- Chapter 2 -
Unanswered
The colder half of autumn had settled in after the festivities of the Pumpkin Festival. Going by the Agricultural Calendar that the farming community of Forget-Me-Not followed, it was now technically 'Winter 1st', but to the rest of the world it was only November. Forget-Me-Not relied almost entirely on its two large farms: one belonged to the family of Vesta, a boisterous woman who employed her niece, Celia, and a farmhand, Marlin – both a few years older than Lumina. The other was owned by a relatively new farmer; the son of the man who had owned the farm years ago, before it had fallen into disrepair. He had only moved to the valley a few months ago, and Lumina couldn't for the life of her remember what his name was. They hadn't crossed paths much.
The town's economy revolved almost entirely around these two plots of land, separated by only a thin stream. While Forget-Me-Not managed to be self-sufficient for the most part, trade was often done between it and the slightly larger neighbouring community, Mineral Town. Just on the other side of the valley, Mineral Town was close enough to walk to, if one was up to spending a few hours on their feet. The 'Townies' came down every so often – such as the pink-haired Popuri, who had come to celebrate the Pumpkin Festival last Friday.
Lumina's favourite effect of being so close to the other town was the weekly visits from her best friend, Mary Brunell. She managed to be quiet, timid, intelligent and immensely imaginative all at once, and was everything Lumina had needed in a companion. Her father was a botanist, and together they had opened a library in Mineral Town – Lumina had visited it more than once, and ached for the day that the Valley might have the funds or resources to open up a similar establishment. She and Mary often discussed such a fantasy, and Lumina had mentally decided to pursue this dream if her current one of joining the Grace Orchestra petered through, a prospect that was becoming dangerously more likely as the days went by.
The Sunday morning after the festival, Lumina gingerly stepped outside, still in her night gown and slippers, and launched her hand into the golden mailbox hanging off the Villa's exterior. It was completely empty. She let out a sigh and a visible puff of air escaped her mouth, an apparition Lumina would have to get used to seeing again for the next however-many-months winter decided to last.
"Young Miss…?" came the voice of Sebastian from the doorway, wide awake despite the hour.
Jumping back, the young Lumina's hand shot out of the mailbox, the metallic flap banging shut and catching her fingers in it. Nursing throbbing fingers, she said: "Oh, Sebastian… You startled me."
"There is no mail on Sundays, Miss."
He was right, of course, and Lumina felt momentarily foolish. Saying nothing, she stepped back into the manor and closed the door.
Treading towards the kitchen, Sebastian asked, "Shall I fix you some of your favourite Relaxation Tea?" The unimaginatively-named beverage was just what Lumina needed: nothing burned away stress and anxiety quite like a hot cup of tea.
'There's no need to feel dismayed,' she told herself with unconvincing determination, 'This doesn't count as another day without an acceptance letter! It's Sunday, there wouldn't have been a letter anyway – today's a stalemate. Anything can happen tomorrow.'
She entered the kitchen and brought all the morning's gloom in with her.
Sebastian put a cup in front of Lumina and took a guess at her feelings: "You mustn't spend all your time fretting about the Grace Orchestra, Young Miss."
Lumina tried to give a non-committal shrug, as if this was hardly the cause for her sour disposition, but even she didn't believe it and could see that Sebastian didn't either.
"You need only keep your spirits up and know you'll succeed soon enough. Impatience never got anyone anywhere. You've all the time in the world; Don't let your Aunty make you believe otherwise, either." He added with a succinct nod. He had always been displeased with any of the instances in Lumina's upbringing in which Romana had been overly pushy (and there were many, many instances), but as a mere butler he bowed out of giving his employer any disciplinary tips.
"It's not Aunty's influence anymore," Lumina said truthfully, "It's my dream now." Which means I only have myself to blame for failure.
He slid the sugar towards her, as if to silently tell her she would feel better after having some tea. He was most likely correct.
###
Later that afternoon, once the morning clouds had broken and bathed the Valley in pleasantly warm autumn sunlight (unfortunately accompanied by cutting winds), Lumina stepped out into the courtyard. Sebastian was out, cleaning up the decomposing pumpkins and other debris from the festival when he noticed the young lady approach him, holding open a garbage bag in which he could dispose of the mucky pumpkin currently in his gloved hands.
