The Bride of Haven's Hollow (Episode 1)

The Lost & Foundry: Where Forgotten Stories Resurface

Have you ever felt that something lurking beneath a charming facade? What secrets do you think lie beneath well-worn legends?

Share your insights on the magic and mystery of your favorite bit of your own history.

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With practiced awareness, Cassandra Wilkins descends the narrow staircase from the flat above the vintage shop that is her livelihood. She’s miraculously well-rested, a welcome respite from the usual turbulence brought by visions that overwhelm her sleeping mind. Last night, all she heard was the music-box melody that plays so often it has become something of a comfort, signaling nothing new is plaguing her subconscious.

She calls a good morning into the back room where she hears Finn at work before placing her morning brew next to the antique till, its tendrils of steam swirling in the low light creeping through the front window. The Lost & Foundry is a humble second-hand shop along a tree-lined lane that leads to the center of Haven’s Hollow, a small sea-side village offering a window into another world to both its visitors and residents alike. Cassandra is still two winters shy of earning her badge as a “true local,” but has come to love this place where time moves a bit more slowly, the baked goods are homemade, and the ties between people run deep.

The building once belonged to a grandfather she never knew, the parlor and dining room refurbished to showcase Cassandra’s wares. Switching on the sconces and lamps she’s placed around the space, her sheet of blonde hair dances in the growing light. She stops at the picture window, making a few small adjustments to the display designed to draw in the passersby for whom one of her items is destined.

Taking a glance around the shop, Cassandra’s green eyes sparkle as yellow pools of incandescent light blend with the bluish rays of morning sun to illuminate the books, clothing, furniture, and trinkets that await new owners. People discard things every day, many with little thought of the indelible marks they’ve left on the objects themselves. Items once treasured carry vestiges of love, bringing joy to those who carry them forward; however, a great many things are not so fortunate.

Raising the rolling shade on the shop door elicits a snorting from Gus, turning over in the seat of his preferred wingback chair to glare at her with his gold eyes. Scratching behind his ears, Cassandra smiles at the girthy orange tabby who followed her home one day and simply never left.

“Anyone misbehaving? Anything shifting about on its own accord?” Her feline familiar yawns and stretches his hind leg above his head to lick at his nethers, indicating none of the shop’s treasures acted up during his night watch.

At the counter, Cassandra’s tea is cooled to the optimal drinking temperature. Warmed by a few fortifying sips of the velvety blend of Assam and Ceylon, she is ready to face the day’s challenge: whatever is screeching from inside the beat-up steamer trunk currently occupying the breadth of the worn pine table in the former scullery that now serves as her “keeping room.”

Inside, her handiest friend is tinkering away with a pair of lock picks and a torque wrench. Never too busy to help tighten the springs of an old clock or re-glue the joinery of a piece of antique furniture, Cassandra suspects Finn Harrison would like to care for more than her inventory and, though grateful, she is careful not to send him mixed signals. Standing over six feet tall, he’s an ogre of a man with dark hair, broad shoulders, and meaty forearms dotted with tattoos. With all the potential to inspire fear upon first glance, the warmth in Finn’s smile betrays the kindness inside him to anyone lucky enough to see it.

“What’s the provenance of this beast?” he asks of the battered and faded luggage. “Aren’t there two in better shape out there already?”

“This is a…special case,” she stresses the codewords. Finn snorts, turning the pick and releasing one more of the pins guarding whatever secrets the trunk holds. “Vivian brought it by, since the members of the Haven’s Hollow Historical Society won’t stoop to lock picking.”

“I should have known,” He looks as though he has more to say, but settles for rolling his brown eyes. Another few jiggles and he removes the tools, allowing the hasp to fall open against the cracked leather strapping around the faded blue panels of the steamer trunk. “I missed my calling in construction, I might have made one heck of a burglar.”

“You’re hardly stealthy, I heard you arrive.” Cassandra teases. Echoing her assessment of his skills, Gus yowls while winding himself between the man’s ankles.

