I WIIIIIIN!

NaNo's site reads my novel as only being 50,196 words - but I knew that would happen, so I wrote until I had 50,318 on OpenOffice, just to be sure.

But I WIIIIIIN! After cranking out, what, four thousand freaking words today?? Insanity. But I did it! And I think I actually covered all the ground I'd had planned out (aaand then some), so I'm really, really happy.

I feel like it might actually be somewhat readable in its current form, too, which is new. There are some bad rambling places, but overall... I am pretty darn happy. There are scene changes! There are people with personality! There is some less-than-painful dialog! wooo!

...and the book I mention in that last paragraph? Is the one with the flower-meaning lists that I've been consulting all along. :)



Yaaaaaaaaaay. That makes three wins out of six attempts - wooo for a 50% success rate! \0/

oh quantum physics

Tom gave me a pretty good explanation, and I read the following articles and looked at their pictures, to try to get my own grip on the physics of the teleportation we've been doing lately:
http://physicsworld.com/cws/article/news/19690
http://www.aip.org/png/html/teleport.htm
(The second one is a rather old, outdated article, but the basic premise is the same - and it's explained muuuch more simply.)

It took me awhile to realize that we're not actually moving particles around, just the information that makes the particle what it is. Or something like that.

The best way to learn something really is to try and explain it to someone else... even if that someone is a fictional character. That you yourself are writing. (Bonus points if she knows even less science than you do!)

But I am GOING to make it to 50k! I had a coworker's party Saturday night, and then went downtown for a little while, and I need to remember I can't drink as much as other people I know. ;p Crashed that night. Sunday I worked early, as did Tom, so after getting home and then going grocery shopping... uh, we were out by like 8pm lmfao. So I wrote about a thousand words before showering this morning, spent the day on a belated Thanksgiving dinner for us, aaaand now am trying to write before the three glasses of wine make me fall asleep. woooooo!

Parts 28-30

      I find myself hitting one dead end after another, my path blocked by overgrown plants, or bridges that have collapsed after long years, or bogs that have appeared where once a creek bed flowed or pond was retained. The air only gets hotter as the sun climbs into the afternoon, and it's gotten awfully humid. However slowly I walk, I find beads of sweat trickling down my neck every few minutes, and the heat only makes me feel more frustrated when my way is blocked. So I head for home, I'll come back another day, maybe earlier in the morning next time – exploring in this heat is ridiculous.

      But at home, I'm restless, my thoughts continually going back to Calvin's death. I try to think of other things, try to distract myself by getting caught up on washing dishes, even cleaning the bathroom, headphones cranked up loud, but it's no use.
      Finally, exasperated, I flop down on the living room floor with a sketchbook and some pastels. I'm going to have to draw this kid, there's just no way around it. Hopefully that will get all of this weight off my chest...

      My doorbell rings.
      I jump about half a mile, narrowly missing drawing a line of cobalt blue all over my drawing. My doorbell rarely ever rings, I don't know all that many people in town... I stand up--- and stagger, finding my feet have fallen asleep again. I seriously need to get a drafting table or something, working on the floor just isn't cutting it anymore. Rubbing my hands together to try and get some of the pastel dust off, I manage to get to the door, taking a quick glance through the peephole – which I'm not in the habit of doing, but, I'm really confused about who's there.
      Then I laugh and fling open the door. “Dad!”
      He chuckles and gives me a hug. “Hey there, Kimber. Sorry to drop in without warning, but there was a trade show I had to go to today, and I realized on the drive down how close my route took me near you. So I thought I'd stop by if I had time on the way home. You up for some supper?”
      I grin, feeling much lighter at heart, now that I have a chance to be out of my own head for awhile. “Sure! Just let me go wash up, I'm a bit of a mess.” I hold out my rainbow-colored hands and smile sheepishly.
      He just smiles, shaking his head. “Some things never change...”
      “Just look out for my stuff! It's all over the floor,” I call out as I head to the bathroom to clean up.
      “I can see that... who's the kid?” he calls back, curiously.
      I stop a moment, unsure how to answer. I haven't even thought about how to explain these drawings to other people... saner people... “Just a sec,” I answer, a little weakly. I glance in the mirror, and, seeing color smudges on my cheek and forehead, wash my face, then dry my hands slowly, still not sure what to say.
      Walking back to the living room, I find Dad flipping carefully through the pile of drawings on the couch, all in various stages of completion.
      “These look really good, Kimber... the fountain's a little different for you, but I think it's interesting. Lot of details in everything.”
      “Thanks...”
      “Who are all these people?”
      “Well...” I rub the back of my neck, a little embarrassed – but it's my dad, I can give him pretty much the truth. Just leaving out a few of the unbelievable details. “There was this family that lived near here, but the house burned down a hundred years ago and they moved away. But the gardens are still there, sort of, they're really overgrown... but it's such a pretty place, and it's not all that far to walk, so I've been over there a lot this summer.”
      “Ah, I see. It does look like a beautiful spot.” Glancing down at the first drawing I did, of the boy by the creek bed: “Is that the original tile work? It looks almost Turkish.”
      I nod, smiling. “It's the original, yeah... it's missing in places now of course, but I cleaned one of the tiles and the colors really are still that bright.” I rummage through my pile of reference material (mostly print-outs of flower photographs, both ones I took myself and ones I found online), and hand him the tile.
      “Wow... hand painted, you think?”
      I nod. “Pretty sure – you can see the brush strokes, especially here, and here...”
      “Oh yeah... huh.”
      “I'm going to take it over to campus sometime, and have Dr. Reiff take a look at it, see what he thinks.”
      He nods. “That's a good idea. So! Where do you want to go eat, kid?”

      Half an hour later, we've placed our orders at a favorite local restaurant (something of a bar and grille, but a little upper-scale than that, some of the best food in town and a nice casual atmosphere), and have caught up on all the news from home.
      “The town pretty quiet, with college out of session?” Dad asks.
      I consider this. “Yeah, you know, it really is... I've hardly even noticed though, I've been so caught up in what I'm doing, with work too, but mostly the drawings, and walking through the garden, and trying to research...”
      I tell him about a few of my research efforts, and we both laugh at the banter among the historical society members.
      “The drawing you were working on today, was that one of the Masons?”
      I nod, suddenly saddened. “Yeah... That's Calvin, pretty sure he was the youngest of three kids – though I could still be missing one or two kids, it's hard finding mentions of them. But he died at the age of maybe five or something, really young.”
      “That's always so sad... What did he die from?”
      “You know, I'm actually not sure... something was wrong with his lungs, might have been tuberculosis or something. But he was weak pretty much his whole life, was always stuck in bed.”
      “Mmm.”
      I pull myself back to reality. I need to remember that not everyone is as obsessed with this family as I am. I'm probably starting to sound just the way he does, when he's going on and on about his latest audio project. At this, I start to laugh.
      “What're you laughing at?” He looks up at me, suspicious.
      “Nothing... just thinking that I'm starting to sound like you, rambling on and on about a hobby until your listeners fall asleep.”
      “Oh, my hobbies aren't that boring, are they?”
      “...hate to break it to you, but, yeah, they kind of are.”
      “Oh, you hypocrite. How many mp3s have I made for you and that silly iPod? You know how much it pained me to do that, right?”
      I giggle, nodding. “Yes, Dad...”
      “Still can't see why they couldn't have built in a little support for other file types... with the market cornered like that, they were really in a fantastic position to set a new standard for quality.”
      “Yes, Dad...”
      “Alright then, I'll try another hobby. You remember the transporters, on Star Trek?”
      I roll my eyes. I know I'm not the only one my age who was force-fed the show in its various incarnations, but it's still not something I like acknowledging in public. “Yes...”
      “We've done it.”
      I raise an eyebrow, skeptical. “Really.”
      “Really! ...alright, so we can't do anything much bigger than an atom, and it's not actually moving, but...”
      Our food arrives, and I take my plate gratefully. If I'm eating, I have an excuse to not answer coherently. Alongside the audiophile in my father, lies the inner science geek. I suppose it's all related – figuring out the inner workings of the world, understanding how things work, way down on the most basic structural levels. I can usually follow the general idea of what he's discussing, but I get lost pretty quickly when he gets really into it. Still, it makes him happy to have someone listen, so I'll listen – even if I don't entirely understand.
      “It's still a huge step in the physics world, and really, what it might do in the computer industry is pretty astounding. We really can't push computers much more in terms of speed, going on the current technology.” He takes a bite of a roast beef sandwich, nodding approval. “This's pretty good.”
      I grin, munching on a salad – well, barely a salad, it's so covered in pecan-crusted chicken, strawberries, blue cheese, bacon bits, some more fruit, and a raspberry vinaigrette. “Their food's always good, yeah. And I promise I'm listening to you.”
      “You know, I think they're actually working on this at your college – or maybe it was one of the college's extensions. Somewhere near here, anyway, they're working on some aspect of the whole thing. But anyway... So there's this whole quantum entanglement thing... which I'm sure you don't remember. Basically, two little bits of matter – on the subatomic level – have this invisible link between them. You know electrons though, right?”
      I nod, high-school chemistry drawings of electrons in their orbits skipping through my memory. (It figures, I remember the freaking drawings, if nothing else!)
      “Well, if you split an atom up, and take two of its electrons, they somehow remember that they once shared a connection of some kind, even if you move them really far apart.”
      I smile at this – that's actually a really cool, surprisingly romantic concept. And I know that anything I take from the garden, no matter where I may move to with it, will always cling to the memory of that place...
      “So. What they've done now, is taken two of those entangled particles. They take a look at the properties of those particles, and find that, say, they're forced to compliment each other. If one is polarized – that is, the field around it vibrates – at 45 degrees, the other one goes at 135 degrees.”
      He must have seen my eyes glazing over. “That's a 180 degree difference – it... well, it made it spin the opposite way, think of it that way.”
      I giggle. “Sorry. Okay.”
      “So a third particle is brought in, and they give it a specific set of properties. Then they measure that particle alongside the first entangled particle. The results are sent to the second entangled particle... and it changes. With the third particle sitting next to an entangled one, the other entangled one sees that new information, and changes into it!”
      He's practically bouncing in his seat. I think I have the gist of it... maybe. “So... without actually touching the second particle, we've reprogrammed it? Changed its properties... which basically turned it into something else, without us touching it?”
      “In essence, yes! Isn't that incredible? Think about that ability in a computer... in cloud computing, especially, you could edit files at a distance without any kind of wire, or even a wireless router or anything! ...at least I think so.” He sits in silence a moment, brows furrowed.
      I laugh. “Did we talk ourselves into a corner again?”
      He chuckles, shaking his head to clear it. “I suppose. I haven't had any more science classes than you have, and mine were much longer ago...”
      “That actually is very cool. Only... my science is pretty sketchy, but wouldn't that mess with conservation of mass or something?”
      “No, it doesn't – the information basically passes from one molecule to another, it's not actually adding or taking away anything from the universe.”
      “Alright...”
      “...but what it might mess with, is the whole space-time continuum.”
      I raise a skeptical eyebrow again. “Are you talking Star Trek, or physics?”
      “There's quite a bit of physics in Star Trek, thank you! But I do mean physics – space and time really are inextricably linked. So I have to think that if we're poking around, moving things – even just information, swapping properties – around space willy-nilly, it might start screwing with time a bit. Last I read, they were almost up to moving visible things around, there might well be experiments going on with things visible to the naked eye – nothing is ever really published until they've proven it and can explain it, I'm sure the cutting edge of science is far beyond what gets into the public.”
      “You're going into tangents,” I point out casually, popping a strawberry into my mouth. This is such a frequent occurrence that my sister and I have gotten into the habit of pointing it out to him, to save everyone involved time and sanity. He no longer bothers to be offended by the reminders, knowing full well that we're right.
      “So I am. But, space and time, definitely linked. Can't mess with one without messing with the other. They keep shifting bigger things around, they might just open up a giant wormhole into the past, which will suck people in, and then with the time line being affected, the people who went back in time would never have been born, and---”
      We're both laughing now, and he digs back into his sandwich.
      “Alright, well, I'm done. What else is new in your world, kid?”

