My Wealthy Grandmother Left Me a Single Brass Key and No Inheritance
A car drove past on the main road, its headlights cutting through the hemlocks for a second before the darkness settled back over the lawn.
I leaned my head against the cold iron of the gate, listening to the dry leaves scrape across the gravel.
The sunroom smelled of damp potting soil, dry geranium leaves, and the sharp, clean tang of lemon wax. Margaret sat in the green wicker chair, her wool blanket pulled tight around her waist despite the morning sun warming the glass panes. Her eyes were closed, but her right hand was moving, her thin fingers tapping a slow, rhythmic beat on the curved brass handle of her cane.
I set the silver tray on the low glass table, careful not to let the metal clink. On the tray sat a small brown glass bottle of cough syrup and a silver plated spoon.
She did not open her eyes, but the tapping on her cane stopped instantly. “You are three minutes late, Emily.”
