A couple days after my return, I woke up early in the morning. Dawn barely on my windows. At first, I thought of ringing the bell for Ada, my maid. In the end, I decided against it. I lived without a lady’s maid for over half a decade, and I don’t need it. To be honest, some of the standards of Victorian living are more than I could care for.
I put on an overcoat and walked softly downstairs. Someone had cleaned the road from the main house to the stables and the other buildings of the estate. A surprising storm had left northern Wales under half a metre of snow, with threats of going for the full metre later that week. Horseriding, under the best conditions, is a dangerous thing to do. Doing it under the cold and the blinding white, was not a smart thing to do. Especially if you are, like me, grossly undertrained.
Against Father’s wishes, I bridled my horse and rode for a while down the road to the north. The old northern road was a forbidden area. Father blocked most of it due to the Roman and Mediaeval ruins around it. Historical propriety, as he calls it.
Crossing the path north, the natural wonder of Broceliande unfolded in front of me. Frosted trees, and everything covered in snow. I recognised some of it. A couple years prior -for me, that is-, my parents played a small camping trip to that corner of the infinite forest, and the area wont change much in the following century. It will be more overgown, that is, but not much else. The only thing that will change, is the tower at the end of that particular road.
Sophia, in the middle of the 1860s, was a sight to see. The neat white bricks in perfect rows. Small blue shingles on the rooves above stained-glass windows. It seemed taken out of a fairy-tale illustration. The place stood in the middle of a large clearance, like a candle lit in the forest.
And to think it’s going up in flames in a couple years. Then’ll be a true candle.
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. All I know it’s that it’ll burn. Won’t happen soon, but the details still elude me. Father said knowing about one’s future is never a good thing. He tried every trick in his book -which are a lot- to made me avoid learning about mine. My future is in his past, which made the task easier for him. He knew what topics to stay away from. Still, I managed to learn a few things, since most were not as careful as him.
Closed. Those main doors of the Tower had been closed since before my time. No one has a key, not even Father. He melted it, back in the times of King Ramses. I knocked, but the door sounded solid, as if a wall was on the other side. I accompanied Father there once before, a couple years prior, but he used another entrance that time. One around the corner, next to the hitching posts. Nothing there.
I tried for a couple minutes. But then the frost came for my nose and fingers, and made me ride back home.
At the house, I went into the study. By the time I returned, Father should’ve been there, working of current affairs of the Council or Parliament. Yet, the place, from the large mahogany desk to the bookshelves, remained empty. Mother, also, was nowhere around. Not in the greenhouse, the drawing room, nor the ballroom, where Mrs. George Proctor had left the paintings for the rest of the house. I walked around, but none of the maids or footmen had seen my parents that day. I encountered Driver, the butler, who gave me an urgent letter from them.
“I’m sorry, my lady. I’ve been looking for you since we received it earlier, but couldn’t find you.”
I opened it back in my bedroom.
“Dear Alice,
I’m sorry. We had to leave earlier to DuMidi Castle. There’s an issue with an expired treaty, and -apparently- can’t be solved without us. We’ll be gone for a couple of weeks. I don’t want you to get bored there at the house, but your uncle Marcus is passing through Wales later this week. If you want, he said he’ll love to take you to London and stay in Athenida House with him.
Please, try not to get yourself in trouble.
Love, Your Mother.”
Gone. A trip to London sounded fun, though. Before my uncle arrived, however, I had more pressing matters. This gave me a special opportunity. I knew Father had a way in and out of the Tower from Featherhill, but I never saw him leave. I know of a door he’ll use in a century or so. Since he’s not a man of modern ideas, perhaps it’s the same one then. We’re talking about a man who still thought, from time to time, about the window tax. Not the most modern man in the world.
The question now, was ‘where’. Where oh where would I put a door like that inside the house if I were Father. Well, if I were him, I would put it in a place where staffs and the family wouldn’t stumble on it. A place where most knew not to bother him if he was working, and a place where no one entered if he was away. A place like his private study on the ground floor, or one of the closed rooms above. Most of the staff had fixed instructions regarding the rooms of the house. At least since my returning. So, they wouldn’t go, by mistake, into any of the others. Mother and Father also put other restrictions. No one but them and me can enter the study, the private library, or the greenhouse.
