10

IT WAS ALMOST TWO HOURS before Sophie was able to return with Dr. Weir. She had arrived on foot this morning, so it took a while to run to the village, and then locating the doctor at a patient’s house took another twenty minutes. He was examining Mr. Cordona’s gouty knee and was not pleased when she came bursting inside.

“It’s an emergency,” she said on a ragged breath. She didn’t know exactly what was wrong with Quentin’s leg, but she’d never seen such naked agony on any man’s face, and it was frightening.

Thank heaven Dr. Weir wasn’t the type of person to put any stock in rumors of the Vandermark curse. There were plenty of people in town who refused to get anywhere near Dierenpark, but Dr. Weir had done service in the Civil War, and few things frightened him. It worried her when he insisted on returning to his home to collect a bone saw, but she supposed he knew what he was doing. The bone saw was more than a foot long, with vicious-looking metal teeth along the serrated edge. It was the first thing Quentin spotted when Sophie brought Dr. Weir into the parlor.

“Get that thing out of here!” Quentin snarled, his furious glare locked on the bone saw. He was on a settee, his bad leg propped before him on an ottoman. The pallor of his face made the red splotches from the bee stings stand out more dramatically.

“Now, now,” Dr. Weir said as he set his medical bag and the bone saw beside the settee. “No need to panic yet. I just need to examine your leg.”

“Not with that bone saw in here.”

“I’ll take it away,” Nickolaas said, emerging from a chair near the fireplace. “Come along, Miss van Riijn. This won’t be a pleasant sight.”

She was relieved to follow the older man from the room. Nickolaas led her back outside, where the late-afternoon sun slanted long shadows across the meadow. The bees were gone, and if they returned, she would need to use her smoker to calm them and put everything back to rights, although it would not surprise her if Quentin ordered the hives destroyed. It would be a shame, because the bees were one of the reasons this piece of land bloomed in such vibrant health.

Nickolaas headed toward a bench on the far side of the meadow. He moved with surprising agility for a man his age and beckoned her to join him on the bench. From here, they had a perfect view of the mansion, nestled amid the linden and juniper trees.

“It looks exactly the same as when I was a boy,” Nickolaas said, his eyes scanning the lines of the old house. “I used to love playing in this old meadow. There were times I was convinced I heard the echo of my ancestors’ voices, whispering in the woods. My father said it was only wind rustling in the trees, but I’ve always wondered.”

He propped the bone saw against the bench, its smooth metal gleaming in the afternoon sun. “I don’t want to go too far, in case the doctor needs this,” he said grimly.

“Forgive me, but what precisely is wrong with your grandson’s leg?” She’d always wondered, but it had seemed rude to ask.

Nickolaas gave a sad smile. “It started as a normal break. Quentin slipped on the ice as he was leaving his hotel in Vienna and fractured his shin. It should have been a simple thing, but the bone didn’t set properly. A specialist in Berlin recommended the leg be re-broken in hopes that it would set properly. They tried it, but the leg still didn’t heal.”

Sophie cringed at the thought of having to endure such a painful procedure, especially if it didn’t solve the problem.

“Quentin proceeded to visit a parade of medical experts. His leg had become so badly weakened the doctors all agreed the bone was unlikely to ever properly re-knit, and that it was in danger of snapping merely from putting his full weight on it. He suffers regular inflammations and infections in the wounded bone, which plunges his entire body into a fever. They are becoming more frequent and longer in duration.”

Was it any wonder Quentin appeared to be in constant pain? Sophie had suffered plenty of cooking burns on her hands, and they always ached for days as they healed. It was a miracle Quentin was able to walk at all.

Nickolaas continued, “You will learn that Quentin puts great faith in science. When standard medical procedures did not cure his leg, he turned to experimental science. Last year was the crowning glory of Quentin’s foolishness. He read about a new medical procedure involving transplanting a piece of his own healthy leg bone, grafting it onto his weakened tibia. In short, it was a disgusting procedure in which one part of his body was cannibalized in vain hope it could regenerate in another area.”

Sophie recoiled, and Nickolaas gave her a thin smile. “Isn’t medical technology wonderful? Quentin certainly puts all his faith in it, and the operation kept him in that clinic for the better part of a year. That was when I took custody of Pieter. Quentin tries to convince himself and Pieter that the graft is working and that it is an example of man’s mastery of technology. Despite it all, Quentin remains surly and short-tempered, and instead of learning to respect science, Pieter has learned only to fear his father.”

