I typed a new letter to Aunt Martha, carefully wording it. Instead of asking about family history, I mentioned “unusual family artifacts” and a “particular interest in the provenance of the estate’s older furnishings.”
Two days later, a stiff, formal note arrived. Aunt Martha would see me for fifteen minutes, provided I came alone and respected her privacy. My heart leaped.
Her secluded wing was a time capsule, filled with antique furniture, towering bookshelves, and the scent of old wood and dried herbs. Aunt Martha, frail but with piercing blue eyes, sat in a velvet armchair.
“So,” she said, her voice surprisingly strong, “you have an interest in old things, do you?”
I explained my “research project” with carefully chosen words, avoiding any mention of the email or Lily. She listened, her gaze unblinking.
“You mentioned ‘unusual artifacts’,” Aunt Martha said, leaning forward slightly. “Are you referring to the carvings?”
My breath caught. “The carvings, yes. They seem to hold… significance.”
She watched me for a long moment, as if assessing my true motives. Then, a ghost of a smile touched her lips. “The founder,” she said slowly, “was a man of… peculiar observances.”
“Observances?” I prompted, barely daring to breathe.
“Yes. Particularly around the great table,” she paused, her eyes narrowing. “The one in the boardroom. He believed in specific acknowledgements. Unforeseen claims.”
“Unforeseen claims?” I repeated, a thrill of understanding mixed with confusion.
“And the founder’s true legacy,” she finished, her gaze distant, as if looking through me. “It’s all there, if one knows how to read it. But few remember.”
The meaning remained obscure, but a cold certainty ran through me. She knew something. I was on the right path.
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