Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
“Jazz, mostly. Swing. Some rockabilly.” I’m grateful for the change of subject. “Although I’m between venues at the moment.”
“We’ll have to remedy that,” Arthur says with genuine enthusiasm. “Grimlock appreciates good music. Perhaps we could arrange something at the Haunted Windchimes? It’s our local music venue—intimate space, perfect acoustics, and a crowd that actually listens to the music rather than just talking over it.”
“That would be wonderful.”
More introductions follow in a blur of names and faces. Elliott appears again with his wild gray hair and striped blue suit, this time carrying a plate of pastries and still talking like he’s narrating a dream. Twin sisters, who own competing fabric shops and finish each other’s sentences with the synchronized precision of people who’ve been doing it for seventy years, say hello.
Everyone wants to talk about Dad. Tales from his visits to Grimlock, whether I inherited his sense of humor or his stubborn streak. They share stories I’ve never heard—Peter teaching Jasper’s younger brother to whittle, Peter helping Dame Gothel’s daughter through a difficult divorce, Peter playing poker with the old men who gather at the barbershop every Monday when he was in town.
It’s like discovering my father lived an entire second life without me knowing.
“He talked about you constantly,” says a woman with intricate braids and paint-stained fingers who introduced herself as Maya, the town’s muralist. “Always so proud. ‘My Saylor’s got a voice that could make angels weep,’ he’d say.”
Something warm and painful blooms in my chest, and I have to blink back sudden tears. “He said that?”
“Every time he visited. Which was more often in the months before he died.” Maya appears more thoughtful. “He seemed worried about something, but whenever anyone asked, he’d just say he was making sure all his affairs were in order.”
Affairs. Like he knew something was coming.
I continue to be approached by what quite possibly could be every resident of Grimlock, each one eager to welcome me personally. The whole evening is like being embraced by a community I didn’t know existed—people who cared about Dad and who seem determined to care about me by extension. It’s overwhelming and comforting at the same time, like being wrapped in a blanket I didn’t know I needed.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” The words carry across the crowd, drawing everyone’s attention. Blue’s standing near the entrance to another room, looking every inch the perfect host. “If you’d join me in the ballroom, dinner is served.”
The crowd begins moving toward Blue, conversations shifting to anticipation about the meal. I let myself be carried along with the flow, grateful for the chance to process everything I’ve just learned about Dad’s secret life in Grimlock.
Blue catches my eye across the moving crowd and nods toward the ballroom doors. There’s something in his eyes I can’t quite read—anticipation, maybe, or nervousness. Like he’s been waiting for this moment all night. Like there’s something specific he needs me to see.
As we approach the ballroom entrance, I can hear the haunting strains of dark folk music drifting from behind the closed double doors. A bass line so deep it vibrates through the floor, violin melody that sounds like it’s mourning something beautiful, and the distinctive twang of a banjo weaving through it all. It’s southern gothic at its finest, the type of music that belongs on my “murderfolk” playlist. How could Blue possibly know about my secret obsession with songs about love and death and all the beautiful violence in between?
Blue opens the doors with a flourish, and I step into my aesthetic heaven.
If the main hall was gothic elegance, the ballroom is pure dark cottagecore fantasy. The room has been transformed into an enchanted forest clearing, complete with strings of warm Edison bulbs woven between artificial branches that span the ceiling like a canopy. Moss covers every available surface—real moss, judging by the earthy scent that fills the air. Wildflowers in deep purples and ocean blues spill from rustic wooden planters placed throughout the room, and vintage mason jars filled with flickering candles cast dancing shadows across walls draped in flowing cream fabric.
The buffet setup is nothing short of magical. Long wooden tables that look like they were hewn from time-worn trees display an abundance that would make a medieval feast jealous. Roasted meats carved and arranged on slate platters, artisanal cheeses paired with honeycomb still dripping golden nectar, crusty bread loaves that smell like they came straight from a fairy tale oven. Glass cloches protect delicate pastries that look too beautiful to eat, and copper serving pieces catch the candlelight like captured sunset.
But it’s the attention to detail that takes my breath away. Vintage books used as serving platforms, antique teacups repurposed as individual dessert vessels, fresh herbs scattered artfully around each dish like nature decided to help with the presentation. Everything seems to have grown organically from some magical forest where woodland creatures learned to cater.