The Mystery LetterIt's nearly lunchtime on an April day in the Nutmeg State. Life as a law clerk has been busy this morning for Rosemary, but not excessively so. In fact, lunch is looking more and more like a tasty possibility, with the email inbox shrunken down to a level that she could leave it without too much trouble. And then distraction strikes. Anthony. 'The mailman.' Well, the stringy-haired 30-something doesn't work for the post office but he does work for the mailroom, and with an efficiency that is tolerated for reasons no one understands, is only now delivering the mail. On the other hand, many days, he doesn't get around to it before lunch is over. "Hey, Miss Z," he says, holding a legal size cream colored envelope in his hand. A few other pieces, mostly interoffice envelopes for Rosemary, are deposited from the crook of his arm onto her desk. "I've never heard of New Deptford, but you've gotten this weird letter from there. Written in script and everything." He offers Rosemary the envelope, face up, showing that it is indeed addressed to Rosemary. "Must be some obscure village," she says, taking the envelope for closer study. The penmanship is definitely above average. The paper is above average, too. Similar to the high quality stuff that the fancier law firms that send stuff into the court use when they are trying to throw their metaphysical weight around. The return address has no name, just the following address: 17 Quadrigae Lane New Deptford, Connecticut 06069. "Quadrigae?" Rosemary frowns, rummaging through layers of memory she hasn't used in years. "Oh. Very weird." Then she looks up at Anthony. "People do still write things in longhand, you know," she says dryly, and waits for him to move along. Anthony's staring at the envelope, as if he expected her to open it then and there, finally breaks. He manages to hide his disappointment. "Yeah, uh, I've got to get moving." He takes a full body breath. "See you later, Miss Z." He trundles off. And so Rosemary is left alone with the mysterious envelope. She eyes the stack of mostly interoffice envelopes, then the odd envelope, purses her lips, and then deliberately sorts through the new arrivals that are obviously work. Only then does she turn to the odd one. Her standard-issue steel letter opener deals with it just like any other envelope, and she draws out the contents. The contents of the envelope is an oversized invitation, with a scalloped border. It is written in the same patient script as the envelope itself. It reads as follows: "Rosemary Allegra Zelioni "In honor of The First Company Governor’s Horse Guard, the Dragoon Society requests the honor of your company at the Epona Ball Saturday Evening, May the 7th in the city of New Deptford at the Ballroom of the Hotel Palio 8 o'clock." The date is a week from tomorrow. Rosemary stares at this, refers to the return address (which still claims that New Deptford is in Connecticut), then turns the invitation over, hoping for ... directions? An RSVP slip and envelope? An informational brochure? There are none of these things. No RSVP slip, no directions, no envelope. Puzzled, she gets out her phone and googles the key phrases - "New Deptford," "Hotel Palio," and "Dragoon Society." The Hotel Palio comes up with a hotel, but no hotel in America. Instead, the Hotel Palio turns out to be a hotel in Asti, Italy. Similarly, the Dragoon society comes up with a couple of references to a musketeer-enthusiast society, in Europe. The New Deptford search takes the most time and effort from Rosemary to come up with anything. There is a Deptford, without the New, in New Jersey, of all places. But New Deptford? Finally, buried in the Google search, Rosemary hits a lead. Rosemary finds that, back before the royal charter of 1662, in a list of the plantations and settlements that came together to form Connecticut, that one of those settlements, in the Western part of the state that was disputed with New York, was named "New Deptford." After that reference, however, New Deptford seems to disappear from existence in the historical record. "Huh," she says, wrinkling her brow at the tiny screen. What kind of a lame joke is this? An invitation to an event in a place that doesn't exist? It's not like she's going to drive blindly off into darkest New York in the hope of finding it. Irritated by the time she's wasted on this already, she pitches the invitation into the recycling basket. A moment later she pulls it out again. She'll bring it along to the barracks when she visits tomorrow, and try to find out if anybody else got one - or will admit responsibility for it. Reuniting envelope and invitation, she sets them aside to bring home, and then returns (lunchlessly) to the brief she was analyzing before the mail turned up. Talking with most of her fellow troopers over the next couple of days is fruitless. None of the ones that Rosemary contacts seem to have a clue what she is talking about. And then Rosemary herself gets a call from one of the troopers, Jon Rubin. One of the more shyer, retiring types. If he joined the Horse Guard as a way to increase his social skills, like an equine version of Toastmasters, it had not precisely worked. "Hi Rosemary. It's Jon Rubin," he introduces himself. "I heard you were asking about a weird invitation to some place that doesn't seem to exist." There is an audible inhaling of breath before he