Sophie drew a breath to reply but then thought better of it. She had only known these people less than a month, but she’d witnessed the strained relationship between father and son. Quentin’s refusal to tolerate Pieter’s fears and superstitions only exacerbated other issues. Perhaps it was no wonder that Pieter preferred to live with a grandfather who showered him with unconditional affection.

Despite the tense cynicism in Nickolaas’s tone, the way he clenched and twisted his hands indicated he cared. She noticed the ring he wore, a roughly carved pewter ring, an odd choice for a man of his wealth. She leaned forward to study it closer, for it reminded her of something . . .

“That’s the ring from the portrait in the front hall,” she said in wonder. One of the grim-faced Vandermark ancestors from the seventeenth century had worn the same ring.

“One of a pair,” Nickolaas confirmed. “Both the original Vandermark brothers had just such a ring. One disappeared when Adrien died, but this is Caleb’s ring and has always been passed down from father to son. A few years ago, I tried to give it to Quentin, but he wants nothing to do with it. He cares very little for our family’s history.”

The sun had begun to set when Mr. Gilroy appeared and summoned Nickolaas to attend Quentin’s bedside. Sophie had not been invited, and she remained waiting on the mansion’s portico as exhaustion set in. At least she could ride home in Dr. Weir’s carriage this evening. She closed her eyes and opened her heart to the serenity of Dierenpark. It was easy to slip into a sort of rapt, dreamlike state while surrounded by the sheltering rim of trees.

But it wasn’t all paradise. There were restless people here, and the delicate balance could be disturbed so easily. What had happened this afternoon was proof of that. The bees had attacked with ferocity when their world was disturbed. Nickolaas’s arrival had brought a new wave of tension into the house. She had always considered Dierenpark the closest thing to paradise on earth, but even this blessed spot seemed plagued by the troubles of man.

She pushed herself to her feet, considering how she could repair the damage. The bees were usually calm at this time of day, and it would be best to get the hives turned upright. She had plenty of gauze netting to protect her skin, and the little tin smoker would further lull the bees into complacency as she did her best to restore their overturned little world back into balance.

Surprisingly, the doctor told Sophie that Quentin’s leg was not broken, but he still ordered bed rest and a calcium-rich diet for the next two weeks. Since Quentin was unable to walk up even a single flight of stairs, a bed had been brought down to the formal dining room near the front of the house. The dining table was moved elsewhere, and Quentin rested on a bed installed alongside the Chippendale sideboard. It was an odd sickroom, with a crystal chandelier overhead and a grand oil painting by Thomas Gainsborough on the wall. It showed a sailboat skimming across the sea, bathed in the golden glow of a setting sun. It had always been Sophie’s favorite painting in the house. She had never been outside the town of New Holland, but when she looked at that painting, it was easy to imagine setting sail into the great unknown.

Quentin had a table placed beside the bed, loaded down with stacks of books and his demolition plans. Beneath the mattress, he tucked the edges of two cloth sacks from which he could retrieve his drafting tools, correspondence, and reading glasses. Resting across his lap was a contraption with a slanted surface he used as a writing desk, but it could be tilted down in a few quick moves to serve as a meal tray. It made her realize that Quentin was quite accustomed to the life of an invalid.

The next morning, she took extra care in the kitchen. Quentin seemed to dislike her company, but she could show him a little compassion through the preparation of a delicious meal. The doctor’s instructions for calcium-rich foods dictated her menu. She made a hearty rice pudding, liberally laced with cream, brown sugar, and a dash of cinnamon and vanilla. Rice pudding was what her mother had always made when Sophie was feeling poorly, and it pleased her to be able to serve the wonderfully comforting dish to Quentin. She toasted cheese atop slices of crusty bread with a hint of garlic.

As usual, people began tipping their heads into the kitchen while she cooked, lured by the aromas wafting through the house. She shooed them away, determined to serve Quentin first.

Nickolaas refused to be shooed away. “The scents from this kitchen have me on the verge of weeping.”

She smiled, lifting a pitcher and pouring milk into a tall glass. “If you stir the rest of that cream into the rice pudding, it will be ready. Then we can get our patient served, and you can eat right afterwards.”

“It is a bargain,” he said with a courtly bow.

A few days ago, Sophie would have been mortified to be directing such a wealthy man as though he were kitchen staff, but nothing was quite normal in this house. They had no servants—only bodyguards. They had no women—only men who had outlived their wives and daughters.

