“It most certainly is not,” Ms. Straust snapped.
“My parents,” Carla blurted out.
“Are two floors down,” Ms. Straust said. “They arrived a little while before you did. You can reunite with them at the dinner table.” A bang in the hallway made her turn. “Ah, here is Stefan with your things. Perhaps if you don’t feel like a nap, you could unpack and freshen up. You are expected to dress properly for all meals.”
“Great,” Violet mumbled, rolling her eyes, “the only thing missing is a thunderstorm outside.”
“Don’t worry,” Ms. Straust mused. “There will be plenty of those during your stay here.” She motioned for the other two girls to head across the hall. “Please try to remember four o'clock and not a minute after. There won’t be any food again until breakfast at eight.”
All three bedroom doors slammed closed at once, although no one touched any of the handles.
Chapter 13
Dressing for dinner was a tradition long forgotten by most of the western world. Put simply, people were too busy to care about how or where they ate. Family suppers were pencilled in on a schedule and could change at the drop of a hat, or the ring of a phone. The art of eating had been replaced by fast food, television, and smartphones.
Violet smoothed out her skirt as best she could, twisting and turning in front of a full-length mirror. Suitcases caused wrinkles and she hadn’t packed an iron. It was bad enough there were only two outfits in the closet that weren’t earmarked for digging in piles of dirt and rock.
Heather, on the other hand, probably expected to be attending fancy balls. By now Carla had already begged to share clothes with her, though. Violet’s lip rose at the unsightly state her outfits were in. Too bad there was little she could do about it. The bell had already rung and time was getting late, especially since Ms. Straust failed to mention where exactly the dinning room was.
The hallway was eerily silent, save for the occasional sizzle of a wick belonging to one candle or another. Violet raised her fist, knocking lightly on both doors. No one answered. The second raps were twice as hard, turning white knuckles red. Still no one answered.
“Heather. Carla,” Violet called out. Besides her own ruckus, the silence persisted. “This isn’t funny. Fine, I’m heading down.”
The walk down the hall was plagued by several over-the-shoulder glances back. Seeing no one following, she hurried down the stairs.
“Ah, there she is,” Mrs. Becker announced. “We were starting to wonder what happened to you.”
“I thought we would all come down together,” Violet explained, exchanging glances with her two friends.
“We called and knocked,” Carla said. “You didn’t answer. We figured you fell asleep or something.”
“We were prepared to smuggle you some dinner for later,” Heather chuckled, taking a sip of wine.
“Are you drinking?” Violet questioned, brows furrowed.
“The drinking age is lower here!” Heather exclaimed. “It’s completely legal. This room is where we have a before-dinner drink. Want one?” Without waiting for a reply she rang a handbell, summoning an elderly man.
“How can I serve?” he asked, half bowing at the waist.
“A glass of wine for my friend,” Heather ordered, sticking her nose in the air. “Make it a good vintage, too.”
“Is there a particular wine the lady prefers?” the man questioned, a towel hanging over one arm.
“She’ll have red,” Heather declared. “It’s absolutely the best.” She took a large sip from her crystal goblet.
“Red,” the man repeated, rolling his eyes. “Very good.”
“Actually,” Violet blurted out. “I’d prefer water. Maybe I’ll save the wine for another time.”
“Very good,” the man agreed, taking his leave from the room.
“Are we the only ones here?” Violet questioned, eyeing a painting over top the mantle of a fireplace. She walked from one side of the room to the other. It didn’t make a difference where she stood, the man in the portrait stared directly at her.
“So far, yes,” Mr. Becker replied, one hand jingling change in his pocket. “Our host has yet to be seen.”
A pudgy woman wearing all black strolled into the room. The mallet in her hand drew back, hitting a gong with force. A clanging noise echoed throughout the room. “Dinner is served.” Sliding doors parted, revealing a table capable of seating twenty or more guests, every place set to perfection.
“Shall we?” Mr. Becker asked, motioning for the ladies to enter first. Heather was already there, touching everything to see if it was real. “Take a seat, girls. It seems we have our choice of spots.”