“Ganging up on me, are you?” Finn lets out a barely perceivable grunt as he hoists the hog body of orange fluff into his lap. “I expect it from her, but I’ll remember this next time Mama Cass goes away on a buying trip.” Gus boops his chin before meowing politely and jumping down, his tail swishing gently as he wanders into the empty hearth. “For the record, you didn’t hear me, you heard that door with all the character you’re so fond of. At the very least the lock needs replacing; I’ll bring you a new one later this week.”

“I truly don’t deserve you, Finn,” Cassandra smiles.

He blushes awkwardly before rubbing his palms together, eyeing the steamer. “Care to open it now while I’m here to protect you?”

Cassandra knows there’s a secret inside with which she’ll be forced to reckon, but she is also well aware of Finn’s disbelief in the extra sensory gift that is her curse. Despite his willingness to help when asked, he remains skeptical of Cassandra’s insistence that objects can—and do—hold memory. She can’t blame him, she often wishes she didn’t hear echoes of pain and sorrow bound to the cast-away items that cross her path.

“You picked the lock, you deserve the honor. Be my guest.”

“So there are ghosts inside?” he jokes before unlatching the brass clasps. Cassandra considers him lucky not to hear the wailing emanating from inside, now growing louder. As the lid opens, a blood-curdling scream rings in her ears. With a scattering of claws on the stone floor, Gus shoots from the room.

“What’s gotten into him?” Finn wonders. Lifting a compartment tray from the beams suspending it over the bulk of trunk’s storage well, he rifles through a few of the trinkets among the undergarments. “Looks like a trousseau. This silver hairbrush and mirror will go for good prices.”

Cassandra can hardly hear him over the terrifying sounds emanating from the trunk. None of the objects on the tray are shrieking, meaning the source of the noise is still inside. Reaching deeper, Finn withdraws a satiny wedding dress, creased and yellowed with age. The screams in Cassandra’s ears crescendo when Finn shows her the jagged tear splitting the beaded bodice.

“I don’t think you’ll get much for this,” he laughs. The contents of the trunk explored to his satisfaction, Finn puts away his lock picks, stowing the toolbox he keeps in the shop on a shelf by the hearth. Perpetually a bull in her China shop, he nearly knocks a crystal vase off the mantle as he turns to look at her, catching it just in time between his thick fingers. “Cass, you look pale—are you feeling alright?”

“Yes, yes, of course. Just haven’t eaten yet, that’s all.”

Returning the vase, a bell chimes in Finn’s pocket before he can ask any more questions. Pulling his cell phone out, his brow furrows. “Looks like I’ve got to get going. I brought pastries, even though you say you wish I wouldn’t.” He passes her a pale pink box from the opposite side of the trunk and pecks her on the cheek before ducking into the alley, the door not quite closing behind him.

Alone, Cassandra sets the pastry box on the mantle and latches the door. Taking a deep breath, she approaches the trunk to begin her work. Gently removing the dress, she spreads the ruined garment across the table and asks the dress to tell her its tale. The screaming comes into focus, distilling from wordless anguish into a single one, cried out over and over again: murderer, murderer, murderer…

“I don’t know how helpful I’ll be if that’s all you’ve got to say.”

In her dreams that night, Casandra is sitting at an ornate vanity studying her reflection: a round face, glittering hazel eyes, full lips, and a thick chignon of rich chestnut hair. She hears a sound at the door, rushing past a mannequin wearing the wedding dress, brilliantly white and whole. She giggles at the visitor, admitting him without a second thought.

Closing the door and turning to face him, the mood shifts. Panic begins to swell and the man’s face grows flushed with anger, though she cannot make out his words. Suddenly, the room disappears into moonlit darkness, punctuated by running footsteps and panting breaths. The sounds of grunting and lapping water build until they become the notes of the hauntingly familiar melody of the music-box.

Sitting up in bed, Cassandra clutches the locket she wears to feel grounded. Long broken, she finds comfort in an object that doesn’t have a secret past begging to be unraveled…or at least one with the courtesy to show no interest in telling her about it. Unlike when looking at one in her waking life, Cassandra recognizes the face in the dream’s mirror: Evelyn Harrogate, the high society beauty found dead the morning of her wedding some fifty years ago. A favorite bit of local macabre to sell to tourists, the mystery of what actually happened to her remains unsolved. Knowing it’s about to come into focus, Cassandra begrudgingly realizes she won’t sleep properly until she’s found the truth.

