Part 3

          The writing is absolutely beautiful.  I'd thought Evelyn's pretty, but, hers would have been fairly textbook still, being so young.  This is the writing of a practiced hand, and so practiced that it's developed its own unique style - and lord, what a gorgeous style!  I never did take a typography course (though I often wish I had), so I don't know the technical terms for any of this, but the vertical lines are so long and graceful, and there's a stunningly smooth feel to the horizontal progression of the lines, like waves just barely touched by a soft breeze.  Extra flourishes throughout, and elaborate capital letters, but each line so small and delicate, so that a good deal fits on the single page.  Written with a light touch, and a very fine tipped point - but the ink is black, so it's readable.  Well, mostly, though it's slow-going for me, as unaccustomed as I am to reading the old script forms.
          "My dearest Azal,
          Come stay with me.  It is not so warm as your desert palace, but I am sure the cool mists will soothe your troubled blood, as they have mine.  My estate is quite private - near enough the small town that travel is little trouble, but far enough that it is quite secluded.  I should dearly love to show you my gardens - though I have little hope you would remain in them long, for I have begun to assemble my library here, and I am certain you will have a great number of opinions and suggestions!
          Do not let the thought of my Celestine's presence give you any pause - she is as a cool morning breeze, and shall not trouble you in the least.  I shall call you my brother, and she will ask you no questions of your self or your past (though she is naive enough to believe at full value any lie you deign to tell her).
          Azal, it has been so long since I have heard anything from you, and the little news I have heard of you troubles me.  I know your need for solitude - why else should I be isolated in my own little enclave! - but we both know too well the destruction such isolation can cause.  You must have others to speak to - and others of our own kind, dear one.  I know the remembrance causes pain, but recall how comforting it is to not need to explain, or invent excuses, or cause a misunderstanding.  You have nothing you need hide from me, and can allow yourself to rest in my presence.
          I miss our talks.  I miss so many things.  And we are so few, and can grow only fewer, and I... well.  You know the things I fear."

          ...and that's all.  The last third of the back of the page is blank.  He must have set it aside and been called away, or... or maybe just had to stop, as those fears (whatever they are) came to the front of his thoughts.
          I trail my fingers lightly over the graceful forms - I can't get over how beautiful his writing is.  I knew Meres (who must have written it) was an artist of some degree at least, but now I begin to wonder if those paintings I saw in the entryway, and even the frescos on the ceiling, were done by him?
          I look up from the page at the empty, neglected space around me, biting my lip.  A few smoke-stained bricks, and a small wilderness of overgrown plants.  That's all that's left of his work.  It doesn't seem fair.  So I do, I think, feel some responsibility for giving it a little more life, in my day, if I can.  I can't show his paintings - and I wouldn't try to replicate them! - but I'll do what I can to capture the beauty and the love he put into this place.  And I will do more garden-tending next visit, there are a few little spots now that I think I've seen clearly enough to know what belongs there and what doesn't.
          I let my eyes trail along the letters again, drinking them in... though, I guess I'll get to keep this?  My jumps through time are so random, I can't imagine I'd have a chance to put it back in its place, or even return it to Meres at anything like a helpful point in his time.  I smile ruefully - accidental spazz of a thief, that's me.
          Wait.  "I'll call you my brother."  Not "I'll tell her you're my brother".  But Azal... that has to be Mr. A. Mason!  My heart suddenly jumps, and I stare at the words, focusing again on the content rather than the form.  Not really his brother, but, it has to be him - the name is certainly a match for Meres' in strangeness, they must have some kind of close connection.  Still, I wonder what the real relationship is there, that Meres would feel the need to hide it?  Why would "brother" sound more reasonable than "old friend", like the others Jacob said so often visit the house?  I've read a few too many Anne Rice novels, so the number of "dear"s in the letter make me think they were once lovers.  But I don't think that's it - if it were, then at the very least Meres would have found a more secure hiding place for a letter!  Come to think of it, I'm a little suprised it's in English anyway, but I guess there wasn't really much private in its contents.
          But I guess that's the start of the house changing hands, of Mr. Mason arriving and taking over the estate.  No hint as to where Meres and Celestine go from here... and what I've seen leads me to believe they were really happy here.  Though maybe a little lonely for "our own kind" - is that just a reference to class, or other rich folks, or a nationality thing (wherever it is they're from), or...
          I sigh heavily, resting the letter on my lap and letting my head fall back, eyes searching the skies above for answers to this new pile of questions.  So many questions, when I'd thought to have just answers.  The sky seems a little darker, and I realize I should be heading back home soon.  I gather up my things, and take a long look around me.  Why did you leave?  Why... why have I met any of you, is there something I'm supposed to do for this place you left behind so long ago?

