Ryan let himself into the Library, and walked quietly through the reading room. His slippered feet hardly made a sound on the polished stone. High, arched windows graced the side wall, and it was by these that the section on poetry could be found.
Ryan didn't bother with the card catalog. He walked directly over, and strolled along the shelves, tracing the innumerable bookspines with a finger. He wasn't sure exactly what he was looking for, but he'd know it when he found it.
There! Nestled in the 811s with the rest of the poetry, a book that caught his fancy. E. E. Cummings (or e e cummings, if one might prefer). Two books by that poet, actually. One listed as selected works, the other a heavier volume with gilded page edges announced itself to be the complete works.
Ryan naturally opted for the comprehensive volume.
He tugged it free from its neighbors, and meandered over to a high-backed chair by the window. The sky was a haphazard patchwork, dark clouds interspaced with gaps of blue sky. The typical, temperamental weather of autumn.
Ryan sat down in the chair, put his feet up, and opened to the title page.
Just inside the coverer was a note, hand-written. Curious, Ryan paused.
Monty, my Beloved,
Every time I read this poem I think of you. I know e e cummings is not your cup of tea, but each time I read his words, my heart swells. For you see my dear, it's not enough that I carry my own heart beneath my ribs, under layers of hopes, dreams, and fears. Somewhere along the line, I realized I carry yours with me as well. Broad-chested, or narrow form, it seems there is always enough room for two hearts to beat as one. Whenever we are forced apart by whatever fate may bring, read these poems, think of me; and know that I am dreaming of you.
Forever as Always,
Yours.
So old Burns had a lover once upon a time, Ryan chuckled dryly. The words were poetic without being sappy. He wondered vaguely what happened to the woman. In truth was hardly surprising Burns had taken someone at least once in his life, Burns did have a son after all.
Ryan turned the page to the table of contents. Given the crispness of the spine, Ryan wondered if Burns had ever even looked in this book. Was it possible he missed the writer's tender note? On the content page, in the same handwriting, two poems were underlined. For you, my most darling one, the unknown writer said. Ryan flipped to the first marked page.
i carry your heart(i carry it in
my heart)I am never without it(anywhere
I go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than a soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)
.
Ryan read the poem twice, to make sure he hadn't missed anything. Sweet, but inconsequential. Aside from an odd sense of familiarity in his chest, nothing stood out to him. Still, it gave him a bit more insight into Burns' past. He flipped rapidly to the second marked page.
in time of daffodils (who know
the goal of living is to grow)
forgetting why, remember how
in time of lilacs who proclaim
the aim of waking is to dream,
remember so (forgetting seem)
in time of roses (who amaze
our now and there with paradise)
forgetting if, remember yes
in time of all sweet things beyond
whatever mind may comprehend,
remember seek (forgetting find)
and in a mystery to be
(when time from time set us free)
forgetting me, remember me.
In the same, precise handwriting was a second note below the poem: Come what may, we'll always have the daffodils. WJS. 1952.
Further below that, in a writing of a different hand: As promised. It is in the vase of daffodils. Johan. There was no date behind that named note.
"'It,'" Ryan mused aloud. Daffodils? He seemed to remember seeing a vase of dried daffodils, but where? And why did he even care? Ryan wasn't sure, but something about this intrigued him. It felt like one of the mystery books he'd read in his youth. Who was Johan? What was in the vase? Ryan closed the book and ran his hands through his hair.
"Think," he muttered to himself as he dug his nails across his scalp.
In his mind's eye, he could clearly see a vase of dried daffodils. It had been sitting somewhere in the manor.
On a mantle!
It had been on the mantle next to the anniversary clock. That clock was upstairs, in his father's room. Not that his father hardly ever slept in his room, Ryan knew. Most nights his father and Monty shared the master suite. Ryan didn't want to think about their arrangement in more detail than that.
Stuffing the book in the front pouch of his hoodie, Ryan hastily darted up the several flights of stairs to the residential wing. He skidded to a halt outside his father's room, and glanced about nervously. As expected, the hall was empty.
