Garden of the Moon by Elizabeth Sinclair Read Free Book Online Page A

some connection to Harrogate and her; otherwise her grandmother wouldn’t have sent her there. But what was it and, if Clarice refused to share everything she knew, how was Sara supposed to find out?
    Inexplicably, Sara’s gaze was drawn to the portrait of the woman hanging over the mantel. A sinister smile curved her lips and a strange light filled her eyes. That had to be stopped, now. Her imagination or not, the portrait gave Sara the creeps. It had to go. She set down her tea cup and saucer, and gave the embroidered bell roped beside the bed a yank.
    Moments later, Raina stepped into the room. “Yes, Missus?”
    Sara pointed at the portrait. “Take that down and come with me.”
    Raina frown, but did as she’d been told. Painting in hand, she followed Sara down the hall. At the end of the hall, Sara hoisted the hem of her gown in one hand, threw open the attic door with the other, and then climbed the stairs.
    The attic was dirty, hot and lit dimly by a shaft of light coming through the one, tiny, dusty window. Stacked everywhere were discarded or forgotten possessions ranging from furniture to clothing and filling every available bit of floor space. Travel scarred trunks, shattered lamps, broken furniture and more, all of which had occupied a place in the rooms below at one time, but now lay forgotten and forlorn in the dark recesses of the attic.
    Cobwebs hanging in wispy veils from the rafters tangled in Sara’s hair like phantom fingers trying to prevent her from doing what she’d come here to do.
    Sara glanced over her shoulder at her maid. Raina was obviously not at all comfortable about being here. The maid’s large brown eyes shifted frantically in their sockets, attempting to take in all corners of the attic at once. Sara didn’t blame her. Truth be told, her skin had begun to crawl the moment she stepped on the first attic step.
    “Put that portrait anywhere, and then help me look for a painting to replace it.”
    “Yes, Missus.” Raina propped the woman’s portrait against the closest trunk, making certain that the painting faced away from them, then scanned the semi-dark room. “I don’t see no more pich’urs, Miss Sara.” Raina remained at the top of the stairs, no more than a foot from making a quick getaway should something pop out of the darkness.
    “There has to be more here. Lord knows, there’s enough other junk.” Sara shoved aside a chair with a moth-eaten seat. Dust moats floated up and danced in the weak shaft of sunlight. Sara sneezed. “Just look , Raina!” Her eagerness to leave this place filtered into her voice as impatience.
    Raina went immediately to the closest pile of discarded junk.
    Sara felt bad for taking out her impatience on Raina. It wasn’t her fault that the painting gave Sara the creeps. She cast a guilty look toward Raina.
    Raina didn’t seem to notice her. She was engrossed in digging through a group of paintings she’d found leaning against the wall nearly concealed by an old, dilapidated sideboard. Suddenly, she stopped and stared down at one of the paintings.
    “Laws, Miss Sara, you never told me Miss Alice had your pich’ur painted.”
    Sara ceased her search and turned to her maid and frowned. “She didn’t.” The only portrait she’d ever sat for was by a New Orleans artist, and it hung over the mantel in the Wade’s Garden District home.
    Raina shook her head. “No, ma’am. She sho nuff did. I gots it right here.”
    She held up a painting, but Sara couldn’t see it through the dust moats and gloom. Pushing aside a chair with its legs missing, she made her way across the attic to the maid.
    Sara stopped abruptly. Her mouth fell open. She could feel the color draining from her face. Icy shock waves danced over her hot skin. She had to fight to keep her knees from buckling.
    “Miss Sara, you okay?”
    Sara nodded dumbly, barely aware of moving. Her gaze remained glued to the painting.
    Though her chestnut hair was piled on the top of her