      It was a long and leisurely dinner, finished by splitting a piece of the restaurant's absolutely amazing ice cream lasagna (which is really good, I promise! Layers of ice cream, crumbly cookie bits, hot fudge, that sort of thing). Dad drove me home, and then headed home himself, the sky turning dark with the oncoming night.
      The apartment always feels so quiet after I've had company... wish I was allowed to have some kind of pet here. (Fish do not count. Fish are not cuddly, and really don't have any personality to speak of.) But there on the living room floor, are the faces of those who... well, I suppose Evelyn and Calvin are almost friends, of a sort...
      “Are you Ev'lyn's friend, Kimber?”
      I smile sadly, my heart sore at the memory of that delicate young voice. He had asked it by way of confirming I was the same Kimber that she'd told him about, but I hear the question differently now. I am their friend... though removed by so much space, so much time...
      And I can't help but laugh, remembering my dinner conversation - how could time and space be anything but connected? Though just now, all I can feel is how they team up to keep me farther away from things... Farther away from friends who died a hundred years before I was born. And what makes it all the stranger, is that I know we would be friends, if we lived in the same world. As far removed as Evelyn's elaborate dresses are from my jeans and t-shirts, something in her eyes, in her speech, in the things she noticed, I know that we see the world in the same way. She's an artist too, though I have no idea if she's ever had a drawing class. And Calvin... who could help but love the child?
      Where were his parents, as he lay dying, could have died alone, in his bed? I blink back tears, a lump in my throat. Evelyn would have been there, whether I'd shown up or not, I'm sure of it, but... it was such a near thing. In all fairness, if the child had been sick his whole life, I guess I couldn't expect Cora to have been at his side every moment... but “charity begins at home”, as I'm sure she told a hundred other women in the town. I can't help but feel angry at her for her neglect. And to let the father treat the children so roughly, too! I'm almost glad Calvin spent his days in his room, it saved him from beatings, at least...
      I sit down, spreading the drawings around me, looking from one to the next, as at the faces of dear friends. I'll keep you all near... and Calvin, I'll give you what life I can, here in my time, where you would have been safe, and cured, and able to run free in that beautiful garden...
      I work a little more on the original drawing of Cal and the forget-me-nots, but soon another image is burning in my mind, demanding my attention, and I pull out a fresh sheet of paper. I begin to draw a new composition, sketching in the lines of a part of the garden I was in this morning. Bold-colored flowers are planted in large dots over the green ground, a mound of golden yarrow, a snowball of white daisies and spherical flame of red ones, a low pool of violet pansies... I put in a little pocket of Canterbury Bells near the border of the page – Evelyn wouldn't ever be far from her little brother, I'm sure of it. But the main feature is a long row of arbor vitae, and though the shapes are now blurred, I know they were once trained into perfect geometric forms – so that's how I'm drawing them, trimmed into spirals and pom-poms, and there, off to the left, that one's an elephant... a giant elephant-shaped bush, probably the size of a real elephant. And running toward it, laughing in delight, is a small boy with chestnut curls, joy in his every gesture.

      A few days later, I head to the library, to poke around at art books, history books, flower books... anything that catches my eye that might help shed some light on the Masons and their world. And their house. I really should check to see when I can drop by the town hall and flip through their old photos and things, but it's a weekend, I'm sure they'd be closed today.
      Stepping into the library, I pause a moment to savor the coolness of the building. Libraries are always just the right temperature in the summer – cool enough to be a fantastic relief, but not the ridiculously frigid freezers that big chain stores are.
      “Kimber! How are you?”
      Turning to face the desk, I grin - Mary Sueter is again at the helm of the library. “Doing all right, how are you?”
      “Oh, bored to tears, the usual for the summertime. I really shouldn't be reading while I'm on-duty, but there's only so much organizing you can do in one day. I cleaned up the old card catalog, making sure everything was where it should be – it's a ridiculous old behemoth to keep around, but, people my age just don't catch on to them new-fangled computers, don'tcha know.”
      I stifle a giggle at her impersonation of her peers. Despite the fact that her voice is full-volume, I still find it hard to break the quiet library habit that's been drilled into me since birth.
      “I don't feel I could look at another bit of typewritten text for weeks... and books aren't much relief. Please tell me there's something I can help you with? Please?”
      Now I can't help but laugh, and she joins in. “Well... I'm really not after anything specific I don't think, but...”
      “Oh that just makes the challenge all the better! I know – well, very nearly – every book in this place.”
      “Well... I'm really just looking for anything that might be relevant to the Masons, anything about their time period, or the history of the town then, or more on the culture of the time... or more about plants, or the type of sculptures in the garden, or...” I spread my hands in helplessness.
      She beams. “Five books have popped into my head already. You just find a seat and make yourself comfortable, and I'll be back in two shakes.”
      I'm a little amazed at how quickly she moves – and the efficiency. She makes a beeline for one aisle, scans along the Dewey numbers (which still manage to elude me) with a fingertip, then skims the titles, and slips a book off the shelf into her fingers, already turning her body toward her next destination.
      It can't be more than three minutes when she's returned to drop the promised five books into my lap. “There! Record time – but I have to admit that I cheated, I reshelved one of those first thing this morning. Now, you flip through and see if any of those suits your fancy. I have another in mind that I'll have to do a bit of a search for... would it be in with history, sociology, or botany...”
      I am officially in awe of this woman. Somehow, she makes being a librarian seem like an adventure, which I would have never thought possible.
      I take the first book off the pile on the low table beside me. A small paperback, with a history of the town outlined in it. Portions look pretty detailed, giving decent biographies of some of the town's founders, though there's not half as much detail as I'd like. Still, it looks like a great starting place – and skimming the index, I see Cora is mentioned in several places.
      I set it back on the table, picking up the next. It's another slim paperback, but I grin brightly as I spot the author's name: Dr. Carl Reiff, Ph. D. Hooray! It's actually a book on local architecture, showing photos of some of the older houses in town, with discussions of the different styles and trends in architecture. Not a topic that interests me a whole lot, but I wonder... I flip through the pages, pausing anywhere I see a tower at the left-hand corner of the house.
      And then I stop:
      It's such a dark, blurry image, I can barely make it out. There are huge trees to either side of the house – I almost missed the tower. But I know that pathway, and I know the shape of those rose bushes, and I'm sure those are day lilies blooming at the base of the house, those little white spots there among the leaves.
      The notes beneath the photo read:
      “Only remaining photograph of the Mason estate, near present-day Central Ave. and Walnut St. Possibly built 1820s, though date is uncertain. Style is largely in imitation of an Italian villa, however the touches of Gothic make it an unusual case. Burned in 1902.”
      I touch my fingertips reverently to the image, squinting to try and see more detail... but the photo must have been badly damaged by the years, and making a copy of it did it no favors. Still, the shape of the house is there, anyway. Taller than it is wide, looks like three stories? The tower on the left is actually square, and goes up to a fourth floor. The roof is fairly flat, looks like it might be tiled, Italian-style, but it's hard to be sure. There is a porch around the front door, and the columns form pointed arches around the entryway – those pointed arches are definitely Gothic, I remember that much from Dr. Reiff's lectures. And it looks like there's some intricate brickwork, there on the edge of the house... but it's impossible to make out, the shadows are too dense there, and the contrast in the image far too low. I sigh in frustration, trying to memorize the image anyway... wondering where Calvin's room was in that towering brick house.
      “Find anything interesting, dearie?” I jump, and Mary laughs kindly. “Sorry... I walk like a librarian, I know.”
      I point at the decrepit photo on the page, and grin up at her. “I found this – thank you!”
      She leans down and peers at the page. “Ahh... the Mason place, isn't it? Such a shame no better pictures survived the years... you'd think there would be more, a place that well-known.”
      “Cameras weren't really mainstream until just about when it burned down though,” I point out. “Anyway, if the family was that rich, they'd probably have wanted a painting done, rather than photos – photography was seen as a pretty low, imitative art form for a long time.”
      She beams down at me, nodding. “So it was! Come be a junior member of the historical society? We could use a breath of fresh air, in among all of us old fogies.”
      I laugh. “You're much farther away from being an old fogie than I am, Mary... But what other goodies have you brought me?”
      She holds a little red book above her head, triumphant. “Found it! It's only tangentially related to your request, but I just know you'll love it.”
      I reach up, and Mary puts the book into my hands.
      It's a very pretty little thing, the deep red leather covered in what were once bright gold vines and flowers, in intricate patterns. No title is on the front, and the one on the side is faded beyond reading. The first few pages are blank tissue, and then I find... “Is this the title page? This is officially the longest title I have ever, ever seen.”
      She chuckles. “Brevity was not their concern, it would seem.”
      I read it aloud, in pompous tones: “Our Deportment, or the Manners, Conduct, and Dress of the Most Refined Society; including Forms for Letters, Invitations, Etc., Etc. Also, Valuable Suggestions on Home Culture and Training. Compiled from the Latest Reliable Authorities, by John H. Young, A.M. Detroit: F.B. Dickerson & Co., 1883.”
      I take a deep, dramatic breath. “That... is ridiculous.”

