The dark, rain-filled sky inhibited Rafe’s view, making the drive slow. After having turned onto a winding, narrow lane, several miles off the main road, he peered through the windshield as the wipers swished, slinging water to the edges of the glass. The drive was lined with woods on either side, thick and already green. The narrow lane would make it difficult for two cars to pass, but with a dirt shoulder on either side, he assumed it would be possible with caution, though he hoped he would not have to take that chance.

The drive wound back and forth, gently leading upward. Coming to a clearing, he slowed the truck to a halt, leaning forward to gain a better view. He stared at the scene in front of him, his mind having difficulty catching up to what his eyes were seeing.

The grass showed no signs of having been mown lately. The shrubs were overgrown and unshapely. The trees sported dead limbs amongst the ones bearing leaves. What was once flower beds, now lay in complete disregard. As his gaze continued up the continuing long driveway as it rose up the hill, his breath caught in his throat.

A dark, stone house rose from the edge of a cliff overlooking the James River, shrouded in overgrown trees. The foreboding building had an ominous appearance, almost castle-like with a rounded turret on one corner. For an instant, he wondered where he had seen the house before, then remembered a picture from Zander’s storybook.

With a shake of his head, he continued up the drive, observing the turnoff for the groundskeeper’s cottage. The gravel lane followed the curve of the wood, ending with the small, one-story cottage, created from the same dark stone as the main house. Sitting near the edge of the surrounding trees, the windows were covered with wooden shutters painted blue, metal latches securing them from the elements.

The sun was hiding, the rain pouring, and he longed to get inside. Might as well get settled first, so I’m ready to go to work tomorrow. Once he had decided to take Miss Ethel up on her offer to help the shut-in, it took a couple of days for permission to be granted, directions to be given, and instructions to be sent. He was to live in the groundskeeper’s cottage, provide his own food, have full use of the tool garage, and under no circumstances was he to bother the owner. Whatever, he shrugged. A spring and summer, in peace and quiet, working outdoors, not having to make conversation, and not being fawned over…heavenly!

Parking in the front, he reached for the bag in the seat next to him, making sure to take out the cottage key sent to him. Jogging to the wooden door, he unlocked it quickly, stepping inside. Flipping on the light switch nearest the door, he moved his gaze around, a grin spreading across his face.

The living room was to the left, a dark blue, overstuffed sofa and striped chair taking up most of the room. A wooden coffee table sat in the middle, but his eyes were drawn to the opposite wall. Where most homes would have a large TV with an entertainment console, instead the wall was floor to ceiling built-in bookshelves, filled with books, surrounding a stone fireplace. A woven rug graced the wooden floor, making the room homey. A flash of living in a Hobbit hole flew through his mind as he swung his gaze around.

Immediately to the right sat a wooden table and two chairs, with only a short counter separating the room from the small kitchen. From where he stood, he viewed an older model refrigerator and stove. The only nod to modern conveniences was a microwave on the counter.

A short hall was in front of him, with only three doors. As he moved forward, he found the single bedroom, the bathroom and a room designated as a mudroom, containing a washer and dryer, sink, and hooks for coats and a place for boots near the back door. Peeking into the bathroom, he shook his head at the small space, wondering how his large body would fit into the narrow tub and shower.

He stepped into the bedroom, spying a single bed, dresser, and small closet. Dropping his bag, he turned and went back to the front door. The rain was still pouring, but he wanted to get his groceries in, so he darted back to the truck, unloading it in haste. Closing the door behind him, he shook his head, sending water droplets all about. Wiping his hand over his face, he moved to place the groceries into the refrigerator and cabinets. Walking into the living room, he stared at the fireplace, wondering how long it had been since it had been lit. Not cold, he still felt like a fire would be perfect in the storybook room.

Dropping his chin to his chest, he wondered what was coming over him. Storybook room? Get a grip, man! Moving to the window, he remembered the wooden shutters were closed on the outside. Opening the front door, he looked through the rain up toward the main house. Every bit as imposing as when he first laid eyes on it, he sighed, thinking of the elderly woman living in that monstrosity.

Checking the weather prediction on his phone, he saw the rain was supposed to end during the night, making tomorrow the perfect time to investigate the tool garage and begin reclaiming the gardens. Knowing there was nothing else to be done that day, he walked back into the bedroom and unpacked.

Later, after fixing dinner in the kitchen, he sat at the table eating spaghetti, garlic bread, and salad. He grinned, knowing the carbs would be worked off the next day out in the sunshine and not in a gym. Relishing his meal, he leaned back, patting his stomach when he was finished.

