"You know, on the whole, this kidnapping business has been rather pleasant," Aria Grayhome said, tightening her shawl. The sea's shrouding fog kept her from becoming too tired, and as the small boat neared the destined cove a manor climbed into view.
"I wouldn't exactly call it a kidnapping," Bart Grayhome said. "If you had been against it one could call it that, but it was, if I remember correctly, your idea. Really, we're just sort of taking a trip. One from which you shan't return." Bart rowed the boat closer to the cove's entrance, using a practiced motion to guide them across the flat water.
"My parents think it's a kidnapping," Aria said. She looked around, trying to see through the fog. "With any luck, they won't remember you."
"Isaac will," Bart said. "That jealous buffoon wouldn't forget a competitor's face if his life depended on it."
"He isn't a buffoon," Aria said. "He's quite brilliant."
"Because that's the only thing that matters in a man, I suppose," Bart said, as if speaking to the fog itself. "Your parents fell in love with him and didn't realize you never would. I still don't see why we could have done this the proper way."
"Sometimes a lady needs a bit of excitement in her life," Aria said. "After a week of letting them worry, we send a letter with all the details." The boat entered the cove and sliced through the still water toward the dock. "It will be too late for them to nullify the marriage, and they won't have a legal leg to stand on as far as divorcing us."
"They won't like it. Aria, are you sure you want to do this? You will lose their trust. I wish I could still enjoy my parents, and now you decide to distance yourself from yours?"
The boat clunked into the wharf and Bart jumped off, a rope trailing from his hand. He knotted the rope around a bar, mooring the boat, then extended his hand to help his new wife up.
"It isn't as dramatic as you make it out to be," Aria said. "I'm declaring my independence. I believe they will learn to respect our decision, and then our relationship can resume."
"As optimistic as ever," Bart said. He drew her into an embrace. "Perhaps it's because everything else is so wet, but you look even more radiant."
"More than last night?" Aria asked, letting one eye slide closed. Bart laughed, and they started toward the stairs. "I'm quite excited, you know. You've spoken about your parent's manor for so long I feel like whatever it is will let me down."
"Never," Bart said. They walked hand in hand, one step at a time. "I have had nothing but good memories of this place. You will love it, I'm sure of it. Lady Grayhome-" he said when they reached the top of the steps- "your home."
The building wore the fog like a distinguished old woman wore her graying hair. It spread out on the countryside, unsure if it wanted to tumble into the cove or roll onto the heath. The central section stretched up and narrowed as it rose, and the two wings Aria could see disappeared from view, windows open to let in what little light the fog did not smother.
"Well, it's certainly distinguished," Aria said. "But I've seen distinguished before, Bart. You spoke of it as if it was magical."
"You've only seen one side of it," Bart said. He waved toward the building. "Hector will have seen us. He'll be getting everything ready."
"I need to stretch my legs after the boat," Aria said. "Do you mind if I take a look around?"
"Not at all. It's your property, after all."
Aria's heart jumped. "I suppose it is. What's over that way?" She pointed around the north wing, to their right.
"The courtyard. The fountain I told you about is there. I'll make sure everything is prepared for your first entrance. Are you going to make me carry you over the threshold here, too?"
"Keep giving me that lip, and I might," Aria said with a smile. "Won't be long."
As her husband went to the front doors, Aria followed the path around the north side of the building, and discovered another wing going west behind the back of the main section. In the corner the two wings created she found a large, paved courtyard with a dilapidated fountain in the middle, bearing more leaves and moss than water. A circular pool of old water surrounded a statue of a lovely woman who, had it sprayed then, would have been sending water up with a lifted hand. Aria inspected it, peering at it from all angles, and imagined as it might have been when Bart was a child, and the sun was out. Benches surrounded it, facing away.
The four corners of the courtyard bore a statue, each one a different form. She went to the first one, discovering it was a wild charger caught while rearing, hooves thrusting at the air. Its mouth was open and its eyes were wide. The next corner had a bull, haunches tight and ready to charge, one hoof pulling at the stone pillar it rested on. The third was a large eagle or raptor, standing on its pillar with wings extended. Its beak was snapped shut, and its huge eyes seemed to catch every detail, though they were but stone. The final statue was, to her surprise, an old man, bent under a heavy load tied to his back and keeping himself upright only with the assistance of a staff. He looked forward, at the center of the courtyard, with a grim mouth, knobbly hands curled around his stick. All four of the statues were pointed at the waterless woman in the middle, all four looking to move closer through a powerful charge, bull-rush, dive, or the slow stumble of two feet.
After a few more minutes of gazing around at the trees, and staring down the long heath behind the building, Aria returned to the front.
Bart and a butler waited for her. The butler had a smart black coat with a long tail. As soon as he saw her, he bowed, upper body parallel with the ground.
"Lady Grayhome," he said, gentle voice greeting her. "A pleasure to meet you at last. I must say, the lord's description of you barely does you justice. I am Hector, your estate governor and manager. I am in charge of the upkeep of the manor, the tending of the grounds, and I oversee the servants. If you have any questions at all about your new home, I will answer them all."
"Fine to meet you, Hector," Aria said, dipping. "How many servants are there?"
"One dozen and one," Hector said. "Counting myself. The lord tells me your family had a single servant. Well, you needn't worry about us being under your feet. One of the marks of a good maid or butler is an unseen quality. Indeed, I once heard of a master who demanded any maid who sees him turn and-"
"Hector, perhaps another time," Bart said, and the butler snapped his mouth shut, nodding. "It's been a long trip through darkness, and we could both use some rest."
"Without a doubt." The butler pushed open the doors, and Aria followed him and Bart inside. The entryway was smaller than she imagined, with a low ceiling and a number of doors peeling away in different directions. Hector took her shawl, and then proceeded to give her a tour. "The lord tells me you are of an adventurous type. Well, Grayhome has plenty of adventure waiting. There are numerous rooms with hidden secrets such as passage ways and hide-holes, the history of which are quite mixed. One room in particular-"
"Hector," Aria said, beginning to understand the butler's love of talk. "Can you tell me about the courtyard? With the fountain and statues?"