continues. "I ... I got one too." "No kidding!" Rosemary sits up on the couch in her apartment, the printouts balanced on her lap desk momentarily forgotten. "Same date? Same return address?" "I thought someone was making fun of me," Jon confesses. She can hear the relief in his voice. "But, yeah, New Deptford. "You know, Rosemary, this is very odd." Jon swallows as a pause. "This brochure that came in the envelope looks like it's something like a historical recreation park, and the directions they gave to get to this place make no sense! Like something out of a fantasy novel." "At least you got directions," Rosemary says, as in her kitchen, a timer starts beeping. She puts the lap desk aside and starts going toward the sound while she pursues the topic. "They left this brochure out of mine, which made the whole thing even more bizarre. But - historical recreation park? And what do you mean the directions don't make sense?" "Some way to start the workweek, huh?" Jon says. "Well, this stuff I got makes New Deptford look like whatsitsname ..." he hums a moment. "Colonial Williamsburg, down in Virginia." Rosemary turns off the timer and peers into the oven. "Don't know why you didn't get this stuff," he adds. "But there is a set of directions here that sound like something out of a fairy tale. Touching statues, circling things and other strange bits. And Google Maps refuses to make head or tail of any of it. "Do you maybe want me to fax this stuff to your work, or meet and let you see it for yourself?" Jon offers. "Faxing a color brochure would be a waste of time," Rosemary remarks, leaning against the counter. "You work in Hartford, don't you, Jon?" She's almost sure she remembers that he works for one of the insurance companies. "Yeah, I work as a Q-A-A for Aetna," Jon replies. "You want to meet someone so you can see all this?" he asks. He pauses, his lack of breathing for the next couple of moments noticeable. "Maybe we could go together?" "Go?" Rosemary says, even as she resignedly notes his nerves and his slip of the tongue (someone instead of somewhere). "... I hadn't really thought about going to this thing. Seeing as I had no way to get there, and this organization is totally mysterious." Jon doesn't quite interrupt. "But we'll see. How about meeting at the Pond House in Elizabeth Park? After work tomorrow. Dinner and a study of wacky invitations." After all, if she avoided every guy who fell over himself at the thought of spending time with her, she'd never do anything. And at least the park is one of her favorite places. "In Elizabeth Park?" Jon repeats. "Okay, now I know where you mean. That sounds good, Rosemary." His tone brightens. "After work tomorrow, say around 7? Meet you at the entrance?" He waits for Rosemary's acquiescence and then adds, "I'll do a little research between now and then, too. Try to figure out what I can about this place and these instructions." "I'll make the reservations," Rosemary says. "See you then!" After hanging up, Rosemary looks into the oven again, then retrieves the round loaf of ciabatta and slides it from the baking sheet onto the wire rack standing ready. Does she want to go to this thing? She supposes that any group that can afford to put on a "ball" at a hotel with a ballroom might include members who would be worth knowing in future. And it *is* in honor of the Horse Guard. Whatever. She doesn't have to make up her mind just yet. And does she even have a dress worthy of such an occasion? The ciabatta turns out to be quite good, especially with some nice honey butter. It might be a bit too crusty for sandwiches, but otherwise, it has good color and texture. The next evening finds Rosemary arriving at the entrance to the Pond House. The brown-haired, brown-eyed Jon is shifting from foot to foot in his brown shoes, as if he has been standing there for a half hour or more. He is wearing a white button-down shirt, a faded blue jacket, and a bow tie. He has a black messenger bag slung over his left shoulder. "Hi Rosemary," he says shyly when he spots her approach. "Good evening," she replies, with a carefully measured business-friendly smile. She's had time to get home and change clothes, so instead of a lawyer suit she's wearing gray slacks and a flower-patterned pink and yellow blouse, with a blue windbreaker over all. She pauses to shake hands with him. Jon's handshake is a bit awkward in the first moment but it becomes a more natural gesture by the time he releases her hand. "Hopefully we won't have to wait long," she says briskly. "Come on." She leads the way into the restaurant and greets the hostess at her station: "Hi, Tina, how are you?" "Hello, Rosemary. The restaurant is relatively empty tonight. We had both a Shriner's convention and a group from the WWF both back out, so there is not going to be a wait," Tina says with a smile. "Castro would be happy to take you to a table." A young man with slicked-back black hair appears at her unspoken command. "The Smoked Bacon Wrapped Seared Pheasant Breast is the Chef's Choice tonight," Castro says as he leads them to a table with a very prominent and well placed view in the park. "I hear the lobster macaroni and cheese is also good," Jon pipes up as he takes a seat. "This is true," Castro says. "I will give you some time to get your orders ..." "On the other hand," Jon says. "Maybe I shouldn't eat something so messy if we are