been interesting. Curses aside, the milestone had served as a line between the doe-eyed, self-aware young woman I’d once been, and the neurotic, superstitious, workaholic I’d grown into. If life had gone to plan, the way twenty-one-year-old Whitney had daydreamed, I’d be a renowned glassblower by now. A crafter of fine crystal chandeliers. On the board of Darling & Potter. I’d be a wife and mother, with time to spare for Savannah social things like coffee at Clary’s, bridge club games on Gaston Street, and volunteering at my children’s school. 

I swallowed hard.

And at the center of it all, I would’ve been married to Ephraim.

His handsome, brooding scowl flashed across my mind.

I turned my car onto an unassuming road, and followed what quickly became a badly paved winding path over narrow, tree-scattered hammocks of land in a sea of water-logged spartina grass. 

Anyone who didn’t know better might get this far and think they’d made a wrong turn, headed down a path to nowhere. Little would they imagine the small secluded island or the house that waited, a bit farther, tucked out of sight.

People used to ask Granddaddy how it was he could keep our glassblowing studio so near the ocean. 

“What if a storm comes? You could lose everything.”

He would smile, nod and say, “Of course, you’re right.”

But he never did move it.

An imposing iron gate came into view. It opened automatically as my car approached; the sensor clipped to my sun visor still in working order. I drove beyond the sprawling, intricate ironwork and over a private bridge that connected our island to the mainland.

I cruised down paved brick, past rows of budding camellia trees and dormant azaleas, finally rolling to a stop in the circular front drive of an elegant Greek Revival mansion. 

Darling House.

The house my family had called home for a century. 

Despite its stately melancholy, the white four-story structure gleamed in the morning sunshine, presiding over manicured grounds and gardens that gave way to wild marsh on three sides, and the mouth of the Atlantic Ocean to the East. Two massive live oaks, their branches gnarled and dripping with grey Spanish moss stood like ancient sentinels on either side of the columned front porch.

A humid, salty breeze tossed my ponytail as I stepped out of my car and pulled my luggage from the back seat. Time slowed. My gaze drifted wistfully over the place I’d dreamed of every night since I’d left.  

The past two years had been unkind. Darling House looked like the centerpiece of a gothic film. A layer of soft green moss crept up the footers of the towering columns, and the front steps were worn, in need of a pressure wash and fresh paint. The array of white Kehoe iron railings and cornices that adorned the house, peeled in the corners. No flowers graced the giant black urns flanking the steps. No boxwood topiaries. No wreaths hung on the front doors. A lone rusty rake rested at the end of the porch, propped carelessly against a cracked pane of original poured glass in one of the parlor windows.

The house was silent. The island still.

No sound of frogs. No cicadas. No crooning marsh birds. 

Just silence.

And the macabre sensation of being watched.  

I stepped toward the porch. 

I’d half expected the entire family to be waiting on the front steps when I arrived, but I was running early, and no one appeared any the wiser.

Good.

I wasn’t prepared to greet the whole Darling clan at once. 

“Who goes there?” A squeaky voice brought me up short, and I turned on my heel to see a tuft of bright red curls peeking up from behind a plastic Jack-o-lantern mask. A blue and white striped beach towel flapped down the tiny boy’s back like a cape, secured around his neck with a hair clip. Vine-green chinos hugged his spindly seven-year-old legs.

I lowered my sunglasses and stared down at my crimson-haired nephew, Percy.

Even with the Halloween costume, I knew my sister’s son was a perfect likeness to his lost father, his hair a flaming reminder of the brawny man brought to a sudden and senseless end by a curse he’d inherited only by marriage. 

The thought made my heart squeeze. “Hello, Percy.”

His courage spent, the little boy ran away. He bounded up the front steps and threw open the tall doors with a flourish of his cape. “She’s here!”

So much for a quiet entry. 

My lips quirked at the squeaky bellow, and I steeled myself for the outpouring of relatives from the house in a flurry of linen pants, grey hair, and gardenia-scented perfume. 

I stood, waiting.

Long seconds passed.

Wind rustled the live oaks and camellias lining the driveway at my back. 

No one came. 

I stared at the pair of black doors swung wide in gloomy invitation. 

Nothing.

I walked to the base of the front steps, peering above for signs of life in the upper windows, when a movement caught my eye.

A flash of white. 

The drawn, pale face of a woman gazed down at me, blonde ringlets of hair spilling over her thin shoulders. 

My toe jammed on a step, and I stumbled forward, the weight of my luggage throwing me off balance. I managed to right myself and looked back up at the window. 

But she was gone.

A familiar chill tickled the back of my neck, but I forced it away.

It was well-known that Savannah, Georgia was the most haunted location in the South, if not the country. The City Built on Its Dead, they called it. A title intriguing enough to have visitors the world-over flock here each October for a ghost tour and a jaunt around one of the timeworn cemeteries. But the Historic District had nothing on Darling House.

Shaking my head, I crossed the porch and stepped inside. 

The sophisticated interior was as I’d left it.

Sort of.

The scents of coffee and bacon, beeswax, and age mingled on the air. A dried cinnamon broom sat propped beside the front doors, recalling memories of cozy autumns past. Ivory walls covered in antique picture frame moldings rose fifteen feet to the ceiling, crowned with more molding, and dotted with crystal-laden sconces and a mixture of antiques and moody oil paintings. Black walnut floors ran from the foyer, into the double parlor, and beyond. An imposing white marble staircase, adorned with cast-iron railing, climbed elegantly up to the second floor, then wound higher to the third and fourth floors. Hazy light spilled through a Darling chandelier above my head, bathing the entryway in pale, dancing prisms.

“Welcome home, Whitney Darling,” it whispered, it’s voice delicate and ephemeral inside my head. I smiled up at it in greeting, as though it were a familiar friend. 

When I’d been a little girl, Granddaddy had convinced me the shower of kaleidoscope lights the chandelier reflected was the end of a beautiful rainbow that only we could see. Many of the Darlings, he’d said, could see and hear things that others couldn’t. Most outsiders conceded only that our family was at worst, a little odd, and at best, a little eccentric. As for the true Lowcountry natives who knew a thing or two about the mystical roots of the area, they were content to accept about us what they didn’t understand.

My mother was the first to hurry down the steps. Her matching ivory cashmere top and pants draped elegantly on her lithe body, complimented by her signature strand of pearls around her neck, and small gold hoops on her ears. Even in grief, she was the epitome of coastal chic. Her blonde bob, more silver now, was perfectly coifed. Her full lips were a pleasant shade of nude, and though I could tell she’d taken extra care with her makeup that morning, there was no denying the circles under her eyes, or the pink, chapped skin above her upper lip, rubbed raw from tissues. 

She pulled me into her arms with a dulcet sigh. “I worried you might not come. I almost can’t believe it.” Her soft voice and the cozy scent of her vanilla almond lotion wrapped around me. 

“Here I am.” 

Mama stepped back, surveying me at arm’s length for a moment. Was she seeing Seth’s face when she looked at me, his chestnut hair, his wide, handsome eyes? Did it break her heart, the way it did mine when I looked in the mirror?

“I’m glad you’re here,” she said, her composure cracking. “A broken neck. Can you imagine? After everything your grandfather was battling with his health, to die so.”

“It’s about time you were home,” Aunt Adele quipped from over my shoulder, and I turned to see her appear from the front parlor, effortlessly on-brand in a monogrammed smock and an oversized gardening hat. She rushed forward and pulled me into a fierce hug, then studied my face as if expecting a lifetime of change etched there. 