"Thank you," he gave her a hard smile – Sebastian never approved of Lumina helping out with his chores. He appreciated it, certainly, but this appreciation was mingled with shame that such a refined young lady should be doing the work of servants. Lumina, of course, constantly reassured him that she didn't mind a single bit, and even enjoyed some of the duties he had as housekeeper.
"What do you do with these pumpkins after the festival, anyway?" She asked with genuine curiosity.
"Oh, a variety of things. Sometimes I harvest the seeds to roast them – I know your Aunty loves those – Other times I give them to the wild animals, or to Sir Murray."
'There he goes again,' Lumina suppressed a giggle, 'Incessantly polite to his own detriment.' Murray was the unfortunate beggar who roamed the streets of Forget-Me-Not and knew very little in the ways of hygiene, personal space, and manners, but was somehow not only tolerated, but accepted as a citizen of the Valley by nearly everyone. Even he, to Sebastian, was worthy of a title.
"Lady Mary will be coming tomorrow," Sebastian said, with a knowing voice. Suddenly, the day seemed a lot less cold.
"That's true," Lumina glowed, "She'll be staying the whole day."
"How is her novel coming along?"
"She's written three chapters since we last met – and she's bringing them with her, for me to read!" Lumina so loved to follow the adventures her friend could pen so skillfully, and looked forward to their weekly meetings as a chance to continue where the story had left off. Mary was a fine speaker, but barely had the confidence to raise her voice above a murmur. The words she did not speak were made up for by the words that spilled out of her pen as it flew across pages and pages of notebooks; saying she was a prolific writer was an understatement.
Sebastian looked impressed and said, "She's got a fine mind, that one. It's no surprise that the two of you are thick as thieves."
"Oh, I don't know if I could just pick up a pen and bleed literary genius out onto paper the way she does," Lumina shook her head.
"Ah, well, your hands are used for another kind of genius, Young Miss. Don't sell yourself short." The butler nodded wisely, and continued handling the pumpkins.
"Can these hands be put to any use helping you out here?"
Deciding that if he could not stop the young Lumina from lending her aid, he would at least put it to use by giving her the slightly more appropriate task of tending to the gardens.
"I've left a wooden watering can by the front steps, fill it with the fountain water and sprinkle it on the flowers, young miss." He felt as he always did: uncertain about giving his superior orders. Lumina did not seem to mind or notice.
"I can do that," she replied.
The watering can was heavier when filled with the murky water of the fountain, and Lumina heaved it over to the gardens, ignoring the concerned eye Sebastian constantly had on her. She knew part of his concern stemmed from the doubts he had about her abilities – Lumina had a sharp mind, but her physical prowess left a lot to be desired – and the other part stemmed from how her Aunty Romana might react from witnessing a young lady of the Wyndham household doing manual labour. It had been beneath her grand-mother, beneath her mother, and beneath her, and she firmly believed it was beneath her great-niece as well, no matter how little Lumina seemed to mind the tasks.
It didn't mean much, in the end: she just had to put up with more tutting from the pair of them.
Lumina made the rounds, and soon found herself in front of the old garden shed again. She felt foolish, once again, for having suspected her Aunty of hiding something in there. There was no mistaking that it was an ordinary old garden shed, regardless of the whispers and rumours exchanged throughout the town. Tipping the heavy watering can over her Aunty's favourite jonquils, Lumina found her eyes straying to the shed, against her will.
It was an old building, but surprisingly large – easily the size of some of the smaller houses in the village, she realized wryly. She recalled the Winter, a few years ago, where Murray had attempted to break in and make a home of it, and Romana had given him such an earful he never dared to approach it again. Lumina recalled, with mild amusement, that Sebastian had offered to give 'Sir' Murray his bedroom for the night, only to Romana's chagrin: there would be absolutely no way, under any circumstance that Romana Wyndham would allow the derelict Murray to spend even one night under her roof.
Such are the ways of the over-privileged, she remarked wistfully.
There had to be more to the shed, Lumina decided. It may not have been as dramatic a secret as half the town expected, and her Aunty may fly off the handle at less significant things, but all rumours had a kernel of truth to them. Eyes still on the foggy windows of the shed, Lumina knew, at least for the sake of her own curiosity, that this kernel had to be unearthed.
