Parts 29-30

     I linger a moment in the gate, closing my eyes to try and see the house as it would have been seen from here, before the fire claimed it. Did Avery try climbing that tree in the front yard when he was little? Or did he throw its apples at his pesky little sister? Did Evelyn try to hide behind it, when she thought she was in trouble? Or did she look from the front windows of the house at the gate, longingly, wishing she lived somewhere else, or someone would come by so her father would have to be “respekable.” Frowning, I open my eyes, and sigh heavily at the empty grounds. Maybe it's for the best, that the place burned down, clearing away the bad karma that had built up inside of it, letting the family go free.
     “Run fast for your mother, run for your father, run for your children, for your sisters and brothers. Leave all your love and your longing behind, you can't carry it with you if you want to survive...” I smile wryly, at the unexpected aptness of the Florence and the Machine song blasting through my headphones.
     I step through the slightly-open gateway, and walk across the front yard, following along where I think the walkway up to the door would have been. Looking down, I can see a few small patches where the gravel has sunk into the ground but is still just a bit visible. I walk up to the front door – and there's a bit of the foundation left on one side, though some particularly enthusiastic daylilies have laid claim to the space on both sides of the low bits of brick and stone, regardless of what was once indoors and once outdoors.
     I walk through the front entryway, seeing in my mind again the gorgeous paintings hung on warm golden walls. Then I pause, and look around me with a deep sigh. I have no idea what rooms are off of this one. I know the rooms of the tower, and about where Calvin's room was, the entryway, and that's it. I know what the music room looked like, though not where it was. I can't even imagine how gorgeous the master bedroom would have been, or the parlor, or... There must have been so many rooms in this place. It's not exactly huge by mansion standards, but being three stories, that's got to be far more rooms than in the house I grew up in. And with as beautiful as the few rooms I've seen were...
     Sighing, I stroll slowly over the remains of the foundation, trying to find some clue, catch some little glimpse of the house. I keep hoping my vision will blur and when it clears I'll be able to see the house in all of its splendor, not just its aged remains. But the visions don't come on command – if anything, they seem more likely to turn up when I've stopped thinking about them for a moment.
     Or maybe... maybe the night of the fire was the end of it.
     But no, that can't be it. None of the visions have been in chronological order, at least not consistently. There's no reason the fire would be the last thing I see of the Masons. Not that it made the goodbye to Evelyn any easier, I know it was still likely to have been the last time she saw me. As far as I know, the time-jumps are all linked to this place. But why?
     I'm at the back corner of the house now, near Calvin's room. I find the remains of his fireplace, and sit down for a moment with a heavy sigh, looking dejectedly at the silent ruins. Why do I see them at all? If I were in some book or movie, there would be something the dead spirits needed me to do, in order for them to be at rest. But none of them were buried here – and none have asked anything of me, apart from Cal needing some water and Evelyn wanting some company when facing her father. And those aren't exactly restless-ghost material. Nor did I stop seeing the visions after that. What am I supposed to accomplish?
     I turn my gaze toward the little bunch of forget-me-nots that I transplanted over here for Cal, after... after I met him. They're looking a little limp, so I dig my water bottle out of my bag and dampen the ground around them a bit. I adjust the little brick wall I'd built up near them, moving a few bricks to better block the sun at this time of day. If anyone's spirit were restless, Calvin's would have the most right to be. But he was so calm and peaceful when he died, with his sister there beside him. He only seemed sad to be leaving her for a time.
     Avery and Evelyn and Cora all moved away, and continued their lives elsewhere. So too, I imagine, did the unknown baby Cora had with her. There's still some mystery around that child – though I'm not sure how I'll ever find out the story there. Evelyn didn't know, before she left the house. And Cora seemed so circumspect about the whole thing, I don't think she'd tell stranger-me about it, when she hesitated with her own daughter.
