by Amy Wilson
“So your parents were like you, then. And they fought the monsters”—I look up at the portraits—“and so did all these guys?”
He nods, as a woman lying on a couch bares her teeth at me from the nearest painting.
“So where did they go then, your parents?”
“I don’t know,” he says shortly, turning to a new corridor on the right. “Let’s try through here.”
“Why did they go?”
“They made a mistake.”
“And so, what, they just ran away, left you here? How could they do that?”
He looks like I slapped him and I curse myself. Mouth before mind—Dad used to tell me that sometimes. Think first, he’d say. And if you think you might regret it, perhaps you shouldn’t say it.
“Sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean . . .”
“Yeah, you did,” he says. “And yeah, they just ran away and left me here.” His voice shakes, and he wanders off ahead of me, into the shadows. “So let’s just get on with this.”
Bavar
I used to play hide-and-seek in these halls. My father would chase me, roaring, until I darted off, and then I’d scrabble for the right place, and he’d stalk the carpeted floors, hollering at every doorway. It was our favorite game, though I’m not sure it was really a fair one. The winner was usually whoever managed to get the ancestors on their side, and because I was smaller and less forbidding, it was usually me. They’d all start shouting, sending echoes through the house to confuse him, giving him false starts and misinformation until he headed off in the wrong direction, while I pressed myself in tight behind a curtain, or crouched behind a chest. It would always take him ages to find me. When I was looking, though, that was different. They’d spy on him for me and show me the way, whispering me along to wherever he was hiding. He always acted like he was angry about it, crying out at them, calling them traitors and threatening to hold a bonfire with their portraits. But I knew he wasn’t angry really—it was all just part of the game.
Now that I think about it, I wonder how I never knew there was a door with a rift behind it. Surely I’d have noticed. Or at least he’d have stopped me getting anywhere near it. But the house is funny like that; it stretches and contracts, and even familiar passageways seem to take on new twists and turns, depending on the time of day, or the mood you’re in. And I haven’t been up here for a long time. The corridors are dark and ghostly with white sheets. Eva has shut off entire parts of the house because we don’t need them. We used to need them, when my parents held their parties. There were always people here. And then the mistake happened: they had neglected the barrier, one of the raksasa escaped, and then they fled, leaving me with Eva and Sal, and overnight everything changed.
“It’s so creepy,” breathes Angel now, as we step into another dark, empty room, the windows obscured by wooden shutters, cobwebs trailing from the door frame. Has there ever, in the history of this house, been anyone like this here? She’s so determined. She can’t possibly understand what all this means, and yet she seems so sure. She darts ahead of me like a small, bright moth, examining every dark corner, fingering every wall hanging as though she might find the answers there, while I just flounder along behind her, fighting with all my doubts.
It could be the biggest mistake of all time, letting her in on it all like this. The figures in the portraits are very dubious about the whole thing, up here. They’ve been in the shadows for so long, they’re startled, their eyes blinking, as if someone just opened the curtains and they’re being blinded by the sun.
Or by a girl, whose name just happens to be Angel.
She stops at a ceiling-high, ornately carved wooden door at the end of a wide, carpeted corridor, and glances back at me.
“What do you think? Will this be the one?” she asks, for what feels like the hundredth time.
“Shouldn’t think so,” I say, reaching out and twisting the handle. My hand is shaking. I clutch harder, feeling her sharp eyes on me, and honestly I almost hope it is the flipping rift, right now. Maybe I could just disappear into it and get a little peace and quiet.
It’s the ballroom, which isn’t exactly what I’d planned on. I’m a little bit disoriented now and starting to wonder if the house is playing tricks on us. This room has so many memories, I was hoping to avoid it altogether, and I know it’s not the right place for the door; it’s too public for a secret doorway. Angel looks around, her eyes sparkling. At least being in here will distract her for a bit, before she pulls me apart again with all her clever thoughts and words. They sting. Like everyone talked to me through cotton wool before, and she’s taken it off and thrown it away, making everything clear.
