The Secrets of Winterhouse

by Ben Guterson

  Mr. Rajput sniffed as he looked to Elizabeth. “That’s what Ivan Hetmosskin told us, and I take him as a credible source.”

  “Freddy,” Mr. Wellington said, “what do you think? You’re good with numbers.”

  Freddy shrugged. “That seems like a pretty big puzzle, but I guess they could make it that size if they wanted to.”

  The adults debated the matter for several minutes, veering into discussion about several other facts the lecturer had provided, everything from the most toilet seats broken by a person’s head in one minute to the wealthiest cat in the world, the largest bubble gum bubble, and the greatest volume of milkshake dispensed through a person’s nose.

  “Well, if the record for the most charming hotel is ever decided upon,” Mrs. Rajput said, “I believe this one here ought to be in the running.”

  “Certainly one of the most interesting, that’s for sure,” Mrs. Wellington said.

  “I was intrigued,” Elana’s grandmother said to Mrs. Wellington—her first words almost the entire meal—“by a comment you made this morning about some passageways in the hotel.”

  “Oh, that old story,” Mrs. Wellington said with a laugh. She had visited Winterhouse decades before when she had been a girl, had even met and played with Norbridge and Gracella when they’d all been young. It was because of that long-ago three-month stay at Winterhouse and her pleasant recollections of the time that the two older couples now vacationed at the hotel on three or four occasions each year. Also because of that visit, Mrs. Wellington considered herself something of an expert on the history of the hotel. She had certainly done a lot of research on Winterhouse and was always eager to share her knowledge.

  “It wasn’t even taken seriously when I was here years ago,” Mrs. Wellington said. “More something told to scare the children, I think. You know, There are monsters hidden inside the walls, so you’d better be good! That sort of thing.”

  “I find the possibility fascinating,” Elana’s grandmother said, her voice soothing and low. She took a sip of wine and examined Mrs. Wellington with her penetrating gaze. “And I was wondering about something you said. You mentioned that Nestor Falls himself had the passageways built so he could visit the kitchen and library anytime he liked. That must mean there is an entrance in his room—or, rather, in the room occupied now by Mr. Norbridge Falls himself. And another in the kitchen where they make the candy. And another in the library.”

  Elizabeth had become completely focused on the old woman’s words.

  Elana put a hand on her grandmother’s forearm and then gave a tiny press with her fingers into the old woman’s sleeve. This made no sense to Elizabeth; when she thought about it later, she couldn’t help thinking Elana had been urging her grandmother to stop talking.

  Mrs. Wellington glanced around the table as if she was looking for someone else to offer a detail or two. “I really think the whole story is just made up,” she said lightly, laughing. “I don’t think there’s anything to it, but the children used to talk about it like it was real.”

  “But assuming there might be this passageway,” Elana’s grandmother continued, “that would mean there would be some connection between Norbridge’s room, the kitchen, and the library, yes?” She turned to Elana and gave a quick, sharp glance at the girl’s hand on her arm. Elana removed it.

  “That would be a logical assumption,” Mrs. Rajput said. “At least I believe so.”

  “And there could be other passageways within the walls,” said Elana’s grandmother.

  “The way I recall it,” said Mrs. Wellington, “the story was that there were hidden passageways all around the hotel. Supposedly, there were a few doors that allowed entrance.”

  A chime sounded. Norbridge stood at the front of the hall before a podium, and everyone’s eyes shifted to him. Elizabeth stole a quick glance at Elana and her grandmother and saw the older woman look to her granddaughter with an expression of deep satisfaction.

  Within five minutes, Norbridge had worked through his standard after-dinner speech, welcoming all the new guests, urging those who’d already been at Winterhouse for more than just this day to continue enjoying themselves, and then making a few announcements about the upcoming events over the next twenty-four hours.

