Chapter 14: 14 – Trace

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Rather reluctantly, Trace left the piano, and joined Richard and Dora in a part of the room that had a pair of antique-style sofas and a trio of chairs, all the sort that were as much wood as upholstery—in this case a matched set with dove-grey and deep bronze birds over a yellow background. The walls around them were a similar yellow, with floor-to-ceiling drapes in fabric that matched the sofas, and several rugs in more-or-less the same colours. All the wood, in contrast, was that rich cherrywood finish.

There wasn’t a speck of dust or a sheet in sight, and the gas lamps spaced along the walls spread their light everywhere.

“I appreciate the hospitality,” Trace said, “but I am extremely confused.” He did obey when Richard gestured an invitation to join him on the sofa.

“Yes,” Richard said. “I know. This house has been... well, from the perspective of what you consider the real world, it has been empty and abandoned for a very long time, although from the perspective inside, it has never been any such thing. Ségolène and I, ah, had a little trouble fitting in, considering expectations at the time. Among other things, we have always had rather broader conceptions of relationships and proper behaviour than our contemporaries would accept—outside the pages of a titillating novel published anonymously, that is. Since that time, we have had many people find their way here on Hallowe’en night. They come looking for ghosts, or thrills, or treasure, or shelter, or other things. Most leave and forget and are forgotten. A few are exceptions. All, inevitably, are confused, and that’s never going to change. The rules exist for a reason.”

“Mostly, to protect everyone,” Dora said. “Family and guests both.”

“Some are less forgettable,” Richard said. “What brought you here?”

“Poor social skills,” Trace said with a sigh.

Both listened attentively while he described his new job, the ribbing from his coworkers about everything from his name to his difficulty with eye contact to his habit of playing a phantom keyboard when his hands were idle, culminating in an episode of getting overwhelmed by too many simultaneous demands and simply shutting down. He could usually cope—music helped enormously, to listen to even if he couldn’t play it at the time—but now and then life was just too much. That had triggered the dare to spend Hallowe’en in the haunted house on the edge of town, and he’d gone along with it in hopes of winning at least a little respect.

A maid in a rather unlikely pop-culture kind of uniform came in with a tray. Somehow, considering the scaled dancer, he just accepted her black-tipped white cat-ears and tail as they were: mildly exotic and rather pretty. She set the tray on the table between them and curtseyed.

“Anything else you need, Master?”

“That’s fine, Maggie, thank you.”

“My pleasure.” She strolled back out of the room.

Dora edged forward to serve the tea. He didn’t often have it on his own. It reminded him of his mother, relaxing on the couch or seated at the dining table, always with a cup at hand, and smiling at him as he practiced on his keyboard.

There was also a plate of what turned out to be sweet chewy oatmeal cookies.

“And your mother?” Richard asked.

Trace tended not to talk much about his life, since he’d encountered few people who actually wanted to hear it, but Richard and Dora kept prompting him, kept voicing sympathy and understanding. So he told them about his mother encouraging his interest in music, and his father leaving and taking many of his wife and son’s options with him, and then his mother getting sick.

Which led into music, and how important that had always been.

“That’s it for the tea and cookies,” Richard finally said, gently. “Dora, love, could you take the tray back for us, please?”

“Sure,” Dora said. “Trace? Can I give you a kiss before I do?”

“Um... sure? I... I’d like that.”

She moved over to sit in the centre of the sofa, Richard shifting back to make room. She took Trace’s hand and laid it on her waist, just above her skirt, and slid her hand around his waist before she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. She smelled subtly of good things: of the oatmeal cookies and the tea, a faint hint of earthiness that made him think of an autumn day, the barest suggestion of sweat from her dancing earlier. He quite liked that, and the pleasantly-cool smoothness of her scales, nothing slimy or rough at all, and the gentleness of her kiss.

“Listen to Richard,” she whispered in his ear. “There’s a way to stay.” She straightened, winked at him, and got up. A moment later, she was gone.

Richard rose and stretched. “Come see my collection,” he said, and Trace wasn’t quite sure whether it was an invitation or an order. He wanted to anyway, so he followed Richard around the room, admiring the various, and highly diverse, instruments that filled it.

Richard paused by the harp, trailing a finger along the beautifully-decorated wood of the main post. “That overload and shutdown issue, you said it never comes up with music?”

“Right. Never. Mostly just with people wanting me to do a bunch of things at once instead of just letting me work through a list.”

“Do you trust me?”

“According to my mom, I trust people too easily. And under the circumstances, I probably shouldn’t. But I do.”

“May I kiss you?”

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Trace regarded him thoughtfully, then shrugged. “Wouldn’t be fair to say yes to Dora and no to you. Sure.”

Richard smiled, and held out a hand to draw him closer. The fingers of his other hand played along the line of Trace’s jaw, and slid around the back of his neck just before Richard bent his head and kissed him.

It was less gentle than Dora’s, but there was nothing aggressive or violent about it, either, just something that felt like genuine passion. Richard, he thought, was used to being in control. It wasn’t a long kiss, but it didn’t need to be.

