Chapter Four: The Bank and The School
The news spread, Horwood House had finally sold, throughout Rivertown -- gossip flames dancing on the tongues of the town’s people. It was like a spark falling into a tuft of dry grass: it ignited into full flame and caught on with amazing speed. By the time Grizzelda was on her way to the bank the next morning, the entire town had been alerted.
From her outward appearance--all grace, refinement, and cucumber cool--she gave the impression she was unaware that people were staring at her as she walked by.
A man bent down over a trash can, pretending to search for something he’d lost. He was the first of several lookouts posted along the street watching for ‘the tall woman in dark clothing.’ He vaguely wondered why the Bank Manager, Mr. Blandish found it necessary to be alerted of the woman’s approach, but he knew from experience it was better not to ask “stupid questions.” So, the man waited, looking as nonchalant as possible and waited.
And, sure enough, ‘the tall woman in dark clothing,’ rather severe and stern, was easy to spot. She strode toward him, a long, silk scarf wrapped around her neck, flaring out behind. He straightened up and sneezed into a tissue--the approved signal. Before anyone could say Gesundheit, the predetermined alert had traveled all the way down to the bank.
‘Strange,’ thought Grizzelda, raising a distrusting eyebrow, ‘it appears that half a dozen good citizens have come down with a cold and they’re all sneezing in synchronization.’
Outside the Bank of Rivertown, a teller sneezed convincingly into a tissue, blotted her perfectly dry nose with it, then slipped back inside the bank where Mr. Blandish nodded to her and signaled for her to take her predetermined place.
Grizzleda was reminded why she disliked outside so much. It was full of covert looks, full of hypocrisy, full of hasty judgments. Anyone who was different could be, and often was, a target. These were her memories before she found solace with Grandfather Thunder in Pansy Patch. Even though she tried not to let it show, the dissolution of their home in the park and the near death of Grandfather Thunder had profoundly affected her. She didn’t want Colin, Spike or Melissa to know how unsure she was of herself. She took a deep, calming breath. These people would never be given the slightest indication of how she felt, or what had taken place all those years ago. All they would see -- all she would permit them to see -- was a cold, imperious woman come to claim what was rightfully hers. She suddenly understood why her own Grandfather, Zuhayer Horwood had despised most of the people in this town … but then, he had despised almost everyone, no matter where they lived or who they were, including his own progeny.
She had been so distraught, so traumatized, when Grandfather Thunder found her, clinging desperately to the baby, that he had veiled most of her memories. She had needed time to come to grips with the trauma, and now, it was that time. With him gone, snippets, remembrances, began to flicker through her consciousness: the old memory of Horwood House, her family’s estate, her sister, and her overwhelming sense of guilt. This was what made her unsure. Either she face the trauma or ignore it, pretend it wasn’t real. She decided on the latter.
Then last night, in her room at Horwood House, the one with the window that gave a view of the old, stately sugar maple, she’d had a waking dream:
She took one of the books from the dusty oak shelf and opened the cover to reveal a list of names in the scrawling script of a child. At the top of the list was the name Millicent Horwood. Underneath it were a number of variations: Millicent Inglis, Millicent Jones, and Millicent Star Blanket. She flipped the book around to look at the title and ran her fingers over it knowing that this was indeed her book. Then he was there--or the image was there--a tall gaunt man with a sallow complexion and deep haunting depressions where his eyes should have been. He floated outside the window, trying to tell her something. A host of painful childhood memories came rushing back to her, none of which she wanted to revisit. (It was this pleading, this sobbing, that Colin had heard the night before when he’d sneaked passed her door.) She had followed this image outside, stood beside the statue, and before she could sense the danger, it had touched her. Too late, she realized it was a Shadow Nix. This spirit had slipped inside. Still, she felt fine, however, she was getting thoughts, mean, ugly thoughts. She could manage them, so she thought.
Now, as Grizzelda walked toward the bank, the pockets of her chic, tightly-belted trench coat weighted with gold coins, she fought the feeling that this was her town, her rightful place. Even though Grandfather Thunder had treated her with respect, she could not shake herself of a brooding mournfulness of her other grandfather.
A voice inside her head gave a menacing chuckle. “The book is evidence, condemning Grandfather Thunder. He kidnapped you and your sister’s baby!”
Feeling slightly dizzy, she stumbled a few steps. This was not true. The heartless voice continued to spew out its hatred. She fought it, remembering Grandfather Thunder’s gentleness, his humour, his kindly face. Shaking her head to clear the odd sensation in her ears, the dizziness faded away and she regained her composure.
Grizzelda reached the entrance to the bank and pulled open the heavy, glass door. Despite instructions to conduct business as usual, everyone in the bank gawked at her. The imperious voice inside her demanded that she meet and hold their gazes until they looked away. “They need to be reminded who is the master and who is the servant.” Giving them a carnivorous smile, that wasn’t entirely hers, she entered the bank.