  “And I am very pleased,” he said, “to welcome Mrs. Verna Tilden-Opal to Winterhouse after a five-year absence. Mrs. Tilden-Opal is a world-renowned expert on a fascinating rock carving in the Far East known as the Behistun Inscription and will be delivering an extremely lively and interesting talk on the subject this evening at eight o’clock in Grace Hall. You do not want to miss her presentation. I know I will be there and am looking forward to…”

  Norbridge looked to the kitchen door, where Mrs. Trumble had cleared her throat and stood making a motion with her finger as though twirling an invisible strand of wet spaghetti. Some awareness registered on Norbridge’s face, and he turned to the crowd once more. He lifted both hands above his head. “What I am trying to say is: Let’s have dessert!”

  A line of servers stepped from the kitchen doors with plates of pie and cakes and cookies as the crowd in Winter Hall began to cheer.

  “And a song, as well!” Norbridge called. “Please join me in a round of ‘The Winter Hall Jingle,’ sung to the tune of that ever-popular favorite ‘Edelweiss’! Everyone, join in!”

  And with that, Norbridge led the crowd five times through a loud and lively rendition of the following song:

  Winter Hall, Winter Hall

  Three times daily we eat here.

  Toast and jam, leg of lamb

  Tuna salad, and root beer!

  Lots of pie dough makes the kitchen glow

  We could eat forever.

  Winter Hall, Winter Hall

  Thank the cook—he’s so clever!

  Elizabeth sang along happily with everyone else. But she was distracted by the expression of disgust that deepened on Elana’s grandmother’s face as the song progressed. She was even more distracted—and puzzled—when Elana and her grandmother, under cover of the noise and excitement, stood, waved in silent general farewell to the table, and headed with surprising quickness for a side door of the hall, right where Rodney and his parents were sitting. The strangest thing of all was that Elizabeth thought she noticed Mrs. Vesper give the slightest nod to Rodney’s mother. It seemed something more than a simple acknowledgment, though from where Elizabeth was sitting, she couldn’t be sure—and then Elana and her grandmother slipped through the door and disappeared.

  CHAPTER 10

  A LECTURE CONCLUDED COUNTER

  The lecture was interesting, but perhaps not as interesting as Norbridge had led everyone to expect. Elizabeth found herself wanting Mrs. Tilden-Opal, a tiny woman with glasses so thick they made her eyes look too huge for her face, to spend less time on the archaeological circumstances of the Behistun Inscription—which had been carved on a cliff face in Iran centuries before—and more on the deciphering of the previously unknown alphabet on the rock itself. But it was a pleasant enough way to spend the evening, and it was comforting to be back in Grace Hall beside Freddy, where they’d spent so many evenings listening to music or lectures or simply passing the time before an evening swim in the basement pool. If only Elana, who sat on the other side of Freddy, hadn’t come. Elizabeth had been hoping for as much when she’d seen her leave dinner so quickly with her grandmother, but Elana had returned to meet her and Freddy as planned.

  “Well, that was pretty interesting!” Elana said when the lecture ended. The three children remained seated while the crowd around them filed out; Elizabeth was making a mental note to add “Behistun Inscription” to her list of “Historic Places I Plan to Visit Someday.”

  “I’d never heard about that carving before,” Elana continued, “but I love learning about mysterious things. Secret writing and codes and all that.”

  “I know what you mean,” Freddy said. He turned to Elizabeth. “Remember how we got interested in the Vigenère Cipher last
year?”

  “Of course,” Elizabeth said. Just why Freddy had chosen to mention this when the Vigenère Cipher—an almost foolproof system for writing secret messages—had been crucial in solving the secret of The Book the year before was unclear to her. He’d indicated he didn’t want to revisit the previous year’s events, and yet here he was blabbing to Elana.

  “But that was last year,” Elizabeth said, waving a hand before her. She didn’t want to let Elana know more than was necessary about her friendship with Freddy.

  “What is it?” Elana said. “The Vig what?” Freddy spent a couple of minutes explaining the code for her while Elizabeth began to think she might go settle into her room for the night and read a book.

  “Interesting!” Elana said once Freddy was done. “Maybe you’ll show me more later.”

  Freddy pushed at his glasses; Elizabeth thought perhaps he was realizing he’d gone too far. “For sure,” he mumbled.

  “I might head back to my room,” Elizabeth said, standing. “It’s been a really long day.”

  “Already?” Elana said. “Don’t go yet.”