Her twin sister, Aunt Rose, wheeled her chair close and pressed an approving kiss to the back of my hand, her cotton ball hair shining translucent in the sunlight. She looked strong, despite her recent stroke, and she mooned up at me with sparkling eyes. “I knew you’d come, Whitney Darling. I dreamed it.”

I leaned down to embrace her, overcome with guilt that it had been so long. 

A tap on my shoulder made me turn.

“I’m so glad you’re here.” My older sister, Addison, stared joyfully back at me. My heart leapt. She looked so much like Seth it nearly took my breath away. Only Addie took after our mother’s pale coloring. Her pert nose was more delicate, and her eyes shone blue, contrasting the honey blonde hair that tumbled in soft curls over her shoulders. She was grace incarnate. Inside and out. And how I’d missed her.

She pulled me close. 

Stunned, I stepped back to stare down at the caftan-draped swell of her belly, words failing me.

“I was going to tell you,” she said. 

Adele crossed her arms. “She’s not exactly a walk in the park to be around these days.”

Rose wheeled over and grabbed my hand again. “The baby will be a girl. Girls are easy.”

Adele snorted, “You were easy.”

“Addie,” I said. “You should have called me, at least. How far along are you? You’re huge.”

She rolled her eyes, “Thanks, you look great, too.”

“I only meant –”

“She knows what you meant,” Adele quipped.

“She’s eight months, today,” Rose said.

Overwhelmed, and in desperate need of a glass of water, I motioned toward the kitchen. “Would it be alright if –”

“Lord, the girl’s asking for permission to use her own kitchen.” Adele walked past, motioning for everyone to follow. “We’ve got pastries and coffee at the ready.”

Addison wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “I know what you meant, Whit,” she said. “I’m glad you’re back.”

“It’s only for a couple of days,” I said.

Addison’s grip on me tightened, but she didn’t say anything more.

* * *

Several hours later I stood in my bedroom doorway. Late afternoon sun bathed the room in gold. The scent of vanilla and Jasmine clung to the air.

Ivory plaster walls covered in picture molding boasted large, ornately framed paintings of flowers and the ocean and the sky. A pale wool rug cozied up the original heart pine floors. White and blue chinoiserie drapes hung in the windows, matching the canopy over my antique bed. 

Addison sat there on a quilt, staring at me. Days away from giving birth, my sister looked as stunning and comfortable with herself as I’d ever seen her. Only, there was something quieter about her now. More measured, as though life had tripped her up enough to make her watch her step. I supposed losing a husband could do that to a person.

“The baby isn’t Caleb’s,” she said, flatly.

“Okay. Who’s then?” I asked, doing math in my head. Caleb passed away last December. A fall while hanging Christmas lights on the back of the house. My stomach twisted at the thought. What a cruel way to die. “You’re eight months, so that would mean –”

“Francis.”

I bit back a gasp. I’d been gone too long. “Caleb’s best friend, Francis?”

“Don’t say it like that,” she blushed. “It’s complicated.”

I crossed to the bed to sit next to her. “Apparently.”

“He never left my side after Caleb’s accident,” Addison said. “He came bursting in the front door the night it happened, walked straight through the house to where I sat on the terrace. He took me in his arms and cradled me to his chest. I cried so hard I thought I’d die. But Francis held me together.” Her eyes glistened. “He’s been with me since.”

“I’m glad,” I whispered, my opinion immediately softening. Francis had been here when my sister needed someone most. And that was more than I could say.

“Percy loves him,” she continued earnestly. “He’s a vet, so Percy’s always bringing him some injured animal or another. He’s so gentle. And kind. Francis – ” Her voice caught.

I lowered my gaze, unable to stop the slow trickle of a tear down my cheek. 

“I never blamed you,” Addison said. “For not coming to Caleb’s funeral. It was too soon after Seth. I knew you couldn’t handle it.”

Her words, though intended to be compassionate, stung. I’d lost my twin to the curse. But she’d lost a brother. And then a husband. 

I clasped her hand.

A thud sounded from outside the door, startling both of us. I got up and looked into the hallway. One of several gilded frames, each displaying family wedding portraits, had fallen to the floor. I knelt and carefully turned it over, my eyes tracing a tiny crack that splintered the center of the protective glass. William and Julia Darling stared back at me from an old black and white photo, looking every bit like the Lowcountry socialites they had been, beautiful and still. 

Mama walked up, then paused, as if the sight of me back at home still took her by surprise. “Oh, that frame keeps falling.” She took the heavy piece from my hands and rested it gently against the wall. “I’ll have Francis rewire the back of it. It’s getting old.” She stepped inside my room, motioning for me to follow as she made her way to the bed and pulled one of Addison’s swollen ankles onto her lap, massaging it with practiced fingers. “You packed quite a bag for a two-day trip.”

I shrugged. “I brought a bit of everything. You know how fickle the weather can be this time of year.” 

The ivory clock on the mantle ticked.

I perched on the edge of the mattress next to them, the feel of my old quilt unsettling beneath my fingertips. I motioned to my sister’s belly. “Are there any more surprises I should be aware of?”

Percy vaulted into the bedroom, still wearing the Halloween mask and beach towel cape. He glanced at me shyly before focusing his attention on his mama. “Francis says dinner’s ready. He’s setting the table.” 

Addison placed a well-aimed kiss on top of Percy’s little head, careful not to disturb the mask, “Thank you, sir. Tell him we’ll be right along.”

My nephew nodded and flew back out of the room.

“He’s gotten big,” I said.

“You never can take for granted how quickly the time goes.” Mama’s lips pursed and she pulled me into a little hug before stepping toward the door, “Come on, Addie, give your sister time to freshen up for the meal,” she looked at me pointedly. “Adele likes everyone seated promptly at five.”

“I remember,” I said.

Addison paused as they stepped into the hallway. “There’s one more thing you should know. About Ephraim.”

I held up my hand and gave her a pleading look. “Please. Not yet.”

She smiled gently and nodded, “See you downstairs.”

I collapsed back onto the pillows as I listened to their retreating footsteps, and squeezed my eyes shut.

Ephraim.

My whole body sparked to life at the sound of his name. I tried to focus past the tightening at my core, the memory of his deep voice, thick with barely restrained emotion. We’d only just given in. To the yearning. The obsession. He’d kissed me in the garden, hours after I’d found the vial of grave dirt and been stupid enough to lift it from the ground. And then Seth had died. 

I pictured his face, the green-eyed man who had almost been mine. 

My fingers trembled. Ephraim hated me now.

For leaving at the height of our pain.

And the worst of it was, he had been right. I couldn’t outrun the Darlings, or the curse that snapped at our heels.

“Promise you won’t follow me.”

“I won’t do that,” he growled, his voice raw.

“Ephraim, please.” I gripped his hand, unable to look up at his face. “Please.”

“I won’t let you leave.” He towered over me, broken, and devastatingly beautiful. His fingers squeezed my arms, holding me in place, as if he could force me to stand there with him forever. He smelled like the ocean, and the cruel river, and the salty, spicy air I’d breathed in and out all my life. His emerald gaze bore into me, expectant. Waiting for me to comply. To give in to him.

But I was shattered. Despite how stubbornly he tried to hold me together. 

“I can’t lose you too. I won’t let you die because of me.” 

His grip tightened. “I’ll protect you. We’ll figure this out.”

I stood on my tiptoes and pressed a soft kiss to his lips, my throat convulsing with unshed sobs, the taste of my tears sharp and salty on my tongue.

“Whitney.” His voice was gravel.

I didn’t look him in the eye as I pulled from his grasp and walked away.

