A/N: I am SO sorry guys. I started this chapter ages ago and just go around to finishing it. Warning: This chapter goes into some darker parts of humanity so DON'T READ IF THAT'S NOT YOUR ISH! kthxbai
Roxas was preparing to close the safe after he inventoried the items when Axel brought up a vital piece of information – they lacked the combination to the safe. If it were to be closed they would be unable to get it open again. Deciding that the thief wouldn't come back for what he didn't take the first time, the safe was left open and Roxas began looking for another place to hang the picture.
As he carried it around, he noticed in the back of the canvas the same blue-headed thumbtacks that he had seen among Ambrose's desk supplies. He stood there holding the painting for approximately two minutes before figuring it out. The instructions left for Aeschylus were not "Check the safe" but "Look behind the painting." Morning was breaking when Axel and Roxas found Ambrose Wells' letter taped to the back of the painting.
Dear Struckner,
This will be the twenty-first letter I hide behind the old Van Krugge. Yes I have the dark presentment that this one will be read. Surely you understand why.
I have adhered to this yearly ritual since my twenty-ninth birthday, after returning from India, when I first noticed I was too closely following my father's steps. I will ask you about him often this year. I will be eager to hear what your father used to say about mine. It is indeed remarkable: No physical threat looms ahead; no clock is ticking my time away. And yet I feel that if I live to replace this letter in a year's time, I will be reborn.
You understand now why I chose to be childless. I cannot permit this fate to continue devouring souls of Wells. Nor can I tolerate any more Struckners wasting their lives serving honey tea to eccentric occultists. Both our families deserve a rest.
If you are reading this, the Wells have already taken it.
For you I have a last request. There are further letters I keep prepared for this eventuality, and I rely on your diligence to post them as soon as possible: to Curtis Knox n Lawrenceville and Caleb Ford in Clayboro, regarding our sad Society; and to Dr. Belknap in Midburg. You shall find these letters hidden between the pages of that wonderful book of our childhood, the one you used to read by a tree.
That will be all, Aeschylus. Good night.
Affectionately yours,
Ambrose Gabriel Wells
P.S.: The Van Krugge is all yours. Happy retirement.
Roxas had barely finished reading the letter before he had the phone in his hand and was dialing the number to Glew's office. By the time he hung up the phone he and Axel had an appointment to meet with the lawyer at nine o'clock at Gordon's Cafe.
"You seem affected," Roxas told the red-head as he stirred creamer into his coffee. Axel drummed his fingers on the table as he stared out the window. They had reached the cafe approximately ten minutes ago and the lawyer was still no where in sight. Weren't these guys supposed to be punctual? Finally Axel heaved a sigh and turned his attention back to the man sitting across from him.
"It's sad someone takes so much trouble to send a message to the right person at the right time and they still fail," the writer stated. His nose crinkled in disgust as he watched the blond add sweetener to liquid but wisely kept his mouth shut.
"That's true," his editor agreed. "But hey, at least it got to us." Roxas pointed out.
"Come to think of it, I can't remember any dead whose last wishes were carried out exactly as they wanted. Like we don't respect them anymore," Axel mused, completely missing what his companion stated. Roxas thought about the red-head's statement as he clinked his spoon against the inside of his cup in an attempt to shake off as much liquid as he could before setting the spoon on the table.
"I guess the trend now is disappointing our fellow men. And the dead are no different," he stated. "You'll have to be the one to change that. When I die, follow my wishes verbatim," Roxas ordered. Axel gave the blond a surprisingly piercing gaze, his green eyes pinning the younger man in place.
"I'll die before you," he stated as if the matter was already entirely decided upon and there would be no escape from the inevitability of that fact. Roxas was taken aback by the bluntness of the statement and before he could recover himself enough to ask the red-head for clarification Glew had finally decided to show up for their appointment. "Sir," Axel greeted, giving the lawyer a firm handshake.
"Thanks for coming," Roxas told him as he shook the lawyer's hand as well.
"As soon as I could. First things first – are you both all right?" he asked as he pulled out the chair next to Roxas and sat down.
