Henry Barrett, in the time between his mother's funeral and his father's death, inherited a considerable fortune. It was not a surprise to anyone who knew the family. Henry's mother, as a scion of old American money, had been the one to bring the family's considerable wealth to the marriage, and she had, as all wives before her, doled it out to her husband at her discretion, and he had spent it at his own. It was how his family had always lived. They had always been, as Henry's father liked to put it, rich as kings, though never quite rich enough to be exempt from the small indignities of life. The car breaking down. The plumbing backing up. And his father catching the flu.
The flu, unfortunately, proved to be fatal. His father died within the week, and was interred in a small family plot in a cemetery upstate. Henry also inherited the family estate, and the house that sat upon it, a sprawling manor, too large and drafty to ever be really warm. It had been built back in the nineteenth century by a wealthy industrialist whose name had since been forgotten, and then had fallen into the hands of a series of ever richer and more disreputable men, until at last, Henry's grandfather had bought it.
After the funeral, Henry went home. He sat on his mother's favorite chair in his mother's favorite room, and wondered if he'd have to sell the house.
There was a knock on the door.
Henry did not rise from his mother's chair to answer it. He called out instead, "I don't need a thing, thank you!"
"That's good, because I'm not here to offer you one." A man stepped into the room. It was not a tall man, or a very handsome one, or even one who particularly stood out in any way, excepting for his dark brown eyes.
"Uncle," Henry said, not moving. "How did you get in?"
"Through the door," the man replied, and sat down in an adjacent chair, looking perfectly comfortable. "You're not the only one with a key, my boy. Besides, I wanted to pay my respects."
"I see."
The man smiled. It was a wry, clever smile. Henry and his uncle were not truly related. It was simply the title they had given each other since childhood, when, for reasons both unknown and unknowable, they discovered they were both named Henry, and that was that. And well, his mother had thought it amusing.
"Are you here for money, then?"
"Of course not." The man made a dismissive gesture. "I am not that sort of uncle. No, I just came to pay my respects, and to give you a gift."
"A gift?"
"Yes, a gift." He reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out an envelope. "It's your mother's."
"Ah."
"You don't seem excited."
"Should I be?"
"Oh, come now." The man stood. "Where's your sense of adventure?"
"My sense of adventure is gone. It was buried with my father."
"Oh, yes. How are you taking that?"
"Not very well, Uncle."
"Hmm."