Chapter 15: XV

The sun dipped low on the horizon as, tired Miss Cleo gathered all the servants in the foyer which was abuzz with tension. The maids faces drawn and eyes downcast, stood in a neat line, their belongings bundled in worn handkerchiefs. The deadly plague had claimed too many lives, and now they sought refuge beyond the manor's walls.

Miss Cleo, her dark eyes filled with both sorrow and gratitude, stepped forward. Now, as they prepared to depart, she wanted to convey her appreciation.

"Dear ones," Miss Cleo's voice carried across the marble floor, "you have served Mayfair Manor with unwavering dedication. Your hands have polished silver, mended torn curtains, and cradled the fevered brows of our afflicted. You are not merely maids; you are the heartbeats of this ancient house."

The maids exchanged glances, their eyes glistening. They had witnessed Miss Cleo's tireless efforts—the way she brewed herbal infusion and specially bottled them for each maid to take home to cure their sick loved ones.

Miss Cleo continued, her Jamaican accent weaving a spell of comfort. "As you step beyond these doors, carry with you the memories—the laughter in the kitchen, the whispered secrets in the corridors, the shared hopes for brighter days. Mayfair Manor will forever echo your footsteps."

The eldest maid, Mrs. Simmons, stepped forward. Her old and wrinkled hands trembled as she clutched her bundle. "Miss Cleo," she said, her voice quivering, "we owe you our lives. Your words gave us courage. But we cannot stay. The plague—it claims us, one by one."

Miss Cleo nodded, her gaze steady. "Mrs. Simmons," she said, "you carry the strength of generations—the resilience of those who tended these hearths before us. Go forth, seek safety, and remember that love and sacrifice bind us all."

The other maids wiped tears from their cheeks. Miss Cleo moved among them, touching each forehead gently. "May the winds guide you," she murmured, "and may the moonlight illuminate your path."

As the maids filed out, their footsteps fading, Miss Cleo stood alone in the foyer. The silence enveloped her—the weight of loss, the fragility of life. She glanced at the grand staircase, where portraits of Mayfair ancestors watched over them all. Their eyes seemed to hold secrets—the echoes of laughter, whispered promises, and the scent of moonflowers.

As the last maid set foot of the grand doors. The letterman man hurried up the marble staircases with a parcel wrapped in brown paper in his hands

The maids watched in silence from bellow as he shuffled forward, his footsteps faltering. His voice cracked as he addressed Miss Cleorata

"Miss Cleo," he rasped, "this is for you."

Miss Cleo stepped forward, her eyes narrowing. "Thank you"

She took the parcel from the postman's trembling hands, her fingers tracing the edges. The paper crinkled, revealing a faded stamp and an address written in elegant script. Her heart skipped a beat when she noticed it bore no name of the sender.

Miss Cleo, her eyes alight with curiosity, sat at her oak desk in the dimly lit library. Samuel,stood beside her, the three novels spread before them like a tantalizing puzzle. The girl who had penned these books remained an enigma—a phantom of ink and imagination. Her words had stirred hearts, sparked debates, and yet, no one had glimpsed her face.

Samuel finger traced the embossed titles: Whispers of the Moon, Ink and Stardust, and The Forgotten Garden. "Miss Cleo," he said, "this girl—she's famous. I have indeed many of her works. But why the secrecy? Why hide behind her words?"

"Secrecy?"

"Yes, no soul has met. Its bee 13 years now and not one has ever see her"

"That makes the mind wonder.."

Miss Cleo leaned closer."Perhaps," she mused, "she guards her identity like a dragon guards its hoard. Or maybe she's a sorceress, weaving spells through her sentences."

As they turned the pages, a folded letter slipped out—a parchment worn at the creases. Miss Cleo unfolded it, her eyes scanning the elegant script:

To the Seekers of the Moonflower,

Within these novels lie the keys to eternity. Three maps, each hidden in plain sight.

In the first book, follow the constellations—their celestial dance will reveal the path.

In the second, listen to the wind—the whispers of tides and currents will guide you.

And in the third, seek the ancient oak—the roots hold memories, secrets etched in bark.

Samuel's eyes widened. "Maps," he breathed. "The Moonflower—the bloom that defies time."

Miss Cleo nodded. "Let's examine the first book." She opened Whispers of the Moon, and there, on the first page, was a delicate star chart—the constellations woven like silver threads. "The observatory," she said. "We'll decipher the stars."

Next, they turned to Ink and Stardust. The margins held sketches of waves, seagulls, and hidden coves. "The cave by the sea," Samuel murmured. "The wind's lament."

Finally, The Forgotten Garden revealed an intricate tree—the oak's gnarled branches stretching across the page. "The ancient oak," Miss Cleo said. "Its roots delve deep into memory."

Samuel's eyes gleamed. "Overlap the maps," he suggested. "Align the constellations, the waves, and the roots."

And so, they placed the pages side by side, their edges aligning. The maps merged—a celestial sea chart leading to a moonlit garden. The Moonflower awaited—a bloom that held both life and loss.

Miss Cleo clasped Samuel's hand. "We go," she declared. "For love, for adventure, and for the girl who wove magic with her words."

"Samuel," she said, her voice a melodious whisper, "these novels hold more than ink and paper."

The library whispered its secrets, and the moonflower awaited, its petals aglow with moonlight...