Woke up earlier today. Against my father’s wishes, I decided to go back to Sophia. The Tower is not far from the house. A short horse ride of twenty minutes up north, across the southern corner of Broceliande. I’m quite impressed with myself. I thought I would need more time to learn about horse riding and other corners of Victorian ways of living.
The path there was an unassuming one. Frost and snow covered almost everything in my trip. A small road had been cleaned at least a couple days prior. A couple years ago -for myself, that is- my parents planned a camping trip in the infinite forest, and I recognised most of the area as the places we stayed. Obviously this is going to happen in more than a century, so the place is not as overgrown as it will be.
Sophia, in the 1860s, is an incredible sight to see. The pristine tower in the middle of a clearance in the forest seems out of a fairytale illustration. The small blue shingles above the windows, the neat white bricks on endless rows, and the glass roof on top of it all.
And to think it’s going up in flames in a couple decades.
I know, I know. I should not think about what will happen. For once, I’m no more in control of it than the people around me. Also, it’s not going to happen soon, and the details still elude me. My father said knowing about one’s future is never a good thing. He tried every trick in the book for me to avoid searching what’ll be mine. Considering my future is his past, this doesn’t seem much of a task. He knows exactly what topics to avoid. Everyone else was not as careful as him, and I managed to piece a couple things.
Closed. The main doors of the Tower are always closed and no one has the key. There are more ways to get to the inside, but I don’t know any. I knocked, but got no answer and decided to return to the house. Last year I accompanied my father when we stored Mr. Carroll’s watch, but then he used another door which I could not find this time. I could almost swear that the entrance was around a corner and next to the hitching posts, but nothing.
Back at the house, I went into the study. To my surprise, my father was nowhere around. Neither was my mother. Not in the greenhouse, nor in the drawing room. I encountered Ada, the maid, who told me they had received an urgent telegram from London and left almost immediately.
“They were looking for you, miss, but couldn’t find you.”, she said, before going upstairs to change the linens.
I found a note in my bedroom, above the dresser.
“Dear Alice,
We have to go back to DuMidi Castle to solve an issue with an expired treaty. We’ll be gone for a couple of weeks. If you want to go to London, your uncle Marcus is passing through on the 20th, and is staying on Belgravia Square.
Please, try not to get yourself in trouble.
Love, Your Mother.”
Gone. And though a trip to London seems like a good idea. I had more pressing matters at hand. I knew my father had a way into the Tower from the house, since I never really saw him left when he went there. I remember hearing about a door he used, or, he’ll use in a century and a half later. Since he’s not a man of modern ideas, I presume he must have the door somewhere around.
Where. Where. Where oh where would I put a door like that if I were my father. Well, if I were my father, I wouldn’t leave the door just laying around to begin with. I would carry it with me around, somehow. Not sure how. That’s why I said somehow. If not with me, someplace where no one could find it…or somewhere where it wouldn’t look out of place. For example, the almost endless corridors of the first floor, the one where my own room is. Though a risk, the staff has fixed orders in certain rooms, and never enter those beyond the scope of their tasks, like the greenhouse.
With the idea in my head, I ran out of my bedroom. Though Featherhill House has the ability to add rooms when one needs them, these days it seems fixed in those we need. From my door, the one on the left back corner from the entrance, I counted three doors. The rooms belonging to my sister, uncle, and one of the linen closets. On the other side of the stairs, there are four other doors. Aunt, bathroom, toilet.
On a side note, I cannot begin to describe the happiness of travelling to and from a time where flushing toilets and indoor plumbing are a thing. In the future, my father told me some stories, which made me ever so grateful for this.
The last door in the back right corner, the one in front of my room across the lounge, didn’t seem to belong to any known room of the house. Not to my knowledge, at least. To check it, I went outside and counted the windows and measured the side of the house by walking. Turns out I was right. No space inside the house could harbour the contents of another room, without expanding also on the outside.
Went back inside, crossed the hallway, and upstairs again. The door, firmly closed, had a brass handle and someone had painted over the wood to seem identical to the others. Close observation showed paint peeling and bleeding in small pockets. I checked for a key, but then a spurt of brilliance dawned on me.
And then I knocked on it.
Steps on the other side of the door, and knew I had to act fast for this. When the screeching of the hinges began, I used my magic to turn invisible. Now, mind you, this was one of the handful times I managed to do this. Not a powerful and common ability, but a once-every-decade power. No sight of me, no form, nothing but my consciousness moving by itself and my body reappearing after a couple minutes.
I didn't notice who opened the door. I just went in. Moved through what seemed to be a collection of books and ancient scrolls, and found a hidden place in a corner.
My body appeared around my mind and, when I stopped feeling a tingle in my fingers, began browsing the books around me. They weren't books, not exactly. Records would be a more accurate word for them. Long-winded reports of how a certain artefact was found, its location, and a beyond reasonable amount of reasons of why they hadn't been recovered. It became appalling very soon, as I realised what surrounded me weren't the exploits and victories of Sophia and its people, but an insurmountable mountain of its failures.
"Miss? I don't think you should be here", a voice close to me said, which made me jump in my shoes.
A man stood in front of me. Twice my age, with curly dark hair and a matching beard. He carried a bulk of these records, which he seemed to store before finding me there.
"How did you get here?", he asked, and I regained my composure while adjusting me skirt of my dress.
"Through the door. I was looking for my father". Lies. I hoped he believed it, but he squinted at me, while putting the books aside.
"Miss Alice, we both know your father is on his way to London today. Isn't he?" He smiled. "Can't blame you for being curious though. Say, let me offer you a deal. There's a record here I need help with. Help me finish it, and I'll let you browse around for a few minutes."
"I help you, if you find me a key to the door."
"Tough bargain. I'll promise I'll look for one, is that good?", I nodded and he smiled again. "Good. Follow me over there."
He pointed to a small secretary desk slumped on a corner, with a bunch of papers and pens.
"Alright, Miss Alice. What can you tell me about the pocket watch."
"Can, at least know, your name first?"
"Jules Verne." He said, while sitting at the desk.
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