Once I made it past the basic paperwork needed to fulfill the requirements to take possession of my father’s estate, what I found contained within the accordion folder was confusing beyond words. Some of the deeds and investment papers made perfect sense to me; land and building deeds, stocks and bonds, and information about a variety of bank accounts - containing sums that were so mind-boggling to me that they made little impact beyond counting the number of places before the decimal point arrived.
But other documents…they appeared to be more of the same, but were too fantastical to make any sense. I found a number of elegantly illuminated property deeds granted by ‘Her Royal Majesty Queen Grace II of Albion, Greater Britannia,’ including several that overlapped with perfectly mundane-looking ones for the same, or similar, properties here in England and Scotland. There was one particularly gorgeous replica of a deed for an estate in the nation of Babylonia, which claimed to have been signed and dated in the 1960’s…which was patently absurd (for all its gilt and illumination) and had to be some sort of joke.
The final straw among the deeds was for a piece of property that was, based on the listed Latitude and Longitude, somewhere in the Yucatan. That wasn’t the strange part…the strange part was that it was written in two languages, one of which was - I guessed, as I couldn’t read it - very similar to the Mayan pictographic alphabet.
There were account balances for banks that I’d never heard of in countries that didn’t exist. Documents that related deals made with European governments, but with the names of kings, queens, and other leaders who had never existed.
I gave up and called Margrave.
“Miss Reid,” he said, his rich tones only slightly diminished by my cell phone’s speaker, “I believe you are allowing yourself to become distracted from the most important element of your inheritance…the House.”
Right. The house in Oakwood. “My father’s letter said it was imperative that I go there as soon as possible.”
“I quite agree,” Margrave said. “If you will permit me to advise you, I would set aside the other matters in favor of going there at once. I expect that many - if not all - of your questions will be answered there much more effectively than I can accomplish.”
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. This wasn’t an uncommon problem for me, getting caught up in the minutiae of a new puzzle. “See the forest, not the trees?”
“Just so, Miss. With your permission, I will arrange to have modest sums transferred to your personal checking and savings accounts, so you have no need to worry about taking control of the more complex finances. Have you decided whether or not you will be retaining the services of Summers and Winters?”
“Out of curiosity,” I said, “how long has the firm been managing my family’s…assets?”
“Summers and Winters has been looking after your family’s finances, properties and investments - among other interests - for more than three hundred years, Miss.”
I blinked.
Bloody hell.
“I’m in over my head,” I said.
“That is quite understandable, Miss,” Margrave responded with good humor and, I thought, some concern. “We will do everything in our power to make the transition easier for you.”
“In that case, I’d be foolish if I didn’t retain your services.” I looked at the pile of papers on the table in front of me, pulled the appropriate ones out of the scrum, and picked up my pen. “I’ll sign the documents to do so right now.” Without waiting for a response, I did just that without any further hesitation. As I finished writing my last name, I thought - just for a moment - that my signature flashed gold on the paper. My eyes must’ve been getting tired from all the reading I’d done that morning.
“Excellent, Miss,” Margrave sounded completely satisfied. “I will see to the transfer of finances immediately after our call.”
“Thank you.” I wondered, based on the numbers I’d seen, what a ‘modest’ sum would be. Definitely more money than I’d ever had at one time before. Probably more than I’d had in the last five years put together, including what was in my trust fund.
“How will you be traveling to Oakwood, Miss?” Margrave asked. “I would advise traveling by car, as it will attract the least attention.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have a car,” I said, wondering why I needed to avoid attracting attention. I supposed it had something to do with suddenly being on the list of richest people in the country.
“Do you have a driver’s license?”
“Yes…”
“What type of vehicle would you prefer, Miss? Sports car? SUV?”
“Um…something compact? I don’t really need much.”
“Very good, Miss. I’ll have something ready for you by tomorrow morning, and will bring it to you. I can collect your signed paperwork at the same time. Perhaps you should pack for your trip.”
He wasn’t kidding. At precisely 9:00 the next morning, there came a discreet tap at the door of my flat. When I opened the door, Margrave - either wearing the same suit as before, or an identical one - bowed politely to me. “Miss Reid.” He offered me a keyring with a car key and remote starter on it. “The key to your new vehicle.”
I took it, a little dazed. “That was fast!”
He smiled a little. “We pride ourselves on not wasting time when quick action is needed.” He held out another keyring, with a half-dozen keys on it. “You will also be needing these, the keys to the House and grounds.”
I took that keyring too, looking at them curiously. One key, a little larger than the others, stood out. It was an old-fashioned double-bitted key, about three inches long and wrought of what appeared to be silver. It had two sets of teeth, sticking out from either side of the key, and a multitude of tiny cut-outs and overlapping sections all along its length back to the loop where it hung on the key ring. The end result was that it looked like it had been woven out silver rather than cut from it, and looked much too delicate to be a real, usable key.
“What is that?” I asked, separating that key from the others on the ring.
