From the attic above me, a sudden, icy blast of wind swirled down the stairs. I saw the man’s black cashmere coat flap around him like a living thing and he stumbled back a step or two. Several pictures hung in the hallway tilted crazily back and forth before falling to the floor and shattering.
Suddenly, the man turned and fled back the way he’d come. For a moment, I thought he was going to fall down the steps, but somehow he made it, stumbling and sliding on the carpet before regaining his balance and picking up speed again.
With the wind roaring in my ears, I found myself chasing him down the steps and into the living room. Dimly, I heard the doorbell ring and it crossed my mind that whoever was on the front step would stop the intruder. He slammed into the door, backed up, and threw it open. I heard a surprised grunt and then the thud of a body hitting the ground.
When I got outside, the stranger lay sprawled on the lawn, but one glance at me and he leaped to his feet again, running as if the demons of Hell itself were at his heels. I must have looked pretty angry, because I couldn’t think of any other reason why a grown man who was willing to break into someone’s house would run away from someone like me.
That’s when I saw who had been ringing the doorbell. Father Andrew—and another man I didn’t know. Father Andrew grabbed me by the shoulders as I tried to dart past him. “Jenna, what’s going on?”
Gasping and trying to catch my breath, I pointed at the fleeing man. “He’s the one who … took my picture … at the funeral. He broke into my house!”
The man standing next to Father Andrew immediately grasped the situation, turned, and sprinted after the intruder.
In Father Andrew’s arms, I felt the winds that had been howling around me suddenly drop to a normal breeze. All my anger fled. I was suddenly aware of how afraid I’d been … and, at the same time, how powerful my anger had made me feel.
I watched the man race down the street, and relaxed in Father Andrew’s arms. We didn’t speak until a few minutes later when the man returned at a steady jog.
“I’m sorry,” the man said, not even winded. “I lost him a couple of blocks from here.” He shook his head. “Not as fast as I used to be.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “What would you have done if you’d caught him?”
“Good point,” he admitted with a strange smile, as if he knew exactly what he would do, and wasn’t going to say. He looked at the board in my arms, but other than raising an eyebrow, didn’t offer any comment.
Father Andrew herded us toward the door. “Let’s get out of the cold,” he said. “That breeze has a nasty bite.”
I led the two men inside and closed the door. They followed me into the living room where Father Andrew offered up belated introductions. “Jenna Solitaire, this is Simon Monk; Simon, Jenna Solitaire.”
“I’m pleased to meet you,” the man said. He offered his hand. He was tall, with black hair and high cheekbones. Well-built and attractive, maybe in his early to mid-twenties, with a slight accent that probably drove women wild.
“Good to meet you, too,” I said, shaking his hand. His eyes were a dark blue. Almost electric, like a flash of lightning in the night sky. Those piercing eyes met mine and I felt a flash of … something—and all the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. His grip was firm, and his hand large enough to completely swallow mine.
“Simon works for the Vatican,” Father Andrew was saying. “And he happened to come by the church today.”
“Yes, a stroke of luck,” Simon said. “I’m doing genealogical research on the history of your family, Jenna. The Solitaire line is very old and quite interesting.”
Perplexed, I said, “Really?”
“It’s virtually a straight line,” he said, sitting down and leaning back comfortably. “Female descendents only, who all kept their maiden name, going back many hundreds of years.”
“Hundreds of years?” I asked. “My grandmother once told me that our name was an old tradition going back a long time, but I had no idea it was that long.”
“Tell Jenna why the Vatican is interested in her heritage,” Father Andrew said.
Simon nodded. “As you know, Father, the Vatican has a strong interest in genealogy. Family lines like yours that have belonged to the Church for so many years are of particular interest these days as … the number of our parishioners declines. It is hoped that by interviewing such families, we can gain insight into their faith and what has kept them such dedicated members of the Church for so long. In turn, the Vatican hopes to use this information to gain new converts.”
I glanced at Father Andrew. Did he believe Simon’s explanation? Because I sure didn’t. I turned to Simon. “So you’re a priest, then?”
Simon’s face darkened. “No,” he said. “I was once, but no longer.”
“Once?” I asked.
“I do not discuss it,” he said sharply.
There was something about his tone that nagged at me, almost as if his way of expressing annoyance was familiar, but I couldn’t place it. We stared at each other for a long second and something in his eyes almost dared me to press him further, but I shrugged. I knew what it was like to not want to discuss some things.
“Okay,” I said. “No big deal.”
Father Andrew interrupted. “Jenna, it might be a good idea if you called the police.”
“The police?” I asked. “Why?”
“The intruder you just chased out of your house,” he reminded me.
I felt a strange jolt of surprise. I had been so wrapped up in talking with Simon that I’d completely dismissed the incident! Shaking my head, I excused myself to go make the call.
I brewed a pot of coffee while I answered the deputy’s questions—no, the intruder didn’t take anything … no, he didn’t threaten me exactly … no, he wasn’t still in the house … no, I heard myself agreeing, there wasn’t much they could do.
Very helpful, I thought. It’s no wonder so many crimes go unreported. I hung up the phone and poured three mugs of coffee. Setting them on a tray with containers of cream and sugar, I carried it back into the living room where Father Andrew and Simon were talking quietly.
