Chapter Seventeen Saylor
Chapter Seventeen
Saylor
I’m starting to think Blue’s definition of party and mine are fundamentally incompatible. What I pictured: cocktails, small talk, maybe some light interrogation about my
intentions toward Grimlock’s most eligible bachelor-slash-serial-killer.
What I’m getting: a receiving line that stretches across the entire main hall, with every single resident of Grimlock queued
up like I’m royalty holding court.
“Is this normal?” I whisper to Blue as we pause at the bottom of the staircase.
“Define normal.”
“People lining up to meet your houseguest like she’s the Queen of England?”
Blue’s smile is almost apologetic. “You’re the first woman I’ve brought to a party in . . . well, ever. They’re curious.”
Before I can ask what that means for my social survival, the first wave hits.
“Saylor!” A woman with silver hair piled into a classic updo glides toward us, her emerald dress rustling like autumn leaves.
“I’m Dame Gothel. Welcome to Grimlock, darling. So lovely to finally meet you.”
Dame Gothel. Even her name sounds like it belongs in a fairy tale. She looks like she stepped off the pages of Vogue at seventy with an elegance that makes me immediately curious about her story.
“Of course,” I manage, accepting her gloved hand. “Thank you for coming.”
“Darling, I wouldn’t miss it.” Her eyes sparkle with something that might be mischief. “Blue throws such interesting parties.
Always full of surprises.”
Before I can ask what she means by that, another voice cuts through the crowd.
“Miss Mitchell!” A distinguished older man wearing wire-rimmed glasses appears at my elbow, his kind eyes warm with genuine concern. “I’m Dr. Finch. How are you settling into Grimlock?”
“It’s been . . . eye-opening,” I say carefully.
“I’m sure it has.” His smile conveys that he knows exactly how revealing it’s been. “Blue’s given you the full tour, I take
it?”
“The highlights, anyway.”
“Ah, well, there’s always more to discover.” Dr. Finch glances around the crowd. “Grimlock has layers. Like an onion, but
with more secrets and less tears.”
A man with dirt under his fingernails and tattoos covering his forearms steps forward—the gravedigger from the cemetery we
passed earlier, although he’s cleaned up remarkably well for the evening. His black suit fits him perfectly, and his dark
hair is slicked back in a way that gives him an old-world elegance—like a Victorian gentleman who just happens to spend his
days six feet underground. The whole room has this vibe, actually. Pocket watches and perfect posture, like everyone walked
out of a period drama but forgot to mention it.
“Jasper Crane,” he says, offering a calloused hand. “Sorry for your loss. Your father was an honest man. Fair in his dealings.”
“Dealings?”
“He helped my sister when she needed it. Got her somewhere safe.” Jasper grows more serious. “Family don’t forget debts like
that.”
I want to ask what kind of help Dad provided, but a younger woman bounces over with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever who’s
just discovered tennis balls.
“Saylor! Finally!” She’s maybe twenty-five with wild curls barely contained by a hot-pink hair tie and a smile that could
power the entire electrical grid. “I’m Luna Bright. I run the flower shop, and oh my god, your dress is absolutely stunning.
That color is perfect with your skin tone, and the way it moves—”
“Luna,” Blue interrupts gently. “Let her breathe.” He gets pulled away with another guest but makes quick eye contact first
and I nod that I’ll be fine.
Luna laughs, completely undeterred. “Sorry, I get excited. It’s just so nice to have new people in town, especially someone with such exquisite taste in fashion. And speaking of taste”—she leans in conspiratorially—“the whole town’s been buzzing about when you two are getting married.”
I nearly choke on the champagne someone just handed me. “Married?”
“Well, yes! Blue’s never brought a woman to one of his parties before. Not as his guest, anyway.” Luna’s eyes sparkle with
gossip-hungry delight. “Everyone’s taking bets on whether it’ll be a spring or summer wedding.”
“There’s not going to be a wedding,” I say quickly, very aware that our conversation is drawing interested glances from nearby
guests. “Blue was just a friend of my father’s. He’s helping me get back on my feet after”—I struggle for words that explain
kidnapping and murder without actually saying kidnapping and murder—“after everything that happened.”
Luna’s expression changes, her enthusiasm dimming to something more understanding. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you’d
been through something difficult.”
I’m about to respond when a distinguished man with salt-and-pepper hair and a perfectly groomed goatee joins our growing circle.