     Mr. Mason... he's still an unknown. Avery thought he'd seen him in the library during the fire, but Evelyn was almost certain she'd seen him run off into the woods. I guess I know from experience that a person could fall from the height of the library down to the ground without too much damage (though I'm still getting twinges when I sit on hard surfaces). Clearly, he wasn't an overly affectionate family man, but still, to just run off and leave your family like that? And leave all your land and possessions and things, too – though I guess he could have had money hidden away somewhere, or even bank accounts his family didn't know about. It would have been easy enough to have done back then. I guess it's not too implausible to think he just ran away from his own family, leaving them to assume he died in the flames. He was such a cold and distant man, they could easily have invented any story they liked about his reasons for him to have committed suicide, or even an accidental death. Too much to drink and slept too heavily to notice how much smoke he'd breathed in. Business trouble, a temper flare-up over some recent conflict, a deep depression he was unable to bring himself to allow anyone to help with.
     Or... maybe it was more about freeing his family than freeing himself. Maybe he knew that without him around, his wife and children would have better hopes for a happier life. Cora was obviously competent enough to take care of them all, if she could manage running all those groups outside of home, as well as keep the household and her children in order. And the children I don't think dared even smile when Mr. Mason was in the room.
     Meres and Celestine... they're still a complete mystery, and I don't see any hope for them ever being otherwise. I feel as though they just flitted off one day on a whim, leaving one lover's hideaway for another one in some secluded spot. The town was just getting settled and becoming a town when the Mason family moved in, maybe Meres and Celestine just wanted to clear out before running the risk of neighbors poking their heads into the little endless honeymoon they were living.
     I have such an idealized picture of them, it's ridiculous. I don't care how in love two people are, you can't just cut yourself off from the entire world for your whole life like that. You're going to fight, you're going to want to talk to someone else once in awhile. They couldn't have lived in total seclusion, anyway – they had to have gotten food from somewhere, for one thing.
     I wonder, is that a way I could find out more about them? See if there are any records left by shopkeepers or something from that time period? I don't know if grocers would have kept really detailed receipts or anything. Thinking back to the Little House books I read as a kid, it seems like the shopkeepers would keep record of purchases, to have the tabs paid off later on when the harvest came in or whatever. But when things were bought outright, would they still have done so? Even now, in the small family-owned shops in town, there are a few I'm certain don't keep an exact inventory count – my receipts sometimes read “Merchandise $1.25 Merchandise $3.50 Merchandise $2.00”, followed only by tax and total. And that's not even counting the smaller shops, that deal only in cash for things they've produced themselves, handmade goods or produce or whatever.
     Still, it's a better idea than I've had so far on the couple. They're not likely to have been in a newspaper – I'm not even sure there was a local one when they lived here, and there was no mention of them in any of the articles Mary found for me. (And if she can't find it, there's not a chance in hell I would on my own!)
     I run my fingers gently through the forget-me-nots. They're such a sweet shade of light blue, just the right color to compliment their unfussy shape. I pull out my camera, and do the best I can at some close-up shots – which don't go very well, since the flowers are so small, and I don't exactly have an upscale lens on this thing. It's also starting to cloud over. Not enough to rain I don't think, but just enough big fat clouds to hide away direct sunlight for ten, fifteen minutes at a time.
     Getting to my feet, I look over at the garden. The fountain looks so forlorn, standing on its own. Oh, there are a few large trees in the space still, but they're scattered. I walk over toward it, remembering the fleeting vision I had of Meres and Celestine, who seemed so happy here. How could all of that goodness have been so quickly subsumed by the sadness of the family? ...maybe not all of it, Evelyn seemed happy enough, when she wasn't in her parents' proximity. And the garden still feels like it was a happy place – it's subdued now, of course, left so long alone and untended, but I still feel like there are joyful memories bound in by the leaves and vines, warming the roots and painting a gloss on every flower petal.
     I walk around the fountain, looking up at its still-beautiful sculpted features. I wish I could get the water running again... but I have no idea how to work anything more complicated than a sprinkler screwed onto the end of a garden hose. Let alone how anything more complicated would have worked a hundred years ago! Probably closer to a hundred and fifty, really, assuming this was built when the house was. Hundred and thirty, or forty...
