Whispers of the Silver Coasts

Helen Bell couldn't believe what she held in her hands. It was the most exquisite piece of mail, and without comparison the most enigmatic, she had ever received.

Ms. Bell,

We have been monitoring your work and believe you may be an ideal candidate for an extremely unique opportunity we are offering. Attached is a job offer for the restoration of an historically significant mural located at Wolfe Manor, on the Silver Coast of Portugal, a privately owned estate.

If you accept, please call the number below. You must come now. No name, no nothing. Just an address she had to Google-an isolated manor atop a wind-carved bluff on the Atlantic coast. The mystery and anonymity might have been thrilling if they hadn't also seemed so eerie and menacing.

Her life in Red Creek, Pennsylvania, had been what people here called predictable. She thought she had escaped after her parents died without warning five years ago and she disappeared into her work with such ferocity that some believed she was trying to outrun the eerie quiet of an empty house. But here is where she'd ended up; stuck somehow still, just not as comfortably.

This offer, bizarre as it seemed at face value, felt like the life preserver she'd prayed would come floating by.

Two weeks later Helen stood on a cobblestone path that wound up to Wolfe Manor, her heart pounding as she stared at the formidable estate. The mansion seemed to blot out the sky with its sheer mammoth size. It looked new and sleek in comparison to the jagged cliffs it was build upon, made entirely of glass that glittered like ice. It was so high up that you could see Cape Malachim at the top.

She frowned as she realized she was mentally ahead of everyone else.

'You must be Ms. Bell.' Helen turned to see a woman walking up to meet them - tall, in her mid-forties, with dark hair pinned neatly behind her ears. She was wearing a fitted black dress and heels that seemed to walk untroubled on the cobbled street.

" I 'm Sofia Mendes," the woman said and extended a hand "I manage the estate. Mr. Wolfe is expecting you."

Helen nodded and shook Sofia's hand, her cool firm grip matched the coldness of her voice.

"Thank you. It's... beautiful here," Helen said, though the word wasn't quite right. The estate was breathtaking, but something dark lurked in its corners.

Sofia smiled briefly at that. "It will be. Come."

Inside, Wolfe Manor was somehow even more intimidating. The ceilings were miles high, and the whole place was decorated in stark white. It felt more like a museum than a home with it's floor to ceiling windows that overlooked the ocean but Helen couldn't see anything besides empty wall space.

"Mr.Wolfe likes simplicity," Sofia said from behind her as if reading her mind. "He likes function. Nothing else."

"Do I look like an art lover to you?," said Sofia, smiling. Helen was somewhat taken aback - why would anyone hire her to work with something they had no interest in?. "I suppose Mr Wolfe wanted someone who actually gets this stuff."

They stopped before a door at the far end of the hallway. Sofia rapped on it once then let herself inside without an invite.

"Your guest has turned up, sir."

The room was a library, yet it seemed unlike any library Helen had ever seen. Tall bookshelves made from a dark wood she did not recognize reached all the way up to the high ceilings. Every shelf was crowded with what seemed to be hundreds of leather-bound books. A fire blazed in a large hearth on one wall and near one of the tall frosted windows stood john Wolfe.

He pivoted gracefully as they stepped inside, causing Helen to suck in her breath sharply. john Wolfe was younger than she'd thought he would be-mid-thirties maybe-and he practically oozed that sort of easy-going good looks that most women couldn't help but feel attracted to. His thick black hair was trimmed back off his forehead, but she could tell it would curl if allowed to grow too long.

"Ms. Bell," he said, his voice was smooth but distant. "Welcome to Wolfe Manor."

Helen smiled politely. "Thank you for inviting me Mr. Wolfe. I'm honored to be working on your mural."

His stare was so intense it felt like he was looking right into her soul, it was unnerving and impossible to break free from staring back.

"Sofia explained what you have to do I take it?' He said

She did. A mural, I believe, near the chapel?" Helen said, feeling the weight of his gaze.

"That's right. It hasn't been touched in years, and I think it's well past time it was restored to its former glory. The mural is an important part of this family's history and mine too."

Helen felt that there was a seriousness in his voice that made her feel like the assignment was more important than he was making it .

"Sure, I can do that. No problem."

"You'll have free rein of the chapel, and all the resources you could possibly need. Sofia, would you be so kind as to escort our guest to his quarters? We shall continue this in the morning."

Helen paused, but he'd already returned his attention to the window; his posture rigid. She glanced at Sofia who nodded and mirrored her once more.

The room they took her to was comfortable, a bedroom for one person with a view of the sea, a little lounge area too. But as Sofia left her alone Helen felt she'd walked into something much more complicated than an old building being done up.

