Wilde Manor was… different. I had been preparing myself to see a very different home, but now as we stood on the sidewalk outside I realized just how much it had changed.
It had taken two days to find a time when both Rex and Doc were out of the house to go on our little excursion. Doc was working at the veterinary clinic all day and Rex was visiting a new liquor supplier in the city, so this morning Podcast woke me up with a mischievous grin and signed that it was time.
My belly, which had been full of excitement all throughout my thrilling first ride on the back of Podcast’s motorcycle, now sank as I stared up at the ornate face of the manor.
In 1915, Wilde Manor had been surrounded by expansive gardens and other small mansions, creating a community that felt like one was living in the country rather than just outside of the city. But over the past hundred years the city of Boston had grown, swallowing up the surrounding areas until only Wilde Manor remained standing. Two tall glass buildings flanked the manor on either side and a black wrought iron gate connected them, closing the manor off from the rest of the world.
I could still see some of the gardens through the gate, but they were a shadow of their former selves.
A stream of people were going in and out of the opening in the gate, holding up cameras and cell phones as they snapped photos of the building. Podcast and Storm led me toward it.
‘Are you okay?’Podcast asked, noticing my sudden change in demeanor.
I nodded and plastered a cheerful smile on my face. “Fine! I just wasn’t expecting such huge buildings, what are they?”
Storm shrugged. “I dunno, probably some offices and things like that,” he said as he held his phone out to the gate attendant who was sitting in a booth in front of the gate. The attendant held out a phone with something attached and held it above Storm’s screen until the device beeped.
“Do you want a self-guided tour booklet?” she asked, holding out some booklets.
“No I already know my way—” I began but Storm cut me off.
“Thank you,” he said to the attendant and took the booklets from her.
Podcast typed a message on his phone. ‘YOU CAN’T DRAW ATTENTION TO YOURSELF, REMEMBER?’
“Sorry,” I apologized sheepishly as we stepped through the gate. I pulled the hood of the soft jacket that Storm had given me over my eyes, inhaling the scent of fresh rain from the fabric. I didn’t know when I started drawing comfort from the scents of the men in the pack, but I often found myself starting to lean in whenever they passed by, trying to discern whose scent was whose.
I examined the garden as we passed through it. Even though it was quite a bit smaller, there were still familiar fixtures dotted throughout. For one, the massive fountain that had been put in when I was six years old was still standing proud in the courtyard, shooting water high into the air as people stared at it in awe. It had been a gift from my father to my mother on her birthday. Even a hundred years couldn’t get rid of the inscription on the bronze plaque in front of it.
I ran my fingers along it, a small smile on my face.
“To my dearest Lizzie, but our love it was stronger by far than the love of those who were older than we— Of many far wiser than we—” Storm began, his tone taking on a melodic edge as he read the verse of the poem inscribed.
I finished it for him from memory: “And neither the angels in heaven above, nor the demons down under the sea, can ever dissever my soul from the soul of the beautiful Annabel Lee. It’s Edgar Allen Poe, he was one of my father’s favorite writers,” I told them as I shook off the memories of my father reciting the poem for my mother at her birthday dinner every year. I had taken up his post after his death. I closed my eyes and conjured up all of my memories of his scent: a mixture of the tobacco he smoked and the sour tang of granny smith apples.
I could feel Podcast and Storm watching my face carefully, so I schooled my expression when I finally looked up at them. Sharing that bit of information with them felt too vulnerable, so I kept it to myself.
“Let’s go inside,” I said, straightening and leading the way up the steps.
The large front doors were propped open and people were going up and down the steps, entering the manor in clusters. I stepped inside and was immediately hit with an overwhelming sense ofdéjà vu. For me it had only been a week since I last snuck in through these doors, tracking mud in my wake.
As I stood in the foyer, I half expected Maria to come around the corner, ready to scold me for disappearing half way through the Gala. But instead I was greeted with the echoing sounds of voices as people milled around the hall, taking pictures and posing on the staircase.
Wordlessly, I climbed up the staircase, skimming a hand along the banister. I found new nicks and divots in the wood that hadn’t been there in 1915. So much had changed in a hundred years, there were paintings on the wall that I didn’t recognize, and the light fixtures above glowed brightly with modern light bulbs.
At the top of the stairs there was a long glass case full of pictures. They seemed to be organized chronologically, so I stepped up to the glass and forced myself not to press my face into it.
The case started long before my time. There were paintings of my ancestors, including Tiberius Wilde; the first Wilde to step off of the Mayflower and onto American soil. I bypassed those, having heard enough about my illustrious relatives during my mother’s extensive education to last me a lifetime.
I moved past the portraits until I reached my parent’s wedding photograph. It used to hang in my father’s study above the fireplace.
There was a little card next to the painting.Nicholas Wilde VII and his wife Elizabeth Wilde on their wedding day. August 20th, 1880.
I continued on, looking at all of the photographs that had been taken of my family. Pictures of my parents with baby Nicky, and then a few years later with Timothy. Finally, I came along and completed our little family.
Podcast tugged on my sleeve and held up his phone. ‘YOU WERE A CUTE BABY,’ he wrote and grinned at me. I wasn’t sure if I looked upset or if he could sense it, but he was trying to make me feel better.
I smiled back. “My father used to say that I was the fattest baby of the three of us. It’s how he knew I would be a hearty child.” Storm snorted at that, his eyes on a picture of me as a grinning toddler.
