Page 56 of The Mystery Guest

I breathe a sigh of relief. “There was something else you were going to tell me,” I say.

Mr. Preston pats my hand. “I’ve just told you a lot,” he replies. “Maybe it’s best we leave the rest for another time.”

“You won’t forget?”

He stares at me with his warm, watery eyes. “I could never forget, Molly. Never.”

Before

I’m a little girl sitting in the darkness, frightened as her gran sobs unseen on the living room floor. It wasn’t Gran’s tears that frightened me. And it wasn’t the dark either. I was afraid of myself, of my infinite capacity for understanding things too late.

The sobbing stops. I can’t see Gran, but I hear her shuffling about. Then footsteps, the familiar creak of the vanity in the washroom, the sound of rummaging.

“Gran?” I call out.

“I’ll be right there,” she answers. “Stay where you are.”

More shuffling and footsteps. A raspy swish.

“Let there be light,” Gran says as she places a lit candle on a side table and begins to light the others at her feet, placing them at intervals throughout the room. The effect is wondrous, the entire room cast in an enchanting glow.

“Where there’s a will, there’s a way. I lost my will for a moment, Molly, but it’s back. Tea?” she asks.

“The power is cut. The kettle won’t work.”

“We still have ice in the freezer, at least for a while. I can make the cold kind.”

She grabs a candle and heads for the kitchen. She rummages about as I sit motionless on the floor, listening to her humming as though all is right with the world. She emerges a few minutes later with a candle, two tall glasses, a pitcher, and some biscuits on a silver tray.

“Tea for two?” She places the tray on the living room table, sits on the sofa, and pats it.

I take my place beside her.

For the rest of the evening, we drink iced tea and eat biscuits. We cannot watch David Attenborough orColumbo,so Gran regales me with stories of fairies and princesses, lords and ladies, maids and servants who work downstairs. At some point, I feel my eyes closing. A hand wraps around mine and guides me to bed.

My gran. She was always like that. She always found a way to ignite hope. And what is hope if not the decision to shine light into the dark?

—

The next morning, the sun is up and candles aren’t needed even though the electricity is still cut, no hot water in our apartment either. I wash up with cold water, a cat bath, as Gran calls it, even though there are no felines in our apartment.

On the way to the Grimthorpe mansion, I interrogate Gran. “What are we going to do about the rent? What if Mr. Rosso never turns the electricity back on? What if we have to live in darkness for the rest of our days?”

“Not to worry, Molly. Your gran has a plan.”

When we arrive at the mansion, we stop at the gate as usual.

She presses the intercom, but instead of saying hello andrequesting entrance, she says, “I’m coming to the watchtower.” This is highly unusual. She’s never gone to the watchtower before, that impenetrable fortress that stands guard over the Grimthorpe mansion just a stone’s throw away from the gate.

There’s a buzzing sound, and the gate opens.

“You wait here a moment,” Gran tells me.

I nod, confused, but trusting that Gran knows best. She walks along the wrought-iron fence to the watchtower, then enters through a door I never even knew was on the far side. What for? Why is she going in? What is she doing?

I bide my time by the gate counting the pointy spears on top of the fence line. Just when vertigo begins to ripple the ground at my feet, Gran exits the tower and starts walking back my way.

She pauses when she reaches me. “I’ve received an IOU,” she says in her singsong voice. “I’ll have the rent money later today. Which means power will be restored. Let there be light.” She lays a gentle hand on my back, then guides me up the path of roses toward the mansion.

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