“That, Miss, is the Master Key to the house.” I could actually hear the capital letters in the way he said ‘Master Key.’ “Per the instructions left by your father, upon your arrival it should be used to unlock the deadbolt in the center of the door; not the one above the doorknob, the one in the center of the door.”
“Why?”
“The door will not unlock otherwise.”
I blinked. “Ah. Well…okay, then.”
“Will there be anything else, Miss?”
I shook my head. “My bags are packed, and my faculty adviser knows I’m taking a few personal days…I guess I’m all set. Which car is mine?”
He smiled a little and bowed again. “If you’ll come downstairs with me, I’ll show you, Miss.”
Which is how I found myself driving a very cute (and very red) new Volkswagen Beetle into the town of Oakwood, about three hours later. Margrave had been very insistent that I leave as soon as possible, and had even helped me carry my single suitcase and laptop bag down to the car.
It was a wonderful car, nicer than anything I’d hoped to own. Heck, I hadn’t even expected to own a new car, but rather to be buying used for a long time. After a bit of soul searching, I decided not to question what it had cost…I could see that the unsettlingly vast sums listed in my father’s papers - now mine - would take quite a bit of getting used to. To settle my conscience a little, I asked Margrave - before I left - to make a large donation to the orphanage that I grew up in, which he said he would happily do, as well as provide me with a list of other charities my parents had made substantial donations to, in case I wished to continue doing so.
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With that settled, I had allowed myself to enjoy driving the little car, and started the trip trying to imagine some of the other things I could do with my newfound wealth. That felt profoundly odd, and I quickly gave it up as the ideas became progressively more absurd. I put it out of my mind altogether, resolving to simply use it as I needed it, and let Margrave find me places where charitable donations would be well spent.
My first impression of Oakwood was that of a quaint, pleasantly old-fashioned little town. There was a restful, quiet spirit to it that called out to me immediately on arrival and gave me a sense of coming home that shook me a little. Everything about the town felt oddly familiar to me, even though I was certain I had never been there before…or, I supposed, not since I was too little to remember it.
The car’s on-board GPS lead me through the town and out of it again. With the town about a mile to the north of me, I turned onto a long driveway and rolled to a stop in front of a wrought-iron double gate set into a stone wall that looked like it would be a little over head-high on me.
I got out of the car and pulled the house keys from my pocket, looking around. There was nobody in sight, the road was empty of cars, and aside from the wall and gates, the only things to see were the woods on the other side of the road. Something felt a little strange to me though…not quite right.
After a moment, I realized what it was. On the other side of the gate, I could see the carefully tended drive, neatly cut lawn, and some trees.
I looked left and right. The strip of lawn that ran along the outside of the wall was untended, the grass almost knee-high on me. Inside the wall, it was neatly trimmed and groomed, as if groundskeepers tended to it every morning. Neither Margrave nor my father’s letter had mentioned any beyond the still-mysterious caretaker, but…for all I knew, they existed. The house and grounds certainly seemed too large for one person to take care of by themselves.
But why would they only mow the lawn inside the wall?
I shrugged. This was obviously one of those things that I was going to have to find out about for myself, and I had more pressing matters. Like opening the gate. With only a half-dozen keys on the keyring, including the house’s ornate master key, it took me only a minute to find the right key to open the gate’s padlock.
Once it was unlocked, the gates swung open effortlessly with a gentle push, their hinges making no sound at all.
I climbed back into my new car and drove slowly through the gates. Just on the other side, I stopped and glanced over my shoulder. On impulse, I got out of the car again and walked quickly back to the gates, closing them and locking them behind me. Perhaps some of the urgency in Margrave's manner and my father's letter was getting to me, but I felt safer somehow with it sealed.
As I walked back to the car, I got my first really good look at the house. It sat about a hundred meters back from the gate, making me pray that there were some groundskeepers. The lawn - still summer-green - was broken up here and there by big oak trees and irregular beds of flowers and bushes, and was, as I'd thought, more than any one person could ever manage alone.
The house itself was, to my eyes, magnificent. It was a classic Georgian Palladian design, according to what Margrave had told me, and was a sprawling three floor building with two wings angling off towards the back of the house. It was built of grayish-white stone that had been cut into bricks, and had what appeared to be a surprisingly modern-looking shingled roof, complete with solar panels on one wing. I could see several skylights, a stone portico sheltering the front door and the area around it, and no less than five chimneys. The drive went right up to the front of the house, widening into an area large enough for several cars.
I was enchanted. There was no other word for the way I felt in that moment. It was as if I’d stepped out of my mundane, humdrum life and into a fairy tale. There was just a hint of fear underneath the wonder…or perhaps nerves, more than fear. But that just added flavor to it, and made it feel more real, somehow.
Suddenly desperate to see the inside of the house, I climbed back into the car and hurried down the drive, parking in front of the portico. I left my bags in the car, deciding that I could come back for them once I had explored a bit.