“Arthur Bearskin,” he introduces himself with a refined accent indicative of private schools and old money. “I own the bookshop
downtown. Your father mentioned you were a singer?”
“Jazz, mostly. Swing. Some rockabilly.” I’m grateful for the change of subject. “Although I’m between venues at the moment.”
“We’ll have to remedy that,” Arthur says with genuine enthusiasm. “Grimlock appreciates good music. Perhaps we could arrange
something at the Haunted Windchimes? It’s our local music venue—intimate space, perfect acoustics, and a crowd that actually
listens to the music rather than just talking over it.”
“That would be wonderful.”
More introductions follow in a blur of names and faces.
Elliott appears again with his wild gray hair and striped blue suit, this time carrying a plate of pastries and still talking like he’s narrating a dream.
Twin sisters, who own competing fabric shops and finish each other’s sentences with the synchronized precision of people who’ve been doing it for seventy years, say hello.
Everyone wants to talk about Dad. Tales from his visits to Grimlock, whether I inherited his sense of humor or his stubborn
streak. They share stories I’ve never heard—Peter teaching Jasper’s younger brother to whittle, Peter helping Dame Gothel’s
daughter through a difficult divorce, Peter playing poker with the old men who gather at the barbershop every Monday when
he was in town.
It’s like discovering my father lived an entire second life without me knowing.
“He talked about you constantly,” says a woman with intricate braids and paint-stained fingers who introduced herself as Maya,
the town’s muralist. “Always so proud. ‘My Saylor’s got a voice that could make angels weep,’ he’d say.”
Something warm and painful blooms in my chest, and I have to blink back sudden tears. “He said that?”
“Every time he visited. Which was more often in the months before he died.” Maya appears more thoughtful. “He seemed worried
about something, but whenever anyone asked, he’d just say he was making sure all his affairs were in order.”
Affairs. Like he knew something was coming.
I continue to be approached by what quite possibly could be every resident of Grimlock, each one eager to welcome me personally.
The whole evening is like being embraced by a community I didn’t know existed—people who cared about Dad and who seem determined
to care about me by extension. It’s overwhelming and comforting at the same time, like being wrapped in a blanket I didn’t
know I needed.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” The words carry across the crowd, drawing everyone’s attention. Blue’s standing near the entrance
to another room, looking every inch the perfect host. “If you’d join me in the ballroom, dinner is served.”
The crowd begins moving toward Blue, conversations shifting to anticipation about the meal. I let myself be carried along
with the flow, grateful for the chance to process everything I’ve just learned about Dad’s secret life in Grimlock.
Blue catches my eye across the moving crowd and nods toward the ballroom doors. There’s something in his eyes I can’t quite read—anticipation, maybe, or nervousness. Like he’s been waiting for this moment all night. Like there’s something specific he needs me to see.
As we approach the ballroom entrance, I can hear the haunting strains of dark folk music drifting from behind the closed double
doors. A bass line so deep it vibrates through the floor, violin melody that sounds like it’s mourning something beautiful,
and the distinctive twang of a banjo weaving through it all. It’s southern gothic at its finest, the type of music that belongs
on my “murderfolk” playlist. How could Blue possibly know about my secret obsession with songs about love and death and all
the beautiful violence in between?
Blue opens the doors with a flourish, and I step into my aesthetic heaven.
If the main hall was gothic elegance, the ballroom is pure dark cottagecore fantasy. The room has been transformed into an
enchanted forest clearing, complete with strings of warm Edison bulbs woven between artificial branches that span the ceiling
like a canopy. Moss covers every available surface—real moss, judging by the earthy scent that fills the air. Wildflowers
in deep purples and ocean blues spill from rustic wooden planters placed throughout the room, and vintage mason jars filled
with flickering candles cast dancing shadows across walls draped in flowing cream fabric.
The buffet setup is nothing short of magical. Long wooden tables that look like they were hewn from time-worn trees display
an abundance that would make a medieval feast jealous. Roasted meats carved and arranged on slate platters, artisanal cheeses
paired with honeycomb still dripping golden nectar, crusty bread loaves that smell like they came straight from a fairy tale
oven. Glass cloches protect delicate pastries that look too beautiful to eat, and copper serving pieces catch the candlelight
like captured sunset.
But it’s the attention to detail that takes my breath away. Vintage books used as serving platforms, antique teacups repurposed
as individual dessert vessels, fresh herbs scattered artfully around each dish like nature decided to help with the presentation.