Part 27

      “A doctor... can we call a doctor?”
      “I'll have Molly send Joseph for one, but--”
      “Just go! Quickly!”
      Evelyn dashes out the door, yelling for the servant girl – for anyone. I helplessly hover by Calvin, rubbing and humping his back, trying to clear his throat, his lungs... I don't know what to do... He whimpers and moans, gasping every second for air.
      Evelyn is back in a few endless moments, and I let her take my place – she has far more claim to be near the boy than I. But she has no better plan than I did... and we exchange a helpless, fearful glance.
      “How long..?”
      “The fastest he can possibly get to town is a good quarter of an hour... and if the doctor's out on a call somewhere...”
      “Has he been this bad before?”
      “No... almost, but, never this long...” And as the words leave her mouth, Calvin suddenly gulps down a lungful of air, and does not cough.
      We whirl to stare at him, in anxious disbelief. He takes a few tiny sips of air, his eyes wide and hopeful and scared. “I... Ev, I...”
      “Shh shh shh! Don't talk, Cal, I'm here, don't talk, just breathe, all right? Just breathe, darling boy...” She cradles him tenderly in her arms, laying her cheek against the top of his head. “Just breathe for me.”
      “Ev...” he whispers, pulling his head away to look intently at her. “Evelyn, I'm not strong enough... I can't...” He stops for a moment, catching his breath, as if winded from a long run.
      “Calvin, hush, don't talk like that... don't talk at all, just breathe.”
      “Evelyn, I've got to talk, while I'm here... Evelyn, I love you.”
      “Cal... I love you too...” His somber tone keeps her from continuing to shush him, and she looks steadily into his face, a little puzzled but taking him completely seriously.
      “Evelyn... you won't ever forget me, will you? I don't care about anybody else, but, you won't forget me?” Every word is punctuated by a rasping gasp, his body shaking with each inhalation, I can hear him nearly choke with every breath.
      “Not ever, Cal... not ever.”
      “Don't... don't forget me.”
      Evelyn is sobbing, holding him close to her, and his breathing softens, and I almost dare hope...
      And then there's no more sound.
      And Evelyn wails, her voice breaking along with her heart, and I'm crying as well, I move closer to her, to hold her in comfort and sympathy, but...
      I'm alone again in the silent garden, the sound of her weeping still in my ears, my face soaked with tears under the dull gray sky.

      I return the next day, with a small shovel in my bag. I find a little grouping of forget-me-nots in a corner of the clearing, and carefully dig down around them, trying to cut as few of their delicate roots as possible. I cup the bundle of limp plants and roots in my hands, and bring them to Calvin's room. I dig a small hole where his bed, long, so long ago, held his weak body, and I tenderly plant the forget-me-nots in his place. I pour half of the water from my water bottle onto them, and check to see how much sun is here. It should be shady enough for them... but to be sure, I walk slowly around the house's outline, and carry over some bricks, to build a small wall to provide the delicate blue blossoms a little more shelter.
      “I won't forget you either, Cal... and I'll be sure you're remembered by others.” There is a drawing just beginning to sketch itself into my thoughts, of a sweet child's face, his curls dotted with tiny blue blossoms.

      I take a long, slow walk, all around the garden, trying to finally see the rest of the grounds as best I can. I can't follow every path in a day, I'm sure, but it's still a little before noon, and I have the rest of the long summer daylight ahead of me. I feel a little disconcerted by the garden's beauty, after so much sadness it doesn't seem fair that the flowers should be so bright and beautiful... and I know it's ridiculous, because all of the Masons have been dead, what, at least fifty years, if not more. All the same... I saw the lifebreath leave that sweet little face, I saw the last breath of a mere child... and such a sweet, loving little child...
      Many of the paths, even the ones carefully paved in stone, tile, brick, are impossible to follow now. The plants grow so rampantly in places, they've entirely covered the paths. One immense wisteria plant has plummeted down through a long tunnel of a trellis that once covered a path – the splintered wooden frame is almost entirely lost now beneath the thick vines and dense leaves.

Part 26

      I bring him the elephant, tucking it under the blanket beside his curly head. He smiles, and brings his hands up to cling to the little thing. He moves the towel back from his forehead, and opens his eyes to look up at me. His eyes look just like his father's, the same color and the same penetrating stare, and the resemblance startles me – but then the eyes soften and blink slowly, and I see the innocent tenderness and trust that suffuses them, so different from the cold cynicism of his father's eyes.
      "Thank you..." he says quietly, closing his eyes and pulling the elephant close against his cheek.
      I smile gently down at the poor kid, reaching out a hand to stroke the damp curls. I wonder what's wrong with him? I've heard from others that he was generally a sickly child, bedridden at some point? Maybe there's something wrong with his legs, as well as whatever this flu-like thing is he has now. His lungs sound like they're in rough shape, at least just now, that cough sounded so painful... His breathing is still raspy, even while he's laying still and quiet.
      The scene wavers in front of me a moment, and I'm back in the silent garden, alone under a gray sky. There's no trace of the bed left here...
      But a single blink of my eyes, and the room is back. Calvin is seemingly asleep, his breath still rasping, just as it was before. Looking around, I have no idea if it's been a few seconds or a few weeks to him, since I left. I doubt if much ever changes, in this silent little room... I can't bring myself to wake him, and I do want to find out more, though I know he's too weak - and possibly too young - to answer many of my questions.
      So, I slowly open the bedroom door, and slip into the hallway beyond. But I get no farther than a step, into a corridor paneled with some rich, red wood, with a glimpse of vivid floral paintings on the walls and deep, plush carpet on the floor, when I'm frozen by the sound of approaching footsteps. I glance quickly up and down the hall, and see that to the left, it turns a corner maybe a dozen feet away – and it's from that direction that the sound is coming. So I haven't yet been seen, but I will be any second! And though I know I would never do any harm here, nobody else has any reason to know that, and I'd be pretty freaked out if a person in totally inappropriate clothing was lurking in the hall outside my kid's bedroom.
      Anxiously, I look up and down the hallway, but the few other doors are closed – I have no way of knowing if they're locked, if they're no more than closets, or if other people are behind them. I duck back into Calvin's room, and glance around for a place to hide. The wardrobe might be big enough? I open its doors and find that it is, indeed, big enough to hide in, so I step up and into it – and taking a cue from the Narnia books, make sure that I don't close one of the doors quite all the way. (I do hold it closed, so nobody catches a glimpse of me, but I don't let the thing latch.)
      A few moments later, I hear the bedroom door swing inward.
      “Calvin? Are you awake?” The voice is quiet and sweet, and I wonder if it's Cora. I wonder if she's much older than she was when I saw her that day by the honeysuckle...
      The boy whimpers weakly, his breathing loud and labored.
      “Oh I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to startle you... But Mother said to be sure you got some medicine this afternoon. She has a meeting in town, you know, and the servants are all trying to get the place in order before he comes home.” There is a slight hesitation before the “he”, as if the speaker is catching herself about to say something else in place of it. The voice doesn't sound all that old... I force myself to wait until I hear the footsteps cross the room, and then stop, presumably by the bedside. Then I allow myself to open the wardrobe door just the tiniest sliver, and peep through.
      The figure at the bedside is slim and beautiful, in a dress of pale aqua and soft white. The fabric shimmers a bit as she moves, but I'm not sure what it is. The skirt brushes the floor, looking all the more dramatic in contrast to the absolutely tiny corseted waist of the woman. The sleeves are puffed out from shoulder to elbow in a way that would look totally ludicrous, were the woman not apparently totally at ease with them. The fabric is layered, an aqua bodice that flares a little like a jacket, over an aqua overskirt that stops halfway below the knee, a layer of white covering the rest of the distance to the floor. The puffs of the sleeves layer in the same way, with soft cream-colored fabric blossoming out from underneath a layer of light aqua. All along the edges of each layer is a trim of dark brown lace, adding a graphic geometric edge to all the flowing lines of soft shimmery fabric. Her hair is bound in a low knot on the back of her neck, tied with a wide ribbon of the same light blue-green as the dress.
      Her hair is a soft brown, almost auburn where the light catches it, and a few wisps of curls escape from the knot to brush against her ivory skin. When she turns to reach for the water glass, I catch sight of her face---
      And I'm still not sure who it is. She looks very, very much like Cora, but there are a few differences. The eyes are a little wider-set, the nose a different shape. (I spent so long comparing the photo of the older Cora to the woman I saw in the garden, as well as the time spent drawing her, that I'm quite familiar with her underlying facial structures.)
      It couldn't be Evelyn. Could it?? The woman is... it's hard to guess at her age. The face is young and fresh. But there is a gracefulness in all of her motions – even something as simple as lifting a glass is somehow made incredibly elegant. Far more poise than any teenager I've ever seen, but there's still a sense of innocence about her that seems far more childlike than any teenager either. Maybe fifteen or sixteen? If I could see her face better, I might be able to tell if it's Evelyn, or just some visiting cousin or something...
      She pours some liquid into the glass from a bottle in her hand, then sets the bottle on the bedside table. Holding the glass in one hand, she sits gently on the edge of the bed. A small hand slips out from under the blankets, and rests on her lap, but there is no other motion from Calvin.
      “Cal, darling... it's all right. It may taste awful, but medicine will help, if you'll just take a little sip... won't you do that, for me?”
      “Ev... it hurts...” The voice is so faint, I can barely hear the words. His hand looks so pale! But he called her “Ev”... it must be Evelyn, after all.
      “Shh, I know, dear, I know... but you'll feel better soon. And we can play in the garden all you like. I'll go and bring you some fresh flowers right now, if you'll just take a little sip, for me? Please?”
      He whimpers again, but turns his head toward her. She slips an arm around his shoulders, lifting him a little, just as I did... five minutes? hours? weeks? ago. She holds the glass to his lips, and he takes a tiny sip, then sputters and begins to cough violently, his whole body shaking.
      Evelyn gasps, dropping the glass to the floor and putting both arms around him, holding him in a sitting position to keep him from choking. "Cal... oh Cal, I'm so sorry, are you all right? Cal!"
      But his coughing continues, I can't imagine how his tiny body can sustain such a powerful retching as that. Something flies from his mouth, and Evelyn cries out, pain in her voice. I let the door open farther, squinting toward the bed, torn between staying hidden and rushing to try and help... but it's Evelyn, she knows me, I can't just sit here and watch!
      I fly from the wardrobe, the door slamming back to hit the wooden paneling, and cross the room in a few steps. "Oh Evelyn, what can I do? What's wrong?"
      She glances up, startled, but far more concerned about her little brother than my sudden appearance. "Kimber! Oh Kimber, I don't know! He hasn't coughed so badly in months, and---" She glances down at the quilts, and I see what I couldn't from across the room: bright crimson drops of blood.
      Calvin's body is shaking violently with every cough, and I look desperately around the room, trying to think of some way to help. The glass has shattered on the floor, but I grab the pitcher and bring it to the bedside, pouring water into my hands, trying to hold it near him... but he can't stop coughing, and the water slides away between my fingers, his body too far out of his control to let him decide on any of its actions.
      “Oh Kimber, Mother's given him this medicine for weeks and it hasn't done anything like this! We thought it was helping, he seemed so much calmer, and the fever was finally gone... oh, what can we do?” she cries, looking up at me in desperation. But my mind, though racing, only comes up blank.

killing off characters

..is freaking hard. Originally, Kimber was just going to get a little glimpse of Cal, right as he died. But then the kid started talking, and now he's sweet and I don't want to kill him!