studying strange documents," he says, laying a folder down on the table. Rosemary shrugs. "We're not filing them in court," she remarks. Then to Castro she says, "I can't survive any longer without some sweet potato fries. Can you bring some as an appetizer? And a glass of the house white for me?" "Those sound good," Jon puts in. "Since I am probably having some sort of fish, white for me please." "I know what I'm going to have," Rosemary tells Jon. "Can I look at this brochure thing while you decide?" "Sure," Jon says, handing over the packet. He chews over the menu while Rosemary gets a look at the brochure for the first time. In about fifteen minutes, Castro has come back with the wine, taken Rosemary's order (pheasant), taken Jon's order (the aforementioned lobster macaroni), the fries have arrived for both of them, and Rosemary has had a chance to completely look over the brochure. The brochure's style is in an "old time" style that looks more like an old Pennsylvania Dutch Country brochure Rosemary once saw before the Lancaster tourism board got serious about attracting visitors to central Pennsylvania. Color, but muted tones. Rosemary takes away a number of things from the brochure: New Deptford, this town she has never seen, appears to be within Housatonic State Forest, in Northwest Connecticut. The place is not precisely a historical re-creation park, as far as Rosemary can tell. No, this brochure is describing something like the Amish country, or the brochure that a city council might put out. Pictures in the six-page document show horses, a steam-powered train, and lots of buildings in architectural styles that date from the 19th century, and earlier. One of the pictures is labeled "Hotel Palio," which looks to be a large building, in a classical revival style. But as far as Rosemary can tell in this brochure, talking about life in the town, there is no overt mention of the anachronism. No words about "escaping to the past," or anything of that nature. It's written as if this was a contemporary place. "So what do you think?" Jon asks, chewing on one of his fries. Rosemary takes another sip of her wine, then says judiciously, "I think this pushes the whole thing past weird and into crazy. State forests don't have unknown busy little cities in the middle of them, with or without horses and steam trains. Horse trails, maybe, but not all this." She gestures with the brochure, and as an afterthought inspects it again, looking for information about its designer or printer or sponsor. "You remember that movie, about the people who look like they are living in a medieval town, and it turns out they are hiding in a park in Pennsylvania?" Jon says. "That's what this reminded me of, but it looks too large even for that. If this is a hoax, it's a fairly detailed one." "Can't say that I do," Rosemary responds absently. "It was done by that director who did the 'I see dead people' movie," Jon adds. The sponsor is "New Deptford Chamber of Commerce." As far as the designer, it's listed in small print at the bottom of the last page as being the Bower Advertising Agency, of Fairfield. Although there is only a mailbox (in New Deptford) listed for the Chamber of Commerce, there is an address and phone numbers for the Bower Advertising Agency, including a cell phone number for "A. Bower, Director." "Huh," Rosemary says, tapping the agency's number. "They have an advertising agency down in Fairfield. Maybe I'll call them tomorrow. ... Didn't you say something about directions?" "Yeah, but it wasn't in the folder, it was a separate sheet of paper in the packet." Jon points at it with a fry. A folded sheet in the envelope is a handwritten note. Directions to Reach New Deptford: Travel along United States Highway 7 to the town of West Cornwall. Travel West along West Cornwall Rd past Miles Pond. At Mount Easter Road, drive past the intersection, make a U-turn within one mile, and then return to the intersection and travel up Mt. Easter Road 1 mile and 1/16 to the statue of Roger Williams. Put the car into park, exit the vehicle, touch the statue on the forehead, and walk in a circle counterclockwise around the Green ribboned Ash tree. Re-enter your car and follow the revealed road 3 miles to New Deptford. Parking is on the near side of the foot bridge that leads into town. "Now you know what I know," Jon says. Rosemary reads the directions twice, still as disbelieving on the second time through as the first. "What about 'first star on the left, and straight on till morning'?" she mutters. Jon chuckles. She looks up at him. "You know, I'm as happy to support the Company as the next person, especially the way things are right now, but this is a bit much." "Well, that's the reason why I would want to do this," Jon says. "Budget cuts and this economy really have put the Horse Guard under the microscope the last couple of years, and attendance is a bit down." He stops and chews another of the fries thoughtfully. "I dunno, though. There has to be a reason for all of this fairy tale stuff, even if it's some sort of prank. Someone paid good money to do all this. "Maybe you can give this advertising agency a call and confirm they are a legit outfit. Heck, just search for them on the Internet right now. If they don't exist, then we know the entire thing is a crock, and we can put this in the circular file," Jon adds. "It's rude to phone at