"We're all right; it was just a shock," the blond replied.
"In all these years, I never heard of Axton House being burgled." Glew stated. They paused as the cafe's waitress (and Axel was beginning to think the poor girl was the only waitress) approached their table to get Glew's drink order. As she left, the lawyer continued where he left off. "Did you leave the shutters open?" he inquired.
"I'm afraid we did," the red-head answered.
"I see," the older man stated, giving the waitress a quick thanks as she dropped off his coffee. There was another brief interlude as the three men placed their orders before the conversation picked back up. "Struckner used to take care of that every night; now it is your responsibility. But I guess you already learned that the hard way."
"So we did," Roxas agreed.
"Have you reported the crime? Can I assist you?" Glew pressed.
"Well, we don't know what they took. If they took anything," Roxas stated. "Did you know there was a safe in the office?" he asked.
"Yes, I knew." Glew informed the blond. "I just forgot to mention it."
"Do you know the combination?" Roxas pressed.
"No," Glew shook his head. "But if it's open now, you probably will be able to change it."
"Didn't you think that the safe could contain relevant documents? Like deeds and stuff?" Axel questioned. His voice was slightly colored with irritation that the lawyer had forgotten to mention something so important.
"I already have copies of everything," the lawyer informed.
"Did you go through his papers after he died?" Roxas questioned before Axel snapped and made things worse.
"Struckner did, but he found nothing." The talking paused as the plates of food were delivered to the table. "Thank you," Glew stated without even looking at the waitress.
"Didn't he leave any note behind, a message for Struckner or something?" Roxas pressed.
"No – why are you asking me all this?" Glew asked with exasperation. The younger men shared a look before Roxas told the lawyer a white lie.
"There was a note from Ambrose to Struckner in the safe. It said that the watercolor that hangs over the safe is a present for him," the blond stated. I really need to start keeping track of these white lies, he thought to himself.
"A watercolor...Do you mean the Van Krugge?" Glew asked.
"That's it." Axel confirmed. "Is it valuable?"
"Well, to Struckner, it is the difference between a modest retirement and a life pension."
"Then we should give it to him," the red-head stated to his editor.
"The will doesn't mention it," Glew told the writer. "Legally, it is still part of "Axton House and all of its contents," so it's yours to dispose of," he informed the blond.
"Well, if Ambrose meant to give it to him, I want to do that," Roxas answered, agreeing with Axel.
"That's very noble of you, but where is Struckner?" Glew inquired. "That's what I want to know."
"Is it possible he returned to Europe?" Axel asked. Glew nodded in confirmation. "Was he German?" he asked.
"Swiss," Glew confirmed after swallowing his bite of food. "I should know, because Wells used to ascribe all of his virtues to the Swiss heritage – the Swiss thoroughness, the Swiss discretion, the Swiss cheesecake and so on. His father, Struckner senior, worked in Axton House before him, serving Ambrose's father. Then mother and child were reunited with the father and he joined the staff," the lawyer explained.
"What about the Spider-Man comic?" Axel asked.
"Yeah, in the safe," the blond clarified. "It seemed like a regular comic book to me but since it was in there I thought it'd have collector value. Or sentimental value to Ambrose."
"A comic book?" Glew chuckled. "I'm not sure. Truly, I am surprised; I've known him since we were boys and he never showed any interest in such things."
It was nearly noon by the time the two men finally reached the animal shelter. After the preliminary paperwork and general questions about what type of dog they were looking for which ended with, could you just let us see the dogs? The kennel worker, Stan according to his nametag, took them into the back.
"These are all the stray adults. They're all found in the wild and unclaimed," Stan explained.
"Okay, you choose," Roxas told the writer as he adjusted his sunglasses. Axel nodded and walked down the aisle examining the dogs on both sides. Roxas stayed at a distance with his arms crossed. The red-head turned and walked halfway back to the editor before stopping and standing still, letting the dogs bark themselves hoarse. Stan turned to the blond but the question died on his lips as the man motioned for him to wait. Slowly the senseless din quieted down to dialogue between two or three of the animals. Eventually one uttered the last word and Axel bee-lined for his cage, kneeling down and leaning his hand forward. The barking stopped automatically.