I made the mistake of telling Tom this as I was writing last night.
"The character you're killing off... who are they closest to?"
I thought about this for a moment. "Probably his sister."
"Have her be the one to kill him."
"WHAT!?"

...for dramatic purposes, he is, as usual, entirely correct. But I can't do that!!! It was going to be hard enough to let this poor little child die of some disease. But... to have that guilt cling to little Evelyn, would be a nice, if horribly sad, touch. Even if she just *thinks* she killed him, some coincidence or another. But... I still haven't thought of any way she could influence his death. I have no idea. We'll see if I can polish off this scene tonight... or if I'm going to weasel my way out of finishing it for another day. ^^;;

Part 25

      My gaze is interrupted by the sound of a loud, hacking cough, followed by a muffled moan. Turning, I see there's a child, lying in a bed - which does indeed have several quilts, though the patterns are very intricate, the colors far more carefully considered than the patchwork family ones I've always had. I can see short brown curls, and two little fists balled up against the face. I can't be positive from a distance, but it looks like the poor thing is shaking... There is a glass of water on a wooden nightstand beside the bed, as well as a brass bell - presumably to call for someone, should he need something. But this poor child... I doubt if he'd have the strength to reach out and lift something even as small as that. Moving closer, I can see that the boy is maybe four years old at most. His face is largely covered by hands and hair, but his skin looks abnormally flushed over an incredibly pale white base. There is sweat on his brow - his curls are absolutely plastered to it.
      ...I still don't feel like I should be able to make contact with anyone here, but Evelyn held my hand, so I'm sure I can touch this child. But will I catch whatever he has, I wonder? I guess I would... wouldn't I? But the boy whimpers, and his breath rasps so loudly in his throat, I can't just stand here...
      “Can... can I get you anything?” I ask gently, kneeling down on the floor by his bedside, looking up at the tightly balled fists.
      The boy whimpers again, shaking his head ever so slightly, pressing his fists harder against his eyes. “It hurts too much... don' wanna move.”
      “Shh, it's okay... you don't have to move...” I look around, and spot a pitcher and basin on a low table a few feet away. I hope the water's cold - though I suppose anything would feel cool against the flushed brow. I get up and walk over to the basin, finding a very soft white towel beside it. I pour a little water into the basin from the pitcher, and dipping my fingers into it, find that it's fairly cool at least. The temperature in the room is comfortably warm, but maybe the porcelain of the pitcher helps it stay cool? I dampen the towel in the water, wring out the excess water, and return to the bedside.
      “Here, sweetheart... move your hands, and I'll put a cool cloth on your head. Here...” I touch a corner of the towel to his forehead. “Does that feel good?”
      “Unh-hunh...” he mutters weakly, his hands moving away from his face and plunging under the heavy quilts. “My head is so hot, but I keep shivering all the time...”
      “Here...” I murmur, using the towel to smooth back the damp curls from his forehead, before gently laying the towel over his brow and eyes. He has such long, dark lashes... and the prettiest little face I've ever seen, though it's contorted by pain and a little wasted by illness. I can tell the child has been sick for a long, long time... There's a weary sort of patience about him, the air of someone who's suffered long, and doesn't expect to ever feel any differently. His skin is blotchy with the fever's flush and something else I think, though I'm not sure what, some kind of rash? “Does that feel any better?”
      “Unh-hunh,” he sighs wearily, his lips parting to ease his labored breathing.
      “Do you want any water to drink?”
      He nods – though the movement is so slight it's barely noticeable. Lifting the glass of water from the bedside table, I start to dip a finger in to check the temperature, thinking of refilling it from the pitcher--- but I stop as soon as I lift the glass, there's the weirdest smell coming from it.
      “What is this??” I gasp – and though I didn't mean to address the boy, he answers me.
      “Med-cin. Mommy bought it for me. Spe... speshul water.”
      I raise an eyebrow skeptically at the glass. It smells absolutely awful – I can smell a bit of alcohol in it, and something sharp and rancid that I can't, and probably wouldn't want to, identify. I look around for a bottle, and though I don't see one, I feel sure it's somebody-or-another's patented elixir to cure all ills. Screw that crap, I'm not feeding it to this child! He doesn't need any alcohol in his system, and the smell makes me almost puke. He's too weak to be puking, and I'm pretty sure it wouldn't help him breathe any easier. I look around, and see another bucket on the floor beside the wash basin – I'm going to assume that's one that should be emptied. I pour out the glass into it, and hold my breath as the fumes rise up toward me. Ick ick ick. I rinse the glass in the basin, then refill it with cool, clear water from the pitcher.
      I bring the glass over to the boy. And realize he's not going to be able to sit up. “I'm going to help you sit up a little, so you can drink some water, okay?”
      He whimpers, and I instantly try to soothe him. “Not the special water, just regular water, okay? I promise it will help you feel better. And I'll hold you up, okay?” I slip an arm gently around the shaking shoulders, my heart breaking to feel this tiny body so weak and helpless to whatever's causing these tremors. I help him sit up just enough to be able to drink, and lift the glass to his lips. “Just drink a little... your body needs water to work right, drinking some will help your body fight off the illness, okay?”
      He takes the tiniest sip, and then gasps for breath.
      “Shh, it's okay, just take it slow... I'll stay right here, you don't need to hurry...”
      He whimpers, and after a minute or so of fighting for breath, takes another sip. I know he must be parched – how long has he lain here, too weak to lift the glass himself? Or too horrified by its contents to even want to drink it!
      I sit there for a long time, cradling the boy in one arm, lifting the glass to his lips to take tiny sips, until the glass is nearly empty. Then he slumps back against my arm, and manages something almost like a smile. “Thank you... Who are you?”
      I ease him gently back against his pillows, and sit a little more comfortably on the floor – or, rather, on the plush rug by the bed, which I suspect is actual animal fur (a thought I try not to dwell on). My feet have totally fallen asleep, and I rub them ruefully, wincing as pins and needles set in. “I'm Kimber... what's your name?”
      “Calvin Marcus Mason.”
      I can't help but grin at the imperiousness that somehow invades the tiny voice. It is an impressive-sounding name... which makes it all the sadder to see it linked with this frail little frame.
      “Are you Ev'lyn's friend, Kimber?”
      I start a bit at this. I'm... it's still so strange, to think of this world as being truly real, and to know that I'm as real in it as it seems to me... “Yes, I met her once, out in the garden.”
      The tiny dry lips purse at this. “No... you met her lotsa times. She told me. But... maybe I jus' dreamed she tol' me...” He trails off, groaning a little, apparently exhausted by such a long statement. “I dream a awful lot now... am I dreaming you?”
      I am honestly clueless as to how to answer this. But somehow, I don't think I'm a dream to him. “No, Calvin, I'm here... I can't stay long, but I'm here now. You want any more water?”
      “C'n I have my elfant?”
      I smile, and stand up, going over to the toy box. “Sure... it's a pink elephant, right?”
      “Mmhmm.”
      I lift the little thing out of the box – noticing as I bend down that there are an awful lot of toys actually in here. All kinds of slightly creepy metal ones, a cast-iron elephant with jointed legs and a key on one side, among several other ones that I can see keys on, birds and tigers and bears. Lots of blocks, several picture books, and I think some marbles way down in the bottom... But the top layer seems to be mostly soft things, though they don't look half as cuddly as the ones I grew up with. Still, the elephant is snuggly enough – he's definitely some kind of felt, stuffed with something soft, and he's a very friendly-looking little guy. Pale pink with a royal blue saddle on his back, bright yellow trim, and the initials “C.M.M.” embroidered in dark thread on the saddle. He's fairly small, maybe four inches tall? But I suppose Calvin's pretty small himself.

wallpaper and old toys

This is the kind of wallpaper in the little bedroom, though there are touches of the colors of some of the others in this set. (And that site is absolutely amazing, I looked at eeeeverything they offer before leaving the website last night. The papers are all so, so pretty! and such a fantastic reference for historical interior design. <3)

It took me awhile to get the kind of information I wanted about kids' toys around the 1880s, 1890s. Teddy bears were 1902, but a German company, Steiff, started selling these little felt elephants as pincushions right about 1880 - only kids played with the things more than mothers used them as pincushions, so the company decided to go for making stuffed animals instead.

I had a hunch wind-up toys were around that era... and, holy crap. The little wind-up tin toys were a decade or so away from mass production, but what *did* exist, were absolutely stunning clockwork-type little things. And from there...

This blog gives a great overview of the sort of thing I wound up looking at. 1860-1910ish, there was a HUGE amount of this kind of thing being created, these stunning little animated figures. At Disneyworld, I was pretty blown away by the animatronics, largely created forty, fifty years ago... but this stuff? 1800s. Long before anything could've possibly been digital - the "memory" of these machines is all mechanical.
That blog has a video of one of these automatons, sculpted as a little boy, that *writes*, in a gorgeous old-fashioned cursive, one of three different poems, and can also *draw*. I can't even imagine how you would plot points like that into a clockwork machine's memory...

Even more stunning, was this guy - Pierre Jaquet-Droz, 1770, made these things - one could write, one could draw, one could play a piano. And what really grabs me, about all of these, is the insane attention to detail in the animations - watch a few, and you'll see how lifelike the eye movements are, the way the figure will turn its head, or move its hand vaguely, or all the thousand little things we do without thought. Absolutely astonishing work.

