Part 5

     Evelyn and I share a worried look. While part of me almost hopes I will be pulled away and not have to deal with the consequences of my nosiness... I'd rather stay with Evelyn, I'd feel awful leaving her to handle this alone. Will he stay long? I try to ask Evelyn this without saying a word – she guesses at my thought, and spreads her hands, shaking her head ruefully. She knows no better than I, but he might well stay the afternoon. I'm sure dinner is several hours away.
     I hear him pacing across the room, and the thump of a closed book. An irritated sigh, and more pacing. It sounds as though he rummages through some papers, then grunts softly and moves back across the room, presumably to a chair. He sighs as he sinks into it, and almost immediately I hear a distant ringing bell. My heart leaps, thinking it's a doorbell, and he'll have to get up to answer it – but of course he won't, he has servants to do that sort of thing. Darn it. Only a minute later, I realize it must have been a bell rung by Mr. Mason, for soft footsteps come up the stairs, and they are followed by a subdued “What does sir require?”
     “Tea. My usual afternoon blend. Something light to eat.”
     I assume there's a silent nod in answer, and then the footsteps quietly descend.
     Craaaap. He's going to be in here awhile. I hear the rustle of paper, a soft popping sound, and a light scratching, that sounds familiar but I can't--- oh! Pen and ink, that's it. I had a few assignments in college with pen and ink, and I remember that scratching, it's such a distinctive sound, just hearing it makes me feel the roughness of it in my fingertips again.
     “Now... what was it that Meres needed answered? Damn! I told Winters to leave that letter on the table. Curse the man. I shall have to find it, for the question has quite left my mind...” He sighs, and... and there's an unexpected sadness to the sound, such a bone-deep world-weariness that I'm taken aback for a moment. “So many things, that have left my mind... as Meres knows far too well...”
     There's a light touch at my arm – Evelyn is trying to get my attention. Her eyes have lit up, and she gestures toward her father, mouthing a word. But I'm so bad at reading lips! She repeats it slower, and then repeats it again. Finally, I get it:
     “Brother.”
     It's his brother he's--- his brother! My eyes check with Evelyn for confirmation, and she nods, grinning. Though she couldn't recall it earlier, she must have recognized the name upon hearing it.
     Meres is the name of the man I saw, who saw me, who built this place for his beloved, who he held so sweetly beside the fountain that day... I can't blame her for forgetting the name, I've never heard it before either. But I say it over and over again in my mind now, willing it to be burned into my synapses, so that I won't forget it. Meres... Meres.
     A few minutes of low curses and crinkling papers follow. My left foot has fallen asleep. Damn it. I try to move it as silently as I can, shifting position as slowly as my muscles will go, hoping that if I do make a sound, Mr. Mason's shuffling will cover it up.
     He grunts, and I hear him sit back down, and after a few moments' pause, the occasional scritch-scratch of the pen's metal nib on paper.
     Evelyn shifts slightly, and we both cringe as one of the myriad layers of her dress and/or undergarments (her skirt is huge, I can't even imagine how many layers are involved in the thing!) rustles. But there's no hesitation in the sound of the pen, so we eventually begin to breathe again. She reaches over and wraps her hand around mine, squeezing it gently. I smile wryly at her, and squeeze it back. We're in the most ridiculous bonding situation ever.
     Footsteps, and the light rattle of china as, I guess, Mr. Mason's tea is brought in and set on the table near him. No words are exchanged, and the pen continues on. I wish I knew what he was writing so intently – granted, writing with pen and ink always makes it sounds like you're writing with frantic anger, but still. I sigh inwardly, and look up at the wall behind me. Most. Useless. Vision. Ever.
     But I grin a bit, and shake my head. Not useless, none ever could be. I'm sitting inside the Mason's house, of which there's absolutely no trace in my own time. Heck, that vision I had of the entryway only lasted a few seconds, and that in itself gave me so much information about the personality of those who lived here. I begin to skim the titles of the books nearest me...