Chapter Two

Whitney Darling

The dining room was meant to be impressive. At the time of Darling House’s construction, my Great-Great-Grandfather William, wasn’t your classic nouveau rich businessman. He’d been an artist, eager to prove himself among the restricted echelons of society. He must’ve come to realize quickly that here in the South, presentation was everything. Because he’d spared no expense. 

With this room being one of the primary spaces for entertaining, extra attention had gone into every facet of the space. The domed ceiling was vaulted – floating a full twenty feet above the floor, gleaming white, and adorned with alabaster moldings. Picture molding on the ivory walls separated out twelve intricately painted murals – each one an ode to Savannah culture and folklore. Among them were sweeping depictions of the marsh, the glittering Forsyth Park fountain, and a painting of an alligator tipping a fishing boat, its jaws open wide, like a hungry sea monster. 

My stomach twisted. The scene conjured morbid thoughts of Seth and his last, terrified moments in the water. 

As kids, he and I loved that painting the most.

It was so like the Darlings to leave it there for history’s sake, despite everything.

I hadn’t unpacked yet. I could still change my mind and head back to Charleston and my chic little Meeting Street apartment. That would certainly please James. He’d begged me to join him for a latte at Harken Café this morning before I hit the road. Friends since our time together ten years ago at the College of Charleston, we’d bonded over our mutual love of the southern coastal art scene. He’d offered me a job writing and marketing remotely for his Lowcountry lifestyle brand, Coterie, the day I’d let him know I’d moved back to the area. Now, after having worked with him, I knew James’ feelings for me had deepened. He would miss me while I was in Savannah.

But as with everyone else, I kept James at a safe distance. 

He didn’t know that caring too much for me was dangerous. 

Bustling noises came from the kitchen, separated from the dining room by a butler’s pantry.

I took a steady breath. If I could make it through dinner without anything strange or dramatic happening, I could excuse myself early and go to bed.

Attend the funeral. 

Get back to Charleston.

Easy as that. 

Striding in my direction from the foyer, tall and assured, came easily one of the most handsome men I’d ever seen. 

Francis.

His wavy blonde hair was carelessly tousled. A black linen button down covered a broad chest and tapered waist. His jaw was square and firm, his cheekbones high and sculpted. He studied me with icy blue eyes as he approached and held out a hand. 

“Good to see you again, Whitney,” he said, his Lowcountry accent riding a deep, sophisticated tenor. “You’ve been missed.”

I’d met Francis before on one or two occasions. Never had I imagined he’d end up my brother-in-law. I shook his hand, happy to find his palms rough with callouses. The sort of Savannah boy who didn’t have calloused hands wasn’t the right kind of Savannah boy. That’s what Granddaddy used to say.

“Thank you,” I said. “Addison’s been singing your praises since I arrived.”

“Ill-deserved, I’m sure.” His full lips lifted into an easy smile that displayed well-defined dimples on both cheeks. The kind of smile that made you feel safe and seen. In an instant, I understood the spell he’d cast over my sister. He motioned to the long table, then pulled out an upholstered dining chair, “We’ve got about two minutes before Adele starts shuttling platters of food in here.”

I took a seat, smiling a little as he pushed the chair in for me.

On cue, Adele shimmied through the butler’s pantry, a silver platter balanced on one hip, and a breadbasket on the other. A burst of delicious aroma followed close on her heels, making my stomach growl. “I hope everyone has a good appetite,” she said. “These Carolina grits are laden with bacon grease, and the shrimp’s fresh off the boat.” 

Aunt Rose, looking pretty in a pink dress and pearls wheeled herself into the room, trailed closely by Percy, a Halloween mask in the shape of a kindly-looking ghost bouncing atop his head. Mama and Addison brought up the rear.

“We’re here!” Percy proclaimed, running over to Adele wrapping his little arms around her wide, apron-clad hips.

“Hello, sweet Darling,” Adele said, patting his ruddy hair. “Oh, I’ve forgotten the serving spoons.”

“You ladies take your seats,” Francis said, “I’ll grab them.” He was already passing through the butler’s pantry before Adele could protest. 

I gave Addison an approving grin. “Francis is nice.”

“You have no idea,” Adele crooned. “He and Ephraim are the only reason we’ve been able to keep this place running. Well, and Monica, too. Until she abandoned us with the studio.”

“Auntie, please,” Addison said.

“When will Ephraim be here?” Percy bounced in his chair. 

I stiffened, feeling the blood drain from my face. 

Mama cut a glance in my direction. “Ephraim won’t be joining us tonight, sweetie. We’ll see him tomorrow.”

“At the funeral?” Percy looked positively disappointed.

“Yes,” Mama said, her voice cracking a little. 

Francis strode back through the door and planted the serving spoons into the platter of shrimp and grits, before ladling a sizable portion into the china bowl in front of me.

I smiled up at him and lay my napkin in my lap.

“We’ve got to bless it first!” Percy squealed.

“Of course, forgive me,” I said.

Percy bowed his little head, pressed his palms together, and squeezed his eyes shut. “God our Father, we thank you for our many blessings. Amen.”

“Amen,” the table repeated after him. 

“Now, don’t let it get cold,” he said. “The ghosts will steal it.”

Squelching a laugh, I lifted a bite to my lips. The heady aroma of heavy cream, bacon, and chives made my mouth water.

The doorbell chimed.

“Who could that be?” Adele began to stand. 

Francis held up a hand. “I’ll get it.”

The table went silent as we each listened for the sound of voices at the door. 

“Of course. Come in, sir.” Francis’ enthusiastic welcome rumbled from the foyer. 

The answering melodic timber, one I hadn’t heard in a long time, made me put down my spoon. My reflex was to look over at Seth’s chair, to smile at him excitedly. 

But Seth wasn’t there. 

Instead, I stood, turning politely as Francis appeared alongside a man who I hadn’t let myself remember existed. 

He’d been one of the treasured ones, so hard to leave behind.  

The years had been kind to Solomon Potter, though his black skin boasted deepened wrinkles, and his shoulders looked thinner than I remembered. He smiled when he saw me, and his eyes glowed with the same light that had made me love him as a child.

He’d been Granddaddy’s best friend in the world, not to mention the other half of Darling & Potter, the luxury sunglass company jointly founded by our two families a century ago. 

Mr. Solomon was always grinning, and he smelled so wonderful, like the ocean after the rain, and pipe tobacco and warm, coastal spices all at once. A necklace of threaded bone hung from neck. He’d always told Seth and I that they were the bones of his wife’s ring finger – he’d taken it after she’d died so he could continue to be, wrapped around it. He’d said it so solemnly, and so often, we never could tell if he was teasing. 

Solomon knew all about the mysterious things, wild things I was too afraid to ask about. Granddaddy Alistair said Solomon’s culture was an old one – sacred, and nothing less. The magic that lived on the marsh wasn’t the same as what you read about in fairy stories, or even like the strange relationship concerning the Darlings and our glass. 

No, the marsh magic was different – ripe with curses and blessings, and sometimes things in between. Like our vial of grave dirt.

“Solomon,” I stepped close, and he pulled me into a warm hug. He was wet with rain, but I didn’t care.

My throat tightened and my eyes stung. 

“I’ve brought you something, Whitney Darling,” he whispered in my ear.

I pointed to the necklace of woven bone at his neck. “Tell me true. Is that your wife’s ring finger?”

His eyes twinkled, but sadness flashed there too. And I wondered if it was because I’d mentioned his wife, or because he’d just lost Granddaddy. Maybe it was both.

He pressed a prickly bundle into my hand, and I curled my fingers around it, recognizing the texture and heady scent of bundled sage and cedar without having to look. A ubiquitous protection charm here in the Lowcountry that went all the way back to early indigenous tribes. And it worked.