“There are things,” Richard said softly, “that I wish I were free to tell you, and things I wish I were free to do. Hallowe’en rules are essential but, on rare occasions, frustrating. What I can tell you is this. There are approximately a dozen residents in this house. All are unique. I cannot discuss where they were before, but all choose to live here, and like Dora, my wife and I have reason to believe each is happier and more fulfilled. You cannot leave the house until sunrise. That is not a thing that even Ségolène can change. That does not mean you are in danger. We do not allow anyone to live in this house who enjoys cruelty or violence, although mischief is certainly a trait that commonly surfaces. Between now and then... if you can prove that you are brave and adaptable, by exploring the house and meeting the residents and being open to the... the often unusual experiences you will encounter, then the reward at sunrise will be... potentially of great value to you. If nothing else, she can choose to allow you to keep your memories of the night. Most of our guests remember nothing, and believe they saw only the dead house and perhaps fell asleep.”

“I don’t want to forget.” Trace frowned. “New experiences are kind of weird for me. I get sort of hyper-aware of all senses, and sometimes that’s good, and sometimes it’s an overload, but mostly it’s only an overload if there’s something else that I need to keep track of at the same time.”

“That... should not happen.”

“I’ll try. I want to be able to remember this. I can see why it would be better for people to mostly not remember. It wouldn’t be good for someone to decide to come back next year, maybe with deliberate bad intentions, although I guess that isn’t a given. But if it turned up online or something, you could end up with a hundred people showing up every year to see if it’s real.”

Richard winced. “That would be problematic, to say the least. Prove yourself to be the exception.” He smiled. “I’d prefer to be remembered. Hm. Perhaps the library would be a quiet place to start. You can leave the bag and your jacket here, they’ll be safe and you won’t need them.”

“I, um, I really hate to ask, but is there a bathroom somewhere between?” Trace felt his cheeks grow warm.

“There is. Well, near enough.” Richard retreated two steps before turning away, and only then released Trace’s hand. “This way.”

They crossed a hall, into a handsome room decorated with autumn leaves and music, and to one side, off a small room with hooks on the walls, there was a bathroom. The toilet was the old-fashioned kind with the water reservoir high on the wall, but it was otherwise quite reasonable, and the sink and soap and hand towel hadn’t exactly changed much in a century or so.

Richard was waiting with no impatience in the corridor on the other side of the room with the hooks, and when he saw Trace, he beckoned to him, and strolled beside him to the end of the corridor and into the library.

It was nearly as amazing as the music room. But then, books were a good escape when music wasn’t a viable option.

Richard ambled casually towards one section of books, and ran a finger along the spines. These didn’t look like mass-market stuff... or did they? While many of the shelves had old-looking volumes, when he took a closer look he saw places where the contents didn’t match, much newer and more colourful.

“Honestly,” Richard said, “some of these are here because any proper household at the time had copies of them, but some of those are dull and have little value. We’ve been gradually going through it, weeding out that sort to make room for newer works of interest. But many of the older works we’re certainly keeping, so we’ll have to find solutions for enough space when that becomes a more urgent issue. And some are special.” He drew out one book, a smallish one bound in dark leather, and flipped through the pages. He held it out to Trace, open. “This, for example.”

Trace accepted it and looked down at the page.

It was a poem, and it appeared to be hand-written, though neatly and legibly. It described the life of a swallow, of the wind under wings, banking and climbing and diving in pursuit of the insects that plagued humans.

And he could feel it. Instead of the words on the page, though he knew he was still reading them because they were appearing in his head in elegant expressive phrases, he could see the evening sky, could see a house below that must be the Mallory house but with more outbuildings and people moving around and a pasture with horses. Far off, he heard the hoot of an owl, and closer, the wind in the trees, and closer still, the buzzing of insects. He could feel pressure under his wings, the flexing of muscle and the confident agility as he spun through the air at breathtaking speed without ever losing control.

The poem ended, and he couldn’t remember the words properly, but the experience had been vivid.

“Whoa. Books don’t normally do that.”

“Not normally,” Richard agreed. “But things that behave in unusual ways are not unusual in this house. No overload?”

“No. Maybe because... there wasn’t really much coming from outside the poem? It was pretty focused. Everything was just that, nothing else, for that long.”

Richard nodded. “Good. My presence is only going to interfere, I’m afraid. The music room is always there if you need to go back to it long enough to catch your breath and find your balance.” He laid a hand on Trace’s shoulder. “Be as open as you can. You’re in no danger. It will be worth it.”

“I’ll try.”

Another nod, and Richard left.

Trace flipped through the pages of the book curiously. It seemed to be all poetry, and the titles suggested that they were largely about nature.

He thought he heard voices, quite low, somewhere nearby, and the lower one might have been Richard’s, but he couldn’t make it out and it didn’t last long, so he ignored it.

Instead, he began to read a poem about an oak tree in a field, surrounded by open space, roots driving deep into the ground and branches arching up into the sky towards the sun, provider of home to many and food source to many more, and let himself get lost in the tranquility of it.

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