While Jenn and Vitus sat on the bolted picnic table bench and discussed their future plans, Philip stood at the bow, leaning against the railing and looking at the cold, churning sea.
"What're you doin' out here?" asked Hayes. He emerged from the cabin, wiping his hands with a rag.
"Nothing," said Philip. "Just thinking."
"Why don't you go chat with the kids? May do you some good to socialize with as much time as you spend cooped up in that mansion."
"I'm not sure that would be a good idea. There's no use in getting attached to them."
Hayes squinted. "Getting attached to them? Damn, Phil, they ain't dogs."
"I only meant that the more time they spend with us, the more they get to know about us. Sure, there's a good chance we get them out of here and they get to live happily ever after, but what if the Russian gets his hands on them? If you ask me, the less time they spend with us, the less likely it is that any of this gets traced back to us and Jacobi."
Hayes shook his head. "You know, kiddo, sometimes you're too smart for your own good," he said.
After a spirited discussion on the pros and cons of living in a European villa, in which Jenn was dead set on France while Vitus argued unsuccessfully for something closer to Vienna, the antique-dealer and his partner sat quietly as they stared at the rough sea. They were absorbed in their own thoughts like sponges that hadn't been wrung out.
Vitus began to trace a mental map of the events that led up to this very moment, but it was not the sort of map that could lead him home again. It was strictly for display. He began to wonder about his now-infamous settee, a seemingly simple piece of furniture that had led to so much trouble. Vitus knew only the following about the mysterious piece: it originated in the mid to late 18th Century (most likely in the United States), it had traveled all across the world as if handed back and forth from one private collection to the next, and it was still in remarkable condition. He knew there had to be more to its history if some people were willing to kill for it, or at the very least kill to make sure no one else could learn of its current location. This, in turn, led Vitus to question the intentions of one Malcolm Ivanovich, the client who set up the deal in the first place. Vitus was especially curious because Ivanovich, as it happened, also provided the contact for the settee's previous owner. Vitus had thought nothing of it at the time, instead assuming that a grateful customer was doing him a favor in return. Only now did he begin to realize that he'd been made a patsy.
He also wondered about the fate of his shop and all the antiques that, figuratively speaking, called Bethel's Fine Finds home. He knew he would barely have time to pack his own necessary belongings and felt a melancholic itch knowing he'd have no time to make arrangements for the shop, where Rasputin's men would almost certainly head first. He cringed at the thought of his shop torn to pieces. An image formed in his mind--Alaska's largest collection of jade figurines in shattered pieces on the floor, the handmade grandfather clocks pushed over with their mechanical organs in dire need of a tune-up, the entire furniture selection of oaks and cherries and maples chopped to kindling. Vitus shivered.
Jenn's thoughts lingered on her long lost suitcase--the one she'd kept packed in her closet for just such an occasion, but the quick exit she'd hoped for was not the one she was now making. Despite her excitement at finally leaving her small town, Jenn, too, felt a saddening twitch--hers at the prospect of never again working at the old bench in her home studio and how she might never get the chance to display the paintings that still laid in stacks against the walls.
Philip broke the fragile silence with the clapping of his heavy black boots against the deck of the boat.
"Twenty minutes until we dock," he said.
At that very moment, Vitus had finished putting the pieces of the past few days together, but he still had one nagging question that required an answer.
"Were you in my shop yesterday?" Vitus asked.
Philip shifted his eyes. "Technically, no, I was not in your shop yesterday."
"So you're saying someone was in my shop."
"It's possible, but I never said that."
"Wait, what?" asked Jenn, grabbing Vitus by the shoulder.
"Yesterday morning, I thought I was just being paranoid, but I had the feeling someone had been snooping around my shop. There were scratches on the storage unit's door frame," Vitus explained.
Jenn looked up at Philip. "You weren't just trying to weasel your way out of his question by using semantics, were you?"
Vitus' eyebrows shot up. After all, the word technically had been thrown around in Philip's response.
"Fine, if you must know, Hayes took a look inside your storage area. Mister Jacobi neither condones nor knows about that little incident. At the time, all we knew for sure was that the settee was in your possession and that it was not on display inside your shop."
