“There’s nothing sadder than a tragedy. I, too, like to write. But only in my journal. I wouldn’t have the courage to consider writing for publication. You’re very brave, Mr. Poe. I do hope one day I shall have the chance to read your book.”
He stares deeply at me. I did not notice before that his left eyebrow has a slight scar above it. “I hope you shall, too.”
A sudden clattering disrupts us, and we both turn to see Maddy sitting up. She’s knocked over the picnic basket in her sleep, and the noise must have awoken her. She scans the courtyard, alarmed, until she catches sight of me, then hurries to join us. “There you are, miss. I thought you were—”
She’s suddenly cut off by the sound of the kitchen door opening. Jasper and a large, rough-looking man step out from behind it.
“This here’s the courtyard,” Jasper says to the man. “We walk the perimeter at ten o’clock in the evenings.”
I glance over at Maddy. “Who is that?” I whisper.
“Never seen him before.” Her voice is as quiet as mine. “There was talk this morning that the Grandmaster might bring in another person to walk the grounds on account of the most recent murder. But I don’t know him.”
Jasper glances our way and then doffs his hat. “Miss,” he calls out. “Master Allan.” They move closer, and Mr. Poe takes a step forward, placing himself in front of Maddy and me.
When they come to a stop, Jasper gives us a brief bow, but the man beside him does not. His clothes are worn and dirty, obviously not well kept, and his eyes dart back and forth nervously. “This is Brahm,” Jasper says. “He’s been hired to walk the grounds.”
Brahm shifts his weight from foot to foot, seeming only to grow more nervous by the second. He mumbles something that I can’t quite catch.
After a brief moment of silence, Mr. Poe says, “We should return to the house. The air is growing cooler as night approaches. I would not want either of the ladies to catch cold.”
Jasper nods, replacing his hat as we turn away, and Maddy walks by my side. We stop by the bench to pick up our picnic basket. “I don’t like him,” she mutters, casting a glance back at Jasper and Brahm. “Something doesn’t sit right.”
I feel bad for the new night watchman. Perhaps he is merely as unaccustomed to his unfamiliar surroundings as I am. “If Grand-père hired him, then he must be a trustworthy person. Is that not so?”
She only shakes her head, and casts him another grim look.
We return to the kitchen, and just as we’re about to step inside, I realize I’m still wearing Mr. Poe’s coat. I remove it and give it back to him. “Thank you for the lovely walk and the use of your jacket. It was very kind of you.”
“It seems it is my duty to save you from the elements, Miss Lee. First the water, and now the wind.”
I blush at his words. Remembering the taffy in my pocket, I offer it to him along with my hand in good-bye. “For you, Mr. Poe,” I whisper.
“Please, call me Allan.” Bending low, he kisses my hand and takes the taffy. “Until next time.”
I can barely find my voice. No one has ever kissed my hand before. I stare up at him, suddenly glad that I have come to this strange, new place.
“Until next time … Allan.”
Six
I’m distracted with thoughts of Allan during dinner that evening, but Father and Grand-père don’t seem to notice. Father is alarmingly pale and listless. He refuses to eat anything, and his eyes keep closing. Just before the third course, he stands and asks Thomas to help him up the stairs. They stumble several times on their way out of the room.
“Is he going to be all right?” I ask Grand-père, casting an anxious look after them. Father’s illness seems to be taking a heavy toll on him this evening.
“Some brandy and bed rest will do wonders. He’ll be fine in the morning.”
We sit at the table for four more courses, though I don’t eat very much. Dinner in Siam was usually freshly caught fish and jasmine rice. I’m not accustomed to the rich sauces and heavy meats that are served here. I apologize to Maddy for leaving so much behind when she comes to take my plate away each time, but she assures me that it will not go to waste.
When dinner is finished, I bid Grand-père good night and retire to my room. Maddy helps me undress, but I cannot sleep. Wrapping a dressing gown around my shoulders, I pad over to the window to see if anyone is in the courtyard. But clouds fill the sky, casting their shadows on everything below, making it impossible to see anything. My stomach starts to ache, so I decide to go down to the kitchen to see if I can find some biscuits to relieve it.
Retrieving Mother’s battered book from beneath my pillow, I tuck it safely into my pocket. With it next to me, I do not feel so alone. I take the lamp from the bedside table, and then find my way down the long hallyway that leads to the main staircase. The house is quiet. Everyone else must be asleep.
When I finally reach the kitchen, the yeasty smell of dough for tomorrow’s breakfast fills the room. I find a tin of biscuits in the larder, and my stomach stops aching as soon as I’ve eaten one. I put another in my pocket to take with me and go back to the staircase, lifting the lamp high to study the portraits with names engraved at the bottom of each frame that line the stairs. It appears to be a family history—my family history.
Father’s portrait is the most striking. He looks so young and happy. His face smooth and unlined, not yet furrowed by the effects of his illness.
“A fine likeness, I assure you. Although it does not bear much resemblance now.”
A voice comes from behind me and I gasp, almost dropping the lamp.
“I’m sorry, my dear. I did not mean to frighten you.” Grand-père is still dressed for dinner, though his cravat has been loosened and he wears slippers. “I saw your light from my study. I take it you couldn’t sleep, either?”
