“What does the clue say?”
She looked at the other paper. “‘The foundation has nearly washed away from under this building. Journey forth to the place you have been to before, if you’re willing.’”
“Huh,” Pierce said, soaking in the words. “‘The foundation has nearly washed away.’”
“Do you know what François was talking about?”
“I believe so.”
Taisia flipped the sheet over. “There is more. ‘In the room where the troupe slept, another clue is kept.’”
“Bloody hell,” Pierce grumbled. “Why the rhymes?”
“‘Look for a board matching none and learn the next challenge you must overcome.’” She lowered the clue. “What does that mean?”
“Not sure yet.” He pulled the map from his jacket pocket and unfolded it. “I wonder.”
As he studied the areas, he strained to recall. He was suddenly taken many ticks backwards in time to when he was a child, traveling through the country. He remembered seeing water.
“Where are we?” he had asked his mother.
“This is Vinkeveense Plassen,” she had told him.
“There,” Pierce said, placing his finger down on the name.
“It is not another cemetery, is it?”
“No,” he assured. “A lake.”
“Where are we to go once we reach it?”
He folded the map and crammed it into his pocket. “I was five when we went there, but I’m sure our next stop is a house.”
“A house?”
“Aye. We stayed in it overnight on our way to taking Grandmother Fey to François. I vaguely remember where, but from what I recall, it won’t be hard to spot.” He headed for the horse. “Let’s get out of this bloody boneyard, eh?”
Chapter Twelve
Birthplace
Eilidh stepped outside Indigo Peachtree’s cottage, her belly full of delicious home-cooked food. The Toy- maker knew his way around the kitchen, indeed. She closed her eyes and breathed in the sweet country air. Every time she enjoyed something pleasant, such as the clean air, good food, the feel of making love to Archie—she appreciated it as if it were her first time. Sometimes she wondered if this was how young children felt when experiencing delightful new discoveries. She didn’t think much about her bygone days of childhood, for they were just an empty void with nothing there to remember. When Archie queried about her childhood, she claimed she simply couldn’t recall any of it. Archie told her it was strange she had no recollection, as if her life literally hadn’t started until she applied to work as a maid for the Norwich family when she was sixteen. Stranger still, Eilidh never speculated on why that was. It simply didn’t concern her. Nevertheless, she took nothing for granted. She cherished all her wonderful experiences, especially the people in her life—even the outlaws.
She slowly exhaled, remembering the dream she had had on the trip to the cottage. Nona was crying for her son, and as she spoke of her worries, Eilidh saw things. Mostly the images were shavings cluttered together, like looking through bifocals made of kaleidoscope glass. Even so, she heard herself talking to the weeping mother. The voice in her head, though, sounded completely different from her own.
Everything will be all right because it has to be.
It must have been a dream, for no one mentioned anything about it when they arrived at the cottage. Yet, the dream felt solid. Nona had slept for the remainder of the trip, and when she awoke, she was in high spirits.
Everything would be fine. Yes, Eilidh believed it until her entire body locked in place and her mouth dried. The sweet country air suddenly turning to smog in her lungs.
The throng of red uniformed soldiers rode towards her and halted their mounts. A dark, exotic man kept his eyes set on her.
“We have come for Jasper and Nona Landcross.”
* * *
The ride to Vinkeveense Plassen stretched on for hours, the sun never burning through the rain-swollen clouds. Taisia was grateful the storm hadn’t started.
A massive body of water, appearing as wide as an ocean, gradually came into view over the landscape.
“We’re at the lake now,” Pierce announced, pulling on the reins. “We should walk a little while.”
“Why? Are we close?”
“I don’t think we’re too far off, but our friend here is exhausted.”
He dismounted and reached up for Taisia. It was the same kind gesture he had offered at the cemetery. One she had not been prepared for, and she had leaped off in the split-second after she noticed. This time, she accepted. He grasped her by the waist and lowered her down. His gentle grip fired up her skin, every inch of her tingling with desire.
Perhaps the erotic rush stemmed from the fact that it had been ages since she’d been with a man. No, something was different. He was different. He was a gentleman, patient, tolerant, beautiful, and most of all, he actually showed a trait she valued most in a person: intelligence. It wasn’t much, but it was there, nonetheless. There was never a dull moment with Pierce, even when saying nothing at all. She could almost imagine them as an old couple, quietly sitting together on a porch somewhere and being completely content.
He smiled at her and switched his focus to the horse. “Let’s get you something besides filthy fountain muck to drink, eh?” he said to the mount, leading it toward the lake.
She beamed at his compassion.
As the animal drank its fill, Pierce cupped some water in his hands and raised it to his lips. She came up alongside him while he scouted the lake. He pointed east while rising to his full height. “I think the house is in that direction.”
“It’s by the lake?”
He snorted. “You can say that.”
They traveled alongside the water’s edge. The day darkened as evening approached, and the clouds could no longer hold in the rain. The damp, chilly stroll irritated her.
“We should find a barn or some kind of shelter,” Pierce suggested in a peevish tone that matched her mood. Clearly, he was also aggravated. “We’ll search again tomorrow.”
