Though he didn’t fancy talking about their grotesque find, Will resigned himself to the fact that the topic of conversation had irretrievably shifted. “Did you find out what any of them mean?” he asked. He was given a simple ‘yes’ as an answer but received no elaboration. After a few frustrating moments had passed Will rose and hastily collected the plates.

Later in the evening he went down to their father’s old workroom, where the casket sat upon the antiquated workbench. Dylan had already settled onto a wooden stool and had resumed his study of the etchings, referencing them against various websites on his phone.

“Where do you suppose it came from?” Dylan’s tone was so wistful it rendered his question rhetorical. “Upstream obviously, but from where?”

“What, are you planning on returning it somehow?”

“I want to see if there’s more. I want to know.”

“Know what? Dylan, you’d better start giving me some straight answers. I came all the way back here to help you, so the least you can do is be honest with me.”

Unable to bear being ignored, Will retreated upstairs in a manner both childish and melodramatic. Storming off to the bedroom he’d occupied until he left home at sixteen felt surreal, but surreal in an ugly, off-putting way, as though he was willingly stepping back into the very cell from which he’d managed to escape years earlier. The original wardens might have perished, but the prison was still being maintained by the heir apparent.

He stood listening to a house that had grown too still. Stepping into the hall, he found it vacant and dim. Descending the stairs, Will’s nose was affronted by the scent of smoke.

“Dylan?” he called. When no reply came, Will hurried to the basement, where the smoke was thickest and its fragrance was chokingly strong. His eyes stinging, he made his way to the workbench, where faint embers spat upwards like tiny fireflies.

The floor suddenly went unstable beneath him. Will was hurled forward. Peering through the billowing plumes, he could just discern the dozens of woodscrews that carpeted the concrete and had tripped him up. Turning his gaze to the workbench, he saw the last of the embers fluttering down in grey husks to the open Mason jar that sat half-filled with the black remnants of burned paper. The jar was one of dozens their late father had used to store screws, nuts, bolts. This one had been set atop the casket.

Among the jar’s blackened leavings was a scrap of paper that had not succumbed to the flames. Will recognized Julie’s handwriting.

Again, he called his brother’s name. The only response was the patter of rain that was beginning to strike the windows.

*