Rowan studied her face. She seemed neither playful nor vicious now, only solitary, wondering and thoughtful.
"You aren't afraid of the dark?" Carlotta asked.
"No."
"You can see well in the dark."
"Yes, better than most people."
The woman turned around, and went on to the tall door at the foot of the stairs and pressed the button. With a muffled clank the elevator descended to the lower floor and stopped heavily and jerkily; the woman turned the knob, opening the door and revealing a gate of brass which she folded back with effort.
Inside they stepped, onto a worn patch of carpet, enclosed by dark fabric-covered walls, a dim bulb in the metal ceiling shining down on them.
"Close the doors," said the woman, and Rowan obeyed, reaching out for the knob and then pushing shut the gate.
"You might as well learn how to use what is yours," she added. A subtle fragrance of perfume rose from her clothes, something sweet like Chanel, mingled with the unmistakable scent of powder. She pressed a small black rubber button to her right. And up they went, fast, with a surge of power that surprised Rowan.
The hallway of the second floor lay in even thicker darkness than the lower corridor. The air was warmer. No open doorway or window gave even a seam of light from the street, and the candle light burst weakly on the many white-paneled doors and yet another rising stairway.
"Come into this room," the old woman said, opening the door to the left and leading the way, her cane thumping softly on the thick flowered carpet.
Draperies, dark and rotting like those of the dining room below, and a narrow wooden bed with a high half roof, carved it seemed, with the figure of an eagle. A similar deeply etched symmetrical design was carved into the headboard.
"In this bed your mother died," said Carlotta.
Rowan looked down at the bare mattress. She saw a great dark stain on the striped cloth that gave off a gleam that was almost a sparkling in the shadows. Insects! Tiny black insects fed busily on the stain. As she stepped forward, they fled the light, scurrying to the four corners of the mattress. She gasped and almost dropped the candle.
The old woman appeared wrapped in her thoughts, protected somehow from the ugliness of it.
"This is revolting," said Rowan under her breath. "Someone should clean this room!"
"You may have it cleaned if you like," said the old woman, "it's your room now."
The heat and the sight of the roaches sickened Rowan. She moved back and rested her head against the frame of the door. Other smells rose, threatening to nauseate her.
"What else do you want to show me?" she asked calmly. Swallow your anger, she whispered within herself, her eyes drifting over the faded walls, the little nightstand crowded with plaster statues and candles. Lurid, ugly, filthy. Died in filth. Died here. Neglected.
"No," said the old woman. "Not neglected. And what did she know of her surroundings in the end? Read the medical records for yourself."
The old woman turned past her once more, returning to the hallway. "And now we must climb these stairs," she said. "Because the elevator goes no higher."
Pray you don't need my help, Rowan thought. She shrank from the mere thought of touching the woman. She tried to catch her breath, to still the tumult inside her. The air, heavy and stale and full of the faintest reminders of worse smells, seemed to cling to her, cling to her clothes, her face.
She watched the woman go up, managing each step slowly but capably.
"Come with me, Rowan Mayfair," she said over her shoulder. "Bring the light. The old gas jets above have long ago been disconnected."
Rowan followed, the air growing warmer and warmer. Turning on the small landing, she saw yet another shorter length of steps and then the final landing of the third floor. And as she moved up, it seemed that all the heat of the house must be collected here.
Through a barren window to her right came the colorless light of the street lamp far below. There were two doors, one to the left and one directly before them.
It was the left door which the old woman opened. "See there, the oil lamp on the table inside the door," she said. "Light it."
Rowan set down the candle and lifted the glass shade of the lamp. The smell of the oil was faintly unpleasant. She touched the burning candle to the burnt wick. The large bright flame grew even stronger as she lowered the shade. She held up the light to let it fill a spacious low-ceilinged room, full of dust and damp, and cobwebs. Once more tiny insects fled the light. A dry rustling sound startled her, but the good smell of heat and wood was strong here, stronger even than the smell of rotted cloth and mold.
She saw that trunks lay against the walls; packing crates crowded an old brass bed in the far corner beneath one of two square windows. A thick mesh of vines half covered the glass, the light caught in the wetness from the rain which still clung to the leaves, making them ever more visible. The curtains had long ago fallen down and lay in heaps on the windowsills.
Books lined the wall to the left, flanking the fireplace and its small wooden mantel, shelves rising to the ceiling. Books lay helter-skelter upon the old upholstered chairs which appeared soft now, spongy with dampness and age. The light of the lamp glinted on the dull brass of the old bed. It caught the dull gleaming leather of a pair of shoes, tossed it seemed against a long thick rug, tied in a lumpy roll and shoved against the unused fireplace.
Something odd about the shoes, odd about the lumpy roll of rug. Was it that the rug was bound with rusted chain, and not the rope that seemed more probable?
She realized the old woman was watching her.
"This was my uncle Julien's room," said the old woman. "It was through that window there that your grandmother Antha went out on the porch roof, and fell to her death below, on the flagstones."
Rowan steadied the lamp, grasping it more firmly by the pinched waist of its glass base. She said nothing.
"Open the first trunk there to your right," said the old woman.
Hesitating just a moment, though why she didn't know, Rowan knelt down on the dusty bare floor, and set the lamp beside the trunk, and examined the lid and the broken lock. The trunk was made of canvas and bound with leather and brass tacks. She lifted the lid easily and threw it back gently so as not to scar the plaster wall.
"Can you see what's inside?"
"Dolls," Rowan answered. "Dolls made of ... of hair and bone."
"Yes, bone, and human hair, and human skin, and the parings of nails. Dolls of your female ancestors so far back there are no names for the oldest dolls, and they'll fall to dust when you lift them."
Rowan studied them, row after row set out carefully on a bed of old cheesecloth, each doll with its carefully drawn face and long hank of hair, some with sticks for arms and legs, others soft-bodied, and almost shapeless. The newest and finest of all the dolls was made of silk with a bit of pearl stitched to its little dress, its face of shining bone with nose and eyes and mouth drawn in dark brown ink, perhaps, even in blood.
"Yes, blood," said the old woman. "And that is your great-grandmother, Stella."
The tiny doll appeared to grin at Rowan. Someone had stuck the black hair to the bone skull with glue. Bones protruded from the hem of the little tube of a silk dress.
"Where did the bones come from?"
"From Stella."
Rowan reached down, then drew back, her fingers curling. She couldn't bring herself to touch it. She lifted the edge of the cheesecloth tentatively, seeing beneath yet another layer, and here the dolls were fast becoming dust. They had sunk deep into the cloth, and probably could not be lifted intact from it.
"All the way back to Europe they go. Reach in. Take the oldest doll. Can you see which one it is?"
"It's hopeless. It will fall to pieces if I touch it. Besides, I don't know which one it is." She laid the cloth back, smoothing the top layer gingerly. And when her fingers touched the bones, she felt a sudden jarring vibration. It was as if a bright light had flashed befo