“I … I was feeling ill and thought some biscuits might settle my stomach.”
“Don’t tell Cook, but goose liver always upsets my digestion as well.” He gives me a kind smile. “Come with me. I have something that might help.”
I follow him into his study. A large desk sits in the middle of the room, with a framed piece of parchment displayed prominently on the wall behind it. As I move closer, I see the words The Unanimous Declaration of the thirteen united States of America written across the top of the paper. On either side of the frame, long plumed pens are hung. Grand-père gestures for me to take a seat on a couch opposite the desk, and I do so.
“Is that something you have written, Grand-père?” I ask, nodding toward the frame.
He casts a glance at the wall. “That? Oh, no, my dear. That is hanging there because it is a piece of our history. Composed by Thomas Jefferson and adopted not far from here at Independence Hall. This document was how our great nation of America was born.”
“And they gave it to you? How wonderful!”
Grand-père chuckles and opens a nearby cabinet. “Alas, it is merely a copy. But I am indeed lucky to own even that.” He returns with a bottle filled with amber liquid and two empty glasses. “Just a nip now,” he says, setting the bottle on the desk. He pours a small amount into a glass and hands it to me. “Here we are.”
My fingers are steady as I accept the drink. The smell of it burns my nose, but I watch as he pours the second glass and sips it slowly. I imitate his gesture and a fiery path traces its way along my throat and down into my stomach, leaving behind a curiously numb sensation.
“Brandy. Good for whatever ails you.” Grand-père lifts his glass high. He drains the rest of it with one swallow. I move to do the same, but he stops me. “Tut, tut, tut. You’ll want to continue at a pace slower than mine. Wouldn’t do to upset your stomach further.”
He pours himself another glass and sits at the desk. I settle into the couch, drawing my feet up beneath me, and continue to drink slowly. The room grows warmer with every sip I take, but the warmth is soothing. As though I’m being cosseted by a soft blanket. I shift agai
n, and the book in my pocket bumps against me. “Do you know it’s the Year of the Dog?” I say.
“Is it?” Grand-père looks surprised. “And how have you come to this conclusion?”
I withdraw Mother’s book from my pocket and open it carefully, trying to find the right page. My finger does not want to mark its place. It keeps moving around. “It’s here.” I glance down, frowning. “No, here.” I’m on the correct page now, and I hold it up briefly for him to see. “This is the Chinese zodiac calendar. Based upon the Shi Jing, or The Book of Songs. It says that every year is assigned an animal, and people born during that year will share the same traits as that animal.”
“Fascinating. Do go on.”
I grasp the book firmly and focus on the chart in front of me. “According to the Chinese zodiac, 1826 is the Year of the Dog. People born in this year are loyal and sincere. If a dog should happen to visit your home, it’s considered good luck.”
“What about the year you were born? What animal do you share characteristics with?”
I have no need to look it up. I know my zodiac year by heart. “My birth date is May fifth, 1810. I was born in the Year of the Horse.”
“I see!” He looks delighted. “Can you do mine?”
I place my empty glass on the floor. “When is your birth date? If you were born before February, then you might be the sign of the year ahead of you.”
“You have to vow that you will not reveal to anyone how old I truly am,” he says with a smile. “The year was 1770. The date … May fifth.”
I turn to the page that has his birth date and read his qualities aloud. “You were born in the Year of the Tiger. You are lively and engaging and incredibly brave. You are a good strategist and tactician. Horses and Dogs make good friends, but beware of Monkeys.”
“And?” He waits with an amused smile upon his face.
I glance down at the page again. May fifth … “We share the same birth date!”
Grand-père nods. “A fine celebration we shall have this year. Two birthdays instead of one.”
Glancing down at the book, I trace the worn spine. “It’s sad that Mother will miss it. She would have been so pleased. This was the last thing she gave me before she passed.”
“It was her book?”
“Yes. She carried it everywhere with her. The missionaries we lived with thought it was foolish to believe in such superstitions, but she always said that the world is a very large place and it would be foolish not to believe in a little bit of everything.”
“If I may ask, how did you end up in Siam?”
“By way of England. We lived there with Mother’s great-aunt Isobel until I was six years old. When Aunt Isobel passed, the house was sold and we had nowhere to go. Mother approached the local parish and begged them for a job, but they had nothing. They told us we could travel to Siam with the missionaries and work for our provisions there.”
“Were it not for her letter, I’m not sure I would have found you.”
“She wrote to you?”
“To your father. She told him she was gravely ill, and she asked if you could live here should anything happen to her. I answered the letter and booked passage right away for both of you to come to Philadelphia.”
I frown. That’s not what Mother told me. She said a letter had come from my father in America, requesting that I go live with him. Since she was sick, she begged me to consider the request for her sake. Why would she tell me something so different?
“I’m sorry, Annabel.” Grand-père’s voice is filled with regret. “Had I known where you were, I would have rescued you from that life. I spent years looking for you.”
