Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Avalon
I've started naming the rooms.
Not with numbers. Those feel cold, impersonal, and not at all like anything I was going for. Instead, I'm going with flowers, moods, colors. Whatever strikes my fancy, really.
There's The Rose Room. It has the most beautiful view of the gardens, and the faintest smell of blooming rosebuds that tickle your senses when you walk in.
It has a large canopy-style bed with just the right amount of romance that would make this the perfect bedroom for a honeymooning couple, or someone on a wedding anniversary.
The Wisteria Suite. It's exactly what the name promises—a small suite in the back corner of the manor, overlooking a large tree of its namesake.
The walls are covered in a delicate purple color that is probably a bit much for everyday living, but just flashy enough for some out-of-towners to settle in for a long weekend.
There are a few more, some slightly more eclectically named than others, but no matter the name, location or purpose of the room, the mere act of naming them makes the manor feel less like the forgotten relic it's become, and more like the famed castles in storybooks.
Some of the rooms haven't seen daylight in decades, and although the cleaning crew have kept up with most of the house, there were sections that had been closed off. There's a heavy stillness to them when I first open the doors, like they're exhaling after holding their breath for too long.
Uncle Ichabod's crew helps me clean everything out, and get rid of the dust covers so I can decide which rooms, and which areas in the house will be opened to the public. The more we open up and air out, the more I realize there is no way in hell I'll be able to manage this by myself.
Even with the help of some dependable cleaners and groundskeepers.
Maybe I could convince someone to stay on as a permanent maid? Or perhaps something with a fancier title... like housekeeper?
I shake off such fanciful thoughts—even if Uncle Ichabod's money would help me pay for something like that, it's important that this new venture of mine stand on its own merit. If I really want to make a go of it, I should do it the right way.
Which means... icky boring business plans, and marketing strategies...
In this, I don't mind paying extra for some help.
The morning dawns, as it always does, with the sun slowly seeping in through the window facing my bed.
I have loads to do today, most important of which being my meeting with Rocco, the local contractor. He comes highly recommended by the town's historical society, which is important when I need to do updates on a house that is one of the oldest buildings in town.
He shows up right on time, looking rather efficient with a clipboard in hand, and smile lines around his eyes.
"I have to tell you ma'am. I'm very excited to be talking business with you. I've wanted to do some work on this house forever," he says as I lead him through the halls. "And I have to say, it's something else. It feels like I've stepped into a painting, or back in time."
I beam at him. "It's definitely got some character to it."
He whistles low as we climb to the third floor. "And a lot of square footage to cover."
"I'm thinking of updating the bathrooms in a few of the guest rooms. They haven't been touched in what looks to be at least thirty years."
He chuckles as I show him one of the bathrooms. "Oh boy!" He snorts. "You certainly weren't kidding."
We spend the next hour poking through the different rooms I need him to look at before I can even think about opening up the house. He measures, mumbles, then scribbles on his clipboard as we move along.
By the time we make it back to the foyer, he sends me a big smile.
"I'll be sure to send you a quote within the next day or two.
" He pushes his hair away from his face in a nervous gesture.
"Now, I have to warn you, ma'am, it ain't gonna be cheap.
There's a lot of updating that needs doing, and we'll probably need to look at the plumbing and wiring in those areas too. "
Smiling in response, I wave away his concerns. "You're fine, Rocco. I figured as much. Just as long as I can get it done, so we can move on to the next step. I look forward to hearing from you soon."
I wave him off before heading back to my sanctuary.
I've really grown fond of the library. Some nights even falling asleep in what I now considered my settee curled up with Sparrow, purring away at my feet.
As I step into the warm room, with the constantly lit fire—no matter the time of day, it always seems to be fed and crackling away—and pause immediately.
There's a plate. A small ceramic plate, painted with delicate flowers, resting on the table beside my favorite chair.
Not just a plate, but a plate with a cookie. A perfect, buttery shortbread.
I blink.
My heart beats in my throat as I take a cautious step forward. I didn't bring it in here. And as I knew the contractor was coming today, I changed the usual cleaning schedule, so I know it wasn't one of the cleaning staff.
I look around the room slowly. Nothing stirs. Sparrow yawns from his perch near the fireplace and blinks at me with his one eye, like this is all perfectly normal.
Slowly, I pick up the plate. The cookie crumbles just right when I bite into it, and melts in my mouth, just like I knew it would.
It's perfect.
Too perfect.
My heart flutters again.
I should be scared. Yet, I'm not. I'm elated.
"Thank you," I whisper to the empty room. "This is lovely."
As usual, when I speak to the house, there's no response, but this time, there's something. Something... more.
The gifts keep coming.
It's as if a seal has been broken and now that it has, someone or something has taken it upon themselves to spoil me silly. It's almost like having a real-life Daddy, here with me.
Almost.
The first gift after the cookie is a delicate silver hairbrush left on my dresser. The bristles are soft, the handle worn smooth by time.
There's an A carved into the underside in an old looping script.
Holding it against my chest for a moment, I cherish the thoughtful gesture. "This is brilliant, thank you," I whisper in the quiet room. As it's time for bed, I immediately undo the braid I had my hair in for the day and start pulling the brush through it.
Later that week, I open the nursery door to find a small, old-fashioned storybook resting on the rocking chair.
The title, The Stone Guardian's Secret reminds me of the two sentries on top of the house, and the fact that I still haven't found a way up to the roof and turrets. I've been dying to get my hands on them, but no matter how many passageways I go down, I've been unable to find the way up.
With hushed reverence, I pick up the storybook—that definitely wasn't there last night—and slowly flick through the pages. The illustrations are absolutely stunning, and I can't wait to tuck myself into bed with it tonight.
"Thank you," I tell my mysterious benefactor. "I love it. Now, if only you can show me the way to the roof, so I can enjoy the book next to my stone guardians."
"Your wish, little human, is my command."
Okay, so I passed out.
Who wouldn't when the silent house finally responds?