She was about to agree when she spied something in the distance. “What do you think that is?”
Pierce raised his head and saw it. “Huh.” He mounted up and held a hand out to her. “Let’s go have a look-see, eh?”
The horse trotted toward the object that eventually took the shape of a house.
“There it is!” Pierce exclaimed zealously.
“That’s the house?” she asked with a grimace. “Is it sitting in the water?”
The two-story home sat at an angle atop a small, rocky island tethered to the land by a narrow, stony path. The place appeared to have been abandoned for years, its only residents were the noisy pelicans perched on the rooftop. Traces of white paint speckled the exterior.
“Aye. Charming, isn’t it? Let’s get inside before the rain really starts coming down.”
They dismounted and helped guide the horse over the uneven pathway. The door wasn’t locked, but the rusted hinges were reluctant to move. Pierce slammed his shoulder against the door until it eventually caved in.
“Ouch!” he complained, holding his arm. “Bloody hell.”
The drab, hollowed-out space reeked of mold. Green algae grew at the bottom of the walls. The steps leading to the second floor were either broken or almost completely rotted. It worried Taisia as she led the horse inside.
“Do we need to go upstairs?”
Pierce slid his hand off his arm and looked to his left.
“The clue said in the room where the troupe slept,” he reminded her, heading into a spacious area. “If François was referring to the night we stayed here, then this is where we ought to be looking.” He paused a beat. “Odd. Wonder how he would’ve known that?” He shrugged. “Maybe he’s been here before.”
She sighed with relief and followed him in, leaving their mount in the foyer.
The other alcove was empty save for a moldy old couch against the wall. A large hearth
was located directly ahead with a mantel that shelved nothing more than inches of dust.
“‘Look for a board matching none and learn the next challenge you must overcome,’” she cited.
“Aye,” Pierce said, looking to the floor. “I believe I understand what it means now.”
He crouched and brushed away dirt from the hardwood flooring. Taisia did the same. There was a clumping noise coming from the doorway. The horse entered and stopped. Taisia grinned with amusement as it peered at them.
“There’s no grass or hay in here for you,” Pierce told the steed, rising to go search somewhere else.
Taisia snorted and continued looking.
There were many floorboards, all covered with dust and grit. Her eyes itched and she sneezed a lot. Her hands became so dusty she needed to rub them clean with her cape. Taisia was about to take a break when she brushed grit away from a board near the wall. Underneath the dirt, was a glossy, stained floorboard. It was certainly notable amongst the other tarnished and rotted-out boards. After brushing away the rest of the dust, Taisia discovered it wasn’t nailed down, and so pushed down on one end, causing the other end to pop right up. She checked underneath the board and uncovered a hollow space where the soil had been scooped out. Cradled in the hole was a decorative box with a piece of paper resting on top of it.
She stood with the items in hand. “Pierce. I think I found it.”
He came over and took the box. It was constructed of black chromate and decorated with a slender red-painted iron rod stretched across the top with a gear on either side and a gear on a spoke in the back. Below the rod were individual numbers under plates of glass, two singular digits and a year: 1700.
Pierce tried opening it, but it was locked.
“Figures,” he muttered.
“‘My sister,’” Taisia read from the paper. “‘for those unfamiliar to you, this will be no easy task, but, for you, it is a simple deed, for only your birth date can unlock the box, and you can then proceed.’” She lowered it. “Do you know your mother’s date of birth?”
“Aye,” he answered, studying the box before turning a side gear. “We used to brew her favorite tea in the morning every year for her.”
He smiled at the memory and then frowned. Taisia noticed the change in his eyes, and a touch of gloom pricked her heart. She surmised that he must be thinking of all the lost years he’d missed with his family.
When he slowly spun the gear, one of the singular digits moved up and another number rolled underneath in its place. He set the month to “4” and then revolved the gear on the other end and set the day to “3.” He then moved the gear behind the box until it fell on the year 1795.
The contraption clicked and the lid opened a hair.
“Well that was easy enough, I reckon.”
“Da. And also, we’re not standing in a mausoleum.”
Pierce lifted the lid. “Indeed.”
Inside was a key with a very long shaft. It rested on two more pieces of paper.
“Huh?” Pierce said, taking out the key. “I wonder what this unlocks.” He pocketed it in his jacket and looked at the first note. “‘As nomads that wander the earth, most usually never know exactly where they were born. When Mother was nineteen, she and the old troupe were passing through when they stopped for the night in this house. Mother was with child and she went into labor and gave birth to you in this very room.’”
He paused a moment to take that one in.
“Is that all it says?” Taisia wondered.
“No.” Pierce read on. “‘P.S. Take the shells.’”
He closed the box and studied the lid where a pair of shiny brass shells, about three inches long, were fastened. They were flat outlines in the exact shapes of snail shells. The curvy tops had jagged ends, resembling cogs of a gear. At the center of them were short, thick, cross-shaped pegs.
Taisia took hold of the decorations, which was difficult, since they were thinner than a coin. She pried them up from the paste that secured them. Once she peeled them off, she held them both in her palm, looking confused.