"Yes of course ma'am, it would be my pleasure. The courtyard itself was built about three centuries ago, without the current embellishments." He led them through the dining room, the kitchen, and a number of other rooms, introducing men and women wearing servants uniforms should they appear. "It was one-hundred and seventy-two years ago when the current lord's ancestor, Cumbridge Grayhome, decided it needed a little more sprucing up. The place has always been rather dreary, you see--the current pall is nothing special."
They got to a set of stairs and began to rise. "Watch your step madam, some of the stones are in disrepair, despite our best efforts. Cumbridge Grayhome decided a fountain was in order--he'd been to the cities, you see, and fountains were quite in vogue then. He commissioned that which you have seen, 'Woman Raising Water,' as the designer named it. I find it quite expertly-done, myself."
The butler pushed open a door, and revealed a library. The next door held a gallery of art. "The four statues at the corners are more complicated. Cumbridge's son, John--your husband's great-grandfather--was a...perhaps the lord should describe."
Aria looked at Bart. "He was beset by the gray," he said. "Terrible depression, fear, anger. The stories say he was just as likely to rage and hurt someone as he was to lie on the floor as if dead, moaning and weak. I'm afraid it is somewhat of a family trait."
"I've never known you to do such a thing!" Aria said.
"No, I'm lucky to have escaped it." Bart nodded at Hector to continue.
"Yes, thankfully the lord is as full of life and energy and good humor as any Grayhome I've had the pleasure to serve. Well, on a rare middling day, John Grayhome stood in the courtyard and observed the fountain his father had installed, thinking on his ailment. He fancied himself a poet, when he had the mind to take up a pen, and wrote a few verses about himself and the courtyard. The poem contained allusions to four beasts: the wild horse, the angry bull, the stalking hawk, and the bent old man. I'm afraid I'm unable to recount the poem from the head, though I have read it a number of times."
"Interesting. Perhaps I will read it myself."
"It isn't so bad, as poem's go," Bart said. He stopped the butler. "Hector, I'll take it from here. There are some bags down in the boat. Would you have them brought up, please? Oh...and send someone up with food in due time?"
"Certainly sir." The butler bowed. "Once again, a pleasure to meet you, madam. I look forward to serving you."
"Thank you, Hector. I look forward to you serving me."
The butler chuckled as he departed. Aria and Bart stood in front of a plain door on the top floor, at the end of a hall.
Bart grasped the handle, and Aria's hand, and opened the door, revealing a fine bedroom containing an immense four-poster bed layered with curtain, a long couch heavy with cushions, a large mirror vanity, and a wide window looking east toward the cove. The room held a relaxing fragrance of pine needles and cinnamon. The curtains on the window were shut, and the curtains on the bed were wide, ready to accept forms perhaps not yet ready for sleep.
"Tell me about the gray."
Bart looked at his wife. They lay side-by-side, cuddled under the warm covers and sleeping off the meal one of the maids had brought them. They'd spent the last few hours relaxing, and the light coming through the curtains appeared to be afternoon.
"What kind of things would you like to know?" Bart asked after a glance.
"Well, firstly, why you've never said a word about it."
Bart sighed and shrugged his bare shoulders. "It embarrasses me, I suppose. It's a malady that's been in my family for hundreds of years. Do you remember how my great-great-grandfather had the fountain of the woman put in?"
"Of course."
"It was his doing that began our family's climb out of the tyranny of the gray. His wife--Gloria, I believe her name was--seemed to have been nothing less than a saint. She lived through all of the stories, new and old, and worked tirelessly to improve Cumbridge's mood. It was when she died that Cumbridge had the fountain installed in her honor." Bart yawned. "That was the beginning of our family's fight against it. John, his son, suffered but knew it was something he should battle. Like his father, he eventually married a woman to help him fight it. She did it differently, refusing to let him get away with his mood swings. It was a long battle."
Bart pulled the cover off of them and swung his feet to the floor. "My grandfather, Ulysses, had an easier time of it. He spent years studying the malady, wondering if it was passed from father to son like height, or hair color, and inspected the family history. He was no scientist, but he found evidence he used to formulate a plan."
"And what did the plan entail?" Aria asked, her eyes barely peeking over the covers.
Bart paused, putting on his shirt. "Well...you!"
"Excuse me?"
"Ulysses Grayhome realized three things. First, a boon companion--someone who loves you and wishes your happiness above even her own--helps you through the troubles and makes it a great deal easier to defeat the low moments of life. Second, like physical attributes, the mood of the parents combine to create the mood of the children. Taking a wife brimming with happiness, energy, good nature and toughness of spirit makes it less likely a child will suffer from the gray."
He looked at Aria, who was suspending an eyebrow in the middle of her forehead. "The final one is perhaps the most important. He did not learn it from study, but from a lifetime of watching his parents, himself, and his children. You've heard 'the apple does not fall far from the tree.' It is true. The parents define the children. Ulysses made a focused effort to act perfectly around his children, including my father. My father spoke highly of him. I wish I could have been able to meet him."
"And your father?"
"My father was my best friend." Bart came around the bed and sat next to Aria. "I know the gray was in him, just as it's in me. My mother filled this big place with so much warmth and joy, even when my father fell into a depression. She wouldn't let it touch me or my siblings."
"And so?" Aria asked. Bart stared at the wall for a minute, and she put his hand in hers.
"So, when I met you--you took my breath away. You still have it, you know. Not only because, on more than one occasion, you asked me to chase you down. You made me laugh. You gave me fire. I knew you were the kind of woman I should marry."
"Not just for my good looks?"
"Not just." Bart kissed her forehead. "But I must say it's quite a nice bonus." He stood and finished dressing, then exited the room, and Aria fell back to sleep, the festivities of her new home more tiring than she had expected.
A week later she, Bart, and Hector sat at a table. There was a piece of paper in the center. Aria had just finished writing it and signed her name.
Bart was nodding. "Well done, madam," Hector said. "This letter says how right the lord was to pursue you. The emotion you present to your mother and father, your explanation of events, your clear love for your husband, and your dear desire to rebuild your relationship is clear. I see no reason to delay in sending."
"Hector's right," Bart said. "Anything else you think you need?"
Aria shook her head. "I've spent all week thinking and writing drafts. It's perfect." Aria wrote the address down, and Hector left, preparing it for the post office.
"Do you think that's all you'll need to do?" Bart asked.