Sighing, she leaves her bed for the kitchenette Finn built when she moved to Haven’s Hollow. Raised by her father half a world away, Cassandra relocated after his meager estate revealed a deed passed through her long-dead mother’s family. Finn was a great help in renovating the space to suit both her needs and minimal budget. She hears a thumping downstairs and suspects the dress is rattling about inside the trunk, itching for her attention to the memories it carries. The insistent items are always the most troublesome—once they know someone is listening, their litany is near-constant.

Heavenly caffeine in the form of oolong chasing away the vestiges of sleepiness, Cassandra opens her laptop to begin nosing around for more information. A few searches turn up nothing more than she already knew, and nothing that points to what she saw in her vision. She composes an email to Vivian, confirming the trunk indeed has a secret to tell and asking for her help in researching more about Evelyn. The town librarian and secretary of the Haven’s Hollow Historical Society, Vivian Crenshaw relishes the chance to dig through the attic full of archives and microfiche reels to help fill in the gaps around Cassandra’s visions.

Unlike Finn, Vivian is a believer.

Another sound from the shop below, this time shattering glass. Tutting about her forgetfulness, Cassandra makes her way downstairs to refill Gus’ bowl. In the shop his preferred perch is empty and, in the red light of the exit signs, nothing appears out of place. Her pulse rises when she turns to see a blob of orange fur descending the stairs. Grabbing an antique andiron in case of a living intruder, she creeps towards the back of the store.

Jumping through the doorway with the makeshift weapon over her head, she finds the keeping room empty except for the remnants of the crystal vase, glittering on the flagons, and the alley door swinging gently in the night breeze. Glad for Finn’s offer to replace the lock, Cassandra half wishes someone had broken in and taken the trunk, though she knows it wouldn’t help. Once she hears an object’s voice, it doesn’t matter how far the thing gets from her, she can hear it calling until properly laid to rest.

Cleaning up the broken shards, she braces herself for more screaming before opening the steamer again to look more closely at the objects accompanying the dress for more clues left behind by Evelyn’s touch. Handling the pieces of the silver vanity set, she sees flashes of Evelyn’s smiling face, gleefully brushing her dark locks and painting her cheeks with rouge.

Among the gloves, stockings, and teddies Cassandra finds photographs and a few letters. Reading them, she finds a bride eager to begin married life and recounting the dutiful courtship of her beloved George. Cassandra pores over the stack of black and white pictures, but the man standing beside Evelyn in most of them isn’t the one she saw in the dream. He turns up among a few shots of what looks to be an engagement party. Not the subject, his slicked back hair and mustache are blurry in the background, but her hunch is confirmed by the rustle of fabric as the dress hisses at the mere thought of him. Replacing the tray and closing the lid in hopes of putting a damper on the moans, she takes the photo upstairs so she can text Vivian.

Despite the fearful sounds of lapping water pointing to Evelyn’s drowning in the dream, Cassandra knows bathing will help her face a long day in the waking world. Preferring to shower over soaking in the tub Finn insisted she’d come to love, she’s not surprised to see the empty mirror when the curtain swishes to the side. Along with the ability to sense the history tied to the items in The Lost & Foundry, whatever magic Cassandra possesses hides her reflection, at least from herself. Used to the deficit, she eschews makeup and keeps her blonde hair long so she only needs to brush it. She has seen herself in pictures and others can spot her in the mirror, facts Finn latched onto when confronted by something he could not otherwise explain.

While dressing, her cell phone chirps with a text from Vivian: “I’ll start digging and pop by at lunch—XX” At the mention of food, Cassandra’s stomach grumbles, and she runs out of fingers when she counts the number of hours since she remembers eating. There’s shockingly little in her kitchen except for every variety of tea, shelf-stable milk, multiple granularities of sugar, and, just in case, a pot of honey. It’s still too early to go to the market, but then she remembers Finn’s pastries.