She sighed as she loaded up the breakfast tray. She couldn’t solve the problems of the Vandermark family that had been decades in the making, but she could at least serve a healthy breakfast.

Quentin grimaced when Sophie entered his room.

Every ounce of his body hurt, and she was the last person on earth he wanted to see. In addition to the typical pain from his leg, his skin was swollen and ached from dozens of bee stings. The sheets were pulled up to his chest, but his damaged leg lay naked and propped on a pillow above the sheet. A towel-wrapped chunk of ice covered the worst scars, but the entire length of his leg was lumpy from where the muscle and diseased bone had been removed. His brutalized leg was none of her business, and it was humiliating to be seen like this.

“Not a pretty sight, is it?” he said in a flat voice.

Sophie averted her gaze as she leaned over and set the tray on the table across Quentin’s lap as if he were a child. “I’ve brought you breakfast. Your grandfather helped me finish the rice pudding.”

“Thank you, but I’m not hungry. Please take it away.”

Waves of depression were coming fast and hard today, the suffocating waters closing in over his head, and the only thing he had left was a slender thread of pride.

“I think you’ll feel better if you eat something,” Sophie said cheerfully. “Shall I fetch Pieter to come dine with you? It always seems so lonely to have no one to eat with. We can pull up a table alongside your bed. Or your grandfather and I can join you, would that be nice?”

“Miss van Riijn, your voice is irritating to me under the best of circumstances, but today it is excruciating. I’m asking for a little peace. If you would please leave, I will be eternally grateful.”

He turned his face to the wall, finding it impossible to keep looking at the soft kindness in her face without cracking. Anguish of the soul was so much worse than physical pain. A searching, scorching emptiness filled him, and he was helpless to understand why or how to battle it. And why should he? His son hated him, and the only friends he had in the world were paid servants. The melancholic void expanded, blotting out whatever scraps of happiness were left in his world. He didn’t want to break down in front of Sophie. Not Sophie—anyone but her. It would be the final humiliation.

“Would you like the toast first, or the rice pudding?”

“I would just like a little privacy,” he said, ashamed of the tremor in his voice. He couldn’t cope with her today, not with this suffocating despondency weighing on him. He wasn’t even well enough to get out of bed to escape her.

He grit his teeth, praying she’d leave before he was unmanned. Someone like Sophie could have no conception of the gloom that smothered his entire world. To his horror, his bottom lip began to shake.

“For pity’s sake, just leave,” he managed to choke out. He was running out of time before he was completely humiliated in front of her.

“Sophie, perhaps we should leave,” his grandfather said.

“Nonsense,” she replied. From the corner of his eye, he saw her dip a spoon into the bowl. “Rice pudding can make anyone feel better, don’t you think? Come, I’ll feed you.”

He snapped. He grabbed the bowl from her and hurled it against the wall, narrowly missing the Gainsborough painting. The bowl shattered into pieces, splattering gobs of rice pudding that dripped down the wall.

Sophie gasped. “That painting belongs in a museum, and you came two inches from ruining it!”

Despair washed over him. Now he was behaving like the child she’d been treating him as, but he couldn’t breathe with her in here. He sagged against the pillow, wishing for an oblivion from which he’d never awaken. He covered his face with his hand, desperate not to be seen.

Nickolaas intervened and pulled Sophie toward the door. “Perhaps this would be a good time to step outside for a nice walk, shall we?”

She wasn’t giving up. “No! I want to know why he would do something so hateful, so—”

“That wasn’t a request, Miss van Riijn.” His grandfather’s voice carried a note of steel, and apparently it worked. Quentin heard a swish of skirts, and the door shut quietly behind them.

The sun was bright as Sophie stepped outside, Nickolaas close behind. It was embarrassing to be shouted at like that, but she’d done nothing to be ashamed of. They started down the path toward the front gates of the estate, the green scents from the herb garden filling the air. It didn’t take long for Nickolaas to get to the point.

“I think it might be best if you stay away from the house for a few days.”

Sophie paused, stunned by Nickolaas’s statement. “You want me to leave?”

“Not for good, but I know Quentin very well, and you are a hindrance to his recovery. Now, don’t look at me like that; you’re making me feel like I’ve just kicked a puppy. All I am suggesting is that Quentin has a dark soul, and your cheerfulness is like acid to him. Until he is well enough to leave the sickbed, it would be best if you stayed away. Perhaps in a week you can return.”

