Episode Four: The Cycle of Violins

“Where are you going to sleep with the crew working all day?” Finn asks Marlowe, the boy who spends his nights watching over The Lost & Foundry.

More than six feet tall with a thickly-muscled torso and arms covered in tattoos, Finn Harrison’s imposing presence is offset by the kindness in his eyes. Much like a big dog that still thinks it can curl up in your lap, his brawny exterior is at odds with the sweetness inside. His construction company refurbished the building three years ago when Cassandra Wilkins moved to Haven’s Hollow, but the new phase will add a second bedroom to the upstairs flat. Cassandra sips her second cup from the pot of English Breakfast, smiling as Marlowe examines the building specs.

“Gus showed me the perfect spot to hide,” the eleven-year-old says, pointing to the corpulent orange cat in the fireplace, a dribble of raspberry Danish on the tip of his finger. “Even though it is right in the middle of the shop, no one ever disturbs him.”

“I don’t understand why you won’t let me close for a few days,” Cassandra says, wishing Finn could see past his own stubbornness. Marlowe is a runaway whose missing poster is hanging around the sleepy seaside town, thanks to the sheriff. “We have enough to worry about without them going up and down all day.”

“They won’t be!” Finn rifles among the blueprints, project schedules, and artist renderings on the long pine table that spans the back room of the shop. “We’re going to take the roof off, so they can come and go via the scaffolding.”

“Good thing winter’s taking its time,” Cassandra smiles. The autumn has been unseasonably warm, though with global warming nothing seems quite the way it used to be weather-wise. Another two winters before she can call herself a local, Cassandra wonders if they’ll see much snow this year.

“We’ll seal that side of the hall, don’t worry.” Finn tosses a hunk of bear claw into the air and catches it in his mouth, a trick Marlowe has been trying to learn. So far, the young man’s attempts have only been successful in undoing the meager progress Cassandra’s orange tabby has made on his veterinarian-ordered diet. “You won’t feel a chill even if the cold shows up.”

“I’m having a hard time believing the town council approved obstructing the alley. What about the diner and their deliveries?” Cassandra worries.

“Neither of the Ollies had any objection after I spoke with them,” Finn says of the town’s greasy spoon’s first- and second-generation namesakes. Cassandra knows Finn wouldn’t try to intimidate Ollie Senior, though she wonders if he bribed Ollie Junior with a discount on some much-needed upgrades. “Their suppliers might grumble, but we won’t need more than a week and a half at most. It’s the cellar that’s the unknown—depending on the state of things, you may need to close for a day or two.”

Out of habit, Cassandra’s eyes drift to the door, its painted surface a silent guardian of a past she both fears and yearns to unlock. When they transformed her grandfather’s home into a retail space and upstairs apartment, Finn delivered far more than he charged her for. Since the cellar door was sealed when she inherited the building, she was adamant they leave it alone so as not to take further advantage of his generosity.

“The cellar is up to Marlowe.” Showing signs of the same second sight that opens Cassandra’s eyes and ears to memories trapped inside everyday objects, Marlowe convinced her there was no need to pry it open. “He’s the one who spotted the screws, and he asked that we give it a bit longer.”

“It will open when it is time,” Marlowe says matter-of-factly. Over Marlowe’s head, Finn’s eyes meet Cassandra’s, wide at the suggestion that a sealed door that’s painted shut might have a mind of its own. “We’re almost there.”

“Is that why you wanted to know all about hinges?”

“There are three of them, and I’ve already counted sixteen screws,” Marlowe explains, dropping gold bits of threaded metal onto the keeping room table. “If each hinge has three like you said, there are only two screws left.”

“I’ve never seen this brand before,” Finn says, inspecting one. Each of the shining screws is engraved with the initials E.V., indicating Cassandra’s grandfather, Elias Voss, intended to keep whatever is behind the door under wraps.

“Where’s the part of the roof you’re cutting away?” Marlowe asks, looking at the architectural plans. Finn grins, nudging closer to explain the logistics of turning the narrow under-eave space into a dormer extension featuring a wall of windows.

