The Accomac County sheriff sighed behind the wheel of his cruiser and watched the old Post Office Van pull slowly up to the only stoplight in town for the third time. He picked up his radio and called up dispatch.
"Go ahead, Sheriff."
"Initiating a vehicle challenge on a old mail carrier, paint job's seen better days, license Bravo-Charlie-Charlie, Niner-Niner-Five."
"Roger that, Sheriff. Time 1421. Be nice," the feminine voice admonished knowingly.
Sheriff Tillman sighed. Up to this moment he'd really been enjoying listening to the new sedan's AC whir out ice cold air. It was far too late in the season for the Yankee Terrorists Invasion. Whuffing out a short breath, he dragged himself out of the artificially cooled squad car and into the oppressive furnace that was late July along the Virginia coast. He walked across the intersection of Highway 241 and Marina Street to the van's driverside door.
"Can I see a driver's license and registration, proof of insurance?" he asked without preamble as the occupant cranked the window down.
Tillman leaned casually toward the window, bracing an arm on either side while the occupant dug the items out of a visor storage area. He cast an eye about the interior. Satisfied that the vehicle looked innocent enough, he leaned back.
"Did I pass?" asked the driver, handing over the documentation.
"Well, let's say I don't think you're a real terrorist," Tillman drawled, comparing the picture with the driver's face and checking the information on the cards against each other.
"Just worse, right? A tourist," the driver guessed.
"Something like that," Tillman agreed. "I don't think I'm risking a lot to bet you're lost, Mr. Hardiman."
"Is that because I've driven through town three times now or do you just figure that anyone with New York tags is lost?"
Tillman shrugged non-commitally.
"Six of one, half a dozen of another," he hedged.
"It was the old men at that gas station, wasn't it? They turned me in, didn't they?" the driver joked.
"Well, you can never be too careful, driving an old postal van. You don't got any automatic weapons in there, do you?"
"This far from Jersey I didn't think I'd need any."
"Probably not," the sheriff agreed. "So, are you lost?"
"I am," the driver confessed. "I'm also a writer."
The Sheriff gave the man a look that implied he wasn't sure which was worse.
"Anything I might've read?" the sheriff asked doubtfully.
"I write the Jack Gutter series," Hardiman reached into a briefcase at his side and produced the only Jack Gutter book to make it to hardback. It had been the Doubleday book of the month about two years ago. The frayed dust jacket had a picture of one Thomas Hardiman and two large Black Labs.
Sheriff Tillman studied the picture before handing the book back. "Nice dogs. What brings you to Wachapreague?"
"I'm looking for Isla Cooper, Cooper Realty. I'm planning on renting a place to finish up a book I've been working on."
"Cooper Realty is located behind the motel here," he pointed across the street. "I think you'll find Ms. Cooper in the motel, though. She and her sister own it."
"Thank you, Sheriff."
"Welcome to Wachapreague, Mr. Hardiman," the sheriff offered affably.
"Thank you, and it's Tom," he shook the sheriff's hand and waited for him to step back before putting the van into gear. He pulled carefully into the dirt lot of the motel and parked.
A couple of hours later he was safely installed in a small fishing cabin near the edge of town and right on the water. He unloaded the van and took himself on a self-guided tour of the area. Heading away from the marsh he found the paved roads dwindling away to dirt roads, at first wide and then narrowing as he followed them. Along one such road he found an old house; two-storied, covered in plants and vines. He parked and got out for a closer look. The house was old; the porch ran the length of the front. Signs tacked to the columns warned trespassers away. He walked around the back of the house, toward a dilapidated shed. On his way back he was met by a young woman.
"You lost?"
"I've been getting that a lot lately," he confessed. "I'm Tom Hardiman, I was just looking around."
"Tom Hardiman," she repeated. "Why does that name sound familiar?" She snapped her fingers. "Thomas Hardiman? The writer?"
He was expectedly pleased that she recognized him.
"You're renting a place from my sister, right?" she continued.
