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In the attic of the Hughes Family Townhouse, there is a locked door. Aside from the skeleton key in her father?s vest pocket, Miss Hughes is the sole possessor of a key to the tiny, dark room behind that locked door. With the acquisition of wealth in the form of Confederate gold, the family had moved from their humble apartment to lodgings more suited to their aspirations. And though each had their reasons for wishing to dispose of remembrances that brought to mind a departed wife and mother, it would have been an unforgivable sin to put those items in the trash. So they were placed here, in this attic room, behind this locked door.
Her sojourns hither are reserved for the evenings that find the other members of her family occupied elsewhere in the world. The flickering light of a candle leads her up the narrow stairwell through the dancing shadows. One white hand clutches the skirts as she ascends, moving with nothing more than a whisper of silken underthings and the hum of her hem trailing on the boards.
On the landing, before the locked door, she pauses. A trick of the eyes, it appears for a moment as though a shadow swirls at her feet. When bright green eyes catch firelight, the illusion is gone. It is only Malachite, her surly, sable feline. From the depths of a pocket the key is retrieved. It dangles like a pendulum from the end of a long, silver chain.
Miss Hughes is the only one who ever pays the room a visit. A fact she relishes with secret and subdued glee, for the little room behind the locked door has become a very dark place, indeed.
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