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could help.”
    Josie hears herself say, “ Me … help you?”  
    She feels a Prom-Queen smile plaster across her face.  
    “I can’t stand Stella,” he says. “She’s … horrible.” He opens the door and steps halfway through. His sadness makes Josie want to cradle his head in her arms. He looks so vulnerable. Christine never said a thing about his marriage problems. She’s made it seem that her son and his wife are the happiest of couples. “I hope you understand. I have nowhere else to go.”
    His smile dips, as he slowly closes the door.
    It locks.
    What just happened …?
    Josie backs away from the door, still staring at it, as if it is an animate object with eyes, nose, and mouth. She’s waiting for it to talk, to tell her what he’s doing, why he just admitted he needs her help.
    Through the open space of the landing overlooking the vestibule, she hears the men downstairs watching TV. Mr. Creeley is telling Mr. Jenkins that Major League Baseball is in the pits. He’s talking about some old-school base stealer and the glory days. They sound content enough. She’ll let them wander to their rooms when they’re ready.
    Josie crosses the landing to a suite on the other side of the mansion. These are older chambers built during the house’s initial construction. Lady Birchall’s closed-up suite is down a wing and hasn’t been used since she stopped going upstairs. Josie has this forgotten area all to herself.
    She pauses at a small door at the end of a narrow corridor. It’s the type of door that would lead to an attic entrance, or maybe a cellar. Through it she follows an even narrower corridor. This ends at a compact space under a huge dormer with a crimson painted window seat. The window of multi-colored, blown-glass medallions comprises the entire far wall. A single window on hinges can be opened when she wants a clear view. Under the dormer is an old bed with a metal frame. The mattress is comfortable. A shaded light in the ceiling paints the room in warm yellow. A tiny desk and mirror line one wall, while against the other is a book case full of tattered paperbacks from her summers here as a child. A recessed closet reaches nearly ten feet into the wall. Its door is open. She can see clothes that date back years.  
    She first discovered her talent deep inside that closet. She would close the door and sit with whatever ingredients she’d culled from her grandmother’s private garden, stirring them in a pot, sometimes heating them with a lighter. She almost ignited her clothes more than once. Later, when she discovered the hidden space beyond the closet, her grandmother turned it into Josie’s workroom, and she honed her craft to perfection.   Now, she doesn ’ t have to keep her skills a secret.  
    I’m brewing, even if they think I’m a trouble maker .  
    Josie moves to her desk, where a folder lays open. She sees the business cards Aunt Emma gave to Roxy. They were enchanted to reveal the egregious wrong doing of the men. She thumbs through them, each one cycling through scenes of neglect. There’s nothing on Lennox, of course.
    She hears a faraway chime.
    Doorbell .
    She glances once out her window. The darkness of night makes it impossible to see anything. Something about that bell in the night frightens her. Lennox’s arrival has complicated things. She has a vested interest in not helping him. A visitor at his hour has to do with him. Who else?  
    * * *
    Standing in the front doorway is Stella Spivey. Alice in her kitchen smock stands aside, gaping, probably because Stella looks so horribly good. She’s dressed as if she’s just gotten off a plane, maybe from Paris, or Milan.  
    I knew it, Josie thinks as she descends the stairs, trying not to gulp. Stella’s here to take Lennox back.
    Stella’s wearing bright red pumps peppered with … can those be real diamonds ? She’s wearing a tartan-patterned Burberry skirt that fits her hips like they were poured on. A