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horribleness of it, and she was shaking. “It’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen, and I hate it. I want to go home. I want to go home!”
    She turned to see her mother’s white face and stricken eyes, and burst into tears.
    “Oh, Cassie.” Mrs. Blake reached across the vinyl top of the car toward her. “Cassie, sweetheart.” There were tears in her own eyes, and when she looked up at the house, Cassie was astounded at her expression. It was a look of hatred and fear as great as anything Cassie felt.
    “Cassie, sweetheart, listen to me,” she said. “If you really don’t want to stay—”
    She stopped. Cassie was still crying, but she heard the noise behind her. Turning, she saw that the door to the house had opened. An old woman with gray hair was standing in the doorway, leaning on a cane.
    Cassie turned back. “Mom?” she said pleadingly.
    But her mother was gazing at the door. And slowly, a look of dull resignation settled over her. When she turned to Cassie, the brittle, falsely cheery tone was back in her voice.
    “That’s your grandmother, dear,” she said. “Let’s not keep her waiting.”
    “Mom . . .” Cassie whispered. It was a despairing entreaty. But her mother’s eyes had gone blank, opaque.
    “Come on, Cassie,” she said.
    Cassie had the wild idea of throwing herself into the car, locking herself in, until someone came to rescue her. But then the same heavy exhaustion that had descended over her mother seemed to wrap around her as well. They were here. There was nothing to be done about it. She pushed the car door shut and silently followed her mother to the house.
    The woman standing in the doorway was ancient. Old enough to be her great-grandmother, at least. Cassie tried to detect some resemblance to her mother, but she could find none.
    “Cassie, this is your Grandma Howard.”
    Cassie managed to mutter something. The old woman with the cane stepped forward, fixing her deep-set eyes on Cassie’s face. In that instant a bizarre thought flashed into Cassie’s mind: She’s going to put me in the oven . But then she felt arms around her, a surprisingly firm hug. Mechanically she lifted her own arms in a gesture of response.
    Her grandmother pulled back to look at her. “Cassie! At last. After all these years.” To Cassie’s discomfiture she went on looking staring at Cassie with what seemed like a mixture of fierce worry and anxious hope. “At last,” she whispered again, as if speaking to herself.
    “It’s good to see you, Mother,” Cassie’s mother said then, quiet and formal, and the fierce old eyes turned away from Cassie.
    “Alexandra. Oh, my dear, it’s been too long.” The two women embraced, but an indefinable air of tension remained between them.
    “But we’re all standing here outside. Come in, come in, both of you,” her grandmother said, wiping her eyes. “I’m afraid the old place is rather shabby, but I’ve picked the best of the rooms for you. Let’s take Cassie to hers.”
    In the fading red light of the sunset the interior seemed cavernous and dark. And everything did look shabby, from the worn upholstery on the chairs to the faded oriental carpet on the pine-board floors.
    They went up a flight of stairs—slowly, with Cassie’s grandmother leaning on the banister—and down a long passage. The boards creaked under Cassie’s Reeboks and the lamps high on the walls flickered uneasily as they passed. One of us ought to be holding a candelabra, Cassie thought. Any minute now she expected to see Lurch or Cousin It coming down the hall toward them.
    “These lamps—it’s your grandfather’s wiring,” her grandmother apologized. “He insisted on doing so much of it himself. Here’s your room, Cassie. I hope you like pink.”
    Cassie felt her eyes widen as her grandmother opened the door. It was like a bedroom setting in a museum. There was a four-poster bed with hangings cascading from the head and foot and a canopy, all made of the same