  “Yeah, already?” Freddy said. “It’s not that late. Maybe we can get some hot chocolate.”

  “No,” Elizabeth said, now even more resolved, given that Freddy was begging her. “You guys probably want to try out the cipher, and I’m sort of tired.”

  Elana remained sitting and pressed a long strand of hair behind an ear. “Hey, before you take off, I was thinking of something. Remember how everyone was talking about the secret passageways at dinner?”

  “Was everyone talking about them?” Elizabeth said. She’d been fascinated herself, but she didn’t want Elana to know this, and she also found herself not wanting to agree with her.

  “A lot of people were,” Freddy said. He looked to Elizabeth. “I think.”

  “What I was thinking,” Elana said, “is wouldn’t it be cool if the three of us investigated a little? Started looking around to see if we could find one of those doorways?”

  Although she wasn’t pleased that Elana had brought the subject up, Elizabeth couldn’t deny that the prospect of finding an entrance into a secret passageway sounded unbearably fascinating—like something from The Arabian Nights, she’d been thinking. Still, she wasn’t sure she wanted to get tangled up with Elana.

  “I don’t know,” Freddy said doubtfully. “It was interesting to hear about passageways and everything, but I’ve been here four times now, and I’ve never found any secret doors.”

  Elizabeth felt herself relax; Freddy, to her surprise, had come to the rescue.

  Elana frowned and looked to the floor. “I guess you’re right. Well, it sounded interesting enough. Maybe it’s nothing, but it would be cool to find one of those doors.” She snapped her fingers. “Hey, why don’t we get together tomorrow and just hang out? We can go skating.”

  Freddy looked to Elizabeth eagerly. “Elana told me she’s a good skater.”

  “There’s a rink by our house,” Elana said. “I compete sometimes.”

  Elizabeth was not eager to watch Elana show off while Freddy stood admiring her, but at least she seemed willing to give up on her fascination with the secret passageways, and maybe an hour or two outside would be fun. There had been a good storm during the afternoon, and the mountains would be gleaming with a fresh layer of snow.

  “That sounds good,” Elizabeth said. “Let’s go skating.”

  Freddy nodded. “I need to work on the camera obscura in the morning. A bunch of equipment’s getting delivered, so I doubt I’ll be in the hall for breakfast or lunch. Why don’t we meet after lunch on the thirteenth floor?”

  “Sounds good,” Elana said. “That would be perfect!”

  “Mr. Knox!” someone called, and the three kids turned to see Jackson in the doorway of Grace Hall. “A moment of your time, please.”

  “Jackson told me he was going to try to line up some of the staff to help with the scaffolding starting tonight,” Freddy said with a wave. “See you tomorrow.”

  Elizabeth was about to leave as well when Elana put a hand out to hold her back.

  “Okay, Freddy,” Elana said, “we’ll see you tomorrow!”

  They watched him head for the doorway, and then Elana fixed Elizabeth with her smile once again.

  “I’m really glad you’re here,” she said. “Freddy’s great, but, you know, he’s into a lot of boy stuff, like tools and everything.” She scrunched her face. “I’m more into books and just … you know, other things. I think you and I will get along well.”

  Elizabeth felt a notch less ill-disposed toward Elana upon hearing her say the word “books,” though the comment about Freddy was odd. Elana was staring at her, and Elizabeth realized once again that Elana was the sort the boys at her school would all have a crush on. She wondered if maybe, just maybe, she had been a bit unfair to Elana and was judging her too harshly, or maybe she was just annoyed because she had expected to have Freddy all to herself.

  “Was your grandmother okay at dinner?” Elizabeth said. “You guys left pretty quickly.”

  “I think something was bothering her stomach. She’s fine now.”

  “It’s just the two of you here?” Elizabeth said.

  Elana’s expression became serious. “My parents passed away a few years ago. My grandmother’s been kind enough to take me in and look after me. She’s really a nice lady. Freddy told me a little about you. Like, about your parents and how you’re related to Norbridge. But at least as far as parents go, I think you and I have the same situation.”

