Winterhouse

by Ben Guterson

  “Have you seen Freddy?” Elizabeth asked Mrs. Trumble in the afternoon when she ran into her near the candy kitchen.

  “I think he may have gone snowshoeing with a group,” she said, “but I can’t be sure.”

  Elizabeth was positive Freddy was avoiding her and decided to leave him alone for now, though she did go to her room and wrote him a note with the Vigenère Cipher. It said: T’a yzfxj. (Keyword = log). She guessed he probably wouldn’t even need the keyword to figure out it said “I’m sorry.” The thought that he had gone to have some fun outdoors without her made her feel awful, and she considered once again that she had handled things badly the night before. I should have told him a few days ago I still had The Book, she thought, and I shouldn’t have forced him to go to the library. Freddy had been her first really good friend, and now she had upset him because she’d had to have things her way.

  She went to the portrait gallery and studied the painting of Nestor Falls with the coded message—unbreakable, Elizabeth was beginning to feel certain, unless she kept A Guide for Children and it divulged the keyword—displayed on the book in his lap; and then she spent two hours working on the puzzle with Mr. Wellington and Mr. Rajput, found seven pieces that fit into the enormous blue sky, and even studied the antique box that had contained the puzzle pieces for so many years. The picture was dramatic and scenic, an enormous temple set at the foot of a mountain peak. She noticed something, as well, that she hadn’t focused on before: Some letters were carved into the doorway to the temple, though of course they weren’t in English and she had no idea what they said. Still, they intrigued her.

  “It’s a beautiful painting, isn’t it?” Mr. Wellington said, standing beside her as she studied the box. “That color of blue is so rich, so lovely. Indigo is what it is, almost a purple.” He closed his eyes, inhaled; he seemed to be picturing himself on the steps of the temple, taking in the mountain air.

  “They say Nestor Falls spent two years there,” Mr. Rajput said wearily. “Can you imagine? The cold and the damp. The lonely months snowed in, so far away from anything.”

  “He actually lived at this temple?” Elizabeth said, examining the picture on the puzzle box more closely. She thought of what might have brought him there, what made him stay at the place—assuming the story was true.

  Mr. Wellington glared at Mr. Rajput. “That is the tale as we have understood it,” he said. “He was an interesting man, by all accounts. A scholar.”

  “I’ve often thought,” Mr. Rajput said, “how odd it is that this puzzle even exists. I mean, who would create such an enormous puzzle of such an obscure place, a place where Mr. Nestor Falls himself learned all of his magical hokum and nonsense—”

  “Oh, enough, please!” said Mr. Wellington. “It is Christmas Day! Can we not have some peace?”

  Mr. Rajput shrugged sadly. “As you request,” he said.

  Elizabeth found herself thinking of Freddy once again, even as she listened to the two old men bicker. She had hoped, as the day passed, that she would feel a little less miserable about Freddy being upset; but she was still just as unhappy as she’d been right after he’d yelled at her.

  “Have you two always been friends?” she said.

  Mr. Wellington looked to Mr. Rajput as if uncertain what to say. The two men eyed each other; it seemed to Elizabeth each was daring the other to speak first.

  “We share an interest in puzzles, among other things,” Mr. Rajput said, staring at Mr. Wellington.

  “And our wives get along very well,” Mr. Wellington said, staring right back at Mr. Rajput.

  Mr. Rajput cleared his throat, began shuffling some puzzle pieces on the table before him. “So we tend to work things out, in good time,” he said softly.

  “Yes,” Mr. Wellington said. “He comes around, sees the logic in good, sound reasoning.”

  Mr. Rajput shot him a look and then returned to his pieces.

  “We go back many years,” Mr. Wellington said, “and we ‘puzzle well,’ as they say.”

  Elizabeth pointed to the writing above the temple doorway on the box. “I wonder what that means,” she said.

  Mr. Rajput looked down his nose at the picture. “That?” he said. “Someone once told us it’s some sort of Hindu word.”

  Mr. Wellington leaned forward, examined the box. “It means something like ‘faith,’ I believe,” he said.