He laughed. "For a second there I thought maybe you'd read some of my stuff."
She walked past him toward the old pen and shed. "This isn't it, is it?" she thumbed back at the rundown old house.
"Isn't what?" he echoed.
"The place you rented?"
"No," he laughed. "I took a cabin near town."
She checked the pen and came back toward him. "I have."
"You have what?" he was confused.
"Read some of your stuff. You don't put your picture on your books."
"It was on Half-past Thirteen Hundred," he pointed out.
"Was that a Jack Gutter book?"
"Yeah."
"I haven't read any of the Jack Gutter stuff," she confessed. "I read The Testament of Angels and What Lies Buried There. I've bought a couple of Jack Gutter books. Just haven't had time to read them yet."
"They don't appeal to everyone's tastes," he excused knowingly.
She smiled uneasily. He continued to look at her.
"Okay, okay," she admitted. "I just couldn't get into them. I did try. That slick detective kinda thing just isn't my style."
"I'm working on another one."
"Another Jack Gutter?"
"Actually it's something of a sequel to What Lies Buried There. Remember the kid in the story? The central character is his son, his trying to settle the ghosts of his father and grandfather."
"I'll read it," she announced decisively. "Is it set in Virginia again?"
"Yeah, and I'll make sure you get a copy. Do you think you're sister would mind if I went in and looked around a bit?"
"It's posted," she hedged.
"I'll be careful," he promised.
"Might as well," she sighed. "If I say no, you'll just come back some other time and do it. It's really safe enough, but I'd watch where I put my feet. I'll be out here for a little while longer if you need anything."
"Thanks, I didn't get your name--"
"Anise."
"Nice to meet you," he grinned.
Nice grin, Anise thought as he climbed through the vines to the front porch. "Hey," she called.
He turned back.
"Want the keys?" she tossed them up to him.
An hour later she found him in the attic sitting next to an old steamer trunk and a stack of wire-bound composition books.
"Find something interesting?"
She startled him and he jumped.
"Journals, from the guy who lived here," he explained.
"Old Man Montrose?" she looked decidedly skeptical. "He never struck me as the journal type."
"You knew him?"
"Sure; when my sister and I were little kids our dad rented the land out here. Old Man Montrose would let us climb his trees and chase the goats around. He had this huge herd of goats. He died about twenty years ago. There was something wrong with his face. The kids in town said he was the bogeyman. His face was all messed up; it really scared my sister the first time we saw him."
"But not you?"
"Naw; I just thought it made him look really sad. You know, I've never been up here."
"Do you know anything else about him?"
Anise sat down on some boxes. "Not really; I know his wife died. I think she died right after their kid was born. There was a bad flood that year and she drowned. Maybe that's why he was so sad." She trailed off, lost in thought.
"After that?" Hardiman prompted.
"Huh?" Anise shook out of her reverie. "Oh, um... the kid's girlfriend got pregnant and Montrose hit the roof. It was a terrible scandal for Wachapreague. The girlfriend's father was screaming that his kid wasn't gonna marry the kid of a freak and, well, you get the picture. The two of them ran off when they were like sixteen and no one ever heard from them again. At least that's what my dad said."
"Your father knew the son?"
"Yeah, they were in school together. I can't remember that guy's name." She pushed the lid off of the box next to her and rummaged the contents. "Wow! Old Man Montrose was in the Army."
"Really?" Hardiman left the stacks of books to join her.
"Here's his discharge papers - from the Army hospital in Aberdeen." She handed them over and Hardiman looked through them.
Anise lifted the carefully folded uniform out of the box and stopped, staring at the picture underneath it. She laid the garment gently across the lid of the box and picked up the picture.
"Anybody you know?" she asked Hardiman, turning the frame to face him.
Hardiman stared back at his own face. The gentle eyes, full lips, the curve of his jaw. It was himself fifteen years ago. The young man in the WWII uniform gazed back serenely, undisturbed by the similarities in features. He reached out a hesitant hand, touching the image reverently. Anise peered from behind the picture.