Later that night, lying in bed, Helen couldn't sleep. Unable to take the silence that lay heavy over Wolfe Manor, she finally got up and roamed the hallways in bare feet. The old place had harbored ghosts and guilt for sure but there was also peace here.

She had wandered to the chapel and looking through one of many tiny glass windows as high up in the wall as it was possible to put glass, saw moonlight on stone. Inside, everything was silent except for the sound of waves breaking upon a shore.

Helen didn't know what drew her to this particular room – maybe because for once Dr.Winslow hadn't cluttered it with the bits and pieces of some idiotic cult. Maybe because without them mucking up the works she could fully appreciate how beautiful–how simple-her new abode really was.

The walls were pale blue marble from floor to beam ceiling. A mural took up most of one whole wall at what would have been street level if anyone other than Lord Byron would give a damn about calling Beronsdale a city. It was a painting of a man and woman standing on a cliff, their faces anguished. Between them, the ocean churned, swallowing a ship in the distance. It was tragic and beautiful.

"What are you doing here?" The voice made her jump and she spun around to find john standing in the doorway, the hall light behind him casting his face in shadow.

"I couldn't sleep," she said quickly. "I came to see the mural."

He moved nearer, not looking at her or away from the painting. "You shouldn't be here so late."

Helen frowned. "In the chapel?"

"In the manor," he said, his voice low.

The wind howled once more. It made its way through some weak point in the chapel's stone walls. Then john looked up at her, and for a moment there passed between them something that was not spoken-she did not know whether it was understanding or warning.

"Get what sleep you can now, Ms. Bell," he said then. "You'll need it."

But as he turned and went into the dark hall, Helen couldn't help feeling that john Wolfe was still hiding something a lot more sinister than he had disclosed so far.

Helen woke to the sound of waves pounding on a shore. Before opening her eyes she sensed that her room was full of dull, grey light, muffled by gauzy curtains. For a moment or two she was quite at a loss; where on earth could she have arrived? Then memory flooded back-John Wolfe's queer arrival, his odd talk, and the amazing mural.

After changing into her work clothes – faded jeans and a shirt she didn't mind getting paint on – she headed to the dining room where Sofia greeted her with a smile.

"Breakfast is served," Sofia said, motioning for her to sit down at a table piled high with fresh fruit, warm pastries, and coffee that smelled heavenly.

Helen sat but she felt comfortable in the large empty room. "Will Mr. Wolfe be joining us?"

Sofia nodded. "Mr. Wolfe rarely takes his meals here, he likes his solitude in the mornings."

Helen nodded again. Not that she'd have expected John Marquand to be one of those men who felt like indulging in idle chitchat over a cup of coffee.

When they finished, Sofia took her down to the chapel. The building's age showed more in the sunlight than it had at midnight. The stone was all pitted and old-looking, ivy growing up along the corners as if nature intended to reclaim it.

Inside, the mural was brighter than Helen had realized, though age had muted it. The colors were pale and fragile, and spiderweb cracks wound through them like varicose veins. She set her bag on the floor to take a closer look.

In the center, a man and woman floated in choppy waters. The man's hand reached for the woman-either to catch or stop her-but there was something of resignation in her expression; she was already lost. In the distance was an ethereal wreck of some great ship. It made Helen feel unbearably sad for both of them.

She got her notebook out and started to draw. The ceiling was too high for her to see anything properly, but she could make out lighter areas where the paint had peeled away altogether. There was someone in front of her and she looked up. 'What do you think?' said John.

"It's beautiful, but... heavy. There's so much emotion in it. Whoever painted this wanted to tell a story."

John took a step closer, studying the mural with unblinking eyes. His voice barely reached her ears. "Do you think you can bring it back to life?"

"I will try, but it can be a bit much to fix, and i'll need some time." He nodded without any visible reaction. "I'm in no rush, just don't do anything that could risk you."

"Careful?" she asked, her head canting slightly. "Some things just isn't to be fixed," he said like a riddle, and he walked out of the house, trying not to look back. "You keep your mind on what you're supposed to be fixin." He didn't know if she could understand him across forever and he tried not to think that far ahead but didn't know how in the world to stop it."

Before she could ask what he meant, John turned and left, his footsteps echoing through the chapel.

Shaking off the chill that ran down her back at the sound of his retreating steps, Helen returned to her work. She took a stiff-bristle brush from one pocket and scraped grime from the white marble wall just to the right of an ornate altar depicting some kind of monster being fought by a man on horseback. The monster's mouth was open and flames billowed out in yellow and gold flames tinged with fiery orange.