I haven’t been in here for years. The crystal chandeliers are rimed in cobwebs now, pale sheets covering the grand piano, and a dozen tables and chairs scattered through the room. The floor is black marble, but there’s a gray carpet of dust that softens our footsteps. Ghosts of the past flicker in the corners of my eyes: I see my father leading my mother in a waltz, the room captivated by their superhuman elegance; butlers staggering under trays laden with glasses and bottles; guests in ornate masks, laughing.
“Bavar!” The voice of an elderly woman cuts through the memories. “Look how you’ve grown!” The steely eyes of Great-Aunt Rebecca look me up and down from the ornate brass frame on the picture rail. Angel looks up. “My, and it seemed just yesterday . . . but who is this? You have a friend with you?”
“It’s Angel.”
“Of course it is,” Rebecca says. “I heard the mutterings, though we never see anything these days. That Eva”—she shakes her head, her eyes narrowed—“such a spoilsport. Always was, even when she was a child. No interest in the magic, just wanted her books, and her little tea parties with her dollies . . .”
I blink, trying to imagine it. A small dark-haired girl, serious amidst all the madness of this place. I wonder what my mother was like then. Were they ever close? I know they couldn’t stand each other, when Eva came back with Sal.
“Come then, Angel,” Rebecca says briskly. “Let me see you . . . give me a twirl. Now, aren’t you sweet! Wonderful, even in these modern clothes of yours. A nice brocade dress, and you’d just about sparkle. Oh, you should have seen the parties, the people! So beautiful, oh yes, they knew how to dress for the occasion in those days . . . !”
“We should go,” I say, seeing Angel’s eyes glint dangerously at the idea of a brocade dress. “Got things to do . . .”
“Yes,” Rebecca says, her eyes sharp. “Looking for things, eh? Well, I’ll let you get on. Go careful, the both of you . . . Oh, Bavar!”
“Yes?” I ask, turning back.
“How’s my grave? Are you keeping it nice, down there? These things matter, you know.”
“He’s looking after it all,” Angel says. “Lovely flowers, all sorts . . .”
Rebecca nods, apparently satisfied. “Jasmine, I think? Sometimes I can smell it, when the wind blows the right way. Didn’t I say so, Rupert?” She raises her voice. “JASMINE.”
“Oh, I like jasmine,” says my great-uncle, from the next portrait, looking up. “Always liked jasmine. Good to have, when you’re keeping watch at night. Soothing, I always thought . . .”
I nod at him and bare my teeth at both of them in a sort-of smile before hurrying Angel away.
“Why did you do that?” she demands, looking back at them. “They were still talking!”
“If we stop to hear all their stories, we’ll never get anywhere,” I tell her. I don’t tell her that they remind me of other times, when my parents were here, and of how things have changed, how lonely it all seems in this place now. “We should keep going; it won’t be long before Eva starts looking for us.”
“OK,” she says, breaking away from me and running to the ornate fireplace at the end of the room and inspecting it closely, pressing at the flowers carved into the pale marble.
“What are you doing?”
“Maybe this is the door . . . Maybe if
we find the right button . . .”
“They’re not buttons; they’re flowers!”
She ignores me and runs her fingers over the mantelpiece, standing on tiptoes to reach it.
“Angel . . .”
“Ah!” she exclaims, turning to me with a smile, pulling on something just beneath the ledge. “Found something!” The fireplace shudders, and there’s a violent grinding sound as it begins to swing around. “I knew it!” She grins as a dark void opens up where the fireplace stood, dust and old plaster raining down around us. “I knew it would be a fireplace!”
I pull her back, my chest thudding, and I realize I still haven’t thought this through properly. I didn’t think we’d really find it. What if there’s suddenly a great void to a monstrous alternate universe? What if we get sucked in?
“Oh,” Angel says, peeking around me. “That doesn’t look right . . .”