“We hold onto the ones we love the best we can,” he said.

I nodded and leaned forward to give him another squeeze as a boom of thunder shook the house. 

A cold breeze tickled the back of my neck. 

The lights flickered once. Twice.

And then they went out, plunging the room into darkness.

“No one move. I’ll have a candle lit faster than you can catch a grasshopper,” Adele said calmly. 

My eyes strained to adjust as I listened to the sound of my aunt’s feet shuffle toward the sideboard.

“I’ll tell you what,” Solomon said, his voice a deep rumble. “This stormy weather is something else. I can’t remember a colder, rainier start to Autumn.”

“It’s certainly not your traditional Lowcountry fall,” Mama chimed.

Suddenly, the light of a cell phone illuminated the room.

Adele cast Francis an appraising stare, as if determining the severity of which she’d been insulted. “No phones in the dining room,” was all she said. But the way her eyes crinkled up at the edges told me she’d been glad for the assistance. 

“Yes, ma’am,” Francis gave the room a sheepish grin. He stood from his chair and moved to Adele’s side, lighting her path. A few moments later, two antique candelabras sparkled with the light of various tapered candles. 

Rain poured in heavy sheets outside the windows. The little bridge that connected the island to the mainland was certainly flooding.

I turned to Solomon. “Looks like you’re stuck here a while. Care for some dinner?”

“I’ve got a fresh pot of coffee on the stove that’ll be ready any minute,” said Adele. “Have a seat, Solomon.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the old man said, and slid into the chair across from me.

Seth’s chair. 

I looked down at my lap and squeezed the tightly bundled sage and cedar Solomon had pressed into my palm. Freshly made. It smelled like marsh magic. Like the wild. 

“Nora, come help me in the kitchen, will you?”

“Of course.” Mama cast Solomon a sweet smile as she followed Adele.

“How’ve you been, Mr. Solomon?” Addison asked from her chair beside Francis. 

“Oh, I’ve been fine, young lady. That child will make his appearance soon, yeah?”

Addison rested a gentle hand on her belly. “Next month, believe it or not.” 

“I figured as much,” Solomon reached into his jacket and pulled out another bundle, a small velvet pouch, and passed it to Addison. “I brought this especially for you and that sweet babe. Supposed to help with a safe delivery. Never seen it not work before.” He gave Addison a wide grin. “I’ve seen more babies born than I can count, and that’s saying something. You put that under your pillow, and you’ll be right fine, you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Addison nodded. “Thank you.”

“My good friend, Alistair, would have loved to meet that child. He told me himself. Would have loved to meet that child.”

The room fell silent.

My heart pounded. If Solomon started crying, I’d lose control of my tears too.

“Mama, Grandma’s in the kitchen,” Percy whispered conspiratorially. “Can I tell Whitney the secret now?”

“Secret?” Solomon perked up. 

“There was an angel outside Aunt Whitney’s room,” Percy explained matter-of-factly. “I saw her.”

“Percy that’s enough. That’s no talk for the dinner table.”

“An angel?” The memory of the woman I’d seen upon my arrival flashed across my mind, the woman in white looking down at me from my bedroom window.

“A pretty lady,” Percy said. “She smiled at me.”

Solomon mumbled indiscernibly. 

My sister sighed and lolled her head back to look up at the ceiling. “Francis.”

“Percy, your Mama asked you not to say anything. It upsets your grandmother.”

“Why would it upset her?” I asked.

Addison slid annoyed eyes over to me, “Because our mother doesn’t have the tolerance for much these days. Least of all, talk of ghosts. Or curses. It’s been worse since Daddy went to Paris.”

Addison said that last part so low, I almost didn’t hear it.

I’d held off wondering if my father would make an appearance at the funeral tomorrow. Surely, I wasn’t the only one. But I hadn’t thought enough about what my father’s abandonment was doing to Mama, especially now. I didn’t blame her for not wanting to hear about the curse, or the ghosts it had left in its wake. Real or otherwise.

Solomon’s stare bore into me across the table.

“Thank you, Percy,” I squeezed the bundle of sage and cedar again. “I like the idea of angels watching over us.”

“Me too,” he whispered.

I met his tender gaze. He’d lost so much in his short little life. Mine had been a childhood of safety. Percy’s was marked by curses and loss. It made me want to pull him onto my lap and hug him tight, and whisper that I was sorry for being away. 

It made me want to make him safe. 

Adele and Mama returned, carrying a tray filled with mugs, cookies, and steaming pots of coffee.

“Here we are, Mr. Solomon,” Mama placed a mug in front of him. 

“Thank you, kindly, Ms. Nora.” 

I looked again at Percy. He appeared perfectly content now that he’d gotten to share his secret. “Tomorrow you and I should go for a walk outside. You can show me your favorite places to find shells.” 

Addison shook her head. “I doubt there’ll be time. With the funeral.”

Thunder boomed again, making the windows tremble and moan. 

“God’s rearranging the furniture,” Solomon said, his deep, steady voice strangely comforting, like a candle’s glow in darkness. “Miss Whitney, I wonder if I might have a word with you in Alistair’s study?”

I straightened in surprise, “Of course.”

He stood abruptly, shaking the glasses on the table.

“You mean, now?”

Adele motioned to the steaming pot on the table. “Your coffee will get cold.”

“Not to worry,” Solomon held up a hand. “This won’t take long, and I feel a pressing need to have it done.” 

He took hold of a gleaming candlestick and strode out of the room. 

“Well, this is odd,” Mama said. “Whitney, do you know what this is about?”

“Of course, not.” I rose from my chair and followed Solomon, the heavy weight of curious eyes on me as I left the room.

The darkness of the hallway beyond the foyer was consuming, all but suffocating the flickering light of Solomon’s candle. He walked several paces ahead, before disappearing into the study, the room Granddaddy Alistair had guarded above all others. 

There were family secrets in that room. 

History. Records of valor and tragedy, all tucked quietly away in the pages of books that lined the walls. 

I hurried to catch up, then hesitated at the door, crossing my arms tightly in front of me. 

Solomon stood beside Granddaddy’s desk when I entered, the candlelight carving peculiar angles on his face. He stared back at me with midnight eyes. “The night he died Alistair asked me to deliver a letter to you. He made me promise no one else would see it. Not a lawyer. Not a friend. Not your sweet mama.” He fished inside the lapel of his jacket and pulled out a small cream-colored envelope. 

“For me?” My voice sounded strange.

“There are forces at work here, Miss Whitney, that your Granddaddy spent the last of his days trying to decipher.” He held the letter out to me. 

I crossed the room and took it with shaky fingers. 

Solomon nodded and let out a quiet breath, as though he’d been holding it a long time. “A final wish, granted.” He straightened his jacket and stepped toward one of the glass doors to the terrace. “If you’ll convey my apologies to your family. I’d better be going.”

I looked up at him in surprise. “But the bridge. It won’t be passable for hours. Not until the tide goes out. There’s been too much rain.”

“Don’t worry about me.” He winked and pressed a kiss to my forehead. Then, without another word, he slipped outside into the sodden, inky darkness. 

I stared after him a long time, listening to the storm and feeling as though I’d fallen into a dream.

Only yesterday I had been sitting in my office in Charleston, surrounded by the bustle of the city, what felt like a million miles away.

I moved close to the candelabra, where the dancing light was enough to illuminate the script on the envelope. 

My Whitney

I swallowed and turned it over. A blood-red seal graced the center, Alistair’s personal monogram etched in raised bubbling wax. I slipped a finger beneath the top fold and broke it, then unfolded the letter inside with slow, mechanical movements. I narrowed my eyes at the achingly familiar, graceful handwriting and began to read. 

