Eliza.

I closed my eyes, heard her voice—the voice of the nightmare Eliza with weeds in her hair, pale green skin, and black eyes: Don’t you understand? She belongs to the springs.

The world went black as if I was the one who’d fallen into the pool. I felt the dark water rushing up around me as I was pulled farther and farther down.

* * *

When I opened my eyes, I was on the settee in the living room.

“Maggie,” I said.

“She’s fine, Ethel. She’s upstairs sleeping. You fainted,” Will said. He was beside me, holding a glass of brandy. “Here, sip this.”

I sat up, took a drink of the brandy. “Are you sure? Have you checked on her?”

“I’m sure. She’s sound asleep. How do you feel?”

“I’m fine,” I said. “A little woozy, maybe.”

My name is Mrs. Monroe, and I am sipping brandy on my couch. Everything is fine.

“How’s Smitty? I think he needs the brandy more than I do.”

Will frowned. “He’s gone.”

“Gone?”

“The entire work crew quit.” He took a long pull from the glass of brandy. His hand seemed to tremble slightly. “Damned fools.”

“All of them?”

He nodded. “Even Galletti. The ridiculous stories they tell! Talk of curses and ghosts. Superstitious fools.” He ran his hands through his hair, exasperated.

“What will we do?” I looked around at the walls and ceiling that weren’t yet plastered, the pile of trim boards stacked in the corner of the room. “We can’t finish it on our own!”

“Of course not.” His jaw tensed. “I’m going to interview more men. Men who aren’t from Brandenburg, who haven’t heard all these crazy stories. I’ll go back to New Hampshire if I have to. Or get men all the way from Boston. There are so many good men out of work these days, I’ll have a line of candidates a mile long. I’ll offer double pay if they can get the work done by fall—half the salary on a weekly basis and the other as a lump sum when they finish. The lure of hard cash should be stronger than ghost stories and folktales.”

And I wanted to say that we should leave, too. We should pack up, get in our car, and drive as far away from here, from this house and the pool, as we possibly could. I wanted to beg.

But then I thought of Maggie sleeping upstairs.

And I knew we could not leave.

We and this place, we’re bound together.

November 12, 1931

“None of this is right,” I say as I drag the settee into yet another location. Two plush chairs are across from it, a low polished maple table in the middle. I’ve been rearranging the living room furniture all afternoon and evening, and I am exhausted. My back aches. My head feels like it’s being split open by a hammer and chisel.

Sparrow Crest is finished at last. Will hired a team of men from New Hampshire who came and camped in big canvas tents while they finished the house. Will paid them an extravagant amount of money and had them each sign a contract stating that any talk of ghosts or curses would mean they’d be instantly let go without pay. The men worked like machines, quiet and determined; obviously eager to finish the job and get out.

I don’t know if any of them saw anything in the pool. They did not dare say. But it was obvious to me that they sensed that something was not quite right. Any visitor to Sparrow Crest notices right away.

Not everyone is afraid of the pool. Some still come looking for the springs, hoping for a cure, a miracle. People on crutches, the old and infirm, parents carrying sick children. Will sends them all away. He’s put up PRIVATE PROPERTY NO TRESSPASSING signs.

Sparrow Crest is so much larger and more grand than the house we left behind in Lanesborough—I think there is no way we will ever fill it. The rooms look sparse. The furniture we have looks out of place—our table is much too small for the dining room; the settee and armchairs all wrong for the living room.

“We’ll get new furniture,” Will says, coming to wrap his arms around me and kiss my head. “We’ll take measurements. We can have things shipped by train from Boston.” I relax, feel myself melting into him. “I promise, darling wife, that I will find you the perfect furniture for this room if it’s the last thing I do!”

I feel like a little girl playing house. I move from room to room like a shadow. I am always cold, no matter how large a fire we build. I layer on the sweaters and coats until I am nearly lost inside them. I lock myself away in the bathroom and prick myself with a pin.

I am Mrs. Monroe and I am home. I am home. I am home.

I often remember that first night Will and I were at the hotel. How I stood on the balcony, dizzy with this strange sense of familiarity. How I turned and said to Will: Like we’re meant to be here. Like coming home when you’ve been away a long time.

Did some part of me know then that we would one day make our home here, become caretakers of the springs, for better or worse?

Maggie loves Sparrow Crest and spends her days thumping along from room to room, sitting by sunny windows and playing, talking nonstop. She has never seemed healthier, more energetic.

Her favorite thing to do is sit by the pool. She has long conversations with it, stringing together a babbling of words I only half-understand.

We eat lunch out there beside the water. It’s far too cold to swim now, but we sit at the edge and dip our feet in, me holding tight to Maggie so she won’t slip in.

“We must be very careful with Maggie around the water,” Will says. “We must keep the kitchen door locked at all times so she can’t wander out there on her own. And we must never, ever take our eyes off her when we’re out near the pool.”

As though I didn’t realize the dangers.

“Come on, darling wife,” Will says, taking my hand. “Let’s go up to bed. You’ve put in a long day. The furniture conundrum will still be here tomorrow.”

“You head up,” I tell him. “I’ll join you in a minute.” I watch him go up the stairs and I walk into the kitchen, slip out through the kitchen door, inhaling the night air, the iron-y scent of the pool.

It is not at all like living in town. The nights here are so dark and quiet; more dark and quiet than anything I have ever known. But oh, the stars! The stars are so much more beautiful. I tilt my head back and look. So many stars! They seem closer, brighter than they ever did in town. As if I could just reach out and touch them. I spend a few minutes looking, head back until my neck aches, inventing constellations: an egg, a girl, a castle. I look down and see their light reflected in the pool, like a black mirror. It’s as if the water is its own galaxy full of constellations. I look down at it until I am dizzy, disoriented, then I go back inside, latching all the doors, turning out the lights.