“Looking for me? Mother did not speak of Father often, but I thought he was aware of our circumstances. When I was younger, I used to make up stories that he was a war hero who had gone off to battle and would one day return to sweep us away to live in a grand castle. After Mother told me about the letter, I thought the day had finally come. That he was ready to know me. All this time … did Father not know where we were?”
Grand-père glances down at his glass. “I cannot answer that.”
“It was you who wanted me to come live here,” I realize. “Not him. That’s why he didn’t meet me at the ship. Why he has been bothered by my very presence.”
Grand-père shakes his head. “Please, my dear, do not think badly of him. He is just distracted by his illness. We are both truly happy to have you here with us.”
The look in Grand-père’s eyes is so sad that it makes my heart hurt. I do not wish to cause him distress. “Regardless of who answered Mother’s letter, I’m happy to be here with you and Father. Thank you for everything you have done for me, Grand-père. You have shown me great kindness.”
His voice is scratchy when he speaks again. “I am the one who is thankful to have you here with us, Annabel. But we are not the only family you have. Someday soon, we shall have to take a trip to France. Our family seat is there, and we go back many generations.”
I give him a smile and he raises his glass to me. His eyes still look sad, though, so I pick up my book again. “Shall we do another zodiac year? When is Father’s birth date?”
“December first, 1792. I remember it as if it were yesterday. The Farmer’s Almanac predicted twelve feet of snow, and it was right.”
He continues to speak as I look up Father’s birth date. December 1, 1792 is the Year of the Rat. A sinking feeling fills my stomach. My father is a rat, and I am a horse. It is no wonder he continues to be disappointed with me.
We are destined to be mortal enemies.
The clock strikes three times, and suddenly, Grand-père stops speaking. A nervous look passes over his face. He quickly drains the rest of his brandy and sets the glass down. “I did not realize how late the hour has grown. We shall have to continue this another time. Come, my dear, I’ll walk you to the stairs.”
The room tips to one side as I stand, but Grand-père gives me his arm and carries the lamp. As we go back out to the great room, I see a shadow moving toward the dining room. “What’s—”
I turn my head to look, but nothing is there.
Grand-père glances at me. “Is something the matter?”
I stare into the darkness. “I thought I saw something. My eyes must be playing tricks on me.”
“Yes, yes. That must be it.” He urges me toward the staircase, then hands me the lamp. “Here you are now. Up to bed with you. I don’t want to be the cause of your losing any more sleep.”
“Time spent with you is surely worth any amount of lost sleep, Grand-père. Thank you for sitting with me.”
“The pleasure was mine, my dear. Though perhaps it would be best for you to take some biscuits at breakfast in the morning to keep in your room in case you feel ill again. You should not be down here so late at night. The house can get … rather chilly.”
“Of course, Grand-père.”
He bids me good night and returns to his study. I take several steps up the stairs, then come to a stop. I should go apologize to him. Clearly, I should not have been wandering so late at night on my own.
But when I turn around, Grand-père is standing outside the study doors with his back to me. He glances over at the dining room. And nods to the shadow that I thought I had only imagined.
Seven
With my head full of strange thoughts, I walk slowly up the stairs. What’s going on in this house? Why are there mysterious shadows at night, and clandestine deliveries in the courtyard? What made Grand-père so nervous and why did Madame LaFleur say she did not want to be associated with Father?
It isn’t until I’ve settled beneath the covers once again that I realize I’ve forgotten Mother’s book downstairs.
Leaving the lamp behind, I instead take one of the candles from the hallway to light my path downstairs. When I reach Grand-père’s study, the doors are closed but I hear a faint noise from my left. The dining room door is slightly ajar, and I approach it slowly. Placing my ear agains
t the solid wood, I hear a thump. And then another. Then voices.
I back away. The voices are getting louder. They’re right on the other side of the door now, and it sounds as if whoever is there is going to come through at any moment.
I glance over at the stairs. I don’t think I’ll have enough time to reach them. The door will open any moment and I will surely be seen. A long hallway to my left offers another chance at escape, and even though I have not been in that section of the house, I have no choice. I’m going to be discovered if I stay here.
I hurry down the hallway only to come to a set of double doors. Struggling to pull one open, I finally slip behind it. The room I find myself in is a library with so many books that even if I were to read one every day of the year, it would surely take me a lifetime to get through them all.
There are two levels of bookcases, and they wrap floor to ceiling all the way around the room, from one side of the door to the other. A balcony with a railing separates the upper portion from the lower portion, with the only connection between the two a spiral staircase in the far right corner. The middle of the room is filled with freestanding bookcases.
Closing the door quietly I hold up my candle to read the titles on the books closest to me. It’s a section of law books, each one at least five or six inches thick. I move past them, taking note of the dust and cobwebs collecting on the shelves. No one has cleaned in here for quite some time.
As I make my way around the room, I come to an unlit fireplace with two club chairs in front of it and a small table between them. An empty glass sits on the table. Someone has been sitting here recently. I continue on, and find an enormous round window on the back wall that takes up almost the entire space. But it’s what’s next to the window that draws my attention.
Set in a small glass case, completely free of dust, are several books that look very old. Each one has a covering made from thinly stretched, tanned leather, and the bindings are hand-stitched with crude black thread that greatly resembles sutures.
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