In the keeping room, the pink box holds only crumbs, despite her never opening it after he left. Though she was running in the dream, Cassandra is certain she didn’t sleepwalk. Hoping Gus didn’t help himself to something that’ll wreak havoc on his feline digestion, she returns to the flat and rummages deeper in the cupboard, unearthing a dusty tin of curried chicken soup from behind the fruit blends. Despite it being just after five in the morning, it will have to do.

Mercifully, the shop remains empty through the morning, allowing her to rest on a royal blue chaise longue that once lived a life as a prop on the stage. Slipping quickly into lucid dreaming, she’s Evelyn once more. Frantically scanning the room, the wedding dress is now torn and hanging off the mannequin. The gauzy drapes leading to the terrace billow in the breeze and then she’s outside again, running in the darkness. A jolt to the head and Cassandra tumbles off the chaise, gasping for breath.

Though her friend would never mention it, Cassandra can tell she must look rough by the wince Vivian doesn’t quite manage to hide when she arrives. Tall and striking with sleek red hair, her eyes are a curious shade of violet that glimmer when she’s excited. Her tweed skirt and crisp blouse mask the infectious bubbliness that simmers under the stoic mask of a stodgy librarian. Seated close together at one end of the keeping room table, Vivian listens to the whole of the tale while munching on her tuna fish sandwich and carrot sticks.

“And you’re sure it’s hers?” she asks, eyeing the torn bodice draped over the edge of the trunk.

“No doubt about it,” Cassandra smiles, grateful for Vivian’s unwavering belief in her supernatural abilities. “Be glad you can’t hear it shrieking.”

“I can only imagine. Ghastly business—imagine being found floating face down in an ornamental pond with your head split open.”

“Hence the waves I heard, but nothing online goes any deeper than that. Do you know if there were suspects?”

“It’s always the boyfriend, isn’t it?” she pulls a packet of printed pages from her satchel, handing them over. “George DeWalt was from the ‘wrong side of the tracks,’ as they used to say, and somehow landed himself Princess Harrogate. Everyone said he was a gold digger, but it wouldn’t make sense for him to kill her before they married. He maintained his innocence even after he left the area—his obituary is in there somewhere.”

Rifling through the pages, Cassandra stops at the sight of a photograph in a “news” article all but accusing Evelyn’s fiancée of the crime. “That’s him there!” she points the the smiling face next to George. “The caption says his name is Winston Sanders. Do you know if he was ever questioned?”

“’uff-ee!” Vivian tries to speak but puts a finger up until she swallows the last of her brown bread’s crust and wipes her lips with a paper napkin. “Excuse me. What I meant to say was that I’m sure Tuffy can find out.” Her older brother, Tobin, is the county sheriff. He’s tough as nails, abhors his childhood nickname, and has archives rivaling those of the Historical Society.

“I don’t want to drag him into this, he’ll snatch it up, talking about chain of custody and I’ll never be able to set Evelyn free. Remember that ring? I still hear it when I get too close to his evidence lockers.”

Vivian nods, having never forgotten the day she met Cassandra Wilkins. “I’ll ask him without asking him, you know? Ooh, is that the time? I’ve got to dash!” She kisses Cassandra on both cheeks before vanishing in a flurry of tweed and peony-rich perfume.

The afternoon passes quickly: Mrs. Hubbard comes to nose through the book collection as she does every week after having her hair set, and a pair of tourists agonize for more than an hour over a gold filagree necklace embellished with rubies and emeralds resembling boughs of holly. It’s just as well they leave, since it came from a woman who died of a broken heart when her husband left her for a younger woman. She doesn’t mention that to the couple when they return fifteen minutes later to buy it after all. A sale large enough to cover The Lost & Foundry’s expenses for the month, Cassandra silently wishes its new owner the best.

In celebration, she closes up a bit early, triple checking that she’s locked both doors before making her way upstairs. Knowing Evelyn’s story will haunt her dreams, she sees no point getting into bed, though she unfailingly changes into pajamas. Brewing a pot of green tea, she settles into her reading chair to take a closer look at the pages Vivian printed for her.