"Okay," said Vitus. "But that's another thing. What is so damn special about this settee? I know it's old and in excellent condition, but why are Rasputin and Jacobi going to such great lengths to own it?"
Philip sighed again. He'd found himself doing that quite often lately. "You're better off not knowing," he said. "Trust me."
"At this point," began Jenn, "I think we've earned a thorough explanation."
"All right. Mister Jacobi and, we can assume, Rasputin believe that this settee is very special." Philip paused for a breath. Vitus and Jenn stared at him, demanding an answer with their eyes. "It's been at the site of every major revolution in the past two hundred years, and some people believe it's the cause."
"No, seriously," said Vitus.
"I am serious," said Philip. "Supposedly, the settee was crafted in the early 1760s. It was in Boston on the evening of March 5, 1777, when the Massacre took place. After that, it passed into the possession of Thomas Paine, who owned it until 1788, when it was given as a gift to Honoré Gabriel Riqueti, comte de Mirabeau, an influential French author and architect of the French Revolution, which began the following year. From France, it traveled across continental Europe until reaching Russia just before the Bolshevik Revolution. Shall I go into greater detail? This thing has a habit of showing up in unstable places, and while I think the whole magic power aspect is taken a bit too far, you must agree that an item that can be traced to all these places at these exact times would be worth a lot of money."
Vitus and Jenn still stared, but no longer for the same reason. They literally had no idea what to say. A question would form on Vitus' tongue only to drift away. Finally, one stuck.
"What?" asked Vitus. It was a question both simple and effective.
"I realize how absurd that all sounds. According to Mister Jacobi, all one must do is sit on the settee and contemplate a revolution, and it will be incited. It can be political, or cultural, or technological, or whatever. Of course, Mister Jacobi claims that he doesn't actually believe that, but sometimes I wonder about him."
"He wants another revolution?" asked Jenn.
"I don't know," said Philip. "He's an old man, and he misses the way things used to be. Like I said, sometimes I wonder about him." Philip checked his watch. "Fifteen minutes. Better get ready."
"What're you doin' out here?" asked Hayes. He emerged from the cabin, wiping his hands with a rag.
"Nothing," said Philip. "Just thinking."
"Why don't you go chat with the kids? May do you some good to socialize with as much time as you spend cooped up in that mansion."
"I'm not sure that would be a good idea. There's no use in getting attached to them."
Hayes squinted. "Getting attached to them? Damn, Phil, they ain't dogs."
"I only meant that the more time they spend with us, the more they get to know about us. Sure, there's a good chance we get them out of here and they get to live happily ever after, but what if the Russian gets his hands on them? If you ask me, the less time they spend with us, the less likely it is that any of this gets traced back to us and Jacobi."
Hayes shook his head. "You know, kiddo, sometimes you're too smart for your own good," he said.
***
After a spirited discussion on the pros and cons of living in a European villa, in which Jenn was dead set on France while Vitus argued unsuccessfully for something closer to Vienna, the antique-dealer and his partner sat quietly as they stared at the rough sea. They were absorbed in their own thoughts like sponges that hadn't been wrung out.
Vitus began to trace a mental map of the events that led up to this very moment, but it was not the sort of map that could lead him home again. It was strictly for display. He began to wonder about his now-infamous settee, a seemingly simple piece of furniture that had led to so much trouble. Vitus knew only the following about the mysterious piece: it originated in the mid to late 18th Century (most likely in the United States), it had traveled all across the world as if handed back and forth from one private collection to the next, and it was still in remarkable condition. He knew there had to be more to its history if some people were willing to kill for it, or at the very least kill to make sure no one else could learn of its current location. This, in turn, led Vitus to question the intentions of one Malcolm Ivanovich, the client who set up the deal in the first place. Vitus was especially curious because Ivanovich, as it happened, also provided the contact for the settee's previous owner. Vitus had thought nothing of it at the time, instead assuming that a grateful customer was doing him a favor in return. Only now did he begin to realize that he'd been made a patsy.