     I kneel for a minute on one of the fountain's built-in benches, and take a slow sip from my water bottle. I notice a vine creeping toward the basin of the fountain, and, following the green line backwards, see that it managed to work its way across the open space of tiles, stretching from the planted area all the way over to the fountain. That is one determined little plant! But it's not going to find much of help in the basin – if anything, the leaves will get less light in there, and that's not what it wants.
     I lift the far end of the vine up, and walk back across the tile with it, pulling it back with me. “C'mon, little vine – let's find somewhere better for you to live. With my luck, I'll trip over you next time I'm here, and probably uproot you in the process!”
     Approaching the vine's origin, I find myself confronted by a wall of leaves. Leaves which match those on the little vine I'm carrying, only the bit I'm holding has much smaller leaves than the rest of the plant. “What'd you do, crowd your own self out of growing space?” Pushing aside some of the larger leaves, I find that there is, indeed, a trellis underneath them. It's-- oh, it's metal, but it's painted, and the color is still there! It must have been protected from the elements, with this much plant running rampant over it. Surprisingly, it's a deep rich violet, with... I lean closer, pulling aside a few more vines to let some light in. The metal framework looks like an Islamic-style of geometric pattern, of squares and circles and diamonds in a meticulously exacting pattern. Overall it's dark violet, but there's a tiny pattern painted in over that. It's not quite all over, I only see it in some areas, but it looks like dots and flourishes in gold, I can't tell if it forms any kind of larger image or not.
     I stand back up, and loop up the straggler vine in my hands. Then I throw it gently upwards, up and around the larger mass of vines, tucking it in where I'm able to reach. It feels a little like trying to get a garland around a Christmas tree that's way bigger than you are when you haven't got a ladder.
     Then I frown – it wasn't blooming a minute ago, was it? I lean closer in confusion, the leaves seem to have thinned out as I was messing with the little vine, and there are huge flowers scattered among them now. They're four, five, maybe six inches across, and the exact same deep violet as the trellis...
     It also wasn't raining. I throw my eyes up toward the sky, and see that it's very darkly overcast – and raining. And raining harder. Looking quickly around me, trying to decide where to seek out shelter---
     I see the house.
     I'm back! I grin broadly--- and then remember my camera and sketchbook, and check my bag quickly to make sure it's closed correctly and no water's getting in. Everything seems fine, but looking at the darker clouds moving ominously in this direction, the rain is only going to get worse. There's no-one in sight... all I can do is run to the house, right?
     I spot a back door, off to my left, and sprint towards it as the rain begins to pelt down on my head and shoulders and arms and---
     And there's a short little roof over the doorway, held up by slim little pillars. Which would be great, except that the wind has picked up and the rain is now chasing after me at an angle. Should I knock? Should I just go in? I look anxiously around, but still don't see anyone, and I can't hear anyone on the other side of the door. Would they even hear me, it's such a big house! But I can't just barge in, what if---
     The door flies open, and I'm suddenly skidding backwards on my butt on the soaking wet tiles, with a kid flailing on top of me. I shriek, and the kid shrieks, and then rolls off of me and just busts out laughing.
     “Hey! Not funny!”
     “Oh, but it is! I'm sorry, I ought to apologize – I'll be in ever so much trouble. But that was funny!”
     It's a boy, maybe ten years old, in a cream peasant-style shirt with poofy sleeves and lacing at the neck, dark pants that go only to his knees. The shirt is all askew now, of course, falling off one tanned little shoulder. He has a bit of a British accent, which is absolutely adorable in a kid of any time period. His hair is a mess of blond curls, and his eyes---
     His eyes! It's the kid I saw in the creek, the very first vision I had!
