In the span between the Great War and the Great Depression, Aiden Royce loses both family and fortune. He has nothing left but memories and regrets until a series of letters arrive; ramblings written by a familiar hand that nevertheless offer Aiden some important clues. Months later he’s roaming the grounds of the crumbling Cebren Spa, a once posh destination, but now an empty shell of mystery and menace.
One saving grace in this perplexity is the handsome Sebastian Desmond, a descendant of the spa’s founders. He rescues Aiden from a storm, but in doing so opens up a different sort of tempest when secrets unravel and both men’s lives are torn asunder.
Can decades-old questions be answered, onerous mysteries solved, and a burgeoning and venturesome romance prosper in the shadows of a once restorative wellspring?
The room darkened from a passing cloud; he stopped drawing. He rose and walked back to the window, sketchbook in hand.
Sebastian and the boy had come back and stood near the shed. He watched the two of them, Sebastian holding a basket while the boy filled it with turnips from a pile near the edge of the sizable vegetable garden. Aiden lifted the sketchbook to rest on the windowsill and added more lines to make Sebastian’s hair as thick as Matthew’s.
A bell rang. Aiden was confused, then it dawned on him: the alarm clock. He rushed back to the nightstand, knocking the clock to the floor as he tried to silence it. The glass cracked. He shook his head and tossed the sketchbook onto the bed. “Damn,” he mumbled. “Damn it.” He wiped his brow as he dropped to his knees and reached under the bed. In addition to the crack in the glass, one of the bells on top had dislodged, and the minute-hand knob had broken off. He rubbed the metal plating on the back.
He stared at an engraving, the small, cursive letters surrounding the winding mechanism: To Aiden -- Lest you sleep your life away, T.
He waited for it to tick, and when it remained silent, he drew the satchel toward him. He placed the clock inside and slid the satchel back under the bed. With a heavy sigh, he stood up, noticing for the first time how sore his legs were, a consequence of the hiking he’d endured the last couple days.
From downstairs he heard the rhythmic clanking of metal.
He walked over and took a black sweater from a shelf in the bathroom and put it on, leaving it unbuttoned. He headed into the hallway, and heard Sebastian’s voice, pleasingly melodious, as he neared the staircase. Though he couldn’t decipher his words, there was a peculiar cadence. Was Sebastian reciting a story or poem, or the lyrics of a song? Matthew laughed.
The dining room table was strewn with cabbage, potatoes, peas, small pumpkins and winter squash, and the basketful of turnips with parsnips and beets lined around the rim.
“Harvest week,” Sebastian said upon seeing Aiden, his face and the front of his faded blue coat streaked with dried mud, the gash below his eye from the previous night’s accident still uncovered. “All that rain made it easier to gather, but unfortunately it’s a messier proposition. Mud everywhere.”
Water ran in the kitchen. Aiden craned his neck to see Matthew at the sink washing thin, deformed carrots.
“Were you comfortable last night?” Sebastian asked. “We’re at the north wind’s mercy in autumn. I know the house is drafty, so I hope you were warm enough.”
“I slept well. It was a little chilly, but as I said earlier, much better than sleeping under a rock ledge.” He picked up one of the small pumpkins. “Don’t worry. I wasn’t uncomfortable. I promise.”
Sebastian paused, his mouth open slightly, about to speak. He brushed away a dark curl—one that always seemed tangle with his eyelash. “By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask, is that your father’s name, by any chance?”
“Aiden? No. I think my mother simply liked the sound of it.”
“Funny, but for some reason I had the idea of there being an Aiden Royce Senior.” He brought his hands together then spread them in an arc to emphasize his point, as someone on stage might introduce a well-respected speaker or performer. “Some prominent figure in your life who recognized your talent and guided you along.” He shrugged. “Well, my hunches aren’t always accurate. Less so anymore.”
“I think my father was expecting either my brother or I to carry on his name, but secretly, I don’t believe my mother cared much for the name Vincent.”
Sebastian overturned a small basket of potatoes onto the table. As they both watched them roll to the center, Sebastian continued. “I had a cousin named Vincent. My aunt preferred to call him Vince, but he would always throw a tantrum if anyone shortened his name. We lost him, too, in the last few weeks of the war. He and my stepbrother. Very tragic. Probably among the last handful of casualties. If only his regiment ... well, anyway, none of it really matters now.”
Aiden was silent.
I’m off to fight the Germans, sport.
“I’m sorry,” Sebastian said. “I’m rambling.”
