by Mez Blume
Sophia shook her yellow head modestly and gracefully sat on the stump beside me. “You know, Tom, Frederick would gladly give you quarters in the Manor. Now the Court has gone, there are plenty of rooms.”
“The Earl is exceedingly generous,” Tom answered. “I hear he has also offered Digby and Bessy a cottage on the grounds once they are wed. But I confess, I have grown too fond of the tranquillity in this glade.” He nodded his head towards Vagabond. “He seems content here away from the crowds as well.”
“Then you need never move your wagon from this spot,” Sophia said.
“What will you do now?” I asked. “With Bessy settled at Otterly Manor, surely you won’t wish to travel for work any longer.”
Placing his paintbrush down, Tom took off his cloth cap and turned it in his hands. “My wrongs have been mercifully righted. My daughter is provided for. What more could a man wish for than that?”
“But you deserve to be a true master painter,” I insisted. “I’ve never seen nicer paintings than yours.”
Tom smiled but kept his eyes down. “It is kind of you to say so. Coincidentally, the Queen expressed some interest in my work and requested a piece for her salon. Who knows what may come of it.”
“Is that what you’re working on now?” I pried. “The piece you want advice on? Can we have a look?” I squeezed past Sophia to walk around Tom and have a look over his shoulder. “Is that … me?”
I looked up and caught Sophia smiling.
“This piece is for something far more important than the Queen’s salon,” Tom said, adding a stroke of red to my portrait’s hair. Only then did I notice he was using paints from the wooden box. The swirling colours took life on the canvas. The strands of my hair almost seemed to be waving in a soft breeze.
“This is Tom’s idea,” Sophia explained. “A family portrait. Your family portrait.”
“And now you see why I rely on your advice,” Tom added. “For I have never seen your family.”
“Wait,” I said, trying to get a grip on what was happening. “You think that if you, with my help, paint my family all together, the painting will take me home when I look at it?”
Tom shrugged apologetically. “I cannot promise it will work, but it was the best I could come up with.”
“Try, Katie,” Sophia urged.
I took a deep breath. “Alright. I’ll do my best. What shall I do?”
“Just describe them, one by one, as best you can.”
So for the next hour, I sat on the log with my eyes squeezed tightly shut, remembering all the mental portraits I’d painted of my family over and over again in the last day and a half. There was Dad with his messy auburn hair and stubbly chin; Mum, tall with strawberry hair like mine and dimples like Nan’s; then Charlie with his signature sideways grin. I described every detail I could think of while Sophia picked up a lute propped against the wagon and strummed quietly. Meanwhile, Tom dashed stroke after stroke of paint onto his canvas.
At last I ran out of things to describe. Tom added a few finishing touches and sat back to examine. “I’d ask you to tell me what you think, but there’s a risk you won’t get the chance to answer once you look.”
I gulped. On the one hand, the idea of looking at that canvas and nothing happening was too terrible to imagine. But on the other hand, the idea of being whisked back to the twenty-first century and leaving behind all the friends I’d come to love forever …
I turned around slowly, afraid to look at Sophia. She had stopped strumming and her eyes were brimming with tears. Still she smiled. “You’ve saved my life and many others besides. Now your life is waiting, Katie.”
“It may not work, you know,” I said through my own tears and ran to throw my arms around her. We stood there hugging and crying.
Tannia’s nuzzle pressed against my side and she whimpered. “Here, Tannia.” Sophia released me to remove my bag and take from it the ball sling and spare tennis ball. I knelt and held it out in my arms as if offering a sword to a knight. “This is for you. I’m leaving it in Sophia’s care.” I handed it over to Sophia, and we both laughed through our tears. There was a stamp and whinny from behind. I wiped my eyes. Vagabond must’ve sensed it was goodbye. He pranced and reared his head in agitation.
Sophia let me go to him. I put my arms around his colossal head and leaned my head against his strong, smooth neck. “Thank you,” I whispered. “You have a good life now. And no more pigeon smashing.” I kissed his nose and turned away quickly.
The tears poured out in an unstoppable stream now so that Tom’s face in front of me looked like an impressionist painting. But I could see his eyes were smiling. He put a handkerchief into my hand. “Best dry those eyes. You’ll need them clear if it is to work.”
I dried up the tears, taking deep, slow breaths to try and stop more from welling up.
“Better?”
Now the twinkle in Tom’s eye was perfectly clear. I nodded, then saw that he held his closed hand out to me. “What’s this?” I asked.
He gently took my hand and placed a small, smooth object into it. “A memory.”
In my hand was a golden chain and locket. I opened it up and had to hold my breath to keep the tears from starting all over again. On one side of the locket was a miniature portrait of two girls standing side-by-side, one with golden hair, the other with strawberry blonde. In the other half, there was a tiny portrait of a big, black horse.
I felt Tom watching, waiting for some response, but I couldn't speak a word. I flung my arms around his neck instead. He gently patted my head with his rough hand. “Come,” he whispered. “’Tis time.”
