We drove under another stone gatehouse, inside the outer stone wall. The central keep rose like a column from the top of the hill, flanked on two sides by battlements and turrets. I had read on the website that it was an original Norman keep, with the outer walls and Tudor addition added later when the castle became a residence instead of a fortress. Arrow slits and tiny windows wound around the turrets, and crenulations circled the roof of the tower. Victorian mock-Tudor additions jutted out from the entrance, providing a glass conservatory and a small annex and garage. I could see a solar panel array attached to one of the roofs.
Wow.
A castle.
Mycastle.
“Right, luv, that will be a hundred and eighty-four quid.” The driver pulled up in a small parking area around a dirty fountain. I fumbled in my wallet for the money, counting out the strange notes I’d extracted from a machine at the airport. Was a quid the same as a pound? Was a hundred and eighty-four pounds a lot? I was usually good at math, but I couldn’t get my head around the exchange rates. It didn’t help that my mind felt like cotton candy after ten hours on the plane. I’d managed to get a little sleep, but another nightmare about the Ferris wheel woke me and I couldn’t keep my eyes shut after that.
I slid out of the car, in awe of the way the huge stone walls loomed over me, pressing me down into the earth. Now I was outside the car, the vibrant colors and scents of the garden assailed me.
How was it possible for the air to smell so sweet and green?
Two huge wooden doors on ornate metal hinges greeted me. The driver helped me lift my bag from the trunk and carried itto the door for me. My stomach twisted as I lifted the ancient knocker from its cradle and allowed it to clatter back into place.
Maybe no one will be home. Maybe I won’t have to deal with meeting four new people right now?—
The door swung open, and I nearly toppled back down the cobbles.
Standing in the threshold was Mr. British – the guy from the county fair.
The same guy who had grabbed me and pulled me back from the flames that consumed my parents.
“Hello again, Maeve,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
MAEVE
Iopened my mouth to speak, but no sound came out.
No way. No way could he be here.
This is insane.
But it was him all right, looking just as gorgeous as ever in dark jeans, a sleeveless grey hoodie, and his black curly hair all messed up in this totally adorable way. The same tattoos curled up both his arms – in the gray-hued daylight I could see pictures amongst the knotwork – intricate black and grey images of gods and demons battling with short swords and round shields. Around his wrists were lines of what might have been text written in a strange code of long and short sticks. It looked familiar, but my jet-lagged brain couldn’t think where I’d seen it before.
Mr. British laughed easily, running a hand through his thick hair. “Don’t worry, I get that you’re shocked. I’m a bit miffed at the situation, myself. Especially after what happened the first time we met. But trust me, there’s nothing nefarious going on. It’s just a weird coincidence. Please, come in. Welcome to Briarwood House.”
I didn’t budge, but I did manage to push out some words. “You… you don’t seem surprised to see me?”
Mr. British smiled. “Emily – she’s our lawyer – showed me a picture of you, and I realized you must be either the girl from the fair or her long-lost twin sister. I was going to tell you in my last email, but I was worried you might not come if you thought I was stalking you or something. My name’s Corbin, by the way. Corbin Harris.”
“You’re the one who wrote me that note.”
“That’s right. I’m one of your tenants. Please, let me take your rucksack. Did you pay the driver?”
“Oh, yeah.” I gave the driver a wave as he handed over my bag. “Thank you.”
“Anytime, luv.” The driver tipped his hat. Taxi drivers in England were much more polite than back home. I hoped he could afford to buy himself something nice with his hundred-and-eighty-four pounds.
I followed Corbin through the enormous doors, which led under a deep arch into a large internal courtyard. My sneakers slipped against uneven cobbles as we twisted our way through an assortment of outdoor tables and signs directing tourists to a gift shop. I stared up at the sheer stone walls surrounding us on all four sides. A covered walkway around the second story gave access to the upper rooms, and I could just make out the tops of two towers in the far corners.
Whoa. Iownthis.
My mother used tolivehere.
Mr. British is mytenant.