It felt odd being alone after years of rarely being by himself. He would disappear to his California efficiency at night, but his days were packed with people…lots of people. The incessant noise became background chatter, but without it, he heard every sound—the tick-tock of the clock on the wall and the rain hitting against the glass windows. But mostly, there was peaceful quiet.

Washing his plates and the cooking pans, he took the extra time to dry them, not having anything else to do. With the kitchen tidy, he moved into the living room, drawn to the bookshelves. Stuffed with hardbacks and paperbacks, he drew his finger along the spines as he studied the eclectic titles. Classics…British, American, French, and a few German. Mysteries. World studies. Religious. Hemingway, Dostoevsky, Wilde, Homer, Dante, Steinbeck, Twain, Dickens…the list went on.

Humbled that he was standing before a treasure trove of books, he almost dropped to his knees. Miss Ethel had instilled in each of them the power of the written word and he was awed at the fortune found in this tiny cottage. Upon closer inspection, he observed the books were not just someone’s collection, left to gather dust, but they had been lovingly handled. Their spines showing the faint marks where they had been opened, it was not hard to image someone’s fingers turning the pages as they read.

Coming to a section of hardback books, their bindings appeared to be leather and he gently pulled one out, eyes widening at the gold edged pages. Opening it, he sucked in a quick breath, seeing an author’s signature in the first edition. More classics. Carefully replacing the book, he continued his perusal. Seeing a bound set of Grimm’s fairy tales, he grinned. Zander would be thrilled just to have a chance to see these books. He decided to invite him to visit, but then thought better of the idea. Not before checking with the owner.

Pulling out a copy of Steinbeck’s East of Eden, he moved to the chair, settling into the deep cushions, finding it much more comfortable for a man his size than he assumed. Flipping on the floor lamp near the chair, he opened the book, eager to delve into the words.

* * *

Eleanor moved to the window, peering out into the dark night, the sound of rain still pattering on the stone terrace. The room was dark, illuminated only by the flames in the fireplace. Wrapping her arms around her body, she stared out the window, her mind wandering aimlessly down memory paths, leading nowhere.

A light at the edge of the woods caught her eye and she jerked her head to the side to gain a better view. Eyes narrowing as she attempted to focus, she saw the faint flicker of light coming from the area of the groundskeeper’s cottage. Nodding to herself, she remembered that today was the day he was arriving. Good, she sighed in contentment. She hated the way the grounds had so quickly fallen into disarray after the last groundskeeper left.

Emitting an indelicate snort, she thought of the last man to work on the yard. Ancient. Good intentions, but so elderly he was barely able to handle the lawnmower…a riding lawnmower. Sighing, she thought of the man before that…a young man, eager to get his paycheck, but not so eager to do the work required. And the man before that…another young man, interested in the work but the intricacies of the gardens were beyond his scope and she had watched in horror, his pruning little more than butchering.

Her attention drew back to the cottage and she wondered who was now going to attempt to care for the grounds. She vaguely remembered reading the letter. Had been in the military. Looking for work. Miss Ethel’s recommendation. A small smile slipped across her face. Well, if Miss Ethel recommended him, he cannot be too bad. I hope.

Turning from the window, she moved slowly through the room, banking the dying fire before leaving the room, walking slowly to her bedroom.

* * *

Rafe’s head nodded to the side before jerking upward. Looking around sheepishly, as though someone would have seen him, he stood, stretching his tall body. Replacing the book onto the shelf, he stalked over to the door, opening it widely. The rain had stopped and he breathed in deeply, the fresh air filling his lungs. The night was black, but with the clouds moving past, the moon was able to cast a glow onto the world outside the cottage. The foreboding house on the hill still loomed larger than ever. Wondering when he would meet his employer, he remembered Miss Ethel’s words…a shut-in, prefers her privacy, doesn’t want to be disturbed. Seems mighty lonely, but then, at that moment, spending some time in solitude was exactly what he wanted as well.

Steinbeck’s words came back to him. “All great and precious things are lonely.”

Closing the door, he turned out the lights before heading to bed. A quick shower standing in the narrow tub, where he had to stoop to wash his hair, and he was ready to call it a day. Sliding into the bed, he positioned himself at an angle to make sure his feet did not hang off the end. Wondering if sleep would come, he soon drifted off into a peaceful slumber, in the little cottage at the edge of the woods, down the hill from the castle.