She’s scarcely made a dent when she hears more noise from downstairs. Reassured by the fact that the intruder didn’t seem interested in hurting her nor in stealing from the shop, she left a little trap to draw them out. Far stealthier than Finn would be when standing still, Cassandra creeps downstairs. Peering over the counter into the keeping room, she sees a young boy of maybe ten or eleven gobbling away an apple, a banana peel at his elbow.

“Excuse me young man? Just what do you think you are doing?” The color drains from his face and the apple core falls to the ground. He moves to rise, but she’s already beside him and places a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you. Did you like the pastries?”

“I’m sorry I ate them all, but they smelled so delicious…and I hadn’t eaten since yesterday. What kind of kitchen is this, anyway? Do you eat cat food?”

“This isn’t where I keep my food, this is my workroom. My apartment is upstairs,” she points to the ceiling. Looking at his dirty face and wide puppy dog eyes, Cassandra can’t help but smile. “Are you still hungry?”

In her apartment, she makes him a string of sandwiches, noting that two mouths will make even shorter work of the shopping she habitually forgets to do. Washing down his third, the boy swallows a small belch before sitting back in the one of the metal chairs at her small bistro table, smiling contentedly.

“My name is Cassandra. Will you tell me yours?”

“I go by Marlowe, Miss.”

“Are you ready to tell me what you’re doing in my shop, Marlowe?”

“I was only trying to help, honest.” He stops as though he expects her to argue with him. When she simply stares placidly, he continues. “There’s a vent from the restaurant on the other side of the alley that makes a warm place to sleep during the day, and that’s where I heard you screaming.”

Cassandra leans forward, “You heard me what?”

“At least I thought it was you. It was quick, just once but it sure woke me up. I was only looking in the window and the door popped open. I didn’t break in, honest—it doesn’t lock properly. I thought maybe you were stuffed in that trunk; that big fella who comes by looks dangerous and I wondered if he tried to hurt you or something.”

“You’re sweet Marlowe, but I doubt you came in solely to protect me. Plus, that trunk has been open since yesterday.”

“Well, it is warmer in here than in the alley and since I knew the lock didn’t work, I just… ”

“How long have you been on the streets?”

His eyes plead with her, “Please, don’t turn me in! Please!”

“We’d better be careful if Tuffy is after you.” Smiling at the childish nickname for the gruff lawman, Marlowe doesn’t volunteer any more. Cassandra decides not to press him just yet and changes her approach. “Since my night watchman seems to be falling down on the job, would you be interested? You’ll need to earn your keep, but you can sleep upstairs while the shop is open.”

Marlowe’s grin spreads ear to ear, settling the matter.

“I’m sure I’ve got some new clothes downstairs that will fit. Why don’t you pick something out and take a bath before your first shift?”

By the time the sun rises, the boy is sound asleep in Cassandra’s bed—at least someone is using it. Checking her email for any news from Vivian, she faces the prospect of another day with virtually no rest. She passes the morning rearranging the jewelry cases and sells a pair of pewter candlesticks that once belonged to a man who embezzled from a children’s cancer charity to a passerby she suspects is likely to do the same, given the chance. Despite her gifts at seeing and freeing memories tied to them, some objects will always carry their history…and like perpetually speaks to like.

All through the day, the dress continues howling from inside the trunk. Fatigue and the constant shrieking take their toll and Cassandra feels the throbbing of a migraine beginning behind her left eye. After drinking a pot of black tea in hopes of constricting the blood vessels before it worsens, she flips the sign to closed, locks the front door behind her, and goes to see Vivian.

The Haven’s Hollow Library occupies the front three rooms of the main floor of a grand old building, refurbishment funds for which the town is constantly trying to raise. The top floors house city hall and the mayor’s offices, with the Historical Society’s archives lining the cobwebbed and sometimes leaky attic. Tuffy and the rest of the sheriff’s department fill the back of the ground floor, with a single jail cell among the filing cabinets and evidence cages in the basement. Just finishing with a patron, Vivian gleefully waves to Cassandra, pointing her toward the library’s only other room besides the water closet.

