Chapter 24 – Stripping the Lacquer
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I was in the armchair facing the fire, back to the door, when I heard the knock. I did not reply. There was a muttered conversation in the hall outside, and then the door opened.

I continued to stare at the fire as Anthony walked around to the sofa. "May I sit down?" I had a perverse urge to make him stand, but after waiting just long enough to let him know I could have, if I'd wanted to, I nodded.

He sat. I stared at the fire. Anthony cleared his throat. I stared at the fire.

"I suppose you must hate me."

It wasn't a question, so I didn't answer. A log shifted in the hearth.

"I've been here longer than anyone, save Nicholas," said Anthony. "Thirty-nine years in June. Can you imagine? Longer than some of you have been alive."

I leaned forward and took up the fireplace poker. I prodded the log, and a section fell away into coals, glowing cherry red. A little tongue of orange flame darted up.

"Madge's predecessor was Edwin. Have you heard anyone speak of him?" I shook my head before I could catch myself. "I'm not surprised. He's a bit of a sore subject. Did portrait work mostly, charcoal or crayon or pencil. He had a lovely economy of movement. He'd look at you, draw six lines and there was your face on the page, neat as you please."

His voice had a warm, nostalgic quality, and it grated. Was he coming here to explain himself, or to reminisce? I did not trust myself to speak, so I remained quiet.

"Something changed in Edwin. Depression most likely, although we didn't call it that. He had low spirits, melancholy, what have you. Stopped drawing. Stayed up in his room for days on end.

"He'd get better for a while, go on long excursions, come back with all kinds of art that he'd finished, gorgeous stuff. And then he'd sink back down. I wanted to help him, of course, but I didn't know how."

I poked the log again. More of it broke apart. It was nearly all coals now. I'd need to put on another log soon, if I wanted to keep it going. I sat where I was.

"Then one day we caught him. He'd been embezzling funds, stealing some of the more lucrative pieces, funneling the money god-knows-where. Except, when we had him pinned down, we realized, it wasn't Edwin at all."

I glanced over. Anthony held up index finger and thumb in a circle. "He had taken to wearing a ring, no one could remember when. Always had it on, slept in it, bathed in it. Muriel noticed something odd about it, and we took it off him. And his whole skin came off with it."

I felt the weight of my necklace very distinctly, but did not touch it. I didn't want to give Anthony the satisfaction.

"He was a different man altogether. He'd met Edwin on one of his excursions, struck up a friendship. Saw he had a cushy job and wanted in. The man got away, and we never saw him again. We never found out what happened to Edwin, or even how long the deception had gone on."

The pain came through clearly in Anthony's voice. A sudden intuition made me speak. "You were lovers?" I looked over at him.

He nodded slowly. "I felt violated. This house was supposed to be a safe place. We were all family, closer than family. And he perverted that."

"And then I came, and you felt that it was Edwin all over again. That here was a person who was going to destroy your home and family."

He hung his head. "I know I overreacted, but—"

"Overreacted?" The word came out as a shriek. "You couldn't have asked me? Or confided in Madge, or Nicholas, or anyone? No, you had to denounce me in front of everyone, like Hercule Poirot cracking the case with all the suspects in the drawing room."

It was Anthony's turn to remain silent.

"I wanted so badly to fit in here. All along, I believed I had come under false pretenses. But I worked hard, so hard, and I had started to think that maybe I had found that family. And you know what? I actually did deserve to be here. I was invited. I earned it."

Tears sprang to my eyes and tightened my voice. "I wasn't an impostor at all. And the moment I find that out, I get stripped down and exposed. You felt violated? I feel violated too, Anthony."

"I am sorry, Cayley." His voice was low and earnest. "I don't suppose... is there anything I can do to make it up to you?"

"There is," I said. He looked surprised; he probably hadn't expected such an answer. "The magic you did. You can do what, draw the past?"

"A static moment," he whispered. "Yes, I can do that."

"Madge said her location magic didn't work to find Caroline. Could you use yours to follow her somehow? Track her down?"

"I can try," he said uncertainly.

"Try," I said. "I need to talk to her. Not some sort of construct. Her in person."

Anthony stood. "I will do what I can. I'll begin immediately."

I turned my attention back to the fire. I heard him walk to the door and open it, but it did not close.

"There are people here who love you, Cayley. And anyone who truly loved you before, still does. You are not alone here. Please, don't let my mistakes drive you away from the place where you belong."

I did not trust myself to reply, and a short while later, I heard the door click shut.

Aubrey, bless her, did not let me wallow in self-pity for long. She gave me a day to mope before bursting in and throwing open the curtains. She informed me that I was coming with her, either willingly or tied up and thrown in the back of her car.

Before long, we were bumping down the driveway toward New Paltz in Aubrey's car. I sat in the passenger seat, wrapped in my warmest coat, staring out the foggy window at the snow-tipped trees.

"Everyone is all stirred up," she told me. "Jo is making you something, I don't know what. Madge is not even talking to Anthony. Gerald is cleaning, which apparently he only does when he's upset. And Nicholas just looks sad. He says he's going fishing, but I saw him down at the lake, and he doesn't even have a pole."

I waited for her to continue. "And Darren?"

When she didn't answer right away, I glanced over at her. Aubrey's eyes were glued to the road. "He left that night," she said tightly. "We don't know where he is."

Of course. I felt my heart constrict. What had I expected? Oh hey, I know you've been lying to me about your gender ever since I've known you, but maybe we could still make out?

"Hey, it's only been two days. And if he can't accept you for who you are, then fuck him." Aubrey's voice had a hard edge.

"How can I expect him to?" My voice cracked. "I can't even accept me for who I am."

Despite my critically fragile mood, the trip did me good. We window shopped in the village. I saw a skirt I liked and a couple of scarves, but I didn't buy them. It felt like further deception to buy women's clothes. I still remembered the feel of the dress on my male body.

We got a bite to eat at a little sandwich shop. Aubrey filled me in about her classes, her professors, the friends she'd made on campus. "I haven't told anyone where I live," she said. "If they knew I was a Belmont Fellow, they'd treat me different. Like a little mini celebrity."

"And when they find out?" I asked. It was hard to keep the bitterness out of my voice. "Are they going to blame you for lying to them?"

Her face fell. "Oh, Cayley, I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking about—"

"No, it's okay, I'm sorry. You're right, they would treat you different. Just... if they're your friends, close friends, then at some point they deserve to know." I swallowed hard. "Even if it means they're not your friends anymore afterwards."

The mood in Aubrey's car was subdued on the trip back. Was it a lie, to fool everyone into thinking I was something I was not? Or was it my secret to tell when and if I chose? Why did there not seem to be a right answer?

We pulled into the parking lot and trudged to the residence. The weather had turned colder, or maybe I just felt it more. I thought of the fireplace in my room, of warming myself by it, staring at the crackling logs until night fell and I could sleep.

I opened the door to the kitchen. Sitting at the table, finishing a bowl of cereal, was Darren.

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