Chapter 15

Mr. Edward Fortune was indeed a debonair and cultured man who seemed misplaced in the small backwoods town of Pleasant Valley. He wasn’t unkind; rather he was indifferent. As indifferent to Thea as she was to the fern that framed Mr. Fortune in the photograph. That the owner of Kramer Logging was accustomed to getting his way was apparent by the simple fact he all but told Mr. Amos where he would stand, how he would position himself, and at what angle he wished the portrait to be taken.

Mr. Amos blustered about. He was perturbed—annoyed even—and he was barely concealing it.

“This plant needs removing, if you will.” Mr. Fortune gave a haphazard wave of his hand. “Ridiculous greenery is completely unnecessary.”

Mr. Amos gave Thea a silent glare, and she hurried to do Mr. Fortune’s bidding. She wished she could exchange places with Mr. Amos and take the photograph herself. Although she wouldn’t mind a postmortem of Mr. Fortune.

Thea hid her wince.

That was unkind.

Yet, as she removed the plant, she couldn’t help but picture the entitled logging baron hoisted on her metal frame, gray and unmoving. It wasn’t the most awful thing she’d conjured in her mind, though she had no intentions of driving the man to his death. Still, it seemed highly unfair that, for whatever reason, Misty Wayfair found it necessary to haunt the Coyles when really Mr. Fortune was the one who had inadvertently ruined it for all them.

“Very good.”

The approval of Mr. Fortune did nothing for Thea’s ego, and she wasn’t interested in what Mr. Fortune might or might not think of her. She was itching to stand where Mr. Amos stood, behind the camera, peering through the lens and calculating the overall schematic appeal.

“I do have meetings to attend to, so if we could take this portrait posthaste,” Mr. Fortune announced to the room with a pointed, blue-eyed stare beneath a crown of gray hair.

“Certainly,” Thea murmured when Mr. Amos made no effort to respond.

“And,” Mr. Fortune continued, now having an audience, “I would like to have the portrait developed and delivered as soon as possible. It is a gift for my wife.”

“Mr. Fortune, I must ask that you stop talking.” Mr. Amos stood behind the tripod, having slipped a plate into its slot. His mouth quirked in an irritated scowl. Thea knew he was soon ready to uncap the lens. The light would filter through and the picture collide with the wet chemical on the plate. Lack of movement was a must.

“My apologies,” Mr. Fortune muttered without sincerity.

Thea tried to fathom how this man was a distant relative to the Coyles. But it was impossible. They were so different.

Mr. Fortune’s expression changed from posed to alarm.

Thea spun as she heard Mr. Amos’s gargling cry. He grabbed at his arm, staggered, and crumpled to the floor in a heap. His legs tangled with the legs of the tripod, which wobbled and toppled to the floor in a wild shatter of wood and glass.

“Mr. Amos!” Thea raced to his side, dropping beside him on the floor. His eyes were closed, his face a grayish hue that boded no good.

“Go fetch the doctor!” she shouted over her shoulder at Mr. Fortune.

“Mr. Amos.” Thea patted his cheek, whiskers rough beneath her palm. He was unresponsive, and she hadn’t a clue what to do. When Mr. Mendelsohn had dropped dead not long ago, she’d merely stood beside his form, staring down in utter shock and—ashamedly—relief. But there was an urgency in her blood now. The kind that came from the tiny roots of affection that had formed for the cranky old photographer.

“Please!” she begged Mr. Fortune.

The logging baron seemed frozen in place. In shock perhaps, or maybe from sheer bewilderment at the sudden shift of events and inconvenience to his day.

There was a scuffling. The back-room door yanked open and slammed against the wall. Footsteps pounded across the wooden floor. A person knelt beside her. The instant waft of cedarwood and sawdust met her nose, and Thea’s shoulder was brushed by another’s.

Simeon.

“For all that’s holy—!” Mr. Fortune exclaimed on seeing his much-younger cousin.

Simeon ignored the man, and while fumbling to loosen Mr. Amos’s tie, he commanded Thea’s attention with his eyes. His face gave a severe twist, and she had to focus on his words to understand him.

“The doctor is four blocks down toward the boardinghouse. Turn right at the corner and head for the white two-story building next to the tannery.”

Thea nodded.

“Go,” he insisted.

Thea scampered to her feet. The toe of her shoe stepped on her hem, tripping her. She grabbed at Simeon’s shoulder to steady herself and keep from falling atop Mr. Amos.

Simeon’s warm hand encased hers, stabilizing her as she rose. Thea felt calluses on his palm. The heat of his fingers wrapped tight around hers. One more concerned look from him, as if unsure whether she was capable of fetching the doctor, and then he dropped his grip.

