Flowers In The Attic Book Novels & Stories

I say, panning over the countertops and the large, dining space bathed in natural light with huge windows. “It’s gorgeous,” Cass says. “You’re going to make this place amazing. Like this cottage.” “Thanks,” I say, climbing the stairs to the second floor. “But it’s going to take some work.” When I reach the steep, narrow staircase leading to the attic, I pause. “There’s an attic up there stuffed full of old stuff.” I point the phone up the attic stairs. “The kids are dying to explore it, but I told them they have to wait until I check it out first.”

I’m nervous and thrilled at the same time. We climb the staircase, the walls are so close, I can smell the dust. He pushes open the attic door, with his had still holding mine, I might float. I already am. Low ceiling, slanted walls. Tapestries, thumbtacked whenever. And it’s cold. There’s a soft sound if something jumping down—a big fluffy gray cat. She pads over to lean against my ankle, grey eyes peering up at me in question. Crouching down, I stretch out a hand to let it sniff my fingers, which it does.

I nearly shouted, snatching it from her hands. She clicked her tongue. “Hmm... it’s interesting.” “Damn you,” I snapped. My journal was private—sacred. “Go clean the attic. It's filthy,” she said flippantly, tossing her hair as she walked out of the house. I looked up toward the attic. Dust streamed down from the half-open hatch. Had she been up there? I grabbed the long broom behind the door and made my way up. The attic was a mess—dust so thick I had to cover my nose with my sleeve. I stumbled around, searching for the light switch, and finally flicked it on.

“I’d like to look in on her, if I may.” The third and fourth steps of the stairwell sag beneath years of damp. The wood swells and separates from the risers in places. My skirt catches on a splinter at the landing, and I pull it free without pausing. The stair ends abruptly beneath a low beam that forces me to stoop. The attic room itself is long and narrow, with two small glassless window openings, a straw-filled pallet laid against the far wall, and overhead, the thick, cloying smell of dust and old thatch.

Maybe it was when he whispered sweet nothings about loving me, about a lavish wedding, but ended up with his arms around Susanna, kissing her again and again, giving her the wedding, standing with her at the altar, and making me the one left in the shadows? I thought about calling him out. On the drive from work to home, a thousand questions burned on my tongue, but I never let them out. It was not worth it. I dialed a number and gave my orders. "Alan, I'm heading overseas in three days for Ms. Jackson's wedding planning. I need to add a detail. "Have a courier deliver a bouquet of flowers. On the card, just write 'Wishing Mr. Frank and Ms. Susanna a lifetime of happiness' and sign my name.

I followed at a more normal pace, because unlike him, I wasn’t desperate to hear gossip like a bored housewife. The attic smelled faintly of dried herbs and fresh earth from the gardens below. It had always been a quiet little hideaway — wide windows framing the flowerbeds and trees, sunlight slanting in at just the right angle in the afternoons. Kael flopped into the cushioned bench by the largest window, gesturing for me to sit across from him. “So?” he prompted, leaning forward with elbows on knees. “How was it?” I dropped into the opposite bench and stretched my legs out, crossing them at the ankles. “Big. Elaborate. Exactly what you’d expect from Baron trying to make a statement.”

I kicked open the attic door and slammed it behind me, twisting the rusted lock until it clicked. Silence. For a second. Then a low moan began to rise from the floor beneath me. I didn’t look down. Instead, I turned on my phone flashlight and scanned the attic. Dust choked the air, thick enough to taste. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling like curtains. But there it was. The Throne. A faded red velvet chair, carved from black wood, shaped like a blooming rose with thorns for armrests. A chair fit for a queen—or a sacrifice.

"It’s a bit... tight, Lila. I hope His Majesty doesn't mind sharing a bed that doesn't have a remote control. It’s the only room left." "Tight" was an understatement. The attic room had slanted, low ceilings with exposed oak beams that Adrian had to duck under just to move. There was a single, heavy oak bed that looked like it had been handed down through five generations, covered in a thick, handmade floral quilt. A small window stood open, letting in the sound of crickets and a cool breeze that carried the scent of night-blooming jasmine.

“Yeah.” There was a pause. Then, gently, she said, “They’re in the attic.” The word hit me like an insult. I stared at her. “The attic?” She nodded. The attic was where unused furniture gathered dust. Where broken objects were shoved out of sight. Where a pack hid things it no longer valued but hadn’t yet discarded. So that was what I had become to Victor?. I forced a tight smile at Rose. “Thank you.” The words tasted brittle. I turned and climbed the narrow staircase to the attic.

My palms feel inexplicably damp, and no matter how hard I try to stop feeling as flustered as I do, I fail. I tighten my grip on the silver handrail, stare straight ahead at the brass doors, and force my heart rate back into a civilized zone. It’s just an elevator. It’s just Sydney. The doors slide open with a heavy thud, revealing the expanse of the grand attic. The space is cavernous, filled with the kind of dust that feels like it’s been settling since the nineteenth century. Shafts of sunlight pierce through the small, arched windows, illuminating trillions of dancing particles.