There was a long pause, and then the sound of footsteps. The door opened, revealing Beatrice's stern face. Her eyes, so full of anger before, now held a mixture of curiosity and something else – was it pity?
“What is it you want, child?" she asked, her voice softer than it had been downstairs but still tinged with that Southern lilt.
I swallowed hard. "I... I wanted to ask you about my mother. About Sadie."
Beatrice's expression tightened, but she stepped back, allowing me into the room. It was a study, walls lined with bookshelves and a large desk dominating the center.
“You're the spittin' image of her," Beatrice said, her eyes roaming over my face. "It's downright uncanny.”
"People keep saying that," I replied, fidgeting with the hem of my dress. "But I don't know much about her. I
