The Paradox Initiative (29 page)

“Look, it’s only seven o’clock and look how dark it is outside,” Marcus commented, strolling toward the big window that
faced the back yard. Rain gushed across the stones as thunder growled overhead. Kestrel, her arms full, paused next to him, gazing out into the storm. The rest of the house lay in darkness and silence.

“I hate it when the power goes out,” Aidus grumbled, flopping down in a chair. “There’s nothing to do.”

“You two have no imagination,” Kestrel determined as she set her things down on her “new” antique secretary desk next to the window. She eased down into the squeaky chair in front of it as she opened the desk and began to arrange.

“What’s that
stuff?” Marcus asked.

“Treasures,” Kestrel answered as she set a candlestick and candle on the top of the
desk. Then, she very gently laid two leather-bound books down on the desk, pulled out a tiny box of matches and struck one. Her brothers started.

Flickering g
olden light blazed to life above Kestrel’s hand, and she quickly held it to the wick of the candle. The white candle cheerfully accepted the flame, and glowed inwardly, as if pleased.

“Where did you get those?” Aidus wondered, getting up and coming closer.

“My professor, Dr. Stanley,” she answered. “He gave them to me for my birthday.” Kestrel picked up the top book, gingerly opened the front cover, and began to read by the firelight. Her brothers stood there.

“
Well?”
Marcus folded his arms. “Don’t keep it all to yourself!”

Kestrel smiled.

“’Rip Van Winkle,’ by Washington Irving,” she said. “’Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember the Kaatskill Mountains. They are a dismembered branch of the great Appalachian family, and are seen away to the west of the river, swelling up to a noble height and lording it over the surrounding country.…’”

Kestrel sat alone in her dark bedroom in front of her dresser. The power had been restored, but she didn’t tell Ajax to turn on the lights or any music at all. That solitary candle still burned, casting little light and deep shadow across her as she gazed at her reflection. She brushed her long
chestnut hair slowly, methodically, enjoying the feel of the brush pulling through her locks. Sighing, she absently ran her eyes across the surfaces in front of her, noting the subtle changes.

Bits of lace softened the edges of the mirror. An old silver bowl held potpourri that smelled of pumpkin pie. A stack of precious blank paper waited off to the left, guarded by a single antique pen. To the right lay the papers that bore her diligent efforts at handwriting, spotted with ink and sometimes marred by wandering lines. But she was getting better. And over on her
nightstand sat her three most cherished treasures: books. Jane Austen’s
Persuasion
, Washington Irving’s
Rip Van Winkle,
and another entitled
Dear Sarah: Love Letters from the Battlefields of the American Civil War.

She finished, set her brush down, and gently braided her hair, then tied it off. She reached out, her fingertips toying with the edges of the blank paper.

“Honey?”

She looked up. Her mom leaned in her door and smiled. Kestrel answered it.

“Something came for you from the Missouri Society for the Preservation of Antiquities or—something,” her mom said. Kestrel’s brow furrowed.

“Something
came?”

Her mom nodded, stepped in and held a piece of paper out to her. Kestrel stared at it.

“Is that…an
envelope?”

“I don’t know—looks like it!” her mom laughed. Kestrel took it with both hands, afraid it would rip, and glanced across the words. It had been hand-written.

Biting her lip and hating to do it, Kestrel carefully tore the envelope open and pulled out the card inside.

“What is it?” her mom asked.

“’Dear Miss Evans,’” Kestrel read. “’Upon the recommendation of your professor, Dr. Stanley, at the Missouri University of Linguistics and Literature, you are hereby invited to a picnic and ice-cream social at the historical Haggerty Mansion in St. Louis. This event will take place at three o’clock in the afternoon, Sunday July 24
th
. Please wear semi-formal summer attire suitable for outdoors. RSVP by electronic message to Dr. Helen Hildibrand, Co-Chair of the Missouri Society for the Preservation of Antiquities.’”