I took hold of Sophia’s hand and clasped it tightly. Together we walked around the easel. I shut my eyes for one last breath, then …
I was looking at my family’s faces. There they all were, gathered around me and as lifelike as if it had been a photograph. I felt the urge to touch them, to see if they felt as real as they looked. I reached out my hand to touch the canvas, and I fell. Through browns and greens of the forest, through golden light, the colours swirled and danced all around me like the paints in Tom’s box. And then the world stopped and stood still.
When I opened my eyes — but when had I closed them? — I sat gripping my knees in a pool of light. I was in the secret chamber. There was the rusty old chest, just as before. And there on the wall in front of me was Tom’s painting. For just a moment, I wondered if I’d hit my head and imagined the whole thing up. But as I was about to reach up and feel my forehead for bumps, I realised I was clutching something smooth and round in my palm. It was a gold locket.
Epilogue
Pop rolled down the car window at the ticket kiosk and handed the girl in the uniform his membership card. She digitally scanned it and handed it back. “Enjoy your visit to Otterly Manor,” she said, flashing a metallic smile from her braces. The gates opened automatically, and we drove into the park.
“You know, Katie,” Pop said to me in the rear-view mirror, “Your Nan and I hoped you’d enjoy this place, but we worried it might be a tad … well, boring for you. We’re so pleased you liked it well enough to want to bring your parents.”
“I know,” Mum chimed in. “Who knew our Katie was such a keen historian!”
“Otterly Manor,” Dad repeated to himself like he was trying to recall something. “That’s it! I’d almost forgotten! You won’t believe what a small world it is, but I actually read something about a murder mystery that took place in this house at a museum in Edinburgh. I’m sorry you weren’t with us, Katie. I know how much you would’ve enjoyed it.”
“It’s alright. A girl can’t expect to go on an adventure every summer,” I answered, watching the park go by out my window. “But what was it you read about Otterly Manor, Dad?”
“Oh right. Well apparently, there was a great mystery surrounding the Earl’s death back in Tudor Stuart times.”
“Is that so?” Pop asked, pulling into a space in the gravel car park.
“It turned out he was murdered by his own brother in disguise as a painter. And what’s more, it was a young serving girl who solved the mystery. Now there’s some interesting history for you, Katie. Just like something out of Sherlock Holmes.”
“Yup,” I said, jumping out of the car and taking stock of the familiar rolling, bracken-covered hills.
Oscar squirmed at Pop’s heels while he rummaged around the boot of the car for something. “Now where did I put that ball sling? I must be going senile.” Pop scratched his bald patch. “Sorry, Oscar. Just walkies today.”
I bit my lip and took off towards the field on the stable-side of the house with Oscar.
After a walk around the park, we stopped for a spot of tea and cake in the old prison, now converted into the café. Frederick would be pleased with this change at least, I thought, filling my nostrils with the scrumptious aroma of fresh scones.
Mum and I made a quick visit to the café loos before taking on the house proper. I stopped outside the men’s loo and gaped in disbelief at the door. The Baron’s portrait hung from it, but instead of the ribbon across the top inscribed Second Earl of Dorset, there was only a wooden plaque with the word “Gents” printed on it.
“The ladies’ is this side, Katherine,” Mum said when she realised I had fallen back.
“Oh, right,” I answered, and waited until she’d turned around to indulge in a quick heel click.
Finally we entered the house, starting the self-guided tour at the Great Hall which was once again faded and smelled of old things. But my heart leapt all the same remembering the sensation of dancing by firelight to the sweet music wafting down from the musician’s box.
“Would you like a children’s guide, ducky?” The old man held it out to me in his shaky hand. “There’s a prize if you find all the objects.”
I took it and found myself naturally curtseying. “Thank you,” I said, quickly pretending to bend down to tie my shoe.
As we walked along, our footsteps echoing in the lifeless, empty room, I explained to Mum and Dad about the High Table and the servants’ tables. “The most important people would have sat up there, where the portrait of the Second Earl is hung.” The painting was very like Frederick, though a slightly older, even more dashing version of him. “Of course, the family only ate in here on special occasions, banquets and feasts and the like. Then there’d be live music and theatrical performances … Did you know Shakespeare’s company performed Macbeth here for King James?”
“My, Katie. You certainly have learned a lot!” Nan exclaimed. “Next time I must pick up one of those children’s guides.”
In the Billiard Gallery, Nan and Pop drew Mum and Dad over to the china cabinet. I was happy to break away on my own and have a moment just to take in the place. Naturally, my feet took me down to the other end of the long gallery where the secret chamber was hidden. An elderly couple occupied the corner with the Green Man. I waited my turn, pretending to look out the windows at the park.
“Pardon me.” The elderly man waved to the stocky volunteer, and she eagerly waddled over. “We were wondering, can you tell us the meaning of this peculiar object the girl’s holding in this portrait?” Peeking over my shoulder, I saw they were standing right in front of a portrait of Sophia! Britannia sat upright by her side with Sophia’s hand resting on her head. Cradled in her other arm, was the ball sling.
