14. Chapter 14
Simon
Turning toward the frigid coast, Simon eases his shoulders to stretch the ache in his chest. He slows now that he’s out of sight and ponders what’s happened. Rusted gears are creaking and groaning to life deep within his soul.
It’s rather uncomfortable.
And invigorating.
She has no idea who she’s welcomed in, yet she’s forced his life into motion again, igniting a dampened flame.
He only allows himself a single backward glance toward the flying figure, yet that glance is enough.
The image of her—long windblown hair, straight form, and cheeks rosy with fervor—imprints itself on his memory.
She’s an impossibility. In Dunn House, where the walls glisten with abundance, she glows. His mother had been this way too, luminous under spotlights. Yet as fortunes shifted, his mother had been prone to bouts of melancholy and sudden anger.
He had invited Rosalyn to the docks this morning expecting to see the same fragility when he removed her from comforts, but instead she’d descended into the depths of privation… and shone even more magnificently.
He can see it yet—Rosalyn, wrapping herself, her warmth and spirit, around a frail mother and her child, leaning that soot-covered girl against her lovely clothing.
Deftly picking up the threads of his story and spinning it with him.
Even when he leaves—and he soon will—he will carry these sweet images with him into a bitter world.
He picks up his pace in the bracing wind as he rounds the footpath along the cliff face, hurrying up the steps into the cottage. Warmth floods his extremities the moment he’s inside, drive and hope thrumming through his being, and in a rush he realizes… he doesn’t wish to leave.
How acute is his sense of purpose now—people to serve, and a reason to move and be and live.
Stiff gears grinding into use once again.
And his most pressing task—finding Silas Snow. He should have realized immediately they are related. Silas radiates a light that draws men like plants leaning toward sunshine.
His daughter is perhaps even more radiant.
To see the two of them together again… he catches his breath at the thought.
Yet it won’t be as simple as locating a needle in a haystack.
Silas Snow is not merely lost, Simon is convinced.
He pictures the men who came to speak with Silas beneath the bridge, surrounding him.
It appeared to be an interrogation, but what could a man like Silas Snow possibly have done?
Mining accidents occurred all the time. One did not blame the owner for the remainder of his life—especially not his family.
Simon half expected to encounter at least one of the men at Dunn House, which would offer the perfect lead.
Yet Simon’s grief-tangled brain hadn’t registered specific faces then.
Just great coats and top hats over a blur of features.
Regret compounded his suffering when he realized the man had vanished—he should have noticed more. Stepped in.
Now he will set it right.
His mind buzzes with possibilities, hopeful schemes as he pokes about the cottage. In the meantime, he will restore this cottage, and set it to rights—for her.
Everyone deserves a home.
Especially one who has reminded him of his.
He brushes cobwebs off crumbling walls and shoves crates into the center of the room, then dashes outside to collect more wood.
His supply is running low on this narrow ledge, so he climbs through the brambling overgrowth behind the house until he’s knee-deep in it, praying he won’t encounter thorns.
Then, just behind the crumbling tower, staring at a very odd wooden door buried in the brambles, a knowing sensation tickles his chest.
He stares at it for a moment, deciding what to do.
He starts to leave, pulling his trousers free of the brambles, but curiosity draws him back.
Soon he’s hacking at the vines that curtain the tower, tossing sticks and branches out of the way.
He puts all his strength into pulling, pulling…
until they suddenly snap and he stumbles backward into brush.
And he’s staring up at a doorframe.
Ancient, forgotten, flush with the wall as if meant to remain unnoticed. He puts his shoulder into it over and over until the heavy wood door groans open into dank shadows.
Only then does he realize he has intruded upon someone else’s property, for the cottage isn’t his, nor is its ruined tower.
But this only niggles at him until he returns with a torch, extending it into the shadows and casting his light on a dank, secret room that has been perfectly sealed for countless years.
Large, unmoving shapes fill the space. The air is dry and still, scented with aged oak and dust thick enough to blanket a town.
Rolling up his sleeves, Simon Balfour turns his hand to heavy work, stretching long-unused muscles and feeling new warmth in his extremities.
He hasn’t felt this alive since his mother’s murder.