dinner," Rosemary says with a smile. "But since you suggested it ..." She gets out her phone and looks up "Bower Advertising Agency" in Fairfield. Castro returns with the pheasant and the lobster macaroni and gives a nod to both Jon and Rosemary. He gives a smile as Rosemary continues her search and soon is out of the way. Rosemary finds a number and address for the firm, and even better, a male human voice to answer the phone. "Bower Advertising Agency. Tony here. Whose voice mail box would you like to reach?" At a remove, in the background, Rosemary hears a sharp female voice say 'Tony!' He clears his throat. "I mean, Bower Advertising Agency, how can I direct your call?" "Mr. Bower?" Rosemary says, pitching her voice carefully so that it will be audible to him, but not to all the tables around her. "Naw. I'm just Tony. Tony Micelli. Ms. Bower is the boss. I just make her look good. I can probably answer your questions though." "Sorry about that, Mr. Micelli," Rosemary corrects herself, "and sorry to bother you in the evening, but I'm looking at a pamphlet your firm produced, and I'm wondering what you can tell me about your client. It's for the New Deptford Chamber of Commerce?" "New Deptford," Tony repeats. "Um, I better transfer you to Angela." About a half minute of Muzak later, and a female voice, the one who had shouted earlier, comes on the line. Rosemary pinches the bridge of her nose to keep from laughing. "Hello," the woman says. "My apologies for the delay. So, you wanted to know about our New Deptford pamphlet." She pauses a beat. "I am going to guess that you are a member of the Horse Guard that received the pamphlet. I can tell you that I have been to New Deptford, seen it for myself, and it does take the unusual methods outlined in order to find. It's worse than making left turns in New Jersey. "What else did you want to know?" she adds. "Well ... I suppose I'm wondering why the place doesn't have an Internet presence," Rosemary says. "In this day and age that's a lot like not existing. Despite pamphlets and weird directions that actually work." "The actual place is like the Amana colonies or the Pennsylvania Dutch country, both of which my firm has done work for in the past," she says, with a tone of pride in her voice. "Although I've seen a cell phone tower not five miles from the entrance, there appears to be no cell phone service, no internet, none of that in New Deptford. I have to think that they have a landline for emergency calls, but they really do seem to exist as if the 20th century didn't happen. "The place is bustling, though, and industrious," Angela continues. "They are doing all right, even if they probably could start a site on themselves and really make waves. I've tried to talk with their 'High Reeve' Rhiannon Phillips about it, too, to no avail. That at least is not 19th century in their outlook." "Huh," Rosemary says. "That's got a certain internal logic to it. Okay, then ... thanks very much for your time." "Any time," Angela says. "If you have any further questions, you know how to reach me." She ends the call. Tucking her phone back into her purse, and turning to her neglected dinner, Rosemary tells Jon, "Ms. Bower has been there, and says it's like those Pennsylvania Dutch people, only without their level of publicity." She smiles. "And apparently Google Earth doesn't know everything yet." "Pennsylvania Dutch, with some strange ideas," Jon says. "Well, that at least is somewhat less strange, although the directions thing still confuses me. If they paid an ad agency good money for that brochure, then they might be worth checking out. For the Horse Guard, if not curiosity itself, right?" "Well, I've definitely run out of reasons not to go," Rosemary admits dryly. "I guess I can put up with really dedicated reenactors, or whatever, for the Company's sake. I'll just copy those directions onto my phone after dinner." She politely avoids Jon's gaze at this point by picking up the brochure again. In response, Jon bends his head, as if staring at his food instead. A detailed reading of the brochure continues to confirm her original skim and the conversation with the Bower Agency. Dedicated re-enactors, or something. There are absolutely no anachronisms in any of the pictures in the brochure that she can see. The tone, too, never breaks its conceit. Even the paper of the brochure, now that Rosemary has handled it for a few minutes, feels just a touch rough-hewn. After a minute or two, Jon pipes up again. "All right. I suppose that you will do the driving? No sense in taking two cars, especially with those directions," Jon suggests. And, Rosemary reflects belatedly, directions that lead into the middle of Nowhere, Connecticut. Plus, vague memories from college literature classes suggest that turning up alone wouldn't "fit" the place. Though if they're going to invite outsiders they ought to expect some issues of that sort. "I'm a terrible passenger," she says aloud, going along with Jon's pretense. "Something about driving a horse all those years, I guess." She looks up and smiles, low wattage, with a hint of wryness that suggests she knows the horse thing is just a polite way of putting it. "I know when to let someone else do the driving." Jon says. "Besides, with those crazy directions, you'll be reluctant to ask locals for directions, right?" A little research on nineteenth-century fashion