  Elizabeth felt confused—pulled between opening up to Elana and keeping silent, between asking her about her own parents or letting her keep it all to herself. She knew the pain of losing a mother and father, understood what that loss and absence felt like. Maybe Elana’s odd, false ways were a cover for the kind of sadness she felt, too, Elizabeth thought. She just wasn’t sure she wanted to share anything with her—or even be friends with her.

  “I’m sorry about your parents,” Elizabeth said.

  She was considering what she might say next, when a heavy silence fell over the hall. The familiar stab of awareness fluttered inside Elizabeth, and, in expectation of something about to happen or someone approaching, she turned to look to the doorway. Mrs. Vesper stood there. With her white hair and black clothes, she looked like some sort of apparition.

  Elizabeth wondered how long the woman had been watching them.

  CHAPTER 11

  MISHAPS IN THE LIBRARY PAINS

  “I guess I better get going,” Elana said. She raised her eyebrows brightly. “Tomorrow!”

  When Elizabeth was certain Elana and her grandmother had gone, she left Grace Hall and stopped to examine the Winterhouse seal in the marble floor. The words were strange: “Prison-Dodge,” “Trim-Room,” “Flood-Furor,” and all the rest. What could they mean? And why were there so many numbers on the four surrounding rectangles? It made no sense.

  She paused, too, at the puzzle table on her way to her room. Mr. Rajput and Mr. Wellington weren’t there; on the table sat their sign: PUZZLE IN PROGRESS; PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH.

  Elizabeth studied the temple in the picture. This was the place where Nestor Falls and his friend Riley Sweth Granger—the author of The Book, and the person she believed was behind several of the mysteries at Winterhouse—had lived for a few years before the hotel had been built. Questions that had come to her before returned: Why was the puzzle so enormous? And who had made it in the first place?

  But the day had been full enough already with so many new things to absorb and so many questions—she stared at the puzzle and realized all she wanted to do was go to her room, lie in bed reading The Secret of Northaven Manor, and drift off to sleep. Which, aside from the reading—left unbegun because her eyes couldn’t stay open—was exactly what she did.

  * * *

  After a quick breakfast the next morning in Winter Hall, Elizabeth went to the portrait gallery, its walls lined with por
traits of members of the Falls family. For several minutes she stood before the painting of her mother; it showed her on a bright summer day when she was thirteen, just a year older than Elizabeth herself. A stretch of indigo mountains rose behind her; she wore a blue dress and a purple scarf. Her calm smile never failed to reassure Elizabeth, who had stood in this exact spot looking at the painting maybe fifty times the year before, especially after she’d learned that the girl in it had grown up to be her mother. She thought about the newspaper clipping Norbridge had shared with her.

  I wonder what really happened, she thought.

  Elizabeth moved on. At the end of the hall were portraits of Norbridge and Gracella as children. The paintings were a matching set, appropriate for twins, and they showed each child in front of Lake Luna. Elizabeth recalled that Norbridge had a kind look in his eyes even at that young age; she also remembered the distant look Gracella had, as though even then her mind had settled on something calculating and cruel.

  Elizabeth was a few paces from the paintings—and then she stopped. She realized she didn’t want to look at the picture of Gracella, the woman who’d been the source of so much unhappiness. She did, however, want to see Norbridge’s portrait, and so she continued forward and studied the painting of her grandfather. A minute passed, and then another; she tried to focus on Norbridge’s features, the ways in which the artist had captured those elements of his face and personality that had persisted over the years. And then she moved her gaze to Gracella’s portrait and was surprised to discover it didn’t look half as foreboding as she recalled. For a moment, she actually felt more intrigued by this painting than by the one of her grandfather. It made her wonder, for the thousandth time, why she had been tempted by Gracella the year before.

  She glanced around at the four walls, at the mass of paintings staring back, and a realization came to her: A painting of herself would probably hang in this very room someday. The notion was startling—that her image might be captured and framed in this gallery, and that some future visitors might study her and wonder who she was and what she had grown up to be. And then, just as she’d wondered when Norbridge had pointed out the school in Havenworth, she thought, What if I don’t fit in? It was one thing to visit Winterhouse, even to learn of her connection to it—but to actually live here was another thing completely. Could she really adjust to life at the hotel and become a true member of the Falls family after all her years in Drere?