Chapter 1 

 

 

At the top of the rise, halfway across the cracked and faded asphalt, the Old English Sheepdog stood motionless sniffing curiously at the cool autumn breeze. Perhaps it couldn’t see beyond the dip in the landscape or was distracted by the taunts of low flying gulls, but whatever the reason it relaxed on its haunches and stared into space, oblivious to the canary-yellow sports car hurtling towards it.

Justine had always considered herself to be an excellent driver—even though she had never owned a car—but focused on the convertible’s faulty GPS and its increasingly bizarre readings, her attention had gradually drifted from the road ahead. “What’s wrong with this thing?” she said, tapping her fingers in irritation at the flickering screen, before glancing up in horror to see something on the highway in front of her. She wrenched the wheel of the Corvette without a moment to spare, sending it careening around the startled animal, and fought to maintain control until coming to a sudden screeching halt. By then the dog had already run off—frightened, but unharmed—leaving Justine choking on a rising cloud of dust with her heart pounding out of her chest. 

 

Step Back In Time And Leave The World Behind You…

  

That was the headline in the real estate ad—a lure meant to sell a Victorian mansion—but from the first time she saw it the O’Sullivan House seemed to stir something in her. Something important. As if teasing the answer to a question she had yet to ask. It was the reason she had convinced herself to drive up from Boston; the reason she had put so much at risk to come to this isolated place, but through the haze of burnt rubber, nostrils flared and still clutching the steering wheel in her white-knuckled grip, it was beginning to look like another terrible mistake. “Who runs away from home when they’re twenty-six?” she grumbled, gazing out at the vast unsettled landscape, but instead of waiting for an answer she only chewed at her bottom lip. 

 

The GPS began to malfunction shortly after turning from the interstate, leaving Justine to navigate the crumbling miles of unmarked asphalt on her own. She had been trying to locate a particular landmark, a great black rock that marked the entrance to the estate, but despite every effort to find it she had still turned up nothing. Perhaps it was fate then, or simple dumb luck (not that she believed much in either), but in forcing her to stop and pay attention the run-in with the dog had provided an unexpected benefit: the boulder she had been searching for lay just ahead of her by the road. It was more imposing than she had imagined, at odds with the placid fields and old growth forest around it, looking as if it had tumbled there from some far away mountain—or been cast from on high by an angry god. 

Justine took a breath and turned down the narrow driveway, disappearing into the shadows beneath a shroud of ancient trees. It was cooler here—nearly dark—and faint with the scent of leaves left to molder in the damp. The thicket fanned out along the roadside, meeting in the lofty canopy above, and stretched for more than a quarter mile to a glowing exit on the other side. Justine emerged from it into a walled courtyard, temporarily blinded by the return of the light, but as her eyes adjusted the O’Sullivan House appeared in front of her, seeming to materialize as if from thin air. It looked so much smaller in the real estate ad, quaint even, allowing for the faintest belief that she actually belonged here. Now the edifice towered over her, as tall and ancient as the surrounding forest, and all of that carefully nourished confidence began to fade. 

“What are you doing here, Justine?” 

It seemed a fair question, and one she kept repeating as she took in the scene around her. Who was she kidding…the sports car? The mansion? Just one elaborate misstep after another. But as difficult as she found it to believe that she was doing this—risking everything for a few brief weeks in a house so rare and beautiful—maybe the bigger mystery was why the homeowners ever agreed to rent to her in the first place. In spite of a credit history best described as uneven, Justine had somehow managed to secure the entire estate for the remainder of October—and at a considerable discount. Even so, between the rental of the Stingray and the home’s hefty damage deposit her credit cards were stretched to their limits. 

 

The traffic up from Boston had been unusually light. She was early, for once, giving ample time to look around before the real estate agent arrived. Justine stroked nervously at her hair, tightly curling the long auburn strands around her fingers. 

“Quit fussing like that, you’re going to make yourself bald!” 

Her mother’s comments were as disparaging as always—and just as clear and biting as if she were still alive and sitting in the seat beside her. Justine checked herself in the mirror and turned off the engine, stepping out into a swirl of red and yellow leaves. To her surprise the screen of her phone was flickering, apparently suffering from the same interference as the GPS. There didn’t appear to be any cell signal but she could make out a list of missed calls—all of them from her sister. How long did she really think she could avoid talking to her—forever? Probably not, but with the events of last night still fresh in her mind Justine was willing to try.