“What did they say?” Father Andrew asked as I set the tray down on the table.
“Very little,” I said. “There’s nothing they can do.”
Simon smiled grimly. “That’s the police for you. It is much the same in Italy; they help when it is convenient.”
I handed him a mug of coffee. He took it from me, sipped, and then pronounced it good. It was then I noticed the odd-looking coin on a necklace he wore.
A wave of dizziness swept over me, followed by an overwhelming feeling that I’d seen the necklace before. “Oh, how beautiful,” I said, reaching for it. “May I take a closer look?”
His hand went to it immediately. “It is a coin from ancient Babylon. I have had it since I was a child.”
Father Andrew chuckled. “Had it since you were a baby, you mean,” he said. “Don’t let him fool you, Jenna. He’d rather die a thousand deaths than let anyone touch it.”
Simon shifted uncomfortably. “Perhaps we can continue our discussion?”
“Jenna makes the best coffee in town,” Father Andrew said, sipping his with satisfaction. “It’s why I stop over so much.”
Smiling at him, I nodded. “Well, it isn’t my baking,” I said.
He laughed, his face reddening slightly. He’d once managed to choke down a slice of coffee cake I’d baked into submission with the help of three cups of coffee—but barely.
“No,” he admitted. “It isn’t.”
We both laughed, and after a moment, Simon joined in. I sat down next to him on the couch.
“So, what is it you wanted to know exactly?” I asked.
“Oh, I’m mostly curious about any church-related activities of your family,” Simon said. “You know, were they active participants in the church community? Altar boys when they were younger. That sort of thing.”
“Inte
resting,” I said, watching the way he tapped his fingers in sequence on the arm of the sofa. He seemed nervous. In fact, Simon’s whole speech had the feel of something … preplanned or prepared, like he knew he’d need a story and had this one ready. I wondered what was going on behind his eyes, and was about to say something when Father Andrew stood up from the couch.
Jenna, I’m sorry,“he said, glancing at his watch.”I promised to meet with a parishioner today, and I’ve lost track of the time. I need to go.”
“That’s fine, Father,” I said. “Thank you for coming by to check on me—and for introducing us.” I turned to look at Simon. He wasn’t a very accomplished liar. “I’m sure Simon and I will have plenty to talk about.”
“I hope so,” Father Andrew said, shrugging into his coat. “Are you doing okay, Jenna? Need anything at all?”
“I’m fine, Father,” I told him. “Thank you.”
“You’re most welcome, my dear. If you need me, you know you can call anytime, right?” He opened the door, then paused and said, “By the way, Jenna, you know it wouldn’t be a bad thing if I saw you at Mass on Sunday. It’s been awhile.”
I nodded. “I’ll see what I can do, Father. I’ve been very busy with my studies, but I’ll try my best.”
He smiled at me, then stepped out and closed the door behind him. He was right, of course. It had been a long time since I’d attended Mass. I’d gone every Sunday as a child, but in high school my attendance slowly dwindled, and by the time I’d started college, I rarely went at all. I turned around to go back into the living room, and found Simon standing behind me.
Startled, I jumped backward with a little gasp, slipping on the area rug in front of the door. Simon reached out and caught my arms, keeping me from falling.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said.
“It’s all right,” I said, a little breathless. Caught off guard, I wondered why I felt so uncomfortable around him, why his touch caused goosebumps—and not the good kind—to break out on my arms. I shook my head and stepped out of his grasp.
“Thanks,” I added. A quick mental vision of lounging in Simon’s arms appeared in my head and I banished it immediately. I was not attracted to him, despite his good looks and cute accent.
“You’re welcome,” he said with a penetrating look that made me wonder if he could read my mind.
Blushing, I stammered, “So … shall we … finish our conversation?”
“Yes,” he said. “Of course. I had only hoped to give Father Andrew my thanks and tell him I would stop by the church again later to see him.”
“He was in a hurry,” I said. “He tends to do that sometimes.”
“Get in a hurry?” Simon asked, as we walked back to the living room.
“No,” I said. “Forget something and then run off.”
Simon gazed at me. “Do you know very much about your family history?” he asked. “For example, the earliest reference to a Solitaire female I can find goes back to France, around the mid-thirteen hundreds.”
“You’re kidding,” I said. “That long ago?”
“Beyond a doubt,” he said. “You come from an enchanting family line, Jenna.”
His stress on the word “enchanting” was very odd, but I didn’t understand what he meant by it, so I said, “Well, my grandfather always said my mother was enchanting as a young lady, if that’s what you mean.”
“I’m sure she was,” Simon said. “But that’s not quite what I meant.”
A bit exasperated, I said, “So what did you mean?”
“We’ll get to that,” he said. “In due time.”
I ground my teeth. I didn’t appreciate Simon’s cryptic little comments and was going to tell him that, but stopped myself. After all, he was a friend of Father Andrew’s.
We sat back down in the living room and sipped our cof fee for a moment. Outside, the wind started to swirl once more and I heard the patter-ping of stray raindrops on the window. After a short silence, Simon cleared his throat and I turned my attention back to him.
