Catching the Wind(11)
She leaned forward to talk with Jack. “How many people live on Solstice?”
He glanced in the mirror again. “Including Mr. Knight’s staff?”
She nodded. “The entire population.”
“There are eight of us.”
She leaned back. “So your boss doesn’t like people . . .”
Jack shrugged. “He has his reasons.”
They stopped beside a stone guardhouse, and Jack keyed a number into a pad. A pair of iron gates opened slowly in front of them, and there was the castle she’d seen etched into the cliff.
A stone tower pierced the sky, and a dozen oval windows were paned with leaded glass. On this side of the castle, a pedestrian drawbridge linked the front entrance to the driveway.
After he stopped the car, Jack opened the door for her. “Mr. Knight said he’d like to meet with Lucas first.”
“What should I do while I wait?” Quenby asked.
Jack grinned. “Let your imagination soar.”
CHAPTER 6
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Eerie. Cavernous. Cold.
The words ticked through Quenby’s mind as the housekeeper guided her through a dark-paneled passageway that smelled like vinegar and lemon oil.
Gothic.
That was the word she was searching for—the dark wood reminded her of the Bront? sisters’ descriptions of Thornfield Hall and Wuthering Heights.
Was Mr. Knight a hero or villain? More like Mr. Rochester or Heathcliff?
The housekeeper opened a door and ushered her out into a courtyard. In that moment, darkness evaporated in the light, and when her eyes adjusted, she saw a pristine pool in the center of the yard, filled with teal water that bubbled up from a spring. A portico made from creamy-hued rock circled the rim of the open space, wooden benches staggered between its columns.
The housekeeper directed Quenby toward an open doorway under the portico. “Mr. Knight will meet you in his office when he and Mr. Hough are finished,” the woman said. “Do you prefer tea or coffee?”
“Tea, please.”
She didn’t want to climb back down into a cave, but Mr. Knight’s office wasn’t dark like the passage. Nor did it resemble any office she’d ever seen.
Windows towered up two stories across the room, overlooking the bay, and at the base of the windows was a crescent-shaped desk made of stone, the glass top inlaid with colorful seashells and covered with faded leather binders, a collection of hand-carved fountain pens, and a vintage rotary telephone.
To the left of the windows were shelves of books stacked to the ceiling, a rolling ladder on hand to retrieve the higher ones. To the right were dozens of framed photographs of windmills—old wooden ones amid Holland’s tulip fields and new turbines set above river gorges and in the valleys between snowcapped mountain peaks. One picture displayed a brigade of wind turbines lined in perfect formation, water lapping against their foundations, white blades prepped to dance with the breeze.
No visible screens—computer or TV—distracted from the view. No power cords were strung across the wooden floor. No heart-drumming ringtones or honking horns. Just quiet and plenty of space, it seemed, to think. Or as Jack said—let her imagination grow wings and soar.
Her fingers ran across the stiff leather chair behind the desk. She could envision herself sitting right here.
“You should see the view in the wintertime.”
Quenby twirled around to see an elderly man stooped slightly over, leaning against a wooden cane. His face was mottled with dark spots, but age hadn’t stolen his hair. It was a wild, bushy white, giving him an eccentric Einstein look. Intelligent and absentminded.
His eyes were still on the placid bay. “The storms capture those waves and whip them into a fury.”
It was a curious thing to say. “Do you like fury?”
“Controlled chaos, I suppose.”
“And how exactly do you control chaos?” she asked.
“People try to fight chaos all the time, but you have to outsmart it instead.” He pointed toward an alcove with two chairs and a round table. “At least, the fighting never worked well for me.”
She sat in a chair that faced the windows. “You must be Mr. Knight.”
“For seventy-seven of my past ninety years.”
“And who were you in those first thirteen?”
“A boy who liked to fight.”
She crossed her legs. “You’ve brought me a long way, Mr. Knight.”
“Indeed,” he said. “Welcome to Solstice Isle.”
“I’m remarkably interested in knowing why I’m here.”
The door opened and the housekeeper backed into the room, a silver tray secured in her hands. After she set it on the table, she poured each of them a steaming cup of Darjeeling. Quenby added a cube of sugar to hers.
Mr. Knight sipped his tea in silence for a few moments before speaking again. “Has Lucas been a gentleman?”
She stirred the sugar into her black tea. “Define gentleman.”
“He’s a loyal soul, Miss Vaughn.”
Her eyebrows climbed. “He’s not the least bit loyal to me.”
“That’s because he sees you as a threat.”
“I haven’t done anything to threaten him.”