“I think that’s enough for today, Marlowe,” Cassandra says. “It’s time to get to bed. Take advantage of the quiet while you’ve got it.” Marlowe’s appearance was so unexpected, she hadn’t thought through the logistics of inviting an eleven-year-old to share a one bedroom flat. Having ceded her bedroom, Cassandra is looking forward to the new one; her sofa isn’t going to cut it long-term.

“Thanks for breakfast, Finn. Keep bringing the raspberry ones, please,” Marlowe squeezes the burly man’s shoulders. “Come on Gus-Gus, let’s go.” He skips out of the keeping room, the orange tabby waddling after.

“He’s a good kid,” Finn says as Marlowe’s footsteps fade under the cork insulation that muffles sound from above. “Any word on the foster care application?”

“Not yet, Vivian dropped it off yesterday. Since she was going to be in the city for a library conference, she offered to hand-deliver it,” Cassandra studies Finn’s face, searching for the usual tinge of jealousy that accompanied a mention of the local librarian and secretary of the Haven’s Hollow Historical Society. For the first time in recent memory, he doesn’t even blink at Vivian’s name. “It could take a few weeks. I just want him to stay safe until then.”

“I’ll keep the crews out of the way,” he assures her before turning his attention to rolling up the blueprints and stacking the papers. “You’re doing the right thing; he’s lucky to have you.”

“Not so fast! I didn’t see a final budget,” Cassandra plucks the project schedule from Finn’s hand. “We talked about what I can afford, and I expect you to charge me for everything this time.”

“So, tell me, where’s the cat’s hiding spot?” Finn asks, ignoring her question. Sweet as he is, her friend is a bit over-generous where she is concerned.

“You will let me pay, Finn Harrison,” Cassandra sighs, tucking her blonde hair behind her ears. “You may be the brother I never had, but you’re not going to lose money because of it.”

“I’ve got it covered, Cass. Besides, you need as much in the bank as possible for when they approve your application. Don’t worry about me. With all the media attention for Edwin Thorne, there’s been a renovation boom. A lot of businesses in the Hollow have a sudden urge to spruce things up.”

Cassandra narrows her eyes, outmaneuvered once again. Glad to have been honest with him about why they’ll never be more than friends, she should have expected he’d remain bull-headed about looking out for her. “Marlowe found a spot between the long table and the display cases. With the drape over it, he’s all but invisible.”

“Has he picked out a chamber pot yet?”

Cassandra almost spits out the last of her tea, “Don’t you dare mention that to him! He hangs on every word you say. Haven’t you seen all the pieces of pastry on the floor? If you’d like to use your influence for good, tell him I eat vegetarian. He’s been so interested in mastering the art of French cooking, I haven’t had the heart to tell him that beef and duck give me the creeps.”

“You don’t…hear…the animals, do you?” Finn asks. For years, he refused to accept that she hears echoes of memory coming from the items in her inventory, but the recent discovery of a flashlight with echoes of his grandfather’s final moments changed his tune entirely. Some are louder than others, but Cassandra has no choice but to listen when an object has a story to tell.

“Goodness, no! Marlowe has the same gifts I do; if I could taste emotions in food, he would, too.” Cassandra shudders, “I can’t imagine how awful that would be.”

A firm knock at the shop’s front door interrupts their conversation. Looking at his watch, Finn jumps up, “I’ve got to go. The town council is finally going to do something about the municipal building’s leaky attic. Should make Vivian happy to know the Historical Society archives will be better protected.” He gives Cassandra a peck on the cheek before grabbing the plans, waving her toward the front door when the knocking comes again. “Sounds like someone is desperate for a new antique.”

By the time she traverses the winding maze of steamer trunks, armoires, and the display area that hides Marlowe’s fort, Cassandra has heard the alley door latch behind Finn. Raising the shade covering the front door, she’s surprised to see Vivian’s older brother, Tobin Crenshaw, with a grim look on his face. Better known by his despised childhood nickname, Tuffy, he also happens to be the local sheriff.

When Cassandra first arrived in Haven’s Hollow, Tuffy threatened to arrest her for evidence tampering over a possessed ring. Since then, they’ve remained civil on account of their shared adoration of Vivian. It wasn’t until recently, when Edwin Thorne’s crying compass revealed the location of a set of human remains, that relations improved. After she told the sheriff exactly where to search, the whole town received some welcome attention.

