“Excuse me?” a man’s voice said behind me. “Miss Reid?”

I sighed a little. It had been a long day, and I was very tired. The idea of having to deal with yet another undergrad who hadn’t been warned off by his more experienced friends grated on my worn nerves. Speaking without conceit, I am aware that I’m very pretty, and that I set a rather striking figure…but I’d gotten tired of random boys asking me out by the time I was sixteen. Although I was still somewhat flattered when the occasional girl asked me out.

“Excuse me,” the man’s voice said again. “Are you Caitlyn Reid?”

I sighed a little again, stopped, and turned to see who was hailing me. To my surprise, it was an older man…I guessed that he was in his early seventies. He had closely trimmed hair that had only barely thinned with age, but was nearly as white as my own, and his face was seamed and weathered in a way that spoke eloquently of long years lived gently. The lines at the corners of his mouth and eyes suggested long familiarity with smiling, but his dark eyes were very serious as they met mine. He wore a finely tailored three-piece suit in slate gray that looked very expensive, but also looked like it was a bit big on him; he carried a brown leather briefcase in one hand, and a gray fedora that matched his suit in the other.

A few oddities there. Curious.

“Yes,” I replied slowly, “that’s my name. Can I help you?”

“Miss Reid,” he said, bowing over his hat, “my apologies for disturbing you. My name is Margrave. I represent Summers and Winters Legal and Financial Services. I have been authorized to locate and inform you that, on the event of your father’s death and the verification of his will, you have been confirmed as the sole and legal heir of his estate.”

Father?

“It is thus my grave and most unfortunate of duties,” he continued without pausing, “to bring you full disclosure of said estate, and to ask you to go over said documents,” he hefted his briefcase slightly, “with me, pursuant to your father’s instructions as laid out in his will.”

I stared at him for a minute, trying to decide if he was insane, if this was some sort of a hustle, or if he was actually on the level. Heck, maybe there was another ‘Caitlyn Reid’ at Cambridge, though it seemed unlikely.

“I see you are unsettled by this news,” Margrave said, very seriously. “Perhaps there is someplace nearby where we can sit and talk.”

I blinked a couple of times. “Um…I think you may have the wrong Caitlyn Reid.”

He tipped his head slightly, examining me. “My apologies,” he said, replacing his hat on his head and pulling a couple of pieces of paper from his jacket pocket. “I am looking for Miss Caitlyn Reid; twenty-three years of age, white hair, one green eye and one blue, approximately five feet, four inches in height, and slender.” His fingers danced on the paper with surprising agility, flipping one of the sheets around to reveal a photograph of me that I immediately recognized as having been taken a year earlier during an event at the library. “Currently a resident graduate student at Cambridge University, England.” He looked at me again, lifting his eyebrows expectantly.

I blinked again. “That is unquestionably me,” I said slowly.

“Indeed, Miss,” he smiled faintly. “And, if I may be so bold, I could not have done but recognize you even without the photograph. You look a great deal like your mother.”

“I’m…” I hesitated, struggling with his words. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about, honestly. I’m an orphan.”

He blinked slowly, as if it was something he wasn’t accustomed to doing. Come to think of it, I couldn’t remember having seen him blink before that.

“I apologize,” he said, making the papers disappear into his pocket again. “I had thought the initial letter of intent to meet with you would have arrived by this time.”

I shook my head blankly. “I haven’t received any mail lately except bills.”

“The eternal bane of all humans,” he said with a nod, a frown creasing his forehead. “But this is most curious. Two letters have been sent to your address here…one three months ago on the event of your father’s death, and one a month ago to inform you that we had nearly completed a full inventory of his estate and would be contacting you shortly.”

“I didn’t get either one,” I said, shaking my head again, feeling a bit dizzy. I had grown up in an orphanage, had never been adopted, and had long ago given up any hope of knowing anything about my family history.

“Look,” I said slowly, “there’s a café just up the street.” I pointed to where a number of large, dark green umbrellas could be seen. “Why don’t we sit down, have a cup of tea, and you can explain everything to me.”

“Excellent idea, Miss.”

A few minutes later we were settled at a little outdoor table under one of the green umbrellas, and while the waiter brought us tea, I took a moment to examine Margrave further. On closer inspection, I found more oddities. I had been correct in my earlier observation…he went long stretches, sometimes more than a minute, without blinking, followed by a few blinks in rapid succession and then another long period without. His eyes themselves were rather unusual, a shade of green so pale they almost seemed to have no color at all, shot through with little streaks of gold and silver.