"You guys are twins." She lay the picture across her knees. "My dad died last year, he was sixty-two."
"Mine died six months ago; he never talked about my grandfather. After he died I found his birth certificate when I was going through his things. It was stamped on the back Accomac County Courthouse."
"Why didn't you just come here and ask about him?"
"The only thing that my father ever told me about my grandfather was that he was a monster and I was better off never knowing him."
Anise drew a long breath. "I don't know. My dad first started bringing us out here with him after my mom died. He didn't have anywhere else to send us while he plowed and planted corn. I was pretty small and my sister used to climb this huge tree in his backyard. I couldn't make it, wound up falling on my butt a lot. Then one day I go over to the tree there are these pieces of two-by-four boards nailed to the tree. Not big pieces, just big enough for a little foot to get a grip on." Anise stood up. "I'm gonna take off. Drop the keys by the hotel when you leave, would you?"
Hardiman nodded, picking up the first of the journals and opening the yellowed cover.
THE JOURNALS
I am writing this down now as to keep the entire thing in my head. It had been six months since the Widow Rance had ceased to send her applicants to my door; a few more since my own applicant - a troubled young man named Daventry - had been struck down in the terrible storm that had raked over Peninsular Virginia, threatening to wash it clean or perhaps from the geographical regions of the Eastern Seaboard. If I had known that night how that storm would affect the remaining days of my life, I might have given in to its mad devices and let myself be washed into the Atlantic once and for all. The fury of the storm was not in the lightening nor the thunder, nor the torrents of rain, but rather in the soul-rending electricity it was charged with. It passed through the countryside, leaving in the wake myself - healed. Now not in a way as you might imagine, but healed right the same. My skin is still as scarred and ragged, my health is still as temperamental, but my soul is convalesced. It is at this revelation now that I realize I desire to commit this experience to pen and prose.
It is a story that began with the advent of Daventry's arrival in my life and by no means ends with his subsequent departure. The temperaments of Fate allow it to go on even now.
On the anniversary of my first and somewhat auspicious introduction to Daventry, I gathered my hat and best gentleman's coat and proceeded into town. The townsfolk do not care to see me - I am unsure if this is due solely to my appearance or if it is based in part on their own unwillingness to face the object of their contempt. I am a reminder of a time they want to forget, a walking advertisement of a war that destroyed far too many lives and families; a war that they so voraciously supported, urging their young sons and brothers to fight and defend an American way who's threat was long purported but never realized. I am a keepsake, a souvenir of the kinsmen they sent away with care packages, parades and miniature American flags, sons that never returned; a billboard of the horrors those young men faced before succumbing to fates those at home can neither imagine nor comprehend. They prefer me safely tucked away in my daddy's house where they have only to pity me, not associate with me. I have locked myself away from them for their comfort for the years I have been returned home but today I am opening the cages. For far too long had the guard been a prisoner, bound by the needs of society to safeguard those outside. And the goal of my great escape was a slice of apple pie from a diner near the town courthouse. I had often thought of it and today I would indulge in a slice of it. Perhaps I will have my own pity on the townsfolk and consume it outside by the courthouse pond, turned away from their eyes that do not want to look and cannot help but stare, like a crowd at a public execution or the scene of a disaster.
My arrival at the café was timely - it was a slow time of the day and only one or two others were dining in the restaurant. I entered through the rear doors - something I had decided in the last moments of my grand entrance, remembering a booth near the kitchen entry where I would be likely to eat in some sort of peace. Already I had heard the whispers and felt the stares accost my back as I had made my way through town. Finding myself here now was not the achievement I had anticipated and I no longer had the desire to march through the streets amid my own banners and spoils, the Roman General in grand Triumph, back from the wars. Pretending no heed to the looks I received from the cook or busboy, I made my way through the kitchen and achieved my purpose; the table in the diner. To my dismay, I found it occupied. A young woman dressed in a rumpled linen shirt and safari shorts; the kind I'd seen on British officers during the war. Her skin was darkened like rich coffee tinged with fresh cream. She glanced up at me with eyes the colours of the morning sky and though I steeled myself against the look of revulsion that would certainly follow, inwardly I cringed. Her eyes shifted to take in the balance of the diner, moving from my ruined face neither hurried nor dragged horrifically away. Having taken her stock of the room, she addressed me:
"Your pardon, " she solicited, "have I taken your table?"