As Tuffy’s visits become more frequent, she fears the missing posters with Marlowe’s face on them will soon lead him to her door. Unlocking the main entrance, Cassandra spots a battered purple canvas instrument case slung over the sheriff’s shoulder when he steps inside.

“Good morning, Cassandra. I’m sorry to drop by before opening, but this couldn’t wait,” he says, closing the door behind him.

“No trouble at all, it’s nearly that time anyway,” Cassandra swallows her fear, turning away to light the remainder of the lamps she’s arranged to highlight the sparkle of the jewelry and gilt of the ormolu clocks. “Is there something I can do to help you?”

“I wouldn’t ask you under any other circumstances, but I don’t know what else to do.” Looking over his shoulder to the front window, he adds, “Can we step in the back perhaps?”

Growing more concerned, Cassandra nods and gestures for him to go ahead into the keeping room behind the vintage cash register. With a quick look up the stairs towards the flat, she hopes she’s not about to face the music for harboring the young runaway.

“Look, I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye and this isn’t easy for me to do. I need to know that I can trust you,” Tuffy says grimly. “I realize you’re close with my sister, but this is a town where people love nothing more than to talk. They’ll all know what I’m about to tell you soon enough, but I’d prefer to keep your involvement out of it if possible.”

“Of course, I understand,” Cassandra says, both relieved and intrigued. “But now I’m worried—has something happened?”

“I hate this part, always have,” Tuffy sighs, taking a seat. “And it never gets easier. I know you were friendly with her, but I’m sorry to tell you that Harmony Jenkins was found dead last night. Near as we can tell, she got a flat tire and called Lenny Ford for a tow. When he showed up, he found her body.”

“Goodness, how awful,” Cassandra gasps, dropping into a chair opposite him. A pang of sorrow runs through her to learn that the gentle Harmony met such a violent end. Pulling a tissue from her diaphanous sweater, she wipes away a tear for the sweet music teacher. “What can I do? I haven’t seen her in over a week.”

“No one has. She was staying in the city, covering for another violinist who plays in the symphony orchestra. According to Jasper Ruiz, she was due back day before yesterday,” he says, reading from the notepad he keeps in his breast pocket. While not officially public knowledge, everyone in Haven’s Hollow is well-aware that Harmony was more than friends with the owner of the local coffeehouse slash music store, Record Roast. “Jasper says she didn’t show up and wasn’t responding to calls or texts.”

“Surely you don’t suspect him? He doesn’t have a cruel bone in his body.”

“I don’t want to, but being sheriff hasn’t been good for my belief in the best in people. We’ve got no other leads, so I’m holding Jasper for now. It makes sense that we found his fingerprints in her vehicle, but they’re the only others besides hers.” Tuffy stops and takes a deep breath. It’s clear to Cassandra that he’s fighting with himself over asking a difficult question.

“You have something of hers and you want to know if I can sense anything that will help?” Cassandra suggests.

Relief washes over his face and he sets the instrument case on the keeping room table. “This was found in her vehicle. Her violin’s inside. Look, I know I have no right to ask, but if there’s anything you can…uh, determine, it could make all the difference. I’ve got to come at this from all possible angles, and it may take more than…traditional detective work.”

“I will do my best,” she promises. “Unfortunately, I can’t turn it on like a faucet. I don’t know why, but some objects keep to themselves.”

“Same with witnesses. We’ve got the metro police interviewing everyone from the symphony, but something tells me they are going to run into nothing but dead ends. Whoever it was knew how to cover their tracks, which is why I don’t think it was Jasper. Haven’s Hollow has a lot of curious eyes and yet nobody saw a thing.”

Promising to call if she finds anything useful, Cassandra can hardly wait until Tuffy leaves. She’s used to the objects speaking to her and hasn’t tried to listen to one specifically before. A modern canvas and zipper affair, the purple case splits like a clamshell on the surface of the pine table. The violin inside is a work of art, its polished wood a warm shade of amber. From the carving on the scroll and the patina of the varnish, it is clear Harmony was not its first owner.