Up close, his suit - though it had looked perfectly normal, if a bit large, from a distance - was made of a material I couldn’t immediately identify. It hung like a traditional gabardine, and looked like that fabric at a glance…but on closer inspection it sometimes caught the light like silk when he moved. And the leather of his briefcase - which I was able to take a closer look at when he placed it on the table and opened it - had the most unusual texture of what appeared to be overlapping scales about the size of my hand.

Margrave rummaged through the briefcase for a few moments before bringing out a thick sheaf of papers - I wasn't sure how they'd ever have fit into the briefcase - in an accordion file folder, from which he removed a slim bundle held together by a clip, and a sealed manila envelope. He then closed the briefcase and tucked it away beneath his chair before addressing me directly.

“I have here the papers you will need to sign to take possession of your father’s estate,” he began, touching the thin, clipped-together bundle. “I would encourage you to take everything with you and read the documents in detail before signing anything, as is the standard practice for such an inheritance.” He moved his hand to the accordion folder. “In here, you will find a complete disclosure of all of the properties held by him, including those he inherited upon your mother’s untimely demise, as well as a complete financial statement including all investments and liquid assets, personal belongings that he had cataloged, and so on.”

He paused for a moment, leaned forward slightly and continued in a softer voice. “You will understand, of course, that it does not include a full inventory of the House, or of your parents’ personal belongings kept therein.”

“House?” I asked blankly.

Margrave returned my gaze for a long moment, then blinked in his unnatural way. “Oh dear. Am I to understand that you know nothing of your family history?”

I shook my head helplessly, unable to find my voice.

He sighed. “Bother. This does complicate matters.” He sat back and folded his hands on the table. “I’m afraid it’s far too complex to go into here, and I’m not privy to all of the details anyway. Suffice it to say that you have an ancestral home in the town of Oakwood, not far from Glastonbury Tor. You will find everything you need to know there, I should think.

"The exact location of the property,” he continued, “as well as other properties owned by your father, is listed in the papers here.” He patted the accordion folder. “I would advise you to go there as soon as possible.”

“I…I see,” I said, finding it impossible to provide a more coherent response.

The waiter returned with two cups of tea then, and for a minute we were busy with that. As Margrave set his cup down after taking a sip, he placed his fingers on the thinner folder. “Here, you will find the papers you need to sign, as well as contracts which will enable Summers and Winters to continue managing your investments and properties, should you choose to retain our services. As we have managed your family’s interests for several generations, I would encourage you to do so.” He smiled kindly, and I thought there was genuine warmth in his eyes. “Especially if you are unused to managing large sums of money yourself.”

“That would be something of an understatement,” I confirmed.

He smiled again before laying his hand on the manila envelope. “Finally, this contains a letter to you from your father. I do not know the exact contents, as it is a personal correspondence, and it would be improper for us to open it. You may wish to read this first, before looking at everything else. Considering our conversation thus far, I suspect it may explain a great many things to you.”

I nodded, staring at the envelope. A letter…from my father. I was having trouble wrapping my mind around the idea, but even still it made me feel very odd. A little light-headed, a little excited, a little scared, all at once.

“I understand that you must be very confused,” Margrave said gently, sliding the envelope and folder back into the big accordion file. Then he laid a business card on top of that. “This is my card. Please feel free to contact me through that number at any hour, night or day, if you have any questions or require any advice.”

Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

“I…thank you, I will.” This was all just too much. My head was swimming.

“I suggest,” Margrave said softly, monumental compassion seeming to radiate from his voice, “that you finish your tea. Then go home and get some sleep. Deal with the paperwork tomorrow.”

His words sank into me. It sounded like a great idea. Just the right thing to do. I nodded. “All right.”

I tucked into my tea, sipping it slowly, relishing the warmth of it and concentrating on the flavor to the exclusion of everything else. Slowly but surely my muscles relaxed and my head stopped swimming. When I looked up from my tea again, Margrave was gone.

So I picked up the accordion file, slipped it under my arm - my bag, containing all of my books and notebooks for classes, simply wasn’t big enough for it - and headed for home.

Home was my rather tiny little flat. It wasn’t cramped or uncomfortable, and I kept it spotlessly clean and well organized. That’s just the sort of person I am. But I’ve never had much money…just what came from a trust fund that the orphanage had kept for me until I came of age, and whatever I made tutoring other students. So my flat was really nothing to brag about. Three small rooms: a combination living room/kitchen, a bedroom, and a bathroom. But it was home, at least for now, and it was cozy enough for me.

I unlocked the door and slipped inside, closing it behind me. I put my bag on the table, laid the accordion folder from Margrave beside it, hung my jacket by the door, and headed to my bedroom. Once there, I kicked off my shoes, slid out of my clothes and between the sheets of my bed. My head hit the pillow, and I was suddenly, overwhelmingly tired. Too tired to keep my eyes open anymore.