"Noisiest of the lot," Stan noted.
"Most extroverted, too," Roxas stated, not talking about the dog at all.
"The black pariah. He's been here awhile," the worker stated as he opened the cage. "Here. I'll let you guys fraternize while I get his release papers."
"I like him," Roxas told Axel as he knelt down to pet the medium-size dog. "What are you going to call him?"
"Your choice," Axel stated with a shrug. "I'm not calling him."
ADOPTEE
NAME: Help
BREED: Mixed (possible McNab collie cross)
GENDER: Male AGE: 3 (estimated)
HEIGHT: 19 in. WEIGHT: 28 lbs. FUR: Black
DINSTINCTIVE MARKS: Dented left ear. Talkative
Dream Journal
I was walking barefoot on muffin snow along the spine of a steep roof with stair-shaped battlements. The sky was unnaturally yellow above. And below, an ashen fog covered the ground, nothing but bare trees sticking their heads out.
I was half-naked. My shoulders burned with cold. I couldn't feel my hands.
Somewhere down on the street it's still snowing and it's daytime and cars honk at a red light and passersby smell of alcohol. There is one male driver trapped in the traffic jam, and he's half-naked too, his skin warm in the winterproof universe inside the car. And he's gorgeous. More than gorgeous: blazing hot, mindblastingly sexy, the kind any nonstupid person should kneel before. And he wears nothing but a set of boxers and the seatbelt and the seat are unworthy of caressing his body.
I am on the passenger seat, twisting a Rubik's cube in my hands. Now and then I peek at his ridiculously long legs.
A human skeleton stares back at the Renaissance men, his empty sockets filled with equal curiosity.
I slam a door open into the glaring white desert. I'm carrying a gun. My eyes hurt.
My eye hurts. The black soldier's holding it open and the surgeon sticks the pincers around my eyeball. I'm strapped down on the operating slab. I'm conscious and screaming to prove it until my throat's torn and bleeding but they don't mind. He's pulling my eyeball out, measuring the nerve's resistance until he yanks and it snaps like a whip and I don't wake up – I stay there to feel the pain. I'm in the dark for a million years hearing them giggling at my eyeball.
Then I wake up and kill them and wake up.
Axel walked straight to the admissions window, a long scarf kiting behind him. He handed the letter to the clerk before fishing for some coins in his pocket. As he turned to leave the clerk called him back and handed the red-head a letter. Caught off guard, he flipped the unexpected envelope in his hands, lips moving as he read the addresses. Exiting the post office the writer headed directly for the cafe and grabbed a booth near the back. While he waited for Roxas to show up he tore open the letter.
Dear Leonidas,
I am forced to give up, for once, two months before the end. My task has provided me little fruit and much visible wearing. Dr. Herbert in Watertown is urging me to take some rest. I've been relying on sleeping pills for six months now, and my only relief is that I don't look worse than Asterion: I visited him in April and he was taking Xanax as Mentos. I am able to sleep with a double dose of Starnox, but I keep dreaming. I tried the tablets he recommended to you to inhibit REM sleep. They are effective, but sleeping without dreaming is hardly sleeping at all.
I'm concerned about Asterion's health. Honestly, I am concerned about your health as well. I am concerned about your dreams and I am concerned about what slipped into your note dated August 4th.
I have tried to answer your questions about John Wells. Unfortunately, my father is not a good conversationalist anymore. Age is slowly gnawing away his memories.
I confess, there have been times when I envied him.
I am not sure I am interested in attending our next reunion. But I do look forward to seeing you as soon as possible, In whichever circumstances.
Yours sincerely,
Prometheus*
"What do you think?" Roxas asked after handing the letter back to Axel. He noted with curiosity that although the letter was signed "Prometheus" the initials on the envelope were "S.W.L."
"If this is the Wells' Society, I don't like the game they're playing."
"I'm not sure you actually have to play the game," Roxas told him. Axel said nothing for a while, instead choosing to stare moodily into his coffee.