Cassandra isn’t sure if it is her imagination, but she thinks she can hear the sound of someone gasping for air. Running her fingers over the smooth wood, she can feel the muscles in her throat constrict. Hoping for a clear vision rather than something that takes days to understand, she lifts the violin from its velvety cradle and holds it to her chin. With the instrument in her hands, a mournful song begins to echo in her ears and her vision transports her to another place.

Seated in front of a vanity mirror, the glowing incandescent lightbulbs around the edge obscure the rest of the room. Reflected in the looking glass isn’t the diminutive Harmony, but a broad-shouldered man with slicked hair and a waxed mustache. His inexplicably familiar face, marked by a sheen of sweat, contrasts with the crisp white of his tuxedo shirt and loosely hanging bow tie.

She hears the sounds of a violin, yet the instrument lies silent among bouquets of roses and champagne bottles on the counter. The same melody that usually accompanies her dreams is punctuated by a knock at the dressing room door and a bell ringing. Abruptly returning to the keeping room and the sound of the shop’s front door, Cassandra replaces the violin in the case. Her mind racing between the glimpses of the past and a present she hopes to uncover, she whispers to the instrument, “Any chance you have another story to tell?”

Passing into the shop, she spots a pair of unfamiliar faces. The influx of tourists has been good for business, but today Cassandra scolds herself for wishing it weren’t the case. Doing her best to keep a smile on her face, her mind stays with the violin and the nagging feeling that she recognized the man. The couple leaves without buying anything, irritating her further, though business is steady over the lunch hour. She sells a tortured poet’s leather stationery box to a terminally-single romance novelist as well as a pair of emerald earrings to a woman planning a proposal to her girlfriend. Their last owner had been loved all her life, and Cassandra is glad to imagine the two women sharing such a future.

When mid-afternoon hits and things quiet down, Cassandra selects a teapot from her inventory and brews some Yerba Mate. While the tea steeps, she sits with the violin in hopes of seeing some clue about what happened to Harmony. Instead, her vision returns to the man in the dressing room. There’s a knock at the door and a stranger enters. The music turns sour, her skull vibrating with the shrill sounds of a violin. The men’s conversation becomes an argument, and she can feel hands closing around her neck. Coughing and sputtering, the vision ends and she is back in the keeping room once more.

Her throat aching, she returns the violin to the case and sips her tea before directing her attention to why she recognizes the man. Searching the internet, she soon identifies him as the famed classical virtuoso Theodore Heifetz. In the grainy black-and-white photograph on his Wikipedia page, he sports an identical handlebar mustache and poses in the same double-breasted tuxedo jacket. Strangled in his dressing room after a command performance nearly a century ago, his violin was stolen and both crimes remain unsolved. Cassandra is newly puzzled to imagine how Heifetz’s instrument could have made its way into the hands of Harmony Jenkins.

She can’t force her second sight to show something that isn’t there, but she feels obligated to keep trying. She can feel a migraine building behind her eyes, no doubt from frustration combined with the tightness in her neck. The Lost & Foundry remains mercifully empty through the afternoon, just as well since her mood only continues to sour as the aching in her head intensifies. A little before four, she reaches the end of her patience and closes up the shop early. Violin case over her shoulder, she brings today’s tea things up to the flat so they can be washed and returned the following day.

“Are you okay?” Marlowe stops slicing aubergine when the porcelain clatters on the counter.

“No, I’ve got a terrible headache.” He sets the knife aside, listening intently for what has happened. “You remember me telling you about my friend Harmony? The sheriff came by this morning and asked for my help…because they found her body.”

“And whatever’s in the case gave you a headache?” Marlowe gasps, pulling a clean washcloth from a nearby drawer.

“I may have done that to myself. I want to help, but the violin keeps showing me someone else.”

“May I try?” he asks, wringing water from the washcloth and handing it to her.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. The memories are unpleasant and I wouldn’t want us both to feel sick over it.”

“Will food help?”

“Yours? Absolutely,” she smiles weakly. “I’ll take a bit of lie down until it’s time to eat.”

