Theirs to Keep

For the better part of the last year I’d worked on this mansion. Collating and procuring crews. Facilitating the demolition of what needed to go, and the construction of what would take its place. Everything in between was restoration, from the Italian marble floors to the rare woods and mosaics. From the French-style archways and flying buttresses to the panes of colorful lead glass that made up the arcade walkways. All of it — right down to the tree-shaded footpaths that wandered the gardens — was within the scope of my responsibility, alone.

But I’d never seen the place like this.

Bryce pulled me hurriedly but excitedly through the shadows of the ancient manor, like it were some great museum about to close. It was like he wanted to see everything. Show me every dark nook and dust-filled crannie, and tell me exactly what he knew about each of them.

Mostly though, I was more interested in him.

As breathtaking as the manor once might’ve been, Bryce was a thousand times more beautiful. He was lean and athletic, but still broad and strong. He had the chiseled jawline of a handsome Greek statue, and the sharp, angular features that always defined a man as undeniably handsome.

And his body…

My God, his body!

Unlike the ancient manorhouse, Bryce was still in his prime. His two ripped arms dangled from granite shoulders, and his back tapered down in a ‘V’ to his waist.

“This was the music room,” he told me, letting go of my hand so he could gesture grandly. “Guests from all over used to gather in this room and make beautiful music here.”

I couldn’t help but giggle. “Really?”

“Yes,” he breathed, missing the joke. “The gilt coffered ceiling is lined with silver and gold, and the fireplace is Calacatta marble.”

Right now the marble was filthy, and the ceiling was soot-covered from a partial fire that took place in the nineteen thirties. I knew all this because he’d told me about it three rooms ago.

“There was a piano here,” he told me. “And over there, a harpsichord.”

“Sounds lovely.”

“We found the frames of some furnishings when we first took the place over,” he went on, “but they were too far gone. Too worm-eaten and decrepit to try fixing up.”

“Speaking of that…” I said, tracking the beam of my flashlight around in a circle. “You still haven’t told me why you’re fixing this place up.”

“You mean why you’re fixing this place up.”

“Yeah. That.”

Bryce shrugged his well-tanned shoulders. “This is our retirement,” he said simply. “The plan is to create a beautiful venue. We’ll host events. Rent out the rooms. Turn this place into a money-making machine, and sell off the other business so we can focus on this one.”

“I know all that,” I said with a smirk. “I mean, what made you guys throw in and buy this crazy place to begin with?”

He didn’t answer, and I found that curious. I’d asked the same question of Roderick and Camden over the course of my employment. Both times, I’d received a similar response.

“Hey… you still with me?” I joked. “Or did the ghosts get you?”

He was looking up at a painting of a beautiful blonde-haired woman. Unlike the other paintings in the room this one was clean and almost fresh. Untouched by soot.

“She’s pretty, huh?” I asked.

The woman was dressed in the period clothing of the people who built and lived in this place. But the way she looked, the way she carried

herself — as strange as it was, it made her look almost… modern.

“Who do you think she is?” I went on. “Did she live here?”

Bryce coughed into his hand and cleared his throat. “What makes you say that?”

“Well come on,” I said, “we’re surrounded by all these paintings and frescoes, of people whose lives are long since over. You never wonder about them?”

“I guess,” he shrugged. “Sometimes.”