Stepping closer, I took his hand in mine, squeezing tight. “What if we do this like pulling off a band-aid?”
“Huh?” Griffen blinked, looking down at me as if he’d forgotten I was there.
“I know this is weird. Hard. Whenever things are hard, I try to focus on the practical. Just get through it.”
“You’re saying we should storm the castle armed with lists?” A faint thread of amusement tinged his words.
“Basically. I haven’t been here in more than two years. Prentice started coming to the office for meetings. Edgar said he’d fired the staff, said he was acting paranoid, claimed he couldn’t trust anyone in the house. He and Ford fought about it. Ford moved into the Inn almost a year ago. At the very least, we’re going to need to hire more help than Savannah. And we need to figure out where everyone is going to stay—”
“I assumed they’d stay in their rooms,” Griffen said blandly. I didn’t take the bait. I was just relieved he sounded amused instead of distant.
“Smartass,” I said under my breath. Griffen squeezed my fingers before releasing my hand.
“Okay, General. Let’s get your lists and conquer this bitch.”
We got back in the car and drove through the gates. The drive to Heartstone Manor was almost half a mile long, the great house cushioned by thousands of acres of land. The Sawyers hadn’t sold any of the original acreage, adding here and there as land came on the market.
Most of the land was zoned for agricultural use, and while the orchards and fields didn’t bring in the income they had a century ago, they provided a valuable tax break. More importantly, all that land gave them privacy.
We wound through the woods, beneath ancient oak trees, surrounded by dense forest, the early morning sun unable to penetrate the trees. The asphalt of the drive was pitted in places, crumbling at the edges, weeds pushing through the cracks as if the forest wanted to repossess the road, cutting off access to the house.
The groundskeepers should have taken care of that. I made a note on my pad. Hadn’t Miss Martha said Prentice fired them, too? Based on the state of the road, I wasn’t feeling good things about the condition of the house.
My stomach tightened in anticipation as we came around the final bend before we reached the house. I always felt like this when I visited here. No matter how many times I drove down this road, I never got used to the sheer grandeur of Heartstone Manor.
The house appeared out of the woods as if by magic, so massive it was hard to imagine mere trees being able to hide its bulk. Three stories of granite, it towered above us, every window dark.
Built by William Sawyer in a Jacobean style meant to soothe his bride’s homesickness, Heartstone Manor always made me feel like I’d been whisked off to the English countryside. The windows were tall, the front of the house a long expanse that jutted forward on each end, creating a courtyard. The short side sections were rounded in the front, giving the impression the house was flanked by turrets. The real turrets were out of sight on the east and west wings of the house, jutting out behind the main section, hidden by the trees.
Ivy grew up the solid gray stone, reaching the roof in some places.
Wait. I stopped and looked again. I’d always loved the touch of ivy climbing the house. The granite could have been cold and forbidding, but the wooden front door and the ivy had warmed it, made it just a little approachable.
I’d once asked Miss Martha why they didn’t let the ivy grow to cover the whole house, imagining fairies hiding in the glossy green leaves and story-book princes climbing the vines to the balconies.
Miss Martha had told me the ivy could damage the house with its roots if it was allowed to grow unchecked. She’d said they kept just enough to look pretty and cut back the rest. Someone hadn’t gotten the memo.
The ivy was taking over the granite, evoking stories of Sleepy Beauty and the wall of thorns around her castle, the prince and his sword freeing her from sleep. Heartstone didn’t need a prince, but it did need rescue—it needed an army of groundskeepers.
Griffen pulled to a stop in the courtyard, parking just in front of the steps to the front door. When I was a child, I’d rarely had to ring the bell. At the approach of visitors, the staff would alert Miss Martha, who would already be opening the door as we climbed the steps.
I waited in the passenger seat for the door to open. Nothing happened. Of course. No one was here. Maybe Sterling or Brax, but they’d hardly lower themselves to answering the door. Especially if they knew it was us.