She shook her head again. "They're stubborn. Like me, in a way. It's like you said; I likely got it from them. Hopefully they'll be too happy that I'm alive and safe to be angry with me." Her smile took over her whole face. "It doesn't matter what they think. As soon as they meet you they'll give in. Just like me."
Hector leaned backward. "I'm sorry, I must be misremembering the time you wouldn't give me the time of day, or when you told me you were already engaged to Isaac Silverbridge, or when you stood me up after I finally got your permission to walk with you in the park."
Aria shrugged and bounced her head from side to side. "I just needed to make sure you were being sincere. Otherwise every young man and his father would be asking to walk in the park."
"So you say." Bart stood, sighing. "To work, I'm afraid. The senate meets in a month and I've stacks of documents to look over."
"All afternoon?"
"Seems to be. We'll have supper together, and then we can go into town tonight." Bart bid goodbye and then Aria was alone in the room. She wandered to the north wing and looked out, surprised to see dry sunlight banishing the shadows from the courtyard, and she exited the house, entering the desolate area between the two wings, looking down the rolling green behind the manor. The sun was out and it was warm, but the fountain was still dry. Hector had said during the past week it was a right bother to maintain, and they only activated it for special occasions.
She sat on one of the benches, looking west at the expansive grounds: rolling hills, forests containing pockets of fog, and, in the distance, the sea.
After a few minutes of idle thought, she twisted her head around to look at the statues situated in the corners of the courtyard. In the bright light they had little of the ominous shadows and hidden eyes she'd seen during her first time in the courtyard. She thought about their history, and how the man responsible had suffered all his life.
She stood, wondering about the poem John Grayhome had written, the one containing the horse, bull, eagle, and old man. She re-entered the manor and found the library, a few rows of books, maps, papers, and stacks of loose sheets taking up a good portion of the south wing.
She took a step inside, and then realized she had no idea where the poem would possibly be. It could have taken her a restless day to search everything inside. As she stood, the door behind her opened, and one of the maids, a woman named Marigold, entered.
"Good afternoon, ma'am!" she said. She held a bag of refuse, and headed for the waste bin near the door, dumping the small scraps of paper out. "Going to do a bit of reading?"
"Yes. Actually, Marigold..."
"What is it ma'am?"
"I'm looking for something in particular. It's a poem Bart's ancestor wrote. About the statues in the courtyard?" Aria looked at the maid. "You know of it?"
"I believe I do ma'am!" Marigold said. She set the bag of garbage down, wiped her hands under her apron, then looked along the rows of books and papers. "Though I must be clear in saying I'm don't know where it could be. Should I fetch Hector? Oh, never mind, he's down to the post office. It's a lengthy trip by boat, you know."
"Do you know how the library is categorized?" Aria asked. "By author?"
"Can't say I spend much time inspecting the titles, ma'am, I just empty the rubbish. It wreaks havoc on my sinuses, all the dust in here." Marigold saw Aria's expression. "Oh, needn't worry ma'am. I just get the sneezes. Where shall we begin?"
They went row by row, trying to find any book, scrap of paper, or bundle bearing the name John Grayhome. No shortage of Grayhomes, be they lords or ladies, had made their own special additions to the library, and Aria found herself enjoying a few of them. As they hunted, the sun went down and the fog rolled in from the cold sea, forcing Marigold to go about lighting lanterns to banish the encroaching dark. Before long Marigold begged off so she could finish her tasks for the day, and Aria was left searching among the library's sharp shadows.
When she finally found the name John Grayhome, written on the spine of a slipshod-bound book of loose papers, she took it down from the shelf, holding it so nothing could fall out and moving with a light touch. She went to one of the desks up against the wall, near the door, and pulled the front cover away from the papers. Each one had a poem, sometimes two, and she scanned the titles and opening lines, trying to find a reference to the courtyard, the four creatures, or "the gray."
Near the back of the collection, pages from the end, she found the poem called "The Four Guardians." Having seen nothing else similar to what she had searched for, Aria read:
It reared up, smoke from nostrils warm
It sunk back, hooves pulling at dirt
It flew high, above life's dangers
It walked on, past the miles long
They four crowd my mind
They push the gray away
They four bring back light
They keep my thoughts from me
The beast men ride through the night
Skin as black as evil
It carries me away
To greater far-off places
The animal with angry strength
It could smash and destroy, but it must not
It must be caged
And set to productive tasks to tire it
The lofty eye above it all
Cares not for the land underneath
It ignores
When it could worry and fret
My future, defeated under trials
It must keep its eyes ahead
Death follows
Joy is always within reach
Aria found herself looking out the window in front of the desk, at the black sky outside. She hadn't finished the poem, but instead thought on the first half she had just read. John Grayhome must have used the four entities as a protection, of sorts, each one with a different tactic.
She scanned the stanzas again. No, that wasn't right. The three animals were all there to protect him, but the old man seemed to be no use. She squinted at the first stanza of the second half.
"Ma'am?" Marigold said from the door, making Aria jump. "Pardon me, ma'am, but the lord has finished his work and would like to know if you'd join him for dinner."
"Oh, yes," Aria said. She stood up, stretching. "I'll be along in a moment."
A week later Hector rowed off the island to the nearest post office and picked up the mail. After rowing back, he presented it to Bart Grayhome, as usual, and Bart discovered there was a letter to Aria, posted from her parent's house. He quickly brought it to her, and she tore it open, heart hammering and fingers shaking.
Bart watched his wife's eyes narrow as she read, and eventually her eyebrows creased together. Her mouth shifted, and began to tremble. She pressed a hand against her quivering lips. She shut her eyes and let the letter fall to the table, sobbing. Bart went to her side and she pressed into him as he picked up the letter. It was wet with her new tears, and he saw spots he knew where dry tears from another.
Aria Grayhome:
I write this letter with a heavy hand, and it has taken me days to know how to proceed. Your good mother took her life three days before your father received your letter, thinking you kidnapped and killed when no ransom note arrived. I heard little of her worries, but I know she screamed and wailed at the idea of you buried in a ditch, abused and sullied by vagrants and schemers. With a knife, she cut her wrists late at night, in the yard, and was dead before anyone knew where she had gone.
Your father raged against the sky. He shouted curses at shadows. He damned the night and spat vulgarities against the sun. He had no enemy to beat his fists upon, yet he did so. I imagine the idea of following your mother down the gray path ran through his mind with almost as much fervor as he shouted.