     “What's your name? I've seen you before---”
     The boy looks at me, puzzled. “You look familiar too, miss. But if you've been a guest before, you'll have seen me I'm sure. Half the time I'm the one what opens the door and lets people in, and all the rest of the time, I'm running 'round doing whatever I've been told the minute before. My name is Jacob, though Master sometimes calls me Enoch. He told me why once, something about seeing angels, but I've never seen any that I know of.” He breaks off, jumping to his feet and straighting out his clothes. Then he offers me his hand, bowing slightly. “I'm awful sorry about my manners, can I help you up?”
     I grin, taking his hand and scrambling to my feet. He leads me toward the still-open door, though he puts a finger to his lips as he does so. “Cook's taking her afternoon nap, so I just thought I'd slip out for a bit and take a bit of a frolic in the rain.” He closes the door almost silently behind us, and nods toward the wall on the right, where there is, indeed, a middle-aged woman sleeping in a rocker beside a giant behemoth of a cast iron stove. She manages to look frazzled even when unconscious – so I'm careful to stay as quiet as Jacob wishes, so as not to risk waking her up and getting the kid in trouble.
     He leads me out of the kitchen, a short ways down a hallway, and then into a small room off to one side. I can't tell what it's used for, but Jacob pulls open a drawer of a huge wooden armoire, then turns to me with an immense fluffy towel in his outstretched arms.
     “Oh God, thank you!” I pat my face dry, then rub my arms and hair. “That rain is crazy, I was only in it for a few seconds and I was soaked through.”
     He's pulled another towel from the drawer, and is rubbing at his hair, making it a far worse mess than it was to start with. He grins broadly at my remark. “That's my favorite kind! Though I'm afraid it will ruin the picnic the Master and Missus were to take this afternoon. Still, they started out not long ago, I don't think they'll have tried getting out of the carriage yet. Maybe they'll find somewhere drier to take their meal.”
     The Master and Missus... “Do they have any children?”
     He looks puzzled at this, cocking his head to one side. “Them? No, none at all. It is rather odd, and Cook often wonders that a couple so in love as them hasn't had any babies yet. But didn't you know that? I know I've seen you before, you must be a friend of theirs.”
     I smile wryly, shaking my head a bit. “The only time I remember seeing you, it must have been a few years ago – you were playing in the creek, by the fence?”
     His eyes go wide. “Ohhh, that's right! I couldn't quite picture you sitting in the parlor or anything, that must be why. But what were you doing in the garden then, if you aren't here to see them?”
     While I'm sure the kid would love the fantastic tale I could tell him... I don't want to waste the little time I have, and lord only knows if he'd believe me. I want to find out just which Master and Missus this is – and all I can from this chatty little boy.
     “I have met them, once before. But I was walking through the woods, and didn't quite realize where I'd ended up, until I got into the garden. Then the rain started up, and I was just trying to find someplace dry.” Close enough to the truth, anyway, that I can say it all without much awkwardness.
     He shrugs, unconcerned. “Well, so long as you're not a burglar, I suppose it's alright. Master's always so kind to people in trouble, and Missus is even more so. I'm sure they won't mind.”
     My eyes widen, and I can't help but smile broadly. I try to keep my voice calm, though my heart is beating excitedly. “Your master – his first name is Meres, isn't it?”
     The boy nods, and my heart lifts further. “An odd name, isn't it? But he'll never tell anyone what kind of a name it is, what country he's from or anything. He's very mysterious, but always kind, so no-one minds much.”
     “Do they have many visitors, then, way out here?”
     “I wouldn't say quite a lot, no, but there are some now and again. Mostly they're foreigners, friends of the Master.”
     “You're a foreigner yourself, aren't you?”
     “Not really – my parents were, but I was born here in the States. They'd always worked for a family from England though, and I learned to talk among that lot. But you do have a lot of questions – you're not from a newspaper or something, are you?”
     I laugh, shaking my head. “No, I'm not... but I didn't get to ask your Master half the questions I thought of after my visit before. I'm just curious about the people who have such a gorgeous house and garden.”