She’d never been away from Dierenpark for that length of time. In the past nine years, she hadn’t missed a single day of checking the weather station. Someone else could check it for her, but what if the banishment turned out to be permanent? The thought of leaving this little piece of paradise was too painful to contemplate.

“You won’t hire some other cook to replace me?”

He smiled. “We can survive without a cook for a few days. Besides, Quentin is more likely to appreciate your return after eating bread and cheese for a while.”

She certainly hoped so. She loved cooking for others, but the sight of her mother’s rice pudding spattered against the wall made her want Quentin to live on bread and water for a year.

“I suppose I can ask Pieter to take the climate measurements. He’s been doing it with me for the past few weeks and knows how.”

Nickolaas looked skeptical. “I’m not sure the boy can be trusted with such a task. He’s not a very steady lad . . .”

Sophie had tended that weather station as though it were her firstborn child, and it made her nervous to turn it over to anyone, but the task wasn’t difficult. All it really needed was someone who would dependably take the readings and send them to Washington. “I think it will be good for Pieter to be trusted with such an adult responsibility. One of the men could carry the message to town each morning, couldn’t he?”

Nickolaas gave a concessionary nod. “If you are confident . . .”

The issue of the weather station was resolved, but she still faced the task of persuading Nickolaas to abandon his bizarre compulsion to tear down the house. He’d only arrived yesterday, and this was her first opportunity to begin probing his motives.

“What will happen to the house after the archaeologists complete their work?” she asked.

Nickolaas paused. They had reached the far side of the meadow, and he turned around to gaze at Dierenpark. The grand, stately house looked like it had been sitting in this spot since time began.

The old man’s smile was wistful as he stared at the house. “I’ll ask Quentin to tear it down, I suppose. I want the archaeologists to answer any lingering curiosity about the history of the place before I wipe it off the map.”

“But why?” she pressed. “It’s a beautiful house. People come from all over the state to admire it.” And the livelihood of this village depends on it.

“Those people aren’t Vandermarks,” he said. “Quentin thinks the Vandermark curse is hogwash, but I know otherwise. It has been spoken of in my family for centuries. My father was on to something when he died. He had learned something very upsetting about this house, and in the end, I think it killed him. If I can’t discover the source of the curse, and be confident it has been broken, I will tear the house down. Perhaps that will satisfy whatever gods or demons we’ve offended. If I can snuff out the curse now, perhaps Pieter and the rest of my descendants will be free to live normal lives.”

She shook her head. Her Christian faith prevented her from giving any credence to hereditary curses, but it was plain Nickolaas believed in them.

“Has your life been so very terrible?” she asked carefully. She was walking out on a thin limb here. She had no business prying into deeply personal matters, but if she were to save the mansion, she needed to understand his motivation. “I know your father died an early death, and that must have been terrible for you, but many children lose a parent and don’t assume it is part of a lifelong curse.”

“So you don’t think I killed my father? Many people do, you know.” A hint of amusement twinkled in his eyes, and it was impossible to believe he would joke about this if he were guilty of patricide.

“No, I don’t think you killed Karl Vandermark.”

Nickolaas turned to sit on one of the stone benches angled so one could admire the meadow. “It was difficult after my father died,” he said softly. “My parents had been separated for years, and my mother lived in Europe like a princess. I barely remembered her when she returned to take custody of me. Her main concern was securing her access to the Vandermark coffers, for she had an expensive lifestyle in Paris. She kept me completely isolated from my father’s side of the family who still lived in Holland, but after I came of age, I sought them out and was able to see why she was so contemptuous of them. My mother was a rare spice, and the European branch of the Vandermark family were genuine salt of the earth. She never had use for such people.”

Sophie joined him on the bench, hanging on to every syllable, for she had always been fascinated by the Vandermark history.

“The Vandermarks still living in Holland come from a small village called Roosenwyck,” he continued. “They raise goats and make cheese. One of them has a tulip farm that is the loveliest sight this side of paradise. They have some modest investments that allow them to live in nice country houses and send their sons to college, but they never flourished in the princely manner of the American Vandermarks. No, the Dutch Vandermarks are very different. They work the fields and raise their livestock. Their children are healthy, their marriages are life-affirming. They go to church on Sunday and eat family dinners around the patriarch’s table. They seem . . . happy.”