Then he received your letter.
It is wrong to paint such a picture of him. All his life, your father has been a man of good stature, of gracious words and kind actions. Of charity, faith, and all the best noble qualities fit to fill a man from soles to forehead. It is not proper to paint him a monster who would send threats against his own daughter, who would call her such terms I have never heard, but the spittle flying from his lips and the hate in his eyes appraised me of their meaning before I even had chance to reach for a dictionary.
It is not right to do so, but that's who your father became when your letter arrived. A changed man. When before I had scarce heard him utter a foul note meant for anyone, he became an orchestra of vile fragments, and I know he hoped to pierce your skin and kill you with them.
Had you been my daughter--had I been so lucky--I would have wept to have you back. I would have forgotten my duties and rushed to your new home, to mourn with you for my wife, your mother. I would have forgiven everything, no matter had you married a glittering prince or a muddy tramp.
With sadness, then, I tell you your father has disowned you. I could repeat his words, explain his reasons, but I shan't. I could not put you through further pain, not for any reason. I'm sorry you must read this from me. Your father bade me tell you of his decision. Perhaps in a year or two his heart will soften and he will realize the gift he has left behind, but not now. Not for months, I fear.
I beg you, write to me. I have included a private address you may send letters, so your father does not know. If he will not enjoy whatever new-found happiness you have, then I will in his stead. And when he comes to understand the mistake he made, I will show him what you have written me, so he will not have lost that time.
Stay away. If he sees you, all the pain will come back to him, I do not doubt this. Time must heal him, as it heals all things.
-Your father's faithful servant, and your friend forever, David Willin
Bart pulled her close as she cried, her hands pulling at the back of his collar in spasms. They sat at the table for what felt like hours as the room grew gray.
When Bart woke up the next morning his heart leapt. Aria was not next to him. His panic only stopped when he found her sitting on the edge of the bed, gazing at the curtained windows as if they were thrown wide.
She had hardly slept the night before, soaking the pillow under her head, each new memory of her mother bringing renewed sadness, a new wave of wails. Neither of them got much sleep, so it was a shock to see her already out of bed. The light coming through the curtains revealed her petite body in her bedclothes. She sat with her hands open and pointed up, resting on her thighs. Her eyes were half-open, her mouth closed. After watching her sit motionless for a minute, Bart rose and sat next to her. She leaned her head onto his shoulder, and he put his arm around her.
For a long time they sat, saying nothing.
In the following days Aria wandered around the oversized manor, finding herself in strange rooms after losing herself in memories. She began letters to David, then crumpled them into balls and tore them into bits. She cried. Whenever Hector would fetch the mail she would be waiting, hoping for another letter, saying her father had changed his position and wanted to see her, but none came. For a week she seemed to do nothing of value. She slept a great deal, ate little, and hardly had the energy to speak. She floated from one thing to another. She began to lose her emotion, unable to smile, or frown, or bare her teeth no matter what happened. A great tidal wave of pests and vermin could have swept through the house and she would not have thought to step aside.
Her husband did what he could. He commanded sweet treats and hearty meals served every day, but she would pick at them. He took her on walks across the island, but her vision remained focused on something only she could see. He kept her warm even when the fog grew heavy, building roaring fires every night, reading to her, and he refused to allow her to blame herself. He gave her smiles, tried to get her to laugh. He held her head above the water she would have sunk under. He loved her, and wished for her happiness above even his own. To have seen her smile again would be like marrying her all over again.
But the gray was on her. He knew what it was. He wished he knew how he could fight it. Even to take it from her and put it on himself would make him happy. Instead, he watched her wither.
"Is it the gray?" Aria asked more than a month later. "Do I have it now?"
"We all have it," Bart said. "It is sadness. It is pain."
"Just before...I got the letter, I was reading the poem by John Grayhome."
"I've read it as well."
"I only read the first half. It says that the three animals in the courtyard are different ways of dealing with the gray." Aria looked at her husband for confirmation. He said nothing, waiting for her to continue. "But the old man was different. I think it was a warning. If he didn't defeat the gray that's what he would become. An old man walking toward death, no joy left."
Bart inhaled slowly. "Stay," he said. "I'm going to fetch it. You must hear the other half."
He left the bedroom. Aria, sitting with her knees pulled under her chin, the coverlet warm around her chin. A few minutes later Bart came back. He sat on the bed beside her, bringing the sheet of paper close to his eyes. He read:
"It reared up, smoke from nostrils warm
It sunk back, hooves pulling at dirt
It flew high, above life's dangers
It walked on, past the miles long
They four crowd my mind
They push the gray away
They four bring back light
They keep my thoughts from me
The beast that men ride through the night
Skin as black as evil
It carries me away
To greater far-off places
The animal with angry strength
It could smash and destroy, but it must not
It must be caged
And set to productive tasks to tire it
The lofty eye above it all
Cares not for the land underneath
It ignores
When it could worry and fret
My future, defeated under trials
It must keep its eyes ahead
Death follows
Joy is always within reach"
"That is how much I read before," Aria said. She was looking at the ceiling. "The horse, bull, and eagle are all ways to stop the gray, and the old man is a warning to himself."
Bart said nothing for a few moments, then continued:
"He is me, without fail
Unless I fall to the gray
The thief
Stealing my old age
The charger takes me away
The bull smashes through
The eagle helps me ignore
The old man does it all
The old man is the goal
For he looks forward and not behind
The gray chases him
He heads for the light
For my home
For my wife
For my children
For my life
The gray is a sorry foe
None can kill it
None can tell it away
None can shut a door against it
Life's greatest joy
Is knowing it did not beat you
Instead old age takes you
With a smile on your face despite it"
Bart regarded his wife, who sat with most of her under the covers, only her eyes above. "It doesn't go away," he said. "I know it. My father knew it. My grandfather knew it."
"The old man is the goal. Because you continue to live even though you want to die."
Bart nodded. "It's something my father taught me from a young age. It is the enemy."
"Will I ever see my father again?" Aria asked a minute later.
"Darling, I don't know," Bart said, wishing the gray was but a man, so he might pierce its heart.
"I will make sure to survive until I can."
"And I will survive along with you."
"I will help you. Will you help me?"
"With everything I have."