Helen spared only enough time to consider how odd it was that she had never noticed this mural before John pointed it out as she quickly worked to free more colors from beneath their tomb of accumulated dirt.)

She leaned in closer, brushing away the dirt to expose the script written in a language she knew enough of to recognize some of the words: love, betrayal, curse.

Her stomach dropped. The mural wasn't simply a mural.

It had been hours, but Helen hadn't felt the cold or noticed how much darker it was in the chapel. When Sofia came to the door of the chapel, she looked up and spoke softly, "The day is almost over. You should come inside."

Helen glanced at her watch and jerked it to her face, as though checking that it still worked. "You're right," she sighed regretfully. She closed her portfolio and put away her pencils, glancing around one last time before following Sofia back to the cottage.

Back at the manor Helen moved into the small study next to her room, going through the pictures she shot of the mural. She couldn't get one word out of her head; inscription. What could it mean? And why John had hinted not to get too carried away?

Needing a break, Helen wandered the halls of Wolfe Manor trying to clear her head. The place was intimidating enough by day but at night with low lighting casting deep shadows on the marble floors, it felt no more than a prison. Room after room of antique furniture and books passed by, sterile and uninviting much like their owner.

In one hallway she came across a door that was cracked open only slightly, but it was enough for her to peer inside and get a glimpse. Curiosity prodded her to push it open, and she did so quietly, cautiously. It was a gallery room. She had never really known what that manor used to be before the Wiltshire's were in possession of it. But if this place had indeed been an art museum at some point then the rumor would definitely make sense.

Art covered every single space on the walls and even spilled onto the floor – sculptures at least three or four deep lined up in rows, paintings stacked on top of one another with just enough space to breathe between each work. All other parts of the estate seemed practically abandoned except for these hallways now filled with art. But these halls were not like those Helen saw when passing through her uncle's apartment building while he worked late into his laboratory hours. This hallway...everywhere else here...it seemed nothing ever changed.

Nothing aged.

In fact everything felt downright dusty...but not this gallery room! This unseen piece of heaven as far as Helen was concerned was alive compared with everything else in Willing House! There weren't any old paintings either. Old-looking ones yea – they couldn't account for how much wiping dust away could have fooled her but still seeing before what time could do to paint...

No these works appeared freshly painted! Recently brushed displayed styles sometimes seen around though usually more generic modernism too: but styles mostly gone save in pictures found within textbooks glowing onto monitor screens!

And there wasn't just zagat rating new. Stylish looked poked and prodded seven times out of ten obnoxious abstract as always whether from those wishing themselves painters or pretentious college graduates scammers both who insisted they were:

All wrong!

For among all this postmodern monstrosity vaguely familiar sure literal WTF-inducing posts loomed rightly immersed in mind-bending fifteen-minutes-of-fame art movements intriguing enigmatic surrealism. And for some reason Helen wasn't near as curious to find out the reason none at all as she knew she should have been.

"Like it?" Helen jumped and spun around to see John in the doorway, his solid frame taking up the entire space. She blushed at having been found out.

"I'm not prying," she rushed to explain.

"Not at all." The words came out crisper than he intended. "It was my sister's vault. She was an artist."

Helen's chest constricted. "Was?"

John's jaw tightened, and for a second she thought he wouldn't answer. "She died several years ago. This was her sanctuary."

"I'm so sorry," Helen whispered.

He nodded, and his eyes drifted to the painting she had been looking at. "She did this one a few months before she died. It's one of my favorites."

Helen wanted to ask more, but felt that John had already told her more than he'd intended. Instead she looked back at the painting and let the silence grow around them.

Then John spoke again, his voice softer. "The mural in the chapel was one of her many manias. She thought it had secrets ... or peace. I don't know which."

Helen looked at him quizzically. "Answers to what?" John's expres- sion grew more serious. "Questions you don't want to know the answers to."

With that, he turned and left, leaving Helen alone in the gallery.

Staring up at the painting of the woman on the cliff, a shiver tingled down her spine. That mural wasn't just paint on a wall; it was part of the Wolfe family's history, and whatever secrets it held were linked to John in ways she couldn't yet understand.

But if you want me to keep going just let me know!

The sun sank below the edge of twilight. The temperature in Wolfe Manor dropped, and darkness pooled into all its corners. Helen was alone in her room, the heavy drapes pulled shut, and beyond the glass she stared out at the black ocean, midnight waves of turbulence under a setting sun.

She shook off thoughts of the gallery and John's words. She had wanted to feel that perhaps she had entered something of her old life, but there was an importance to this that overshadowed anything she had been through before.

A slight rap on the door interrupted her.

"Helen?" came Sofia's voice from behind the door, as calm as ever.

