The dark red sedan rolled forward as the wrought-iron gates completed their silent sweep inward. The vehicle glided over the threshold, its tires transitioning from cracked municipal pavement to an immaculately maintained private drive. Millie leaned forward, eyes widening at the abrupt shift in atmosphere.
Ahead of them loomed what was unmistakably a warehouse ... and yet absolutely not a warehouse.
The building's bones were all industrial: weathered brick, old mortar lines spiderwebbed with age, steel-framed windows clouded at the edges. Massive shutter doors sat flush against the front wall, still bearing faded stencilled numbers from some long-defunct shipping era. Every part of it looked like it should still smell of rope, diesel and cold metal.
But the space around it had been transformed beyond recognition.
A broad circular driveway wrapped around a towering fountain carved from white marble. The sculpture at its centre was an exaggerated depiction of a three-masted ship straining against stylized waves. The proportions were dramatic enough that Millie couldn't tell if it was meant to be inspiring or comedic. Water cascaded from the ship's raised bow in too-perfect arcs.
"It's ... definitely a choice," she opined as they drew closer.
"I've heard people describe the way the fountain looks." Junior immediately guessed the reason for her comment. "I never really managed to understand what they meant." A small, wistful smile. "At least now I can almost picture it. Something to not completely hate the System for, I suppose."
"To small miracles," Millie murmured as if offering a toast with quiet sympathy.
The fountain was flanked by two enormous anchor displays, each set upright on pedestals engraved with flowing calligraphy. Millie read a few flowery words before the car rolled past. The anchors were rusted and covered in barnacles, but the pedestals were pristine and gleaming as if polished daily.
Bordering the driveway were glass display cases built into the surrounding brickwork, each illuminated from within. Millie glimpsed antique sextants, polished compasses, fragments of carved wood from undoubtedly ancient vessels, and even what looked like a battered captain's coat sealed behind UV-proof glass.
Someone had curated each piece with care bordering on the obsessive.
Millie briefly described what she'd seen and asked, "What's the point of all this? They say that Orestes Stoneberg can be as eccentric as he is wealthy, but isn't this a bit much?"
Junior shrugged and waved vaguely at their surroundings. "It's supposed to be a maritime cultural centre. That's what he calls it, for tax purposes at least."
Millie squinted at a bronze statue positioned near the warehouse's main entrance, depicting a muscular, idealized sailor figure holding a coiled rope. The statue's expression was so dramatically stoic that it bordered on parody.
"Cultural as my pretty little behind," she muttered.
Junior laughed softly.
To Millie, the warehouse resembled a gritty industrial shell wearing ceremonial robes. But for all its contradictions, the place had presence.
The sedan slowed as it reached the front steps. It eased to a stop behind another car, then Junior, Millie and Achilles exited the vehicle.
Millie looked around. She glanced up at the huge marble ship looming over them. It cast a dramatic spray of refracted light as the fountain's jets arced high above.
"Okay," she admitted, "that fountain is either super cool or super cringe. I can't decide which."
The oversized warehouse door slid open with the smoothness of a luxury hotel lobby entrance. Two figures stood framed inside the entrance. One, a sharply dressed older man in a charcoal suit, stood with perfect posture; so perfect Millie briefly wondered if he'd swallowed a yardstick. The other, a woman in a navy blazer with a small enamel sextant pin, held a folio with the casual confidence of someone who gave a lot of important tours to important people.
They exchanged a glance that could only be described as strained politeness. Then both staff members stepped forward at once.
"Your uncle conveys his greetings, young master Thamish," the suited man said smoothly.
"Welcome to the Stoneberg Maritime Heritage House," the woman said, equally smoothly.
The woman cleared her throat. The man adjusted his cuffs.
They didn't look at each other.
Millie blinked.
"Ahhh."
The exhalation lingered in the air as if urging her to continue. But instead, Millie closed her mouth with an audible snap of her teeth and blinked again.
Junior smiled, though it was restrained. He recognized one voice immediately and oriented toward it. "Mr. Taft. As formal as ever."
Millie didn't think the man - Taft, apparently - could have stood any straighter, but somehow he managed.
"Of course, young master Thamish." The butler replied almost primly. He inclined his head with deep dignity. "It has been too long."
The words were spoken without a hint of recrimination, but Junior flinched nonetheless.