“I have no bloody idea,” Pierce admitted when she eyed him. He looked around. “So, Mum was born in here, eh? I wonder why Grandma didn’t mention it to her when we passed on through this way. Why the big secret?”
Taisia wished she had an answer to give. “What about the clue?”
Pierce shook his head, pulling himself out of his little moment. “‘Journey to Koudhoorn, then north into Bergsham Forest. Suspended from the tree with the door closed is a house of the smallest.’” He lowered the note. “Grand.”
The clouds had fully opened themselves up by the time they got a fire going, the sound of crashing water enveloping them all around. They allowed the horse to stay inside. Pierce unsaddled the mount and pulled the saddle blanket off. He carried it to the couch they had dragged over to the fireplace.
“Afraid this is the best we have,” he confessed, spreading the cover as far over as he could. “I’ll see about bartering the box for some supplies in the next town we reach.”
“The fire will not last long,” Taisia said, tossing in the final stitch of wood. “It is a shame I cannot burn the blasted mourning dress.”
“You looked smashing in it.”
“Smashing? I do not understand.”
Pierce rose to his full height and began rubbing behind his neck. “Erm. It . . . erm . . . it means you looked good in it. Before you put the veil on, that is.”
“I did not look good with the veil?” she asked, her Russian accent deepening.
“No. I just mean that when I first saw you wearing the dress, before the veil covered your face, you . . .” He trailed off, falling back into his babbling self again. He shrugged. “Go ahead.”
“What?”
“Burn it. We’re well on our way in getting the inheritance. Once we have it, I’ll buy you a better disguise.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
She thought about it. Granted, they had located this clue, but what about the others? After all, they were only able to find it because he had been to the house as a child. What would she do if they found a clue he could not solve? Wait with hardly any money while Pierce left to fetch his mother for help? That could take days. And what if he was captured while retrieving her? If she burned her only clothes to hide from the British soldiers, how could she return to England if they failed? The other option would be for him to steal funds or a new disguise, but the threat of being arrested was too great. She could not allow him to take such a risk.
“I’ll hold onto it. Just in case.”
Pierce merely gave another shrug. “Hungry?”
They ate the rest of the breakfast food they had brought from the hotel. Pierce offered her the couch while he sat on the floor, his back leaning against the arm of it.
“How does it feel to be in the room where your mother was born?” she asked him, her cape wrapped around her.
Pierce looked around and said simply, “Surreal.”
“Where were you born?”
“Not entirely sure. I never asked my folks, and I don’t think Joaquin ever knew.”
“Why do you suppose your uncle did all this?”
“I’m guessing he wants to lead Mum to something other than the inheritance.”
“Her real father?”
He nodded and shoved the last piece of croissant into his mouth. “Aye. Grandmother Fey must’ve told François where he was in order for him to tell Mum. We’re either going to the man himself or to his grave.”
She let out a miserable groan. “I hope we do not need to open another coffin.”
“Me, too, love.”
Even with a mouth full of food, his soft voice was so pleasant. Pierce reached into his bag and brought out a book.
“Where did you get that?”
He looked at her guiltily. “I have a confession, darling. I spent a little extra on this back in Hague.”
&n
bsp; She didn’t care about the spending. It was what he bought that surprised her.
“You read books?”
He scowled at the question. Apparently, her shock had made her speak offensively.
“I do.” He sounded miffed. “Quite often, actually. A true bibliophile, I am.”
She felt her face heat with embarrassment.
“What is it about?” she quickly asked.
Pierce returned his gaze to the book.
“Charles Dickens’s Oliver Twist. I finally located me a copy of the next installment published a few years ago. It’s about an orphan boy named Oliver who is used as child labor inside of a workhouse. He later runs off and falls into the criminal underworld of London.”
“Sounds like a sad story.”
“It is,” he agreed. “The silver lining, though, is that Dickens did a brilliant job in casting a light on what has been happening for far too long.”
“How do you mean?”
He adjusted himself to face her. “Sometimes, in order to grab people’s attention, certain things have to be bloody well shoved right into their faces. This book was the shock treatment that brought awareness to the gritty details of the practice of using children as slave labor.”
“And you can relate to this novel?”
Pierce nodded. “Aye. When Joaquin and me were taken to the orphanage, we were forced to work at a cotton mill factory. Small youngsters, such as myself, were stationed at the spinning mule, repairing broken threads. One day, some lads and I were ordered to crawl under the machine to clean it. A worker, holding the break to the large metal carriage, accidently let it loose and a few children were crushed to death.”
Taisia gasped.
“That’s when Joaquin and I escaped and left London altogether.”
“That is terrible.”
Pierce shrugged, turning away to look at the book. “I’ll admit I didn’t have it as rough as ol’ Oliver. What I admire most about the story is that it exposes what people are capable of doing to each other, and how, given the environment a person is brought up in, it can shape how they turn out as adults.”
Taisia breathed in deeply. The real Pierce Landcross had finally shone through. For reasons unknown to her, he acted like a childish fool. But, outside of that, he had expressed genuine insight into the world around him.
The Reunion Page 16