Angel
“It’s Uncle Sal’s office!” Bavar turns to me, panicking. “Quick, get back—how do we close this?” He looks around desperately.
I’m a bit gutted to be honest. I was imagining some fiery hellhole, not more paisley carpet and an old wood desk.
“Angel, where’s the lever?” He starts flapping about between the rooms, looking for the marble ledge that swung back into the darkness, his hair sparking with static.
“Calm down!” I say, peering through the gap to the study. “He’s not even in there.”
“He might come back any minute!”
“So what?” I demand.
“He’ll be furious; there’ll be all sorts of shouting. I don’t know what he does in here, but whatever it is he won’t want us poking around!”
“But we found a secret doorway, Bavar! We found a revolving fireplace! I mean, you didn’t know this was here, did you?”
“No . . .”
“So stop worrying and let’s do this! Who knows where it might lead us.” I squeeze past him, ducking down until I’m into the study. Rows of shelves stretch to the ceiling, full of books, and between them sit smoky old snow globes and strange copper gadgets that wink in the light of an angular lamp. The desk is overflowing with old ledgers and papers full of spidery handwriting. “I mean, I don’t know, you could spy on him!”
“I think that would probably just be really boring,” Bavar says, scrunching down low before emerging next to me. “He’s writes academic papers about stuff, I don’t know, I never really listened . . . We really should get out of here before he comes back . . .”
“But some of the stuff in here is really interesting. Look, here’s some kind of compass thing.” I peer down at the round copper paperweight balanced on a stack of tightly written sheets. There’s a round green gem glittering in the middle. “Ooh, look!”
“Don’t press it!” Bavar slaps at my hand, but it’s too late—the copper thing pops open with a noise like a banshee scream. I clap my hands to my ears, and Bavar picks it up, poking and prodding at it.
“Make it stop!” I shout.
He gives me a murderous look and claps the thing between his hands. The awful noise stops. After a moment he opens his hands warily, and a bunch of tiny golden springs fly out, ricocheting around the room.
“Oh my goodness,” he says. “We broke it.”
“You broke it!” I giggle.
“I don’t know why you have to press every button you see,” he says, but his mouth twitches, and I’m pretty sure he’s trying not to laugh.
“That’s the whole point of exploring,” I say. “Finding stuff, pressing it, finding more stuff, dodging flying springs . . . What is that thing, anyway?”
“Some kind of personal alarm—” He breaks off, tilting his head. “Quick!” he hisses, balancing the copper thing back on the pile of papers. “I can hear footsteps!”
“I can’t!” I protest, as he drags me back through the gap between rooms. “Bavar, wait—what about all the little springs?”
“Too late for that! Where’s the catch?” He starts fumbling around. “Angel—where is it? How do we close this thing?”
“It’s just there.” I step forward, gesturing to the mantelpiece, now hidden by the shadows.
He reaches out, but it was a bit fiddly even for me, and I realize his hands are far too big—he’ll never manage it. I step in, pulling at the little lever, and we jump out of the way as the fireplace begins to swing around again. The noise is fairly impressive, but finally the whole thing settles and the ballroom looks pretty much like it did before.
“Well, that was exciting!” I say.
Bavar stares at me.
“He’s going to know we were there. We broke the alarm. He’ll find all those springs on the carpet.”
“I’m not sure about that; it’s pretty chaotic in there,” I say. “And I’m not sure the alarm was working properly anyway—was it meant to scream like that?”
“Probably not,” he concedes.
“Can’t do much about it now, anyway. Unless you want to go back and tell him what happened?” I gesture at the fireplace. “I mean, it might be worth it for the look on his face when we burst through the chimney!”
His mouth twitches again.
“He’d be angry.”
“I don’t know why you’re scared of him—he’s about the size of your knee!”
The words come out a bit high because I’m trying not to laugh, and then they echo around the room unnaturally and I realize the people in the portraits are repeating me, their shoulders shuddering with laughter. Bavar stares around at them and then looks down at me.
