My Wealthy Grandmother Left Me a Single Brass Key and No Inheritance
Margaret lay perfectly still, her eyes fixed on the dark window where the reflection of the lamp flickered against the black glass. When I finished the page, she did not tell me to turn to the next one.
“Your mother loved these roses, Emily,” she said, her voice softer than I had ever heard it. She did not look at me, but her fingers tapped twice against the cotton sheet. “She used to bring them inside when they were still covered in dew, even when I told her the water would ruin the tabletops.”
I held my breath, afraid that any sudden movement would shatter the fragile quiet between us. “Did she have a favorite spot in the garden?”
“The brick wall near the carriage house,” Margaret said, her eyes closing as if she were looking at something far away. “She never could keep her fingers away from the thorns. She always wanted to see how close she could get before she bled.”
“I think I understand that,” I whispered.
