Thank God. Benjamin forced his tense shoulders to relax. In a matter of hours, his carriage would be leaving Cressmouth and he could return to real life.
“We are gathered here today,” the solicitor began, “for a reading of the last will and testament of our beloved Mr. Jacob Marlowe, who rescued our failing village and established Christmas in its place. Would anyone like to begin with a few words?”
No. No words. Benjamin tried not to groan audibly. There were a few hundred people stuffed into this ballroom. If everyone said a “few” words, the reading wouldn’t be over until nightfall.
Yet he had no choice but to stand there and listen.
To his surprise, the heartfelt speeches indicated that the town did not revere his grandfather as an exemplar of excellence. They simply revered him, oddities and all.
Apparently, in addition to the absurd idea of establishing a village dedicated to celebrating Christmastide year-round, Grandfather had had thousands of other eccentric notions. Plans that the townspeople had found creative ways to indefinitely postpone.
Preparing a hot air balloon launch pad for when dirigibles becamede rigueur.
Requiring the kitchen to dye all foodstuffs the colors of the flag to show support of Britain’s efforts against Napoleon.
Installing water tunnels to turn the castle into a circus, complete with tightrope walkers above a pit of crocodiles.
Good lord. Turning Cressmouth into Christmas was perhaps the sanest of all his grandfather’s mad schemes.
“Was he in his right mind?” Benjamin asked the older woman to his left in wonder.
“He was a jolly prankster,” she replied with damp eyes. “I shouldn’t be surprised if his will is full of more of the same.”
A prankster. Iron encased Benjamin’s heart. If he had been summoned all the way to the northernmost peak of England a few days before Parliament was set to start anew, only because his grandfather found itamusingto manipulate emotions even after his death—
“And now for the reading of the will,” announced the solicitor.
Benjamin listened in growing trepidation as what seemed like every person in the room was named before him. His stomach tightened. If he had come all this way, only to learn that his grandfather had buried himself with the locket as a final insult—
“—and to my grandson, Benjamin Ward, Duke of Silkridge, Earl of…”
Benjamin’s head snapped up.
The solicitor cleared his throat. “‘Be changed or be cursed. This is your last chance.’”
“Oh, for the love of…” Benjamin ground his teeth.
Of course, Grandfather would choose melodrama in favor of plain English. Prankster indeed.
It was all he could do not to yell,skip to the part where my mother’s heirloom returns to me.
The townsfolk wouldn’t understand. He doubted they knew the locket existed or would care even if they did. It was of value to no living person besides Benjamin, who was tired of waiting. He had suffered more than enough ChristmasandCressmouth for the rest of his life. As soon as the locket was in his hand, he would leave this town and never look back.
The solicitor continued, “‘You must complete the renovations on my unfinished aviary.’”
“Complete the what on his what?” Benjamin spluttered in disbelief. “He isn’t granting me a bequest. He’s asking for a favor. Is that even legal?”
He should not have expected better, and yet he was still bitterly disappointed.
“—I do not grant Silkridge the privilege of populating the aviary with an appropriate collection of birds—”
“Thank God,” Benjamin muttered.
“—but in order for restorations to be considered complete, Silkridge must break a ceremonial bottle of champagne upon its threshold before witnesses—”
“It’s not aship.” Benjamin gaped through the crowd at the solicitor in disbelief. “Will the aviary be sailing off to explore new worlds? What kind of daft restorations are these?”
“—and stock the aviary with its first symbolic bird, which must be a—”