“Maybe we should clump together,” Mrs. Becker suggested. “It doesn’t make sense to yell across the room.”
“You have a point, dear,” Mr. Becker agreed, turning to see their three prodigies spread out as far from each other as possible. “Or not.” He shrugged his shoulders, taking a spot beside from his wife.
“You can’t sit there,” Heather announced. “Everyone knows a married couple can’t sit beside each other at a dinner table. It isn’t proper etiquette.”
“You got that from a movie,” Carla snorted. “I bet it isn’t even true.”
“On the contrary,” a man said, standing in the doorway. “It is quite true. A man cannot sit beside his wife. If you wouldn’t mind picking a different place.”
“Of course,” Mrs. Becker agreed, moving to the opposite side of the table, a few seats down. “Is this better?”
“Much,” the man replied. “Where are my manners? Please allow me to introduce myself. I am Bordwell Drachen, your host.”
Violet held her head still, focusing on the glare coming off the silverware. The poor man was already being scrutinized by every eye in the room without her adding two more. Curiosity, however, nagged loud enough to warrant one stolen glimpse. He wasn’t at all what she expected.
Bordwell Drachen had most of the features of a mid-forties single tycoon, including salt-and-pepper hair and a well-groomed moustache. It was his attire that was odd, being from an era long lost, especially with a wooden pipe dangling out of his mouth and a smoking jacket to match. It was made from a dark hunter green velvet material, and adorned with gold buttons, each bearing the mark of a dragon. In the jacket’s upper pocket was a neatly folded silk handkerchief, fanned out to give off the appearance of a peacock’s tail. The longer she stared at him the more plausible Heather’s vampire theory seemed.
“I’m happy you accepted my invitation,” Bordwell said, popping the cork out of a new bottle of wine. Red liquid streamed into a golden glass. “I was worried you might not be interested in something as trivial as the artifacts we have found.”
“We are thrilled to be here,” Mrs. Becker replied. “I was hoping we’d get a look at some of the pieces you sent pictures of. There was mention of some other workers...”
“In good time, my dear Mrs. Becker.” Bordwell took a sip of his drink, before ringing yet another bell. Each one in the house had its own tone.
“Please call me Liz,” she suggested. “I’m extremely excited to start. Have there been any additional finds since we last spoke?”
“Unfortunately, no,” Bordwell admitted. “The dinner table is not the place for such discussions. I suggest we enjoy a good meal and leave work to the morning when the others have arrived.”
“Others?” Mrs. Becker squeaked. “I didn’t realize there were any others. You didn’t mention hiring a second team.”
“Please don’t take any offence,” Bordwell requested. “My nephew is new to the treasure hunting business. He asked permission to check out the area and see if he could come up with any relics. I never imagined in a million years he actually would.”
“So your nephew was the one to make the discoveries?” Mr. Becker asked.
“Yes,” Bordwell agreed. “He isn’t able to make heads or tails of his findings, though. That’s where you come in.”
“We’re the second team,” Mrs. Becker mumbled. “Why didn’t you mention this before?”
“I was afraid you wouldn’t agree to come,” Bordwell admitted, sitting back from his plate to allow a server to place a bowl of soup on the table.
“We wouldn’t have,” Mrs. Becker scoffed.
“I was hoping you’d work with him,” Bordwell said, after all bowls had been distributed to his guests. “You’d be the experts, of course. Well, you think about it. At the moment, we have a wonderful chicken and rice soup to enjoy.”
“It’s almost time,” Ms. Straust announced.
“Have the cook bring out the rest of the dinner,” Bordwell ordered. “We can serve ourselves. Then you can lock up for the night.”
Violet glanced up. She couldn’t have been the only one wondering why they were being locked inside the castle, yet no one else made a peep.
Bordwell Drachen caught her gaze, hanging on to it in a mesmerizing showdown. “One can never be too careful. There are thieves and bandits all over this land. A castle makes for quite the temptation and challenge. That is what you wanted to ask about, isn’t it?”