“I was going to stop by after work—you won’t believe what I found!” she exclaims when she joins her friend in the crowded but cozy little office-cum-break room.

“You said you weren’t going to ask Tuffy.”

“And I didn’t,” she smiles coquettishly. “I would have since there was nothing in the archives about Winston Sanders, but you will never guess who came in earlier. Go on, guess.”

“Winston Sanders?”

“Close—his great-niece! One of the only reasons anyone visits libraries anymore is for that time-tested rite of passage, the high school genealogy report. The Sanders family isn’t from the Hollow which explains why I didn’t find anything when I first looked.” She takes a Manila folder from her desk and hands it to Cassandra. “But in her family’s papers, the girl found a reference to her great uncle moving here and wondered if there was more to learn about him. I gave her as much as I could on the town at the time, and she let me make copies of what she had…”

“For the Historical Society’s archives, of course,” Cassandra teases; Vivian sticks out her tongue at the ribbing. Paging through the copies of printed digital scans, she soon realizes they’re more than correspondence; she’s reading love letters. “But from the letters in the steamer, Evelyn was deliberately courted by George. He seemed devoted from the way she described him. You don’t think he was using her for the fortune like everyone insinuated, do you?”

“It’s a bit more tragic than that. According to Winston’s family history, he was disowned after his father, the late Senator Sanders, discovered his son’s ‘sinful secret.’ So much for Christian compassion.”

“And he came here to find that George was going to marry Evelyn…and then killed her in a jealous rage?”

“If I lost my family and struck out after my one true love, I’d be pretty angry to find them getting married to someone else.”

“Do we know what happened to him?”

“That’s the best part,” Vivian claps her hands. “He’s still here! He’s ninety-three he’s a current resident of Hollow Hills Retirement Village. He changed his name to Walter Smith, but no matter what he’s calling himself, it’s him. I’ll lock up early if you’d like to go together.”

The sleepy seacoast community’s senior living facility is a long, single story complex on the opposite side of town. Happy for the ride in Vivian’s Subaru rather than on her own bicycle, Cassandra can see the desk attendant is skeptical at their claim of needing to speak with Walter on “Historical Society business.” Fortunately, few people can say no to Vivian when she turns on the charm and her impassioned waving of the scanned letters does the trick.

“I’ll wait here,” Vivian says, nudging Cassandra through the pair of doors sweeping open to reveal a sad cafeteria. Around the room, the old and infirm stare blankly under the glow of fluorescent lights, the faint sounds of big band music playing in the background. A nurse leads her down a hallway where each door is adorned with a crudely painted name plate, likely the result of a craft day.

“Walter, you have a visitor.”

Even though he is stooped and his skin has sagged, Cassandra recognizes him instantly. His eyes are gauzy, but the smile on his face at the sight of a visitor is warm, welcoming, and hardly murderous. The nurse excuses herself, leaving the pair alone.

“Hello, my name is Cassandra Wilkins. I found something that I wanted to ask you about. Would that be okay with you…Winston?” He perks up and eyes her more closely before nodding. Relieved, she moves a chair next to him and places the scanned letters into his lap. “Do you remember these?”

He quivers with emotion as several pass across his lined face, chief among them heartache. His brown eyes implore her to understand something that his blueish lips struggle to express. Taking a waxy cup printed with yellow flowers from the neat little stack, Cassandra pours him a cup of water from the nearby pitcher.

“I’m not here to hold you to account for anything you may have done all those years ago. My only interest is in letting the ghost of Evelyn find some measure of peace. I’m sure you’ve had none of it yourself.”

His faces darkens and his hand shakes with a slight tremor when he drinks the tablespoons of water. Looking back at the pages, a tear falls onto them before he finds the words. “I didn’t go there to hurt her. I went to beg her not to take George from me. He was mine, I loved him first.”

“Tell me what happened. It’s long past time for the truth, don’t you think, Winston?”

The old man sighs, “Beautiful things aren’t always sweet, you know. Evelyn was a cruel piece of work. She knew she needed a husband she could control, and none of the gentlemen in her circles were pliant enough. She used to slum it on our side of town in search of someone she could manipulate.”

