Part 15

          "Yes, her sister and a few others she hasn't seen in some time I believe.  Master arranged for them to come visit as a surprise for her birthday, he's been planning it for months.  It was a surprise to most of them where they were even going, he arranged all the transportation to bring them here.  And when they did, he made everyone - all of us servants, and even the Missus - promise not to tell them the town or state or anything!  He acted like it was all in fun, but I know how determined he is to keep his privacy.  So the ladies are all guessing now - some of them were trying to learn from the plants and the climate where they are, but I don't think they'll guess it.  Master and Missus grow so many flowers here that none of the rest of us have ever seen before."
          We've gotten all the dishes and the few broken bits all back onto the tray now, and Jacob hops to his feet, then leans over to carefully lift the tray, with a surprising amount of grace for a boy his age.
          "I'd best get these back to Cook - she can't rail at me too loudly when there's company about the place, so I'll let her find out about the broken one now." He grins with such a perfectly boyish combination of cheer and slyness, that I can't imagine him ever getting yelled at too seriously.
          "I'll come with you - she can't yell at all in front of company, can she?"
          "That she can't!  That's very kind of you, thank you."
          Following him out of the parlor and into the hall, I pause a moment to look at one of the paintings on the wall.  I haven't seen this one before - but I'm starting to muddle which rooms I've been in with which people living in it, obviously some things are changed.
          Jacob notices I've stopped, and follows my eyes to see what I'm looking at.  "That's one of the Master's, loads of the paintings and things in the house are ones he did himself."
          "I'd wondered if he had - this is... this is so beautiful."  Or something to that affect, I'm not really paying attention to what my reply is, I'm too focused on the image before me.
          It's an oil painting - a medium I've played with just enough to understand how masterfully this was done.  Not very large, maybe eight by ten inches or so, in a subdued (though ornate) dark frame.  A hand - a man's hand, I think, though slim and graceful - is slipping a last flower into a bouquet set in a richly-patterned vase.  He's made great use of chiaroscuro, the lighting rich and dramatic, which pairs well with the limited palette of subdued jewel tones.  My flower identification is still a little shaky, despite all my study, but I recognize most of the small assortment here.  No roses or peonies, nothing you'd normally see in a still-life like this... Deep purple heliotrope, vivid golden yarrow, something with dark leaves sprinkled in light dots.   Tendrils of ivory honeysuckle and something similar to a morning glory in white, trailing down beside the vase, with its intricate geometric inlay of oranges, blues, and violets in a copper setting.  Honeysuckle, I know, is "the bond of love", but I don't know the rest... though I'm certain Meres did when he painted this.  The hand looks so tender, every slight detail of the positioning of the fingers is full of such personality.  The image of Meres' hand cradling the rose in Derick Reese's photo suddenly flashes into my mind, and I realize it's Meres' own hand in the painting.  He's arranging the flowers in this vase... in a painting that hangs in the place he built for Celestine.
          Smiling at the warmth of love clearly evident in the painting, I slip my camera out of my bag and take a quick photo - the light in here is too low to hope for a good capture of it, but at least it will be something.  The thought hits me that my photo will likely be all that remains of it in my time, the painting could well have been lost in the fire, like so many of the carefully considered, beautiful details of this place, and it breaks my heart a little all over again.
          Sighing, I start to lower the camera - and my heart stops at the touch of a hand on my wrist.  It's the same hand that's in the painting.
          Meres.
          I swallow hard, finding it difficult to breathe.  As I lift my eyes from the painting, I just catch sight of Jacob scurrying off down the hall, evidently shooed away by his Master.
          His hand lifts my wrist, then his fingers move to the camera in my hand.
          "May I?"  His voice is low, the strange melody of his accent still perceptible in such a short phrase.
