Fiction: The death of her father brings an estranged Meher back to her family manor in the hills
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Old houses were the best keepers of secrets. Their realtor, Arta, stated it like a personal triumph, pulling back the trellised grate of the elevator. Adrien smiled appreciatively, but she was disconcerted. The sensation followed her to the ninth-floor apartment, the points of the parquet flooring drilling into her feet, the palm motifs on the glass doors growing dangerously engorged.
“You can see right to the Hofburg from here,” exulted Adrien, his long strides spanning all the rooms at once. “Did you notice the induction stove?”
The commute was short. The oversized vintage Chesterfield they had bought on a whim would fit just right in the living room. She stood at the bay window, the activities of a Lilliputian fairyland unfolding below. The light was perfect, scooping out the walls in elegant cascades. Illuminating but not overpowering. An artist’s dream. But dreams came in pairs, the nightmare never far behind. He didn’t know. No one knew what lurked under the eaves, in unseen corners, hovering beneath the decades…
“What do you think?” Adrien was looking at her hopefully, an uncharacteristic boyishness softening his jaw. She knew he hoped to soften her irritation at his attempts to reschedule the visit.
She glanced at the calm cohesion of...