Page 100 of Hawk & Sparrow

STORIED FAMILY FOUNDATION ANNOUNCES LANDMARK GRANT

BY V. L. EVANS

BASALTON, Vic. (December 1, 1898)—James Russell, executive director of the Kite Family Foundation, announced Friday that the foundation will establish a new landmark grant named after the late Mr. and Mrs. Virgil Kite. The grant will be awarded to innovators with an interest in developing “modern, cutting-edge technology that has the potential to better the quality of life for Basalton residents.” The grant will seek to subsidize the needs of young inventors, with special priority being given to female inventors, who represent a minority in the engineering field. The grant is largely the brainchild of the Kite Family Foundation’s C.E.O. and chairman, Mr. Maximilian Kite. While he did not give a direct statement, Mr. Kite’s representatives tell the Globe that his hope is that the grant will improve access and equity for many people while honoring his parents’ legacy. Mr. Virgil Kite and his wife, Augusta, were among the casualties of the ill-fated Oleander’s maiden voyage in October 1892.

THIRTY-THREE

SUNDAY, 4TH OF DECEMBER—11:11 A.M.

The air was crisp and the sky gray as steel by the time Vesper realized it was snowing.

She rolled an old pen between her fingers, relishing the smells of fresh ink and worn leather as she sat at her desk in the Globe’s office. Tiny white snowflakes had already begun to collect on the window. Beyond the front stoop, children were racing down Pierce Street in makeshift sleds made from old crates and dodging snowballs as they flew through the air. Vesper smiled. She could remember when she’d dreaded this, the exchange of one season for another. Now, for the first time in a long while, she didn’t feel dread as she lifted her gaze and watched the snow continue to fall. For the first time, she wondered what a new season might bring—new challenges, new hopes, maybe even new adventures.

She looked up as the door to the main office creaked open. Tom marched in holding an armful of bags and stomping the snow from his boots. His eyes found Vesper, and he smiled.

“I can remember another morning like this one—cold, quiet. I was at that very desk.” He pointed to the one where Vesper was sitting. “Couldn’t say what drove me to do it, but I had the thought to check the front stoop for our mail. Imagine my surprise when I found a little girl instead, curled up and asleep on the second-to-last step.”

A hard lump rose in Vesper’s throat.

“Well, of course I brought her inside.” Tom placed the bags on one of the empty desks and brushed his hands. “Nell found a spare coat to wrap you in, and we put you right in front of the woodstove to try to warm you up. Both of us were sure you’d have hypothermia, or at very least frostbite, but once you’d had a few sips of hot chocolate, you came right back to life. As soon as you could talk, you were asking questions about the office, wondering how it all worked and how old you had to be to work as a reporter.” He chuckled. “I knew then that you belonged here, that you’d always belong here.”

Vesper smiled. Tom was right. New seasons would come and go, but the Globe was and always would be her home.

“I checked the mail earlier,” she noted. “Have you gotten anything from Mr. Burbank? We should be caught up on our rent now.”

“I did.” A furrow appeared in her editor’s brow. “He sent a note, but … there was something odd.”

“Odd?”

Tom reached into his jacket’s pocket and held up a folded paper. “He said that the Globe’s rent has been covered for the next five years.”

Vesper went still. “Five?”

“Five.” Tom nodded. “The note says it was an anonymous donation from a friend of the newspaper. Wouldn’t tell me who.”

Vesper blinked quickly, trying to hold back the tears welling in her eyes. There were many people in Basalton with the means to make that sort of donation, but there was only one person she knew of in this city who would.

“That was … kind,” she whispered.

“I’ll say.” Tom leaned against the desk opposite her and crossed his arms. “Now, I know you’ve already got work, but I wondered if you had a moment to talk shop?”

Vesper pretended to rub at her eyes. “Of course.”

“It’s about an assignment,” said Tom. “Guillermo Crivello wrote to me yesterday saying he wanted to buy some ads for the holiday season, but he needs help with the write-up. I know ads aren’t your favorite, but…” He gave her an apologetic look. “I wondered if you’d mind swinging by the coffeehouse to help him get everything sorted?”

“Sure.” Vesper closed her notebook. “When do we need it?”

Tom looked out the window again. “Better go soon. This snow’s not showing signs of stopping anytime soon.”

Vesper rose and shouldered the strap of her satchel. “I’ll head there now.”

Guillermo’s was a bright spot of cheer in the midst of early winter’s drab gray colors. The familiar tinkle of a bell sounded overhead as she swung the door open, and she was at once greeted with a wave of warmth. She ducked inside, and was surprised to find that the entire coffeehouse was empty. She felt it then, the shift from ease to wariness. Even in the very worst weather, Guillermo’s was never empty at this time of the day. Her gaze panned the room, and she noted that, in the middle of the coffeehouse, a single table had been covered with a white linen cloth. On it was a small, slender black box. Vesper approached it, then narrowed her eyes in confusion. The words inscribed in the box were written in elegant silver lettering:

Henry & Lewis Artisan Pen Makers, Est. 1801.

Vesper opened the box slowly, trying to keep her hands from shaking. Inside were two fountain pens set in a bed of black velvet, both gilded. Vesper picked one of them up in wonder. A small inscription had been added to both of them: V. L. EVANS. Her heart began to pound in her chest. Artisans pens from Henry & Lewis cost a fortune. Who would—

The kitchen door swung suddenly open. Vesper looked up, expecting to see Guillermo Crivello, but it was someone else.