Chapter 25

The written words on a piece of paper can last for 100 years or longer depending on the quality of the paper, the clarity of one's pen-person ship, and the ability to send the message to the intended party. They can also make something come alive in one's mind or bring back the voice of the past. The words drenched in ink upon a page can either bring joy or sorrow depending on the message and who was meant to read it. I, myself, have made a second career of salvaging and preserving the words of others as well as writing my own, coded or otherwise. There are those out there who would prefer to erase or burn the written words, but I will not let them. I attempt to document the stories of others as it is less painful to remember than my own and to let the voices of the past be heard.

I am sure that this is how Holly S. felt as she opened the letter addressed to her, meaning that she was meant to read it. The ink staining the page seemed to bring both joy and sadness as she was able to relive the memory of her mother and have her words in her head again.

The mixings of emotions brought to the girl's mind the metaphor often used by her mother that life was like a sunrise, not entirely light or happy and not entirely dark or sad. Sunrises, while beautiful, also had a hint of gray surrounding them as darkness transitioned to light and Holly could remember the grayness as she and her parents would watch the sunrise from beyond their back porch. It seemed that her family enjoyed both the arrivals and the departures of the sun as well as the appearance and disappearance of the stars. It could also apply to how she felt undecided as to whether she should read the letter or not. If it did contain the answers that she so desperately sought, would they be light or dark or perhaps somewhere in between. As she held these pages, yellowed, and covered in dust from however many years it had been hidden under the music room, she wished that Duncan or anyone was there to help her read the words written. With a great amount of courage that she truly had in droves; she began to read:

Dearest Holly,

If you have found this letter, it means that I have likely passed on to the next life. I do not know when it will happen or how most likely in a house fire, but I have always assumed it would happen because of the things your father and I have done and the secrets that we know. If this ends up being the case, please do not believe that it was an accident as it most certainly was not, but I personally hesitate to ask you to investigate further.

The question of why I would discourage you from exploring the circumstances of my death is probably floating around in your mind but believe me when I say that it is better to leave some mysteries unsolved. There are a great number of stories and secrets that shadow our lives and leave me with the worry of how much we've endangered you.

I suppose that like any story, one must start at the beginning.

While I'm sure you have already heard the story before, but in case you have forgotten, your father and I met during a symphony performance at the local opera house where I played the second violinist in the orchestra. I can remember the gown that I wore that night, a silk gown of fuchsia with golden accents and the reason that I recall this with such clarity is that your father's brother claimed that I looked like the morning sunrise, glowing and decorated with an elegant shade of winsome, a phrase which meant attractive and appealing in appearance or character. If you can believe it, your father's brother incorporated the same definition into his best man's speech at our wedding. Your father will always tell you that once his brother pointed me out, everything in the world stopped and a single light from heaven above shone down upon me, making my gown sparkle and my beautiful face to glow in more ravishing colours. I always wondered if it wasn't just the spotlight shining down from the rafters of the opera house. Regardless, you've known that he's always been a poetic man and secretly romantic. But it wasn't until after the performance that I met with some fellow musicians and a group of friends that included your father, that we became acquainted. Looking back on it now, perhaps your father's description of our meeting was accurate because when our eyes did meet for the first time and the smile under his moustache formed, I was instantly in love and felt like the beautiful sunrise I was. Though he was too polite to do so, your father wanted to kiss me in front of his brother, sister, and friends. Unfortunately, I had to meet with the composer of the symphony to discuss some business and I did not see your father for quite some time.

But his face never left my mind. I thought about him quite a lot and I would look for his face in the crowds at performances. I often swore that I could see him in the same seat every night, but some of my fellow musicians convinced me that I was merely love-struck and imagining things.

It wasn't until your father's sister, your aunt, came to one of my performances with her date, a man with one eyebrow instead of two, and she told me to ask her brother out already because he was wasting his money on tickets to the symphony every night. I knew then that it really was him out in the crowd every night and he was always the first to stand for an ovation.