Violet licked her lips. “I-I...”
“I think we were all a bit curious about the security precautions,” Carla blurted out, winking at her friend. “It is unusual to have a moat.”
“I missed that,” Violet muttered in no more than a whisper. “How could I have missed that?”
“Put your minds at ease,” Bordwell said. “I assure you, this is all for your protection. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to the first guests to the Villa in decades.”
Chapter 14
Fire raged in the hearth, shadows dancing on the walls and ceiling in a dance choreographed to chase away lingering chills. The head of the Drachen household took the seat closest to the flames, a glass of bourbon in one hand and an unlit cigar in the other.
“At the end of a day is the time to relax,” Bordwell said, more interested in the fireplace than his guests. “Help yourselves to a drink.”
Mrs. Becker stepped in front of the display of old-fashioned carafes. “We are fine,” she announced.
“Hey,” Heather complained. “I wouldn’t mind having a shot or two before bed. I am old enough here.”
“Not on my watch,” Mrs. Becker replied, trying to keep a smile on her face. “You work for me and there will be no hard liquor hangovers on this trip. The last thing I need is to put up with the first time you girls drink so much you get sick.” She waved off a forming protest. “We’ve all been there, dear.”
“Yup,” Mr. Becker agreed, pulling his pants up over his waist. “There’s that one drink in all our pasts that we will never touch again. It’s a right of passage.” He felt the glare coming from his wife. “One that you girls can experience when you are older and not on the clock.”
“Fine!” Heather pouted, stomping one foot.
“Ah, to be young and foolish,” Bordwell snickered, tossing back the contents of his glass in one gulp. “It’s medicinal. Age is the one thing no one can stop. My bones have been feeling it for some time.”
“You don’t look old.” Carla shrugged, eyeing the man. “Is that you in the painting?” She nodded to the portrait hanging over the mantel.
Bordwell smiled. “I’ve been told there is a striking resemblance. That is actually my third or fourth great-grandfather. Who knows, maybe it’s even fifth or sixth? I can’t keep it straight.”
“The property has been in your family that long?” Liz Becker asked, receiving a silent nod for an answer. “There might be some artifacts around here that can shed some light on the past, then.”
“I doubt that,” Bordwell replied. “What you see is what we have. There are no hidden treasures or secret doors in here. The only odd items about are the ones we only just found. They are being kept in the cabinets behind us.”
“They are here?!” Liz Becker exclaimed. “Can we look at them? Why didn’t you mention it?”
“I believe I am mentioning it,” Bordwell chuckled. “And yes, have a peek. I’m anxious to get your take on things.”
Two doors pulled open, revealing shelf after shelf of pottery, most of which was still intact, albeit with less than vibrant paint.
“I know what those are,” Violet announced, a smile growing exponentially. It morphed into concerned wrinkles equally as fast. “But why are there so many?”
“What are they?” Mrs. Becker whispered in her ear.
“From what we learned in town, they are similar to a dream catcher, except for negative emotions, mainly regrets.” Violet carefully picked one up, studying the patterns. Finger caressed the grooves. “Were these buried?”
“Yes!” Bordwell Drachen exclaimed. “How did you know?”
“There is some dirt still on the outside,” Violet explained. “It doesn’t make sense, though. I am no expert about the legends surrounding the clay pots, but I don’t recall anyone mentioning them being buried. Were they all in the same area?”
“That’s the odd part,” Bordwell admitted. “They were all spaced out equally, but fairly close together nonetheless. I know the stories about how these containers work as well. The clay is supposed to destroy what the pot captures each night.”
“Maybe part of the lore is missing,” Carla suggested. “It isn’t unusual for pieces of stories to be left out when passed down over generations.”
“Have you opened one to take a look inside?” Mr. Becker asked. “Maybe there is a clue as to why they were buried.”
