Part 4

     I slowly look around the room – at the vast windows, with small sections of stained glass near the tops, at the endless shelves with the warm colors of fabric and leather bindings, at the several incredibly comfortable chairs and stools grouped around the room, the candelabras on the floor and what I'm going to guess are gas lamps on the walls... and it's not until I've started walking slowly around from one corner to the next that I realize what it is: There's no doorway. The only entrance is up through the staircase. As far as I can tell, where I'm standing now should be level with the third floor of the house at large, so there's no technical reason why there wouldn't be. I guess Mr. Mason – the first one who built the place, or the second maybe having remodeled some things – wanted a buffer between the library and the rest of the house, to keep it quieter, more private. Makes sense... and it's such a gorgeous little bubble of a space, it's spacious enough to not feel claustrophobic with so much stuff on the walls, and yet still feels cozy and secluded.
     Passing by one of the chairs, I see there are several books laying on a table, one of them left open, a ribbon laying across the page in case it should be closed. Curious, I start to reach for one of the closed ones---
     And footsteps on the stairs.
     For a moment I freeze, and then move very, very fast. I scan the room – there's no enclosed space in which I can duck, but there's a folding screen over by a window, angled in such a way that unless someone needs a book on the shelf directly behind the screen I shouldn't be seen back there. By the time the footsteps have made it halfway up the stairs (luckily, they're in far less of a hurry than I am), I'm already in place, hidden before their eyes breech the line of the floor. The screen is made of some kind of paper – rice paper or something maybe, it's definitely Asian in style. I'm sure light would shine right through it, but as this side of the room is in shadow, I shouldn't be noticeable back here.
     There is quiet a moment as they reach the top of the stairs. My heart pounds through my throat as I frantically consider that they might have heard my running steps across the floor. There was a thick carpet over the polished wood floor where I scampered, but, it's not like there was a whole lot of distance between me and whoever this is. I feel sure it's Mr. Mason, and I try desperately not to shiver and risk making a sound with the movement.
     After a few long moments, I can hear the person walking across the room – but not in any particular direction, there's a hesitancy to the steps, and a circuitous path. And somehow I feel like Mr. Mason would have a louder, more assertive, step than this. There are tiny gaps by the hinges of the screen, like a couple millimeters across – not enough that anyone's going to see me through it, but if I stick my eye right up against it I can see a bit of the room at least. Moving my head back and forth a little, I try to track the mysterious figure---
     And unless Mr. Mason has shrunk and started cross-dressing, it's definitely not him. I feel a giant grin spread over my face, and I continue watching another minute, just to be sure – but I can see the warm red-brown curls spilling out from under wide blue ribbons, though her dress is almost lavender today. I don't want to startle her, but, I guess there isn't really a way to avoid doing so. Still grinning, I stand up, and step out from behind the screen.
     “Evelyn?”
     Though my voice was low, her head whips around in panic, sending the carefully-coiled curls springing around her cheeks. She's--- well, younger than last time, but older than I first saw her. Maybe nine or ten?
     “Kimberly..?” Her voice is a tentative whisper, and then she beams and flies across the room to throw her arms around me. I laugh, and she grins, and then quickly shushes me. “Shhh! If Father finds us up here, we'll be in awful trouble.”
     ...she calls him Father now. She called him “daddy” that first day - “It's such a nice-sounding name for someone, and if I talk about having a daddy, sometimes I can imagine I have a nicer one.” I guess by now she's given up on such a hope... poor girl.
     I grin wryly. “Do I put you at risk of being in trouble every time I show up? I promise, I don't mean to!”
     She giggles lightly as she steps back. “Oh, I can't help but be in trouble. It's in my nature to disrupt any attempt at a 'dignified atmosphere'.” These last two words, she says in as deep and stern a voice as she can manage, which sends us both back into hushed giggles. Then she puts her head to one side, studying me – clearly bewildered by my odd clothing, and sudden appearance. “But why are you here?”
     I shrug. “I don't ever know. I was walking by---” I freeze. I can't tell this dear bright girl that her home is going to burn to the ground, or that I've seen her brother--- Calvin's only a baby now, if he's been born at all yet.