"What do we do?" he asked finally.
"We go on," Roxas told him without hesitating. "What do you want to do?"
"Search for the those letters. The ones, 'inside that wonderful book of our childhood'." Axel quoted. Roxas nodded, staring absentmindedly out of the window. His sunglasses were still firmly in place – he almost never took them off anymore, seeming to sense how his bloodshot eyes unnerved even Axel. "What does it mean?" the writer asked, referring to the book.
"Just another code," the editor shrugged. "A safer one because it's based on personal experience: The book you used to read by a tree. That Spider-Man card you played was a good try, by the way," the blond told him with a smirk. Axel flipped him off.
"I could start shaking books until something falls out." he offered.
"There are about ten thousand books in the library. Not to mention the rest of the house," Roxas told him.
"I have time," Axel retorted. The blond sighed.
"Maybe you shouldn't. It's just what you said about the wishes of the dead. Ambrose took so much trouble to ensure that those papers were found by whom he intended. We should be worthy of it," Roxas argued.
"To be worthy, you must be Struckner," Axel countered. The younger man rolled his eyes.
"Not really be. We could ask."
So Axel began raiding the library while Roxas returned to the office on the first floor, where the official papers were kept and found the latest phone bills. The volume of both outgoing and incoming international calls was staggering for someone labeled a hermit. The blond could only guess that the intense communication made up for Ambrose's unfitness to travel. Still, Ambrose hadn't lived alone so he highlighted some numbers to Switzerland but failed to find any of such calls in the unopened bill.
So maybe he hadn't left the world. Still, people made calls whenever their lives take a sharp turn. But to whom? It was then that the editor noticed that the same number was called five times within ten days. Grabbing the telephone he quickly punched in the number.
Hello. Thank you for calling Whateley's Domestic Staff Agency. Our business hours are nine a.m. to three p.m. Monday through Friday, and nine a.m. to noon on Saturdays. If you wish to be contacted, please leave your name and number after the signal.
"Uh, Hi." Roxas stammered. "This is -" the phone slipped out of his hand as techno music suddenly burst through the house. "Axel? AXEL! Ssshit."
It wasn't an alarm this time, though by the time Roxas had figured that out, he had left a two minute message of uninterrupted music on the agency's answering machine before the allotted time ran out and dropped the call. Still, Roxas was bemused to find Axel bouncing on the sofa, red hair whipping in the air. Still, something wasn't right. The editor knew Axel's type of music; trashy punk and garage rock, the kind he could head-bang to in a basement, beer flowing into Dixie cups. This was different – it had synths droning and sending saltwater waves under their feet. It had drumbeats like fireworks, rumbling the furniture out of place and then a crazy, irregular disharmonious, spiral crescendo of pure electric noise, like a typhoon dragging their bodies into it. It featured brass orchestras and choirs of mermaids and a piano in Iceland, all of them right there, visible, touchable, in Axton House. It spoke of magenta sunsets and plastic patio chairs growing moss under summer storms rolling on caterpillar tracks. It sprinkled a bokeh of car lights rushing through night highways and slapped their faces like the wind at a hundred and twenty miles an hour.
Roxas couldn't explain it. All he knew was that he felt like laying three feet over the floor while the last chords of the dream sailed away, and from beyond the dream came the doorbell.
The two men ran to the door, soaked in sweat. Axel's eyes were glistening. Roxas' wounded eyes were glistening. Even Help's. Music had just touched every living thing in the very old house. Even the thick man at the door noticed.
"Hi, I'm Sam," he introduced. "I heard you have a problem with the power."
"Yeah," Roxas panted. "Too much of it." The blond led him up to the second floor. A dim crackling noise emitted from a device which suddenly appeared in Sam's hand as Roxas explained the predicament.
"Just measuring the voltage drop – see if there's any significant loss of power," Sam explained. "You see a lot of that in old farms. Too much power gets lost on the way from the intake to the plugs because of bad wiring. But not here apparently," he stated with a frown. "The voltage is reading one twenty-six."
"I thought the voltage here was one twenty?" Roxas asked.