Thea raced for the door, sidestepping the shattered remnants of Mr. Amos’s camera. She ignored the burning sensation of a tear as it whisked down her cheek. The sound of her shoes clomping along the boardwalk. Dodging a few townsfolk who eyed her with question as she increased her pace to a sprint.

Mr. Amos.

This wasn’t about the past, not even about the future. It was right now. The present.

But for some reason, the old photographer’s words from earlier resonated like a horrific echo in Thea’s ears.

“Death has a way of dealing its hand when you least expect it.”

Thea rounded the corner and saw the two-story building as Simeon had described. Yes. Death was stealthy and swift, and when Death bit, it left a wake of unfinished business in its path. It touched them all, and apparently it would touch them again today.

The interior was as dim as Thea’s emotions. A lone lantern flickered on the middle of the table in the back room of Amos Bros. Photography. Crickets chirruped their consistent warble outside, conflicting with the pattern her fingers drummed on the table. She sucked in a deep breath, staring down at the photograph she held in her other hand. The faces of Rose and Mary Coyle stared back at her. She’d mounted it on cardboard this afternoon with shaking insides and a mind preoccupied with a crotchety old photographer clinging to life. Since she couldn’t very well sit at Mr. Amos’s bedside, she’d returned to the studio to clean up the shattered remains of the camera and to try to calm herself.

Mr. Amos hadn’t died. Yet. Thea ran her thumb over the image of Mary’s face. So cold, so lifeless. God save her from having to take his postmortem photograph!

What was this place, Pleasant Valley? Yes, she had traveled with the Mendelsohns, finding economics where others drowned in sorrow. Yes, she had convinced herself that offering photographs such as these would bring comfort—and they would—to the families left behind. But never had she allowed herself to learn their stories.

She cared for Mr. Amos. If even just a little. Watching a man grapple for breath, clutch at his chest, and then lay in the pre-pallor of a deceased condition was traumatic. It was why she hid here—hid from the ghost of Misty Wayfair, from the vague memory of her mother. Mr. Amos’s collapse was an illustration of life itself. It would all be brought to a sudden end . . . and then what?

Thea startled as the back door opened. The sound of the river flowing in the distance was accompanied by a swatch of moonlight.

Simeon entered, saying nothing, and shut the door behind him.

For some reason, she wasn’t surprised he’d found her here. There was some unspoken thread between them, something that defined them, as though they were walking a parallel journey that intersected, if just for a moment, in life.

He neared the table, removed his hat, and set it down next to the lantern. The chair’s legs scraped against the floor as he tugged it out and sat. He seemed at peace, for now. There was no tic in his face, his shoulders were level, and his body calm. Still, Simeon said nothing. He sat opposite her, his hands folded on the tabletop.

Silence.

Thea heard him breathe softly, matching hers breath for breath. Each of her hands held a corner of the Coyle sisters’ photograph. Now was hardly the time to slip it across the table to him. Not with Mr. Amos’s condition hovering over the shop. She did it anyway.

Faces up, Thea pushed the cardboard rectangle across the table.

Simeon stared at it in the dim lantern light.

She watched his face. It was resigned. He didn’t lift the photograph, nor did he touch it.

Instead, he said, “It will be touch and go for a while. Mr. Amos is not well.” Simeon’s thumbs tapped together as his fingers interlocked with each other and his hands rested on the table. “There are services he renders to the asylum.” His eyes raised to meet hers. “If you’re willing, your help would be a kindness.”

“What kind of services?” Thea ventured, though she thought she already knew.

Simeon dropped his gaze back to his folded hands. His right hand twitched upward, then relaxed. His cheek muscle jumped.

The photograph lay between them, like a third being in the room, daring them to speak of it.

Simeon cleared his throat. “There are patients—record keeping hasn’t been good. Dr. Ackerman requested we take photographs of each patient, so we can log their names, dates of admission, and—”

“Dates of departure?” Thea understood. Departure meant death. No one was admitted to a hospital with a troubled mind and left renewed and healed.

Simeon gave a short nod. “Yes.”

“Are they the ones in your album?”

He studied her face for a moment. “They are.”

Thea sucked in a small breath, blowing it through her nose softly in a stifled sigh. She looked at the wall, just above Simeon’s shoulder. “Does no one come to visit?”

“The patients?” Simeon’s voice rose a tad, enough to call Thea’s attention back to his face. It was scrunched in a scowl, then fell back into place. “No,” he replied. “No one visits.”