"Bart, if my father ever comes to see the manor, I'd like the fountain in the courtyard to run that day. I think he might like it."
"I wouldn't exactly call it a kidnapping," Bart Grayhome said. "If you had been against it one could call it that, but it was, if I remember correctly, your idea. Really, we're just sort of taking a trip. One from which you shan't return." Bart rowed the boat closer to the cove's entrance, using a practiced motion to guide them across the flat water.
"My parents think it's a kidnapping," Aria said. She looked around, trying to see through the fog. "With any luck, they won't remember you."
"Isaac will," Bart said. "That jealous buffoon wouldn't forget a competitor's face if his life depended on it."
"He isn't a buffoon," Aria said. "He's quite brilliant."
"Because that's the only thing that matters in a man, I suppose," Bart said, as if speaking to the fog itself. "Your parents fell in love with him and didn't realize you never would. I still don't see why we could have done this the proper way."
"Sometimes a lady needs a bit of excitement in her life," Aria said. "After a week of letting them worry, we send a letter with all the details." The boat entered the cove and sliced through the still water toward the dock. "It will be too late for them to nullify the marriage, and they won't have a legal leg to stand on as far as divorcing us."
"They won't like it. Aria, are you sure you want to do this? You will lose their trust. I wish I could still enjoy my parents, and now you decide to distance yourself from yours?"
The boat clunked into the wharf and Bart jumped off, a rope trailing from his hand. He knotted the rope around a bar, mooring the boat, then extended his hand to help his new wife up.
"It isn't as dramatic as you make it out to be," Aria said. "I'm declaring my independence. I believe they will learn to respect our decision, and then our relationship can resume."
"As optimistic as ever," Bart said. He drew her into an embrace. "Perhaps it's because everything else is so wet, but you look even more radiant."
"More than last night?" Aria asked, letting one eye slide closed. Bart laughed, and they started toward the stairs. "I'm quite excited, you know. You've spoken about your parent's manor for so long I feel like whatever it is will let me down."
"Never," Bart said. They walked hand in hand, one step at a time. "I have had nothing but good memories of this place. You will love it, I'm sure of it. Lady Grayhome-" he said when they reached the top of the steps- "your home."
The building wore the fog like a distinguished old woman wore her graying hair. It spread out on the countryside, unsure if it wanted to tumble into the cove or roll onto the heath. The central section stretched up and narrowed as it rose, and the two wings Aria could see disappeared from view, windows open to let in what little light the fog did not smother.
"Well, it's certainly distinguished," Aria said. "But I've seen distinguished before, Bart. You spoke of it as if it was magical."
"You've only seen one side of it," Bart said. He waved toward the building. "Hector will have seen us. He'll be getting everything ready."
"I need to stretch my legs after the boat," Aria said. "Do you mind if I take a look around?"
"Not at all. It's your property, after all."
Aria's heart jumped. "I suppose it is. What's over that way?" She pointed around the north wing, to their right.
"The courtyard. The fountain I told you about is there. I'll make sure everything is prepared for your first entrance. Are you going to make me carry you over the threshold here, too?"
"Keep giving me that lip, and I might," Aria said with a smile. "Won't be long."
As her husband went to the front doors, Aria followed the path around the north side of the building, and discovered another wing going west behind the back of the main section. In the corner the two wings created she found a large, paved courtyard with a dilapidated fountain in the middle, bearing more leaves and moss than water. A circular pool of old water surrounded a statue of a lovely woman who, had it sprayed then, would have been sending water up with a lifted hand. Aria inspected it, peering at it from all angles, and imagined as it might have been when Bart was a child, and the sun was out. Benches surrounded it, facing away.
The four corners of the courtyard bore a statue, each one a different form. She went to the first one, discovering it was a wild charger caught while rearing, hooves thrusting at the air. Its mouth was open and its eyes were wide. The next corner had a bull, haunches tight and ready to charge, one hoof pulling at the stone pillar it rested on. The third was a large eagle or raptor, standing on its pillar with wings extended. Its beak was snapped shut, and its huge eyes seemed to catch every detail, though they were but stone. The final statue was, to her surprise, an old man, bent under a heavy load tied to his back and keeping himself upright only with the assistance of a staff. He looked forward, at the center of the courtyard, with a grim mouth, knobbly hands curled around his stick. All four of the statues were pointed at the waterless woman in the middle, all four looking to move closer through a powerful charge, bull-rush, dive, or the slow stumble of two feet.
After a few more minutes of gazing around at the trees, and staring down the long heath behind the building, Aria returned to the front.
Bart and a butler waited for her. The butler had a smart black coat with a long tail. As soon as he saw her, he bowed, upper body parallel with the ground.
"Lady Grayhome," he said, gentle voice greeting her. "A pleasure to meet you at last. I must say, the lord's description of you barely does you justice. I am Hector, your estate governor and manager. I am in charge of the upkeep of the manor, the tending of the grounds, and I oversee the servants. If you have any questions at all about your new home, I will answer them all."
"Fine to meet you, Hector," Aria said, dipping. "How many servants are there?"
"One dozen and one," Hector said. "Counting myself. The lord tells me your family had a single servant. Well, you needn't worry about us being under your feet. One of the marks of a good maid or butler is an unseen quality. Indeed, I once heard of a master who demanded any maid who sees him turn and-"
"Hector, perhaps another time," Bart said, and the butler snapped his mouth shut, nodding. "It's been a long trip through darkness, and we could both use some rest."
"Without a doubt." The butler pushed open the doors, and Aria followed him and Bart inside. The entryway was smaller than she imagined, with a low ceiling and a number of doors peeling away in different directions. Hector took her shawl, and then proceeded to give her a tour. "The lord tells me you are of an adventurous type. Well, Grayhome has plenty of adventure waiting. There are numerous rooms with hidden secrets such as passage ways and hide-holes, the history of which are quite mixed. One room in particular-"
"Hector," Aria said, beginning to understand the butler's love of talk. "Can you tell me about the courtyard? With the fountain and statues?"
"Yes of course ma'am, it would be my pleasure. The courtyard itself was built about three centuries ago, without the current embellishments." He led them through the dining room, the kitchen, and a number of other rooms, introducing men and women wearing servants uniforms should they appear. "It was one-hundred and seventy-two years ago when the current lord's ancestor, Cumbridge Grayhome, decided it needed a little more sprucing up. The place has always been rather dreary, you see--the current pall is nothing special."
