Parts 10 & 11

     Alright. I think I've got it. If that's what the header info is supposed to look like, and the ones on my corrupted images look like... yeah that's totally not right. I make a fourth copy of one of the pictures (paranoid, yes, but it's a photo I could never possibly recreate!), and pull it open the hex editor software I've just downloaded. Open the image, run a search for the characters “FF D8 FF”, and as slowly and carefully as I can, follow the rest of the instructions someone way smarter than me posted like three years ago on some random forum. (How people – including my younger self – lived without the Internet, I have no idea.)
     I rarely have the patience to do things like double-check my work (this was a recurring problem on math tests), but I force myself to do it this time. I think I've got it right, so I save the file (again), and close the software. I pull up Photoshop again, and, crossing my fingers, try opening the hopefully-repaired image.
     And I'm rewarded with an image of Evelyn, the diffuse light through the window softening her face, her eyes cast demurely down as she writes, her skirts spread gracefully around her on the floor.

     I wake up later than planned in the morning, but the instant I start blundering toward consciousness, I actually get right up. I have photos of Evelyn! After recovering all the pictures I'd taken (thank freaking goodness, they all had the same problem, so it didn't take long after the first one), I sent them off to a photo-printing website, where I splurged an extra couple of bucks to get them rush-processed and mailed to me within a few days. I cannot wait to see them. I turn the power on my computer back on, and take a quick shower while giving my computer the five minutes or so it needs to boot up and sort itself out properly. (I'm not exactly the world's best at keeping my startup software uncluttered – there's probably a dozen things that try and open all at once when I first turn the poor thing on.) Shower accomplished, I wrap a towel around myself, and bring a comb with me back to the computer – I'll deal with my hair while taking another look through the photos.
     I reach the library about an hour later, and greet Mary cheerfully.
     “Well! You're quite the chipper thing, for being up so early,” she comments with a wink.
     I grin as I set the books I'm returning on the counter, and shrug self-deprecatingly. “College habits die hard.”
     “Were the books to your liking?”
     “Absolutely! I have such a better idea of how the world would have looked back then, both in the town, and just in the way people interacted and things to. Oh! Wait, don't take this one back yet,” I laugh as I snatch back the little red one. “I want to make a copy of that list of flowers and their meanings. I just love that idea, I'd like to keep the list handy while I'm working on this set of drawings.”
     “Of course! And you'll have to bring some of the drawings by when you're done – you told me some of them are of the Mason's gardens, didn't you?”
     I smile, nodding. “I've probably taken a few liberties here and there, but generally, yeah. I'd like to take a look at the microfilms today, actually, when you have a minute, to look at any old newspaper articles on the fire.”
     She raises an eyebrow at me. “You want to look at microfilm? Artists really are quite mad, aren't they.”
     “Obviously, I'd rather not go totally blind in the pursuit of knowledge, but, if that's what it takes, what choice do I have?”
     She laughs, and points to her own eyes. “Contacts, of course. I was forced into glasses at age six, I'd already burned them out by reading under the blankets when I was supposed to go to bed at night. But here, I'll get you set up with the 'films and 'fiches, and run those copies for you while you're doing permanent nerve damage.”

     Oh, you behemoth old beige machines! No wonder you've never been replaced by digital scans of all your unruly reels of film, who would want to sit down and go through all of it?! I have to admit, I'm amazed at how thoroughly indexed all of the information is. Mary made a beeline for one of dozens of identical binders, pulled it down, and flipped quickly to one index entry after another, jotting notes on a scrap sheet of paper, then grabbing another binder and doing the same. Within five minutes, I have a somewhat precarious stack of microfilm reels on a table beside me, and a half-sheet of paper with Mary's amazingly precise handwritten notes of topics, with their paper date and page, as well as reel number, marked beside them.
     The monitors of the readers are as miserable as I remembered. I fiddle with the contrast and brightness awhile, but to little avail. It's still going to be amber-colored text on a black background. Sighing, I spin the little crank around and around, until I find the location of the first article on Mary's list. I lean my elbows on the desk, set my chin in my hands, and start to read.