“What have you done to this place?” he asks. His eyes are brighter than I’ve ever seen them, and I realize that maybe, just maybe, he’s even beginning to enjoy this, just a little bit, in spite of all his panicking.
“Livened it up a bit.” I grin. “That’s all. You shouldn’t worry so much. Didn’t you ever do anything naughty before?”
“Not really,” he says.
“Why?”
He shrugs. I stare at him.
“Just didn’t,” he says. “There wasn’t anyone here to be naughty with. And my parents were pretty fierce.”
“Oh.” I swallow. I wonder what it was like, and imagine two grown-up Bavars, both as brooding as he is. It must’ve been pretty intense.
“Oh, stop looking like that,” he says. “They were fine, just . . .”
“A bit intense,” I say, nodding. I look at him and grin. “I think I get it.”
“Ha-ha,” he says drily. “Come on then.” He pulls me forward. “Let’s see what else we can find to liven things up. Only you’re not to press any more buttons.”
The laughter bursts out—I can’t help it. The sight of him flapping about with that alarm and all the springs pinging up at him, the look of surprise on his face. Awesome. He’s just awesome.
Bavar
My heart is jumping at the thought of actually finding the rift and being able to do something about it. I guess I never thought it would actually happen. I didn’t think any of this was possible. I thought I’d just be here forever, shoring up the barrier. But we already found one secret doorway, and who knows how many more there will be. Every corridor, every nook and cranny suddenly seems full of possibility. Angel’s conviction is so powerful, I can’t help getting carried along by it. I pull her up another narrow little staircase, concentrating on not banging my head, and by the time we reach the next corridor we’re both covered in dust, looking a bit like ghosts ourselves.
“I’m sure I’ve just eaten a spider.” She grimaces, swiping cobwebs from her sleeves and bunching her shoulders up around her neck with a shudder.
“I didn’t think you’d worry about a little thing like a spider,” I say.
“I don’t like them.”
“You’re OK with the raksasa, though . . .”
“Well, they’re not so fiddly. They won’t get into your ears or down your top.” She shudders. “Ugh.”
We check the little dark rooms off the corridor, old
servants bedrooms with narrow wardrobes, all of which Angel insists upon checking, as though we’re looking for Narnia, and then the way opens out into the main house again, and we get to the wing I shared with my parents, before they went.
The rooms here are bigger, the ceilings higher, and somehow it’s all just a bit grander. Oversized furniture looms up over us, and ornate chandeliers tinkle as we pass, sending yet more dust to cover us.
Eva never liked it in this part of the house. Even when Mother and Father were here, she said it didn’t feel like a home, more like a museum. When they left she moved us all to the south wing, where the main kitchen is and the light streams brighter through the windows. I didn’t mind; I was happy to have a new start. The rooms fit better. It felt cozy. Homely, I guess. Being back here now is unnerving; familiar, and yet different. The air is cold and stale, and the portraits in the corridors watch with haughty gazes, as if they’re offended by our presence.
“Ooh, look at this!” Angel calls from the room ahead.
I hurry after her. It doesn’t sound like an “I’ve found the portal” sort of voice, but I’m learning you can never tell with her.
“It’s beautiful!” She turns to me with a look of wonder on her face as I walk in, and I can’t help but smile. It’s the orangery that sits at the top of one of the towers. Of course. How is it that I’ve become such a stranger in my own home? How could I forget about this place? A stained-glass dome rises up above us, tiny intricate panels of blue and green leading up to a rose in the center.
“Don’t you ever come in here?” she asks in a hushed voice.
“No,” I say, looking up, watching the light change as the clouds shift. It’s dusk, and that eerie gray light makes the whole room seem to glow, colors dancing in the dust on the floor. All around the edges of the room are enormous terra-cotta pots, and the trees within are spindly and gray-tinged with neglect. There are green leaves among the pale, dry ones, new shoots still shining with life.
“It seems a shame,” Angel says, turning and turning. “What did you do in here?”