...though they also creep the hell out of me. I was looking at all this, of course, shortly before going to sleep last night, and when I closed my eyes, I kept seeing ones like this - eerily accurate movements and all, but with all the mechanisms exposed, the bodies half-decayed...

I love these things, though I really don't think you can get much creepier. So they're coming into my story - Mr. Mason and his brother have much, much more wealth and influence at their disposal than the townspeople will ever have seen. The kids can have some pretty darn expensive toys.

Part 24

All of this... all of this beauty is gone from the world, without a trace. I'm the only one still living who's seen it... and I can't just let it all slip away.
      I put my sketchbook away, and take out my camera, wrapping the strap around my wrist to keep it close. I make a slow circuit of the clearing, pushing aside plants now and again, searching to find the ruins of this place, trying to get some sense of its outlines. There are a few low piles of bricks, some still stacked neatly, but no more than three feet of a wall are together anywhere. The stone foundations are visible in a few places, but the plant growth covers nearly all of it, and the long years of plant growth followed by decay means there's probably a good bit that's actually buried now. Nothing is left of the interior walls – I suppose they were constructed of wood, though the outside walls were brick. I do find a rectangle of brick and stone against one wall, that I suspect may have been a fireplace or chimney. But there's nothing more concrete than that... even the outline of the house's exterior walls, I'm largely guessing at. I keep hoping for another flash of vision, but there's nothing... I suppose the historical society may have a photo somewhere, so I'd at least be able to see what the house looked like from outside. Still... the amount of artistry in the entryway alone! I'd love so much to just walk through that house once, just once...
      But all the wishing I can do gives me no glimpses of that long-gone mansion. So far as I can tell, the visions are purely at random. It's like playing a computer game, you can click on some objects and make them move around or pick them up or whatever, but most of them are just background, inanimate. No way to know which it is until you pass over the object – though with a mouse on a computer screen, it's a little less time-consuming than walking over every inch of ground on this estate.
      There's a corner of a wall still standing off to the left. The bricks are only a few feet high, the mortar loose and crumbling away at the edges of the wall fragments, but apparently there's just enough shade and moisture for ferns to want to live in the little nook. I walk closer, taking a few pictures, smiling at the vivid contrast between the smooth, bright green leaves and the dingy, mottled black and rust of the rough bricks, all made the sharper by the wetness left by the rain. Then I spot a cluster of forget-me-nots, their tiny faces of luminous sky blue brightening the dark corner. They're such sweet little things... they're one of my favorite flowers, I think, and they're the perfect shade of pale blue. And the name is so evocative... and so fitting for this place, come to think of it.
      “I promise you'll not be forgotten...”
      I take some more pictures – the tiny blue petals set against the rough, weary brick make for some stunning photos. I don't know if I could draw it or not, the grittiness of the wet brick's texture is more than I think I could do with pastels. Oil or something maybe, were I better at it. Maybe a dense enough charcoal would do it...
      I straighten up, and take a long look around. I want so desperately to find more here... but there's just nothing. Even in my own head, the idea of finding some small trinket – a locket, a kid's toy, an old photograph – in this place, sounds pretty far-fetched. It's been a hundred years, a whole century. Teenagers have probably come out here to get drunk and make bonfires in some corner I haven't gotten to yet. Those who knew Cora, I'm sure, would have walked these grounds after she had left, in memory, or to continue admiring the flowers. Young couples walked here together, little kids have undoubtedly come here to play and make forts, hell, hunters have probably crossed this ground after deer or turkeys or something. Anything that could be found has surely already been found, and if not, it's got to be buried under several inches of plant debris and soil.
      I sigh. Irrational though it was, it's still a hope I hate to part with. I want to find some token of the lives that were here... all those intruders in between the Masons and myself hardly exist in my mind, they were only transient presences, and they left no mark on this place. But Cora, her children, their father, and the enigmatic couple who built the place... those are the ones who are still here, who will always be here.
      I walk slowly through the house's vague outlines, my mind warring between trying to imagine the house, and trying not to imagine it, knowing that what I picture has so little evidence that it's almost definitely wrong, and may skew any other clues I find. But I think back to the glimpse I had of the entryway, of the warm rich colors, of the artistic eye that arranged the thousand small touches... What would the dining room have looked like? The parlor? The master bedroom? I'm sure they had some sort of room for entertaining in, the parlor would have done for social calls, but I'm sure there was... maybe there wasn't a room for larger gatherings, if it was built by a honeymooning couple who made no contact at all with the outside. I'd forgotten that, I was thinking only of Cora, with a finger in every social pie in town. Was the entryway I saw hers, or that other young woman's..? My gut tells me it was the original entryway, as first envisioned by a new bride – that wasn't a room set up to have kids running up and down it. And the artistry was the same that I keep finding in the garden... the colors of the drapes against the warm wall, the vivid colors in the paintings, were chosen with the same sensibility I've seen in the gardens. But I wonder... did the Masons find the place empty and vacant, the walls bare and furniture gone, or did the other couple leave everything here, taking only themselves to their unknown destination?
      I stumble on something, and barely catch my balance – clinging to my camera for dear life, terrified of damaging it. But I manage to not fall or hurt the camera, and start poking around to see what it was I tripped over. Another rectangle of brick and stone – probably a fireplace? I've never actually lived in a house with a fireplace, but I'd imagine this is about the right size. What would have been the central part where the fire was placed is actually still fairly flat, though grass and small plants have invaded the crevices between the bricks in places. I sit down tentatively on the brick base, but the bricks don't shift at all – they must go down a few layers deep? Or maybe it's a layer of stone beneath them... there's a bit of a hole a few feet away, and I can see some unusually flat rock at the bottom of it, past the plants that are trying to cover it up. I scan the grasses and small bushes around me, trying to see where the lines of the room would have been... and I do see something, at least, it seems like there's a bit of a depression on the ground on the left, almost a straight line where the plants aren't growing. That must have been a wall... I look around to try to place this room in the larger space of the house's outline. I'm not quite in a corner... though I am beside an outer wall, the fireplace would have butted up against it. Makes sense, I suppose it would have been a pain to run a brick chimney up through floors of the house, it would have been easier to build it into a side wall. There must have been a window, looking outside...
      I shiver, wondering suddenly if this was the library. The library Mr. Mason met his death in... but no, I don't think it is. I know my intuition has absolutely no basis, but... hell, the visions have no real basis either, and if I can see them, why can't I have some weird inexplicable sense about what room this was, a hundred years ago?
      I feel like... I don't know, like it was a bedroom. It feels like a small room – though I can only make out where two walls were. I smile wryly, closing my eyes, and imagining into place a child's bed, covered in a thick quilt, gauzy curtains at the window, stuffed animals everywhere... Then I laugh, shaking my head. That's not at all what the room would have been like, good freaking God. I'm sure society women worked on quilts too, but, there's no way Cora would have used the rough patchwork thing I was imagining. And the stuffed animals would have been pretty different from the ones I grew up with... hell, even some of the ones my dad had as a kid, that are still sitting around my grandparents' house, I find really, really creepy looking. Would these kids even have had stuffed animals? Teddy bears didn't come in until, what, a little after 1900? Evelyn would have had dolls, of course, like the one she had with her... Clara?
      But when I open my eyes... I open them to see what can only be a toy box, though it's made of some gorgeous reddish-brown wood, intricately carved. The lid is open though, and I can see colorful wooden blocks, some tin soldiers... and something that looks like a little felt stuffed elephant. Guess I was wrong there, but I don't dwell on the thought – quickly, I look around the room, not knowing how long I'll have here.
      The walls are papered in a vivid aqua blue and bright sunflower gold – and though the images are cluttered and busy at first glance, after a moment I begin to see the intricate patterns of stylized flowers and vines, and detailed birds in light fuchsia darting among them. I'm taken aback by the vividness of the colors – but I've only ever seen hundred year-old interiors in their faded, worn-out and discolored old age. The wardrobe is of the same color wood as the toy box, and the carvings on it seem even more intricate. There's too much detail to take it all in at a glance, but I get an impression of wild animals, rampant lions and rearing horses and things.