     It's a very good thing it's such a pain to get from one article to another, to change out one reel for another. It forces me to peel my eyeballs away from the images of hundred year-old pages, and look around me again, resting my eyes. (I'm also eternally grateful to whoever's genius idea it was to put printed how-to instructions directly on the damn machine! Step 1, mount reel, step 2, feed film under rollers...) It's so easy to get lost in the old newspapers – not only does my heart skip a beat at even the slightest mention of the Masons, but there are a thousand odd and interesting other things surrounding those mentions. The ads are especially fascinating. Ads for corsets and things, of course, and horror film style contraptions of metal and bone and things to help a woman achieve the “perfect figure”, which is terrifying in and of itself. How did they not snap like twigs at those tiny waists?! Thank goodness Evelyn seems to be a naturally slim little thing, and has been too young for such absurdities most of the times that I've seen her. I shudder to think what the slightly-chubby fourteen year-old me would have been subjected to.
     While the first sight of an ad for a “miracle elixir” made me shudder, and have to stop and look away for a few minutes, remembering the rancid odor of Calvin's “med-cin”... there are so many such ads that I eventually build up a tolerance to them, and start to giggle again at the complete absurdity of their claims. I'd love to know how the “Arabian Catarrh Remedy” manages to cure “all diseases of the THROAT, CHEST and LUNGS, which lead up to the dreaded and fatal CONSUMPTION.” What's even better, is the accompanying image of a guy with an impressive mustache. He's sitting at a table, leaning over a giant bowl, holding up a bottle that has a tube that he's stuck up one nostril, while liquid is pouring out of his other nostril into the bowl. ...it occurs to me, it looks just like a saline treatment for clogged sinuses. I am so much more glad now that I've never tried it.
     Some things never seem to change though – there are a million ads for beauty products (Bailey's Rubber Complexion Brush: “A lady sixty years old has succeeded in removing the wrinkles from her neck”), and even more “send us a dollar and you'll get something awesome!” ads. (Buggy equals car. Parlor organ, surround sound system. Overstuffed couch... well, I guess that one's the same.)
     But between the ads and occasional distractions, I do find fragments of the Masons. Most of these are mentions of Cora, in one social function or another – these, I jot down notes on. A few of these articles mention the house or gardens as being the location of the functions or parties, but there's little description beyond the equivalent of “it was really freaking pretty”. A notice when the family moved in, a notice of Avery's birth, Evelyn's, and then Calvin's – though each of these is briefer than the previous one. (I suppose even back then, it was the first child that all the fuss was made over.) But nothing refers to Meres and Celestine. Not surprising, I suppose, it doesn't look like there was a local paper until a few decades after they probably built the place. But still, I'd hoped for some little thing...
     Several hours have passed by the time I reach the later newspapers, approaching the date of the fire. Mary has been by several times, checking up on me, and setting the flower list copies beside me on the table. She also – thankfully - gave me a refresher on how to make a print of what's on the screen, though I've held my dimes and nickels in reserve for the fire stories.
     Here we are. June 12, 1902. It's a small article, on the second page of the paper – I suppose, being so far outside of town, it seems it wasn't quite front-page news when there was a fresh political scandal.
     “FIRE DESTROYS MASON HOME. The residence of A. E. Mason and family, near the intersection of Central and Walnut Avenues, was destroyed by fire early this morning. Mrs. Cora Mason and her three children escaped, safe though shaken, and brought the news with them into town near daybreak. Mr. A. Mason is presumed dead, as he was last seen by the family to be in the third-floor library, shortly before the roof of that area collapsed. The house being at such remove from all others in the neighborhood, the blaze was not noticed until the family turned in the alarm, at which juncture there was little our brave fire-fighters could do to preserve the much-admired home. It can only be hoped that the gardens, a local landmark, were not much damaged. The cause of the fire remains entirely unknown. The servants had been dismissed without explanation the evening before by Mr. Mason. The family had no knowledge of anything amiss until the blaze had grown quite large, at which time they could hope to escape with only their lives. Mrs. Mason and her children are to return shortly to her family in New York.”
     I sit back, and take a slow breath, letting the words sink in. It's not really any more information than I'd gotten from the historical society members – though there are the tantalizing initials of the mysterious Mr. Mason! A. E.? Arthur Edward, Andrew Edgar, Alan Eric... But those all sound like the name of sane, kinder men, than Mr. Mason was. Anyway, if his brother had such an odd name, I'm sure he would as well.
