Wes asked me if I was cold, and wrapped his sweatshirt around me. We sat in silence, listening to our friends laughing, wishing it wasn’t our last night together, both trying to convince ourselves that if we wanted it badly enough, we could will everything away. I was afraid to speak; afraid I would ruin the delicateness of the moment.

“I’ll miss you,” he said finally.

It wasn’t an answer to all of my questions, but it was enough. “I’ll miss you—” I started to say, but he placed a finger over my lips. His skin was warm, his upper lip beading with sweat. I gazed at him, curious, confused. He laced his fingers in mine, and before I could close my eyes, he leaned forward and kissed me. A cool, wet kiss that tasted of summer, of dew and freshly cut grass, of all the things that now seemed too simple to be real.

That was my last night in California.

We landed in Massachusetts, where Dustin was waiting for us. I squeezed into the backseat of my grandfather’s custom Aston Martin, and Dustin drove us through the New England countryside, snaking over hills and ravines, through vast areas with nothing but trees for miles.

“This is western Massachusetts,” my grandfather said. “The home of the Transcendental movement.”

Transcendental? It sounded vaguely familiar from English class. Emerson, maybe, or Thoreau? I couldn’t remember, and I didn’t want to know badly enough to ask him. Instead, I opened the window, letting the wind blow my bangs around my eyes.

We crossed a bridge into a wooded area, past rocky streams and the occasional log cabin. My legs stuck to the leather seats as I gazed out the window. The thickets of trees, which normally would have looked pretty, now only seemed dark and forbidding.

Finally, the car slowed, turning up a long gravel driveway lined with lampposts. At the end was a Victorian mansion surrounded by acres and acres of perfectly groomed lawns. We parked in front of a marble fountain. Off to the right, two men in green uniforms were crouched beneath a rosebush with spades and garden clippers.

Dustin opened the car door for me. “Miss Winters,” he said with a nod.

I stepped outside, gazing at the mansion in awe. wintershire house was engraved over the entrance. “What is this?”

“Thank you, Dustin,” my grandfather said, hefting himself out of the car. “We’re making a short stop.”

The gardeners turned and stood up as my grandfather walked by.

“Is this your...your...” I paused, trying to think of the right word. “House?”

My grandfather smiled. “My home, yes. Transcendental, isn’t it?”

Although I still couldn’t recall what the word meant, this time it seemed like an appropriate adjective. I had only seen houses this big on television, which I assumed had been filmed somewhere in the French countryside or the English moors. Never had I believed that they existed in America, or even more incredibly, that my grandfather owned one.

The front door opened into a large hall with checkered floors and heavy light fixtures. Thick drapes framed the windows, letting hazy light fill the room. Two staircases broke off on either side of the hall and led up to the east and west wings, demarcated by a compass rose engraved in the wall between them. Beneath it was a tall grandfather clock, its brass pendulum swinging languidly. How appropriate, I thought.

“Dustin will give you the grand tour while I attend to a few matters that need to be resolved before we leave.”

“We’re not staying?”

My grandfather suppressed a smile. “Just for one night,” he said, and handed me over to Dustin.

I followed him as we meandered through the mansion, stopping in every room, each with a name and a theme.

“May I present to you the Gingham Library,” Dustin said as we entered an octagonal room with mahogany floors and shelves and shelves of leather-bound books. I touched a rolling ladder, which slid down the wall, just like in the movies.

We left and moved on to the Red Room, which was a velvet-lined sitting room, ostensibly for ladies. Dustin pushed open the door for me but waited outside. It had puffy ottomans and tiny side tables that were only large enough to hold a cup and saucer.

It was followed by the Parchment Room, a study equipped with an old computer that looked like it hadn’t been used in a decade. In front of it was a typewriter, a box of ink ribbons, a stack of cluttered papers, and a series of expensive-looking pens. We continued on through a maze of rooms, each more magnificent than the one before. I tried to keep them straight, but their names mingled together in my mind as Dustin announced them:

“The Game Parlor.”

“The Hearst Drawing Room.”

“The Hall of Marble and Glass.”

“Verlaine Oil Gallery.”

“Doldrums Wine Cellar.”

“The August Smoking Parlor.”

And finally, “The Second Living Room.”

It was a normal sort of living room, only fancier, with an oriental carpet and two fireplaces on each end. Victorian settees and divans sat in clusters around the room, along with a grand piano, a wall of bookshelves, and a chandelier made of antlers. Deer heads and portraits of distinguished-looking men hung on the walls.

“Wait,” I said, just as Dustin was closing the French doors. “Where’s the First Living Room?

He gave me a blank look. “There isn’t 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.