She knocked, but was ignored, or not heard. Walked around to the window, but the curtains were drawn. Attempted to open a window that had never opened, not when they’d furnished that room as a nursery fourteen years ago. She tapped gently on it, wanting her girl to pull back the curtain. Cecelia screamed, and Amber turned towards his station. He was watching her. He wanted her gone. This was her house. She’d wed him for this house, and for his mother’s furniture, her bone china tea set. And wanted to run from him on her wedding night . . . She’d tried that. What else was out there? Worse than him, that was what else. Choices had to be made, the bad measured against the worse. They’d taken her memories in that place where she’d been; this house had brought them back. Her hand on a familiar bowl, and she remembered using the bowl. A tablecloth spread, and she remembered embroidering it. She walked around the house and inside via the front door, where she stood a moment staring at the hall table.