Part 23

      Next chance that I get, I head back to the garden, determined to find the site of the old house. It shouldn't be far from the central fountain, the glimpse I caught of it was off to the right of where I was standing, just at the corner of my eye as I turned...
      It rained last night, so I get soaked on my walk through the woods. It's a gray day, and while normally that means for bland photos, I have a good feeling about it today. I love the look of wet stone, the grittiness of concrete and stone and brick after the rain, and having that richness set against a flat gray sky makes for some really nice visual atmospheres. Looking at the ruined foundations of a house that burned down, just after the rain with a gray sky above? Should be just about perfect.
      I crank up my headphones to distract myself from the uncomfortable feeling of my jeans and socks getting soaked through. “Stand Up Comedy”, off U2's latest album, is loud and surprisingly raucous from them, but a great song for walking determinately to. Coldplay's “Square One” follows it, and I can't help but smile. I tend to make playlists according to moods, but it's so cool when the songs I leave on shuffle compliment each other so nicely – this is another great song for walking, full of this striding energy, the chorus ringing out over wide sonic spaces...
      Wriggling under the fence is especially irritating today, with the mud and the inevitable sliminess of wet leaves, both on the plants and covering the ground. I've really got to find another way into this place... I should figure out where the actual real entrance to the grounds are, and see how far out of my way it would be. But just as I'm about to come out into the garden, one of my favorite Kent songs comes on, and I can't help but smile. Thank you, music, for once again saving my mood from gloom and doom. It's another good song for walking to, almost for running to, and I find myself half-dancing as I follow the path toward the central fountain.
      When I reach it, I sit down on one of its benches again, gazing thoughtfully at its myriad flowers, that are so full of life, despite the lifeless metal they're made from. I take a long drink from my water bottle, leaning back against the bench and looking around, taking in the surroundings. There are five paths leading out from this paved area, set equidistant around the edge of the clearing like the points of a star. Two of them are in the right direction for the mansion... at least, I think so. And the path I was on before wound around so much, it's really hard to guess where any of these might lead.
      I flip a mental coin, and decide to go for the one a little more to the right. It's a little closer to where I think I caught sight of the house, at least I think so. I was pretty distracted by everything else I was seeing at the time...
      The gray skies are keeping some of the flowers closed up, but there's still plenty of ones that are blooming anyway. Every time I walk into this place, there's more color than the time before... It's just getting to be really, truly summer now, and the garden should really start hitting its main stride. Or... it would, if it were still cared for. I can't even imagine how many gorgeous, delicate little flowers have been crushed by the more voracious varieties, how many beautiful little vignettes have been overshadowed and lost over the long, long years...
      A wrought-iron bench is almost completely obscured by some vine of a plant, and while instinct would have me uncover the gorgeous ironwork I'm sure is hidden away... the vine is covered in the largest and boldest flowers I've seen yet. They've got to be something like six inches across! A rich, warm, velvety purple, with a reddish tinge along the center of each of the six wide petals. The center is a burst of white, little... I don't even know what they're called, stamens? The bits that have all the pollen on them. I dig my guidebook out of my bag, and flip through it... Clematis? That must be it. This plant is immense... it's covering everything within about ten, fifteen feet, maybe more, I can see the leaves merging into some other bushes around the bench... It's an interesting mix, the tendrils of the ever-growing vines twisting around the tendrils wrought of immobile iron. I jot a note in my sketchbook, and continue on – while I still want to take everything in, I'm determined to make it to the mansion today.
      And eventually, I do reach it... at least I'm assuming so. There's a space that's... well, it's still covered in green growing stuff, but most of it isn't as tall, and it's more sparse than anywhere I've seen yet. The area was definitely clear at one time, and it's a pretty large area. I'm an awful judge of any measurement that's bigger than my sketchbooks. But it's definitely enough room for a house, and a pretty large one at that. Large for two people anyway... and I have no idea how many stories it had. At least three, I'm sure, the tower I saw seemed pretty tall.
      There are the remains of a path leading a short distance into the clearing – marble? I think it is, it's discolored and worn down with the years... there are pockmarks and dark spots all over, but I can tell it was once white. It looks just like the oldest of the gravestones I've seen... I shudder a little, trying to shake the image from my mind, but I can't entirely. This place is the grave, of one person at least... Mr. Mason died in the fire here.
      I can't see the ground itself anywhere, everything is covered in grass and low brush and invading flowering plants. A few things, at least, I recognize at a glance – there's a huge swath of daylilies, blooming bright gold and orange off to the right. A small patch of crayon-colored zinnias are just beside my feet. And there's another one, in the far left corner of the semi-clearing... the structure is familiar, and I want to say it's yarrow? It turned up in one of the older books I read once, it was used for some kind of homeopathic remedy, though I can't remember what. But I was young enough at the time that I was still looking up every word I didn't yet know in the dictionary – yarrow was one of them, I looked it up, and for whatever odd reason I can still picture the illustration in my head.
      Ask me what I ate for lunch yesterday, and I have no clue. Ask me about a picture I saw fifteen years ago, and I'll describe every line of the damn thing.
      But near the end of the aged marble path, my foot hits something hard – hard, but it moves a little at my nudge. Crouching down, I see that it's a rusted railing... must have been painted once, there are little scraps of white on the insides of the curlicues... and their shape is somehow familiar, and I realize it's the same pattern as the fence around the estate! Only much reduced in scale, obviously. From the size of this, I'm guessing it was a railing on a stairway maybe, leading to the front door? I can see some stones nearby, their tops jagged and rough – probably once broken by the weight of the house crashing down on them, but worn a little smoother by the weather of a hundred years.
      Stepping into the area that was once the inside of the house, I stand still and just look for awhile, feeling subdued, feeling like an intruder. I pull out my iPod, to turn down the sound, feeling like the music is an intrusion on the silence of dead memories that cling to the walls no longer here... But as I reach for it, the lines of the song catch my ear, and I shiver though I'm not sure why.
      “Only love, only love can leave such a mark. But only love, only love can heal such a scar...”
      Alright, so it's U2's “Magnificent”, which I love, and granted the song does tend to give me shivers. But not shivers like that one... There was an odd sense of connection, for just a moment, the words came as much from the crumbled stone foundations as they did from my headphones.
      Instead of turning it off entirely, I turn it down to the edge of where I'm just able to still make out the song, then begin to walk slowly, slowly, through the house, my eyes fixed on the ground under my feet, searching for any clue about the place I've never seen...
      And I get a flash of an entryway, a hall with a high, high ceiling. Twenty feet above me, a chandelier of a thousand tiny crystals hangs, its light refracting into a million dancing glints of light on the warm golden-yellow walls. The walls are draped in jewel-toned fabrics, and hung with absolutely stunning paintings of ancient paradises and people whose beauty makes your heart ache to see, and there are huge tropical plants in every little nook...
      But I've barely had time to throw a glance around the room before it's gone again. I stand still a moment, reeling a bit. When I'm sure the vision has gone, I perch cautiously on something that might once have been part of a pillar, and jot down everything I can recall in my sketchbook, making a few rough sketches of the general outlines. As eager as I am to keep exploring... I can't let myself risk losing any tiny detail I learn of this place. These visions... they give me so much information that's totally gone from this world. I'm sure there's no record of that hallway, anywhere in the world, apart from my head, and now my sketchbook. There's no newspaper article about that chandelier, there's no town record of the huge leaves on whatever that plant by the door was.

semi-autobiographical

All my characters are, to some extent or another. I can write their interests as well as I can, because I share them - I love that moment during photo development, where suddenly a blank white page shifts and grows shades and an image appears like a ghost. I love bringing out the thousand gradations of color in a scene when drawing it, bringing to the fore the pinks in green leaves, the yellows in gray stones.

But this is my new favorite observation - about myself, as well as Kimber:

I'm an awful judge of any measurement that's bigger than my sketchbooks.


So true it's ridiculous. I hate it when directions tell you something is 100 feet, 200 feet, away. I have no idea what that looks like. Everything I do, I visualize how it would fit against an 8 1/2 x 11 sheet of paper. I was trying to visualize the 5" diameter given for a clematis flower - they vary, I know, and I have a hunch some variaties can get like 10" across or something insane, and I spread my fingers apart against the short edge of a sheet of paper. I also have a good idea of 11", 17", and 18", 24", 36". Fifteen feet, not so much.

Part 22

      I smile to myself, knowing just how pretty that little girl was. I wonder if she grew up to be just as beautiful? Though a part of me has always found the sweetness inherent in the innocent beauty of a child far nicer to look at, than the made-up, rather pretentious beauty of a young woman. I shake my head a little, coming back to the conversation.
      “Well, anyway, the children were kept pretty isolated, and their father avoided people whenever he could manage it. Cora, though, was the biggest social butterfly to have ever landed in the town at that point. She headed up every sort of committee she could find. If she could have held any kind of political office, I'm sure she would have. I think she actually found her husband's reclusive tendencies to be a pleasure at times. It allowed her much more freedom to run her own affairs than she might otherwise have had had. Wives were sometimes allowed to govern their domestic domains, but I think she had a lot more power than most managed to get. She was a very independent sort... and I really think that's why she married that man – not for the money so much as for the lack of interest he'd take in managing her life.”
      John snorts. “Pure conjecture. You women and your gossip.”
      “Well, I think it makes all kinds of sense, so you leave my theories be,” Mary huffs, then winks at me. “Kimber can make what she will of it. There's really not all that much actual evidence to go on about people's personalities, conjecture and intuition are all we've really got.”
      “And, of course, rational conclusions drawn from evidence.”
      “Who's telling the story here!”
      “No-one. You're gossiping.”
      “Well. Back to the story then. Not that there's really much left... The family spent ten, fifteen years in the town. Cora was active socially, and constantly gave tours of the garden, hosting all sorts of events there. The children were quietly tutored as far as we know – there's really no information on them. Mr. Mason---”
      “Do we know what his first name was, John?” Susan cuts in. “I've only ever seen his name given as 'Mr. Mason'.”
      John furrows his brows, thinking. “You know... I'm not sure that we do. I know I don't, though I would think it would be given in the article about the house burning down. I seem to recall that there's no obituary for him in the paper at all. I thought that was strange at first, but then once I heard that the rest of the family moved away almost the minute the house burned down... well, I can't imagine anyone else in town was fond enough of the man to have tried to write anything about him.”
      “He doesn't have a grave in one of the cemeteries, does he?” I put in, curious. “I mean, I know when the original college building burned down not long before all this, even though they weren't sure of the girls' remains, they still got a monument in the cemetery, all listed together.”
      John shakes his head. “No, he doesn't. None of the Mason family are buried here – for as important a family as they were for that short time, they really didn't leave their name attached to anything here. I'd imagine that there weren't any remains left in identifiable shape after the fire, it was an especially severe one. House burned right down to the foundation. Being so far out of town, no-one even saw the smoke and thought to go look, until the house was nearly all gone. Mrs. Mason and the children were found on the road heading toward town, and said they didn't know how it started, but that the servants had all left, and Mrs. Mason said her husband had been in the library, where she'd seen the roof collapse before she saw him leave the house. He was such an odd character, and Mrs. Mason such an upstanding citizen, that nobody ever questioned her story. They all assumed he just let himself die in the fire – rumor suggested he might even have started it, for whatever reasons of his own.”
      “Mrs. Mason didn't give any more explanation of it?”
      John shakes his head. “They really did leave town the day after the house burned down – she said they were going out to stay with her people, somewhere up north, though I guess the kids scattered when they grew up.”
      I nod, remembering what the map-guy had told me about the estate's ownership.
      “I think that's about it,” Mary says, tapping her fingers thoughtfully on the table. “Anything else you two want to add?”
      Susan and John look at each other, John shrugs, and Susan shakes her head. “No, I think you've pretty well covered it,” John concludes.
      I smile warmly at all three of them. “I can't thank you enough, that was so much more information than I thought I was going to be able to get!”
      Mary laughs at this. “Oh, Kimber, little old towns like this don't forget their histories... We may not have the grand landmarks that big cities have, but the stories, we hold near and dear. I think those are the real treasures anyway.”
      John chuckles at this. “We're also a small enough town that our entire history pretty much fits into one office, with a handful of filing cabinets.”
      “It certainly does not,” Susan retorts. “I should know, I'm the one that's cleared the cobwebs and swept the dust away from all those archival bins we store in the basement. And I clean in the museum every other day. And---”
      “I was joking, Susan!” John laughs, reaching across the table to pat her hand. “Still, we are a small enough town, that it's actually possible for a body to know pretty much all the history worth knowing.”
      Mary nods at this. “True. Although,” she adds, turning to me. “You should still stop by our office in the town hall some afternoon – you can take a look for yourself at the newspaper articles about the fire, as well as what photos we have. They're all on microfilm here at the library of course, but I find those machines absolutely awful to read on.”
      I nod, relief showing clearly on my face, I'm sure. I'm so glad to hear an actual librarian admit this! “I definitely will! I'd especially love to see the photos... to see how the gardens used to look.” And so, to verify that what I've been seeing is every bit as real as all my senses can tell me that it is. But for now, I shake the hands everyone's offering me, and say goodnight.