          I nod, not quite trusting my voice yet.  His presence is just... it's like being in the same room as your favorite rock star, or your childhood hero, or a prince, only more so I think.  There's such a magnetism to him, when he is in a place, you can't focus on anything else because his presence is the strongest thing for miles around.  It's far more than his physical beauty (which in itself would make me shaky), but in the confidence of his bearing, in the intensity of his gaze, the depth of his charisma and... It's impossible to find words for it.  He's just...more...than anyone else I've ever met or imagined.  Azal's the same, but tinged with darkness, there's a shadow of ill-intent that clings to him that I don't see in Meres.
          "From the way you've just used it, I assume this is a camera, though I've never seen its like, for size nor for speed.  How does it capture an image so quickly?"
          "I... actually, I don't know myself, exactly.  But it..."  I can't say it does it digitally, that wouldn't make sense to anyone in this time. Uhm. "It doesn't use plates, or even film.  It measures the light, but can record it pretty much instantly.  Not always with the detail or clarity that your plate photographs do, but the convenience is worth the trade-off."
          "Hmm."
          I manage to turn, and watch him carefully turning my camera over in his hands, his eyes narrowed in concentration as he studies the small thing.  Not having been used for a few minutes, the camera's lens automatically retracts - he's not startled by the motion, but clearly fascinated, watching as it smoothly retracts with no obvious mechanism for doing so.
          Meres is dressed in a charcoal gray waist-length jacket, with a silk cravat in a rich brick red, a subtle pattern shimmering where the light catches it.  (I'd always thought suits looked kind of boxy and awkward, but I'm guessing it's quality tailoring that makes such a difference - each time I've seen any of the men in this time, the clothing has fit them as snugly and flatteringly as any fitted t-shirt and jeans I've ever owned.)  Aside from the details of his outfit, he looks just as he does in the photos I've seen, no lines of age showing on his refined features, his dark hair parted just off-center and falling past his ears.
          He looks up from the camera, handing it back to me with a smile.  "Thank you for indulging me - while I cannot profess to always understand them, I often find myself fascinated by the workings of miniature mechanisms."
          I nod, smiling in return, taking the camera back and slipping it into my bag - focusing on keeping my hands steady enough to do so.  There's a light scent in the air, almost like trumpet flowers, though I haven't seen any nearby.
          "Now.  May I ask how you have gained admittance to my home?"  His voice isn't angry, though it's firm, and his eyes... I can't look away from them, and clearly can't lie to them.
          "I..."  I let out a long breath, and smile wryly, shaking my head.  "I can't entirely explain, I'm afraid."
          He's been studying my face, and now nods.  "I have seen you before - in the gardens, you appeared from nowhere.  Your dress and your manners - you're not of this time."
          I blink, surprised at the bluntness and accuracy of his assessment.  "No, I'm not.  And I don't really know how it is that I'm here, it's not something I've been able to control.  But if I'm somewhere on these grounds in my own time, sometimes... I'll shift back to your time."
          He nods slowly, thoughtfully.  "Interesting.  You're sure there's not something you do to cause it to happen?  It truly appears to be random to you?"
          "As far as I can tell.  Though so far it's only happened on the grounds of your estate, and I've only gone to times when... well, when you lived here, and the family that lives here after you."
          He raises an eyebrow at this, looking troubled.  "I have no plans to leave this place, nor can I see passing it on to another."
          I hesitate - every bit of science fiction and philosophy in my brain is screaming at me not to tell him anything that happens after his own time.  But would that really screw things up?  I mean, more than it's possible I'm screwing them up by being here.  Or is it already in my own history that I went back here--- screw it, I hate sorting out time travel paradoxes, I'm not even going to try.
          He chuckles, smiling gently at me, and places a hand on my shoulder.  (His touch is surprisingly cool, his fingers both strong and graceful.)  "There is no need for extensive explanations.  I am merely curious, particularly about your mode of travel - but then, I hardly understand how a phonograph captures and reproduces sound, I'm certain that as the years progress, there will only be more inexplicable things present in our every day lives."