Ryan placed his hand on the doorknob, and turned it gently.
The door swung open easily.
Despite the fact he knew his father was at work, Ryan felt a pounding in his chest. All three of them, respected each other's privacy. Neither Monty nor his father would ever come sneaking into his room. Ryan felt oddly guilty as he pushed to door the rest of the way open, and stepped into the spacious chamber that his father rarely used.
He glanced hopefully towards the mantle, and his heart sank. The clock was there, just as he'd remembered, but the daffodils were gone.
"Maybe they got thrown out," he muttered sadly, pulling the door shut behind him.
Ryan slouched to the stairs and sat down at the top step.
It had all seemed like such a promising mystery, at the very least an entertaining way to pass a rainy day. Now, it felt over before it had even truly begun.
Ryan slapped his hands against his thighs. Something didn't feel right. He could've sworn he'd seen a vase of dried daffodils recently. It wasn't someplace he usually went. He hadn't seen them well. Downstairs, his subconscious whispered, making itself known. That study at the end of the hall…
Ryan snapped his fingers. "Yes!"
Burns' private study, that room he kept dark, at the end of the long gallery. It was his inner sanctum, as he called it. A place where Waylon was hardly welcomed in, and a room Ryan had only even seen from the open hall door.
There had been a vase of flowers on the mantle there! Nestled between a crystal flask of some expensive cognac, and Burns' old hunting horn.
Ryan flew down the stairs, taking the steps two at a time, and would've fallen on the landing were it not for his firm grip on the handrail. He hauled himself up, and used his momentum to slingshot himself 'round the corner. There, the ground floor. The grand hallway, the main gallery, the double doors to Burns' study at the end.
He skidded to a halt on the carpet, and without hesitation flung the door open.
The room beyond was dark, save for a few glowing embers in the fireplace.
Out of the inky blackness came a low growl.
Two eyes reflected the dim light, flickering amber. With snarl, a doberman pinscher detached itself from the shadows, and hurled itself towards him.
"Down, Winston," Ryan shouted. The dog didn't listen, and continued its charge.
Ryan pulled the door shut with all his might as the Doberman hurled itself, growling and barking, against the frame. Ryan ran a hand over his chest, gasping for air. He backed up several yards, then sank down against the wall. However brief his view into the room had been, Ryan had seen a dried bouquet of yellow flowers on the mantle.
Ryan stood in the bathroom, combing the medicine cabinet for a bottle of small, pink pills. Winston evidently had been left behind to guard the room, and whatever rapport Ryan might've had with Burns' hounds was clearly secondary to a command from their master.
Near the back, he found what he was looking for. Benadryl, the bottle said. He opened it and shook three pills into his hand. According to the internet, and confirmed by a phone call to their veterinarian, three 25mg pills ought be sufficient for a seventy-five pound doberman pinscher's "allergies."
Yeah, Ryan thought as he made his way to the kitchen and slipped the pills into several pieces of hotdog. Allergies.
Hotdogs in hand, he paused outside Burns' study. Carefully, he opened the door. "Hey Winston," he crooned. "I've got a treat for you."
The only answer was a deep growl. Winston stood, ears pinned back, and bared his teeth.
"There's a good boy," Ryan soothed, moving slow. Carefully, he tossed the bit of hotdog in the general direction of Winston.
The animal regarded him suspiciously, eyes flicking between the unexpected treats, and the unwanted intruder. After several seconds of hesitation that seemed like an eternity to Ryan, the dog slowly approached the bait. A cautious sniff, another wary glance towards Ryan.
Come on! Ryan thought frantically.
Winston poked one of the pieces with a paw.
No, Ryan moaned silently. Just eat the damn thing!
As if on cue, Winston lowered his head. He snatched the bit of hotdog in his jaws, and swallowed it without chewing. The second and third piece were likewise consumed. Winston looked around hopefully. Finding no more treats, he returned his attention to Ryan.
Ryan quickly shut the door again.
It would take about twenty minutes for the pills to take effect.
