Page 24 of Finders Keepers

“We call this the Star Parlor, due to the star motif on the walls. We carefully reconstructed the design based on photos and remnants of the original. The house’s blueprints have this room labeled as a bedroom for the lady of the house, but as Fountain never married, it was instead kept as an upstairs sitting room.

Fountain’s secretary, Louisa Worman, often used the space as her personal office when working from the Castle, which she did frequently as Fountain aged and became less inclined to travel to his factories to take care of daily business.

” Gladys smiles warmly as she takes a well-rehearsed breath.

She told us when she introduced herself that she’s been a volunteer docent at Sprangbur Castle since the house reopened to the public ten years ago.

That’s a whole lot of Monday tours. She’s basically the opposite of Sharon, in that she has the spiel down to an art.

This is the tight five version of a historic house tour.

Also, Gladys seems extremely aware of where all seven of her visitors are and what they are doing at all times.

“Nowadays we use it as one of the dressing rooms for wedding parties. Events are a big part of what we do here at Sprangbur, so if you know anyone looking for a venue…” She trails off cheekily and everyone chuckles on cue.

“Take a peek inside, then we’ll travel down the hall to Mr. Fountain’s bedroom. ”

Quentin and I allow the other five people on the tour with us—a family of three and an elderly couple—to stick their head through the doorframe to look at the parlor and wait until they’ve all proceeded down the hall before Quentin leans in himself and whispers, “Go. I’ll keep a lookout.”

I swallow against the nerves telling me this is a bad idea and slide around the velvet rope to enter the room.

One step. Two steps. That’s as far as I get before Gladys’s voice dashes down the hallway, almost as if it’s grabbing me by the upper arm.

“We okay back there? Ready to move on?” she asks.

Which, I will give her, is a very nice way to say “What do you think you’re doing?

Get your asses over here with the rest of the group this very instant. ”

So I turn around and head back out of the Star Parlor, Quentin’s heavy exhale audible as I pass by his outstretched arm.

The idea that we could simply detach ourselves from the tour and enter one of the Castle’s rooms without anyone noticing suddenly feels like an extremely poorly thought-out plan.

At least it is with Gladys in charge. As we rejoin the group, the older Black woman begins telling us about Fountain’s bed, which is no longer here but was particularly extravagant and so heavy they needed to construct it in pieces and assemble it in place.

Quentin leans down to whisper into my ear again.

“What if I ask her a bunch of questions after the tour and you can sneak back upstairs while I keep her busy?”

I put my hand on his shoulder to tug him down to me so I can whisper back. One of his hands lands at my waist in response, and I try to ignore the familiarity with which he touches me. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Why am I the one sneaking back up?”

“Because you’re cute.”

Oh.

Hey, wait. What does that have to do with anything? Before I can ask, Gladys says, “Now we’ll head down into the lower level. If the gentleman by the stairs will lead the way…”

It turns out that Quentin is the gentleman by the stairs, which gives us no chance to linger behind.

Not that Gladys would let us anyway. It’s probably just paranoia brought on by the fact that the last time I did anything even remotely against the rules was over a decade ago, when I stole a fork from my university’s dining hall.

But I feel like this sweet little lady is aware of every breath I’m taking, every move I’m making, and maybe also every other lyric from that Police song.

Down in the basement, she tells us more about the staff who worked at the Castle.

Sharon might win for breadth of knowledge about this place, but Gladys definitely has the presentation down much better.

And thankfully I’m able to focus, despite the residual jitteriness in my limbs from getting caught going into the Star Parlor earlier.

I cannot believe I’m about to try to sneak back up there.

Best-case scenario: I make it inside and am able to do a thorough search, during which I find the treasure and I’m suddenly seven thousand dollars richer.

Worst-case: I get caught and sent to jail for a million years for, I don’t know, cultural site defacement?

Is that a thing? At the very least, I’ll get banned from Sprangbur forever.

Most likely: I guess I go in, look around briefly, find nothing, and slip back out without anyone the wiser. That wouldn’t be so bad.

“And that concludes today’s tour of Julius James Fountain’s home, Sprangbur Castle,” Gladys announces. “We’ll return now to the foyer, where I’m happy to answer any questions or provide you with a map of the grounds, which you are welcome to continue exploring at your leisure.”

Quentin gives me a speaking look before we start up the narrow servants’ stairs. Back on the main level, he sidles up beside me. “So, am I distracting her or not?”

“If it’s in that room, don’t you think they would’ve found it during the renovations? I mean, maybe they did and it was so boring they didn’t even bother—”

“Nina,” he says more sharply. “Are we doing this?”

Ugh. If I don’t go now, when will we get another chance to check it out?

We can’t just keep coming here for tours until we eventually happen to get Sharon again.

That would be seriously suspicious behavior.

“Okay. Fine,” I say. “Let’s do it.” My stomach dips as I remember the worst outcome is not a completely far-fetched one.

If I get banned from Sprangbur, I’ll have deserved it.

I feel a bit like a traitor to Sharon, Gladys, and public historians everywhere. But I’m going to do it.

Quentin plasters on that hardworking charm of his, then takes a step toward the docent. “Ms. Gladys. Such a wonderful tour. Thank you so much. I do have a few questions, if you don’t mind…”

I turn around and quietly but quickly make my way back up the stairs. There’s a moment halfway there where I nearly trip over my own feet, my nerves making me feel like I’ve suddenly grown six more of them. It’s a relief when I reach the second floor without any major incidents.

I’m about a yard away from the Star Parlor when a door marked Staff Only at the far-left end of the hallway creaks open and a woman with a small cleaning cart pushes through.

She smiles at me, and I smile back. But in my head, all I can think is Shit, shit, shit .