Thea nodded, taking in the short answer weighted with such depth, such pain that she sensed the agony in the core of her being. She had no desire to return to Valley Heights Asylum. Not to the gates, and certainly not beyond them.

But a distinct memory traversed her mind, and the words of Mrs. Amos, indicative that her mother very well might be tied to that place, were unforgettable. Her mother. She’d been wearing a dark cloak that day. It was worn on the hemline, with tiny threads trailing along the walk as she’d left Thea on the orphanage steps. Like a tiny trail of tears as the bond between mother and daughter permanently ripped apart.

“Do you know—was there ever a woman by the name of Reed at the asylum?”

At her question, Simeon reached out and drew the photograph of his sisters toward him. In that gesture, he seemed to acknowledge her own loss along with his. That tragedy of unanswered questions that lingered and was never resolved.

Why did melancholy claim his sister’s last breath?

Why did her mother leave her behind?

“I’ve not worked at the asylum very long.” Simeon shook his head. He turned the photograph over, to the blank side of the cardboard. “I know of none living there by that name.”

His thumb rubbed over handwriting that Thea had forgotten she’d penned on the back of the picture’s cardboard setting.

Misty Wayfair.

She blanched. She shouldn’t have written it while she pondered the implications of the ghost and the Coyles’ relationship. It was an absent-minded, grief-induced action she’d meant to correct before handing the photograph to its owners.

Simeon turned the picture over, not seeming stirred by his sister’s death titled with their curse’s name.

“None living?” Thea frowned, turning her attention to his denial of knowing her mother. His words implied death.

Simeon pushed back in his chair. He left the photograph on the table and reached for his hat. Thea stood with him, matching his movements. He was finished with the conversation. She had made him uncomfortable, and he was preparing to take his customary flight.

“Simeon, please.” Thea rounded the table quickly, without thought, and placed her hand on his arm. The touch commanded his attention. But, to her surprise, his wrist turned, and his fingers enclosed her forearm.

They stood in the dusky room, warmth of their hands spread through the thin sleeves of their clothing. Eyes locked. Chests rising and falling in the quiet breathing so carefully controlled and revealing tempestuous emotion beneath.

Simeon’s hand tightened on her arm just as she lost her grip on his. He pulled, drawing her closer, secretively, as if even the walls would listen to his words. Long lashes framed his eyes, and as he blinked, they swept over cheeks that hinted at strength, in spite of the muscle that jumped in his jaw.

She could feel the warmth from his face as they stood shoulder to shoulder. A mere breath separated her from him, and in the space of that quiet moment, a lingering, a yearning passed between them.

He spoke, and she couldn’t help but watch his mouth move.

“When they pass, they are unremembered,” Simeon whispered. His carved lips moved with a gentle certainty that emphasized his words. “No one wishes to remember.”

He looked past her to the table, to the photograph of his sister, Mary, then brought his eyes back to hers. “You have immortalized her on paper. Help me bring life to the others.”

A stirring shifted within Thea. She closed her eyes, because the pleading in his was too much for her soul. Desperation. Too many souls lost in the shadows of the asylum, in the legends of Pleasant Valley, in the line of the Coyles. Too many stories never finished. A chapter just cut off, with no ending to bring resolution to the life of a person who had been born but whose life held no purpose.

“I do not want to find my mother there.” Even as the words escaped her lips, Thea could almost see the truth of them suspended between Simeon’s face and her own.

A whisper between them.

Simeon’s eyes narrowed with feeling. He swallowed. His hand released her forearm and yet Thea stood rooted to the spot, her shoulder touching his, their faces turned toward each other.

“I know.” His response was fraught with meaning, and Thea understood.

The stories she would uncover behind the walls of Valley Heights would not end pleasantly. For there were no happily-ever-afters in an asylum.

“What a shame. What a dreadful shame.” Coffee poured from the kettle’s spout as Mrs. Brummel filled Thea’s cup. She was joined at breakfast by another boarder. A gentleman of smaller stature with a balding head and a mole just to the left of his nose. Mrs. Brummel moved to his cup and poured more of the dark liquid.

“Mr. Amos,” she explained to the newcomer. “Dropped before Miss Reed’s very eyes, he did.” Mrs. Brummel hustled back toward the kitchen, chattering over her shoulder, “I saw Dr. Kowalski yesterday. He was quick to say it’ll be touch and go for a bit. Poor Mrs. Amos, what with her arthritis and all.”

Thea stirred some honey into her oatmeal. She would visit Mrs. Amos. Be sure the old woman was cared for. Maybe even attempt to help her clean or—or something. They couldn’t be left on their own, with grown children miles away. They were too elderly, and Mr. Amos—his portrait studio would need tending. Perhaps that was how she could best help the couple who had, in a relatively short period of time, wheedled their way into her affections.