“Is that where she met George?”

“She had the whole world open to her, but there weren’t many places for men like us to go. She spotted us dancing a bit too closely one night and that’s why she took up after him. She knew George from school and threatened to ruin his life unless he agreed. He was too afraid of shaming his family…the way I had mine.”

Cassandra suddenly makes sense of the fractures in the dream. It wasn’t Winston chasing after Evelyn—she went after him. The menacing feelings were hers. “She threatened you, too, didn’t she?”

He looks surprised, “I didn’t think I had anything left to lose after she took George. But then she said they were going to leave the Hollow, move to the city—somewhere I couldn’t follow. My father threatened to have me committed, he was on his way to becoming the great Senator Sanders everyone adored.”

“And then Evelyn tore her own wedding dress?”

“She did it in front of me and said she’d tell George I attacked her, just to further drive us apart.”

Cassandra reaches for his liver-spotted hand, holding it in hers. “Do you know how she drowned?”

“I tried to leave but she followed me, spewing hateful words about what a foul creature I was and how she was saving George from a life of depravity. She even said he was lucky to find an honest love instead of the sin we shared.”

“Her version doesn’t sound like love at all.”

Winston wipes away another tear. “Seeing my sadness only spurred her on. I tried to run, but she slipped on the slick tiles and cracked her own head. When she pitched forward into the water I…I simply couldn’t bring myself to help her.”

“I don’t blame you, I might have done the same.”

“I regret that I didn’t. I should have pulled her out, I know that. But I thought I might get him back, but even dead, she still managed to ruin George’s life. No one looked at him the same after that, and he refused to believe me when I tried to explain what happened.”

“Three lives ruined,” Cassandra says, squeezing his hand one last time. “Thank you, Winston. I hope you can find a way to forgive yourself. You certainly didn’t owe Evelyn anything for her cruelty.”

“Thank you for the visit, Miss Wilkins. I’m glad someone finally knows the truth of what happened that night.”

Back in the Subaru, Vivian can hardly believe the town’s famously unsolved murder wasn’t a murder after all. “Bigoted bitch got what was coming to her, I say. As if we don’t have it hard enough.”

“We?” Cassandra asks.

“I mean, folks living in a small town, you know…it isn’t easy the way people talk,” Vivian says quickly.

Claiming the need to attend to her own feline companion, Ilona, the librarian deposits the shopkeeper at The Lost & Foundry with a kiss on the cheek. Inside, a well-rested Marlowe is proud to be entrusted with shopping for food, slipping out the alley door with a handful of bills and a promise to avoid being noticed.

Alone in the keeping room, Cassandra opens the trunk, unsure which of them sighs more loudly. Its secrets revealed, the dress makes no further noise—the shrieking cries at last silenced by the truth. Finn was right, she’d never be able to sell it, even if she managed to mend the bodice. Perhaps the Sewing Circle could make it into some curtains. If not, she will ask Marlowe to cut it up for rags.

Removing the other items from the tray, Cassandra agrees the vanity set will sell. Its quality ought to fetch enough to cover the extra budget she’ll need if Marlowe stays around. To clean the bristles of the silver-handled brush, she prepares a shallow bath of Ivory and Castile soap and sets them to soak before turning her attention to polishing Evelyn’s hand mirror.

Working silver dip in and out of the grooves of the intricate repousse adorning its surface, she mentally wipes away vestiges of its former owner’s cruelty and malice. Turning it over so the glass faces her, she is shocked to catch a glimpse of a blond woman with green eyes reflected back at her. Blaming fatigue, Cassandra sets the mirror face down and takes a few deep breaths.

Picking it up a second time, she hears the familiar music-box melody begin to play as she stares at herself in the mirror for the first time in her life. Though she can feel her jaw dropped in shock, the Cassandra in the glass smiles furtively at her. Reaching for the familiar chain around both of their necks, her reflection opens the locket.

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Don’t stop now, there’s more to the story:

The Lost & Foundry ✍️ Table of Contents

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