My Whitney,

You can’t hide your true feelings from me, my love, because I have known you best of all. 

To get right to it, I’m afraid it’s incumbent on you, my dear, to carry the burdens of all Darlings - past and present - on your shoulders. 

There’s a darkness hiding at Darling House, and until we root it out, this curse on our family will continue to follow you, no matter how far or long you run.

Since the day you found the mojo charm, that fickle dirt-filled vial, since the day we lost our Seth, I’ve searched for answers. 

Old diaries, photographs, epitaphs – they’ve been my constant companions in my search to free us. But I’m old. My hands and my mind are tired. I know there are logical connections I will never see. 

But you, Whitney. If you continue where I leave off - if you listen to the whisper of the glass, there can still be salvation for our family, and for our marvelous home. 

Break the curse, before it breaks you.

Much more will be revealed to you in time. 

I pray you’ll forgive me for what I’m forced to do. I see no other choice. 

Be kind to Ephraim. He loves you desperately.

I love you as well, my Darling.

Listen to the glass. The glass remembers.

Watch for the chandelier.

And remember, P is for persistence.

I will miss you.

Your devoted Grandfather,

Alistair Napoleon Darling 

I stared down at the letter for a long time, tracing the dancing script with my eyes until the letters blurred and the words jumbled. A pulsing tapped in my right temple, and I massaged it away, squeezing my eyes closed.

When I opened them, my gaze sought the line that made my legs go weak. 

Be kind to Ephraim. He loves you desperately.

Seconds passed into minutes. I read the note over and over, a tumult of emotions culminating in a cocktail of frustrated confusion. My throat went dry. My heart beat hard.

I swallowed.

“I’m sorry, Granddaddy.”

I stretched out my arm and dangled the letter above the open flame of the candle, watching as the paper began to smoke, steeling myself against the desire to snatch it back, to study the way he’d written my name, sprawled in ink for the last time.

But I couldn’t give in to the sentimental part of me. 

Granddaddy didn’t know what he was asking.

I was cursed, and I cursed those I loved around me. It was too dangerous for me to stay at Darling House.

My heart ached as the letter ignited. I dropped it into a copper bowl on the desk, watching through tears as it flamed and writhed to blackened embers.  

Granddaddy didn’t understand.

I wasn’t the person he thought I was. 

That had been Seth. The glass had loved him best. And my brother was a long way from here.

Tomorrow, after the funeral, I was going back to Charleston.

A flash of lightning illuminated the sky outside the veranda doors, drawing my gaze to the outline of a figure in the inky distance, walking along the marsh. 

Solomon?

Lightning flashed again. 

No, this man didn’t move like him. 

He moved like - 

I narrowed my eyes, straining to see the shadowy figure past the swaying of moss-laden live oaks and angry torrents of rain.

Another flash. 

Thunder boomed. 

And he was gone.

Chapter Three

Whitney Darling

The mossy earth was green and black, soft with morning dew.

Thick fog, a delicate swirling mist, cradled Bonaventure Cemetery in a hushed, ethereal embrace. Live oaks, their branches heavy with resurrection fern, stood alongside matronly magnolia trees and regal camellias, each of them bone-still, as if paying respect to the silent sea of marble and granite below.

My family and I sat in the first of five rows of white chairs, all situated near the base of the marble mausoleum at the center of the Darling plot. A melancholy sculpture of a beautiful weeping angel draped itself in mourning over the tomb of William and Julia Darling. The first roots of our heritage lay concealed together, their bones entwined for eternity. Surrounding their tomb smaller headstones dotted the ground, marking the resting places of Alastair's parents, and beside them, his older brother, who’d passed away young. Great aunts and uncles I had never met. Cousins long lost to dust. Altogether, there had to be twenty or so stones. 

But it wasn’t the quiet presence of my fallen ancestry that had me pinned to my chair, the sound of my own heartbeat thundering in my ears. Neither was it the hearse that sat parked at a respectable distance, or the stately black casket that waited, suspended above a fresh grave. I was strangely numb to all those things. A self-defense mechanism that I hoped would hold out until I could escape somewhere to be alone with my grief.

I twisted my fingers in my lap.

No.

This distress was of a different kind.

The most dangerous kind.

A familiar silhouette moved toward me through the mist, his progress marked by the silent gazes of stone angels as he strode past the crypts and obelisks of mighty men long turned to dust. 

A black, tailored coat clung to his broad shoulders. The crisp white of his shirt glowed in the half light. I could almost make out the strong set of his jaw, the way his black, wavy hair brushed his collar. 

My breath came fast as he neared, his every step nicking some invisible, vibrating cord between us. My mouth went dry.  

Of course, I’d known Ephraim Callaghan would be here. I’d tried to prepare myself for it, the way I had for seeing the grave, or the coffin, or Seth’s headstone that looked too aged, and too settled in the soft ground.

But my pulse beat like a cornered rabbit’s.

Ephraim was devastating.

Somehow more handsome, more striking than I remembered.

He slowed as he approached, his eyes trained on me, steady and forbidding.

His lips curled into a cold smile, and he looked down at me as if I were a fly in his ambrosia. “Whitney.” 

His voice was whiskey down my throat, splashing deep, and sparking something dead back to life. 

I lowered my sunglasses and tried to match his cool appraisal. “Ephraim.”

His gaze flicked to my lips.

My red lipstick was in stark contrast to the ghostly pallor of my skin – but without the color I had looked dead. I fought the urge to squirm.

Ephraim looked away from me and nodded to my mother, Adele, Rose, and Addison beside me. And then he stepped around my chair to stand next to Francis, behind me.

The muscles in my neck tensed with the effort to compose myself, and I straightened, releasing a long, silent breath as I counted to ten in my head.

I understood why he hated me. 

It wasn’t only because I’d left. 

He thought I blamed him for Seth’s death. For not reaching my brother in time before the river and the wild things could swallow him up forever. 

But it was my fault. If I hadn’t found that vial. If I hadn’t unleashed the curse, none of this would have happened.

It was nearly two years to the day since the Darlings had laid my twin to rest. Or at least pretended to, all of us huddled over Seth’s ornate stone marker jutting up from the mossy ground.

His body wasn’t there, of course. In the grave. He was with the wild things. Torn away from us by twisting, thrashing jaws, then swept away down the river’s dark, unforgiving current.

Ephraim had stood close to me that day, wrapped his steel arms around my shoulders as if he could absorb some of the pain that threatened to send me to my knees. But it hadn’t worked. Try as he might, Ephraim couldn’t save the Darlings from our curse. 

I squeezed my eyes closed and tried to push away the vision of the tiny vial in the center of Seth’s calloused palm. He’d been so captivated by it. By the proof that the legend Alistair had told us all our lives, of the good luck graveyard dirt at the heart of our family’s easy prosperity, had been proven true. But we’d realized too late. The moment the vial left its resting place beneath the house, uprooted by time, an unsuspecting landscape artist, and then lifted from the ground by me, our luck had died, and given way to a curse.

None of us knew the curse’s origin.

How to stop it? Good question.

The irony was rich. 

But that day, Seth’s death day, the way he’d stared down at that dusty, old bottle - it was as if he’d known. Something was coming.

We couldn’t have imagined how quickly.

How cruelly.

But the glass had known.

It had tried to tell me. Only I hadn’t understood.

I straightened in my chair. 

Only a few hours from now and I could leave. Get back to Charleston and James and figure things out from a safer distance. I would be fine. I could keep my emotions at bay, if I avoided Ephraim.