Sleep claimed me, and I gave myself up to it willingly without a thought.

I dreamed of walking endless hallways with richly carpeted floors, the walls hung with tapestries and paintings, and lined with doors. Doors…dozens of doors, hundreds of doors, in every shape, size and color. They were fascinating, and I wanted to learn about each one.

I woke in the morning feeling relaxed, rested, and unusually clear-headed. Ordinarily it takes me until after my shower and a cup of tea to really feel awake. That morning, I simply sat up in bed and stretched, and everything came into sharp focus. I couldn’t remember ever having slept that well…or that long, really. I’d slept through dinner, and right through the night.

I went through my morning routine anyway, putting on my exercise clothes and going out for a jog in the brisk, early autumn morning. Then a shower, a cup of tea, and a larger than usual breakfast…I was hungry! I had slept right through dinner the night before, after all.

Only then did the pile of paperwork that was waiting for my attention surface in my mind. It would, I realized, probably take some time to go through and take care of, which meant I was likely to miss some classes.

I called my faculty adviser, Professor Sheila Levin, and told her my news. She listened in silence as I explained the situation to her, then whistled softly. “That’s quite a bomb to have dropped on you,” she said. “Are you okay?”

I sat back in my chair and stared at the wall. “I’m…I don’t know yet. None of this feels real.”

“I bet! It sounds like the plot of a TV drama. You think it’s on the level?”

I sighed. “Again, I don’t know yet. It sure seems like it, but I haven’t even looked at any of the paperwork yet, and there’s a giant pile of it. Seriously, this folder is thicker than two history textbooks put together.”

“That’s a lot of paperwork,” she agreed. “Look, you take the time you need to deal with this, whether it’s legit or not. I can’t believe a legal firm would do something like this as a practical joke, and you said he had a picture of you, so…heck, that’s a little creepy, really. Want me to look into this place for you?”

“I’d appreciate it to no end,” I said fervently, picking up the business card Margrave had given me. “His name is John Margrave, and the firm’s name is ‘Summers and Winters Legal and Financial Services.’”

“Got it. Give me an hour and I’ll get back to you. In the meantime, I guess start going through the papers they gave you…if this is a legitimate chance to learn about your family, you shouldn’t pass that up. And don’t worry about your classes, I’ll sort it out on this end. Just let me know if you’re going to need an extended leave so I can get that set up.”

“Thanks, Professor Levin.”

“How many times am I going to have to tell you to call me Sheila?”

I smiled at the long-running joke. She’d been my adviser for five years, through the end of my undergrad and into my graduate work, and a good friend for all of those; she found my continued formality very quaint. “At least one more.”

She made an amused noise and hung up.

I put my phone back on the charger and stared at the thick accordion folder. Her comment had made me think…would I set aside getting my degree to learn about my family? Would it even be necessary to take more than a week or two to look into this?

I shook my head. Things still felt too surreal, and I had nothing to go on yet. She was right, I needed to start by seeing what I’d actually been given.

The first thing on top of the stack of papers and folders inside the accordion file was the manila envelope that Margrave had said contained a letter from my father. That seemed, as he’d suggested, like an ideal place to start.

I broke the old-fashioned wax seal, which showed the imprint of an oak leaf surrounded by a ring of ivy, and opened the flap. Inside were a couple of sheets of what appeared to be old-fashioned parchment, and a photograph, which slid out of the envelope and landed face-down on the table. I flipped it over, and was surprised to see another picture of me. It was an old picture, taken on my tenth birthday…I remembered it vividly, because Sister Sarah - the nun standing beside me in the picture - had just given me the Paddington Bear doll that was clutched to my chest in the picture.

Sister Sarah had never told me who the doll had come from, just that it was a special gift. At ten years old, I hadn’t questioned it…just cherished it. Now I realized it must have been from my father.

I glanced toward my bedroom, where the old doll still sat on my bedside table. It was rather more worn than it had been in the picture, but I had cared for it almost obsessively, and it was still in pretty good shape.

Suddenly, I was incredibly glad I had taken such good care of it.

The parchment - which I realized wasn’t actually parchment, but just an excellent reproduction - was covered with thin, elegant handwriting. It was the sort of old-world penmanship that’s rarely taught anymore. My own handwriting was a messy scrawl by comparison.

It read:

Dearest Caitlyn,

I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me my weakness in sending you away. Please believe me when I say that I had good reasons for doing so, which will undoubtedly become clear to you soon. I have regretted every minute of time that I didn’t get to spend watching you grow.