They got to a set of stairs and began to rise. "Watch your step madam, some of the stones are in disrepair, despite our best efforts. Cumbridge Grayhome decided a fountain was in order--he'd been to the cities, you see, and fountains were quite in vogue then. He commissioned that which you have seen, 'Woman Raising Water,' as the designer named it. I find it quite expertly-done, myself."
The butler pushed open a door, and revealed a library. The next door held a gallery of art. "The four statues at the corners are more complicated. Cumbridge's son, John--your husband's great-grandfather--was a...perhaps the lord should describe."
Aria looked at Bart. "He was beset by the gray," he said. "Terrible depression, fear, anger. The stories say he was just as likely to rage and hurt someone as he was to lie on the floor as if dead, moaning and weak. I'm afraid it is somewhat of a family trait."
"I've never known you to do such a thing!" Aria said.
"No, I'm lucky to have escaped it." Bart nodded at Hector to continue.
"Yes, thankfully the lord is as full of life and energy and good humor as any Grayhome I've had the pleasure to serve. Well, on a rare middling day, John Grayhome stood in the courtyard and observed the fountain his father had installed, thinking on his ailment. He fancied himself a poet, when he had the mind to take up a pen, and wrote a few verses about himself and the courtyard. The poem contained allusions to four beasts: the wild horse, the angry bull, the stalking hawk, and the bent old man. I'm afraid I'm unable to recount the poem from the head, though I have read it a number of times."
"Interesting. Perhaps I will read it myself."
"It isn't so bad, as poem's go," Bart said. He stopped the butler. "Hector, I'll take it from here. There are some bags down in the boat. Would you have them brought up, please? Oh...and send someone up with food in due time?"
"Certainly sir." The butler bowed. "Once again, a pleasure to meet you, madam. I look forward to serving you."
"Thank you, Hector. I look forward to you serving me."
The butler chuckled as he departed. Aria and Bart stood in front of a plain door on the top floor, at the end of a hall.
Bart grasped the handle, and Aria's hand, and opened the door, revealing a fine bedroom containing an immense four-poster bed layered with curtain, a long couch heavy with cushions, a large mirror vanity, and a wide window looking east toward the cove. The room held a relaxing fragrance of pine needles and cinnamon. The curtains on the window were shut, and the curtains on the bed were wide, ready to accept forms perhaps not yet ready for sleep.
"Tell me about the gray."
Bart looked at his wife. They lay side-by-side, cuddled under the warm covers and sleeping off the meal one of the maids had brought them. They'd spent the last few hours relaxing, and the light coming through the curtains appeared to be afternoon.
"What kind of things would you like to know?" Bart asked after a glance.
"Well, firstly, why you've never said a word about it."
Bart sighed and shrugged his bare shoulders. "It embarrasses me, I suppose. It's a malady that's been in my family for hundreds of years. Do you remember how my great-great-grandfather had the fountain of the woman put in?"
"Of course."
"It was his doing that began our family's climb out of the tyranny of the gray. His wife--Gloria, I believe her name was--seemed to have been nothing less than a saint. She lived through all of the stories, new and old, and worked tirelessly to improve Cumbridge's mood. It was when she died that Cumbridge had the fountain installed in her honor." Bart yawned. "That was the beginning of our family's fight against it. John, his son, suffered but knew it was something he should battle. Like his father, he eventually married a woman to help him fight it. She did it differently, refusing to let him get away with his mood swings. It was a long battle."
Bart pulled the cover off of them and swung his feet to the floor. "My grandfather, Ulysses, had an easier time of it. He spent years studying the malady, wondering if it was passed from father to son like height, or hair color, and inspected the family history. He was no scientist, but he found evidence he used to formulate a plan."
"And what did the plan entail?" Aria asked, her eyes barely peeking over the covers.
Bart paused, putting on his shirt. "Well...you!"
"Excuse me?"
"Ulysses Grayhome realized three things. First, a boon companion--someone who loves you and wishes your happiness above even her own--helps you through the troubles and makes it a great deal easier to defeat the low moments of life. Second, like physical attributes, the mood of the parents combine to create the mood of the children. Taking a wife brimming with happiness, energy, good nature and toughness of spirit makes it less likely a child will suffer from the gray."
He looked at Aria, who was suspending an eyebrow in the middle of her forehead. "The final one is perhaps the most important. He did not learn it from study, but from a lifetime of watching his parents, himself, and his children. You've heard 'the apple does not fall far from the tree.' It is true. The parents define the children. Ulysses made a focused effort to act perfectly around his children, including my father. My father spoke highly of him. I wish I could have been able to meet him."
"And your father?"
"My father was my best friend." Bart came around the bed and sat next to Aria. "I know the gray was in him, just as it's in me. My mother filled this big place with so much warmth and joy, even when my father fell into a depression. She wouldn't let it touch me or my siblings."
"And so?" Aria asked. Bart stared at the wall for a minute, and she put his hand in hers.
"So, when I met you--you took my breath away. You still have it, you know. Not only because, on more than one occasion, you asked me to chase you down. You made me laugh. You gave me fire. I knew you were the kind of woman I should marry."
"Not just for my good looks?"
"Not just." Bart kissed her forehead. "But I must say it's quite a nice bonus." He stood and finished dressing, then exited the room, and Aria fell back to sleep, the festivities of her new home more tiring than she had expected.
A week later she, Bart, and Hector sat at a table. There was a piece of paper in the center. Aria had just finished writing it and signed her name.
Bart was nodding. "Well done, madam," Hector said. "This letter says how right the lord was to pursue you. The emotion you present to your mother and father, your explanation of events, your clear love for your husband, and your dear desire to rebuild your relationship is clear. I see no reason to delay in sending."
"Hector's right," Bart said. "Anything else you think you need?"
Aria shook her head. "I've spent all week thinking and writing drafts. It's perfect." Aria wrote the address down, and Hector left, preparing it for the post office.
"Do you think that's all you'll need to do?" Bart asked.
She shook her head again. "They're stubborn. Like me, in a way. It's like you said; I likely got it from them. Hopefully they'll be too happy that I'm alive and safe to be angry with me." Her smile took over her whole face. "It doesn't matter what they think. As soon as they meet you they'll give in. Just like me."