I realized then that I must appear the idiot, standing by the table as though waiting for her to vacate.
"Not at all," I hastened to assure her. Her voice was completely void of contempt or discomfort and I was desperate to hear it again. Suddenly dumbfounded, I blurted out the first question coming to mind. "Are you new here?"
"I am passing through," she provided. "I had family near here."
"Had?" I prompted, regretting the inane words that seemed to be the only language I knew.
"My mother, she was buried earlier today."
"My condolences," I offered.
"Thank you, that is very kind thing to say."
Her voice held an otherworldly quality: though it relied lightly on the local regional accent there was more to it. The timbre was low and weighed carefully, as though each word she said were thought over and issued with studied deliberation. She was what my daddy would have called soft-spoken; her tone was so low as to actually make one strain to hear it, wanting to catch every elusive word.
"Were you very close?" I asked, feeling even more moronic. To my surprise she answered negatively.
"I had never met the woman, at least not at a time when I would have remembered her," she offered for clarity, though the statement did little to enlighten the topic.
Silence hung between us then; stretched and multiplied while she appraised me. I was paralyzed by the fear that she would find me horribly lacking.
"As I have taken your table, may I invite you to sit with me?" she motioned toward the far side of the booth.
I sat quickly, not wanting to chance that the offer might be withdrawn. It was as though I expected her to realize she was inviting a monster to sit with her and run screaming from the establishment with the knowledge. Until that time I would enjoy this company, offered so freely and without restraint. It had been a very long time since a stranger had tendered his or her company; hell -- it had been a damned long time since anyone--
-- since Daventry...
Even he had turned away from the sight of me the first time he'd seen my face. Now here was a young woman, educated and traveled to judge from her speech, inviting me to sit and eat with her, sharing her company. I wondered briefly if I would be horribly bereft when she left, weakened by the loss of something I did not truly have but would miss deeply. I shoved the thoughts away and settled into the booth, damn the consequences.
"What do you recommend?" I asked her.
She smiled, glancing out of the booth. "I had the egg salad sandwich," she answered.
"Was it good?"
"It was inexpensive," she admitted. "My lifestyle doesn't lend itself to extravagance."
"And what sort of lifestyle would that be, Miss - ?" I pressed.
A waitress chose that moment to insinuate herself into the conversation, asking if I would be ordering. She kept her eyes downcast, studying a small burr on the tabletop as if the secrets of the known Universe lay in its deciphering. My companion took obvious note of this but chose to offer no comment. For whatever reason, I found myself embarrassed by the waitress' behaviour, as if my companion could not see for herself the freak she sat with and somehow I feared the waitress might give me away.
"Just the pie," I determined curtly, wanting her to be gone.
"Apple?" she asked, still not meeting my eyes.
"As if you had any other!" I snapped.
"They do," my companion said softly while the waitress balked and stepped back a safer distance.
I looked back to her, meeting her gaze. There was no censure there, only the knowledge of the variety of desserts offered here. I nodded, dropping my eyes and muttering, "It's been a while since I was here last."
My despair was complete. Surely the young woman would excuse herself now, leave me here alone, as I had been for so many years; days... nights. I wondered briefly if that perhaps was my goal. To have her leave. Was I never to allow someone to be nice to me?
In that beautiful voice she was telling the waitress, "Apple, please," and the waitress had the gall to look relieved as she backed away. A sour feeling rose in my stomach and I told myself I should have known better than to come here. As if in commiseration the sky began to darken ominously. I put my hands on the table and levered myself up to leave. Her fingers curled over my hand. The ruined one with its gnarled, puffy fingers and cratered skin.
