The wine bar was called Aaron’s Porch, which was ironic, because the patio was closed this late in the season. A chalkboard out front listed the labels for sale there. I skimmed it, but I’ve never been much of a wine enthusiast. I pulled open the front door and stepped inside to a room that was comfortably warm.

The bar took up most of the back wall, and a few small tables littered the middle space of the room. Around the other three walls were a series of couches and armchairs, each with a small table nearby where a drink could be set. 8:30 was early, for bars, at least, so there weren’t a lot of people there yet. A pair of what seemed to be high power businessmen, still in their tailored suits, were nursing the drinks in the corner to my right. A young couple in date night clothes were sitting at one of the small tables. I did my best not to pay attention as they moon-eyed at each other. Three women in casual outing clothes took up the left corner.

A host’s podium stood right by the door, but it was unattended, so I went to the bar and slid into a stool. The bartender had a long, carefully waxed goatee, and an equally carefully waxed bald scalp. He seemed fairly friendly, so I asked for a recommendation in a pinot noir. As I expected, I got a lot of information about the different labels on the rack, of which I understood some. I picked one at random that was available by the glass, and received it in a couple minutes. I took a sip and nodded my satisfaction. It was actually quite good, I think. Enjoyable, for an unrefined palate like mine, at least.

“Hey, I’m supposed to be meeting a friend of a friend here. My name is Daniel, they go by Cee,” I explained. What, was I going to tell him I got a magic postcard from a magic mansion staffed by goblins? “My friend didn’t tell me what they look like, could you let me know if they arrive?”

The bartender pointed towards the businessmen in the corner. “He let me know you’d be coming, asked me to point you in his direction after you’d arrived. Tall fellow in the corner, there.”

I turned to look at them, then turned back to the bartender. “Thanks. Uhh…what do I owe you for the glass?”

“Fifteen and tax. I can open a tab if you’d like.”

I considered. How long was C. going to take to explain what was going on? I took a closer look at him and his friend. It seemed like the friend was actually an employee, on further inspection, but they were jovial nonetheless. This could go into a second or third glass, possibly.

“Yeah, go ahead and open a tab.” I gave him my ID to hold the tab open with and moved over to sit on one of the armchairs next to C. and his friend.

“Hi,” I opened. “I’m Daniel. I received your invitation, but I’m afraid I don’t know who you are, other than an initial.”

The taller of the pair had a full mustache, trimmed and sculpted. He honestly made me think of the Monopoly Man. When I sat down and introduced myself, he broke out in a wide smile.

“Ah, Mister Daniel! I’m glad you are feeling okay. Porter was very sorry to have caused you such a scare, you know. This is Sterns, my driver,” he indicated the stout man sitting with him. “I am Edgar Carver and a whole bunch of titles that I don’t generally recite outside of formal occasions. Just Carver is fine, though. Please, settle in. What are you drinking?” I shrugged, already having forgotten the label. “No matter, the barman will remember. Sterns, would you mind?” Sterns got up and went to the bar. “Now then, Daniel, I imagine you have some questions, but let’s start with the most important. No. You did not imagine the whole thing. It was not a bad dream, nor an allergic reaction. It certainly was not a hallucination, mirage, or trick. You are not the butt of a prank. What happened to you, when you walked through that gate, really happened.”

I absorbed that, trying to keep my face composed. I had really wanted it to be carbon monoxide. That was simple. That was treatable. Psychosis, even. There wasn’t exactly a treatment plan for teleportation. “Okay. Why did it happen then? Presumably that gate doesn’t always lead to…wherever that was. Someone uses it to get in and out of their home. Someone whose package I was trying to deliver at the time.”

“Well, that’s going to be a bit of a telling, Danny Boy,” Carver noticed me wince. “Ah, sorry. Nicknaming is an old habit. Daniel, then. The short answer to your question is that yes, that gate usually leads where it appears to lead, rather than where it led you. As to why you specifically, I needed a little help with something, and you happened to fit the bill. The long answer…let’s cover a few of your other pressing questions before I get to the long answer. They may provide some crucial context, you see.”

I swirled my wine around my glass, trying to pick which question came next. Sterns returned with two glasses of wine to match mine. Carver briefly raised his, an informal and unspoken toast. Sterns and I returned the gesture, and we all took a sip, pausing to savor it. “Pretty good choice, Mister Daniel,” Sterns offered. “Indeed. A worthy label at thrice the price. Believe me, I’ve had worse at ten times,” Carver added.

“Okay. What was that place?” I asked next.

“That’s a bit tricky. Not because I don’t want to explain, but because my grasp of it isn’t fully complete. Essentially, that wasn’t a place at all. It’s more of…an Un-place. Purely conceptual. We call it The Lane. It also happens to be my home.”

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

“Wait, if it’s purely conceptual, how did I go there? I saw grass…and flowers. I still had sand stuck to my shoes when I got home!”