“That sounds like fun!” her mother exclaimed. “I know what
a picnic is, but what’s an ice-cream social?”

“Something they used to do all the time
in ancient days, just to get together,” Kestrel answered, re-reading it. “It’s a nice idea.”

“I’ve heard of the Haggerty Mansion,” her mom added. “
It’s beautiful. A big, white house with a huge front porch with pillars and everything. Very,
very
old. You’ll love it.”

“Dad and I were going to do some job hunting for me that weekend…” Kestrel murmured.

“Job hunt while you’re eating ice cream!” her mom countered. “Dr. Stanley got you invited to this—it must mean that he thinks there’s an opportunity there for you. I
know
the Haggerty Mansion is a museum. Maybe he wants you to meet someone there!”

Kestrel
studied the card.

“Maybe.”

“Go to bed,” her mom urged. “It’s late.”

“Okay,” Kestrel murmured.

“I love you.”

Kestrel looked up at her mom.

“I love you, too.”

“G’night, sweetie.”

“Goodnight.”

Kestrel leaned her elbow on the sill of the train window, watching the bright green countryside flow past outside. She wore a light blue, knee-length dress with soft, ruffled short sleeves and a sash, and white sandals. She’d washed her hair this morning and let it air dry, then pinned sections of it up, letting other strands curl gently around her shoulders and down her back.

The train wound through the forested hills, speeding smoothly toward St. Louis. Kestrel watched the landscape change subtly—the hills rose higher and the valleys reached deeper, and once, swinging out across a suspended bridge, she caught sight of the great, old river.

Finally, the train pulled into the station. S
he got off with the other passengers, slipping her purse strap over her shoulder and making her way outside. Within moments she was able to hail a little black cab. She slipped into the single back seat as the door slid shut behind her.

“Haggerty Mansion,” she said to the android driver.

“
Fifteen minute duration
,” the android answered.

“That’s fine,” Kestrel replied, and the cab took off. It sped noiselessly through the busy streets, then peeled off down a two-lane road flanked on both sides by tall trees. The sunlight flickered through their branches as she passed. The road dipped and wove, and at last pulled up to a towering stone wall and a black, iron gate. A smiling older man dressed in black and wearing a brimmed hat, who had been standing by the gate, drew up to the window. Kestrel pressed a button and the window rolled up
and out of the way.

“I’m sorry, no vehicles with engines are permitted past this point.”

Kestrel blinked.

“All right—So I can get out here?”

“Yes, madam,” he answered cheerfully. Kestrel pulled out her credit card and slipped it into the payment slot in the cab, then got out. The android said nothing. The door shut. The man in black offered her his arm.

“Welcome to Haggerty Mansion,” he said. “I assume you’re here for the ice cream social?”

“I am,” Kestrel smiled back. “I’ve been looking forward to it.”

“Who invited you?” he asked.

“My former professor, Dr. Stanley.”

“Of course! He was supposed to be here today, but I’m afraid he’s under the weather.”

“Oh. That’s too bad,” Kestrel said, genuinely disappointed.

“Don’t worry,” the man assured her, pushing one of the iron gates open. “Dr. Hildibrand will make you feel right at home.”

They stepped through, and Kestrel gazed ahead at a broad, weathered lane, hugged on either side by towering oaks.

“Just follow this road here a little way and you’ll come to the Lawn,” the man instructed. “You’re about half an hour early, but Dr. Hildibrand will be there
to meet you!”

“Thank you,” Kestrel nodded to him, adjusted her purse and started forward.

The air smelled like freshly-cut grass, and as she walked she caught other scents: water from sprinklers. Wildflowers. Pine. The bright sunshine shone down through the oak leaves in cookie-cutter patterns, and the gentle breeze set those patterns dancing across the path in front of her. She reached the end of the lane and drew to a stop, gazing.