"Esmerelda," she was saying, "Devonshire."
"I recall an Audra Devonshire, from up near Salisbury... " I enjoined, settling into the booth once again as if I had never made to leave.
She shrugged. "A cousin perhaps," she guessed. "My parents were from Richmond and my mother had remarried and moved to Cape Charles."
"From the mainland of Virginia then. I'm not familiar with anyone from that area. What do you do? I would say that you are not from this part of the country," I pressed.
"I am a translator by education; I have been governess, a cook and a day-labourer. And I have been in India and a bit in China. I am on my way home now."
"To Richmond," I surmised.
"To Khasmit," she corrected.
"Where?" I prompted again.
"My father is there still, he teaches Archeology at the University there. He moved there when I was seven. It was supposed to be a two-year teaching fellowship. My mother remained in Richmond. After a year she couriered over divorce papers, keeping for herself everything they had and giving custody of me to my father as his share. After that there was no reason to come home. For either of us. Until now," she added as an afterthought.
"Now?"
"My mother wrote about four months ago, saying she was very ill and wanted to see me. I was curious about her as well so I came."
As I am perverse these days by nature, I couldn't help but inquire, "And did she leave you her worldly possessions?"
My question produced a response I had not anticipated - contemplation.
After a moment she answered, "I don't know, I didn't stay for the internment. These are not the customs I grew up with; they hold no significance for me." She smiled, "Have you had enough of my life yet?"
I was taken aback by her question; I had been prying. And I wanted to know more.
"If I say no, will you tell me more?"
"Probably," she smiled again.
"If I have been rude, my apologies," I said, suddenly generous. "It is rare these days that I am engaged in conversations that last more than a few necessary sentences."
She nodded. "I suspected as much," she said, replying with such honesty that I could hardly be offended.
At some point the waitress had returned with the requested pie, leaving it quietly. A gust of wind accompanied a customer through the door, reminding me that the weather was turning for the worse. Miss Devonshire appeared to catch my concern.
"I think Mother Nature is on a roll," she laughed. "This will be the fourth night I have had to escape a drenching."
A sudden thought took me.
"Would you consider accepting a bit of old Southern hospitality? I have a large, old house; in need of repairs here and there, but sound and dry. And there's a man who helps me around the field and goats, he stays there as well," I added, waiting for her response.
I found myself mentally holding my breath while she weighed the offer and obviously found it, or me, lacking.
"Thank you, it is a very kind offer-- "
"But?" I interrupted her decline.
"I couldn't possibly accept such generosity from a man whose name I don't know."
"Garnet Montrose," I supplied quickly lest she change her mind. "We'd best hurry; while I can offer you a room and a roof, I cannot offer you a ride to either. The rain comes quick this time of year," I said from experience.
I folded the slice of pie into several napkins and tossed a few small coins on the table. She did the same and we were on our way.
We had traversed less than half the distance to the farmhouse when it became apparent we would not arrive before the rain. I found myself entirely apprehensive about the prospect of being caught in the storm particularly given the annual significance of the date. My companion was not troubled in the least; she was in fact as astute as she was intriguing - going at once to her large portmanteau - I call it that for want of a better term. She rummaged the contents quickly. I watched the demonstration curiously. Finally she retrieved a shapeless cape of sorts; tattered and travel-worn. I did not know it then but I would come to view that haversack as magical and mystical - the bag of Merlin himself for the wonders it held. She stood and offered the cloak to me.
"Please take it, Mr. Montrose; you've come ill-fitted to oppose the rain. And I assure you, what it lacks in appearance, it makes up for in reliability."
"Then I must insist you don it yourself, Miss Devonshire. The rains here in Virginia can be quite torrential."
"Believe me, I know. I've experienced them several times of late. But I have another jacket and a wool sweater that will serve me just fine. I am used to the elements; I would hazard that you are not."