An unmistakable hint of salt hung in the air, accompanied by the distant rumble of waves. The ocean was nearby that much was certain, but how to get to it? From where she stood the back of the house appeared inaccessible, hidden behind a low stone wall topped by a crown of spiny cedar. Justine pulled herself up and over it and squeezed between a gap in the hedges, circling around beneath a row of white framed windows until the whole of the inlet spread out before her.  

Ah, there you are…

She quickened her pace at the sight of it, picking her way down a trail of wide flat stones to a pair of granite pillars at the bottom of the yard. The weathered sentries brokered entrance into the duneland, remnants of an ancient gate, and looked out on a narrow path that cut through swales and high marram grass wending its way to the ocean. 

Justine kicked off her shoes as she topped the last set of the dunes, reveling in the splendor of her surroundings. In the late afternoon sun Cutter’s Bay shimmered golden, bordered by steep cliffs and miles of unbroken shoreline, with the outline of a lighthouse faintly visible near the rocks across the water. The structure vanished from view a moment later, swallowed up in the rapidly advancing fog, leaving nothing but the graceful flight of seabirds to mark the fragile border between earth and the heavens. 

 

It had been years since she had been up this way, up where the polar winds and Gulf Stream mingled, and every step brought back a flood of childhood memories. Justine closed her eyes in the face of the cool Atlantic breezes, feeling as if she could breathe for the first time since leaving the city. She could still recall the heady excitement of getting bundled into the car with her twin sister when they were kids—and the anxious silence that followed as their mother set off with them on one of her, now infamous, mystery trips. The drives would always happen without warning, occurring at any hour of the day or night, but whether they led to a park or shopping mall, a stop for fresh produce or ice cream, there was always the promise of adventure. 

The best ones occurred when the weather was warm, ending on some deserted stretch of beach, with their mother passed out in the sand, exhausted, leaving the girls to run and play for hours. Those were the memories Justine clung to, her recollections buoyed by the promise of every cresting wave, and the fervent hope that all the troubles of the world could still be fixed by the sorcery of sea and sky. 

 

The low tide had left a formidable distance between herself and the water so Justine continued down the beach rather than muddy her feet, focused on a point where it jutted out into the bay before curving back on itself. Curious gulls swooped and scattered and called to each other in their secret tongue, careful to keep their distance as they vanished in and out of the fog. 

She was thinking about turning back just as a glint of sunlight caught her attention, reflecting off something a little ways down the shore. Whatever the object was it seemed to flash in time with her every step, pulsing with coded urgency, until finally revealing itself as a glass bottle with its neck sticking out of the sand. 

Justine checked the time as she reached down to free it from its earthen prison, alarmed by the sudden lateness of the hour. If she didn’t turn back now she was in danger of missing her appointment. The bottle appeared almost ancient in appearance and felt heavy in her hand, constructed of dark blue glass with a cork stopper sealed in thick layers of wax. She turned it over and held it up to the light, surprised to find something shifting around inside:

 

A sheet of tightly rolled paper tied in a length of ribbon.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 2

 

 

It was difficult but Justine managed to tamp down her excitement, tracing her steps back up the hill. The paper she found was probably worthless, nothing more than a child’s school project or someone’s old fashioned attempt to find a pen pal. But the bottle itself, that might be of value; perhaps enough to defray some of the cost of her trip.

She had just reached the house and was circling around when the blare of a car horn shattered the silence. Justine tucked the bottle inside her Jacket and hurried to the courtyard, pushing through the tangle of hedges to the other side. She expected to be met by the real estate agent only to encounter an enormous image of the woman’s face instead; a garish advertisement that was plastered to the side of her car. 

“Oh—there you are!” At Justine’s appearance the agent popped up from behind the wheel, quickly donning the same practiced smile as her doppelgänger. “I was beginning to wonder where you disappeared to.” She snatched up her briefcase and stepped out from the vehicle, trundling over the uneven cobblestones to the wall. “You must be Ms. Berton…we spoke on the phone. Suzanne Bombini, at your service, but go ahead and just call me Sue.”