  Elizabeth put a hand to her shirt and touched the pendant on the chain around her neck. She was certain it was her imagination, but the disc of marble felt just the slightest bit warm against her skin.

  * * *

  Later, when Elizabeth was in her room and preparing for dinner, she made a new entry in her notebook: “Things Never to Do in a Library,” and wrote “Never go to one at midnight and call out the names of creepy people!” And then she added “Never be too bossy with a friend.”

  It wasn’t until dinnertime, with no sign of anything strange afoot and no evidence of anything amiss in the library—which had been closed all day for the holiday—that Elizabeth began to feel less anxious about what had happened the night before. She sat at a different table for dinner, with people she hadn’t met before; Freddy seemed to have disappeared. Throughout the meal she kept looking at all of the Winterhouse guests talking and enjoying themselves.

  She headed to Freddy’s workshop after dinner and, pushing the door open slowly, found him inside working on his WonderLog.

  “Go away,” he said, without looking up.

  Elizabeth stood in the doorway. “I’m sorry about last night.”

  “Go away,” he repeated.

  She backed out of the room altogether but stood with the door still slightly ajar. “I just wanted to say one thing,” she said. “I was thinking that maybe we just imagined it all, or maybe it was just a coincidence. Like maybe the chimes knocked something loose and made a book fall. Or some sort of night-light came on. Maybe we just spooked ourselves.”

  Elizabeth listened. Freddy was tapping on something, probably one of his metal canisters, and she wasn’t sure he had heard her. She stood for a long moment.

  “Please, go,” he said. Elizabeth closed the door and left him alone.

  * * *

  Late that night in her room, Elizabeth worked up the nerve to remove A Guide for Children from her drawer.

  If there isn’t a new silver letter, she thought, I’ll march right down to the library, drop the book in the return chute, and be done with it.

  She held The Book with both hands, sat on the edge of her bed, and placed it on her lap. Slowly, warily, she lifted the cover and opened it to the waiting page, where she found “THE KEY IS” before her. She closed her eyes and sighed.

  I can’t return it yet, she thought. I’m getting closer to learning the keyword.

  She stood, set The Book on the edge of her desk, and looked at it intently, the way you watch someone who’s doing a card trick to make certain you don’t overlook a single detail. Her mind began to clear. She allowed her vision to go soft and blurry as she stared at The Book. From somewhere deep inside her she felt a slight tremor, and although she kept herself as calm as possible, she realized this was some stirring of the feeling. This was the seventh or eighth time now she’d tried this very same exercise. On each attempt, she’d hoped to draw the sensation up from out of herself—and on this night it seemed to be working.

  Elizabeth kept her eyes on The Book and allowed her mind to remain as tranquil as possible. All at once, the feeling welled up fully within her—only this time, rather than something shocking that ambushed her, it was contained, something she possessed. On this occasion—for the first time—the feeling hadn’t controlled her; she had controlled it.

  The Book gave a tiny hop as it scooted one of its corners over the edge of the desk. Elizabeth jerked her body upright in astonishment as her eyes focused and her mind snapped to attention.

  “It moved!” she said aloud. She sat staring at The Book before leaning one way and then the oth
er to glance beneath the corner of it that now extended beyond the rim of the desk. There was no doubt that The Book had shifted position.

  CHAPTER 25

  A FEW PAGES IN THE ENORMOUS JOURNAL

  WAGES

  WAVES

  WIVES

  WINES

  WINDS

  FINDS

  By late morning the next day, after Elizabeth had spent two hours sledding by herself, she returned to the library. The Book—how she’d caused it to move and the slowly developing string of silver letters—was nearly all she’d been thinking about since she’d awakened that morning. Although she was eager to repeat the exercise of the evening before, she told herself she would wait until evening to attempt it again—the incident needed time to work through her, and so she decided to pass as normal a day as possible.

  “Merry Day-After-Christmas!” Leona said from behind her desk when Elizabeth entered the library.

  “Summer’s here!” Miles cawed from his cage in the back room. “Summer’s here!”

