Dead Beautiful Read Online Free PDF Page B

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