And that was in marked contrast to the American Vandermarks, with their string of failed marriages, early deaths, and distrustful natures. The Vandermark curse was only a silly legend, but she knew that few of them had been happy. If given the chance, would they trade their diamonds and silks for the homespun happiness of their European cousins?

“And you think tearing down the mansion will make you more like the European side of your family?”

“It couldn’t hurt to try. Tragedy has haunted my family since the very beginning of their time in America, and Dierenpark is where it all began.”

Sophie closed her eyes, praying she could find the right words to soften the old man’s intransigence about this house. “Your father wasn’t so very different from your Dutch cousins,” she said. “Karl Vandermark oversaw the local timber industry. Sometimes he rolled up his sleeves and helped saw wood at the local mills. People loved him for it. I know the Vandermarks were already fabulously rich from their shipping empire, but your father took personal interest in keeping the New Holland mill operating, even though it probably only represented a pittance compared to the rest of his income. When your father was alive, the pier was used for trading vessels and fishing boats. He employed hundreds of people in New Holland, but it came to an end when your family left the valley.”

The old man’s mouth tightened. “My father wasn’t the heroic saint this town likes to imagine him.”

It was an odd comment, but she didn’t want to gossip about a long-dead man, she wanted to save Dierenpark.

“Then you be the heroic man,” she said. “Break the string of bad luck you think haunts your family by some shining act of goodwill. Turn Dierenpark into a hospital or a school. Change the lives of people by doing something astounding. Be a hero.”

The old man’s face was shuttered as he stared into the distance. Had her words found some spot of softness inside him? It was impossible to tell.

“I think it is time for you to go find Pieter and ask him to take the climate readings,” he said. “Whether he agrees to take over the job or not, you need to stay away from Dierenpark. My family needs time alone.”

As Nickolaas had predicted, Pieter was reluctant to take responsibility for monitoring the weather station in her absence. Standing on the roof, he eyed the modest equipment as though it had morphed into a dragon he had been ordered to slay.

“What if I don’t do it right?” he asked. “Those men in Washington will be mad at me.” His face was marred by splotches from the bee stings, but with the vigor of youth, his body was rapidly mending. His spirit, however, had taken another blow, and he was back to the timid boy who feared every move he made was a mistake.

Sophie flipped open the notebook to where Pieter had been recording the numbers for the past few weeks and turned it over to him. “I’m going to sit on this stool and not make a peep while you do the whole thing this morning.”

He fidgeted, his shoulders curling in and a mutinous expression on his face. “I don’t want to do it. I might get it wrong. We can get Mr. Gilroy to do it.”

“But Mr. Gilroy hasn’t been with me each morning over the past weeks. Only you can do it, Pieter. You know this system better than anyone else in this house. Now, let me watch you take those measurements, and I’ll be here to help if you make a mistake.”

The boy swallowed hard and stepped up to the hygrometer, scrutinizing the tiny brass dials for a full sixty seconds before writing down a number. After he got moving, he gathered the rest of the data faster. Sophie stood to check his work, pleased to see he’d recorded everything precisely right. She beamed down at him.

“I knew you could do it. You will be so much better at this than Mr. Gilroy. Will you please do this for me while I’m gone?”

“I guess it would be okay,” Pieter mumbled. The anxiety in his voice wrung her heart, and she scrambled for a way to breathe a bit of confidence into a boy who seemed to fear the world.

“It’s going to be more than okay, honey—it’s going to be marvelous. The feeling of purpose you’ll have when you see those weather reports published in the newspaper, based on the data you provided—that’s a feeling of being needed you will never forget. Those reports get printed on the first page of the newspaper, right at the very top corner, because everyone wants to know the weather, right?”

Pieter nodded, a hint of a smile finally turning up the corners of his mouth.

On her walk home, she felt tired, dispirited, and the scent of rice pudding still clung to her. She’d made no progress in saving the house from demolition, and because she’d dared stand up to Quentin, she’d been banished for at least a week while the deadline for the demolition drew closer.

But at least she had made Pieter smile this morning. It was a genuine smile, based on the first hint of confidence and pride in his accomplishment, and that was a very good thing.

Quentin glared at the Gainsborough painting of the seascape, the sails of the skiff billowing in the wind. Mr. Gilroy had cleaned up the rice pudding, and now the painting looked pristine against the ivory wall. It had a joyous and exuberant quality. Almost transcendent in the way the light illuminated the majesty of the sea.