tells Rosemary that her basic black cocktail dress won't really do; simple and elegant just weren't in style back then, apparently. Not that she's interested in wearing some wide-skirted wedding-dress confection just to satisfy these re-enactors, especially considering the cost, but she doesn't want to 'clash,' either. A little shopping (and a mild wince at the price) finally yields a compromise between old-fashioned and modern that she thinks will do. And new heels to go with it, too. All in a good cause. On the fateful Saturday, the first part of the trip goes without incident. Jon is a relatively quiet passenger, except for the occasional crunch from a bag of kettle potato chips he has been holding between his legs like a talisman. Or perhaps, the fear of getting crumbs in the car. It is the odd part of the directions that finally comes up as Rosemary pulls up to the light. "We're going to follow these to the letter, right?" Jon says. He looks down at the set of directions. "We have to go through this intersection, turn around and then head up that way." He points to the right. "We could turn right here, simple and easy, but that's not what they say to do." "Let's just follow them," Rosemary says on a sigh. "I'd like some time to look around before the ball starts." When the light changes, she drives straight through the intersection, picks a reasonably wide spot in the road, and executes a neat U-turn. "The statue is next, right?" she asks, as they sit at the light again with the car's left-turn signal flashing. "The statue is next. And then the nonsense about it and the ash tree," Jon says. The light finally changes after what feels like an interminable and unnaturally long time, and the drive up Mount Easter Road is unremarkable. "The statue," Jon says loudly, just over a mile after the intersection. It sits on the side of a small parking area just ahead, to the right large enough for two cars to stop and park. A miniature wayside rest area. Rosemary can see, on the opposite side of the road, is another wayside rest. Instead of a statue, there is a single ash tree, set apart from the other trees in this forest. And there is a bright green, thick ribbon wrapped around it. "So that's what an ash tree looks like," she remarks. "Yeah. Ash trees are more found in Michigan, Wisconsin and Minnesota," Jon says. "I did a little research. Also turns out they are dying out there of an imported pest which is devastating them. It's spreading west county by county ... "But..." he stops his monologue before Rosemary can do so. "Are we both supposed to get out of the car and do this hoodoo, or just one of us?" Jon wonders aloud. "I'm not doing this statue-touching and tree circumambulating by myself," Rosemary says, a little more sharply than she intended. "Besides," she adds in a more moderate tone, "maybe it's supposed to be each person." She unlatches her seat belt, adjusts the silky black wrap around her shoulders, and carefully steps out of the car. Leaving the engine running and the door open, she quickly surveys the ground for hazards to persons wearing high heels, and then starts for the statue. Jon follows suit, and waits for Rosemary to touch the statue on the forehead. He tries to touch it in the same spot as Rosemary does. He shrugs nervously in his suit as he glances over at the tree. "Ever feel like we were on that old Candid Camera show? Dressed up as we are, in the middle of a forest." A small box truck rumbles by on the road, coughing up some fumes as it rattles along. The ash tree stands tall and majestic, and Jon once again waits for Rosemary to take the lead. Nothing feels different once Rosemary finishes her walk around the tree, but Jon grabs her shoulder once he finishes, and points back across the road. Back at the statue, the wayside rest area has visibly changed. In addition to the rest area itself, a narrow road, enough for one car, now starts at the statue and, perpendicular to the wayside rest area's alignment, runs on into the forest. "That wasn't there before," Jon says. "I was thinking it was over on this side," Rosemary says uneasily. She stands motionless for a moment, staring across the road. Then she shakes her head. "It's really narrow," she continues. "We probably needed to see it at just the right angle." With that, she strides back to the car, buckles herself in, and drives carefully onto the apparently-new road. "You're right," Jon says. "We must have just missed it somehow. We had to cross the road to see it properly. That's why we've had to do this nonsense. "That's why," he says, under his breath, mostly to himself. The drive down the narrow road starts out smoothly, but becomes a bit bumpy as the quality of the road changes from blacktop, without signage or warning, to a cobblestone way. Rosemary's car bounces in irritation as the trip through the forest continues for another couple of miles before the trees thin out. The odometer suggests that it is, as the directions indicate, about three miles. A small area, paved with cobblestone, holding no other cars, is the terminus of the road itself. A wooden bridge, too narrow for the car, runs over the river. On the far side is, indeed, what appears to be the town of New Deptford. Buildings from the brochure stand tall and seemingly transported out of the 19th century. There are plenty of people walking along a road that parallels the far bank, but