The Savage Inheritance

A Curious Strand of Hair

Boston, 1745

Mister Edward Savage had resided in Boston, Massachusetts for many years before his gruesome and untimely death. An accidental flame, unintentional as proven by a following inquest, rose up in the small hours of morning and had engulfed most of the grand townhouse where the gentleman lived with his only daughter. He was the single casualty of the disaster. His daughter, the servants, and even the animals of the house were all brought to safety. None of the other homes on the stately block were harmed. And strangely enough, his beloved library had escaped destruction as well. All his books, every single volume, suffered not a singe.

Lawyers in midnight robes were dispatched following a funeral that buried a nearly empty coffin (nothing was found of Mister Savage following the fire, but his hands). They hemmed and hawed over crinkling, yellowed papers, the summer humidity making their starched collars chafe against their pasty necks. It was announced that Miss Mercy Savage was to inherit a sizable one thousand a year. The young woman would also come into the possession of every book, scrap of paper and pot of ink that had been kept in her father's library.

An awkward pause followed as the two men squinted at a hastily scratched note scrawled at the bottom of the will. One of the lawyers pushed the edge of the powdered wig from his sweaty forehead and cleared his throat.

"Though...it seems there is a...stipulation..."

Miss Savage glanced at Missus Winter, a respectable neighbor of advanced years who had taken her in after the fire. Missus Winter sniffed and lifted her sharp chin. "Well then? What is it?"

"Miss Savage will inherit everything... under the condition that she leaves Boston for... Watertown."

"But she has no family remaining there. Where will she reside? You cannot be suggesting she live alone? Unchaperoned?" Missus Winter babbled, grasping her charge's hands where they lay clenched in her lap.

The younger lawyer with a nervous blink in his right eye shook his head. "N-no, of course not. She is to live as a ward at the estate of her late father's particular friend."

Miss Savage wet her dry lips. "My father had no friends."

"Seems he had one." The lawyer with the wig held the will to the dying light of sunset. Missus Winter motioned for one of her servants to light the candles. "A Mister Cyril Bawden of Northcairn Hall."

"Well? Do you recognize the name?" Missus Winter insisted of her young friend.

Miss Savage shook her head wearily, wishing she could slip back into the chair in a most unbecoming manner and press her hands to her raw face. In all her nineteen years, her father had never mentioned this Cyril Bawden of Watertown. She hadn't seen Watertown since she was a child of ten years, her mother having died right before they'd relocated to Boston. Missus Waters and the two lawyers were just as ignorant of the name Bawden.

***

Mercy Savage sat at the bone white vanity in Missus Winter's guest room. It was now the best home in North End, since her own home no longer existed. The grand brick mansion where she had grown up was now a vacant lot of ash and refuse, other than the barred library. The crimson light of dawn burst like a tropical bloom along the city horizon. Sounds of the old town waking up in the street below floated up to her window. Horse hooves clattered down the cobblestones while shop owners and house servants said good morning to each other. 

In the reflection of the vanity mirror, Mercy studied the purple shadows under her blood shot eyes. Her cheeks were sunken and gray. Sleep had been hard to come by since the fire. Every sound in the night, creak of wood in the house, the chime of the clock, set her heart pounding.

Her insomnia had grown worse since the inquest. The authorities had asked if she had witnessed anything strange the night of the fire. In her stunned state, Mercy only blinked back at them and said no. Later, she recalled not seeing but hearing something odd while passing her father's library. The double doors were closed as usual, they always were whether Mister Savage was working inside or not. 

She had rarely entered the dusty room, he had always provided her with her own books and sitting room so there was never any need. Though it had never been spoken, Mercy was certain she wouldn't have been welcomed. Her father had never been a warm man, even towards his only child. 

The shadows in the windowless hall outside the library had closed in around Mercy and threatened to snuff the glow of her single candle. The faint echo of phantom horse hooves sounded outside and was followed by the wood floors as they creaked with invisible footfalls. She paused. Her father's voice murmured behind the door, the muted words asking a question she couldn't hear. But she was certain there was no one else inside to reply.

Mercy reached out for the door handle, her fingers hovering over it, when a dizzying fog numbed her mind. She pulled away without hesitation then she marched back to her bedroom. She was roused from a deep sleep by tendrils of smoke leeching under her door. Her chambermaid rushed in with wide eyes and loose hair, her nightgown smudged with soot. By the time they made it outside, the grand house was a loss, heat shattering the windows and the east wing of the house collapsing into ash. 

But the west wing, where Mister Savage had built his stone mausoleum of a library, remaining untouched. When venturing through the ruins in the early morning, she found the door knobs to the room still gleaming, untarnished by smoke or fire.

She ran a hand through her loose hair and pulled a swath of it across her face, still smelling the smoke in it despite it being weeks since the fire. She glanced into the mirror and her stomach dropped. Something was missing. She frantically brushed out her dark brown curls. Since childhood, a single lock of white hair had grown above her left ear. Inexplicably, now it was gone, the strands matching the rest of her head. The brush clattered to the floor as Mercy gaped at her reflection. Her father had possessed the same strange curl of pure white.

Bleary eyed, Mercy's gaze drifted towards the window. A sharp knock came at the door. The servants in the Winter household were not as subtle as those that once worked for her father.

"Come-" Mercy cleared her throat and tucked her dressing gown around her. "Come in."

"Begging your pardon, miss," the house maid bobbed at curtsy at the door. "But, the mistress is hoping to take you for an outing to the shops this morning before the dinner party this evening. She asked me to remind you."

Mercy gave a quick nod with a half smile. "Yes, of course. Thank you."

Perhaps a distraction was what she needed. It had been a trying week. The death of her father was unexpected, if not unwelcome. As difficult as it was for her to admit it, she'd never held much love for the miser. He had spoiled her, but it hadn't been to please her. She was a poppet, another piece of his fortune. She could only be thankful that she was pretty and well mannered or else she would have proven no use to him. He had kept her fashionable to show off his own achievements, though she was rarely allowed to parties. The majority of her social experience had been at church, as Edward Savage had been a viciously religious man. 

Her eyes were drawn to the small bible that he had kept on his person at all times. It was found on his desk in the library. She flipped open the cover with trembling fingers. On the inside of the leather binding was a fresh marking. Ten rich black dots like a constellation were put in the symbol of a cross. It hadn't been there before the fire, she had seen the inside of the Bible many times. A chill ran down her spine as she snapped the volume closed. 

In a week's time, Mercy Savage would be leaving Boston with nothing left of her father, not even the curious strand of white hair they had shared. All that remained was his money. And the books.