Read Chapter 3: The Locket

The attic stairs groaned under Élodie’s weight, and Camille smelled dust and dry lavender before she saw the room. Rafters slanted low overhead, light filtering through a single round window coated in grime. Boxes and trunks stood like mourners in the shadows, draped in sheets that had turned the color of old tea.

Inès was already on her knees beside a steamer trunk, her dark hair falling over her face as she lifted a stack of yellowed linens. She had been quiet since breakfast—quieter than the other two, anyway. Élodie was in the corner, arms crossed, watching as if the attic might bite her.

“Mother kept everything,” Inès said, pulling out a child’s dress, faded blue. “This was mine. I remember the tear in the sleeve. She mended it badly.”

“She never learned to sew properly,” Élodie said, but her voice had lost its edge.

Camille wandered toward the far wall, where an old roll-top desk sat buried under a pile of hatboxes. She didn’t know what they were looking for. They weren’t looking for anything, really—just sorting, boxing, deciding what to keep and what to sell with the house. The lawyer had made that clear enough. Nothing could be sold until all three agreed. But the contents could be divided, if they were civil about it.

Civil. They were trying.

“There’s a trunk back here.” Camille pushed aside the hatboxes and revealed a small leather chest, cracked along its seams. The lock had long since rusted open. She lifted the lid.

It smelled of her mother. Camille’s throat tightened. Old paper, cheap perfume, the faint sourness of time.

Inès came over, brushing dust from her knees. “What is it?”

“Papers, I think. Old letters.” Camille reached inside and pulled out a bundle tied with a faded ribbon. But beneath her hand, her fingers brushed metal. She drew out a small oval locket, tarnished to near-black, its chain broken.

Inès took it from her, turning it over in her palms. The clasp was stiff, but she worked it open with a thumbnail.

Inside, on the left, was a tiny photograph of their mother—young, maybe thirty, her hair pinned loosely, a rare smile on her lips. She wore a light summer dress, the kind she’d never worn in Camille’s memory. Their mother had always favored dark wool and practical shoes.

On the right side, the gold oval was empty.

“There was another photo,” Inès said softly. “You can see the outline where it sat. Someone took it out.”

Élodie had moved closer, craning her neck. “Let me see.”

Inès handed her the locket. Élodie’s jaw tightened as she held it to the light. “This is her, isn’t it? Before we were born, look at her face. She’s happy.”

“Who was she with?” Camille asked.

“I don’t know. The photo’s gone.” Élodie flipped it over. On the back, in faded ink, someone had written a single word: *Attends.*

Wait.

Camille frowned. “That’s not even proper grammar. It’s the informal imperative. Like she was telling someone to wait.”

“Or someone was telling her,” Inès said.

“It’s nothing,” Camille said, shaking her head. “Probably an old boyfriend. She was young once. People have histories.”

But Élodie’s face had gone pale, and not from dust. She turned the locket over again, staring at the empty slot. “Why would someone take the photo out?”

“Because it was private,” Camille said. “Because it didn’t matter.”

“He matters,” Inès said quietly.

Camille looked at her. “What?”

Inès pointed at the locket. “Look at the photo of Mother. She’s angled to one side, like she was leaning against someone. Her arm is raised, her hand on a shoulder. And the chain—the clasp isn’t worn. It was broken. Deliberately snapped.”

“That’s a lot to read into an old locket, Inès.”

“You’re a lawyer, Camille. You read evidence.”

Élodie laughed, but it came out hollow. “Evidence. She’s been dead three days and you two are already treating her life like a case file.”

Camille flushed but didn’t back down. “Then what do you think, Élodie? You’ve been walking around this house like you know where every body is buried. So tell us.”

Élodie’s lips pressed into a thin line. For a long moment, she said nothing. Then she set the locket down carefully on the hatbox and turned to face the others.

“Mother had a drawer in her bedroom. The one that’s always locked, under the window. You know the one.”

Camille knew it. A small drawer built into the paneling, never opened in her memory. She’d assumed Mother kept linens or old letters there, the way any woman might. She’d never pressed, because pressing implied interest, and interest implied staying, and Camille had made a point of never staying.

“Did she ever show you what was inside?” Inès asked.

Élodie shook her head. “But I saw her with the key once. She wore it on a chain around her neck, hidden under her shirt. When I asked her about it, she said it was for something valuable. Something that wasn’t a thing.” Élodie’s voice cracked. “I was nine. I didn’t know what she meant.”

“Then let’s open it,” Camille said.

“We can’t. We don’t have the key.”

“We break it.”

Élodie stared at her, then slowly smiled—a real smile, surprised and conspiratorial. “I thought you were the one who followed rules, Camille.”

“I follow the law, not furniture.” Camille was already moving toward the stairs. “The house is ours now. If the drawer’s contents matter, we should see them.”

They found the drawer in their mother’s bedroom, which looked as though she had left it just that morning: the bed made, a sweater folded on the chair, a pair of reading glasses on the nightstand. The room smelled of camphor and cold air. Camille had not stepped foot in here since the funeral, when she’d come to collect a black dress and had left with her mother’s scent in her nose and a knot in her chest.

The drawer was where Élodie had said. Small, set into the dark wood paneling beside the window, its brass plate dull. No keyhole visible—only a tiny seam, almost invisible.

Élodie produced a screwdriver from the kitchen. Camille wedged it into the seam and pried. The wood splintered, but the drawer gave. It slid out with a groan, revealing a single object wrapped in brown paper, tied with twine.

Inès unwrapped it with steady hands.

A key. Old iron, ornate, with a looped head shaped vaguely like a flower. It was tarnished but heavy, weighty in her palm. She held it up.

“It’s not for any lock in this house,” Élodie said after a moment. “I’ve seen every key Father had. They were all brass. This is iron. Older.”

“Older than what?” Camille asked.

Older than the house, she realized as she said it. The manor was eighteenth century. This key looked medieval. It looked like something that unlocked a church door, or a crypt.

Inès turned it over. On the flat of the handle, faint and worn, was an inscription. Camille leaned in to read it.

*Pour celle qui attend.*

For she who waits.

Élodie’s face contorted. “Who waits? Waits for what?”

No one answered. The key sat in Inès’s hand, and the attic’s dust still clung to Camille’s sweater, and somewhere down the lane, she remembered the woman in the shadows, the one who had watched the house and then disappeared when Camille blinked.

Camille looked out the window at the grey Normandy sky.

Maybe the woman was still there, watching.

Maybe she was the one who had been waiting.