Hector leaned backward. "I'm sorry, I must be misremembering the time you wouldn't give me the time of day, or when you told me you were already engaged to Isaac Silverbridge, or when you stood me up after I finally got your permission to walk with you in the park."
Aria shrugged and bounced her head from side to side. "I just needed to make sure you were being sincere. Otherwise every young man and his father would be asking to walk in the park."
"So you say." Bart stood, sighing. "To work, I'm afraid. The senate meets in a month and I've stacks of documents to look over."
"All afternoon?"
"Seems to be. We'll have supper together, and then we can go into town tonight." Bart bid goodbye and then Aria was alone in the room. She wandered to the north wing and looked out, surprised to see dry sunlight banishing the shadows from the courtyard, and she exited the house, entering the desolate area between the two wings, looking down the rolling green behind the manor. The sun was out and it was warm, but the fountain was still dry. Hector had said during the past week it was a right bother to maintain, and they only activated it for special occasions.
She sat on one of the benches, looking west at the expansive grounds: rolling hills, forests containing pockets of fog, and, in the distance, the sea.
After a few minutes of idle thought, she twisted her head around to look at the statues situated in the corners of the courtyard. In the bright light they had little of the ominous shadows and hidden eyes she'd seen during her first time in the courtyard. She thought about their history, and how the man responsible had suffered all his life.
She stood, wondering about the poem John Grayhome had written, the one containing the horse, bull, eagle, and old man. She re-entered the manor and found the library, a few rows of books, maps, papers, and stacks of loose sheets taking up a good portion of the south wing.
She took a step inside, and then realized she had no idea where the poem would possibly be. It could have taken her a restless day to search everything inside. As she stood, the door behind her opened, and one of the maids, a woman named Marigold, entered.
"Good afternoon, ma'am!" she said. She held a bag of refuse, and headed for the waste bin near the door, dumping the small scraps of paper out. "Going to do a bit of reading?"
"Yes. Actually, Marigold..."
"What is it ma'am?"
"I'm looking for something in particular. It's a poem Bart's ancestor wrote. About the statues in the courtyard?" Aria looked at the maid. "You know of it?"
"I believe I do ma'am!" Marigold said. She set the bag of garbage down, wiped her hands under her apron, then looked along the rows of books and papers. "Though I must be clear in saying I'm don't know where it could be. Should I fetch Hector? Oh, never mind, he's down to the post office. It's a lengthy trip by boat, you know."
"Do you know how the library is categorized?" Aria asked. "By author?"
"Can't say I spend much time inspecting the titles, ma'am, I just empty the rubbish. It wreaks havoc on my sinuses, all the dust in here." Marigold saw Aria's expression. "Oh, needn't worry ma'am. I just get the sneezes. Where shall we begin?"
They went row by row, trying to find any book, scrap of paper, or bundle bearing the name John Grayhome. No shortage of Grayhomes, be they lords or ladies, had made their own special additions to the library, and Aria found herself enjoying a few of them. As they hunted, the sun went down and the fog rolled in from the cold sea, forcing Marigold to go about lighting lanterns to banish the encroaching dark. Before long Marigold begged off so she could finish her tasks for the day, and Aria was left searching among the library's sharp shadows.
When she finally found the name John Grayhome, written on the spine of a slipshod-bound book of loose papers, she took it down from the shelf, holding it so nothing could fall out and moving with a light touch. She went to one of the desks up against the wall, near the door, and pulled the front cover away from the papers. Each one had a poem, sometimes two, and she scanned the titles and opening lines, trying to find a reference to the courtyard, the four creatures, or "the gray."
Near the back of the collection, pages from the end, she found the poem called "The Four Guardians." Having seen nothing else similar to what she had searched for, Aria read:
It reared up, smoke from nostrils warm
It sunk back, hooves pulling at dirt
It flew high, above life's dangers
It walked on, past the miles long
They four crowd my mind
They push the gray away
They four bring back light
They keep my thoughts from me
The beast men ride through the night
Skin as black as evil
It carries me away
To greater far-off places
The animal with angry strength
It could smash and destroy, but it must not
It must be caged
And set to productive tasks to tire it
The lofty eye above it all
Cares not for the land underneath
It ignores
When it could worry and fret
My future, defeated under trials
It must keep its eyes ahead
Death follows
Joy is always within reach
Aria found herself looking out the window in front of the desk, at the black sky outside. She hadn't finished the poem, but instead thought on the first half she had just read. John Grayhome must have used the four entities as a protection, of sorts, each one with a different tactic.
She scanned the stanzas again. No, that wasn't right. The three animals were all there to protect him, but the old man seemed to be no use. She squinted at the first stanza of the second half.
"Ma'am?" Marigold said from the door, making Aria jump. "Pardon me, ma'am, but the lord has finished his work and would like to know if you'd join him for dinner."
"Oh, yes," Aria said. She stood up, stretching. "I'll be along in a moment."
A week later Hector rowed off the island to the nearest post office and picked up the mail. After rowing back, he presented it to Bart Grayhome, as usual, and Bart discovered there was a letter to Aria, posted from her parent's house. He quickly brought it to her, and she tore it open, heart hammering and fingers shaking.
Bart watched his wife's eyes narrow as she read, and eventually her eyebrows creased together. Her mouth shifted, and began to tremble. She pressed a hand against her quivering lips. She shut her eyes and let the letter fall to the table, sobbing. Bart went to her side and she pressed into him as he picked up the letter. It was wet with her new tears, and he saw spots he knew where dry tears from another.
Aria Grayhome:
I write this letter with a heavy hand, and it has taken me days to know how to proceed. Your good mother took her life three days before your father received your letter, thinking you kidnapped and killed when no ransom note arrived. I heard little of her worries, but I know she screamed and wailed at the idea of you buried in a ditch, abused and sullied by vagrants and schemers. With a knife, she cut her wrists late at night, in the yard, and was dead before anyone knew where she had gone.
Your father raged against the sky. He shouted curses at shadows. He damned the night and spat vulgarities against the sun. He had no enemy to beat his fists upon, yet he did so. I imagine the idea of following your mother down the gray path ran through his mind with almost as much fervor as he shouted.
Then he received your letter.