“Right baffles, doesn’t it?” Carver said with a wink. “Like I said, it’s not entirely clear even to me. But only certain people, and those they choose to invite in, can reach it. I’m one of the former. You were and are, one of the latter, until I say otherwise. I confess, I hadn’t quite expected you to arrive that soon. I apologize, I had hoped to give you a more comfortable first visit.”

“If I can only get in with your permission, how could I surprise you?”

“Ah. Well, entry is actually quite simple, and invitation quite…interpretive, is a word that almost works. Once I had decided to invite you, you were in effect invited. Being invited, you could enter through any appropriate doorway.” He took a sip, almost dainty, from his glass, wetting his throat. “You just happened to go through one such before I could send a proper invitation as you or I would recognize it.”

“It was a fence gate,” I stated. It was the only response I could think of in the moment.

“Correct,” Carver answered. “Now that you’ve been there once, you’ll only go there if you intend to. But ah…be very certain of your intent first. I’m afraid that is also rather interpretive. Fortunately for you, only certain doorways will work.”

“Fence gates?” I guessed.

“Wrought iron fence gates, to be specific. At least, that’s how it is with my house. Porter tells me that the other houses have different requirements. For mine, it’s wrought iron.”

“Okay. Why would I intend to go there ever again? I’ve been perfectly happy here in places that aren’t un, up ‘til now.”

“Well, my hope is that you’ll take my little job offer. We’re getting to that soon. First, I think we need another round.” I looked down to see my glass was empty. Sterns seemed to have drained his and wiped it dry, and was idly twirling it around one finger, gaze wandering around the room. More people had started to trickle in. “Sterns, I believe I saw my favorite label on the rack, could you go and order us a bottle? Three glasses, of course.” Sterns rolled to his feet and headed out for the bar again. “That’s going to need a few minutes to breathe,” Carver noted, idly. “So, we’ve covered where you went, and how you got there. I’ve politely deflected why you, for now. I suspect you have some other questions, though.”

I considered, wiping my hands on a napkin. “You said his name was Porter?”

“Hmm. Name and title both, as it were. Sterns too, for that matter; originally he was in charge of the estate’s sailing vessels. Nowadays we don’t have much need for it, so he trades shifts with Driver.”

“Porter wasn’t…human,” I said.

“No he was not,” Carver answered, faint grin barely visible under his mustache.

“What is he, then? Some sort of…elf?”

“Similar, though you don’t have to worry quite so far as to put horseshoes over the door. In fact, my house is one of the safest from elves. Wrought iron, eh? They can’t even get in without a whole lot of loopholes. Makes diplomacy difficult, but we manage. No, Porter and his kin are hobs. Or at least that’s the name and face they wear at the moment.”

“He’s magic?”

“Of a sort. His nature is tied up in the House. That’s ‘house’ with a capital, H, Daniel. The House is…a sort of magic, and so is he. So are they, more accurately.”

Sterns returned with the new drinks, and he spoke, a deep and steady voice that reminded me of my grandfather. “We grow with the House. We wane with the House. We serve its needs, and it serves ours. We have been many things throughout the years, but yet always one thing.” He nodded, as if that explained everything.

Confused, I turned to Carver.

“Oh, old Sterns is a hob, too. They look like humans, when they need to. Or bees, or ants, or other shapes. Best I can figure, it’s a side benefit of being a conceptual being.”

Sterns snorted. “Even the Master of the House rarely understands our nature. No matter. Also, I’m not old, sir.”

“Oh, right. Only six centuries on Sterns.”

“My pappy, he’s old. He remembers a time when tin was a luxury, and silver unheard of.”

“Right, right. But humans rarely live to see their second century, Sterns. By our standards, you’re old.”

Sterns grunted and turned back to people watching. Carver shrugged, and soldiered on.

“An enigma, is what Porter and Sterns and their kin are. To me as well as you. I’m afraid that’s the best answer you’re gonna get.”

“No, I think I understand…well no. But I recognize that I don’t need to,” I answered. Carver raised his fresh glass in agreement and we both sipped. This wine was lighter, and had a hint of citrus. I was surprised by how much I liked it.

“What about the other houses? I mean, capital H Houses. That road seemed to go on forever. You mentioned that yours was particularly difficult for elves to get into, does that mean every one of those gates is another House?”

“The Lane,” Carver corrected me. “And it does. Or it’s close enough as to make no difference. And yes, each gate is a different House. That’s all I can say on the matter at this time.”

“Where did they come from?”

“Couldn’t tell you. They’re much older than me. Older, even, than Sterns’s old pappy. They just are.”

I took a sip, then held the glass up, staring into the transparent red liquid within. “Okay. I think I’ve got a general picture. Let’s get back to why me.”

Carver set his glass on the little side table by his chair and leaned forward.

“Why, I need something delivered, of course.”