While Marlowe works in the kitchen, Cassandra rests on the sofa with the cool terrycloth covering her eyes. As the smells of onion and garlic fill the air, she drops into a light sleep, her dream replaying Theodore’s murder in greater detail. He argues with the visitor, their words replaced by the jagged, staccato sounds of someone slicing at a violin’s strings. The simmering tension erupts when the stranger leaps for Theodore’s instrument, the notes becoming dissonant as Heifetz objects and the hands reach for his throat instead. When the light begins to fade in her mind’s eye, Cassandra gets a clear view of the murderer’s face, the recognition shocking her back into the present.

Theodore Heifetz was strangled by her grandfather, Elias Voss.

Although Cassandra has only seen one portrait of him, she is certain. Both her mother, Elinor, and her grandfather perished in a fire after her birth, leaving Cassandra in the care of her father who rarely spoke of his late wife. The only tie she had was a locket that belonged to Elinor, though she’s never been able to open it. All her life, Cassandra’s second sight has kept her from seeing herself in mirrors, until a chance glimpse in a hand mirror once owned by local ghost legend Evelyn Harrogate. Somehow the Cassandra in the looking glass opened the locket, revealing delicately water-colored black-and-white portraits of Elias and Elinor.

Sitting up, Cassandra dabs her face with the damp towel, trying to understand the sudden convergence of seemingly disparate objects. In the past month, a weeping compass and a flashlight capable of illuminating scenes from the past have mysteriously appeared in the shop, each tied to Elias Voss. With the revelation of his involvement in Heifetz’s murder and the theft of his prized violin, Cassandra can’t help but wonder if Evelyn’s silver mirror is connected to her grandfather as well.

Feeling a little less pressure behind her eyes, she joins Marlowe at the cozy bistro table where they enjoy his first ratatouille in companionable silence. Since finding a book on the subject in Cassandra’s inventory, he’s been attempting to master the art of French cooking with impressive results. A far cry from his early attempts, the vegetable stew begins to unwind the tension that has built up inside her.

While he does the washing up, Cassandra changes into her favorite silky pajamas and rubs some eucalyptus oil onto her temples. Wishing Marlowe a good night keeping watch over the store, she brews a mug peppermint tea. Settling back on the sofa with her cell phone to await her nightly call with Vivian, she is eager to hear if her friend has made progress on the special favor she agreed to do while in the capital.

A few weeks before, a strange man who identified himself only as The Collector appeared in The Lost & Foundry. Though he purchased three expensive pieces of jewelry from her inventory, his visit was more unsettling than encouraging. Much like her mother’s locket, Cassandra has habitually found comfort in a music box melody that plays in her mind. For years, it anchored her into the real world when her visions beckoned; however, she’d never heard the song anywhere else until The Collector hummed it while browsing in the shop. His business card listed an address in capital, so Cassandra asked Vivian if she would pay his store a casual visit.

At 8:30 on the dot, the screen lights up and a smile spreads across Cassandra’s face.

“Hello, dearest,” the red-headed librarian’s voice is a further balm on the stress of the day. Cassandra listens intently as Vivian recounts the highlights of her library conference before sharing the news of Harmony’s death and Tuffy’s request. “My goodness, he’s come around, hasn’t he? I never thought I’d see my brother change his mind about the laws of nature. They’ll have to take his picture out of the dictionary and write a definition for obstinate.”

“Perhaps your picture instead?”

“You wicked!” Vivian laughs huskily. “You should be glad of my doggedness, since I never stopped telling him how real your abilities are. He’ll never hear the end of this!”

“Much as I’d love to let you needle him, I have to ask you to bite your tongue, at least for now. He asked that my involvement be kept secret, so, please don’t tell him. We’ve reached a temporary peace, and I’d like to see if it can last, for all our sakes.”

“You have my word, but he may guess from the smug look on my face when he tries to explain how he figured out what happened to Harmony.”

“Either way, I’m afraid I may let you both down. I have tried to listen to the violin, but it keeps showing me someone else—the famous violinist Theodore Heifetz. I sat with the thing all afternoon and only have a headache and a sore throat to show for it.”

