The days since Thomas and his father had arrived at the old manor in Avonlea passed quickly. The house, though sturdy, had clearly been neglected over the years, and much of their time had been spent cleaning, repairing, and trying to restore a semblance of order to their new lives. Together, they managed to clean every room, even repairing a broken window in the back, though much work still lay ahead. The manor had an air of potential, but it was buried under layers of wear and tear.
One afternoon, as Thomas was busy cleaning out the stable, his father approached him with a sense of quiet urgency.
"Thomas," he began, his voice as calm as ever, but with an underlying weight to it. "First thing tomorrow, you will ride to the station and make your way to Charlottetown."
Thomas straightened up, wiping the sweat from his brow. He had almost forgotten about the upcoming trip.
"On your way, you will return the horse and the wagon to the Bright River Hotel. They were kind enough to lend them to us." His father added.
"Right," was all Thomas uttered.
His father, not one for idle conversation, continued briskly. "The details of your assignment are outlined here." He handed Thomas a sealed envelope, the weight of which felt heavier than mere paper should.
Thomas took the envelope, slipping it into the inner pocket of his coat. His father's gaze lingered on him for a moment longer before turning to leave the stable. Over his shoulder, he added, "Finish up your work and get some rest. You'll need it."
As his father departed, Thomas stood still, watching him disappear into the fading light. The stable was quiet now, save for the soft rustle of hay. A wave of frustration washed over him. Why was everything with him always about what needs to be done? No "please" or ''how are you holding up?''. Just the next task.
For a moment, Thomas considered opening the letter. But, deciding to leave it for later, he continued with his work. Hours later, after a quiet dinner and the completion of his chores, Thomas finally retreated to his room. If it weren't for the hard work over the past few days, Thomas might have found it difficult to fall asleep, but his weary body took precedence over his troubled mind and he drifted off quickly.
At first light, Thomas was stirred awake by his father. "It is time," he said.
Thomas rubbed his eyes, feeling the weight of sleep still clinging to him. He dressed quickly, pulling on his travel clothes - his tailored coat with its deep hood, perfect for shrouding his face when needed. For now, he left the hood down. After a quick breakfast, Thomas readied the horse and wagon outside.
As he tightened the last strap on the horse, his father approached once again, his face impassive. "Here," he said, pressing a pouch of coins into Thomas's palm. "You'll need this."
Thomas nodded, pocketing the coins without a word. He climbed onto the wagon, gripping the reins, feeling the weight of his father's gaze on him. It was rare for his father to express emotion, but in that moment, there was a softness in his voice that Thomas hadn't expected.
"I expect this might be dangerous," his father said quietly. "Remember everything I've taught you. Be careful, son."
Thomas gave a reassuring nod, but the tension in his father's voice lingered as he started the wagon down the dirt road toward the station.
The ride back to the train station was uneventful, the road empty save for the occasional farmer or traveler passing by. Those he encountered gave him curious glances, clearly not recognizing him as one of their own. The countryside was peaceful, the morning mist still clinging to the trees and fields as he neared the familiar sight of the Bright River Hotel.
Waiting for him was a young boy, perhaps a few years younger than Thomas, with brown hair and a hint of a French accent. He appeared eager, standing by the stable entrance, his eyes bright with expectation.
"Mr. Davenport, sir?" the boy called out as Thomas dismounted from the wagon.
Thomas couldn't help but smirk at the fake surname his father had given the hotel. "Yes, that's me," he replied, handing the reins over to the stable hand.
The boy nodded, taking the horse and wagon without question. Thomas marveled at how a little coin to the right man could so easily erase any need for explanations. He shook his head slightly at the thought, watching as the boy led the horse away, then turned toward the station, the letter in his coat pocket once again weighing on his mind.
The station wasn't far, and soon enough, Thomas had purchased his ticket and found himself sitting in a shaded corner of the train car, next to the window. As the train lurched forward, his thoughts began to drift once more.
From the corner of his eye, Thomas spotted a familiar figure seated toward the far end of the car. It was the same red-haired girl who had bumped into him on the platform days earlier, her fiery hair catching the sunlight as it streamed through the windows. If it hadn't been for the weight of his own assignment, he might've taken note of her distraught expression.
Instead, he finally opened the letter, the wax seal featured a sharp, angular insignia resembling an 'A,' with a pointed tip and curved lines beneath. As the train sped toward its destination, Thomas's expression darkened as he read through the contents of the letter.
Many days later at the Bright River station, as the train doors swung open, a crowd of passengers spilled out onto the platform, their footsteps echoing in the afternoon sun. Among them was a hooded figure, slipping quietly through the throng of travelers. Once outside the station, the figure pulled back his hood, revealing Thomas's bruised and tired face. A thin scar traced his right cheek, a fresh reminder of his recent ordeal, along with raw knuckles.