He hated it.

There had been a time when he loved nothing more than taking to the sea in precisely that sort of skiff. He and Portia would rise before dawn and slip their sailboat from its mooring. Bodyguards followed at a respectful distance, but once he and Portia were at sea, they had no need for bodyguards. Their racing skiff was the fastest in the world, and they were both expert sailors.

They had been best friends since childhood. Portia was two years older than he, but they might as well have been twins the way they grew up. They both summered in Newport, and their families traveled Europe together, giving them a chance to explore their passion for sailing along the sun-bleached Mediterranean coasts and the Adriatic Sea. They hungered for adventure, and the sea offered endless realms of pure elation wherever they traveled. Their skiff was so fast it barely skimmed the water as the sails filled with air. They’d spent Quentin’s eighteenth summer in Venice, the magical city tucked along the northern shores of the Adriatic Sea.

As long as he lived, that summer would glimmer like a diamond in his memory. After a day of sailing, they’d tie up the boat, exhausted and sun-chapped but overflowing with life and exuberance. On days they took to the sea, they were not heirs to great fortunes, they were nomads setting sail for the edge of the known universe.

They sailed during the day, and in the evenings a stream of men came to court Portia. She was beautiful and rich beyond imagination. She was also laughingly disinterested in any of the men who came calling. She wanted the sea, and as the afternoon shadows grew long in the harbor, they pulled their boat into its moorings and explored the city. Always within call were bodyguards hired by Nickolaas, but Quentin and Portia were good at ignoring them.

They bought goat cheese from street vendors, listened to gypsies play mandolins in the distance, and there was nothing that wasn’t possible. Portia bought orange blossoms from a peddler and wore them in her hair like a crown of flowers from a Botticelli portrait. As the moon rose, they dined in street cafés with artists and poets, with professors and merchant princes. He felt as if he were at a crossroad. There was nothing he could not do, and the world was alive with hope.

Portia wanted to learn the craft of boat-making and sail a schooner made with her own hands all the way to Canada. He was her best friend and he vowed he would make it happen for her. After they were married, he wanted to spend their first year sailing a boat of their own making around the known seas.

It hadn’t worked out that way. Their marriage had collapsed quickly, and Portia avoided him until Pieter’s birth finally brought the first hint of softening. They decided to buy a yacht suitable for taking a child and bodyguards with them, and they would try to recapture that lost dream of perfection.

The bodyguards could not save Portia from the tragedy heading her way. Cholera was a horrible disease that crippled some, while others were able to shake it off with little trouble. All the wealth in the world could not save Portia once she’d been exposed to the cholera bacterium.

Portia’s final days still tormented him. It shouldn’t have ended like that for her. How could she have been so fierce and alive on the sea but collapse in fear as she became convinced she was about to fall victim to the Vandermark curse? “All the Vandermark wives die young,” she had said in her delirium. Her restless body twisted on sheets soaked in perspiration, and nothing he could say would convince her she was not destined to fall victim to the same fate. She died three days after falling ill.

The sight of that magnificent Gainsborough painting reminded Quentin that there were days on this earth when it was possible to believe the world would never end, when laughter carried on the breeze and musicians played mandolins in the distance. He closed his eyes, trying to blot out the pain from his leg and remember the scent of orange blossoms and salty air. Of youth and windblown days and the sloshing of water along Venetian canals.

The door opened suddenly. Quentin refused to open his eyes. Only Nickolaas would dare enter his room without knocking.

With a scrape and a thud, a chair landed at his bedside. “You’ve upset Miss van Riijn.”

Of course he’d upset her. That was the point of hurling his breakfast against the wall. He’d been drowning, and all she’d wanted to do was shove rice pudding down his throat. The girl disapproved of anyone who wasn’t as blindingly cheerful as she, and how could a person like that know about real melancholia?

He glared at Nickolaas. “And?”

“And I don’t like it. Miss van Riijn has insight into this house that I need. Something is going on. My father knew it, I know it, and Miss van Riijn knows it. There is something magical at work here.”

A bitter laugh escaped. “Spare me. I’ve no time for this.”

“How do you explain the water lilies that never die?”

“What do you mean, never die? Everything dies.”

