Nora Roberts - Blood Brothers

She settled at the table, chose one of the books at random, then began to read.

She’d covered pages of her notebook with names, locations, dates, reputed incidents, and any number of theories when she scented lavender and baby powder.

Surfacing, she saw a trim and tidy old woman standing in black, sensible shoes with her hands folded neatly at the waist of her purple suit.

Her hair was a thinning snowball; her clear framed glasses so thickly lensed Quinn wondered how the tiny nose and ears supported their weight.

She wore pearls around her neck, a gold wedding band on her finger, and a leather-banded watch with a huge face that looked to be as practical as her thick-soled shoes.

“I’m Estelle Abbott,” she said in her creaky voice. “Young Dennis said you asked after me.”

As Quinn had gauged Dennis at Information as tumbling down the back end of his sixties, she imagined the woman who termed him young must have him by a good two decades.

“Yes.” Quinn got to her feet, crossed over to offer her hand. “I’m Quinn Black, Mrs. Abbott. I’m-”

“Yes, I know. The writer. I’ve enjoyed your books.”

“Thank you very much.”

“No need. If I hadn’t liked them I’d’ve told you straight-out. You’re researching for a book on the Hollow.”

“Yes, ma’am, I am.”

“You’ll find quite a bit of information here. Some of it useful.” She peered at the books on the table. “Some of it nonsense.”

“Then in the interest of separating the wheat from the chaff, maybe you could find some time to talk to me at some point. I’d be happy to take you to lunch or dinner whenever you-”

“That’s very nice of you, but unnecessary. Why don’t we sit down for a while, and we’ll see how things go?”

“That would be great.”

Estelle crossed to a chair, sat, then with her back ruler-straight and her knees glued together, folded her hands in her lap. “I was born in the Hollow,” she began, “lived here all of my ninety-seven years.”

“Ninety-seven?” Quinn didn’t have to feign the surprise. “I’m usually pretty good at gauging age, and I’d put you a solid decade under that.”

“Good bones,” Estelle said with an easy smile. “I lost my husband, John, also born and raised here, eight years back come the fifth of next month. We were married seventy-one years.”

“What was your secret?”

That brought on another smile. “Learn to laugh, otherwise, you’ll beat them to death with a hammer first chance.”

“Just let me write that down.”

“We had six children-four boys, two girls-and all of them living still and not in jail, thank the Lord. Out of them, we had ourselves nineteen grandchildren, and out of them got ourselves twenty-eight greats-last count, and five of the next generation with two on the way.”

Quinn simply goggled. “Christmas must be insane in a good way.”

“We’re scattered all over, but we’ve managed to get most everybody in one place at one time a few times.”

“Dennis said you were retired. You were a librarian?”

“I started working in the library when my youngest started school. That would be the old library on Main Street. I worked there more than fifty years. Went back to school myself and got my degree. Johnnie and I traveled, saw a lot of the world together. For a time we thought about moving on down to Florida. But our roots here were too deep for that. I went to part-time work, then I retired when my Johnnie got sick. When he passed, I came back-still the old one while this was being built-as a volunteer or as an artifact, however you look at it. I tell you this so you’ll have some idea about me.”

“You love your husband and your children, and the children who’ve come from them. You love books, and you’re proud of the work you’ve done. You love this town, and respect the life you’ve lived here.”

Estelle gave her a look of approval. “You have an efficient and insightful way of summing up. You didn’t say I loved my husband, but used the present tense. That tells me you’re an observant and sensitive young woman. I sensed from your books that you have an open and seeking mind. Tell me, Miss Black, do you also have courage?”

Quinn thought of the thing outside the window, the way its tongue had flicked over its teeth. She’d been afraid, but she hadn’t run. “I like to think so. Please call me Quinn.”

“Quinn. A family name.”

“Yes, my mother’s maiden.”

“Irish Gaelic. I believe it means ‘counselor.’”

“It does, yes.”

“I have a well of trivial information,” Estelle said with a tap of her finger to her temple. “But I wonder if your name isn’t relevant. You’ll need to have the objectivity, and the sensitivity of a counselor to write the book that should be written on Hawkins Hollow.”

“Why haven’t you written it?”

“Not everyone who loves music can play the tune. Let me tell you a few things, some of which you may already know. There is a place in the woods that borders the west of this town, and that place was sacred ground, sacred and volatile ground long before Lazarus Twisse sought it out.”

“Lazarus Twisse, the leader of the Puritan sect-the radical sect-which broke off or, more accurately, was cut off, from the godly in Massachusetts.”

“According to the history of the time, yes. The Native Americans held that ground as sacred. And before them, it’s said, powers battled for that circle of ground, both-the dark and the light, good and evil, whatever terms you prefer-left some seeds of that power there. They lay dormant, century by century, with only the stone to mark what had passed there. Over time the memories of the battle were forgotten or bastardized in folklore, and only the sense many felt that this ground and its stone were not ordinary dirt and rock remained.”

Estelle paused, fell into silence so that Quinn heard the click and hum of the heater, and the light slap of leather shoes on the floor as someone passed by the room toward other business.

“Twisse came to the Hollow, already named for Richard Hawkins, who, with his wife and children, had carved a small settlement in 1648. You should remark that Richard’s eldest daughter was Ann. When Twisse came, Hawkins, his family, and a handful of others-some who’d fled Europe as criminals, political or otherwise-had made their life here. As had a man calling himself Giles Dent. And Dent built a cabin in the woods where the stone rose out of the ground.”

“What’s called the Pagan Stone.”

“Yes. He troubled no one, and as he had some skill and knowledge of healing, was often sought out for sickness or injury. There are some accounts that claim he was known as the Pagan, and that this was the basis of the name the Pagan Stone.”

“You’re not convinced those accounts are accurate.”

“It may be that the term stuck, entered the language and the lexicon at that time. But it was the Pagan Stone long before the arrival of Giles Dent or Lazarus Twisse. There are other accounts that claim Dent dabbled in witchcraft, that he enspelled Ann Hawkins, seduced and impregnated her. Others state that Ann and Dent were indeed lovers, but that she went to his bed of her own free will, and left her family home to live with him in the little cabin with the Pagan Stone.”

“It would’ve been difficult for her-for Ann Hawkins-either way,” Quinn speculated. “Enspelled or free will, to live with a man, unmarried. If it was free will, if it was love, she must have been very strong.”

“The Hawkinses have always been strong. Ann had to be strong to go to Dent, to stay with him. Then she had to be strong enough to leave him.”

“There are a lot of conflicting stories,” Quinn began. “Why do you believe Ann Hawkins left Giles Dent?”