A broad lawn, completely canopied by heaven-reaching trees, had been mown down evenly, and dozens of white metal sets of circular tables and chairs filled it. Brilliant flower arrangements stood on each table, along with elegant place-settings and decoratively-folded cloth napkins. Waiters dressed in sharp white swept between these tables, making adjustments and adding touches.
Kestrel smiled.

“Miss Evans?”

She straightened, and turned toward the sound of the voice.

A green-eyed, red-headed woman slightly older than her mother smiled at her from beside one of the great trees. She wore an elegant, ankle-length white dress, her hair pinned up in a graceful bun.

“Yes, that’s me,” Kestrel answered pleasantly. The woman strode up to her and offered her hand, which Kestrel took.

“I’m Dr. Hildibrand, the one who sent you the invitation.”

“Very nice to meet you,” Kestrel inclined her head.

“I’m so happy you could come!” Hildibrand said earnestly. “So few young people nowadays take an interest in these kinds of events.”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Kestrel assured her. “I studied history all through school, and my mom told me how beautiful this mansion was.”

“Oh, yes, it is
gorgeous
,” Hildibrand said. “Unfortunately, the guests of
this
event can’t actually enter the house—it’s having some renovation done to the plumbing—but since you’re early, please feel free to explore the grounds! The house is up that way,” Hildibrand turned and pointed toward her right. “And past it, on the side, you’ll see a very old, bent-over pear tree, and that’s where the family cemetery is. We’re very proud of that,” she turned a smile back toward Kestrel. “Just a couple months ago, an excavation was begun—a very delicate one, since we didn’t want to disturb anybody!—to dig up the headstones that had sunk into the ground! They’re all above ground now, clean and straight. You have to go take a look! We’ll ring a bell when the social starts.”

“Thank you, I will!” Kestrel said, and started off the way Hildibrand had pointed.

She made her way up a slight hill, following a path through a patch of wild rosebushes. When she reached the top of the hill, she passed through a gap in a knee-high stone wall, ducked under a wide, low-hanging oak branch…

And stepped into full sunshine.

A great, wide stretch of vibrant meadow greeted her, dotted with wildflowers. The full, sweet scent that she’d caught earlier—cut grass—flooded her, and she had to stop just to drink it in. She turned to her left…

Framed, sheltered and shaded by two more enormous oaks stood a three-story white mansion. A tall, pillared front porch dominated the first level, a balcony graced the second, and stately
black shutters decorated the many tall, four-paned windows. Three chimneys crowned the roof, and ivy crawled up one side of the house. A black iron-wrought lantern hung down from the roof of the porch to light the grand front door, which was painted red. A swing and white wicker furniture waited in inviting circles in the corners of the porch. Kestrel stood looking at it for longer than she knew.

Finally, he
r feet drew her around to the side of the house, through a long wooden arbor draped in vines, and toward a walled portion of the yard: the cemetery.

It had been planted on a very gentle hill,
the headstones facing away from the house, mostly in the unadulterated sunlight. A gnarled old pear tree, half-dead, guarded the little gate in the short wall. Kestrel stepped under the shade of the pear, pushed aside the creaking white gate, and slipped in amongst the headstones.

A soft breeze touched her as her feet swished through the grass. The
intricately-carved headstones had indeed been raised from depths—Kestrel could see the fresh earth around each one. But Hildibrand had been correct: the restorers had cleaned and polished every single one. They looked almost new.

Kestrel let her purse slide off her shoulder, and sh
e set it by the first headstone: a pale one bearing a lamb and the brief dates of a baby girl named Elinor. Canting her head, Kestrel wandered down the line of tombs, tracing the names and dates with her eyes, sometimes letting her fingertips drift across the leaf or cross designs.

They were extremely old, all of them. But she noticed as she walked that they were getting newer. She stepped to the row closest to the house and worked her way toward the left, absently murmuring the names to herself.