Thomas paused for a moment, letting the warmth of the sun wash over him as he took a deep breath of the fresh countryside air. The familiar scent of grass and earth grounded him, and for a brief moment, he allowed himself to savor the moment. Nobody was waiting for him, so he set off on the road towards the town.
About halfway down the path, the sound of a wagon drew closer, and a voice called out behind him.
"Are you Thomas?"
Thomas turned sharply, his body tensing as his hand instinctively hovered near his coat pocket. He eyed the stranger, a man perhaps in his early twenties, with tanned skin and worn clothes that spoke of long hours under the sun.
"Who's asking?" Thomas replied, his voice measured, sizing up the man before him.
The man gave a friendly smile, seemingly unaware of Thomas's caution. "Your father, Mr. Rockport, asked me to pick you up at the station," the man explained, squinting slightly. "I must've missed you there."
Thomas studied the man for a moment longer, his guard still up. His father's real name. He must have sent him then, surely. The man seemed harmless enough - a local, no doubt. His clothes were plain and worn from hard labor, and his demeanor was open, unthreatening. Thomas decided he seemed harmless enough.
Thomas nodded slowly. "That's me," he said, moving toward the wagon. "You're here to take me home, then?"
"That's right. Name's Robert Sloane." The man extended a hand as Thomas climbed aboard. "Lived in Avonlea my whole life. You must be new here."
"Something like that," Thomas muttered, shaking Robert's hand reluctantly.
The ride was uneventful, Robert chatting amiably about the town and its people, barely pausing for breath, smiling the entire time. Thomas offered the occasional nod or grunt in response, his mind wandering as Robert rattled on about local families and events. Every so often, he caught glimpses of the familiar countryside - the rolling fields, the winding creek, the farms he had passed before.
As they neared Avonlea, a burned structure caught Thomas's eye - one of the homes he and his father had passed before, now bearing the scars of a fire. Robert noticed his gaze and commented, "That's the Gillis place. Caught fire not long ago. Some little girl saved the day, though. Brave thing."
Thomas nodded absently, the house fading from view as the wagon continued down the road.
Eventually, the wagon came to a halt where the road split off toward the Creekside Manor. "Here we are," Robert announced with a friendly grin. "Fancy old house, that one. Nobody's lived there in ages though."
Thomas reached for his coin pouch, intending to pay for the ride, but Robert waved him off. "Oh no, no need for that."
"Are you sure?" Thomas asked, raising an eyebrow. He wasn't used to people refusing payment.
"Positive. See you around, neighbor!" Robert tipped his hat and turned the wagon around, heading back toward town.
As Thomas made his way up the familiar path to the manor, his hand absently brushed the scar on his cheek. It still stung from time to time, a reminder of the recent dangers he had faced. The manor stood silent and imposing before him, its repairs ongoing. Fresh lumber was stacked neatly beside the stable, and parts of the house showed signs of new life, albeit slowly.
Stepping inside, he found his father seated by the hearth, reading a book. At the sound of the door, his father looked up, a hint of relief flickering across his otherwise stern face.
"Father," Thomas greeted him.
His father rose from the chair and crossed the room, placing his hands on Thomas's shoulders as he studied his son's face. For a moment, the hard exterior softened, and he pulled Thomas into a rare, brief hug.
"You've returned," his father said quietly, stepping back to look him over. "I needn't ask if the mission was a success?"
Thomas held up his bruised hand, "Despite some... evidence to the contrary, yes. It's done."
His father nodded, satisfied. "Good. I trust you understand this is only the beginning."
His father turned back to the hearth. "While you were away, I made some useful connections in town."
"So you have," Thomas responded, narrowing his eyes "I guess we're no longer using fake surnames?"
"It varies. If we're going to settle here for the time being, some truths are unavoidable." his father replied.
Thomas glared at his father. "But only some truths, right?"
His father's gaze sharpened, irritation flashing in his eyes. "You've never been one to ask foolish questions, Thomas," he snapped, before taking a pause to recompose himself.
"In any case, you'll start attending the local school in Avonlea in a few days. The school year's already begun, but you shouldn't be too far behind. I've left some things in your room." he waved to his son, dismissing him.
Thomas made his way upstairs, his mind still buzzing. The nineteenth step no longer creaked as he climbed the staircase. His father had fixed it during his absence, apparently tired of the noise. When Thomas entered his room, he found it transformed. The once modest furnishings had been replaced with a new desk, a chair, and a wardrobe. Only the bed remained the same.
On the desk, a neatly packed shoulder bag awaited him, along with a selection of books and a writing slate for school.