      There's a lot running through my head when I get home. I spread my drawings and sketches around me, lost in thought. Most of what I've just learned isn't too far off from what I would have guessed anyway... I still wish I could have learned more, but I suppose there's only so much written record that survives a hundred years. Especially with the fire having destroyed anything the Masons had actually owned... I suddenly realize that I still haven't explored the site the house once stood on. There's so much garden to see, and, well, the visions or whatever they are keep distracting me. I wonder if there's some reason for that... no, I'm sure it's just coincidence. Next time I'm there, I'll look for the ruins of the house. I had only that one fleeting glimpse of it when I saw the fountain, but that was enough to give me an idea of where it stood at least, though I couldn't make out much of what it looked like.
      I'm having trouble reconciling Cora's character in my head, though. That sad, wistful young woman I saw sitting on the bench, the honeysuckle blossom held so tenderly in her fingertips... and then this bold, independent, somewhat domineering woman who ran the town's social life. Did I see her in her one moment of vulnerability? Or was she not the proto-feminist that's so easily extrapolated from her social résumé? Maybe her involvement in all these things was a less-bossy one than everyone thinks... Maybe it was just one of those things, where everyone knew she could handle the tasks competently, and she couldn't say no? Nodding to myself, I re-trace a few lines in the sketch I've done of her under the honeysuckle trellis. That explanation fits much better with the woman I saw... And her husband being what he was, I'm sure she would have taken every chance at getting out of the house, or having other people around – even Evelyn knew that her father had to “be respeckable” when there were guests. I can easily imagine Cora making sure there were guests around as often as possible, if his temper was as bad as I've heard – and seen.
      Evelyn... Avery, her brother, I still know nothing about. Is he the older one, or the younger one? No, he has to be the older one – his father wouldn't have called for him if he was the bed-ridden child. And Evelyn said he was prone to arguing with their father, I can't imagine someone younger than Evelyn doing anything as rational as argue. Throw tantrums, yes, but not argue. I wonder what the third child's name is... and if there's any way I can find out? Did doctors keep records back then? Or would the Masons have had a private physician for the boy?
      “Aaaaargh!!!” I drop my face into my hands and shake my head, laughing ruefully. Every question I answer, I get a good dozen more... and I know full well that most of them are hopeless, in terms of actual, normal research. The visions are my only hope for real information... and is it actually real information? Even if it is, they've been totally unpredictable so far. The last two have been much longer than the first ones were, and the one of Evelyn was so long, so clear, so involved... will she remember me, if I see her again?
      Sighing, I turn to my loose sketches of the young couple I saw at the fountain. Those are the real mysteries... no records at all of them, not even their names. The only, absolutely only, thing that is left of them, is their garden, and my fleeting vision of them... I want so badly to know what brought them here, why he would create such an elaborate little Eden for her, only to leave it again without a word... I can imagine secreting themselves away from the world, like an extended honeymoon, living only for each other. At least for a little while. But I can't imagine two people living in total seclusion forever... and that could explain them abandoning the place, but, why not just make contact with the town? Go out shopping, go to whatever festivals the town held back then, go make some friends? Why leave a place so beautiful as this once was? They must have loved it dearly, to have put so much effort into every detail of it, the way I can see that they did...

what happens when you're not paying attention...

Writing this whole historical society meeting section, I didn't plan the characters ahead of time. At all. Mary is vaguely related to a character I thought this story was going to have (though it turned out not to), but the other two just wandered in and started talking, breaking up the monologue.

And it wasn't until just now, as I was trying to wrap up the scene, that I wrote:
      “I think that's about it,” Mary says, tapping her fingers thoughtfully on the table. “Anything else you two want to add?”
      John and Susan

And then burst out laughing. JOHN AND SUSAN are my freaking relatives, that live in a little town not far from here. They pop into the store now and again. Susan's the sister of one of my grandparents (I always forget which side of the family is which). I had no idea, until this very moment, that I had unconsciously named my characters after them. The characters, I should note, were never intended to resemble them, though it occurs to me now that the Susan in my head looks a smidge like the Susan I'm related to.

omfg I am not going to be able to finish that sentence as it stands. I can't put the names together or I won't stop giggling. DAMN YOU SYNAPSES! Fire in ways that are HELPFUL!

Part 21

[look out, it's a long one - wanted to get caught up, and a bit ahead, today. but there are older people bantering, so it's all good.]


      Sitting down to draw that night, I think over the day's events, and all the sudden it hits me---
      I touched her. Evelyn's hand was solid in mine, she saw me, her father and the dog all saw me. The dog was nervous, but aside from that... it was as if I were really there, and supposed to be there, like I was seen as I would normally be, not like a ghost or anything. Evelyn was certainly no ghost. I'm tempted to call Anna, but from the way she reacted to my initial story, I don't think she has any experience with something like this. With seeing ghosts, sensing spirits, yes, but actually physically touching things, touching people, that have been gone a hundred years?
      Why didn't I try taking a photo? I'd feel less crazy if I had a photo of that past garden. I'd know this whole damn thing wasn't in my head... though something in my gut tells me it wasn't, that it was as real as the world I walk around in every day.
      Groaning, I let my face fall into my hands, shaking my head. What the hell is going on? I'm not just having visions, I'm having full sensory hallucinations... but I've never had dreams this clear, no character I've imagined has ever been this sharp in my mind. I can see Evelyn's face as clearly as I can see my little sister's.
      I've been trying to keep myself from thinking about all this, from moment to moment I change my mind on whether I'm crazy or there's a logical explanation, if this is all real or not... I've got to take a photo. Then I'll be sure it's real.
      ...how it can be real, I haven't the faintest idea. But if it is, then it is. "Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth." Sherlock Holmes, I think? And Holmes wasn't anything but rational and logical – far more so than I am, anyway, which is what matters here.
      I brace my arms against the floor and lean back, letting my head fall back. I stare steadily at the ceiling. I am not crazy. I'm an artist, which means I'm freaking weird at times, but, I'm not crazy. My ear is still there, and I feel no absolutely no imperative to hack it off. There's some explanation behind all this, and while it may be totally bizarre, and something other people – or even I – would think totally absurd, it's happening, so it's real.
      The explanation doesn't matter, it's going to keep happening, so I may as well get all I can from it. Who needs musty old library records, when you can talk to the family themselves? I grin at myself, shaking my head and turning my attention back to my drawing. I'll still research the hell out of this place, I have far more questions than these quick glimpses can answer... But I'll gladly take the images it's given me.

      I poke around the website for the college in town. I remember my art history professor's name, but I don't think I ever needed to check his office hours. The guy was full of fascinating stories, but he knew so damned much, I would never have felt worthy of talking to him. That, and I never had anything to ask him about – I just tried my hardest to keep awake in the two-hour lecture periods, full of slide projections. Slides always make me conk out, no matter what the subject. (Power Points go double – they don't even have the retro appeal factor in their favor. And people always try to make them “fancy” and “artsy” and it's just freaking painful.)
      His hours aren't posted there, but the number for his office is. Summer sessions are running right now, and I know art history's a popular requirement to try to get out of the way in the summer. I'm not a fan of calling people, but maybe I'll just get a voice mail. I'm home from work, so maybe he's done for the day as well.
      “Hello. You have reached the office of Dr. Reiff, head of the art history department at the University of North Carolina. I'm not in the office right now, so please leave a message. If you would prefer to speak with me directly, my office hours for the summer session are Tuesday from two until five, and Friday from eleven until three. Thank you.” This is followed by a beep, and I suddenly panic, realizing I haven't decided if I want to actually leave a message or not. I have no idea what to say. I hang up. I'll drop by his office hours next time I'm free, I'm not going to try making an appointment via an answering machine. I'm still close enough to a student that I can get away with just dropping in unannounced.
      But checking my work schedule, it's going to be a whole two weeks before I'm free in either of those time frames. Damn it. But that reminds me... am I free Tuesday night? I am! I can jump on someone at the historical society's meeting, and pick their brains about the Masons. If anyone's heard stories about people seeing things in the garden, I'm sure they will have.
      For all the running around I'm having to do, for all the people this project is making me talk to, and going out and doing things outside my cozy little comfort zone... I'm feeling oddly happy. I think it's a really, really good thing, to have some to focus on, outside of work and chores. I don't know if... no, I guess I do feel like my life has a little more purpose now. Who else can draw this garden long-gone? Who else can capture images of these people who might otherwise be forgotten?
      ...and who else would have saved Evelyn from a beating today? I shudder at the thought, I can't help it, she may be a hundred years gone but the fear in her eyes is still fresh in my mind.
      I'm serving some sort of purpose, being involved in the garden like this... and whatever end it might be toward, even if all I get from it is these drawings, and the meeting with Evelyn, that alone has already made my life all the richer.