As round as she was tall, in a black and yellow dress and matching jacket, the agent gave every impression of an oversized bumblebee––complete with stiletto heel ‘stingers’. She waited while Justine hopped down to join her, adjusting her hive of honey-blonde hair. “You about ready for the tour?”

Justine nodded sheepishly and followed up the front steps behind the agent, careful to keep the bottle hidden out of sight. 

“By the way, Ms. Berton, when we spoke earlier I forgot to ask if you knew anything at all about the house or its history…aside from all the usual stories, of course.”

“Stories?”

“Oh, you know…ghosts and disappearances, mysterious lights and such—all the things you’d expect from a house as old and fabled as this one. Maybe even a murder or two, though you shouldn’t believe everything you hear.”

“Actually, I didn’t hear.” 

Justine’s admission seemed to catch the agent off guard—but only for a moment. She wrinkled up her nose and offered a toothy grin, barely missing a beat. “Well then, forget everything I just said—tall tales and rumors that’s all, dating back to when the harbor was still filled with tall ships and the O’Sullivan’s practically owned these parts. Truth is, the home’s colorful past is what draws most people…adds to the mystique.” 

“I’d never even heard of this place until I saw it in the paper, though we might have passed by this way when I was a kid.”

“Well, fair to say that the O’Sullivan House is the crown jewel of grand old homes in these parts––held by the very same family for generations. Two hundred years is more than enough history for any four walls, wouldn’t you agree?” The agent chuckled and continued up the steps, suddenly turning pensive once they reached the front door. She fidgeted with the keys a moment, managing a nervous smile. “I’m so sorry, Ms. Berton, but there’s something I really need to ask before we go in…something that’s been bugging me.”

Justine chewed at the inside of her lip, steadying her composure. 

“I hope you won’t take this the wrong way, but I’m just curious,” the agent continued. “What’s so special about you?” 

“What?”

“I mean, why you of all people? This property had been on the market for at least a month before you called, but––”

“I know, I still can’t believe my luck.”

“And that’s my point,” said the agent, “it wasn’t luck. I’m sure I’ve lost count of all the folks who called before you did—everyone of them more qualified—but yours was the only application the homeowners didn’t outright reject. Now why is that? Are you friends with them or something? Family?”

Justine studied the agent’s face a moment, trying to ascertain if she was joking. “No…I don’t even know who they are.”

“Hmm…well there must be something special about you, because whatever criteria they were looking for you were the only one who met it. Unless, of course, my constant needling finally got them to reconsider. I mean, what’s the point of a rental property if you’re never going to rent it?” The agent erupted into a sharp happy laugh, apparently satisfied with Justine’s answer. “Just look at the craftsmanship of that door,” she said, continuing inside, “—that color! If that isn’t Egyptian Blue I don’t know what is.” 

From the entrance hall and all down the grand corridor Suzanne continued to extol the virtues of the mansion, only pausing once they reached a set of glass-paneled French doors. “Just wait until you get a look at this,” she said, propping them open, and she ushered Justine inside. 

The drawing roomwas by far the most luxurious space in the house, the very height of nineteenth century elegance; enveloped in dark wood from floor to ceiling turned a fine burgundy over the years. This is where the O’Sullivan’s once communed with family and friends, congregating amidst a dizzying array of period furnishings, and it was easy to imagine the air thick with cigar smoke and the noisy chatter of well-dressed gentlemen arguing good naturedly over the issues of the day. 

Suzanne sidled up to a black-veined marble fireplace, posing against it like a cut-rate gameshow model. “Sooooo? What do you think?” she said.

Her prodding wasn’t necessary. At the sight of the large bay windows and the ocean beyond any doubts about coming disappeared. “It’s beautiful,” Justine said. She took a seat and locked her hands between her knees, looking out at the water.

“That’s a sweet antique you’re sitting on—a Grecian couch—all the rage at one time. Believe it or not, some of the furnishings date all the way back to the home’s original owner…Alexander O’Sullivan.”

“No wonder everything feels so authentic.”