A laugh escaped me before I could stop it, which made the volunteer turn and glare before launching into her smug explanation. “Yes, of course. That is a … um …. Well obviously it’s some sort of … it’s a riding whip. Yes, you see young ladies were expected to be good at riding horseback. By including the whip, the artist has drawn our attention to this young lady’s accomplishments and suitability for marriage.”
“How very interesting,” the elderly man commented.
I curled my lips inward to keep from laughing again and didn’t dare step away from the window until the couple, and the volunteer, had moved on. Only then could I visit with my dear friend in peace. Though it didn’t do her justice, it was a beautiful portrait. No longer did Sophia wear a sad expression. She smiled. I smiled back at her and noticed a signature on the bottom of the painting: Master Thomas Tippery.
“Well done, Tom,” I whispered as if somehow he could hear me.
Back in the car, I leaned my head against the window and listened to my family chat about ordinary old stuff. I sighed, but it wasn’t an unhappy sigh. There was something so delicious about the ordinary. When I got back to the farmhouse, I would write to Charlie and tell him all the ordinary things I’d been up to that summer … and maybe one day I’d tell him about the extraordinary things as well.
As the gates opened and we left Otterly Park, Dad patted my knee. “I’m glad you took us, Katie. It’s amazing what you can learn in an old house like that.”
I smiled out the window as if Sophia could see me and share in the joke.
“It sure is.” And as I said it, my fingers wrapped around the golden locket hanging around my neck, a treasured secret resting close to my heart.
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Katie Watson and the Serpent Stone
Book 2
In memory of Leonard Columbus Dean, “Papa”, who handed down his Cherokee roots and Southern love of a good ol’ story
Note from the Author
Researching for this book was an adventure almost as exciting as Katie’s. The story of the Cherokee People is older than memory, many-layered and carries on to this very day.
The characters in this book are fictional, but many are based on real-life people. The places too are real along with the Cherokee legends that haunt them.
I hope that as you, the Reader, venture back in time with Katie, you will find the ancient and living world of the Cherokees as magically mysterious as I have.
To discover more of this book’s “behind-the-scenes” story, visit mezblume.com and sign up for my newsletter!
1
Dear Sophia
October 1st, 2018
Dear Sophia,
Can you believe it’s been nearly four months since we first met at Otterly Manor? My first few weeks of middle school have honestly flown by. I’m glad too. It’s not that I haven’t made any friends, but there’s nobody who can compare with you.
“REEK!”
I put down my pen with an exasperated look at the guinea pig hutch where two sets of eyes stared at me out of two fat blobs of hair. “Don’t be jealous,” I consoled Fergie and Francis. “You two are wonderful friends. It’s just, sometimes a girl needs a human friend who’s interested in more than just pellets and lettuce.” The guinea pigs stared at me dumbly, twitching their noses and clearly not grasping the weight of my problem at all.
I shook my head. The truth was, there was nobody at school or in the whole modern world that I felt as close to as I had felt to Sophia. After all, we’d been through a lot together last summer, solving a murder, beating Baron Black Sheep at his own game—stuff like that bonded people for life. The only problem was, my life had returned back to normal, back to modern times. Sophia’s was still, well, back then. I was certain I would never find another friend like her. So I’d taken to writing her letters in my journal. I know it sounds slightly insane, but I honestly felt like she could hear the words I was writing… like she was really out there somewhere, not just in a spirit way, but in a real-life flesh-and-blood way, and not … in the past.
Of course, I didn’t send the letters anywhere. I hadn’t gone so mental as to think the postal service could deliver to the year 1606. But I kept them safe in my journal for her, and I never ever let myself dwell on what I knew, deep down, was the horrible truth: my best friend had already grown up without me. She’d probably got married and had
kids. Maybe she’d even told them about our adventures together. I would never know. I didn’t want to know. I preferred just to imagine my friend as I knew her: the brave, kind, golden-haired twelve-year-old Sophia who had become like the sister I never had.
“REEK!”
The guinea pigs brought me back to my room once again.
“Stop interrupting, would you? I’m trying to think.” I chewed the end of my pen, trying to think of what to write next. My eyes drifted over to the shelf of riding ribbons and trophies. Just last week, I’d had to make room for a shiny new silver cup. And I’d completely forgotten to tell Sophia about it!
I forgot to tell you, I’m coming along really well in my riding. I competed again last week and won second place overall! It feels amazing to be back in the riding ring, and of course it’s all thanks to you and Vagabond.
Instinctively, I pried open the gold locket around my neck and smiled at the miniature paintings — one of Sophia and me, the other of a giant black stallion.
How is he, anyway? Hope he’s behaving himself and has given up stomping pigeons for good.
There was a rap on the door. I rushed to shut my journal, then shoved it under my pillow. Grabbing a book off my night stand, I opened it to a random page and leaned back as if I’d been casually reading the whole time. “Come in!” I called out in my best lazy-bored voice.
Mum pushed open the door, folded her arms and leaned against the door frame, obviously wanting to talk about something.
“Oh, hey, Mum.” I had the terrible feeling she knew I was hiding something.