Not to be outdone, the woman offered a surprisingly warm smile. "And I'm pleased to finally meet you, Mr. Stoneberg. I'm Lyra, curator of the public collections. If you and your guest would like a brief tour, I'd be delighted to offer one." Her tone was more informal than Mr. Taft's, and her posture less rigid.
Millie finally seemed to get her mouth working again.
"Curator? Butler?" She frowned. "Do those usually go together?"
Lyra lifted her chin and started an explanation, perhaps a bit too hurriedly.
"Ordinarily, I handle formal greetings for visitors entering during museum hours."
"And I handle all greetings for family," Mr. Taft added. His voice was steady, mild, but unmistakably firm.
Millie's eyebrows shot up. "So … who's greeting us right now?"
Lyra answered with a brittle smile. "We have a system."
Mr. Taft nodded gravely. "A system."
The curator clasped her folio. "When a Stoneberg arrives, we step forward simultaneously. Whoever speaks first handles the formal greeting. Whoever hesitates attends to secondary duties."
"And if you both speak?" Millie asked, gesturing between them.
A tense pause.
"We negotiate," Mr. Taft said with unflappable calm.
Then the curator added in a low voice meant to carry, "Paired sandglasses have been involved."
Mr. Taft ignored her.
Millie had to bite her knuckle to keep from laughing.
Junior cleared his throat. "Right. Well. Thank you. Both of you."
The butler extended an arm toward the doorway.
The curator extended an arm toward the doorway, too.
Millie couldn't hold back her laugh this time.
\ - / - \ - /
The interior of the Heritage House managed the impossible trick of feeling both cavernous and crowded.
Sound carried differently here. Junior felt it at once: footsteps echoing too long, voices softened by height rather than distance. The air smelled faintly of oil, old wood, and something citrus-sharp that reminded him of freshly polished stone.
Millie slowed without meaning to. Her head tilted as she took it in, eyes darting from brick to glass to metal.
"This is a … house ..?" she said finally. Her tone faltered, somewhere between a statement and a question.
Lyra, walking a step ahead, smiled as if she'd been waiting for that exact phrasing. "It is."
Brick walls rose uninterrupted to exposed beams, steel cross-members left deliberately unhidden. Display cases intruded into walkways: maritime charts yellowed with age, fragments of hull plating mounted like religious relics, a ship's bell suspended on a stand far too ornate for something once meant to be struck with urgency. Plaques were everywhere. Brass. Stone. Etched glass.
Couches and armchairs occupied pockets of space between exhibits, as though someone had simply decided that history could coexist with comfort if it tried hard enough.
Lyra gestured toward a massive timber beam running the length of the hall. "Original keel section. Salvaged during the refit of the Stoneberg Resolute, back when she still ran long-haul routes."
Taft didn't slow. "Most guests ask whether it's safe for their kids to play on."
Lyra sighed, but it lacked heat. "It bore an ocean-going vessel for nearly forty-two years."
"And now it bores guests uninterested in history lessons," Taft replied without missing a beat.
Millie snorted before she could stop herself, then glanced apologetically at Lyra. Lyra rolled her eyes with a long-suffering sigh, but also smiled back forgivingly.
They continued as a group until Lyra slowed, falling a step behind.
"I'll leave you in Mr. Taft's capable hands," she said lightly. "Enjoy your visit."
Millie waved and Taft inclined his head once, already moving on. He led them through a set of heavy doors. The hinges were older, their movement slower, and the sound of the house shifted as they passed through; less echo now, more weight. Wood underfoot. A ceiling that pressed closer. The air smelled drier, touched with old paper and leather.
Low shelves lined the walls, packed tight with ledgers and bound volumes. Rolled charts rested in cradles along one side, secured with twine. A heavy desk sat near the centre, scarred with age rather than ornamented, its surface deliberately uncluttered.
Taft stepped aside.
"Young master Stoneberg," he said evenly, with just enough warmth to remind Junior this was family. "You are expected."
Junior paused at the threshold, Achilles a furry warmth against his left leg. The air felt thicker than he expected. More occupied. Like the expectant hush at the tail of a conversation paused rather than ended.
His uncle wasn't alone.
"Are we interrupting?" Junior asked.
"No," Orestes replied at once. "You're precisely on time."