Ryan curled up at the far end of the hall in view of one of Burns' large grandfather clocks, and waited. It was the longest twenty minutes of Ryan's life.
After what seemed like hours, he made his way back to Burns' study, and slowly opened the door a crack. Winston was lying on the hearth by the embers, perfectly still. His ears didn't even twitch as Ryan stepped into the room
Shit, Ryan thought, staring at the dog's glossy chest with apprehension. I killed him!
As if on cue, Winston inhaled deeply, and exhaled with a loud, gurgling snore.
Ryan clasped a hand to his own chest. Oh, thank god.
He crossed quickly and silently towards the mantle and the flowers, his slippered feet hardly making a sound on the deep carpet. He was almost in reach of the vase when he was struck be a terrible realization:
The dog was blocking his path.
Winston lay in an undignified sprawl across the flagstone hearth, his legs stretched out. From where he stood, Ryan could reach the mantle easily, but the most he could do to the vase was brush it with his fingertips.
Ryan uttered a profanity in his head, and took a step back. The only way he could possibly reach the vase would be if he stepped between the dog's outstretched limbs. How deeply did Benadryl make a dog sleep anyhow? Was Winston out like a light, or just cat-napping.
Ryan rubbed his hands together. His palms were starting to sweat. He slid his foot forward, right between the doberman's front paws.
Still he couldn't quite get a solid grip on the vase.
As his fingertips flicked across the mouth of the vase, and he inched it ever closer to the edge, Ryan wondered if this was truly the best approach. He was precariously balanced, practically straddling Winston. The vase rocked slightly. A few more millimeters and he'd have it…
Winston groaned slightly, and shifted.
Ryan jumped, jerking his hands back. It was an involuntary reaction; he hardly had time to think.
His free hand caught the rim of the vase, flinging it unceremoniously across the room.
Time seemed to slow down.
"Oh, hell," Ryan muttered as he took an awkward step backwards. He watched as the vase sailed over his head in a lazy arc towards the door. He had time to realize his foot was now on Winston's foot, and the Doberman was suddenly very much awake. Ryan flailed as he fell, hands colliding with a small table next to Burns' wing chair. The table fell forward, onto Winston.
The dog kicked frantically, a knot of furry and wooden legs entangled with one another.
The vase hit the carpet and shattered, spraying chunks of fine china across the floor.
The dried daffodils scattered across the floor, crumbling as they went.
Ryan's backside hit to floor. He was barely able to break his fall with his arms before he landed. In the middle of it, he noticed a small glass cylinder rolling away from the wreckage of the flowers and vase. He scuttled backwards, making a grab for it.
Winston had found his feet. The dog turned, attention focusing on Ryan.
Ryan grabbed the wool blanket off Burns' chair, and flung it over the dog.
It didn't give him much time, but it provided the necessary seconds needed to get safely out of the study.
He slammed the door, and collapsed in the hall, lying on his back, vial clutched firmly in his hand.
Ryan's heart threatened to explode out of his chest. In the back of his mind he knew that he should be worried about what would happen when Burns came home and found his study in complete disarray. "Maybe he'll just blame the dog," Ryan said to himself, as optimistically as he could. He rolled onto his stomach and examined his prize.
It was a small glass tube, not unlike a laboratory vial, about three inches long, and just under an inch in diameter. The top was sealed with a cork. Inside, Ryan could clearly see a tightly coiled piece of paper, well-yellowed with age. He held the vial in one hand, and tried prying the plug free with his other. When that didn't work, he resorted to using his teeth.
With a grunt and sigh, he slowly worked the obstinate cork free. He spat it out, and shook the roll of paper into his hand.
Not only was it yellow, but it was quite brittle. He carefully unrolled it onto the hallway floor.
Ryan had been expecting a note, a secret message, some grand reveal. In that, he was disappointed. There were three lines of text. Private safe. Servant's pantry. 08913. - Johan.
Who the hell was Johan anyhow?
Ryan memorized the numbers, then slipped the paper back in its vial and tucked everything into his hoodie pouch. Yes, the shattered vase and flowers in disarray, if anyone asked, it must've been the dog.