I kept in touch with Sister Sarah at the orphanage over the years, and she kept me informed of your development and achievements. Margrave, whom you have now met, kept me appraised of your progress once you went to Cambridge. I am so very proud of the woman you’re becoming, and know that your mother would have been as well.

Your mother, you see, died shortly after you were born. Though her death appeared to be an accident, I have reason to believe that she was murdered - for reasons that will, in time, become clear to you - but was never able to prove it conclusively. I feared that my own life was in danger, and knew that yours would be as well if you remained with me. After the loss of your mother, I could not stand knowing that. Nor could I stand the idea of you growing up locked away in this enormous old house.

I know that your childhood was lonely, but I also know that it was a relatively happy one. I have so many pictures of you that Sister Sarah sent to me; the one I included has always been my favorite. I hope that you will take it as proof that my words are true, and that I loved you as truly and deeply as any parent ever loved their child.

I have worked very hard over the past twenty years to ensure that everything would be ready for your eventual return home. I had hoped that I would be there on that day to welcome you home and apologize in person for sending you away, but my fears have caught up with me, and it is unlikely that we will ever meet. I sincerely hope that I am wrong, and that this letter ends up in the fireplace while we laugh together about my fears. But I do not think that will come to pass.

If I am correct, this letter will have been brought to you - along with what will undoubtedly seem like reams of legal paperwork - by a man named Margrave. He and the people he works for may be trusted implicitly. Do not hesitate to call on them if you need aid or questions answered, and I would strongly urge you to retain their services as I have.

It is imperative that you sign the papers to take possession of your inheritance at once, and that you return home immediately. Set aside your studies if you must; and oh how it pains me, a former teacher, to write those words (though the irony appeals to me). Your inheritance is of far greater importance.

And, assuming that I am gone, you will be in danger. I hope to all the gods that you are old enough to deal with it, and wise enough to do so better than I have.

The House is a fortress, one where you can be quite safe and have time to prepare. Return home as quickly as possible. I have prepared the House's caretaker, in case the worst comes. He will be able to see to all of your needs, protect you, and teach you what you’ll need to know. In my study, you will find my journals and private papers. There you will find extensive notes about the House, the responsibilities that come with it, and what little I know about the dangers I’ve faced since your mother’s death. The caretaker can guide you to them and help you understand them.

I am so very sorry, Caitlyn. More sorry than I can put into words. But sending you away was the only way I saw to protect you. The only way to let you be a child without drawing unwanted attention to you. And I’m sorry that I likely won’t be there to guide you through the coming days.

Do not simply survive, as I have. Win your freedom from this danger. Take your life in your hands and live it to the fullest.

I hope that someday you can forgive me.

I love you.

All my love,

Your father,

James Reid

I realized that I had tears streaming down my cheeks when my vision suddenly blurred. I quickly wiped them away with the back of my hand before they could fall onto the letter. I laid the sheets of paper on the table and sat back, closed my eyes, and cried silently for several minutes.

I cried for the family I had never known, and would now only know from my father’s writings and through people who might have known them. I cried for my father, who had - for some unknown reason - sacrificed two decades of his life to keep me safe. From what, I didn’t know yet. Right now, it didn’t matter.

All that mattered now was that I had proof that I’d had a family. I would soon know where I had come from, who my parents had been, and why they’d given me up.

My father had loved me.

Nothing else mattered. Not even that he’d sent me away.

When I opened my eyes again, and dried them with tissues, I noticed the corner of another picture sticking out of the envelope. I reached over and slid it free, revealing a photograph of an older man.

He looked to be in his mid-to-late sixties, with salt and pepper hair that was brushed straight back from his forehead. He had the look of someone who was perpetually worried, with faint lines creasing his forehead and the corners of his eyes. He wore a casual suit of gray trousers, a white shirt, and a brown tweed jacket. He stood in front of a bookcase that was both taller and wider than the picture, and had a hand raised, as if in greeting. A very faint smile curved his lips, but his eyes were sad, and had an almost haunted aspect to them.

Automatically, I flipped the picture over to see if there was a date on it. There wasn’t…but there was a short note scribbled there, in the same hand as the letter.

I’m sorry. I love you, always.

Dad

I flipped it back over and stared at it for a few minutes, trying to commit the face to memory and attach it to the words ‘father,’ ‘dad’ and ‘James.’ Then I set aside the letter and the pictures, pulled the rest of the papers out, and started reading and signing.

Somehow, even before Sheila called me back a little while later to confirm the legitimacy of the Summers and Winters law firm, there was no longer any doubt in my mind that all of this was real.