I watched, silent, as they laid Granddaddy deep, far beneath the ground. So near to where Seth would have lain, if we’d been able to find his body, that they might’ve reached out and held hands in the dark. As it was, their lives were both marked now by neighboring marble headstones, artfully sculpted in the old style that matched the Darlings who’d come and gone before.

There would never be another quite like Alistair Darling. A scruffy gentleman, he’d grown up unafraid and brawny. But he’d also given the best hugs, and tender forehead kisses, and he’d written poetry while he sipped coffee beside the marsh. He’d had the most beautiful handwriting. And he’d always told the truth. Always. Even when it cost him.

“I’m going to miss you.” I mouthed the words, but no sound came. I dropped my chin and pressed my fingertips to my lips, thankful for my sunglasses, and wide-brimmed hat. I stared down at the pointed toes of my shoes. 

I wouldn’t let tears come. 

If they did, I might not be able to stop them. 

A graceful, masculine hand reached around me and slipped something into mine. 

I straightened. A handkerchief. The initials, E.C. embroidered in strong black letters, winked up at me from a crisp edge. 

“Thank you,” I whispered, and dabbed my cheek. 

Refusing to look back at him, I lifted my chin and trained my eyes on a random tiny stone at the corner of the family plot, desperate for a momentary distraction. Anything to keep from crying. 

The marker almost looked like a footstone, but it wasn't positioned as such, tucked at a distance and behind the rest of the headstones. I narrowed my gaze and tried to make out the inscription etched into the soft marble, but decades of humid, salty air had done their work. Whatever might have been written there was almost entirely worn away.

The pastor began a prayer, reclaiming my attention. 

We sang Amazing Grace. 

And then it was over.

Just like that.

A procession of family and distant friends dropped red and white roses over the lowered casket. Someone handed me a rose, but I held it tight. I couldn’t bring myself to stand, to drop it in the earth where it would wither and die beneath the weight of dirt and darkness. 

I stared at the grave, until the last of the watchers finally turned and strode away. I sat there, alone, long after Mama and the rest kissed my cheeks and left for Darling House. Only Francis waited to drive me back.

Well, Francis and Ephraim, who still loomed behind me, like an angry specter intent on cruel torment.

All the others had dropped their roses and gone.

They didn’t realize. 

Once you walked away from a grave, that first time, it was final.

Francis whispered something, followed by the soft unintelligible rumble of Ephraim’s reply. 

“Come, Whitney.” A hand squeezed my shoulder, and I turned to see the men staring down at me, their eyes grim, and solemn, and something else. 

I started to argue, but their troubled gazes made my stomach drop. 

Something bad had happened. Something worse than the obvious.

“Your mother needs you,” Francis said. “I’m afraid there’s been an incident.”

* * *

“What do you mean the house was broken into?” my mother’s tenor could’ve peeled paint from a wall. 

“Someone forced an entering, ma’am.” 

I didn’t think the officer was trying to be sarcastic, but Mama certainly wasn’t going to give him the benefit of the doubt. 

“Don’t take that tone with me, young man. I know your father.”

The officer’s cheeks turned a little red and his chin dropped a couple of notches. “Yes, ma’am. We’re simply responding to an alert from your security company. We need to ask you a few questions. I understand this is a challenging time.”

“You think?” My mother motioned over her shoulder to the long line of black SUVs and cars that crossed over the marsh bridge and onto our little island. Darling House would be host to Alistair’s funeral reception, and no expense had been spared in making the affair fitting for someone of his stature in the Savannah community. “Can you at least have your partner turn off those tacky squad car lights and park that thing somewhere less conspicuous than the front lawn? For Heaven’s sake.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the officer, whose name tag said Evans, nodded and radioed my mother’s wishes.

“Thank you,” Mama said, her expression a little too saccharine. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind explaining what’s happened. Was anything taken?”

“We don’t believe so. We need to get a full account from you, of course. But there are many portable valuables left in plain sight. It looks to me like someone was searching for something.”

“What would they be looking for?” Ephraim’s voice rumbled over my shoulder. 

“Your guess is as good as mine, sir. We imagine it had something to do with Mr. Alistair. May he rest in peace.” Officer Evans crossed himself clumsily, and I wondered if he was Catholic, or if he made the gesture because he thought we might be. “The majority of the mess was left in the study,” he said. “There’s papers strewn all over the floor and books pulled off the shelves. It’s a disaster in there.”

Mama started to cry, her frail shoulders shuddering and heaving the way they had back at the cemetery. 

Officer Evans’ cheeks darkened again, and he looked to me, his eyes pleading. “Maybe you should be the one to look things over, Miss Darling.”

“We’ll both have a look,” Ephraim said.

“Excuse me?” I glared at him, effectively breaking my vow to ignore him completely. 

Ephraim’s expression brooked no refusal. “Who do you think’s been running Darling House since you left? I know more about what to look for in that office than you do.”

“Both of you come,” Officer Evans said. “Then y’all can get back to your reception. It won’t take long.” He nodded to my mother. 

“Oh, dear,” Rose chimed.

I patted Mama on the arm and motioned for Adele to come and escort her to the foyer where guests would be filing into the house momentarily. “I’ll take care of this. You go see to things.”

“Thank you,” she sighed, linking elbows with Adele and dabbing her nose with a pressed handkerchief. “I’ll never understand the nerve of people. Who would break into a house on the day of a funeral? It’s bad home training.”

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from rolling my eyes. Mama had a way of bringing every little thing back to etiquette. 

Officer Evans led Ephraim and I to the study. 

“We’ve taken photos and swabbed for prints. The space is clear to be tidied. But I figured it’d be a good idea for someone accustomed with the room to take a look before we head out.” Officer Evans placed his hands on his hips. “See anything out of place? Other than the obvious?”

Ephraim scanned the room, and I watched with a mixture of annoyance and jealousy. Both because he appraised the study as if it were his own, and also because he’d been one hundred percent correct regarding being more familiar with it. I had my memories. But Ephraim was the one who’d been here the past two years.

“Just a moment,” he crossed the room to where several high shelves of books sat undisturbed. He pulled a volume from its place and thumbed gently through it, then hesitated, peering up into the slot the book occupied before sliding it back. 

Was something hidden on the shelf? I made a mental note to check it out later. 

Ephraim turned to Officer Evans. “Everything seems alright. The more expensive volumes are intact, and the safe in the closet looks marked up, but still locked. Whatever they were looking for, I think they ran out of time before they found it.”

Officer Evans nodded, “Well, if y’all find anything missing, give us a call.”

“Of course,” Ephraim said. 

Officer Evans paused as we reached the door that led to the yard where the squad car waited. “I’m sorry for your loss, Miss Darling. Mr. Alistair was a fine man.”

“Thank you,” I said. “We’ll be in touch.”

He tipped his hat and turned away.

“Just a moment,” I called after him. “The house alarm is silent when no one’s home, isn’t it? What do you think made the intruder leave?”

Officer Evans rubbed his chin, his gaze darting up to the shadowed upper windows, and I wondered what he might do if he caught sight of a ghost looking back at him. He shrugged, “Something must’ve spooked ‘em off.”

Chapter Four

Whitney Darling

The funeral reception was a blur of black ties, finger sandwiches, tissues and dank-smelling lilies. Aunt Adele had taught me once, during one of our family picnics at the Darling plot in Bonaventure Cemetery, that lilies were used at funerals because their robust scent overpowered the stale fragrance of death. 

Seth’s funeral reception had been covered with them.

Granddaddy Alistair’s was too.

I hated lilies.

I lost count of the number of elderly Savannahians who pulled me into frail, gardenia-scented hugs and told me how sorry they were for my loss. 

