Chapter 64 - The Repudiation of the False Heirs
Julian Vance stood paralyzed on the lowest step. Behind him, the private security guards shifted uneasily, exchanging uncertain glances. They were hired to intimidate squatters and supervise evictions, not to enforce forged documents against an armed boy and an indomitable grandmother who held ancient treaties.
"A forged collateral instrument is an administrative matter," Vance said, though his voice had lost its icy composure. "Even if the underlying mortgage is defective, the Saint-Germain Mercantile Group holds an equitable claim on the physical improvements—this house, the barns, the road access!"
"They hold nothing," Marie-Hélène spoke up, descending the steps to stand beside Dorothy.
In her hands, the French noblewoman held the heavy iron key of Saint-Germain. She reached into the folds of her woolen mantle and produced a yellowed, wax-sealed parchment bearing the embossed double-headed eagle of the Free French provisional government, dated October 1944.
"This is the reciprocal covenant signed by General Charles de Gaulle’s treasury representative," Marie-Hélène said, holding the document so Vance could see the unbroken crimson wax. "It states unequivocally that the Blackwood homestead is designated as an inviolable foreign sanctuary of the Saint-Germain line. Any attempt by a corporate entity bearing our crest to seize, liquidate, or disturb this soil results in the immediate, automatic revocation of that entity's operating charter in the European Union."
Vance’s breath caught in his throat. His eyes widened behind his wire-rimmed spectacles as he recognized the seal. He knew who Marie-Hélène was now. She wasn't just an eccentric old relative visiting from the countryside; she was the titular head of the family whose private bank backed the very credit facilities his Boston firm relied upon for survival.
"Madame de Saint-Germain..." Vance stammered, stepping back into the snow, his polished shoes sinking into the slush. "We... we were never informed that this property was linked to the European sovereign trust. The filings were submitted under an anonymous LLC."
"Because my foolish son thought he could deal with wolves without being eaten," Dorothy said coldly.
She turned her eyes to Claire, who was still weeping against the timber post, shivering uncontrollably.
"Claire," Dorothy commanded.
Claire looked up, her face streaked with tears and dirt, her pride entirely dismantled. "Yes... Dorothy?"
"Go into the kitchen," Dorothy ordered. "Bring out the iron skillet from the back burner. The one containing the salt pork and the heel of the loaf you baked this morning."
Claire hesitated for half a second, but the sight of Dorothy’s unwavering gaze broke whatever lingering defiance remained in her soul. She hurried inside, her stockinged feet slipping on the threshold, and returned moments later bearing a heavy cast-iron skillet. In it sat a single, hard crust of bread and a slice of boiled fatback—the peasant food Dorothy’s mother had fed travelers during the Great Depression.
"Hand it to Mr. Vance," Dorothy said.
Claire stepped down the stairs, her hands trembling so hard the iron skillet rattled. She offered the plate to the high-powered Boston attorney.
"Eat it, Julian," Dorothy said. "It is the hospitality of Blackwood Ridge. When a man comes to steal a home, we offer him bread first. If he refuses the bread, we offer him the Winchester."
Vance looked at the greasy, unseasoned fatback, then at the hard crust of bread, and finally up at Toby, who had smoothly racked a round into the chamber of his rifle. The metallic *clack-clack* echoed off the stone cliff behind the house.
Vance took another step back, raising his hands in defensive surrender.
"That won't be necessary, Mrs. Blackwood," Vance said through clenched teeth. "This... this matter clearly possesses structural defects that were not disclosed in our risk assessment. I will be referring Richard Blackwood’s file to the state attorney general for criminal fraud."
"Do what you must with the law of the lowlands," Dorothy said. "Richard will answer for his crimes. But he will answer for them after he finishes clearing the south woodlot."
Vance turned on his heel. "Back in the trucks," he snapped to his men. "We're leaving."
"Wait," Dorothy called out, her voice cutting through the roar of the reversing engines.
Vance stopped at the door of his Mercedes, looking back over his shoulder.
"Take your paperwork with you," Dorothy said, pointing to the blue-sealed writ lying on the snow where Vance had dropped it. "We do not leave trash on our mountain."
May you like
One of the security guards hastily stepped forward, scooped up the fallen papers, and scrambled into the passenger seat. Within ninety seconds, the five black vehicles were backing down Blackwood Lane, their red taillights disappearing into the swirling white mist of the valley below.
***