     “Oh! I'm sorry, I shouldn't ask such invasive questions. You look so upset, here, do come sit with me by the window, it's the most comfortable settee in the house.” She takes my head and guides me over to a cushion-strewn short sofa, its back elegantly curving around the the armrests, making a snug little nook to sit in on each side.
     I sigh as I sit, looking back at her, realizing I shouldn't waste a moment of my time with her – who knows when it will be cut off again? “I don't understand how or why I'm here either. In my day, no-one lives here anymore, but, it's such a beautiful place, I come back to look around, and draw the flowers, and... and I keep trying to find out more about your family, who lived in such a beautiful place.”
     She nods slowly as I speak, clearly still as bewildered as I am by the entire thing, but she smiles when I call her home beautiful. “Isn't it just the loveliest spot on Earth? Mother always says so, and Father says no-one was a better artist than his brother.”
     “His brother – what's his name?”
     Her brow furrows a bit at this. “Mother told me once... but it was such a strange name, I never could remember it, I'm sorry.”
     “Oh, don't be! But I hardly know anything, about you, or your family, or... oh!” My gaze had drifted around to the huge window beside me, and my breath is absolutely taken away. The gardens are in full bloom, and the large fountain is within sight, the water sparkling as a thousand stars in the afternoon sunlight. The tile paths seem to almost glow, the colors are so vivid, and oh, what a huge rosebush there, and the wisteria tunnel is intact – and there are other flowers on that trellis too, something small and white, and---
     Evelyn laughs lightly, and looks out the window alongside me. “But you've seen our gardens before, I've walked with you there several---” She gasps, and we stare at each other in terror. Footsteps!
      “Quick, behind the screen,” I hiss, grabbing her hand and pulling her with me. In another instant, we're seated in a breathless heap behind the rice paper screen, her voluminous skirts falling over my creekbed-muddied jeans.
     Two sets of footsteps, very heavy and solid. Definitely grown men – and now I hear the low rumble of their voices as confirmation.
     “I thought Father was to be out all day,” Evelyn breathes into my ear, her voice barely audible. I put a finger to my lips, but she's already nodding, her eyes wide. Obviously, she has more to fear than I do. I wonder if she's allowed in this room at all? Clearly not unsupervised.
     “Ah, as I thought, I left it out – I was reading over it just last night.” Mr. Mason's voice. I may have only met him once, but it's impossible to forget the sound and force of his voice. Even when calm and polite, as he is now, there's still so much command and authority in his voice. “Was there anything else you needed? I have the correspondence from Evans filed in here as well, if that might be of use to you.”
     “Oh, no, this will more than suffice!” The other man's voice is loud and strangely muffled – a little breathless, maybe? “I must thank you for---” He abruptly breaks into a coughing fit, and Evelyn and I both wince at the incredible volume of it. This has got to be a large man, to have lungs capable of producing that big of a sound level. But just the memory of Mr. Mason's piercing eyes is enough to keep me absolutely motionless back here. No way am I risking a peek while he's in the room – for Evelyn's sake even more than for my own.
     When the coughing dies down a bit, the man remains--- well, no, he doesn't remain silent, his wheezing breaths are still really loud.
     “Can I get you a glass of water, Mr. Seymour.” Mr. Mason doesn't ask it as a polite question, but makes it only a tired reply, sounding shocking bored.
     “Oh, no, no, quite fine, I thank you. The book. Thank you, for the book.”
     “Certainly.”
     There is an excruciatingly awkward silence. I keep waiting for Mr. Mason to say something else, to engage in conversation, or offer some kind of hospitality, and I'm sure Mr. Seymour is waiting for the same. But Mr. Mason is silent, and I can totally imagine that he's turned his back to his guest and started reading a book or something, ignoring the man.
     “Well! I must be going. The wife, you know. Dinner to be gotten ready for. Good day to you, and thank you.”
     “Good day.”
     There's a shorter silence, and someone – I think Mr. Seymour – mumbles something I can't make out but can tell is annoyed and offended. Then slow, heavy footsteps down the stairs.
     But only one set of footsteps. Mr. Mason is staying in the library.