no one seems to be looking over on the side of the river where Jon and Rosemary are. Not even a curious child. Rosemary shuts off the car and stares for a moment. "Well," she says, "just as advertised." "Are you surprised?" Jon asks. "No," she says, and doesn't add, Just nervous. "Well, I'm surprised," Jon says. "I was half expecting some sign and webcam playing us up as suckers. A modern-day Candid Camera." With a sigh, Rosemary drops her keys into her purse and - carefully - gets out of the car and locks it up. Traversing cobblestones in high heels takes most of her attention until they get to the more even wooden surface of the bridge. A little more than halfway over, she stops and takes another long look at the town. Long dresses and suits, check. Horses and carriages, check. Absence of glass, steel, and concrete construction, check. She restrains an irrational impulse to check whether her cell phone still works, and starts forward again. At this halfway point on the bridge, Rosemary and Jon suddenly are noticed by the townspeople. One moment, they are going about their business, as if they could not see them. The next, it is as if the pair came out of thin air. People stop and stare in surprise for a long moment. "We have visitors!" an elderly balding man says, with a wave of the hand. "Brian, go to the High Reeve's office." A sandy-haired boy, maybe ten years old, turns and runs down the street. He waves a hand toward Rosemary and Jon. "Come across. Welcome to New Deptford." While some of the townspeople continue on their way, a small scattering of them remain in place, watching Rosemary and Jon with unvarnished curiosity. Rosemary had stopped again when she realized the people were paying attention; now she moves forward, slowly, trying not to show how unsettled she is. "You know, why do I get the feeling we're like vampires who had to be invited to get into this place?" Jon says quietly as the two of them make their way across the bridge and onto the other side. "Good evening," Rosemary says to the old man. "We're looking for the Hotel Palio?" "Of course you are," The man says with a smile. "Wouldn't expect visitors to sleep by the creek or in Widow Louise's barn." Rosemary opens her mouth to speak again, but is accidentally interrupted. A young girl looks up at the man. "Grandpapa, is she one of the Guests?" She lowers her voice, but not so low as not for Rosemary to hear it. And she is trembling as she says it: "Or is she the Air?" The people around get excited at the child's words. "Child, that's not for us to say." A woman, a decade or so younger than the elderly man, says curtly. Her voice is sharp enough to simmer down everyone else as well. "I'll handle this, Jacob," the woman says. "Your husband's position doesn't give you additional powers, Missus Wilkes," Jacob says. But he does step back, a pace, with the young girl in tow. Missus Wilkes studies Jon and Rosemary for a moment. "Forgive us. You wanted to come to the Hotel Palio. It's right in the center of town. Come along and we'll take you two to it. It's not an unpleasant walk, if you don't want to wait for the carriage. The High Reeve will likely send one once she is told that Guests are here." Again, the capitalization of the word guests is unmistakable. "I'm Phoebe Wilkes. My husband John is the speaker for the Town Council, although we all really just follow the High Reeve, of course. She's good to us." "Pleased to meet you," Rosemary says reflexively. "I'm Rosemary Zelioni, this is Jon Rubin. ... Walking is fine, we wanted to see some of the town." "I'm her mother's brother's son," Jon puts in suddenly. "Ah, I see. " Phoebe replies. "Good." A pleased tone is in her voice. "You're not soft like I hear some of those city folks are, never wanting to walk more than five feet at a time. Come along." The next fifteen minutes turns from a leisurely walk into a procession as people join the trip through New Deptford, tagging along, murmuring, asking questions of each other and in general turning into a tail for Rosemary and Jon. This makes it easier for Rosemary to move closer to Jon and murmur, "You're the High Reeve's cousin?!" "No, yours!" Jon hisses in her ear. "I get the feeling they wouldn't take kindly to you wandering around with me if we weren't related somehow. Trying to save you some grief, Rosemary." "You lied?" she says, uneasy. "Yes," Jon says. "I was just trying to help," he adds, defensively. Rosemary's response doesn't need words: she gives a slight huff and moves away from him again. The buildings and the people are straight out of the brochure. Mid to late 19th century architecture and life, with no anachronisms that Rosemary can spot. A whistle in the distance sounds like the steam train mentioned in the brochure. One thing that jumps out at Rosemary in looking at all this is the absence of a church. There is no sign of a church steeple along any view or horizon. Certainly, in a town like this, it should be one of the most prominent buildings in town, visible from nearly everywhere, and yet ... nothing. The answer to that, perhaps, comes when the center of town is reached. On one side of a large square is the Hotel Palio. A three-story building, it looks like nothing from the internet searches for the hotel, but it's a beautiful wooden building that could plausibly host a fairly large convention, and in fact looks a little large for