“Not all of it, of course, but a fair bit…along with anything the local antiques dealer could dig up. The house has been staged to look as it did in the mid-nineteenth century, but you’ll be happy to know the electricity and plumbing are all up to date. The kitchen was the only room that was really modernized, with historical touches of course, but then most people aren’t that keen to cook over wood or coal, or fuss with an open fire.”

“I’m sure everything will be perfect…it looks as if time has stood still.”

“I just love the warmth of this room,” Suzanne continued. “The intimacy. Couldn’t you just picture yourself here on a cold winter’s night, cozied up with someone special in front of that fireplace?”

Justine smiled, trying not to further the conversation.

“You got someone special, Ms. Berton? You married?”

The agent’s question was no doubt innocent but it touched a nerve that was still raw after all these years. Justine suddenly found herself pulled from her fanciful daydreams, stumbling for something to say. “No, not…I mean, sorry it’s just…”

“Complicated?” Suzanne offered helpfully.

“Exactly. Complicated.”

The agent snorted a knowing laugh. “You don’t have to tell me, sweetie. Isn’t it always? I was just under the impression someone might be joining you. It’s a lot of house for just one person.”

“Only me….” Justine turned to the porch again, drawn to a flash of familiar gray and white fur that came bounding up the steps. “Whose dog is that?”

“Dog? What’s he doing back here?” At the sight of the curious sheepdog the agent dropped her friendly demeanor, tapping at the window with obvious irritation. “Shoo! Go home!” she commanded, before rushing off to confront the intruder. 

The animal remained stubbornly defiant as Suzanne shouted at it from the porch door, gazing up at her from beneath a thick mantel of fur. “I don’t think he’s all that bright,” said the agent, turning to Justine with a defeated pout. “It’s like he’s not even listening to me.” She folded her arms in frustration and leaned into the door, knocking it open my mistake as she caught her balance.

It was just the opportunity the sheepdog had been waiting for.

In a single leap it was inside the house, nearly bowling the agent over in the process; its nails scratching out a frantic rhythm on the parquet floors as it dashed off towards the drawing room.

“Quick––grab him!” Suzanne shouted. “He can’t be in here!” 

Justine dropped to her knees and managed to corral the dog, stroking behind its ears to calm it. “Was that you up by the road earlier? Are you okay?”

“Lord, look at the size of that beast!” Suzanne said, stopping to catch her breath as she caught up to them. “What kind of dog do you think that is?”

“It’s an Old English Sheepdog. One of our neighbors had one when I was growing up.”

“I apologize, Ms. Berton, I don’t know where he came from—I’ve never seen him before today. He was sniffing around earlier when I came by, but I thought I chased him off.”

The sheepdog rolled onto its side, panting happily as Justine rubbed its belly. “Actually he’s a she, and she’s probably just lost. I saw her wandering up by the road when I came in.” 

“Well, whatever her story she can’t stay here––can you imagine the damage that thing could do if it got loose in the house? I’d probably lose my commission!” Suzanne flinched at the thought of it, clearly imagining the worst. She grabbed hold of the dog and helped turn it around, prodding at its backside to coax it back to the door. “Go on now,” she said. “Git!” 

The sheepdog seemed confused by such treatment but retreated down the steps, snorting in frustration as it scampered off across the yard.

“I didn’t see a collar but she looks well taken care of,” Justine said. “Maybe she lives nearby?”

“Oh, I doubt that. No one lives anywhere near this place––not for miles and miles.”   

 

A clutch of birch and gnarled maple anchored the bottom of the yard, their colors faded with the season, standing in stark relief against the glittering waters of Cutter’s Bay. 

“It’s getting late,” Justine said. “Maybe we could wrap this up?”

The agent just smiled. “Hush now, I wouldn’t be worth my salt if I didn’t show you around properly…and besides, I’m not entirely convinced you don’t know the O’Sullivan’s. Tell ‘em I gave you a proper tour in case they ask, okay?” She tugged at Justine’s elbow, urging her back inside. “Now as I was saying, the design of the house is mostly Victorian––built on Federalist bones––but you’ll find plenty of American Empire and Italianate touches owing to its decades of construction…”

Equal parts sunny and assertive Suzanne was a type Justine was all too familiar with, and she was certain a dark well of drama lay hidden just beneath that stridently happy veneer. Even so, until the keys to the mansion were safely in her hands she did her best to indulge the agent’s incessant chatter.