There was a reason I didn’t attend funerals. 

I couldn’t bear to wallow. I couldn’t stand the in-between, to be caught in the current that carried you from the end of someone else’s life to the beginning of your own without them. 

Baskets of flowers arrived at the house in steady, colorful procession. One of the largest arrangements from my father, who hadn’t made it back to Georgia in time for the funeral. He claimed his flight had been cancelled. Which was true, I checked. His arrangement was an ostentatious riot of yellow daisies, white roses, and pink carnations. Blatantly cheery. A passive aggressive masterpiece. 

Beside my father’s offering was another bouquet, this one a spray of bright lilies, bursting in all directions like morbid, fragrant stars. I leaned close to read the accompanying card.

We are, each of us, our family’s legacies incarnate. It was an honor to work under such an artist. I hope to rejoin Darling Glass soon. I’m so sorry for how I left. - Monica

My brows drew together. No one had mentioned our studio manager leaving, though Adele had brought up Monica last night at dinner. Granted, my family had stopped sharing details about that sort of thing with me a while ago, content to leave our conversations to how my life was going in Charleston. Monica had been with us for so long, her whole life, really. She was only a couple of years older than me and had trained alongside Seth and I from the time we were old enough to hold a blowpipe. She’d been a staple member of Darling Glass as head studio assistant, just as her mother, and her grandmother had before her. 

I couldn’t imagine her ever leaving. Unless, of course, it had all gotten to be too much. Had the curse come for her too?

I looked over my shoulder at Mama. The one who stayed, no matter what. She stood regal in her tailored black sheath dress, a picture of southern refinement.

So many times, I’d approached her today, intending to let her know that I needed to get back to Charleston. I was expected at the office in the morning. But each time I tried I couldn’t bring myself to say the words. Instead, I offered to get her something, or to sit with her a while, or deliver a message to Aunt Adele, who was busy coordinating the comings and goings of the kitchen and the needs of Savannah’s most notable.

“Whitney Darling, you are a vision of grace,” the compliment drifted over my shoulder in saccharin, dulcet rhythm.

I turned, expecting to see someone I recognized, a friend of Mama’s or one of my aunts. But a woman I’d never seen before stared down at me from super-model heights, her siren eyes dripping with carefully curated sympathy. She extended a delicate hand. “You may not remember me. I’m Evangeline Walker. I was acquaintances with your late brother, Seth. He and I went on a few dates together.”

I shook her hand, struggling to flip through my mental files of women Seth had dated over the years. He’d been a romantic with the swagger of a southern gentleman. There had never been a shortage of beautiful women around Seth Darling.

“Yes, I recall,” I lied. “It’s kind of you to pay your respects to my grandfather after all this time.”

She smiled a perfect smile, and I wondered for a moment if her teeth were all real.

“Well, Ephraim was so close to Alistair. The least I can do is offer him my support.”

I smiled back at her, hoping my cheeks weren’t blooming red. “Ephraim?”

She patted my shoulder, gently, as though I was a small, confused child and she a beautiful, patronizing pre-school teacher. “Oh, I’m sorry. Ephraim and I are together now. I keep forgetting you’ve been in Charleston and out of the loop all this time.”

I swallowed, my gaze drifting over her lithe form, her long, chestnut hair, the perfect, delicate pout of her lips. At just under five feet and four inches, I was squarely in the petite category, with rounded curves and a waist so short my ribs were intimately acquainted with my hip bones. Grief and loneliness had done nothing for my waistline, and while I usually didn’t obsess over it, this moment brought all my insecurities swiftly to the surface. I had a pretty face, but there was no denying the past two years had been unkind. They had aged me, battered me, left me looking gaunt and hollowed out. And I got the distinct impression Evangeline Walker wanted me to take note of how great the contrast between she and I had become.

I rolled my shoulders back. “I’ve not been too out of the loop, really. It’s only, I could’ve sworn Mama recently told me Ephraim was seeing someone named Ashley. She must’ve been mistaken.”

Evangeline’s eyes went a degree cooler, and I bit my cheek, accepting a glass of champagne a waiter handed me as he passed. I wasn’t one to lie. But this situation was bringing out the worst in me.

“Did I hear my name?”

Ephraim’s voice rumbled beside me as I took a sip of champagne. I choked, half-inhaling the drink, and was instantly rewarded with the sting of bubbles up the back of my nose. 

Evangeline smirked as I sputtered and gasped for air. “Whitney and I were getting reacquainted.” She slipped her arm possessively through the crook of Ephraim’s elbow before placing a kiss on his cheek.

I stiffened. I wanted to rip her hands from him, to yell at her that she had no idea what she was doing, or who Ephraim truly was, or who I was, or what the two of us had been to each other.

The passion. The years of yearning, and hoping, only to have the destiny we deserved ripped away by a curse that took no prisoners.

She didn’t know. She couldn’t know.

The only reason he and I weren’t together was because I had left to keep him safe. 

She stood there, looking down at me as if ours had been a passing fling.

But I’d been his first love.

And he had been mine.

Tears pricked my eyes, and I struggled to swallow. 

Aware of how bad I was at hiding my true emotions, I downed another swig of champagne and motioned across the room toward Aunt Adele and a gaggle of taffeta and silk-adorned ladies. 

“Excuse me. I think I’m needed.” I stepped to the side, studiously avoiding Ephraim’s pitying gaze, when a feminine hand grabbed my arm from behind, pulling me to a stop. 

“Whitney!”

I twirled around, “Oh, Isla!” I exclaimed, a little too enthusiastically. “I’ve been searching for you!”

My friend pulled me into a willowy embrace. She was glowing, a blonde, natural beauty who made an effortless practice of looking like she’d leapt from an American prep catalogue. Isla was genuine and kind and represented everything I’d taken for granted about the easy days of my old Savannah upbringing.

“I’ve been making the rounds,” she drawled. “You know how it is.”

I did, in fact, know what she meant. Isla was the sort of person who was greeted by everyone at an event like this. She seemed to know every Savannahian by name, and in turn, they adored her. I’d bet it had taken her twenty minutes of friendly greetings to make it from the front lawn to the foyer.

She smiled politely at Ephraim and Evangeline. “It’s a pleasure to see you two, as well. I swear, Ephraim, if I hear about one more Callaghan party that I’m not invited to, I’ll go pea green.”

Ephraim grinned charmingly. “An oversight that won’t be repeated.”

“Good,” Isla said, pulling me tight to her side. “Meanwhile, Asher sends his regards.”

Ephraim nodded. “How’s your brother?”

“As glued to his businesses as you are. The pub’s keeping him extra busy these days. Who would’ve imagined our little city of Savannah would become an international tourist destination?”

“People appreciate true beauty where they can find it.” His eyes darted to mine a moment, before focusing on someone over my shoulder.

“Whitney.”

I turned to find a prim young woman staring earnestly back at me, her brown hair pulled into a sleek, high ponytail. She smiled hesitantly and held her hands clasped tightly in front of her. She wore a black Lilly Pulitzer shift dress and a short strand of pearls around her neck. Aside from her obvious grief, she looked as polished as I’d ever seen her.

“Monica!” I said, genuinely surprised.

“It’s good to see you,” she said, her eyes red and brimming with unshed tears. “I’m so sorry about your grandfather. I loved Alistair like –”

Her face crumpled and I rushed forward, pulling her into a tight embrace, “He loved you, too,” I said. “I’m glad you’re here.”

She stepped back, wiping at her cheeks with an ivory handkerchief. “I almost didn’t come. After the way I left, I didn’t want to cause your family any more drama. But I couldn’t keep away. I had to see for myself,” she paused, taking two long sips of air, “that he was gone.”