a town like New Deptford. On the other sides of the square are what looks like a courthouse, done in classical revival style. One other building, sitting so that it is higher than the other two buildings, is a true anachronism. It looks like it is patterned after the Pantheon in Rome, with a bulging dome. There are no spires or other tall peaks like a modern church, but the feeling Rosemary gets as she looks at it is is that, somehow, this is the church, as improbably designed as it is. "And here is the Hotel, Mister Rubin and Miss Zelioni," Phoebe says, with a gentle tug on Rosemary's wrap. "And here comes the carriage," Jon says dryly. Coming across the square is a two-horse carriage. It is an open-air type, with two horses, a driver, and two men sitting on the back in livery. Rosemary recognizes it as a landau, a type of luxury carriage meant for processions where the occupants are to be seen and paraded past people. The horses, however, pull at the reins as they come closer to Jon and Rosemary, as if straining to approach them. "Whoa!" The carriage driver attempts to restrain the buckskin horses in their obvious excitement. Unalarmed, though a little surprised, Rosemary stands her ground. When they get close enough, she says firmly, "Settle down, now," meeting the eyes of the more dominant of the two animals. The horse immediately obeys Rosemary's command, the second horse following the lead of the dominant. "She's the best in the Guard with the horses," Jon says. "I have only seen the High Reeve affect the horses of New Deptford so, before. The excitement and the rapport both," Phoebe Wilkes says. A murmur through the tail of people seems to suggest that the other residents agree with the observation. The horses are settled down, but now seem rapt in attention on Rosemary. With them so settled, the two men on the back of the landau get off, and walk around on each side to converge on Rosemary and Jon "Miss Rosemary Zelioni?" one of the two liveried men asks. "Yes?" she says, a little distracted by the horses' odd behavior. He bows his head. "I am pleased to meet you. I am Philip Smithson, Praefectus equitatus under the High Reeve. This is George Scuthers, my second." "Pleased to meet you," George says. He looks at Jon. "You must be Hikaru?" he says, tentatively. "No, I am Jon Rubin," Jon says. George gives a bewildered look to Philip, who ignores it and focuses on Rosemary. "My orders and intent were to bring you to the Hotel and anywhere else in town, Miss Zelioni but it appears that you have already arrived at the Hotel. "On behalf of the High Reeve, I apologize for that." He bows his head again. "Don't worry about it," Rosemary says, uncomfortable with this bowing and scraping. "We wanted to walk." The crowd doesn't interfere with Rosemary's desire to enter the hotel. Jon has decided to keep as much distance as propriety will allow, trailing a little uncertainly behind Rosemary, a slight muttering to himself just vaguely audible. Philip and George trail behind him, like bloodhounds. The interior of the Hotel Palio reveals that the beauty of the facade extends to the interior. Polished wood and brass are everywhere, continuing the theme and the feel of a nineteenth-century hotel. Off of the anteroom with the desk, Rosemary can see a sitting area, open doors to a banquet hall, and a separate restaurant area, as well as a grand staircase up into the heart of the hotel. "Ah, Miss Zelioni," the black-haired man behind the counter says, with a Bostonian accent. "We are pleased to have you here at the Hotel Palio." He puts a brass key on the counter. "The Washington suite awaits your pleasure, of course." He looks at Jon with a bit of uncertainty. "Ah, yes, you must be her escort, not one of the others." He pauses a beat. "We have a room for you as well, Mr. Rubin." Taken aback, Rosemary says, "We aren't staying." She fishes the invitation out of her small (and mostly empty) purse and shows it to the clerk. "We just came for the ball." The clerk leans forward. "Of course," he says, glancing at the invitation briefly and returning it to Rosemary with a smile. "However, it was specified that the Washington suite be reserved for you. Courtesy of the High Reeve and by her direction, of course." "Oh." "Who are the others?" Jon asks. "Other invitees to the ball. I'm invited to the Ball, too." In an ungainly motion, he pulls out his invitation and shows it. "Other invitees of the High Reeve's hospitality, as opposed to Ball invitees?" the clerk says. "They are overlapping but not the same." Rosemary puts the invitation away and finally reaches to take the key. "That doesn't answer the question," she can't help but point out. Jon shoots Rosemary a look of gratitude. "The privacy and identity of invitees is not something that I can release on a whim." the clerk responds calmly. "I understand that many of the invitees were sent invitations pro forma and may not appear at all. Also, the identities of some of the guests may be unusual to, ah, outsiders to New Deptford. I am sure, Miss Zelioni, given your legal credentials, that you understand the need for discretion." Rosemary stares at him for a moment - a remarkably cold stare. Then she says, "So where is this Washington Suite?" "Kyle!" the clerk calls aloud, for emphasis striking a bell that gives off a clear tone. This combination results in the quick arrival of a bellhop in a