The memory, though haunting, was not new to Alistair. The turbulent waters, the ominous clouds that painted the sky, and the heart wrenching loss of lives — all etched in to the fabric of his being. The bitterness of resentment, simmering beneath the surface, now surged forth with renewed intensity.
No one needed to die that day. Alistair would never forgive Jonathan for that. The burden of that day weighed heavily on his shoulders, and the resentment that had festered over time threatened to consume him. There was no way he could let Jonathan find a treasure, it would not be fair to Trevor and the others.
Alistair smiled to himself, certain that this night had just given him the answers he needed. Now all he had to do was find out more about the River Lox and what clues might be there. Since he could not ask either Jonathan or Genevieve, he was going to have to find someone else who might have some ideas.
With a calculated grace, he headed back inside and approached the Duke of Cavendale, who held court amidst the lavish surroundings. Alistair exchanged general pleasantries, his demeanor composed yet subtly charged with an underlying determination. The Duke, unaware of the currents beneath the surface, welcomed Alistair into the ongoing conversation with a genial nod. Alistair engaged for a little while, before he subtly guided their conversation toward the heart of his current interests — the captivating region and, more specifically, the mysterious River Lox. The more he found out, the better equipped he would be to find this treasure.
“Your Grace,” he began, his tone casual, “Graftonshire is renowned for its breath taking beauty and rich heritage. It is a region with tales to tell.”
The Duke, pride evident in his demeanor, nodded. “Indeed, Lord Fitzroy. Graftonshire holds a tapestry of stories, each thread woven into the very fabric of its landscapes.”
Alistair raised his glass in agreement, concealing his true intentions behind the veneer of polite conversation. “I have heard whispers of a river that weaves through this enchanting county. River Lox, if I recall correctly? Is that somewhere you have spent a lot of time.”
The Duke’s expression shifted subtly, a nuanced acknowledgment. “Ah, River Lox,” he replied, a touch of nostalgia in his voice. “A river that has witnessed centuries unfold. Its waters are said to hold the echoes of forgotten tales and untold secrets. There are many stories surrounding that river. You must have heard a lot of them when you were younger.”
Leaning in, Alistair, his interest genuine but carefully veiled, inquired further. “Such rivers often become the stuff of legends. I wonder, Duke Cavendish, if you might share some of the tales associated with River Lox. A man of your stature surely has insights into the hidden corners of Graftonshire. If I have heard stories about this river when I was younger, then I do not recall.”
The Duke, pleased by the opportunity to recount the lore of his homeland, began to share stories of River Lox — its meandering course through ancient woodlands, the tales of mystical creatures said to inhabit its banks, and the folklore passed down through generations.
“It snakes through Graftonshire like a silvery ribbon, its waters carrying the whispers of ages past. Legend has it that the river’s source lies deep within the heart of the ancient woodlands, a place untouched by the hands of time. That is why the trees are thought to whisper. Because they have never been damaged by humans.”
Alistair listened attentively, his interest genuine as he absorbed the details. “That is fascinating.”
The Duke continued, “The locals say that River Lox has a spirit of its own — a guardian of the land. In the moonlit nights, some claim to have heard melodic murmurs rising from its waters, as if the river itself is telling stories to those who would listen.”
“Please,” Alistair said with a smile. “Tell me more.”
The Duke’s words painted a vivid picture of a river steeped in mystique. “The banks of River Lox are adorned with ancient stones, each bearing the weight of centuries. It is said that these stones mark the passage of time, bearing witness to the ebb and flow of Graftonshire’s history.”
Alistair, captivated by the information he was getting here, prompted the Duke to share more. “And are there specific landmarks along the river that hold significance?”
The Duke nodded, a knowing gleam in his eyes. “Indeed, there is a spot known as Serenity Bend, where the river takes a gentle turn, revealing a hidden alcove shaded by ancient willows. It is a place of tranquility and natural beauty, often frequented by locals seeking solace or inspiration. Oh, and then there is the Whispering Glen,” he continued. “A secluded glade where the river’s current seems to carry the secrets of the world. Locals often visit the Glen, believing that the murmurs in the air hold answers to life’s mysteries.”
The Duke, unsuspecting and wrapped in the charm of conversation, provided morsels of information that Alistair eagerly absorbed. Each detail, no matter how seemingly trivial, was a puzzle piece in Alistair’s quest for understanding. The currents of the River Lox, its twists and turns, its hidden secrets — all began to take shape in his mind.
“And have you heard anything about treasure?” Alistair asked, hoping that he could sound innocent here. Not that he was looking for anything.
The duke laughed. “Oh my, yes. Many a man has driven himself insane looking for treasure.”
“How funny.” Alistair laughed lightly. “I can only imagine.”
Alistair’s demeanor remained composed, his expressions betraying nothing of the intricate web he wove with each carefully crafted question. The parlor, adorned with elegance and refinement, became the setting for a silent exchange of information, a dance of words that held the promise of uncovering hidden treasures. He appreciated every part of what he was being told here, and he knew that it would take it with him on his brand new mission.
The evening at Cavendale Manor progressed in a whirl of laughter, music, and the clinking of crystal glasses. Yet, for Alistair, the festivities were but a kaleidoscope of colors obscuring the intricate maze of plans and strategies that churned relentlessly in his mind.
His interaction with the Duke of Cavendale, the unsuspecting harbinger of information, drew to a seemingly casual conclusion. Alistair raised his glass in a toast, the crystal catching the ambient light in a dazzling display. To the onlookers, it was a gesture of camaraderie and celebration, but in Alistair’s mind, it was a silent acknowledgment of a future yet to unfold.
As the cool liquid touched his lips, Alistair’s thoughts were far from the present revelry. In that moment of shared pleasantries, he toasted to more than the night’s festivities. It was a toast to a future of triumph, a future where the treasures of the River Lox would be within his grasp. The clink of glasses resonated like a bell tolling the beginning of a calculated pursuit.
Retribution, too, found its place in the silent toast. The resentment that had long simmered within him now bubbled to the surface, and Alistair envisioned a day when the scales of justice would tip in his favor. The treasure, a means to an end, would not only secure wealth but also serve as a vessel for revenge against Jonathan and Genevieve.
As the night wore on, and the echoes of laughter mingled with the strains of music, Alistair moved through the crowd with a sense of purpose that belied the facade of social congeniality. The evening was a masquerade, and he, the orchestrator of a clandestine symphony, continued to weave the threads of his plans with every step.
In the grandeur of Cavendale Manor, where opulence and intrigue coexisted, Alistair’s mind raced ahead to a future shaped by his calculated endeavors. The night, with all its charm and allure, became the backdrop for a silent oath — a vow to seize the treasure and, in doing so, rewrite the narrative of his past with a pen dipped in the ink of triumph and retribution.
CHAPTER 18
The estate awoke to a picturesque scene, a world transformed by a blanket of fresh snow that adorned every tree branch and roof. The morning sun cast a soft, golden glow over the landscape, turning it into a winter wonderland.