"It is… Not too strange for this house," Sam added with a sigh. Roxas peered inquisitively at the electrician.
"What does that mean?"
"Nothing, I didn't mean… Well, the high voltage could cause the lightbulb to explode, I guess. That's been known to happen," the man confessed as he exited the room.
"Are you frightened of my toilet, Sam?" the blond asked as he trailed after the taller man.
"What? No. It's just… You know. There's not really much I can do," he confessed.
"I see. A house with supernatural enhancements, right?" the editor asked him. The question apparently hit its mark with both Sam and Axel, who was making his way up the stairs to join the two men. The look on the redhead's face clearly stated that Roxas would be explaining some things that evening.
"Hey, I'm not the type of guy who listens to Tales from the Crypt but… The house has its background, you know." Sam told them as he continued his walk towards the door. "Look, your folks were the best part about this house. Lovely when compared to the previous owners." At the blank look from his companions Sam continued his explanation. "The last person to live here before the Wells family was Charles Axton, who survived his wife and son, back in the eighteen seventies. He's the one who gave the house…"
"The 'supernatural enhancement'?" Axel asked.
"Yes," the electrician agreed. "The Ngara girl. The ghost of Axton House." At this point the group had reached the front door and Roxas moved forward to unlock it.
"Well, how much do I owe you, Sam?" he asked as he turned around.
"Nothing, sir. I did nothing so nothing is owed. If something else turns up…"
"I'll tell you," Roxas confirmed as the man fled out the door. Roxas and Axel stood in the doorway and watched as Sam's van skidded onto the gravel and rolled away. After a brief pause, crackling was heard in the entryway. The blond sighed. "He'll be back for his toy; you know that."
"No, he won't," Axel scoffed. "He just shat his pants."
After Sam left, the blond learned where the CD had come from. Axel had found it in a folder labeled "4" in Ambrose's hand, stacked in a Babel tower of paper on the library desk. Enclosed together with the album were some cutout articles from magazines and a telegram.
FOUND! STOP THANK YOU STOP I FEDEX YOU A COPY OF
THE BEST ALBUM OF 1994 STOP LOOKING FORWARD TO
SEE YOU IN DECEMBER
Dream Journal
Wandering through lifeless woods. There's a little girl in a turquoise dress, spinning, blindfolded, red hair orbiting around her, playing hide-and-seek in the stone-barked grove. Winter fog clings to the trees like amber around prehistoric insects. One shivering sparrow sings.
An identical little girl in an identical turquoise dress is watching, blindfoldless, at a scream distance. Same red hair, blue eyes, a coarse hand across her mouth, her throat exposed. A hideous man is holding her captive. They both gaze at the seeking twin, in her clumsy post-rotation stagger, inquiring arms in satin reaching out. Her seven-winter-old fingers grasp the fog; footfalls on the crunchy soil make her only guidance. Her head turns slowly, ears scanning her whereabouts. A milk-teeth grin has just flashed past. The sparrow's fallen silent.
At the Renaissance men's table, the skeleton's empty sockets look down. Its machinal phalanxes clutch some playing cards.
Saltpeter-crying gargoyles watch the near-naked tomboy skedaddling along the roof spine under the low yellow night, reaching the farthest dormer and slipping through the window left ajar.
Inside the cryptish bedroom lie two rows of iron beds, and one's blanket is held open for me, a read-haired girl inviting me in. I scuttle inside and she pulls the blanket over our heads. In the giggling dark the cold vanishes; I feel my toes again, at the first caress of prison wool. I can't see her face, but I smell her freckles and feel her gossamer lips.
Two women melt in a mushroom-cloud kiss in the liquid crowd of MDMA-eyed dancers swirling to the music (the same tune we danced to yesterday), and the priestess raises her arms to the shafts of light from the surface of the ocean above, where a giant, catastrophic waive is rolling on, curling like a snake a second before biting the sun.
And the gas tank explodes, fireball engulfing the guerrillas attacking me. Through my only eye left I see their internal organs wrinkle and crumble to dust. I have a gun.