“Poor darling. Not to add insult to injury, but I do have rather an unfortunate update on the other matter. There’s no storefront at address The Collector gave you, only an old warehouse. It’s fenced in, so I couldn’t get close to the building without calling attention to myself. I didn’t linger, since it is not in a particularly nice part of town. I am sorry to disappoint, but it seems a dead end.”

“I foolishly assumed it would be a shop like mine from the way he spoke. I’m sorry to waste of your time in the city, but thank you for making the trip all the same.”

“My pleasure. You saved me from another evening discussing the latest trends in digital rights management for small collections. The things that excite my peers, I tell you—I know I am one, but some of these library ladies are real fuddy-duddies.”

“You’re a vibrant woman by my measure,” Cassandra smiles. “When you’re back, would you let me take you out for dinner to say thank you? Anything but French food.”

“I’ll hold you to that. Speaking of, do you want me to pick up anything for your young chef? There’s one of those endless kitchen gadget stores near my hotel. An artist is only as good as their tools,” Vivian pauses with a gasp. “Wait a moment! You didn’t sense anything to do with Harmony coming from the violin, right?”

“No, only Theodore.”

“That actually makes sense because the violin was his. But what about the bow? They don’t last as long, so it’s very unlikely Harmony would be using one that old. Maybe you have better luck with it instead?”

“Vivian Crenshaw, I could kiss you!” Cassandra blushes at her choice of words and can almost hear Vivian’s heartbeat racing with delight.

“Let’s start with dinner next week, perhaps someplace in Ferndale instead of the Hollow,” she says coyly. “I’d say get some rest, but I suspect you’ll be up for a while longer now. Don’t push too hard.”

Warmed by the promise of a new depth to their relationship, Cassandra brews another cup of peppermint tea and sweetens it with lemon balm-infused honey in hopes of easing the soreness in her throat. Opening Harmony’s purple clamshell case on the steamer trunk-cum-coffee table, the bow is secured to the top half by an elastic strap. Cassandra never gave it a thought, but it is clearly modern judging by the precision screw mechanism for the strings. The moment her fingers touch it, she can feel the same constricting.

Willing to subject herself to the violence of another vision, she stretches out on the sofa with the bow in her hands. The tea’s effects take hold and she drifts into a lucid dream. Instead of returning to the dressing room, her vision whisks her away to a dark roadside. Surrounded by trees, she’s seated on the hood of a battered blue Honda Civic with the hazard lights flashing. Returning to the vehicle, Cassandra can see the hands opening the door are feminine. She catches a glimpse of Harmony’s face in the rearview mirror before a set of hands reach from the darkness of the back seat.

Harmony struggles in vain, but before the light leaves her eyes, Cassandra spots the reflection of her attacker. She can see a clean-shaven face and hazel eyes that glitter in the moonlight. She shudders to realize she’s looked into them before, the day The Collector first visited The Lost & Foundry.

Sitting up on the sofa in the dim light before dawn, Cassandra is relieved to find the throbbing in her head has abated. While she now has more questions to answer, she is glad to help clear Jasper’s name. Unlike The Collector, Jasper Ruiz has a neatly trimmed goatee and eyes so brown they’re almost black. Under the hot spray of the shower, Cassandra tries to piece together an explanation that will satisfy the sheriff without revealing that there’s more to the puzzle. As much as she’d like Tuffy’s help tracking down The Collector, she’s not ready to lay all her cards on the table.

Wrapping herself in a towel and brushing out her long blonde hair, Cassandra is baffled by what could possibly connect her grandfather with The Collector. Elias Voss died more than thirty years ago and, while The Collector is older than Cassandra, there’s little chance the two men were acquainted.

Picking out a soft cashmere sweater in a delicate shade of plum, she considers the odds of both owners of the violin dying in the same way. At times like this she wishes there were a guidebook for understanding her second sight, because she’s seen this kind of pattern before. In her experience, it isn’t uncommon for the memories attached to an object to attract the same sort of person over and over again.

Steadied by a steaming cup of tea, she clears her throat and places her phone on the coffee table. The sun is just starting to peek over the horizon when she dials the sheriff’s number.