“I understand,” I said. “Whatever happened before, I’m sure everyone understands. It’ll get worked out. I promise.”

She nodded, and a demure smile graced her porcelain face. The friendly look of it took me back to when we’d been small, and our biggest worry at Darling House had been whether the rain would spoil a summer afternoon. 

“Y’all, excuse us,” Isla cleared her throat. “Whitney’s Aunt Adele seems to be motioning her over.” She squeezed my hand, indicating I should go along with her. “We’ll catch up with y’all in a bit.”

“Of course,” Monica said, stepping to the side. “See you soon.”

“We need to be making the rounds as well.” Ephraim placed a hand on the small of Evangeline’s waist and motioned to a group of men gathered near the grand piano in the corner. “It was lovely to see you, Isla. Tell Asher I said hello.”

Ephraim nodded tightly at Monica, then didn’t so much as glance at me as he and Evangeline stepped away into the crowd.

Seconds later, Isla had me halfway across the room. “Sorry to whisk you away like that, but I figured two more minutes of standing in that pressure cooker, and you might spontaneously combust.” She skirted us closer to where Aunt Adele stood. “Did your mother tell you what Monica did on the day she quit the studio?”

I looked at her in confusion, feeling suddenly tired.

Isla shook her head. “No, of course she didn’t. She wouldn’t have wanted to upset you.” She squeezed my arm and slowed our pace. “It was a few days after your grandfather had his fall. Monica had a breakdown. She smashed several orders waiting to ship out. Then she stormed into the house and demanded someone investigate further what had happened to Alistair. She insisted he’d been pushed, not fallen down the studio steps. She screamed at your mother that she didn’t feel safe on the island, and that someone was skulking around the property watching her work. Before your mother could offer up a solution, Monica quit.” Isla pursed her lips, looking sad. “It was hard on your mother. The only reason I know any of this is because Ephraim told my brother what happened, and that he’s been trying to convince your mother to install security cameras.”

“But she won’t,” I said. “She doesn’t trust they’re truly private.”

“Exactly,” Isla said. “We all know how the Darlings are about their famous need for privacy. But everyone was hoping that if you came home, you’d be able to talk some sense into her.”

I sighed, “I’m afraid I’m the worst person to give Mama advice. She acts like I’m made of glass, one more crack and I’ll shatter.”

Isla’s gaze softened. “I can understand that. We’ve all been worried for you, Whitney. It’s good that you’re back.”

“It’s only for the weekend,” I said, steeling myself against the disappointment on her face. Isla knew about the curse. She knew why I stayed away. But the knowledge didn’t make things any easier. “I need to get back to Charleston.”

* * *

For all its angst and memory, Granddaddy’s funeral reception ended as abruptly as it began.

As if heeding the tenants of some unspoken society rule, the collective mourners departed our little island as one, driving over the bridge and back to their lives in town. I released a long breath as Evangeline and Isla climbed into their respective cars and pulled into the procession. Isla had promised to make a weekend trip to see me as soon as she could manage. It had been so good to see her that I hadn’t been able to refuse. 

“Mama,” I said, as she and I stood on the columned front porch, shrouded by Live Oaks and Spanish moss, waving politely as the last of the guests drove out of sight. “I’m afraid I need to get back.”

She shook her head, then reached out and clasped my hand in her own, not saying anything.

“Mama, please.”

“Not yet, Whitney Darling,” she turned red-rimmed eyes to mine. “We’re not done with today.”

As if he’d heard her, Ephraim stepped outside. “The executor’s ready, Nora,” he said. “I’ll escort you ladies to the study.”

“Thank you, Ephraim,” Mama took his outstretched arm. “Come on, Whitney. Not a word of argument.”

I nodded and resigned myself to a late-night drive. Mama looked so exhausted. The least I could do was be here for her a little longer and pray the curse wouldn’t punish us all for the kindness.

I followed them, unable to keep from studying the way Ephraim walked, straight and strong, or the way his black suit jacket hugged his body, as though it had been custom-made for him. No doubt, it had. His hair was brushed into submission, so unlike the way it looked after he’d spent the day out on the marsh, on a boat with Seth, windswept, shaggy and wild. He towered over my mother, but there was a gentleness in his presence, a protectiveness that tempted me to walk closer, to reach out and wrap my fingers with his and rest my head against his big shoulder. But we continued in polite distance. Silent. Solemn. 

We turned the corner into Alistair’s study. The rest of the family already waited there. Someone had gathered the miscellany of loose papers and files into neat stacks to be sorted and put away. It was impossible tell the room had been recently ransacked. 

Golden evening sunlight streamed in through the wall of windows behind Alistair’s desk, where my attention settled on a short, unassuming man wearing a well-tailored striped suit, complete with tasteful gold cufflinks. He smiled pleasantly at the room.

Addison and Francis sat in two velvet salon chairs near the door, Percy at their feet working on a crossword puzzle. Adele and Rose sat nearby, and motioned for us to come in. 

“Thank you all for attending. I’m Mr. Allen, the executor of Mr. Darling’s will. I know this has been a trying day. However, Mr. Darling was quite adamant that not a single family member, or Mr. Callaghan,” he said, looking pointedly over at Ephraim, “were to leave Darling House before his final wishes could be imparted.”

“Let’s get to it,” Aunt Adele said, as Ephraim and I took our seats near Alistair’s desk. “As you said, it’s been a long day. And I need to see about dinner.”

“I’ll help you,” Addison chimed. 

“We all will,” Mama said.

“Do y’all have any idea how many casseroles are in the fridge after today?” piped Rose.

“Yes, alright.” Mr. Allen cleared his throat. “First thing’s first. There have been endowments set aside for Miss Addison and her children, as well as for Adele and Rose, and of course, Mr. Darling’s daughter, Nora. Should the rest of the will be disregarded, some of the proceeds from the sale of Darling House will go toward a home in the Savannah Historic District large enough to house the ladies together. As they live now.

“Sale of Darling House?” My mother shot to her feet, her face ashen.

Mr. Allen gave her a sympathetic look and motioned for her to sit. “Please, Mrs. Darling, there’s more.”

Mama sank back to her chair, and Aunt Adele placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, not managing to keep the worry from her own face.

“As for the matter of Darling House, and the subsequent Darling Glass Company, both of which were owned in full and whole by Mr. Darling . . .” Mr. Allen cleared his throat again.

“May I get you some water?” Aunt Adele asked. 

“No thank you, ma’am. Well,” he pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed his forehead, “maybe after we’re done here. I’m sorry, this is highly irregular.” He cut a nervous expression over to Ephraim before leveling his gaze on me.

“Irregular?” Adele asked.

“Yes. That is, currently. That is to say, it’s perfectly legal – I checked. Several times.”

“What is it?” Francis’ impatient, masculine tone bolted through the room, nearly startling me from my chair.

My heart thumped in my chest. A strange feeling swelled there. One I’d had before, a long time ago. Before we’d found the vial, and everything had changed. Something was about to happen and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

“I’m sorry,” Mr. Allen said. He looked pointedly at the paper in his hands, then began to read. “Mr. Ephraim Callaghan and Miss Whitney Darling are to be married,” his voice squeaked on the word married, “for the span of at least one year, and together run Darling Glass as partners. Or not at all.”

I hope you’ve enjoyed this excerpt of The Memory of Glass.

Continue the adventure by adding the title to your bookshop

via Ingram (ISBN 9798988947608)

or by ordering / requesting a copy wherever books are sold.

-Brenna Lauren

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