  “Hi, Leona,” Elizabeth said. And, more loudly, “Hello to you, too, Miles!”

  “Hard to believe the big day has come and gone,” Leona said.

  Elizabeth glanced around, letting her eyes linger on the top floor where she’d seen the crimson light two nights before. “Did the library make it through Christmas okay?” she asked, as lightly as possible.

  “Some books had toppled off the shelves way up in the reference room when I checked things yesterday,” Leona said, “but that sort of thing happens from time to time in this old hotel.” She waved it off. “We’re still open for business!”

  They caught up for a few minutes over tea in Leona’s office before Elizabeth said, “Remember a few nights ago when we were all talking in Norbridge’s living room?”

  “Why, of course.”

  “When I mentioned I’d seen the Hiemses talking to Gracella’s picture, it seemed to surprise you and Norbridge, and I’ve been wondering about Gracella ever since.”

  “What makes you interested in her, dear?” Leona said. She suddenly became very serious.

  “I don’t know exactly. I was just thinking about that picture. And then I heard Mr. Wellington and Mr. Rajput talk about her, saying she got interested in magic. So I was just wondering.”

  Leona looked away. “It’s a disquieting fact about the Falls family that Gracella was always very … odd.”

  “Odd how?”

  “When she was a little girl she wasn’t so bad, apparently. I didn’t know her then, of course, but that’s what Norbridge says. But as she got older she began to change, began to have a fascination for reading about, well … dark magic. Spirits and powers and all those sorts of things. A lot of very dangerous investigation. I met her when she was fifteen.”

  “Strange bird!” Miles cawed. “Strange bird!”

  Elizabeth laughed, but Leona remained serious.

  “Strange bird, indeed,” Leona said. She took a sip of tea and sat for a moment. “I think the real problem was she became jealous of Norbridge. Their father wanted him to take over Winterhouse—which, as you see, is exactly what happened. I think Gracella felt their father was playing favorites. When she turned eighteen, she left. Took a few possessions one winter night and left without saying a word. No one even saw her go. It seemed she’d just disappeared.”

  “Has anyone seen her since?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Never. But over the years we’ve heard some strange things.”

  Elizabeth waited for Leona to continue.

  “We thought she was just a fairly regular if disagreeable young woman who became estranged from her family, but it seems her hatred for Winterhouse and Norbridge and all of the Falls family just sat inside her and grew. We heard she traveled to many places to learn more about magic—someone once told us she wanted to learn the secret of immortality so she could live forever. She even married an older man named Aleister Winters. Strange coincidence, isn’t it? Her name became Gracella Winters.”

  “I saw that on the family tree,” Elizabeth said. “Where it says she was an ‘enigma.’”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Leona sighed. “An enigma, for sure. Anyway, there you have it, the whole strange story. According to rumors, she passed away at least twenty-five or thirty years ago. We don’t know what happened to her husband and, as far as we know, she never had any children.” She gave Elizabeth a sad smile. “Goodness, I hope I haven’t frightened you!”

  Elizabeth didn’t know what to say or make of what she’d heard. Before she could think of anything, Leona pointed to a lectern at the back of her office. There, sitting open upon a reading stand, lay a thick volume that Elizabeth hadn’t noticed before. It reminded her of a dictionary.

  “You seem very interested in the history of this old hotel,” she said. “I should have told you about this book before. It’s a one-of-a-kind, personal account of Winterhouse written by one of Norbridge’s relatives, Marshall Falls. He was quite an eccentric, but, my, did he love to write!”

  Elizabeth eyed the thick journal. “That book looks huge.”

  “It’s his very own journal, filled with drawings and photographs. Everything you would ever want to know about Winterhouse is in there—at least from old Marshall’s unique perspective.”

  Elizabeth wanted to jump up and examine the book immediately. “You must have seen so many things here over the years. I can’t even imagine.”

  Leona nodded. “Winterhouse is a special place,” she said. “A very special place.”

  “Like what Norbridge said the other night? About how people like to come here?”