There was no censure in her words; only concern. She stood there before me, extending the garment. I took the odd cape without another word and obliged her by slipping into it. It reminded me of those large ponchos the army had distributed to us in the southern monsoons. This one smelled of strange animal skins that I had never known rather than the rubber of the Army version, and it smelled of her and travel and perhaps a bit of the damp. I breathed deeply; taking the scent into my lungs and my body, committing it to memory. I would retain this odour, this smell; I would recall it in the future, an olfactory souvenir of this unique creature to take out and enjoy on cold nights that I was sure I would spend alone in the future.
She had turned her back to me and exchanged the linen shirt she wore for the wool sweater she'd pulled from the depths of her bag. Carefully folding the shirt and returning it to the bag she pulled on the too-large jacket attached to the outside of the rucksack and shrugged into it. At this point she took from me my hard won apple pie and nestled it on top of the contents of her sack and closed the whole affair, tucking an inner lining in over the clothes and closing the outer flap and buckling it securely.
"Ready for the worst that Virginia has to offer!" she declared.
I stared at her soberly. "You should take care what you wish for," I admonished lightly. "The elements can give you quite a fight here."
"Then don't fight them," she offered philosophically. "Spread out both arms and enjoy them."
Then rain had begun, intermittent drops at first but building rapidly to fall in earnest - soaking the earth, releasing that heady, pungent smell that had always seemed to me to be the scent of life itself. Dank, dark and fertile. We, of course, were doused as well but protected by the slickskin cape and comforted by the presence of my companion I found myself reaching out my arms. For the first time since Daventry had come into my life the rain didn't frighten me.
We gained the farmhouse before the winds set upon the land and safely ensconced within the old walls we set about drying ourselves and hanging the various garments we'd worn to shed their coat of dampness at their leisure. Miss Devonshire's miraculous bag had turned out to be amply weatherproof at repelling the elements. None of her supplies had gotten even damp. With her permission I set about exploring the contents of the bag, delving inside with ill-disguised glee.
Here I shall elucidate that bag with great detail, as it would come to represent Miss Devonshire herself in my mind. It was exotic; coming from a land faraway and wonderfully adept at doing anything. It was sturdy and efficient and well made to withstand whatever it encountered. Inside of it were treasures and necessities alike, both cradled and equally well taken care of. I referred to it earlier as a portmanteau, indeed it was. Divided into two equal compartments, each independent of the other. One held clothing and a second pair of shoes - an odd pair of sandals actually - the other a collection of small jars containing spices and ointments, a wooden contraption consisting of three nested bowls, an animal skin packet of pens and pencils and four journals - two made of heavy paper that felt of cloth and bound by leather string to hard cloth covers; the other two of a decidedly more modern variety. I set them aside carefully, as they were wrapped in an oilcloth and obviously meticulously cared for. Of the pens, one was an expensive fountain pen, another was an old fashioned quill pen complete with a bit of feather still attached at one end, the remainder were lead pencils painstakingly sharpened by knifeblade. I placed these to one side as well. Another small bag contained a few shells, several small stones and some carved beads. Pockets on the outside of the cloth bag held a trove of items - one large pocket had a smaller journal and a pencil, another short candles all of white and several packets of foodstuff, peanuts in their shells, soft peppermint sticks, some sort of bread and what might have been a jerked meat, all wrapped carefully in ricepaper and tied with bits of strings. I have left out the items of a most personal nature that I found in the clothing compartment, as their description here would only serve my more sordid tendencies. Suffice to say I found them as unusual and exotic as I did her.
If my guest found my perusal of her personal belongings unnerving or odd she didn't say so, but rather busied herself in the kitchen, putting away the pie I had purchased, and washing the bowls from breakfast that I had left in the sink that morning. I would have protested her labours but as I had not asked her to perform them I saw no reason to disrupt her efforts on my behalf. I entertained myself and she herself. The silence was companionable and I was reluctant to disturb it.
I did finally break the quiet to inquire if I might peruse her journals. I had received her consent to explore the backpack but I did not feel that acquiescence extended by rote to something so personal as the journals; she assured me her grant had been commodious and I need not ask again. I settled myself in my chair with the fragile books and gave myself over to their images so carefully chronicled and committed to paper.