“Are you getting ready to tell me the real reason you’re here?” I asked.
Simon smiled. “I didn’t expect that you would believe my story, though it was good enough for Father Andrew.”
“He’s more trusting than I am,” I said. “What do you want?”
“I’d like you to tell me about your mother, Moira.”
“Why?” I asked. “I figured you’d want to talk about my grandfather, Michael, or even my grandmother, Margaret. They were the church-goers.”
“I thought we’d already established that I wasn’t here to talk about the Church,” Simon said. “My purpose is a bit more obscure than that.”
“So I gathered,” I said, “but before I start answering your questions, I’d like to know what your ‘obscure’ purpose is.”
He smiled. “I’m researching some … interesting stories connected to your family,” he said. “I cannot say more until I know more.” Once again, his hand touched the coin necklace. It obviously had great significance for him.
I still didn’t believe him, but it sounded like we were getting closer to the truth, and despite my discomfort around him, I didn’t sense any real threat. “That will do for now,” I said. “What do you want to know about my mother?”
“Anything you can remember,” he said quickly. “Anything at all, but especially anything she might have told you about your family history.”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” I said, “but I don’t really remember her very well. Some flashes of memory. Her face. Sometimes, I think, her voice.”
“So she is dead then,” he said.
It seemed like a strange way of putting it, as though he were seeking confirmation of the fact. “Yes,” I said. “She died right after my fifth birthday.”
“And your father?”
“In the same accident,” I said. “A car crash.” I could still remember being woken in the middle of the night, frightened at all the noise and upset, by my grandmother. She had held me for a long time, then carried me downstairs and told me both my parents were dead.
“I see,” Simon said. “So then you were raised by your grandparents?”
“My grandfather mostly,” I said. “My grandmother died a few years after my parents did.”
“A difficult situation,” he said. “I imagine raising a young girl was quite a challenge for him.”
I smiled, memories flooding in. Strange, somehow he didn’t seem so far away now, and I didn’t feel so alone anymore. “He did just fine,” I said. “He was a good man.”
“I’m sure he was,” Simon said. “Did your mother go to church regularly?”
“I really couldn’t say,” I said. “My grandfather told me she did when she was younger. Everyone in my family was raised in the Church, but then you know that or you wouldn’t be here.”
“Yes, yes, of course. What else do you remember about your mother? Do you recall any special personality traits?”
“She had red hair, like mine, and …” I let my words trail off. “What is your fascination with my mother? You keep pounding away on it, like you’re expecting me to say something specific.”
“Nothing in particular,” he said quickly. His tone was defensive.
“Right,” I said. “I’ve told you she died when I was a young child and that I have few memories of her, yet you keep asking questions about her. Care to try again?”
Simon sighed. “I knew you’d be too observant for this charade to go on much longer,” he said softly. “From everything I’ve been told, the Solitaire women have all been the same.”
“Everything you’ve been told?” I asked. “I don’t understand.”
“No, I suppose you wouldn’t,” he said.
“So, will you please tell me what you’re really doing here and what it is you want to know?”
Simon leaned forward, staring at me intently. “I’m here to talk to you about the Board of the Winds, sometimes called the Board of
Air.”
Confused, I said, “The Board of what?”
“The Board of the Winds,” he said. “You were carrying it in your arms when you chased the intruder out of your house.” He paused, then added. “What do you know about it?”
“I … nothing,” I said, thinking of the whispered word in the attic and the cold chill in the air. “I just found it in the attic.”
“Surely your mother—or your grandmother—must have talked to you about it, left you a note?”
“No,” I said. “It’s just an old wooden board. It was in my grandmother’s keepsake trunk.” I looked at the board, which I’d set on the end table next to the couch. “Is that what this is all about? Some old board?”
“Jenna,” Simon said. “The Board of the Winds is—you don’t know anything about it, do you?” he asked. “I can hardly credit it.”
“Credit what?” I said, trying not to yell. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about, and I don’t even know who you really are.” I picked up the board and clutched it to my chest. “If you’re here to try and buy it, it’s not for sale.” I wondered why I suddenly felt so protective of it.
Simon held up his hands in surrender. “I have no intention of trying to buy it, Jenna. Nor do I wish to steal it from you, though there will be many people you encounter who would consider both—or worse.”
Exasperated, I clenched my teeth and carefully sounded out each word. “What … are … you … talking … about … ?”
“The Board of the Winds,” Simon said, “is an ancient magical artifact dating back to before the time of Christ.” He looked at it appraisingly. “It is also your inheritance.”
I shook my head. “The Board of the Winds is my inheritance? Like I told you, I found the board in my grandmother’s keepsake trunk. Wouldn’t an inheritance come in the form of a check or a letter or a package or something?” I realized I was starting to shout and tried to calm myself.
“What,” I repeated, “in the world are you talking about?”
Simon stood up and said, “I’ll be right back.” Then he turned and went quickly up the stairs. Amazed, I listened as he made his way all the up to the attic, then returned several moments later with the case I’d found the board in. He set it down on the table. “Touch it,” he said.
Keeper of the Winds Page 3