I'm defenseless. I'm still stumbling through the corridors of that nightmare house that smells like mildew and putrefaction, retching at the view of the sitting-up corpse against the wall, trying to outrun the monster behind me. But the windows are boarded up, and I'm yelling, not for help, just to wake me up, just to invoke the light of day. And then I see it, an empty room and dust particles playing in the sunlight, but I trip on something soft and fall, air slammed out of my lungs, and he just sinks the pitchfork through my torso, and my rib cage collapses in an explosion of blood.
Axel read the new dream journal entry while Roxas showered. The writer knew he, personally, was capable of dreaming up some truly demented material but the dreams that Roxas was experiencing were on a whole different level. What disconcerted him the most was the mention to the CD they had listened to. Had it only made its way into the blond's dream since they had listened to it that afternoon or did the music and its ethereal affect have something to do with what was going on? The writer didn't have much more time to ponder the thought as Roxas emerged from the bathroom and began dressing for the day.
Axel refused to say that he felt better just by driving away from the house. That would be crediting the house with some sort of unnatural power, as if it were a dark spot on the surface of Earth. There was no dark aura around Axton House, no permanent storm brewing in its general direction. It cannot pretend to be the source of all evil. Neither could the house focus all of their attention.
"I look like shit," Roxas sighed as he caught sight of himself in the mirror at the café. "No wonder half the people here are staring at me."
"They were staring at you before you started looking like a mentally unbalanced person," Axel told him with a nudge. "Besides what does it matter if they're staring?" The blond snorted.
"You're joking, right? Surely you noticed how everyone here attends church every Sunday? How when they address us as 'Mr. Wells' there's a respect, even a hint of care or pity, as if the family were important here. And here I sit looking like I'm squandering the family fortune in coke and prostitutes of assorted genders." Roxas griped. Axel laughed.
"When would you have the time?" he asked with a laugh. "Besides, blondie, you know I don't share," the redhead added with a grin. He was sure that Roxas was glaring at him but the effect was somewhat muted by the sunglasses that had taken up permanent residence on his face. "I'll be library searching today," he stated, changing the subject. "What about you?"
"Phone calls, I guess," Roxas sighed. "Still trying to track down our butler." He quickly removed the sunglasses to rub at his eyes, which were still scarlet rimmed. "Do you dream, Axel?" he asked as he slipped the glasses back onto his face. "What do you dream?" Axel wanted to give a flippant answer as he normally would but this seemed important for some reason.
"I sing," he answered honestly. The answer took Roxas by surprise but bit back his usual sarcastic responses. He could tell that the admission had made the redhead uncomfortable.
"You dream that you sing? Why so?" he asked.
"I'm not good…with crowds. Public speaking, performing in front of audiences – it's not my forte. So I write. But you know how much I love music, so when I dream…" The redhead shrugged.
"That's sweet," Roxas told him softly, gracing the other man with a small but genuine smile. Axel returned the smile and the two enjoyed a peaceful moment while it lasted. "Do you feel like driving?" Roxas asked after breakfast was over. The redhead shrugged. "Like…two hundred kilometers?"
"Fuck yeah," Axel all but shouted. It took every ounce of willpower Roxas had not to laugh at the number of heads that whipped around to look at them.
"Good afternoon. Please come in, Mr. …"
"Wells," Roxas told the woman as he moved forward to shake her hand. The woman was a petite older lady dressed in a sophisticated business suit, complete with her hair pulled back in a bun.
"Esther Hutchinson. Pleased to meet you," she told the blond. She cast an inquisitive eye toward the tall, gangly redhead.
"How do you do. This is my…associate, Axel Lea." Roxas added, noting the glance she had given the other man.
"Pleased to meet you," she added before leading the men down a narrow hallway. Her heels clacked on the floor, countering Help's nails as he trailed after the entourage. Opening a large wooden door, Esther ushered the men in, clearly caught off guard by the dog but letting him enter without comment. "So, Mr. Wells, I understand you're in the market," she stated as she crossed to her desk and took her seat.
"I'm…what?" the blond asked, clearly baffled.