“Cassandra—I take it you were able to find something after all?”

“It took some doing, but yes. I can confirm it wasn’t Jasper, but I’m afraid I won’t be able to identify who killed Harmony.”

“How can you be so sure it wasn’t him?”

“The man I saw was clean-shaven and years older.”

“You don’t recognize him?”

“I have no idea who he is,” she replies, aware that her words walk the line between truth that invites misinterpretation and outright lies. “I can keep trying, but I don’t believe I can learn more from the violin.”

“I am in your debt, Cassandra. I’ll make sure Jasper’s home in time for breakfast.”

Ringing off, she’s relieved to have made a small difference even if she’s delayed bringing Harmony’s killer to justice. Swallowing the distasteful compromise with the last of her tea, she resolves to keep looking for the inscrutable stranger before she heads down to the shop to start the day.

“Good morning, Marlowe. Anything to report?”

“These came out overnight, meaning the basement door is ready to open,” he smiles, two more of the golden screws in his hand. Before she can respond, Finn opens the alley door and steps inside with the day’s box of pastries. “Oh goody, breakfast!”

“Morning you two,” Finn grins as Marlowe opens the box and selects one of the three raspberry Danishes. “You know, it isn’t considered a balanced breakfast if every bite is covered in icing.”

“I cooked vegetables for dinner!” he protests. Gus stops grooming himself in the empty hearth to yowl in support of Marlowe.

“In fact, he makes the best ratatouille I’ve ever tasted,” Cassandra is glad for the banter, a bit of levity in the face of all that weighs on her. “You’re just in time, Finn. Marlowe tells me we’re ready to explore the cellar.”

“Then I suppose we should take a look,” Finn eyes the door suspiciously, seeing no way to open it. Pulling his toolbox from the shelves he built that look as though they were original, Finn rummages for the Voss Company flashlight and passes it to Marlowe, “Lead the way.”

Torch in hand, the boy approaches the opening that sits beneath one of the turns in the stairs leading to the upstairs flat. The keeping room is still, the two adults holding their breath to see what, if anything, will happen. Concealed beneath layers of semi-gloss green paint, the hinges and the empty knob-plate look immovable as ever—no matter how many screws have mysteriously appeared.

Instead of tugging at the door, Marlowe simply knocks, “Elias, may we come in?”

His words hang in the air for a moment before Cassandra hears the familiar music box melody begin to play. She gasps, her heart racing to realize the sound is coming from behind the basement door.

“Watch out!” Finn cries, pulling Marlowe aside as the door falls forward, making a loud slap against the stone flagons of the keeping room floor. Cassandra hardly notices, the sound of the music rooting her to the spot. “You shine the light, but maybe I go down first?”

The echoes of war trapped in the flashlight add to the cacophony competing inside Cassandra’s mind as the two men venture into the unknown depths. Their footsteps disappear, the sounds of soldiers and gunfire stopping soon after.

“Good news!” Finn calls from below, breaking the spell over Cassandra. The music continues as she descends the stairs, its bright tones at odds with the chill creeping down her spine. In the basement, a pair of lightbulbs on strings illuminate a small space that might have been a root cellar the same size as the keeping room. Finn can stand straight up, meaning there’s more than six feet between the packed dirt floor and the ceiling above their heads. “We won’t have anything to do down here, though there’s not as much room as I would have expected for a house this size.”

“Where’s Marlowe?” Cassandra asks, looking around the room and seeing nowhere else for him to have gone. Finn flinches at how loudly she speaks, but she can barely think over the music in her head. Empty except for a few Voss Company crates and some bare shelves, she wonders where the music could be coming from.

“I’m here,” the boy chirps, popping his head through an archway tucked away under the stairs. “There’s another little room, but there’s nothing in it besides this.”

Stepping out of the shadows, Marlowe is carrying an ornate music box. Mother of pearl inlay twinkles against the reddish brown rosewood, the mysterious song echoing from inside. He wipes some dust away with his forearm and turns it back and forth to catch the light. The haunting melody only she can hear begins to play faster and Cassandra gasps when she reads what is written on the lid.

There, in the silvery inlay on top of the music box, is a single word: Elinor.