“No,” Bordwell answered. “I am not about to tempt fate. One of those could have been from my past life. I don’t want to set in motion a repeating quest born from regret. There are a couple that were already in pieces. Maybe they can help you.”
“These are fascinating,” Liz Becker said, putting one pot back together as if it were a puzzle.
“They are,” Carla agreed. “What do you think, Heather?”
“Huh?!” Heather squeaked. “I was just...”
“Helping yourself to the liquor,” Mrs. Becker said, hands planted firmly on her hips. “Put that down this instant.”
“It was just one,” Heather huffed, head and shoulders drooping as she put down the shot glass.
“We didn’t bring you three to have to babysit you,” Mr. Becker said. His voice and face matched—both stern.
“It won’t happen again,” Carla promised, linking her arm with her friend’s. “We should probably turn in.”
“I think that would be for the best,” Liz Becker agreed. “All three of you.” She glanced over a pair of magnifying glasses at Violet. “Yup, you too.”
“Of course.” Violet nodded, following her friends to the long climb to their rooms. Once again they’d left her behind.
Their trio was quickly becoming a duo with a third wheel and there wasn’t an inkling of a reason as to why. Heather and Carla had never acted so distant with her before they agreed to take this job.
Staring at the empty hallway wasn’t going to make her feel better, or change anything. If jet lag were to blame, everything would be back to normal come morning. If not, she’d be better prepared to deal with whatever was wrong after having a good night’s sleep.
A loose pair of sleep pants and a T-shirt made for perfect pyjamas. Violet flopped back on the bed, instantly sinking into luxurious comfort. It didn’t matter how soft the blankets or fluffy the pillows; she was destined to toss and turn. Being overtired and in a new place meant she could have used a dream catcher or two of her own.
With eyes stretched wide open and refusing to so much as blink; she memorized the pattern the light fixture left on the ceiling. After that came counting sheep—that one never actually worked for anyone—but she tried it nonetheless. The usual insomnia activities followed: she tossed, turned, and punched the pillows before heading to the French doors to get some air.
The balcony was everything she imagined and more. A light breeze left a tingle on her skin—enou
gh to know it was there, but without the need to rush inside for a sweater to keep a chill at bay. The universe seemed so trivial from that spot. Either the world had been miniaturized or she became a giant. One finger extended, tracing a shooting star as it streaked through the night sky.
A satisfied sigh escaped between slightly parted lips. This was, in a word, perfection. Violet approached the stone railing. Oh... to be a princess. She glanced down at her subjects, pretending to wave as they adored her.
Her fantasy ended abruptly—a hooded figure running across the property below disappeared into a maze of hedges. If all the doors were locked on the main level, the staff gone home, and the drawbridge lifted, who was running around?
Bandits! Violet backed away from the railing. The doors shut, lock latching closed. Looking outside for a reason to fall asleep backfired. Now there was one more thing on her mind to worry about.
Chapter 15
The eggs were the only thing sunny side up—cloud cover completely blocked the real thing. Violet shook her head, realizing her breakfast was smiling back at her, the grin made completely of bacon. Mrs. Becker was an amazing woman with a brilliant career. A cook, however, she wasn’t. Someone else was responsible for the edible art; someone who didn’t know she was too old for happy faces to start the day.
“Did you two get...” Violet’s words faded, seeing her two friends staring at the kitchen door. One hand waved in front of their faces. “Hello. Anyone home?” The duo sighed heavily in unison.
“Move your hand,” Heather complained. “I don’t want to miss it. This is the best trip ever.”
“Miss what?” Violet asked, brow arched.
“The guy serving breakfast,” Carla whispered. “He is so hot. Wait ‘til you see his buns.”
“I’ll be his bun warmer any day,” Heather blurted out. “I wonder if I can get breakfast served to me in bed?” She side-eyed the glares from her friends. “What? Too much?”
“Way,” Violet chuckled. “What’s with you guys? I thought you were excited about the job. It’s a dream come true. I, for one, am completely focused. Nothing is distracting me from the project.” Her jaw dropped the moment the door swung open.
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