В сердце большого города скрываются тайны и загадки. Каждое утро открывает новый слой этой истории, напоминая о безвозвратности прошлого. Внутренние драмы и судьбы, переплетающиеся в пространстве и времени, создают непредсказуемую атмосферу будничной мелодрамы.
Behind us lay the only vehicle access to the lane.
As I stared the length of the block, I felt a deep sense of foreboding."
"Ryan nodded toward the row houses. “That’s Sébastopol Row, built in the 1850s by the Grand Trunk Railway.”
“Apparently Big Railroad didn’t pony up for aesthetics.”
Ryan pulled the napkin from his pocket, checked the address, then advanced so he could see the digits on the first row house.
The dog stopped barking, rose with forepaws on the fence, and watched our progress.
“What’s the number?”
Ryan told me.
“Must be farther down.”
As Ryan crept forward, I read off the addresses. The numbers on the row houses didn’t go high enough, but that on the first cement structure indicated we’d gone too far.
“Maybe it’s farther off the pavement, back in that vacant area,” I suggested.
Ryan reversed up the block and parked opposite the last of the row houses. A silhouette was faintly visible through bare trees and heavy pines.
“Ready?” Ryan scooped his gloves from the backseat.
“Ready.”
I pulled on my mittens and got out. At the thunk-thunk of our doors, the dog reengaged.
Ryan proceeded up an ice-crusted walkway six feet beyond the outer wall of the last row house. Needled boughs and bare branches blocked the sky, creating a gloomy tunnel effect.
The air smelled of pine, coal smoke, and something organic.
“What’s that odor?” I hissed.
“Horse manure.” Ryan was also whispering. “Old Yeller is guarding a calèche horse stable.”
“The horses that pull the carriages in Old Montreal?”
“The very ones.
I took another whiff.
Maybe. But there was something else there.
Ryan and I picked our way carefully along the uneven walk, breaths billowing, collars up to ward off the cold.
Ten yards off de Sébastopol the path took a sharp left, and Ryan and I found ourselves facing a weathered brick building. We both stopped and read the rusted numbers above the door.
“Bingo,” Ryan said.
The building’s entrance was recessed, the door rough and aged, but ornately carved.
Dead vines spiderwebbed across the roof and walls, and one wooden sill angled down from its frame. The pines were thicker here, keeping the house and its small yard in even deeper shadow.
Irrationally, small hairs rose on the back of my neck.
Drawing a deep breath, I worked myself just calm enough.
Ryan stepped up to the door. I followed.