The first two - the hand bound ones filled with heavy pressed paper - were entirely used up, crammed with thoughts, sights, descriptions and the occasional drawing. The books started with a port in Hong Kong and the last page described the city of Charleston, South Carolina where she had disembarked and begun her trek, by foot, to Virginia. I studied the words thouroughly, wondering what the exotic images would look like flavoured by that soft voice.
After a while I became aware that the natural light of the day had waned considerably and the sounds from the kitchen had faded altogether. I went in search of Miss Devonshire then and discovered her on my small back porch.
"It leaks," she pointed out and in that way acknowledged my presence.
Standing there considering her profile I was struck by the lines of her face, wondering why I had not earlier noticed what a queer beauty she was. High cheekbones flowed quickly upward to support her eyes, large and deeply placed in her skull. Her forehead was buried under a silken shroud of bangs that fell complacently to either temple and blended into the mass of unruly waves that rioted in fingercurls about her neck. From the median of her forehead her nose sloped lazily to a blunt point, the nostrils curved away and back, not too large, nor pugged nor upturned. The hollows of her cheeks gave way to soft and not overly large lips, the darker colour of them blending into darkened hue of her tanned skin. She turned that countenance to me, and I took in her eyes; eyes so dark-blue they seemed an abyss worthy of the icy North Atlantic. The colour blended with the black centers so that the pupil seemed to encompass the iris or perhaps it was the other way around.
I heard her call my name for the second or even third time, a tone of concern creeping in before I was able to drag myself back to that porch in Virginia.
"I had mentioned I am prone to spells," I apologized.
"Perhaps the storm, or the rain earlier has made you take ill," she offered. "I know of a tea that might give you comfort."
"Thank you" I accepted, "that is very generous of you."
By this time I think I would have accepted nightshade if she were the one who served it.
She returned to the kitchen to make good her offer and I followed her, noticing for the first time how small my pantry was. When Daventry had come to work for me and we had sat in this room together but I had not remembered how confining the space was.
Miss Devonshire set some water to boil in a small pot on the stove. While it heated, she fetched some of those jars from her kit. Using a plate and the back of a spoon she ground some of the contents and wrapped the mixture in a small square of ricepaper. I held the edges while she tied the package with plain twine. That completed she dropped the package into a ceramic pot and poured the roiling water over it. She wrapped the entire affair in a dishtowel and set it on the table before getting a mug from the cabinet. After placing the mug down across from me, she picked up the pot and poured the mug about half-full. She lifted the cup in both hands and raised it into the space between us.
"This tea, like life, is bitter - "
She took a pinch of a white powder from one of her containers and sprinkled it into the cup, swirling the liquid inside around.
"--until sweetened by the hand of a friend."
With a bit of flourish she handed it over to me. I drank - tentatively at first, deeply as the flavour seeped across my tongue and I realized how good it was.
The dark amber drought was spicy; cinnamon and orange mixed with some strong tea very unlike the standard fare served here in the south as a staple of cuisine. I drank it all, feeling the better for it almost immediately. I entertained the thought that it might have simply been the company but in truth I believe the tea was refreshing to my system. I have heard tales of the healing properties of teas brewed by the Chinese and have read oft of their uses in rituals indigenous to many Eastern Countries but I had never given them credence.
I sat watching Miss Devonshire, wondering if she would leave at first light, if not how long would she stay. I knew I wanted to hear every detail of her life, wanted to know what it was like to grow up amoung exotic people, the customs she was familiar with. It was the first night of a friendship that would grow stronger than even the demons that haunted me.
THE END
Summary: Tom Hardiman uncovers some old journals in the Old Montrose house that he is renting.
Categories: TV and Films > In A Shallow Grave
Characters: Garnet Montrose, Georgina Rance, Potter Daventry, Quintus Pearch
Genres: Angst/Drama
Warnings: None
Challenges: None