"Hardly," Axel muttered just loudly enough for Roxas to hear.
"You're hiring staff for a house you just inherited – is that right?" Esther clarified, double-checking her notes.
"Oh, yeah. Not staff, just a butler. Actually, we were hoping to have our old butler. See, I know he left after my predecessor died but I'd like him to resume his position," Roxas told her as he settled into one of the chairs on the opposite side of the desk. Esther gave him a skeptical look.
"I see. But, truth be said, Mr. Wells, we can only offer you the personnel who choose us to find a workplace for them – most experienced people, by the way…"
"I know he came to this agency," Roxas told her, waiving away her attempts to deter him. "His name is Mark Struckner, he would have come three or four weeks ago. I believe he resigned because he didn't know I was coming and I think he'd love to come back." A brief silence ensued as Esther reflected on what Roxas had said, clearly choosing her words carefully.
"I seem to recall this…Struckner you're looking for and I don't think he would care to return."
"He told you that?" Roxas challenged, carefully refraining from crossing his arms. It was a precarious battle of wills and the blond refused to lose. Axel stretched out in his chair and merely watched the back and forth. Esther was clearly an experienced player of the game but she was already losing her footing with Roxas.
"Servants often witness uncomfortable situations in their houses. He was quite in a hurry to find a new position, and with his resume, it wasn't very difficult. I remember having recommended his name to some good customers not three weeks ago," she informed them.
"Then you would have a way to contact –"
"Our staff and customer data are strictly confidential. I'm sorry; I must ask you not to inquire any further. Now, if you wish a perfectly trustworthy-"
"You do follow-up, don't you?" Roxas queried, returning the favor of interrupting the woman.
"Beg your pardon?" Esther asked, clearly unaccustomed to meeting someone quite like the blond.
"Well, an agency of your reputation surely does some follow-up calls. To make sure servants and employers get along," the blond continued.
"Well, yes, we-"
"So, next time you call him, can you give him a message? Just a message." Roxas informed her, quickly grabbing a pad of paper from her desk and nabbing a pen from Axel.
"This is most irregular, sir." Esther protested, but accepted the sheet of paper thrust into her hands.
"Just that. Please. When you call him, tell him exactly that. I won't call again," Roxas told her as he stood to leave. "And please tell me how much I owe you for your excellent service."
Dear Aunt Liza,
Life at our family's ancestral manor is still tolerable despite the place's multiple flaws, such as the house being severely understaffed – a circumstance largely contributing to my failure to completely spoil my companion. The lack of personnel is noticeable by the growing marks of our presence in all rooms – not only the ones where we dwell (i.e., this bedroom and the kitchen), but also in those where we just camp during the hike from ground floor to attic. No matter how long a virgin room remains impregnable, hidden at the end of a windowed gallery or in a particularly dark corner under the main stairs, after we discover it and claim it for our rightful patrimony, it will never look untrodden again. There will always be at least a piece of Axel's colorful clothing or some accessory of his to signify our passing, if not a much less subtle hint from Help. Axel is addressing the latter problem, though, so we expect not to need a servant to look after that. But anyway, a butler would be so cool.
[…] I'm sad to admit the return trip was significantly less fun than the runaway, mainly owing to the uncertain results of our investigations. Objectively, none of us walking up the porch stairs looked as happy as in the morning when we left. Okay, maybe Help was; he does feel the house as home. The whole of it. That's some mind-stretch considering his previous home was a kennel.
But then again, it's not the house. I think it's the homework; the burying ourselves again in books and desks. Also on that issue, Struckner would be of great help. But I fear we just shot our last flare.
Tomorrow Axel and I are working the library together; we'll concentrate on finding that book of Ambrose's childhood – the one Struckner "used to read by a tree." I hope that being side by side will keep our spirits up.
I wish I could have him by my side in my dreams too. I recently started a dream journal, if only to prove to myself that the dreams are recurring, that it's not just déjà vu, but I haven't shared it with him. At least he's there, still sleeping when I wake. That's nice.
Okay, so maybe I do miss you. Happy now?
Kisses,
Roxas
~Review~