Millie peeked around just inside the doorway, taking in the room and its occupants with open curiosity. Her gaze found Orestes first, then shifted to a woman seated across from him, then back again.
Oresetes met Millie's gaze, and she reacted on instinct. A step back and shoulders hunched defensively before she even realized it. She hadn't thought she'd be intimidated by the man, despite his wealth and public stature. Yet those eyes, cool and greyish-white, like seafoam on the crest of a wave, seemed to peer straight through her.
Somewhere within her, or perhaps just a little bit beyond.
A waft of cool air swept a lock of Millie's hair out of place and over one eye. She shivered as she brushed it aside, tucked behind one ear. But the brief interruption gave her the excuse to glance aside and avoid Oreste's gaze.
If she'd been less flustered, she might have noticed the unusually fresh scent of the sea carried by the brief, fortuitously timed gust of air.
"Thamish," Orestes broke the silence. "You brought a guest."
Millie flinched at the disapproving tone.
Junior could sense the jittery movements of his friend. The way she nearly huddled against him, opposite Achilles. He reached out beside him; his hand brushed hers, but he hesitated. Pulled back.
Orestes caught the awkward gesture and raised an eyebrow, but remained silent.
For now.
"Uncle Orestes," Junior said. His tone was cooler than it should have been. "May I present my friend and neighbour, Millicent Avery. Millie, let me introduce you to Orestes Stoneberg, my uncle and a man who makes an entrance, even when he's already in the room."
Junior was annoyed. Not because Orestes disapproved of him bringing a guest, that wasn't the problem at all. Orestes disapproved because Junior hadn't introduced her yet. A far greater sin in his uncle's eyes, but one Millie wouldn't recognize.
And Orestes knew that too. Worse, he knew how it would look but let the misunderstanding stand.
"A pleasure, Ms. Avery." Orestes stood. "Welcome to my humble abode." He bowed towards her, without flourish or fanfare, as if it were as natural as a handshake.
Millie's eyes widened. She looked around frantically, like a trapped animal.
Then she panicked.
"But of course, my good sir," Millie said with overly pompous airs. She stepped forward daintily, as if she were wearing a sequined gown and satin heels instead of jeans and pumps. "The, uh, pleasure is all mine!" She started to bow, then changed her mind halfway and tried to curtsy. It didn't end well, as she stumbled forward and would have fallen if Orestes hadn't caught her.
Millie's face couldn't have been more red. Orestes helped her regain her balance and gently patted her back.
"Nice try," he said more naturally than before, with a hint of amusement.
Millie scurried back to hide behind Junior without so much as a mumbled thanks. She caught Achilles' tongue lolling from between his slightly parted jaws in what looked suspiciously like a canine grin.
"There is someone else present," Orestes said for Junior's benefit, turning slightly. "I hope you don't mind."
The chair beside Orestes shifted. A woman cleared her throat; not nervously, but as deliberately as an introduction.
"Ms. Phokas," Orestes said. "If you would."
"Of course," she replied.
Her voice was measured. Professional. Not warm, not cold.
Millie's gaze settled on her at once. The woman was older than Orestes by a decade, perhaps more. Grey threaded neatly through dark hair pulled back into a severe knot. Her clothes were conservative to the point of anonymity: tailored jacket, plain blouse, no visible jewellery beyond a plain chain at her throat.
Junior felt the name land like the weight of unwanted obligation across his shoulders.
Phokas. Alexis Phokas.
"Thamish Stoneberg, Junior," the woman was saying. "Thank you for agreeing to meet."
Junior gripped Achilles' harness tightly with suddenly clammy hands.
"Ms. Phokas," he exhaled deeply. Then to his uncle, "You didn't mention this," he added, working to keep his voice even.
Orestes folded his hands. "You didn't do what you said," he stated with equal evenness that only Junior knew was meant to be an accusation.
Alexis looked between the two of them.
"Mr. Stoneberg? Thamish did agree to meet with me, did he not?"
"Of course," Orestes replied easily, eyes still on Junior. "Just not … recently."
Her lips pressed together tightly.
"I apologize for intruding where I am not welcome," she said to Junior as she stood briskly. "Good day, gentlemen." Two steps brought her to the doorway where Junior stood, and she paused. "Excuse me." She spoke the words more like a command than a request.
Junior didn't move.
"Wait." He steeled himself. "I … I'm sorry."