      Tuesday night, I walk into the library a little after 5:30. Should I approach someone before the meeting, or after? I kind of feel like after would be more natural, but, they're probably a very social little bunch, and they probably sit around chatting about their families after the meetings, maybe go meet somewhere for coffee or something. I'll ask someone beforehand.
      I wait until there's no-one in line at the counter, then approach the lone librarian at a desk by the door. “Hi... Do you know where the historical society usually meets? I just wanted to ask one of them a question, when they come in.”
      She beams. “Anyone in particular?”
      “Uhm... no, I guess not, I don't actually know any of them, I just...”
      “Well, you know one now! I'm the secretary, actually. Mary Sueter.”
      I can't help but smile back, she's so effusive. “Kimberly Bennett. ...do you want me to wait until the meeting, or..?”
      “Lordy, you think I'm busy around here?” She laughs, gesturing at the empty counter in front of her. “Nothing but the ghosts of cranky dead authors around here in the summertime, when there's not a story hour for the kids or something. The historical society generally treats this place as their club house. Cheaper than renting out the Moose Lodge every couple of weeks, and more convenient for me, anyway.”
      She's somewhere around middle-age, maybe a bit older than my mom, with bits of gray in her light brown hair. It is, indeed, tucked back in a neat librarian bun, but she's not wearing glasses or a blouse with a pencil skirt. She's wearing a light yellow short-sleeved sweater, and a rather artsy necklace of hand-worked glass, with big splotches of bright colors. Her eyes are bright and interested, and her smile is one of those that you can't help but return.
      “What was it that you wanted to know? And call me Mary, I hate standing on ceremony.”
      “Kimber, then,” I respond with a smile. “I actually want to know about the old Mason place.”
      Her eyes widen a bit, knowingly. “So do a lot of people... you know a little about it already, I presume?”
      I nod. “I've heard the basic story, that there was a gorgeous garden when the Masons lived there, but a fire pretty much destroyed the property, and killed Mr. Mason. And that Mr. Mason had said his brother had built the place, but no-one knew who that brother actually was, Mr. Mason kind of appeared out of nowhere.”
      “A very mysterious man... and his brother, even more so. Do you know, for all the public attention that estate drew at the time, we don't have a single picture of Mr. Mason? A few of his wife, Cora, and their children, but none of him. And no visual record of his brother and wife, either. Absolutely none.”
      The memory of the man and young woman, curled close around each other beside the fountain, blankets my thoughts. No photos... nothing by which to see them is left in this world, apart from what I carry in my memory.
      “Jerry knows more about the place than anyone, but it's mostly a technical knowledge – what the house looked like, the layout of the gardens, how much the place was worth before it burned, things like that. He's not all that big on gossip – but I am.” She grins and her eyes sparkle. “I never thought I was much of a gossip, but over the years, I've learned that I am downright nosy. Especially when it comes to people's stories. Eventually, I realized that that means I am, in fact, a gossip. And I refuse to be ashamed of it.”
      Mary laughs, and I join in.
      “But I'm talking your ear off and you're stuck standing there. Let's go over to the table there, the others will be here before long, and they can fill in any gaps in my story.”
      Following her to a long table in the middle of the room, I ask, a little timidly, if I won't be interrupting their meeting.
      “Interrupting!” She laughs gaily. “Dearie, you'll be the highlight of our month. There's nothing we old bookworms love more than showing off all the things we know, and it's so rare that anyone as young as you is actually a willing participant. Are you still at the college?”
      I shake my head – I hear this a lot. I'm learning that it's pretty rare for most people to stick around town after they graduate, unless they grew up here, in which case the whole town already knows them. “A few years out, actually.”
      “History major?”
      “Art, with a concentration in drawing.”
      “Oh! That just makes you more interesting. What piqued your interest in the Masons?”
      “I actually live near there, in the apartments on Watercress? I was walking around in the woods one day, and found the fence around the Mason property... Eventually I found a way in, and started walking around.” I decide to keep quiet on the whole vision-thing, at least for now. Instinct tells me Mary wouldn't judge me poorly if I told her, but... I'm still pretty wary of talking about it. “Even though it's so overgrown, there are so many traces of how beautiful it used to be.”
      She nods, her eyes going a little distant. “Isn't it a sweet kind of sad place? You can just feel the stories lurking there.”
      I smile happily. “Exactly.”
      “Well, that's plenty of reason to be nosy about it, then! Let me tell you what I know... oh, and here's Susan! Susan! This is Kimber. She's an artist and wants to know all about the Mason place.”
      “Well isn't that nice! Are you doing paintings of it? It used to be such a pretty place. We have a few photos of it somewhere in the town records, you'll have to come by the office and see them sometime. We're right in town hall, there's someone there most afternoons.”
      “Doing a few drawings, actually... so I'd absolutely love to see the photos.”
      “Now, where to start... We really don't know a thing about the original owners. Can't even find the original deed to the property, if you can believe it! It was probably lost in the fire, but there should have been some kind of copy in the town records, only we've never turned one up.”
      “Could have settled the place before the town was built,” Susan puts in.
      “Well, yes, the town wasn't really a proper town until about ten years before the Masons we know about moved in. We have no idea how long the house was there before that, though to judge by the gardens, it was easily decades.”
      “When people first started filtering in, nobody was exactly worrying about paperwork,” a male voice breaks in, as a man with scant white hair pulls up a chair on the opposite side of the table. “Far enough from the capital that it was pretty much wilderness being settled, the bureaucracy didn't move out here until there were enough people to make bossing around worthwhile.”
      “Why, hello John! You're here awfully early.”
      “The wife was cleaning. I thought it would be prudent to relocate before I got recruited.”
      “Well, this is Kimber, John, and we're telling her about the Masons.”
      “Always a good story. You know more of the gossip than anybody, Mary, I'll let you continue.”
      “Why thank you. So, we have no idea what the original owners were like. All that ever got around town was that it was a man and his young wife, and no-one ever saw them or learned their names. It doesn't seem like anybody even knew the place was there until the Masons turned up and moved in. The town was pretty small then, and their place was really out of the way – no real road was ever built too close to it, I have a feeling Mr. Mason made sure of that.”
      “Such a recluse, that man was,” Susan clucks.
      “Now don't jump ahead of me, Susan! I'll get to him in due time. For all that no-one ever saw the man and his young wife, there were still plenty of rumors that went around town later on. Mr. Mason was always making his wife angry by contradicting her claims to being responsible for the splendidness of the garden. She tried to take the credit for it, and he always made some snide comment about how it had already been there, just so, when they moved in. His brother did it all, created this little Eden for his much-beloved wife.”
      “Didn't she die young?”
      “Well, that's one of the rumors. Tuberculosis, cholera, take your pick of the major diseases of the time, I've heard they all killed her. She was always a frail little thing to begin with, though very beautiful. I've also heard that he killed her himself. She went into town one night, desperate for companionship, and he caught another man walking her home, killed them both in a jealous rage.”
      “No record of that one in any of the old newspapers,” John puts in.
      “I know, but it's such a delicious story, I just had to mention it,” Mary responds with a twinkle. “I've also heard that she ran off on him, never to be seen again, and he killed himself in despair.”
      “No record of that, either.”
      “I don't care if there's a record or not! It's been passed down in the oral traditions of the town, so it still counts for something,” Mary snaps, though her eyes are still sparkling.
      “But it's my job to point out the accuracy of things against the known written record,” John responds calmly, obviously used to playing this game with her.
      “Yes of course... but the record is never half so interesting. The most realistic story is that they simply moved away. There seems to have been a good deal of money in the Mason family, I'm sure the brother had as much at his disposal as Mr. Mason did. And he must have been quite young at the time, so I'm sure the young couple just flitted about as the whim took them. There's really no evidence at all about their time here, apart from Mr. Mason's insistence that they were the ones who built the mansion and its gardens. How much was theirs, and how much were later additions by the Mason family, no-one knows.”
      “I have the impression that Mrs. Mason, Cora, did quite a bit,” Susan puts in. “She was quite the woman in the town's social circles.”
      “She was indeed, and she was so terribly proud of those gardens... But that family moved in somewhere around the late 1880s, the date on that isn't quite clear, either.”
      “There's a notice in one of the town papers that mentions Mrs. Cora in 1889, in connection with one of the local church mission groups.”
      “Thank you, John. Mr. Mason was incredibly reclusive, as I'm sure you're realizing. Mrs. Mason insisted he make appearances from time to time, but I think he purposely made her always regret it, by his rudeness and snide comments to and about her.”
      “And Cora did so much good for the town!” Susan joins in.
      “I saw a photo of her in that book about the town, it listed her being in all sorts of organizations,” I put in timidly.
      “Dan Reed's book? Wonderful thing, isn't it? He ransacked our entire archive, and quite a few ancient attics around the county. Couldn't fit everything, of course, but it's still a wonderful compilation, really piqued local interest in the town's history.” Mary beams.
      “That reminds me, Dan can't make it tonight, his kid's got a soccer game,” John notes.
      “They moved out here for health reasons, the youngest son was a really frail thing. Not quite clear what the issue was, but it kept him bed-ridden much of the time.”
      “Could have been something with his lungs, could have been something with his legs... Medicine was in a pretty sad state still at that point. Mostly consisted of leeches, and getting 'good air' into people. Miasma took the blame for many illnesses.”
      “Miasma?” I know how the word is generally used, but I have no idea how it connects to disease.
      John re-adjusts in his seat, sitting up a little straighter and clearing his throat. “One of the leading medical theories for centuries. It basically blamed all illness on 'miasma', which was really nothing more than 'bad air'.”
      “Pollution,” Mary puts in.
      “Evil spirits,” Susan replies.
      “A little of both, really,” John chuckles. “Leeches are a little more familiar to you? Then you know they were used to draw out the 'bad' blood, which was thought to cause disease. Miasma was pretty much the same principle, it was this atmosphere of disease that was thought to permeate cities mostly, but also pervade any area of illness. Today, we stand back when someone sneezes, envisioning germs filling the air around them. Back then, they had no concept of the germs, but an invisible cloud would settle over an area, and the bad air would cause illness.”
      “That's why you had so much interest in seaside vacations and things at the time,” Mary adds. “And there was some truth in it – getting away from the pollution of the crowded, newly industrializing cities obviously made a lot of people feel better.”
      “Like in Little Women, when they take Beth to the seaside?” I ask, feeling a little childish.
      But Mary grins kindly. “Exactly. And Beth felt better while there, but it wasn't any kind of lasting effect, poor girl. That book makes me cry to this day.”
      Susan sniffs. “You're such a sap, Mary Sueter.”
      “But I'm an endearing sort of sap. What sort of world would it be, if there was no-one around to cry at sad stories?”
      “One without sappy stories being written in it,” John retorts gruffly.
      The rest of us laugh, and John's eyes twinkle.
      “Oh, he's just an old crank,” Mary says to me, rolling her eyes. “Ignore him. Were you finished, John?”
      “Guess I am now,” he says, rolling his eyes in return. “Continue your clucking, women.”
      Mary huffs at that, then returns to her story anyway. I realize that I'm enjoying this meeting immensely.
      “There was a daughter, and an older son as well. They were seen a little more, though still not often. Cora didn't exactly bring them along on social calls when they were young, and the fire happened before the daughter had turned sixteen.”
      John raises an eyebrow. “We don't have any birth record for the daughter, are you sure of her age?”
      “No, but we'd have social mentions of her debut in society if she'd turned sixteen here,” Mary retorts. “So there. I think the daughter was in the middle – again, there's not much to go on, besides a few vague mentions in social columns of the newspaper. The family doesn't come up very often in correspondence of the time, though there are a few mentions in some of the diaries we've found. It seems the children had both nurses and tutors to watch them and teach them, so they really had very little contact with the town.”
      “The daughter was a pretty little thing though, isn't there a photo in the archives, of her in the garden?” Susan asks, idly paging through an issue of Better Homes and Gardens she's pulled from a nearby shelf.
      “There is,” John affirms. “Derick Reese took it, it's in the collection we have of his work. Quite a nice photo, actually, the man was expert at creative portraiture.”