Lester beamed at his brother’s compliment, which also made him feel a sudden pang of loss. Bernard was family, and he would always love him. But if things had been different, if Mathis hadn’t been sent away for all those years, he and Lester might have actually been friends.

“Okay,” Mathis said. “Everything I’ve told you so far, you could have learned from any one of a dozen history tours. But, to go beyond the official story, we’ll have to step off the beaten path a bit.”

They continued down the sidewalk and out of the quiet neighborhood. Along the way, they passed several seafood restaurants and a rough-looking bar called The Scuttlebutt. As they climbed back up towards the main square, Mathis disappeared into a fancy french bakery, emerging a few minutes later with a thin, pink box tucked under one arm.

It was nearly dark, and the streetlights were coming on when they arrived at the tallest building in the town’s modest skyline. The Hawthorne Hotel rose like a brick monolith, with light from dozens of gleaming windows peering watchfully over its neighbors.

Inside, Mathis strode through the opulent lobby, past the antique furniture arranged beneath crystal chandeliers, and made a beeline for the front desk. From behind the meticulously polished wood, an elderly woman wearing a red dress and a string of white pearls eyed his approach.

“Is that Mathis North?” she said, pulling her glasses up from the chain that hung around her neck. “As I live and breathe. Thought you’d have been lost at sea by now, boy.”

“Good evening, Dolores,” Mathis replied. “How are you?”

The woman narrowed her eyes. “Who wants to know?”

“Mostly the caretakers over at the cemetery. They were wondering if they should start digging your grave before the ground freezes or if you think you might shuffle around for another winter out of sheer spite.”

“Why you ungrateful ruffian,” Dolores said, stepping out from behind her perch.

Lester watched nervously as his brother and the woman stood toe-to-toe, each scowling at the other. He was about to suggest they bid farewell to this cantankerous krone and leave the way they’d come when she suddenly grinned and spread her arms wide.

“Come here and give me a hug, you little bastard.” Mathis obliged, wincing as she let go and pinched his cheek. “Are they treating you alright up on that hill?” she asked, eyeing him up and down. “You getting enough to eat?”

“As long as I catch it myself,” said Mathis, rubbing the side of his face. “Dolores, this is my kid brother, Lester.”

If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

She turned, and Lester was reminded of Mrs. Q as she gave him an appraising stare.

“Of course he is,” she said. “He looks just like you used to before they threw you between the devil and the deep blue sea over at that school of yours.”

“I was wondering,” Mathis said, leaning in and lowering his voice, “if it’d be alright if I took him up?”

Dolores’s expression grew serious. “Oh, I don’t know. I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” she said, matching his hushed tone. She took a quick scan of the lobby. “They’ve been keeping a close eye on things recently.”

“We’d only be a moment,” said Mathis, “and I’d be eternally grateful.” He held out the pink box from the bakery.

“Macarons?” Dolores asked.

“Straight from Madame Sherri’s,” said Mathis.

“Well,” she said, eyeing the offering. “I suppose it would be alright. If you promise to be brief.”

Dolores accepted the pastry as though she were a spy receiving a folder of state secrets and then led Lester and Mathis across the lobby. Arriving on the other side, she stopped in front of two tall potted ferns, between which hung a large painting that stretched from floor to ceiling. Thick brushstrokes depicted a wooden ship with three sails sliding down a massive wave. Angry storm clouds swirled above while a raging black sea threatened to pull the vessel down into its dark depths.

Dolores removed a silver keycard from her pocket, and Lester noticed it had the image of a ship’s anchor imprinted on one side. With another quick look over her shoulder, she swiped it across a small black panel hidden behind one of the plants. There was a humming sound, and the painting slowly split in two, revealing the interior of a shiny silver elevator. With its gleaming walls and bright lighting, the high-tech carriage appeared futuristic in contrast to the stately lobby, and Lester stared wide-eyed as he followed his brother inside.

“Um, Dolores?” Mathis called as she turned to go. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

“Oh, right. Sorry, dear,” she said.

Leaning into the elevator, Dolores tapped a digital screen that sprang to life with a neon blue glow. Lester expected to see a keypad in need of a secret code or perhaps some sort of fingerprint scanner, but it was simply a list of floor numbers. Dolores tapped eleven for the topmost level and, without another word, stepped out. She was halfway across the lobby by the time the doors closed.

“By the way,” Mathis said, as the car started to ascend, “save yourself the headache and don’t bother getting a smartphone.”

“Why not?” Lester asked, perplexed.

“Just like this elevator’s display, touch-sensitive screens don’t work for us.”

Lester watched the digital numbers climb upward and remembered the difficulty he’d had trying to retrieve Mae’s photograph of the Yeti. “How come?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” said Mathis. “They just don’t. Have you ever seen anyone associated with The Council use one? Mom, Dad, or even Bernard?”

Now that Lester thought about it, he realized he hadn’t. He’d always assumed his father’s antiquated views on technology were simply part of his curmudgeonly nature, derived from his endless desire to deny all of his youngest son’s requests.

With a brief sensation of weightlessness, the elevator came to a stop. A deep bell tolled as the doors opened, and the two brothers stepped out into the belly of a 19th-century sailing ship.