As soon as I climbed out of the car, the gargoyle that perched protectively atop the portico drew my attention. At first glance, and even on closer inspection, it reminded me strongly of one of the characters from the old Disney cartoon. Its talon-like toes were curled over the edge of the portico, where it sat crouched, seeming to peer down at me, its wings caped around its shoulders, its forearms resting on its knees. There was a slight, but somehow reassuring and welcoming smile on its face.
It made me feel safe for some reason.
The front door was a massive, dark wooden door, carved with a pattern of ivy and oak leaves around its edges that reminded me of the wax seal on my father’s letter. There were a series of concentric rings in the center of the door that naturally drew one’s eyes to the large, old-fashioned lock in the center of the door. There was a more modern-looking deadbolt and knob on the right side, with big black iron hinges on the left, and four iron bands that ran across the face of it at regular intervals.
The door was quietly solid in a way that was impressive to me. It felt like it belonged on a castle, or an old church, rather than a house. But as had happened at the gates, something felt off to me. I looked around.
There was no button for a doorbell. No knocker on the door, and no sign of a pull-chain for an old-fashioned bell. But then, I supposed that with the gates and wall, the front door didn’t see a lot of unexpected traffic. I didn’t remember seeing any security cameras at the gates or on the wall…but maybe they were concealed or otherwise disguised.
Following Margrave’s instructions, I selected the master key and slid it into the big keyhole in the center of the door.
It wouldn’t turn. So I carefully applied more pressure, afraid of bending the delicate-looking key. When it didn’t bend - or turn - I gripped it more firmly and put more pressure on it, wondering if the lock was stuck or had somehow started to rust.
As I applied more pressure to the key - a little surprised that it wasn’t bending out of shape - I felt a sudden, sharp pain in my thumb. There came a series of soft clattering clicks from inside the lock, and the key suddenly turned smoothly, almost feeling like it was being turned by the lock itself. As I finished turning it all the way around, there was another series of soft clicks from the lock, and the key came free, sliding out smoothly.
I looked at my thumb to discover that there was a bit of blood there, as well as on the key. I dug out a tissue and wiped both my thumb and the key clean…and couldn’t find any trace of a cut on my thumb, or even any evidence that there had been one. When I ran my thumb lightly over the key, I couldn’t find any edges sharp enough to break the skin, even with pressure.
My eyes shifted back to the lock, where my thumb - I guessed - had left another small smear of blood on the black iron. As I watched, it seemed to shrink, growing smaller and fainter until it vanished.
I blinked a few times, wondering if I’d imagined the blood on the lock. I shivered a little, feeling - not for the first time in the past couple of days - out of my depth.
One of the other keys unlocked the completely mundane and entirely mystery-free deadbolt above the doorknob, and the knob itself turned smoothly and without resistance. I wondered what would have happened if I’d tried that first. The door opened as easily and silently as the gates had, and I stepped inside.
Then I stepped back outside, took a few quick steps out from under the portico, and stared up at the house. The front of the house was, as I had observed, rectangular, squared at the edges, and wider than it was tall.
I stepped back inside and blinked a few times, opened my mouth, and closed it again.
The foyer was huge, fully two and a half or three stories tall, with a balcony that ran around the second story. The walls were wood, stained a dark reddish-brown, and broken up every few feet by raised strips running vertically that were decorated with the same pattern of ivy and oak leaves that were on the front door. Electric lights were set in sconces , but somehow I had expected candles, or gaslights.
But the room was round. Or ovoid, at any rate…very distinctly round and wide, with curved walls and two graceful staircases that started towards the front of the room and followed the walls up either side to the balcony. Between the staircases, under the balcony and directly across from the front door, was a pair of double-doors, currently closed, and a matching set directly above them on the balcony. There were two more doors, one on either side of the room right before the start of the staircases, again with matching doors above them on the balcony.
To top it off, there was a huge three-tiered crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Beneath it sat a round table on a large circular Oriental rug. There was an empty glass vase in the center of the table.
Everything was dusty. There was a thin layer of the stuff everywhere I looked, complete with a few cobwebs here and there along the railings of the staircases and balconies, and in the chandelier. So much for household staff. I wondered what had become of the caretaker my father had mentioned in his letter.
I backed out the door again to look at the front of the house one more time, positive that the foyer couldn’t possibly fit properly inside it. I considered climbing into my car, driving away, and trying to forget the sight.
But…heck, nothing about the house felt dangerous to me. The situation was bizarre, and my brain was wrestling frantically with the mismatched geometry of the house’s exterior and foyer, but it was probably just a clever trick of construction.
Right?
I nodded a little to myself, went back inside, and closed the door behind me.
I looked up. Clever trick of construction? Round room in a square house? Maybe some secret rooms or something?
Nope. My brain was simply unable to reconcile the foyer and the front of the house. I realized why a moment later; the foyer had no windows, but the front of the house did.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “I think I’ve fallen down the proverbial rabbit hole here.”