Mr. Blandish stood waiting for her beside a large, potted rubber plant outside his office door. His white, thin hands, folded in front of him like those of a funeral director, sharply contrasted against the black suit he was wearing. His slicked-back, dark hair, held in place by glossy gel, his pencil thin mustache and goatee, and his glimmering, black eyes, all leant a sinister air to his demeanor. One of the hands floated away from his suit towards her. She reached out and grasped it aggressively, leaning in and kissing him on both cheeks. She knew, just like she’d known with the real estate agent, how to disarm a man, how to get his complete attention for however long she needed it.
Mr. Blandish, his eyes opening wide in awe, touched the sides of his face where a set of “Raspberry-Glow” lip prints bloomed. With two quick swipes of her thumb, Grizzelda removed the lipstick from the stunned man’s cheeks. He wiped his hands down the front of his suit, as if dusting himself off, and cleared his throat. With a formal bow, he introduced himself, and she reciprocated. He then ushered her into his office and sat down behind his desk. Like a pair of agitated swallows, his hands fluttered nervously from a small stack of papers to his pen, to momentarily roost in a folded clasp. His mustache twitched. “Yes, well, thank you for coming by so soon. I have your papers ready for signing. May I inquire as to how you would like to pay for Horwood House? It is very…” He was going to say “expensive,” but was halted by the deft, confident manner of the woman he now faced. Marcus was right to call her a ‘Diana,’ she had the feel of a huntress about her.
Grizzelda proceeded to disgorge her pockets of the gold coins onto his desk. As the last coin clinked into an awkward pile, Blandish, was visibly vibrating.
“The down payment,” said Grizzelda arching her brow.
“The down payment?” repeated Blandish. “Oh! Yes. Yes, this should be more than enough.” After a long pause, “Should we set up the mortgage and rate of interest?”
“That will hardly be necessary,” said Grizzelda, her inner voice taking command of the situation, as though she was reminding the bank manager of his lowly, parasitical status. “Could the bank send an armored vehicle over to the house, this evening, for the rest?”
“Yes -- yes, of course,” he said, the whites of his eyes taking on a golden luster.
The legend spoke of a fortune hidden somewhere in Horwood House. It was one of the main reasons he’d been able to talk the bank trustees into purchasing it; however, a
thorough search of the house had revealed nothing. Now, here, he was staring at a pile of the gold they’d failed to find. But it wasn’t this alone that made his hands shake: the gold coins were a sign, a portentous sign of THE RETURN.
He stared at the gold, then at the woman, then back at the gold, and once more at the woman, where his eyes bored into her, his capacity to breathe, forgotten.
Meanwhile, through the large glassed-in wall of Blandish’s office, the entire inhabitants of the bank were staring in at Grizzelda and the gold.
“Excuse me,” said Blandish, his voice cracking, as he got up to close the blinds, “you’ll have to forgive them. It’s not often that someone buys a house worth millions. (And pays for it in gold coins!) Now, you understand, the taxes due on Horwood House are quite substantial?”
Grizzelda shrugged, looking bored. “It doesn’t matter. The amount won’t make a dent in my funds.”
He hesitated again--thinking of the lost fortune. Grizzelda cleared her throat.
“Sorry,” he muttered. “Your name is Grizzelda Star Blanket?”
“My name is, Millicent Horwood.”
Blandish made a painful gulping sound deep in his throat and froze in place. His eyes widened. “You have proof of this? A birth certificate?”
“No, no proof. Not yet. I just know it. I know your petty laws require my official name. You may use Grizzelda Star Blanket, but my real name is Millicent Horwood.”
She said this with such confidence that the bank manager felt certain his secret campaign to claim the Horwood fortune was truly at an end. However, as the sinking feeling dissipated, an idea, a slithering, sly idea, to get his hands on some of the money came to him. He placed his pen down on the desk and folded his hands together pensively.
“You know, if this is true, you wouldn’t have to buy the house at all. You see a will was left. It specified that the house would be kept in the ‘family.’ We thought there were no Horwoods left, so the bank bought the house and slowly, over the years has been liquidating Mr. Horwood’s possessions. The last to be sold was the House. Now, if it turns out that you are indeed the…”
“Granddaughter.”
“Yes, the granddaughter of Zuhayer Horwood…the house, along with his remaining possessions, would revert to you. Of course you would have to recompense the bank, but it would not cost as much as the current market value. The market value would revert to the price at the time the bank took it over.”
Grizzelda’s eyes narrowed surreptitiously. She knew instinctively that Blandish wanted something, that he wasn’t telling her this out of the goodness of his heart, something she suspected his heart had little knowledge of.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“Nothing other than, to handle your finances…for a small percentage on income earned.”
Grizzelda shrugged. It might just as well be this banker, as any other, who handles the money--as long as I get Horwood House. “How do I prove I’m a Horwood?”
“Just a cotton swab on the inside of the mouth. Once the results come back from the lab, we’ll know if your DNA shows a match to the sample Mr. Horwood kept on file. Even though DNA didn’t exist in Mr. Horwood’s time, he showed great foresight. He left us samples of his hair with the will.
Grizzelda nodded. “It will match.”
Blandish licked his lips greedily. By personally handling the Horwood fortune, I can quit this crummy job, and earn hundreds of thousands a year. And, of course, there‘ll be other benefits that will come with THE RETURN.