Odd as it may be for the time, I heeded his sister's words and decided to pursue your father. I found his hotel and serenaded him with the song I know he loved the most. It was one he would smile the brightest whenever it was performed. He came to the window in his pyjamas and asked if music was the food of love, then I should play on, quoting one of my favourite plays. He then invited me in for a cup of tea, where he insisted that I imbibe my drink without any sugar, something that I cannot stand to do even today. If you can ever remember our silly little arguments in the kitchen over where the sugar bowl was, now you know the reason. Even though we disputed our preference for condiments in our drinks, your father knew that night that I would be his wife.

Our lives after this encounter were like push and pull, like the waves under the rising sun, our first date was until a year after our teatime. We were both involved in dangerous work and our paths rarely crossed. It was not until we were sent on a mission together and after a long battle on a cruise ship on the Panama Canal that involved a grappling hook and a diamond-encrusted baton, we sat on the back of the ocean liner and toasted crystal glasses of wine without feet hovering just above the water. We shared our first kiss under the starlit sky and I too knew we'd be together for as long as we both lived.

I use this word instead of "forever" because I knew the dangers, we faced every day and I decided long ago to never use the word for anything. The risks we took and the views that divided us all would certainly not mean forever.

Our dates were filled with adventures of rock climbing, lion taming, eagle training, cliff diving, spelunking, and cooking (an adventure we still endure today as your father cannot cook to save his life). It was one of the happiest times of my life and when your father presented me with a ring as we sat on a raft adrift along the Nile River, I was over the moon. When he proposed to me, he quoted his favourite author, Jack London with the words "And who knows what Romance, what Adventure, what Love, is lurking around the next turn of the road, ready to leap out on us if we'll only travel that far?" We sealed our vow a year later with family and associates alike but done secretly at the Orion Observatory. Again, we brought the stars into our lives, the very thing that fades during the sunrise.

After we were wed, we moved to the fjord to be close to the Mortmain Mountains and to the sea, where your father and I always loved. I began to teach music for a time, leaving adventures behind. When I found out I was pregnant with you, I stopped completely for your sake and likely my own. Your father and I were over the moon, sun, and stars to discover that you would be joining the world. While we were plagued with so many secrets, we wanted you to be safe and we agreed to stop adventuring for good.

However, it seems that adventuring had not stopped us as you were born while your father and I were out sailing on the fjord. When you were born with those beautiful green eyes and your father's smile, you were our shining star rising into the sky. We named you after the festive plant that grew around the fjord at that specific time of year and in celebration of the upcoming holidays. We gave you your father's mother's name to honour her and we agreed that you would take my last name for your safety. Your smile could light up a room and your love for my music kept me going every day.

Now, as I watch you and your father sleep on the back porch in the old rocking chair under those very same stars, preparing to watch the sunrise when the time comes and I wonder how long this bliss can last. Our safety is but an illusion and I know you have noticed your father's frequent absences. While I have stopped our adventures and missions, he has not. He does noble errands and it has put a strain on us. I want to avoid anything that could put you in danger, while he insists that doing these good deeds will protect you.

You might be wondering through our entire story, the mentioning of adventures, noble deeds, missions, division, dangers, tea, and secrets that is because your father and I are apart of a secret organization known as VFD. The acronym stands Volunteer Fire Department and while this may be a lot for you to process all at once, I can assure you that it is all true. Both our families are involved in this organization, your father's more deeply than mine and both of us have been honoured for our work in the past. VFD is dedicated to putting out the fires of the world, literal and metaphorical, but it goes beyond fighting the most dangerous element known to man. We exchange codes, go on noble errands, train animals, wear disguises and try to keep the world quiet. If you have ever heard your father say the words "The world is quiet here," now you will know the meaning.

VFD sounds like a wonderful and exciting idea, but I fear it is more dangerous than ever. Around the time your father was four, there was a schism, or a divide between the followers of the organization's original principles, and those who follow principles completely opposed to the original V.F.D. Those who opposed the values began to start fires and create chaos wherever they went. The schism had continued to this day and was one of the very reasons that I left. The division was painful as friends turned to enemies and relationships were shattered and lost in the ashes, literally and figuratively. It also forced both of us to do some things that leave me with deep regrets. I questioned so much then, and I do the same now. While your father insists that we are noble, sometimes I wonder if both sides are wrong.

