Page 12 of Edge of Wonder

There was more, but it was obscured by soot.What an odd thing to write.I tapped my finger on the desk. Sebastian was certainly a man of mystery. Not that I wanted to solve any of them. I had my own issues, and they were alarmingly time-based.

Still…

I glanced over my shoulder. Moonlight spilled over his powerful frame, and his feet poked over the edge of the bed.

Who’s the key, Sebastian? And why would you rather burn away the memory instead of facing it?

The night wore on, endlessly dark and silent. My frustration at doing nothing grew until I finally sank through the floorboards to the first level.

No more wasting time on the ghost hunter’s past. Three days would not be enough to solve my unfinished business. I needed to search for clues. There had to be some hint as to who I’d been, and why I was still here. I just needed to find it.

The fact that I’d spent years in this house and hadn’t come across anything was probably an oversight. I hadn’t known what to look for or how to put it into context. There was always another day—a never-ending supply—and no real reason to bother.

If I’d had personal belongings, they’d long since been disposed of, and all that remained were a few trinkets that I assumed were mine. Those were stored in the attic. A windup music box with a broken spring, a faded white apron with ruffled edges, and shelves full of different types of puzzles. Some were imaged-based, others were word riddles, that I tried to solve even in death.

But puzzles and aprons hardly told the story of my life, let alone my death.

I drifted toward the fireplace, deep in thought. What would make for a good clue?

My gaze dropped to the rusty fire poker standing at an angle in its wrought iron holder. A few feet up on the mantel rested a massive candelabra covered in spindly cobwebs. To my left was an axe, the blade chipped from overuse.

Tools littered the workbench. A hammer, a saw with a serrated edge, and some sort of metal pick.

I groaned. I was surrounded by murder weapons.

Not exactly the context I was hoping for.

Sebastian’s stupid theory was getting to me. But I refused to believe it so quickly. No, best to research other possibilities before settling on murder.

As I continued to search the room, my eyes snagged on Julian’s portrait. His stern features always made me smile when I was sure his intention had been the opposite.

Julian had it painted shortly before becoming sick, and the memory of that day was one of the few highlights I’d had as a ghost. He’d hired the village artist to come to his shop. I was thrilled to have the visitor and spent the whole morning practicing a pretend conversation in my head.

As the young man set up his easel and mixed his paints, I hovered by his side.

“Make sure you get my work in the background,” Julian stated, straightening in his seat by the workbench.

“My attention to detail is unparalleled,” the painter said, barely looking up from his canvas.

But then, he paused and glanced at where I was standing. I went utterly still, certain he could see me. Which was ridiculous, but my lonely ghost heart had been so hopeful.

And I’d been rewarded!

The man looked me straight in the eyes, and at first, he was so surprised he almost dropped his brush. He quickly recovered, his features morphing from surprise to amusement as he flashed me a grin. An odd, knowing sort of grin, as if the two of us were sharing a secret.

It only lasted a moment before he turned back to Julian. “I’ll be sure to record everything, Mr. Granger. The secret to painting is capturing the scene exactly as it is, so those in the future can relive the moment.”

Julian gave him a brisk nod. “That’s why I hired you. Please proceed.”

“As you wish, sir.” His focus returned to the canvas, but mine stayed on him. I watched as he made wide strokes across the blank space, filling it with life and shadows.

To say I’d been entranced had been an understatement. The man could freeze time and capture it forever. I may have fallen a little bit in love with him as the scene in front of me unfolded on the canvas.

I wanted him to paint me, to capture my likeness for all eternity so I wouldn’t be forgotten. But his gaze never strayed back to my position, and when he finished the portrait, he packed up his supplies and left. In the end, I decided I’d imagined the whole thing. Maybe I’d manifested his attention out of my desperate desire to be seen.

The only other time I saw him was weeks later when he returned to deliver another painting. His demeanor had changed, and he appeared bleary-eyed and anxious. He constantly checked a pocket watch hidden inside his waistcoat pocket as if he had somewhere else to be.

After he left, I stared at the painting he’d created. The canvas depicted a dreamy landscape filled with hidden clocks and a mysterious woman in white. It was such a strange, foreboding painting, and every time I’ve looked at it since, I see something new. Another hidden clock or a dark shadow at the edge of the forest.

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