  “Exactly. But it’s more than that, I believe. Norbridge might not ever say this aloud, but I will. To me, Winterhouse isn’t just a place where people come to enjoy themselves or eat good meals or have fun. Certainly, it’s all of that—but it’s more, too. When people come here, they take something away with them, just like when you go to a beautiful museum or a wonderful park for the afternoon. At least that’s what I believe.”

  Elizabeth thought back to the way she’d felt her first evening at Winterhouse, after she’d been astounded by her initial view of the hotel and then the things Norbridge had shown her as he’d walked her to her room. Above all, she thought of how she’d felt when, during those first few minutes in Room 213, she’d parted the curtains and gazed out at Lake Luna and the mountains beyond.

  “I think I know what you mean,” she said.

  “I’m a very biased old librarian, I’ll confess,” Leona said. “But I believe Winterhouse is one of those places in this world that isn’t just to be enjoyed, but that actually increases the amount of goodness that exists.” She widened her eyes as if to make light, just a tiny bit, of how momentous it all sounded—although her point had been absolutely sincere. “So, hooray for Winterhouse, in my estimation!”

  “Norbridge sure has a lot to keep him busy,” Elizabeth said.

  “He does an amazing job.”

  Elizabeth looked down, plucked at the sleeve of her sweater. She was thinking about Freddy again and how, maybe, she had been the one to cause the difficulties between them. “You and Norbridge have been friends all these years?” she said, and Leona nodded. “But did you ever disagree about anything? Like, have fights or arguments?”

  Leona let out a small laugh. “Well, of course, dear,” she said. “That’s par for the course. Two people will never think exactly alike, no matter how much they care for each other.” She hesitated, waited a moment for Elizabeth to speak, and then went on: “But we always work things out because we care about each other, and Norbridge is the best friend I ever could have hoped for.”

  Leona glanced through the door of her office. A woman was standing by the card catalog looking confused.

  “I’d better go assist my customers,” she said as she stood to walk out. She pointed to the thick journal on the stand behind her. “But feel free to delve into that old book.”

  * * *

  Eliza
beth set a small step stool in front of the reading stand, perched herself on it, and began to examine Marshall’s book. It was enormous—over five hundred pages—and entirely handwritten, though professionally bound, like some old Bible or ancient encyclopedia. A Personal History of the Winterhouse Hotel was written on the facing page in an ornate, meticulous style, and beneath it, “By Marshall Falls, Inhabitant.”

  Elizabeth turned to Chapter One and began to read.

  For millennia the windswept shores of Lake Luna sat bare and open to the vicissitudes of the indifferent natural forces of nature, unvisited by man or woman or child or anyone at all, awaiting the coming of that illustrious supernova of his generation and all others, my grand-uncle Nestor Falls. It was Nestor himself who, upon seeing Lake Luna for the first time declared, “I will build a hotel beside that lake,” and then proceeded to do so, in answer to his own prophecy, as though responding to a promise he had made to himself to fulfill something he had indicated he would do.

  Another weird book, Elizabeth thought. She kept reading, however, found herself three pages in before she realized she was hopelessly lost trying to follow a tangled story about Nestor Falls, a wounded caribou, a lost crate of long underwear, and a wandering barber. She began thumbing through the book.

  Two hundred pages in, she found a section about Gracella and learned she had been something of a recluse and a very unpleasant girl—apparently she’d run away once when she was thirteen, and then returned after several days with no explanation of where she’d been; and another time, three years later, she’d had an altercation with a hotel guest who accused her of stealing jewelry that, indeed, turned up in Gracella’s room but that she claimed to know nothing about. When she’d been old enough to leave Winterhouse, she vanished without a trace one winter night after a heated argument with her parents. “Her cabin remained abandoned and untouched, even for years afterwards,” Marshall noted, explaining that Gracella’s father had had a small log cabin built for her along the western shore of Lake Luna in an attempt to provide a quiet haven to sort through her confusion as she passed through her teen years; but, apparently, it had not helped. “It was her interest in things of a magical nature,” Marshall wrote, “that seemed to tip her even more over to the difficult side and made her a difficult person with whom to have dealings. Why, there was one occasion I recall when I had some Easter candy—”