“I’m sure you’ve heard we’re in for some nasty weather,” Suzanne said, turning to Justine as they neared the study. “I’m sorry, Ms. Berton, but if you happen to find yourself housebound I’m afraid there isn’t much to entertain yourself with—not a television or computer in the whole place. Not even a hook up for them. Nothing to help pass the time but a bunch of old books…as if anyone actually reads anymore.”

“What’s behind that door we just passed…the one beneath the staircase?”

“You mean the one with the padlock? Oh, you needn’t worry about that, it just leads to the old part of the house––the servant’s quarters and original kitchen. It wasn’t refurbished, in case you were wondering, but then why slum with the help when you could have the master bedroom, am I right? And speaking of bedrooms…”

“Actually, I’d really like to settle in––maybe get down to the beach again before dark.”

Suzanne stopped and turned back around, slowly interlacing her fingers across her belly. “If it’s the ocean you’re after then I really think you should follow me,” she said, her eyes pointing skyward. “Upstairs.”

 

They climbed the remaining steps in silence, arriving at a long gallery that ran for the entire length of the house. Stained glass windows lent it the air of a modest cathedral, filtering the glow of the setting sun, and highlighted an ornate spiral staircase that rose up to an open hatch in the ceiling, ascending through a golden shaft of light. 

The agent must have noticed the look of wonder on Justine’s face. “The O’Sullivan’s dubbed this The Hall of Glass,” she said, softening her tone, “and back then it would have been filled with furniture.” She motioned for Justine to accompany her up the twisting metal staircase, guiding her through a small enclosed cupola to a platform on the roof. “Well—what did I tell you?” she said, holding her hair protectively as they stepped into the wind. “Isn’t this view just the best?”

Justine nodded in mute agreement and strode to the edge of the deck, leaning over the rail for a better view of the yard.

“Careful now,” Suzanne said. She raised her hand in warning but the railing began to shift before the words were even out of her mouth, pulling at its moorings with a menacing squeal. The agent gave a little scream and cupped her hand to her mouth, looking on in shock as Justine scurried back to the door. “Well, if the view didn’t get your blood pumping I bet that did,” she said, tittering nervously as she tried to speak. “I’m so sorry, Ms. Berton. I was assured they’d have that fixed before you got here.”

Justine tried to brush it off, steadying her breath as she inched back to the rail. “This type of platform…it’s called a widow’s walk, isn’t it?”

“Widow’s walk. Widow’s watch. I’ve heard a bunch of different names…all of them fairly ominous. Apparently a lot of these old homes were built by sea captains and such, and legend has it that while they were at sea their wives would come up and keep an eye on the horizon, hoping to spy their return…though with a name like widow’s walk I’m guessing not a lot of them did.”

“I think that’s just a myth,” Justine said, “—about the widows, I mean. I’m pretty sure these were just a popular architectural feature of the time.”

“Well now, aren’t you clever––you might even be right––not that I’d ever let the truth get in the way of a good story. Spoils all the romance, don’t ya think?”

“Was the original owner a sea captain?” 

“Alexander O’ Sullivan? Not that I’m aware of, though ships were certainly a part of his trade. You still want to get down to the beach?”

Justine glanced up at the darkening sky, taking note of the fog shrouded horizon. “It’s getting late,” she said. “I should probably think about unpacking and get something to eat.”

“Suit yourself. Why don’t we head downstairs and I can go over the rules while you sign the paperwork.”

“Rules?”

“Nothing outrageous. No pets, of course, though I should think that would be obvious—and if you’re thinking about using any of the fireplaces make sure you don’t leave them unattended. No theft or vandalism or alterations of any sort to the house or grounds—blah, blah, blah, et cetera, et cetera––pretty standard stuff. I’ll stop by before the end of the month in case you decide to extend your stay, but until then I hope you’ll enjoy discovering the specialness of this place on your own.”