It is one of the reasons that I am writing this letter to you my dear Holly in case I never live to tell you the truth. Perhaps after I'm gone your father will recruit you, but I write these words and tell you to be careful. No one is ever truly good or truly evil; we are like the sunrise, never truly light or dark. I ask you to think carefully about your allegiance and it matters not what you decide only that you are happy.

I love you my dearest child and while I don't know for sure how much time will pass before you become aware of our great family secret, I hope you will be safe and do what is right for yourself. I write this letter after having played our family's favourite song and a cool breeze rocks the rocking chair containing you and your father and just hope our world can remain quiet.

As part of my last will and testament, I leave you, Holly Emberleigh Snicton, all my earthly possessions, V.F.D. related and otherwise. I implore you to read this first and then make your decision.

With all my love my darling,

Celisa Snicton

(Mother)

…

As you can imagine, Holly Emberleigh Snicton had tears running down her cheeks and kept the letter at an arm's length to avoid having those droplets stain the pages or smudge the ink, destroying the voice of her mother. The entire time the young girl was reading, she could hear her mother's gentle and melodic voice speaking through the words and it could be said that it was as if the woman was sitting next to her beloved daughter telling the story aloud.

The girl leaned against the heavy brass lamp that illuminated the room, preventing darkness from consuming her, she still wondered about a great number of things. While the written words on the page had answered a few things, there were still questions. Had the bad side of the VFD killed her mother? What sort of things had her parents done that left them with regrets? How deep did the VFD organization truly go? If she was meant to be a part of the organization, why had her father kept the secret? Why did her mother leave everything to her daughter? Who were her aunt and uncle? And most importantly, why had her mother said that it was her decision?

The last question plagued her the most and could not be erased or burned away from her mind. How could it be her choice? It seems as if she was born to be a part of VFD and her life had been shadowed by it since the very beginning. Despite it being her choice, how could she not continue to unearth the secrets around them.

The whirlwind of words in her mind left the Snicton child exhausted and overwhelmed that she could feel her eyelids beginning to droop and her head sloping down to rest. She decided then to sleep on what she'd learned and come back to the letter with new eyes the next day. She folded the letter and tucked in the book she'd found below. She then turns out the brass lamp and falls asleep in total darkness.

…

Morning light peeked through the windows of the music room, bathing it in fuchsia light with gold accents. Holly awoke with the sun on her face and seeing the grayness of dawn out along the fjord. She stretched out her stiff joints, which was to be expected after sleeping on the hard, stiff floor, and let her mind become caught up with what happened the night before.

The secret passage in the floor was still open and golden sunlight was attempting to illuminate the place that had not seen such brightness in nine years.

The girl removed the letter again and read it, wanting to hear her mother's voice once again and see her pen-person ship. It filled her with a joyful feeling, and she savoured it because she was unsure if she would ever feel so bright again.

Eventually, her stomach growled and she realized that she had not eaten in quite some time. She decided to make breakfast for herself and Mr. Caliban. She went to the front door of the house to fetch the milk bottles and the morning paper.

A bell jingled as a person on a bicycle rode off after having put the paper on the stoop.

It was of course The Daily Punctilio and Holly always wondered why her father insisted on having a subscription from this rag. As Duncan had taught her long ago, the newspaper was full of lies and errors, disgracing the art of writing words and having it be one of the few written pieces that I would gladly burn myself and erase from existence rather than preserve.

However, when she read the headline, she drops the paper as if it were on fire and dropped the milk bottle as well.

There were words printed on the morning paper that would haunt her for 100 years or more and preserve themselves in her memory for as long as she lived:

Duncan and Isadora Kidnapped!

A/N: Something you have all been waiting for. Thank you for all the loyal fans of this story. A cameo from the multi-talented bicycle delivery person. More of Holly's story is clear along with her mother and father's. We finally know what the S stands for and Holly's middle name. Both her middle name and her mother's name mean something and I challenge you to figure it out.