     Somehow, it feels almost strange, to see the names in print, almost as strange as it will be to be able to put a photo of Evelyn into an album, alongside my own family members! The first few visions I had, I treated as dreams more than anything, not really believing they were any kind of real, just something I imagined somehow. But now... now they're real. Evelyn's kind friendship, Calvin's innocent and unfair death, Rollie the dog (who I'm sure now is the one I saw across the bridge, that was so afraid of something), Cora's aloofness, Mr. Mason's anger, Meres and Celestine's idyllic love... all real, all happened, in the places I have stood, in the times I have visited.
     I zoom in as best I can around the article, getting it as large as I can without cutting any off. I dig fifteen cents out of the bottom of my purse, and drop it into the slot on the microfilm machine, hitting the button to print the article. To be able to hold their printed names in my hands... I don't know if I feel like they're becoming more real, or my own life is becoming less real.
     “Found something good, I see!”
     I jump half a freaking mile.
     “Oh! Again, I'm so sorry. Librarian-feet. It's an inevitable side-effect of the profession. Absolutely vital when it comes to little boys writing snide comments in the margins of encyclopedia, but a dreadful burden when trying to be friendly.”
     I smile weakly, looking up at Mary. “Not your fault. I was so engrossed in my own thoughts, I wouldn't have heard a rhinoceros charging at me.”
     She glances at the screen. “Ah – made your way up to the fire itself, I see.”
     I nod, frowning a little. “I wish there was more information – I see you have a few other articles marked down for me to check out though, maybe they'll have some different details.”
     Her lips press together a bit. “Unfortunately, this one was the local paper at the time – I suspect it's going to have the most detail of any of them. Still, it's possible since the other articles would have been written later, new information would have come out.”
     “True...”
     She hears the disappointment in my voice, and pats my shoulder reassuringly. “With a story this good, there's always more information somewhere. For all we know, one of the children published an autobiography a few years later!”
     At this, I have to grin. I can almost see the impetuous Evelyn pounding out a tell-all book of every family scandal she could think of, or imagine up. I'm about to say as much – then stop myself. While I feel like Mary Sueter would be one of the handful of people in my world who'd believe a story like this... I'm not sure, and it still sounds crazy when I think about how I could possibly explain it to anyone.
     Mary is about to say something more, when someone calls her from the entryway of the small microfilm room. I can see her stiffen, and she forces a terrifying grimace of false politeness onto her face.
     “Mr. Sarasota. 'Ralphie', as he insists I ought to call him. He also insists I should let him take me out to dinner. Never in a thousand years...”
     I bite back a giggle, and try to glance casually over to take a look at the person who has actually instilled some level of fear in the intrepid Mary. But this is unnecessary, because he's already halfway across the room, extending his arms to embrace her. He's a very round little man, probably in his 60s, with a bright beaming scarlet face. He looks halfway between Santa Claus and a red rubber kickball. “Mary! Whatever are you doing hiding away back here. I've come for my weekly visit, and I'd love for you to tell me about all the newest titles on your admirably organized shelves.”
     Mary's tight smile does not move, and her voice is flawlessly polite, as she oh-so-carefully picks up the microfilm reels I've finished with – making it completely impossible for him to deliver the threatened hug. “Oh, Mr. Sarasota, has it been a week already? I was just helping this young lady with the microfilm machines, they can be such tricky things. Kimber, do call me if you have any trouble with it?” Her eyes are melodramatically pleading as she says this, looking toward me.
     I do my best to remain deadpan, and assure her that I will.
     “Ah! Is there nothing our Mary can't manage? Now, please, won't you suggest a few books to me? Your taste is always impeccable.”
     “I'll be with you in just a moment, Mr. Sarasota---”
     “Ralphie, please!”
     “...of course. Just let me file these reels back in place, and I'll join you in the new arrival section.”
     “So long as that's a promise, I shall be content.” He beams, and nods a slight bow to me, then leaves the room. I half expect him to hunker down and roll, rather than walk. Mary gives me an absolutely stricken look, and I let loose silent giggles. She rolls her eyes, but they're sparkling, and I know she enjoys this game of his effusive flattery pitted against her cool librarian reserve.
     “Do, call me if you need a thing. A. Thing.”
     “I will. Promise. If I don't see you in half an hour, I'll make something up.”
     “Twenty minutes, and it's a deal.”