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one.”
    My grandfather met us in the foyer just as we’d finished with the first floor and the cellar. “Thank you, Dustin. I’ll take it from here,” and he led me upstairs.
    On the second floor, the halls were plastered in linen wallpaper and adorned with portraits. Every so often we would pass a sleeping chamber, as my grandfather called them, mostly for guests, though I could hardly imagine him entertaining.
    At the end of the east wing, we entered a small spiral staircase that led up into the easternmost spire. At the top was a short, windowed hallway with only one door at the end. My grandfather opened it for me, and I walked inside.
    It was a bedroom: the kind you only read about in fairy tales. It had tall curved windows and a conical ceiling. The walls were painted lilac and decorated with antique mirrors and paintings of pastoral landscapes. In the middle of the room was a giant canopy bed covered in silly little pillows that I had to resist the urge to jump into. I traced my finger along the monogrammed sheets. L. C. W. My mother’s initials.
    “This was her bedroom,” my grandfather said, watching me explore the vestiges of her childhood. The yellowed papers on her desk, the tins of makeup and hairpins on the dresser. A box of stationery peeking out from beneath the bed. An antiquated bookcase stacked with creased novels and faded dust jackets. I could never imagine my mother inhabiting this room, let alone owning that many tiny pillows. She had always been pragmatic, inclined to hiking boots and machine-washable clothing, big comfortable couches, and decorations that wouldn’t break if you dropped them. I had never seen her wear jewelry other than her wedding ring, and she rarely wore makeup. She had always encouraged me to do the same.
    “If you’d like, you can stay in this room for the night. I thought it might be...comforting. Of course, I can have your things moved to one of the guest chambers if it doesn’t suit you.”
    I spun around. “No, I want to stay here,” I said quickly. My suitcase, which was virtually empty due to my lack of packing, was sitting in the corner of the room.
    “Good. Good.” My grandfather led me to a set of French doors in the corner of the room. “And this,” he said, turning the knobs, “was her closet.”
    I stepped inside, the smell of potpourri tickling my nose, and pulled the string dangling from the bulb.
    In the light, the closet was transformed from an old storage room into an enchanted boudoir filled with rows and rows of jewelry and shoes and clothes. Beautiful clothes, in styles I had never seen before. The mere sight of them filled me with an unexplainable childish excitement, and I ventured deeper, running my fingers along the racks, the hangers clinking together behind me. The fabrics melted beneath my fingertips—silk, crushed velvet, suede, taffeta, cashmere, fine cottons. I had to remind myself that I didn’t like clothes like this. They were expensive, extravagant, snobby. My parents used to tell me I didn’t need material things to define who I was, but now I couldn’t help but want to put them on.
    “These were your mother’s when she was your age. I think she was about your size. Anyway, they’re yours now.
    Everything in this closet adheres to Gottfried’s dress code, so take whatever you think you’ll need.”
    I glanced at the clothes, trying to imagine my mother at my age wearing the sweaters, the skirts, the dresses, the Mary Janes, the cloaks. I couldn’t. I fingered the sleeve of a sweater. It was so soft.
    “Well, I’ll leave you to it. Lunch will be served at half past one.”
    I nodded and watched my grandfather’s reflection in the mirror as he bowed out of the room.
    I spent the next hour examining my mother’s clothes. She had boxes full of barrettes and rings and headbands; drawers packed with silk pajamas, scarves, earmuffs, and lamb’s-wool mittens. I thought they might smell of her, but instead they just