It is wrong to paint such a picture of him. All his life, your father has been a man of good stature, of gracious words and kind actions. Of charity, faith, and all the best noble qualities fit to fill a man from soles to forehead. It is not proper to paint him a monster who would send threats against his own daughter, who would call her such terms I have never heard, but the spittle flying from his lips and the hate in his eyes appraised me of their meaning before I even had chance to reach for a dictionary.
It is not right to do so, but that's who your father became when your letter arrived. A changed man. When before I had scarce heard him utter a foul note meant for anyone, he became an orchestra of vile fragments, and I know he hoped to pierce your skin and kill you with them.
Had you been my daughter--had I been so lucky--I would have wept to have you back. I would have forgotten my duties and rushed to your new home, to mourn with you for my wife, your mother. I would have forgiven everything, no matter had you married a glittering prince or a muddy tramp.
With sadness, then, I tell you your father has disowned you. I could repeat his words, explain his reasons, but I shan't. I could not put you through further pain, not for any reason. I'm sorry you must read this from me. Your father bade me tell you of his decision. Perhaps in a year or two his heart will soften and he will realize the gift he has left behind, but not now. Not for months, I fear.
I beg you, write to me. I have included a private address you may send letters, so your father does not know. If he will not enjoy whatever new-found happiness you have, then I will in his stead. And when he comes to understand the mistake he made, I will show him what you have written me, so he will not have lost that time.
Stay away. If he sees you, all the pain will come back to him, I do not doubt this. Time must heal him, as it heals all things.
-Your father's faithful servant, and your friend forever, David Willin
Bart pulled her close as she cried, her hands pulling at the back of his collar in spasms. They sat at the table for what felt like hours as the room grew gray.
When Bart woke up the next morning his heart leapt. Aria was not next to him. His panic only stopped when he found her sitting on the edge of the bed, gazing at the curtained windows as if they were thrown wide.
She had hardly slept the night before, soaking the pillow under her head, each new memory of her mother bringing renewed sadness, a new wave of wails. Neither of them got much sleep, so it was a shock to see her already out of bed. The light coming through the curtains revealed her petite body in her bedclothes. She sat with her hands open and pointed up, resting on her thighs. Her eyes were half-open, her mouth closed. After watching her sit motionless for a minute, Bart rose and sat next to her. She leaned her head onto his shoulder, and he put his arm around her.
For a long time they sat, saying nothing.
In the following days Aria wandered around the oversized manor, finding herself in strange rooms after losing herself in memories. She began letters to David, then crumpled them into balls and tore them into bits. She cried. Whenever Hector would fetch the mail she would be waiting, hoping for another letter, saying her father had changed his position and wanted to see her, but none came. For a week she seemed to do nothing of value. She slept a great deal, ate little, and hardly had the energy to speak. She floated from one thing to another. She began to lose her emotion, unable to smile, or frown, or bare her teeth no matter what happened. A great tidal wave of pests and vermin could have swept through the house and she would not have thought to step aside.
Her husband did what he could. He commanded sweet treats and hearty meals served every day, but she would pick at them. He took her on walks across the island, but her vision remained focused on something only she could see. He kept her warm even when the fog grew heavy, building roaring fires every night, reading to her, and he refused to allow her to blame herself. He gave her smiles, tried to get her to laugh. He held her head above the water she would have sunk under. He loved her, and wished for her happiness above even his own. To have seen her smile again would be like marrying her all over again.
But the gray was on her. He knew what it was. He wished he knew how he could fight it. Even to take it from her and put it on himself would make him happy. Instead, he watched her wither.
"Is it the gray?" Aria asked more than a month later. "Do I have it now?"
"We all have it," Bart said. "It is sadness. It is pain."
"Just before...I got the letter, I was reading the poem by John Grayhome."
"I've read it as well."
"I only read the first half. It says that the three animals in the courtyard are different ways of dealing with the gray." Aria looked at her husband for confirmation. He said nothing, waiting for her to continue. "But the old man was different. I think it was a warning. If he didn't defeat the gray that's what he would become. An old man walking toward death, no joy left."
Bart inhaled slowly. "Stay," he said. "I'm going to fetch it. You must hear the other half."
He left the bedroom. Aria, sitting with her knees pulled under her chin, the coverlet warm around her chin. A few minutes later Bart came back. He sat on the bed beside her, bringing the sheet of paper close to his eyes. He read:
"It reared up, smoke from nostrils warm
It sunk back, hooves pulling at dirt
It flew high, above life's dangers
It walked on, past the miles long
They four crowd my mind
They push the gray away
They four bring back light
They keep my thoughts from me
The beast that men ride through the night
Skin as black as evil
It carries me away
To greater far-off places
The animal with angry strength
It could smash and destroy, but it must not
It must be caged
And set to productive tasks to tire it
The lofty eye above it all
Cares not for the land underneath
It ignores
When it could worry and fret
My future, defeated under trials
It must keep its eyes ahead
Death follows
Joy is always within reach"
"That is how much I read before," Aria said. She was looking at the ceiling. "The horse, bull, and eagle are all ways to stop the gray, and the old man is a warning to himself."
Bart said nothing for a few moments, then continued:
"He is me, without fail
Unless I fall to the gray
The thief
Stealing my old age
The charger takes me away
The bull smashes through
The eagle helps me ignore
The old man does it all
The old man is the goal
For he looks forward and not behind
The gray chases him
He heads for the light
For my home
For my wife
For my children
For my life
The gray is a sorry foe
None can kill it
None can tell it away
None can shut a door against it
Life's greatest joy
Is knowing it did not beat you
Instead old age takes you
With a smile on your face despite it"
Bart regarded his wife, who sat with most of her under the covers, only her eyes above. "It doesn't go away," he said. "I know it. My father knew it. My grandfather knew it."
"The old man is the goal. Because you continue to live even though you want to die."
Bart nodded. "It's something my father taught me from a young age. It is the enemy."
"Will I ever see my father again?" Aria asked a minute later.
"Darling, I don't know," Bart said, wishing the gray was but a man, so he might pierce its heart.
"I will make sure to survive until I can."
"And I will survive along with you."
"I will help you. Will you help me?"
"With everything I have."
"Bart, if my father ever comes to see the manor, I'd like the fountain in the courtyard to run that day. I think he might like it."