“Sullivan Haggerty, Mary May Haggerty, Elmer Haggerty, Astoria Elder Haggerty, Angus Haggerty, Margaret Haggerty-Wolfe…” Kestrel stopped.

A very tall tombstone, beautifully carved with roses.

Kestrel whispered the words to herself.

“Margaret Haggerty-Wolfe, Wife of John Wolfe…” She looked to the left of Margaret’s stone. “John
Wolfe.”

Her attention darted back and forth between the dates.

Husband and wife had both died the very same day.

Her heart skipped a beat. The wind whispered through the pear tree.

And she heard something.

Soft plucking. Notes.

Like humming, through a wooden chest.

Notes—harp-like, but richer, more rugged. Gentler.

A guitar.

And she recognized the song.

A soft, slow, steady version of Leaning on the Everlasting Arms.

Her heart stopped altogether.

She turned toward the pear tree…

A young man sat on the ground, leaning back against the old trunk, an acoustic guitar in his lap. He wore a loose-fitting white shirt, rolled up to the elbows; jeans, and brown, beaten boots. His handsome head bent,
attending to the instrument, his solemn brow furrowed, his hair falling across his forehead. His right hand fingers played expertly across the guitar strings, while the fingertips of his left easily changed chords. And the tattoo on the inside of his left arm stood out against his skin.

Kestrel pressed her right
hand to her chest. She listened.

He played the whole song, the notes drifting through the summer air and pulsing through her blood. It slowed. He lifted his hand off the strings, and sat still for an eternal moment.

He turned his head.

He looked at her.

A vivid, gray gaze.

He didn’t say anything. Kestrel stood right where she was, trying to keep breathing.

He set his guitar carefully down on the ground to his left, leaning it against the tree, and slowly got to his feet. He dusted his jeans off, stepped through the gate, and walked up to her side. She pressed her hand harder against her chest—every heartbeat hurt.

He hooked his thumbs in his back pockets and faced the tombstones.
His shadow fell across her—he was so broad-shouldered and tall…

“That’s my mother and father,” he said, his deep voice resounding through her whole frame. “This property is hers—she inherited it. The house, the grounds, the orchard out back—everything. That’s why there’s all these Haggertys buried here.”

Kestrel tore her gaze from his profile to look at the tombstones.

“I played
hide-and-seek here when I was little,” he went on. “With my cousins. It was especially scary when the sun was going down.” He nodded to the pair of headstones next to John and Margaret. “Astoria and Angus, those are my mother’s parents. That’s where I get my middle name. And the ones next to them are my great-grandparents, and so on—their children, too.”

He stared back at his parents’ graves, falling silent. Kestrel could look nowhere but at him.

He took a breath.

“C’mon,” he said—reached down with his right hand, and took hold of her left.

She gasped, thrilling pain jolting through her. He glanced up, past the low wall, and absently entwined their fingers and secured his hold. Then, he turned and drew her out of the cemetery, beneath the pear tree and past his guitar, then up toward the great front lawn.

“This is an excellent place for baseball,” he said, gesturing to the wide open space. “Have you ever played?”

“I…No,” Kestrel whispered, reveling in the feeling of his warm hand.

“
Got to change that,” he decided, turning toward the house. Together, they crossed the gravel drive, their feet crunching on the rocks, and stepped up the front walk.

“After I told Robert Conrad who I was, and he believed me, he bought this entire property
, restored it and put it in a trust,” Wolfe said, striding up the porch steps. “He made it a museum, and paid for its upkeep. He also retrieved a bit of
my
inheritance and put in a savings account to accrue interest. A portion of all his descendants’ fortunes went to maintaining all this. It could only transfer
out
of the trust by someone who bears my signature and retina scan.” Wolfe paused a moment, smiling distantly. “Robert was always trying to get me to stop hunting, to settle down. Stay put. I never quit arguing with him. But he was never a man to take no for an answer.” With that, he twisted the knob and opened the door, then drew her inside.