I decided to start upstairs. From my room, I had a lot around to investigate. Featherhill House had the ability to add rooms when one needs them. However, since Father took the cornerstone, they appeared to be fixed on the ones we had. Not more, not else.
My room is on the left back corner of the house. From there to the entrance, I counted three doors. Those rooms belonged to my sister, uncle, and a small one for the linen closets. Not much there, since neither my elder sister, Victorie, nor uncle Marcus spent much time there. Both lived mainly in London, and travelled up north when convenient. On the other side, across the stairs, a guest room, Mother’s, and Father’s. With that, what remained were three other doors. Two bathrooms -which made me happy to live in the dawn of indoor plumbing- and a last door which I’d never seen open.
Bingo.
Just to make sure, I measured the corridor and the distance between the doors in footsteps. Then, I walked inside the rooms and did the same. There was no possible place in that floor for that door to exist. I even went outside to be sure. Not even a metre. And, before anyone reading this say it, let me be clear. Whenever Featherhill grows to make way for new rooms, the outside matches in size. Not doing it would require a large amount of magic or a comprehensible understanding of physics and relative dimensions in space. Neither of those things happened when Ms. Dunn built the house in the 1700s.
Went back inside and, without much of a plan, walked towards the door and knocked on it. I heard footsteps on the other side, which stopped just on the other side of the door. For a moment, I believe in doubt, whoever was on the other side wouldn’t dare to open. I knocked again, and then it open slightly.
A man looked out and, before he could close it again, I walked inside. For a moment I thought of trying something stealthier, but most spells which could’ve helped here were beyond my scope. I knew some people in my family can turn invisible at will, but it either required concentration I didn’t have, or some artefact of power.
The man tried to stop me. However, I was determined. When I barged passed him I found myself in a cramped room. Bookshelves coverin the walls and in rows through the room. A little desk with thousands of papers and books in process of binding. A corkboard with drawings and sketches. In a corner, haphazardly covered with a blanket, a large globe with some points drawn over. No other doors in or out of the room, besides the one I came through.
“Hey, what, who are you!?” he yelled with a slight French accent. At least, I think it was just an accent. Magic can translate things for you, without you noticing it.
“Lady Alice Athenida. I’m looking for my father, Lord London.”
“Lord London went upstairs to the Curator’s office earlier this morning. As far as I know, my lady, his lordship went to New Amsterdam after that.”
“Oh?”
““Yes…and I think you knew that, didn’t you?” He pointed at the crumpled note in my hand. “I recognised her ladyship’s handwriting.”
“Maybe, what is this place?”
“Sophia’s records room. Here’s where we keep current information about all artefacts we know. Those currently in the tower, and those out and about in the world.” He waved around. “I would give you a tour, but I don’t think our Curator would like it.”
“Is Ariel still Curator?”
“You know Mx. Bonehur?”
“They went to my christening. I’ve only seen them twice since.”
I walked around. The state of disrepair of the room worried me. Most of the shelves had cracks or breaks on them. Cobwebs and dust covered almost all places beyond those at eye level. It seemed the man almost lived on a corner, and no one else came into the room.
“My lady, since I have you here, can you help me?” He walked to his desk and pulled a handful of papers. “I have to finish a record on a particular artefact which we don’t have in store. You may be able to iluminate us in that regard.”
“Which would it be?” I asked, feigning ignorance. I knew what it was. Even a blind martian would know.
“Mr. Lewis Carroll’s Pocket Watch. Mx. Bonheur gave me an impossible task, and I have no idea where to begin.”
“If I promise to help, and that’s a big ‘if’, I want something in return.” I turned to face the room. “I want to learn. Magic, history, about artefacts. I need a teacher.”
“I can help with that. Do we have a deal?”
“We do, Mr….what’s your name, again?”
“Verne, my lady. Jules Verne. Writer," he said, extenfing his hand to shake mine.
"Call me Alice."
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