The dimly lit museum office hummed with tension as Eleanor Whitmore clasped her hands together. The staff leaned forward in their chairs, sensing an announcement.
“Colleagues,” she began, her voice ringing with theatrical weight, “I have two pieces of news.”
From her corner, the young tour guide, Penelope “Penny” Fairchild, piped up in her high, eager voice. “Good news, I hope, Ms. Whitmore?”
“I should think so,” Eleanor replied with a knowing smile. “Firstwe’re expecting visitors in three days.”
The caretaker, Auntie Margery, let out a derisive snort. “More schoolchildren, is it? They leave nothing but crumbs and chaos in their wake.”
Her husband, Walter, the museum’s night watchman, nodded grimly. “Aye, like a storm passing through.”
Eleanor held up a silencing hand. “Not schoolchildren this time. A delegation from one of the country’s leading automotive manufacturers. And it is our duty to ensure their visit to our historic manor is nothing short of extraordinary. They must leave with memories worth keeping.”
Walter’s eyes gleamed with mischief.
“Memories, eh? Like that lot from the bearing factory last March? They left with more than memorieshalf of em needed collecting from the woods! They dont come for culture. Just a day off, if you ask me.”
“Your cynicism is unnecessary, Walter,” Eleanor snapped. “We are the stewards of the great author Thaddeus Harrington-Whitcombes legacy. It is our sacred duty to preserve his memory and share his genius with the world!”
“And who outside this damp old islands ever heard of Harrington-Whitcombe?” Walter fired back, grinning like a man whod had one pint too many.
The archivist, Reginald Ashworth, leapt to his feet. “Outrageous! Harrington-Whitcombe is a literary titan of this region!”
Penny cut in nervously. “Andand the second piece of news?”
Eleanor let the silence stretch, savoring the suspense. Then, with deliberate slowness, she revealed:
“We’re getting a new director.”
“Thank heavens!” burst out Mrs. Hargrove, the cleaning woman, clasping her hands as if in prayer. “About time!”
The room erupted in hushed chatter. The women leaned in, hungry for detailswas he young? Married? The handful of men stiffened at first, then relaxed at the thought of another among their ranks.
“I know nothing more,” Eleanor said firmly, raising a finger. “I received a callthats all. A Mr. or Mrs. Holloway will arrive shortly. Thats all they told me.”
As the staff dispersed, buzzing with anticipation, Eleanor exhaled in relief. For years, the museum had languished in quiet neglect. From April to October, the core teamtour guides Penny and Victoria, archivist Reginald, and Eleanor herself, who had been juggling both accounting and directorial dutieslived on the island. Only Margery, Walter, and Mrs. Hargrove (who, incidentally, was Walters mother-in-law) stayed through the bitter winters.
No one wanted this posting. The council had made empty promises, but the “remote island conditions” sent candidates fleeing.
“You must understand, Ms. Whitmore,” the latest bureaucrat had sighed. “People agree until they hear about the isolation.”
So when Holloway accepted, Eleanor had ordered a full deep-clean before their arrivallest they bolt at first sight of the peeling wallpaper.
The next morning, the manor was a flurry of scrubbing and polishing.
“Penny, the umbrella standagain, please!” Victoria fretted. “You know how dearly Mr. Harrington-Whitcombe cherished it!”
“Walter, for pitys sake, move your toolbox from the summerhouse!” Margery bellowed from the window. “The factory men will nick it!”
Then, at last, the boat appeared on the horizon, groaning under the weight of its lively passengers.
Eleanor squinted at the approaching vessel, issuing final instructions.
“Reginald, no guiding them to the marsheslast time, someone lost a shoe. Penny, be firm about the bed. No sitting!”
Reginald chuckled. “Might help if Victoria stopped telling everyone the great man conceived all eight of his children in it.”
The boat docked, and out spilled the automotive workerslaughing, stretching, already splitting into groups. Some followed Victoria into the house; others trailed Reginald into the overgrown gardens.
“Not a drop, Walter,” Margery hissed. “Not one welcome drink.”
Victorias voice echoed through the hall. “This is the sanctum sanctorumthe very study where Thaddeus Harrington-Whitcombe penned his masterpieces.”
Reginald, meanwhile, gestured dramatically at the tangled foliage. “These very woods inspired our most celebrated literary son!”
“Please dont touch the bed!” Penny pleaded.
“Ill tan your hide if I catch you spitting seeds in the yard!” Mrs. Hargrove growled.
Eleanor smiled, listening to the house hum with life.
Thena cry.
“Stop, thief!”
Pennys voice, thin with panic.
Eleanor bolted up, her heart hammering. Down the hall, Victorias heels clattered, Mrs. Hargroves slippers slapped against the floorboards.
In the study stood a strangerlean, in jeans and a sleek windbreaker. At his feet lay an open notebook.
A replica, of coursethe real one was under lock and key.
“Put it back!” Penny begged. “Please!”
Victoria stormed forward, eyes blazing.
“Have you no shame? This is Harrington-Whitcombes own notebookthe last draft of his unfinished novel, *Anchored Souls*!”
The man swallowed. “I just wanted a look.”
“A look? Or to steal? To vandalize?”
“Just a look!”
“Your papers!” Victoria barked, like a drill sergeant.
The man fumbled in his jacket, handing over his passport. Victoria adjusted her gold-rimmed glasses and studied it with cold precision.
Then Eleanor snatched it from her.
She stared.
Then, flushing, she whispered, “Welcome Director Holloway.”
***
Victoria wrung her hands as she led the new director to his office. “Mr. HollowayOliverIm so dreadfully sorry. We had no idea youd arrive with the tour group.”
The young man laughed. “No harm done, Victoria. Now I know my staff takes security seriously. Keep it up!”