He also wondered about the fate of his shop and all the antiques that, figuratively speaking, called Bethel's Fine Finds home. He knew he would barely have time to pack his own necessary belongings and felt a melancholic itch knowing he'd have no time to make arrangements for the shop, where Rasputin's men would almost certainly head first. He cringed at the thought of his shop torn to pieces. An image formed in his mind--Alaska's largest collection of jade figurines in shattered pieces on the floor, the handmade grandfather clocks pushed over with their mechanical organs in dire need of a tune-up, the entire furniture selection of oaks and cherries and maples chopped to kindling. Vitus shivered.
Jenn's thoughts lingered on her long lost suitcase--the one she'd kept packed in her closet for just such an occasion, but the quick exit she'd hoped for was not the one she was now making. Despite her excitement at finally leaving her small town, Jenn, too, felt a saddening twitch--hers at the prospect of never again working at the old bench in her home studio and how she might never get the chance to display the paintings that still laid in stacks against the walls.
Philip broke the fragile silence with the clapping of his heavy black boots against the deck of the boat.
"Twenty minutes until we dock," he said.
At that very moment, Vitus had finished putting the pieces of the past few days together, but he still had one nagging question that required an answer.
"Were you in my shop yesterday?" Vitus asked.
Philip shifted his eyes. "Technically, no, I was not in your shop yesterday."
"So you're saying someone was in my shop."
"It's possible, but I never said that."
"Wait, what?" asked Jenn, grabbing Vitus by the shoulder.
"Yesterday morning, I thought I was just being paranoid, but I had the feeling someone had been snooping around my shop. There were scratches on the storage unit's door frame," Vitus explained.
Jenn looked up at Philip. "You weren't just trying to weasel your way out of his question by using semantics, were you?"
Vitus' eyebrows shot up. After all, the word technically had been thrown around in Philip's response.
"Fine, if you must know, Hayes took a look inside your storage area. Mister Jacobi neither condones nor knows about that little incident. At the time, all we knew for sure was that the settee was in your possession and that it was not on display inside your shop."
"Okay," said Vitus. "But that's another thing. What is so damn special about this settee? I know it's old and in excellent condition, but why are Rasputin and Jacobi going to such great lengths to own it?"
Philip sighed again. He'd found himself doing that quite often lately. "You're better off not knowing," he said. "Trust me."
"At this point," began Jenn, "I think we've earned a thorough explanation."
"All right. Mister Jacobi and, we can assume, Rasputin believe that this settee is very special." Philip paused for a breath. Vitus and Jenn stared at him, demanding an answer with their eyes. "It's been at the site of every major revolution in the past two hundred years, and some people believe it's the cause."
"No, seriously," said Vitus.
"I am serious," said Philip. "Supposedly, the settee was crafted in the early 1760s. It was in Boston on the evening of March 5, 1777, when the Massacre took place. After that, it passed into the possession of Thomas Paine, who owned it until 1788, when it was given as a gift to Honoré Gabriel Riqueti, comte de Mirabeau, an influential French author and architect of the French Revolution, which began the following year. From France, it traveled across continental Europe until reaching Russia just before the Bolshevik Revolution. Shall I go into greater detail? This thing has a habit of showing up in unstable places, and while I think the whole magic power aspect is taken a bit too far, you must agree that an item that can be traced to all these places at these exact times would be worth a lot of money."
Vitus and Jenn still stared, but no longer for the same reason. They literally had no idea what to say. A question would form on Vitus' tongue only to drift away. Finally, one stuck.
"What?" asked Vitus. It was a question both simple and effective.
"I realize how absurd that all sounds. According to Mister Jacobi, all one must do is sit on the settee and contemplate a revolution, and it will be incited. It can be political, or cultural, or technological, or whatever. Of course, Mister Jacobi claims that he doesn't actually believe that, but sometimes I wonder about him."
"He wants another revolution?" asked Jenn.
"I don't know," said Philip. "He's an old man, and he misses the way things used to be. Like I said, sometimes I wonder about him." Philip checked his watch. "Fifteen minutes. Better get ready."
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