          I walk slowly along the paths through the garden as I leave, pausing a moment beside the main fountain, where I first saw Meres and Celestine.  Why, especially, do I see the two of you?  I've given some comfort, at least, to Evelyn, and maybe a little to Calvin, so there's some point to that, but... the two of you were so happy, what could you need from me?
          A dog barks.  I look around me quickly - no way that was Rollie again, was it?  It doesn't seem like anything's changed around me... but it feels different.  The afternoon sun is still filtering through the trees, but a breeze comes up and I shiver despite the warmth of the day.  Something's wrong.  Is it the letter, should I not take it with me?  ...no, that's ridiculous, there's nothing important in it and I can't give it back to its owner anyway.
          I hear a bark again, and this time, a man's voice follows it.  "What's your problem, huh?  Come on, now, stay on the path."  Another bark, and a whine.  "We've been here a hundred times, come on, what's wrong this time?"
          It's cold.  I'm shivering again, and I look up and the sky is suddenly much darker.  A storm?  Or is it just that much later than I thought?  The wind's picked up, and dark clouds are coming with it.
          The bark is closer this time.  "Hello there!  Out for a walk too?  Storm's coming up, might want to turn around now."  I look back down to earth, and realize the man and his dog are close enough to see me now.  But the dog, a yellow lab, is straining at the leash, dancing back and forth nervously, occasionally whimpering and whining.  "I'm sorry," the man apologizes, tugging at the leash a little.  He's middle-aged, dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, I'm in my own time.  "I don't know what's gotten into her, she usually loves going for walks out here."
          It's me.  Or something near me.  The ill-intentioned spirit that Anna Temple saw near me?  Mr. Mason, Azal?  "Oh, don't worry about it, I've seen dogs get spooked around here before."
          "Have you now?  Huh.  Ghosts around the old Mason place, I guess."
          "Yeah, I guess."  It's so hard, being this casual about something that's saturated me to the soul.  I'm trying not to tremble, I still feel chilled.
          "Never seen anything here myself, walk the dog out here every few weeks.  Jeremy Mason, the fella that owns the land, his wife's an old friend of my sister, so I pass word on now and again that everything's alright with the place.  Chase off teenagers with their beer cans every once in awhile for him, but it's a pretty lonely spot most of the time."
          "Jeremy Mason!  You know him then, have you met him?"  I blurt this without meaning to.  The stranger is clearly thrown by the unexpected question, and though his dog won't come very close to where I am, they're close enough that I'm sure he can read the way-too-interested look on my face.
          "Well, sure, though it was some years back."  He doesn't ask why I've asked, but the question is clear on his face, and I scramble to find a sane-sounding reason, and keep my voice steady and something like normal.
          "I just wondered, I've been doing some research on the place for an art project.  There's not much in the town records or anything, I just thought it would be great to talk to someone in the family sometime."
          This seems to be a tame enough explanation, because the man nods and smiles.  "Always been a popular ghost story around here.  Small town like this likes to hang on to anything that interesting.  I could probably find his phone number or address for you if you'd like, Claire has it and I can't imagine Jeremy would mind.  What's your name, you live near here?  I'm Jim, by the way, Jim Cumbings."  He offers his hand, and I step forward to take it, answering his question.  When I get near, the dog gets antsier than ever - not violent, just, worried, fretting, unsure of itself.  I reach into my bag for pencil and paper, so we can swap information, and I casually tuck Meres' letter into the sketchbook as I do so, trying to draw no attention to it.  I'm trying so hard not to shake.  But if I look jittery, it can be chalked up to the dog's actions at least.
          The man smiles and waves when we part, though he's quickly distracted by keeping his dog focused on the faint path that was once a curve of the road leading by the Mason's gate.  It's only after I've started my own way back that the name "Claire" connects in my head - I wonder if it's the same one I met in the records office?  Probably, it's a small enough town, and I think she and this man aren't too far apart in age, definitely near enough to be siblings.  Huh.
          I look anxiously up at the darkening sky - and start to run, until I reach the woods and have to slow my pace to continue through.  But I don't feel any warmer from the running, the cold chill has settled into my bones.  And I don't know why.  And I'm afraid to find out.  "You know what I fear."  The final words written by someone far more powerful than I am, on a stolen page inside my sketchbook.  The words echo through my head with each thudding footstep, with each pound of my heart.