Because I’ve been caught up here when I’m not supposed to be, and even if she isn’t about to sound any sort of alarm, I am now officially conspicuous.

Which is generally the opposite of what you want to be when doing something against the rules.

Or maybe the law. I’m somewhat unclear on what constitutes trespassing.

Quentin presumably knows more. Probably why he made me do this instead of going himself.

Maybe this is all an elaborate attempt at payback for getting him in trouble that night. As if the loss of him in my life wasn’t punishment enough.

My smile wobbles as the weight of what I’m doing sinks in further.

“Hello,” I say.

“Hello.”

“Hello,” I repeat.

“Hello?” she answers, understandably confused.

There’s an awkward little pause while we continue smiling at each other. “Um. Bathroom?” I ask at last.

She points downward. “Beneath the stairs.”

“Thank you.”

My heart pounds even harder than it already was as I hurry back down.

I pause on the landing, peeking around the banister to make sure Gladys is still occupied.

Quentin has very smartly arranged them so that her back is to me.

His eyes briefly meet mine over Gladys’s short gray hair, just long enough for me to give him a subtle headshake.

He returns his attention to the woman in front of him, who is gesturing widely and with enthusiasm.

“Oh, hey, there you are,” Quentin says, making more direct eye contact with me now that I’m down the stairs and in the foyer.

“I had to run to the bathroom,” I volunteer—perhaps unnecessarily.

His eyebrows rise as if they’re speaking a language of their own, attempting to communicate something to me. “I was just talking to Ms. Gladys about the wedding.”

“The wedding?”

His eyebrows jump farther up, emphasizing his original intended message. “Yes. Our wedding.”

It takes me a full two seconds to register what he has said and why he has said it. “Right, yes! Our wedding.” I draw the words out strangely, emphasizing the wrong syllables.

Quentin holds a business card between two of his fingers. “She very kindly gave me the event coordinator’s information so we can set up a time to come back and check out the place more thoroughly.” It must be my imagination that he stresses the last word, because Gladys doesn’t seem to notice.

“Oh, great. That’s…great. Thanks…lovemuffin.” Lovemuffin? What the actual fuck? I’m pretty sure I’ve never even thought that combination of words in my life, so why did I just say them?

Quentin smiles to conceal his urge to laugh, then schools his features expertly as he responds, “My pleasure, cookiepuss.”

“Oh, aren’t you cute together!” Gladys exclaims.

“Some might say too cute,” I mutter under my breath. Quentin must hear, though, because the side of his shoe makes not-exactly-soft contact with mine.

“Ms. Gladys told me that they usually hold ceremonies outside. Do you want to go check out the gardens while we’re here, since the weather’s nice?”

“Definitely,” I say, grateful for the excuse to get the hell out of here.

We thank Gladys again for the tour, make a show of putting another ten-dollar bill into the suggested donation box on the front table, and reemerge into the rising mid-June heat.

I assumed we’d actually head to the parking lot, but Quentin was apparently serious about lingering in the gardens.

His hand comes to my lower back and he steers me toward the brick path leading around the side of the Castle.

I want to be annoyed about it, but it’s a difficult feeling to muster when liquid warmth is seeping through the entire lower half of my body in response to his touch.

“In case she’s watching,” he explains. I sort of doubt Gladys is peeking out of a second-story window to make sure we’re going where we said we would and acting properly in love on the way there. But whatever.

I don’t feel like meandering around, the humidity making the temperature feel about ten degrees hotter. So I settle on the bench inside the shade of the mushroom folly, the concrete cool against the backs of my thighs. “So we’re engaged now?”

“Yep,” Quentin says. He doesn’t sit beside me, choosing instead to lean against one of the bulbous support pillars that hold up the mushroom’s cap. “Hope you don’t mind too much.”

“Perhaps you can explain to me how that came to be, then I can decide how much I mind.”

“I figured it wouldn’t hurt to have a backup plan in case you were unsuccessful with your sneaking. Which I assume you were, considering how quickly you came back down. What happened?”

“Ran into a cleaning lady, so I had to pretend I was looking for the bathroom. Got out of there as fast as I could.”

“Ah. Well, then it’s lucky I realized us being a couple interested in Sprangbur as a potential wedding venue gives us a chance to contact their event coordinator for a tour. A private tour.”

“You don’t think the event coordinator might be even more eagle-eyed than Gladys, considering we’ll be the only people they’ll need to keep track of?”

“Probably. But don’t worry. I have a plan.”

I groan. “Oh god.” Now I’m extra worried. “Quentin, your plans have historically not been particularly successful.”

There was the time he tried to catch a local cryptid called the snallygaster when we were eight and he wound up stuck inside a net suspended from the tree in his backyard for three hours.

Or the time when he constructed an elaborate plan to sneak candy after bedtime only to fall down the stairs and knock out one of his teeth.

Once, in eighth grade, he was convinced that if he kept talking nonstop about a fake huge snowstorm coming at the end of the week, he could trick the district into closing school preemptively. (It obviously did not work.)

“That isn’t even—” He stops himself, thinking for a moment. “Okay, that may have been true. But my plans are much better these days, I promise.”

“You literally just had one that failed!” I protest. “You’re the one who had me go back upstairs, remember?”

“Hey, you can’t blame me for that. Isn’t my fault you didn’t execute it correctly.”

I narrow my eyes, ready to tell him to shove it.

But he stops leaning on the bit of mushroom stem and starts walking away.

“I’ll email them tonight and try to set up something—maybe for Friday,” he says over his shoulder.

And before he turns his head back around, I notice a grin spreading slowly across his face. “If that works for you…cookiepuss.”