     He beams proudly at this. “Isn't it, though? This place, I mean, it's really something special. My parents were real proud when Master offered me a position, and they've never even seen this place. I've seen lots of fancy houses, I rode with the carriage driver lots when I was little, but never a place with as many pretty things as this one. There's not an inch of this place that someone didn't make especially-beautiful.”
     I smile warmly, looking around. Even this little room, clearly used for storage and probably visited only by the servants, is very pretty. The pieces of furniture are all intricately carved wood, as so much of the furniture in the house. The walls are painted a warm dark plum, and an ornate trim of bronze runs around the edges of the ceiling. The ceiling! I gasp, and Jacob lets out a happy laugh at my reaction. It's been painted trompe-l'oil, made to look as though there are swathes of fabric draped across a delicate framework, which comes to a point at the center of the room. Silk, organza, other materials I don't know the name of, but a staggering mixture of different sheens and opacities and textures, all in warm burgundies and ambers and wines and purples, with the illusionary metalwork in a warm bronze, the same shade as the trim that runs around the ceiling.
     “Half the rooms in the house are like that, miss. It's like you're in another country sometimes, stepping into a room. They've got some of them decorated so's you'd think you were in the Orient, or Araby, or... all sorts of places.”
     And to have no trace of such art and craftsmanship remain behind... to have such glorious work last only a few decades, before vanishing forever. It makes my heart ache. But I perk up, and pull my camera from my bag.
     Jacob steps over to me, and looks at the camera curiously. “If you don't mind me saying so, miss, you're a rather queer person. I've never seen a woman wearing anything but skirts – and what is that?”
     I chuckle, and put the camera up to my eye – making sure to turn off the flash first, it's dim in here, but the flash would destroy the colors. I take a few snaps of the ceiling, then one of Jacob, who continues to look at me skeptically. He's such a pretty little boy, with those huge green eyes and tousled curls, that any expression looks absolutely cherubic on his face.
     “It's a camera – though it works a bit differently than the kinds you've seen before. I know, it's much too small and much too quick to ever work right. But I know the trick of it, and it'll work just fine for me,” I amend quickly, with a wink at him.
     “Can I try it?”
     I laugh, and offer him the camera. “Why not? Just look through that window there, until you see what you want. Then press this button here – only try not to shake the camera much, it will blur the image when it's this dim.”
     “Oh, I can fix the light, miss!” He doesn't take the camera from me yet, but runs over to one wall, then another, turning knobs on some fixtures on the wall. There's a soft hiss, then a low whoosh, and flickering gaslight floods the curved glass lanterns on the walls. It's not a whole lot of light, compared to what I'm used to, but it does brighten the room a remarkable bit.
     He scampers back over to me, and reaches for the camera, which I hand him. He holds it like it's made of antique china, but seems to steel himself up to try the thing. Lifting it to his eye, he turns to face a wall, then brings it down carefully, then turns again to face the window. He steps closer to it, then lifts the camera up again, clearly scared to move around with it at his eye, in case he trips on something. At last, he takes a deep breath, and presses the button. Then he turns back around, still cradling the camera delicately in his hands.
     “Here – you'd best take it back, I might break something. I haven't broken anything on it, have I?”
     I grin, and take the camera back, twisting the knob on top to let me take a look at the pictures on the memory card. “Not at all – you did just fine. You want to see the picture you took?”
     His eyes nearly fall out of his sweet little face, and I can't help but giggle. “But--- but it's hours, even when Master does the pictures himself, before you can see anything!”
     “Like I said, mine's... a little different. I can't hand you a copy of it, but I can show you how it will look, at least.” I turn the camera around, to show him the small screen. “There! That's the picture you took.”
     He leans in closer, squinting hard. “I rather think it is! Now that is a good trick, much better than that conjurer Cook took me to see last month. He said he could do all sorts of magic, but I could tell he just hid the cards up his sleeve, and I think he already knew the people in the crowd who he told about their dead family members.”
     I grin, nodding. “Oh, I'm sure.” I tuck the camera back in my bag, happy that he took a picture of the garden – I hadn't gotten any with my camera yet, this will be the first.