Quentin listened with drop-jawed disbelief as Nickolaas recounted what he knew about the water lilies, gleaned from Sophie and confirmed by Mr. Gilroy, who had been questioning people in the village. The water lilies were vibrant and abundant, even though the tidal pull of the Hudson forced salty water upstream each day, leaving a brackish taint that ought to make a freshwater plant like a water lily impossible. The water lilies did not merely survive, they flourished. Only during the deepest frosts of winter, when the river was covered with ice, did they disappear, but with the first thaw, as water began flowing again, those lilies rose above the surface, as healthy as though they’d merely been hibernating beneath the ice.

Quentin pondered the mystery. “There must be some sort of thermal activity beneath the river in that spot,” he said. “There are hot springs farther up the river, perhaps there is a similar phenomenon here. Somehow the heat is able to keep the lilies alive.”

“And the salt in the water? How do they survive that?”

He crossed his arms and thought. It did seem odd, but surely there was a rational explanation. He was no scientist, but plenty of plant life thrived in salty environments, and these lilies must have adapted to the area over time. “Maybe some sort of nutrients in the soil or water.”

“Or magic. There is a thriving oyster bed in that same spot. Oysters have vanished from the rest of the Hudson River, but they thrive in Marguerite’s Cove. It is a phenomenon with no scientific explanation.”

Suspicion began prickling across his skin. He wouldn’t put it past Nickolaas to try to pass off a bunch of folklorists and soothsayers as respectable archaeologists. “And you think the archaeologists you are bringing in are going to find evidence of magic?”

“I have no idea what they’ll find, but there’s been something unique about this land since the Vandermarks first set foot on it in 1635. It is why they named it Dierenpark, the Dutch word for paradise.”

There was nothing special about this piece of land. It was normal for people to endow historical curiosities with a mystical aura. It was nothing more than human instinct to indulge in sentimentality and the longing for something divine. There was a logical explanation for everything in the world, and a few decent biologists were likely to discover an explanation for the peculiar health of the water lilies.

“I’ll make a deal with you,” Quentin said. “You hire your archaeologists, but I want a team of biologists to examine the same spot in the river. I guarantee they will find a perfectly logical explanation for both the water lilies and the oysters.” A rush of competitive spirit surged to life. There was something odd about the lush abundance on this estate, but properly trained scientists could provide an explanation.

“What are we wagering?” Nickolaas asked.

“If your archaeologists find evidence of some mystical significance, I’ll blow up the house according to your plan. If my biologists can prove a scientific explanation, you agree to quit filling Pieter’s head with superstitious drivel. You will instruct him that if he can’t see it or touch it, it doesn’t exist. You will give up this inane plan to destroy the house.”

“It’s a deal.”

Once they shook on the bargain, it didn’t take long to thrash out the details. Nickolaas would contact one of his lawyers in Manhattan to begin hiring qualified experts who could come to the house immediately. It was summer, so most college professors were free to pursue their own interests until classes resumed in September. Everyone would be housed here at Dierenpark. The bodyguards would help fetch and carry and support the research teams in whatever capacity was required. Sophie and Florence would cook.

“The Broeders can provide the teams with a tour of the grounds,” Nickolaas suggested.

Quentin shook his head. “I fired Emil Broeder the first day I arrived. He was—”

“You did what?” Nickolaas burst out. His grandfather rarely raised his voice, and Quentin was taken aback.

“There’s no longer a need for a groundskeeper,” Quentin explained. “If you intend to demolish—”

Once again, Nickolaas interrupted him, his voice lashing out like a whip. “Our family has always supported the Broeders. The Broeders have been here since the very beginning, and we are obliged to treat them well. No wonder you’ve been cursed with a string of bad luck for breaking that commitment. We have an obligation to them.”

“Why?” Quentin asked. His grandfather was full of pointless superstition but rarely able to articulate a lucid explanation for any of his wild-eyed beliefs.

“It doesn’t matter why, Quentin. All that matters is that Emil Broeder be rehired immediately. I don’t care how much we have to pay to lure him back to the house. Get him back.”

The determination in his grandfather’s voice was pure steel. Over the years, Quentin had learned to choose his battles with his grandfather very carefully. His primary goal was to get his team of biologists to win the wager to save Dierenpark and thus protect Pieter from his grandfather’s foolish superstitions. Emil Broeder’s employment status was of little consequence to him. “Fine, whatever you want,” Quentin said. “I’ll get Broeder back, and my attorneys in New York will hire some qualified biologists.”

And he would prove to his grandfather once and for all that there was a legitimate scientific explanation for everything in the world.