The agent gave a cheerful wave as she drove off, leaving Justine to contemplate the full impact of her decision. Was it true? Was she really here? Yesterday the future seemed so uncertain—so dark and foreboding. Now, at least for the next two weeks, there was the promise of sunlight and salt air and long walks on the beach with the sand pushed up between her toes. 

A storm had been gathering since her arrival, whispering its presence in the rustle of leaves, and now as she pulled her suitcase from the car the rain began to fall against the cobblestones, beating out a steady rhythm like the clack of an old typewriter. At the top of the steps Justine stopped and gazed up at the house, taking a moment to admire it in the waning light. Suzanne was right, it had crossed the gulf of centuries bearing witness to joys and sorrows long forgotten. And whatever that history, whether scandalous or mundane, in taking the chance on coming here Justine had made herself a part of it. 

It was a thought she found strangely satisfying as she hurried inside and closed the door behind her, bolting it tight against the coming weather. 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 3

 

 

There wasn’t much, but Justine had provisions enough to see her through the first few days. She pulled aside the fresh fruit and vegetables and searched the boxes beneath the tin cans and rice, retrieving a cache of wine recently liberated from her sister’s cupboard. Lined up across the counter the bottles reminded her of soldiers on inspection, and she moved between them reading each label in search of the best recruit. In the end it was a Chilean Carménère that found its way into her glass and just as always that first sip reached deep inside of her, lancing the boil of anxiety that had been building since leaving Boston. 

A second glass and Justine traipsed off in search of a place to sleep, flitting from bedroom to bedroom like a real life ‘Goldilocks’.

This mattress is too hard!

This one’s too soft.

The room is too drafty.

Too small.

Too far from the bathroom! 

 

She had all but exhausted her options by the time she reached the end of the hall on the second floor, but this final bedroom was a little different than the others. At the back end of the house its cater-corner windows looked out in different directions, affording a partial view of the courtyard and highway snaking south—as well as the backyard down to the marshland and bay. A cool salt breeze filled the room, welcoming her as she stepped inside, but it in the end it was the sight of the four poster bed that finally convinced her. It rose up from a plum-red persian carpet in sensuous curves of dark mahogany, with bedposts the shape of antelope horns and tied-back curtains of black and gold, and a broad round backboard inlaid in mother of pearl showing the points of a compass fixed on an iridescent star. 

Justine poked at its plump feather pillows and the colorful layers of patchwork quilts; finally seduced by the promised warmth of a goose down comforter. She dived in amongst them and cocooned herself in the blankets, coming to rest at the edge of the mattress with her head hanging upside down. From this vantage point the world outside was suddenly transformed: the shifting waters had become the heavens and every white capped wave a threat of rain, and Cutter’s Bay had all but receded, giving way to a sea of endless sky. 

No, it wasn’t the largest bedroom in the house, not even the most luxurious, but wrapping the sheets tight around her as she savored the crisp night air, Justine knew that she had found the one that suited her best. And it was just right. 

 

At least until the nightmares.

 

In the small hours of morning she awoke to find herself breathless and shaking, adrift in the vast emptiness of the Victorian bed. She had spent much of that first evening getting settled in, unpacking her suitcase and rambling about the old mansion—completely forgetting about her  discovery from earlier in the day. 

Or so it seemed.  

While she slumbered images of the antique bottle bubbled up from deep in her subconscious, moving between her dreams like a contagion. Sometimes the paper it held revealed a list of spells and incantations, sometimes the secrets of immortality—or even a treasure map, complete with sea serpents in the margins and an ‘X’ to mark the spot. But it was only after dreaming of herself on the beach that Justine finally shook herself awake, haunted by the image of the bottle cracked open and the parchment turned to dust, escaping on the winds like a genie from its prison.

At her window the delicate tap-tap-tap of the rain nearly lulled her back to sleep, but Justine finally persuaded herself to leave the comfort of her bed and lumber downstairs, wrapping her terry cloth robe around her. As expected the bottle was right where she left it, snug inside her jacket where it hung by the entrance hall door. She stifled a yawn and retrieved it, intent on finding a knife to cut through the thick wax seal, but as she searched for the light in the kitchen she heard it: a sudden high pitched scratching noise coming from the back of the house.