"Yes?" Helen got up out of the chair.

"Helen, Mr. Wolfe would like you to have dinner with him in the main dinning room." Helen's stomach dropped. She hadn't thought she'd be having dinner with him especially after today. "Okay, what time?"

"Now," Sofia said, with a smile that showed all her teeth, polite but not so much.

Helen ran back and changed into something more appropriate: an emerald-green sweater over a dark slacks. Hopefully it accomplished business casual without getting too fancy. She walked into the dining room to see John at the head of the long table, already seated with a glass of red wine in his hand.

"Helen," he said as he saw her, standing up.

"Mr. Wolfe," she replied her smile tentative.

"John will do." The sound of her name on his lips sent an odd flip-flop through her chest. She nodded and took the seat Sofia had indicated, directly to John's right. The table-a seemingly endless expanse of gleaming mahogany set beneath a warm wash of light from a wrought-iron chandelier overhead- was spectacular.

Dinner arrived with the same precision as everything else within the manor. A thick soup appeared before her, followed by flaky fish and steamed vegetables, a basket of warm bread set down as well. It was all delicious but it felt like a rock in Katherine's stomach.

"I trust you are at ease," John finally spoke, his tone polite but cool.

"Yes, thank you."' Helen stared at her wineglass. "The manor is lovely. And the mural...I think I'm going to try to restore it.' John's laughter echoed through the room.'

"You're welcome. I like this place too, and the mural isn't yours to ruin...''"

Again the weight in his voice, as if this mural meant more than art.

'Do you mind if I ask, how old is it?' The fork made a faint tapping noise as Helen laid it on her plate.

John's eyes filled suddenly with tears. "One of my forebears had it painted not long after the Wolfe family first came here. I suppose no one knows who he got to do it, but it's been in the house ever since, passed on whenever a new generation inherited."

"But your sister," Helen persisted. "You said she was an artist."

"She was." John turned and stared moodily up at the portrait. "That picture you saw - her idea of herself, I think

John almost looked vulnerable for a flash of heartbeats. "It was Emily's favorite. She painted it with everything she had, but..." He shrugged; he didn't get it.

"She must have been very talented," Helen said gently.

"She was," John replied and there was a wistful note in his voice that made Helen want to change the subject.

Again silence descended over them, the sound of utensils against porcelain the only noise. Helen wanted so much to ask more about Emily, about the mural, or even about the chapel itself but she sensed questioning too far would be asking too much. John Wolfe was a man who hid secrets behind walls of steel and mortar and right now she wasn't sure if she had it within her to break them down.

John asked her if shed like to join him for a drink in the library after dinner. Helen hesitated for just long enough before she agreed.

And asleep, the library was more remarkable still: John woke and poured two fingers of whiskey. He walked over to the fireplace, shaking out the coals and lighting it, flames casting on grinning reflections shelf after shelf of plates and glasses. Pouring a second drink, John made his way back towards Helen.

"To our mural up there," he suggested.

"To history," Helen toasted, clinking her glass on his.

They drank in silence, the whiskey rich and biting. John settled back into his seat, looking out at Lord Naughton's hearth.

"Helen," he said, after a long space of time. "Why do you do what you do?"

She blinked. Had she heard him right? "You mean art?" "Yes," she said. "Restoration, painting-it's not an easy life."

"No," Helen laughed. "I love it - there's something about bringing old things back to life, giving them a second chance, feels... important. Like I'm preserving something that matters."

John 's gaze locked with hers, and for one awful moment Helen thought she saw...something. An emotion not so different from her own reflecting in his eyes. "And what about your second chance?" John said softly. "What are you saving-for yourself?"

Helen froze, his words pressing a button she had not anticipated. "I..." She trailed off. How could she explain? Her life in Pennsylvania, the death of her parents and the pressure of trying to make something of herself were still too close for comfort.

"I guess I'm not really sure," she said finally.

John nodded as if he'd expected nothing less. "The mural-it's more than a painting. It's a warning, a map to everything that happened before we got here. Some of my own family's history-names were spelled out on that wall."

"Why?" Helen asked. She leaned a bit closer.

John paus- ed and then shook his head. "I'll tell you some other time."

Before she had a chance to, Sofia hurried in from outside. "I'm sorry, Mr. Wolfe, there's a call for you."

He placed his glass on the table and stood up. "If you'll excuse me."

After he'd gone, Helen stared into the fire blankly for several minutes, his attempt to dissuade her from asking him questions only nastied up the murals and the Wolfe affair; and she felt sure that whatever he was concealing would make its presence felt some day. But as she finished her drink and began climbing the stairs to her room, she wondered if she were ready yet to face it.