     ...only to find they're all in some language I've never seen before. Really?? Ridiculous. It looks... oh, I don't even know, something like Arabic, but more square... Hebrew, maybe? I let my eyes continue up the wall, looking for something I recognize... but there's nothing on the shelves that I can make out. Smart, actually, if Mr. Mason is as snottily secretive as I suspect he is – keep only the books in languages people won't know within easy reach. What a jerk.
     Still, I slip one off the shelf anyway. It's bound in deep red fabric, with gold lettering on the side. The cover is blank. When I open the book, I smile at the familiar scent of an old, old book – which makes me pause, because I realize, that a book I'd normally think was old, with this scent, would be hot off the presses in this time. The one in my hands must be at least a hundred years older than that... early 1800s, late 1700s even? The first few pages are blank, but there's a gorgeously colored frontispiece opposite what I'd guess is the title. Two stylized trees, painted in a few shades of sage green, curl gracefully up the sides of the page. Between them is an intricate gold menorah, with a background of small diamonds, mostly blue but with touches of white and gold. I turn the pages as gently as I can, both in reverence for the age of the book and to avoid detection. I have absolutely no idea what I'm looking at, but it's certainly very pretty. I soon put it back, and continue looking around, realizing that I shouldn't waste a moment of my time here.
     I am absolutely dying to talk with Evelyn – she'd answer every last question I have about the family, the house, the gardens – but we can't say a word! I find myself silently begging Mr. Mason to suddenly develop a habit of speaking aloud as he writes, but no luck. Scritch-scritch-scratch, silence, plop, scritch-scritch-scritch. No wonder famous authors went mad, that sound would drive me nuts after like five minutes.
     Mentally, I am pacing like a caged beast. There's got to be something we can do... but there's no pen or paper within reach, and---
     I. Am. An. Idiot. My bag is on my freaking shoulder. I have a sketchbook and pencils – not to mention a camera! Though who knows if the photos will make it back to my time or not... still, I can try. I move carefully, opening my bag as much as I can before sticking my hand in, trying to rummage as little as possible. I am terrified of that water bottle – it's a cheap plastic one I've been reusing, and the plastic's thin enough that it crinkles and crackles like a bitch. But, hardly daring to breathe, I manage to pull out the sketchbook, and find I'd left a pencil inside of it to mark the next blank page. I start to write a message – and then scribble it out, and write again, more slowly. When I write quickly, it's hard enough for people in my own day to read it, and just as I've always had trouble reading, say, my grandma's handwriting, Evelyn and I are going to have trouble enough without her dealing with my chicken-scratch!
     “Any idea how long?”
     I hand her the sketchbook and pencil. She frowns a moment, reading slowly. She looks up at me and shakes her head with a wry smile. Then she writes a response, and hands the book back.
     “No – he's often up here alone all day. Some days he won't even come down for dinner, which won't be for hours yet. Your handwriting, I'm afraid, looks like a child's. Did you never have lessons?”
     I blush ruefully. Her writing is, of course, absolutely gorgeous. Such a graceful script, perfectly elegant and flowing. The style is a little more cramped than I'm used to seeing, but the letters are so even and uniform that I don't have much trouble at all reading it.
     “Script isn't used as much---” I pause a moment, then mentally shrug. I'm not going to kill my own grandmother by telling Evelyn I'm from another time, when it's already blatantly obvious to everyone that sees me that I'm not from around here. Anyway, for all I know, my future-self has already told her past-self in a time that's later for me but earlier for her.
     Oh my God physics gives me headaches. Is time-travel even physics? I have no idea, I'm an art major, damn it!
     “Script isn't used as much in my time. But my writing is pretty bad even then. Meres is his brother's name? The one that built the house?”
     “Yes – I recognized it once I heard it. He built the house, and designed the gardens. We've only changed a few small things in the gardens, and some of the house décor. But Father has mentioned it was almost all designed by his brother.”
     “Have you ever met him?”
     “No, never. I've never even seen a letter from him, only heard his name a couple of times.”
     “His wife – do you know her name?”
     She frowns at this, and closes her eyes, clearly in deep thought. I slip my hand carefully back into my bag, and pull out my camera. Oh, what I would give for a photo of her to make it back home with me...