smart uniform of red and gold, wearing a cap that doesn't quite hide his newly cut brown hair. "Show Miss Zelioni the Washington Suite," the clerk says. ignoring the cold look from Rosemary through the entire exchange. Kyle looks at Rosemary and then looks around in nervous confusion. The clerk waits a moment and then adds. "There is no luggage." The clerk then glances at Jon, as if just remembering he was there. "We'll have you sorted in a moment, Mr. Rubin." "This way, please," Kyle says in a pipsqueak voice to Rosemary. "I'll catch up with you in a bit, Jon," Rosemary tells her colleague, and follows the lad away from the desk. Rosemary is led to a grand staircase, whose landing is across from a pair of open doors to a ballroom whose decorations and state of preparation suggest is the location of the promised celebration. The high pitched bellhop does not hesitate or linger, instead leading Rosemary up the sweeping staircase, which is clearly designed for grand entrances from the second floor and into the ballroom. In short order, this staircase is climbed, and a smaller, more practical staircase is climbed as well, leading to a third floor that consists of just two doors on opposite sides of the narrow hallway. Kyle indicates the left door, painted in gold and green. A painting of George Washington hangs above the doorframe. It looks like a very good copy of the Gilbert Stuart portrait. The door on the other side is similar, although it has a painting of a white mare standing on a hill hanging above it instead. "This is, um, the Washington Suite," Kyle says. He lowers his voice. "The other door is for the High Reeve." "All right. Thank you," Rosemary says. Once inside, it takes a little walking and searching by Rosemary to find the facilities. Given that the Washington Suite seems to cover at least a third of the floor, its size alone is utterly decadent. Rosemary has been to houses with less floor space than what she has at her disposal here. The decoration of the large suite is just about what Rosemary expects, a teak dominated palette of polished wooden bookcases, chairs, and tables, with windows that look out onto New Deptford. The bed is a four poster. The bathroom, when Rosemary reaches it, does have running water. What's more, instead of a freestanding clawfoot tub as she might expect, the bathtub is a large sunken basin done in a blue and white marble that matches the rest of the bathroom. A search of the bathroom turns up bars of soap, although a bottle of shampoo is unfortunately not to be had. Rosemary eyes the tub with appreciation, then makes use of the other, more important facilities before returning to the sitting room. Stalking over to the windows, she peels off her shoes and stands looking out over the rooftops, arms crossed over her chest. Now, of course, she's going to be bored. But between the behavior of the townspeople and the desk clerk's attitude, she really needs some space to collect herself. After a few moments she turns around again and surveys the room. Maybe there are some books here. Mark Twain, she guesses. Or Dickens. Shakespeare? A search through the opulent and large suite reveals that there are plenty of bookcases, and one in particular is well stocked with books. In addition to the expected Twain, Dickens, and yes, a collection of Shakespeare, there is a variety of 18th and 19th century authors. Wilkie Collins. Poe. Hawthorne. John Stuart Mill. John Quincy Adams. Austen. Dumas. Swift. The books, while gorgeous editions all, are clearly not there for show, with a few folded corners and other clues to suggest that there have been prior readers. One book amongst the others catches Rosemary's eye thanks to the bright tassel of the bookmark. And the fact that it's definitely out of place with the others in terms of era. The Greek Myths, by Robert Graves. Curious, she pulls it out and opens it to the publisher's information: first edition, 1955. Then she turns to the pages marked by the bookmark. It's set to a section of the book that should not exist. There are no page numbers on this section, and it takes a legal eye to see the other slight differences; the typography is not exactly the same as the rest of the book, though it's close. A check of a few pages before and a few pages ahead show the book is otherwise pristine and intact. The style is the same as the rest of the book, in Graves' poetic language. It has the same sort of controversial flair that Graves is known for, describing a minor Goddess, Epona, as "a significant addition to the Dodekatheon." It also provides an origin myth for the goddess that is new and unfamiliar to Rosemary. Here, Epona's story is about a daughter of Zeus, born on the "Plains of Scythia," who rose in power and influence. First she led her tribe against their neighbors, gaining honor and prestige due to her riding and animal ability. Then she left her tribe behind, aiding the Gods against "the spawn of the Chthonic Gods." Eventually, it seems, she become not only a child of a God, not only a demigoddess, but a full goddess in her own right, the goddess of all things horses. "Huh," Rosemary says. That actually makes more sense than the usual mythical origin. With a shrug, she puts the book back on the shelf and selects a copy of The Old Curiosity Shop, taking it with her to a nearby comfortable-looking chair. (Continued in New Deptford Introductions) |