It was nothing to worry about, probably just the wind or a tree branch brushing against the shutters, but something about the intensity of it left her unnerved. In the eerie silence Justine tightened her grip around the bottle and crept down the hall to investigate, holding it above her like a cudgel. She had almost reached the porch door when the sound returned, and this time there could be no mistake: from outside came the frenzied commotion of someone—or something—determined to get in. 

Ducking out of sight Justine ran to the side of the curtains, holding her breath as she peeked around them. She couldn’t be certain in the pale yellow light, but it looked as though some sort of creature was pacing outside—an animal large and angry and determined to get in. Justine took a breath and collected herself, daring to look again, and this time she chuckled and got to her feet, easing her grip on the bottle as she unlatched the door. “What are you doing out here?” she said, leaning down to greet the sheepdog. “You were supposed to go home.”

The animal gave her a look of bristling annoyance, it’s fur glistening in the rain, and with an agitated “WOOFFF!!” it pushed past her and made for the entrance hall, headed off down the corridor before she could catch it. 

“Would you like to come in?” Justine said, shouting after it, but by the time she locked the floor again the dog had already disappeared into the shadows. She returned to the kitchen and found a knife in one of the drawers and had just sat down with the bottle when her visitor reappeared. “You’re going to get me in big trouble,” she said, calling to it in the doorway. She approached the dog and knelt down beside it, stroking the back of its head. “Oh, you’re soaked—were you out there all day? You must be starving.” She gathered a handful of paper towels and patted the animal dry, finishing by putting down a bowl of water paired with a plate of cold chicken from the fridge. The sheepdog pounced on the offering without hesitation, gobbling it up within seconds, and when everything was gone it pawed at the empty plate, staring up at Justine with a plaintive whine. 

“I’m sorry, that’s all there is.”

The animal cocked its head to one side, its massive paw continuing to swipe at the ground.

“Don’t give me that look,” Justine said. “That was supposed to be my supper tomorrow.” She got to her feet and returned to the table, followed closely by her uninvited houseguest. The sheepdog seemed content with a stroke behind the ears and settled in at her feet, closing its eyes while Justine turned her attention back to the bottle. “How long have you been out there?” she whispered, turning it over in her hands. “Weeks…months? Years?” She pursed her lips and cut into the seal, crestfallen to find it yield so easily. “So much for an ancient pedigree”, she grumbled, sweeping away the shards of broken wax, but she continued on, removing the red ribbon and pouring the paper out on the table. This is it, she told herself, braced for elation or disappointment, only to be confronted by a feeling that she had never accounted for.

Confusion. 

 

Forgive me father for I have failed you at every turn, and pray that in this undertaking you might finally grant me favor. The ineludible truth of our great shared tragedy has harrowed us both, binding us in our suffering, and mauger my good intentions has only served to widen the chasm that exists between us. But by my promise I intend to cross it––the past not withstanding—with rectitude enough to impress the depth of my resolve.

Be it what it would I have kept to my own council these past few weeks, lost in the palaver of my thoughts, but see now how clearly my actions must appear. Think me not pusillanimous for I embrace this challenge willingly, inveigled not by the lure of adventure but by my sense of duty—and ready to face whatever fate lies in the offing to return to you in good stead. 

I suppose it matters but a little for only time and tide await me now––and I poor wretch for it. 

Alea iacta est

SOS  ~ Hiraeth, October 6, 1849

 

The letter had been written in elegant calligraphy, composed by a skillful hand, but though Justine parsed each sentence in turn the meaning of the note remained frustratingly elusive. 

“What the hell are you talking about?” she said, rousing the sheepdog from its slumber. “Is that Latin? And what sort of a name is Hiraeth?” 

Some of the words seemed foreign, and some so old as to have long fallen out of favor. Even the parts she understood didn’t add up to much. Perhaps it was meant as a prayer or a cry for help. Perhaps a confession, or apology…or a joke.But what of the S.O.S.? The writer must have been in some sort of trouble. Right?

Despite its incoherence the tone of the language gave her pause—as did the skillful composition. She would soon need to drive into town for groceries and promised herself that she would seek out the antiques dealer Suzanne had spoken of. Perhaps they could provide some answers. 

For now though, with the sound of the rain intensifying at her window, Justine was just eager to get back to bed.