And who better to mine for information than the keeper of these very grounds?
Realizing that in her reverie she had allowed the watering can to slip and she was now watering her own foot, Lumina briskly walked off in the other direction.
"Sebastian," Lumina approached the argyle-clad elder, "I'm finished!"
"Well done, Miss Lumina. Shall I head inside to fix your luncheon?" he asked cheerfully, having finished his own work.
"Actually, I was wondering if you would be interested in a drink." Lumina made a casual gesture to the shed, without being too obvious, hoping to extract something out of him if she could remain as conversational as possible.
Eyebrows raised and mouth bent in a frown, Sebastian asked, "A drink? Do you mean from the Blue Bar? I need not hesitate to tell you how detrimental drinking can be to one's mental and physical facilities, Young Miss, and the sun has barely begun to go down…"
Lumina instantly began to see how her plan would not be likely to work on the conservative Sebastian. She had gone twenty one years with barely a drop of alcohol touching her tongue, and she knew Sebastian was thinking the same thing. She improvised quickly: "Oh no, no. Not the Blue Bar – I simply meant a glass of wine, perhaps. You know me, Sebastian," she tried to sound mildly hurt as she said 'know', trying another angle, "I wouldn't go out and get drunk and murder half my brain cells. I simply wanted to relax after working out in the sun with you."
Sebastian's mouth was no longer frowning, but he was chewing on his bottom lip subconsciously.
"You needn't even head inside, we can just grab a bottle from Aunty's storage shed—"
"No!" Sebastian said all too quickly, and Lumina was caught off-guard, "No, no, that's not necessary. Not that I condone this, but if you insist, I have a bottle in the kitchen that…" The butler trailed off, having noticed the change in Lumina's eyes at his refusal. Slowly, he began to fit the pieces together, and Lumina could tell her façade had failed. "You want to know what's in the shed, don't you?"
Lumina had the grace to look guilty, if only for a moment. "I'm not foolish, Sebastian, I'm not superstitious enough to believe some of the things the villagers say… But even if it is filled to the brim with wine, I don't think anyone gets as territorial about anything as my Aunty does about her shed." She said plainly.
"It's quite alright," he accepted her non-existent apology, "It's only natural you'd become curious. Your Aunty and I had a hard enough time answering your dozens of questions as a child – clearly there's still some of that childishness in you."
Lumina wore a blank expression, not quite sure how to take that.
"I mean that with the best of intentions, of course. No one should outgrow childhood curiosity, I think. Why stop asking questions in a world teeming with uncertainty?"
With a small sigh, he turned to the shed, then back at Lumina, and began to speak. "The reason your Aunty is so protective about her shed is rather simple, but I'm sure you'll understand why the topic isn't breached very often: Your great-uncle Duncan, when he was alive, amassed quite a sum of money with your great-aunt back in their hometown. He was a winemaker – together, they owned a vineyard, passed down through his family. Nearly your entire fortune came from the wild success of their vineyards."
Lumina paused. She had never known that – granted, she had known very little of her Great-Uncle Duncan, and now felt foolish for not having inquired before. This entire confrontation could have been avoided…
"Of course, in their retirement, they moved out here to Forget-Me-Not and essentially founded the village. It was a beautiful little hamlet for them to spend the rest of the years together. Needless to say, death claimed your great-uncle at an unfortunately early age, and the wine that Mistress Romana keeps in storage was the personal reserve of the loving couple. The topic's always been a sensitive one – I'm sure you can understand why – and the thought of anyone touching the last mementos she has of the man she loved drives Mistress Romana mad."
Sebastian finished the story and gave the shed a sad, calculating glance. Lumina did the same, over her shoulder.
"I'll get to fixing that luncheon, then. If you'd really like a glass of wine with that, I'd be happy to – "
"There'll be no need for that, Sebastian." Lumina said quietly, the tone of formality in her voice marking the end of the conversation.
Sebastian nodded curtly, and headed back to the front door, leaving Lumina to stand in the courtyard and gaze at the shed that made her great-aunt's heart ache in a way Lumina, in her short life, could not yet understand.
Once she heard the front doors open and close, Lumina turned around and looked back at her villa. Sebastian, for all his kindness and wisdom, was a poor actor; and Lumina had a terrible feeling that the tale she just heard had been impeccably rehearsed.