The man to the right of her spooned a bite into his mouth and said nothing, staring ahead as if reading something on the table. Only there was nothing to read.

Mrs. Brummel returned, her black skirts rustling on the floor as she sat down in front of her own meal. Thea questioned whether it was customary for a boardinghouse matron to eat along with her guests. But apparently, for Mrs. Brummel, she ran things however she pleased.

She reached for the small silver vessel of honey. Her sharp eyes swept over both Thea and the new guest.“Mr. Fritz,” she goaded with a click of her tongue, “did you sleep well?”

“Yes, thank you,” he mumbled politely, dipping his spoon for another bite.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why all the bother about Mr. Amos.” Mrs. Brummel scooped some raisins from a bowl and dropped them in her oatmeal.

Mr. Fritz’s head came up, a bewildered expression on his face. Thea bit her lip to hide her smile. She was sure he wasn’t wondering at all.

“While we’re all horribly upset about Mr. Amos,” Mrs. Brummel continued while shoveling her spoon into her bowl, “word has it that Edward Fortune was quite put out. Especially with the appearance of Simeon Coyle, who came to Mr. Amos’s assistance.”

Mrs. Brummel skewered Thea with a very direct look. “We’re all quite confused as to why he was even there in the first place.”

Thea’s oatmeal went down her throat like a square block.

“Who is ‘we’?” she countered, aware she sounded quite rude.

It earned her an appreciative glance from Mr. Fritz, and pursed lips from Mrs. Brummel.

“Why was Simeon Coyle there? Mr. Fortune stated he was quite unwelcome, and that in his malady Mr. Amos even tried to wave the man off.”

“No!” Thea’s spoon clattered to the saucer beside her bowl. “That isn’t true. Simeon works—” She bit her tongue.

Mrs. Brummel’s eyebrow had risen over her left eye, accentuating her angular features. Mr. Fritz had even stopped to look between them, now apparently interested in the little drama unfolding.

“Yes?” Mrs. Brummel prodded.

Thea folded her hands in her lap. This was all going very badly. “Simeon—was needed.”

“Simeon.” Mrs. Brummel clucked her tongue and shook her head. She waved her spoon in Thea’s direction. “Do be careful, my dear. I’m not certain why you would be on such personal terms with any of the Coyles, and it is disturbing, to say the least, that it seems Mr. Amos has business with them. We all know the detriment that can bring.”

“Detriment?” This time it was Mr. Fritz who inserted a question. He took a swallow of coffee. “I don’t believe I understand.”

“You wouldn’t.” Mrs. Brummel gave a sniff that indicated she would take it upon herself to inform him, even if it was distasteful to recall.

Thea wished to excuse herself but something rooted her in place.

The woman laid down her spoon and folded her hands primly. “The Coyles do not have a pleasant history. With luck or blessing.” She shifted her eyes to Thea. “Their father passed several years ago. A freak accident when he fell from the loft in their barn and landed on a pitchfork.”

Mr. Fritz blanched.

Mrs. Brummel continued the story of the Coyles just as though it were a story bandied about like common folklore. “Their mother passed, and not long after, so did the grandmother, Mathilda, leaving behind the three younger Coyles.”

“And then Mary,” Thea whispered without thinking.

Mrs. Brummel gave a quick nod. “Precisely. And as I told you when you first arrived, before any Coyle passes, Misty Wayfair is always spotted.”

For added measure, Mrs. Brummel gave Mr. Fritz a thin smile. “She was murdered, Misty Wayfair was. She dares anyone to befriend the Coyles. Apparently wants to thwart them of love and friendship as she was. Very few have tried, and those who do either flee Pleasant Valley or . . .” She raised her brows pointedly. “Or they die. A shame really. One should never befriend a Coyle.” She gave Thea a long look. “Be careful, Miss Reed. I would hate to see you follow in Mr. Amos’s fate.”

Thea rested her spoon beside her oatmeal. The feel of Simeon’s breath on her face as he’d pulled her close. The realization she had already fallen into some sort of kinship with the Coyles, if for no other reason than on Mr. Amos’s behalf. And then came the vision of Misty Wayfair, dancing down the street, far less a ghostly vengeance and more a frightened spirit.

“Excuse me.” Thea pushed back her chair and moved to exit the room.

“Well!” Mrs. Brummel’s voice followed her. “Too late for that one, I’m afraid. Simeon Coyle has cast his spell, and mark my words, Misty Wayfair is sure to follow.”