The key itself was small and silver and engraved with an intricate letter M. It wasn’t the front door key but it was one she recognized. It was the key that had featured in more than a few of her mom’s tall tales.
It was also the key that had made her rich when she’d written some of the stories down as a tribute to her mom. It turned out others liked the stories too. They read them in the thousands. All of them hungry for romantic tales of the magic keys that could send people back in time.
The key looked a lot like the one her mom had shown her before she vanished. Could it be the same one?
When she’d been writing her series of historical romances, she’d filled in the blanks with her imagination. Her mom hadn’t known the exact details which wasn’t surprising. The stories spoke of a medieval world that was nine hundred years in the past.
Some things were certain. The English had laid siege to MacGregor Castle in 1330. Lennox had stood roughly where she was standing while his castle was besieged by English troops further down the mountain.
They’d blocked all the other routes, but they must have forgotten about the mountain.
Lennox had escaped. He’d gone for help with the siege and saved them all.
It was hard to picture a bare mountain as it had once been. She had grown up surrounded by trees planted by her Great-great-grandfather when he built the house. The view of the castle further down the valley had become completely obscured.
In her books, Rose had relocated the castle to the mountaintop at the recommendation of her editor. It worked better in the reader’s mind, apparently, if it was on the peak itself, a bit like the house.
If she was honest, it had moved location a couple of times in different books, not that her readers seemed to mind. They were more interested in the story, the budding romances between burly Highland Lairds and modern women who unlocked doors to the past.
There were six keys in total, all silver, all marked with a letter M. Just like the key in her hand. She had written five books and was struggling with the sixth. Maybe this journey would break her writer’s block.
The door was made of dark wood that had been varnished long ago. The varnish had peeled at all four corners, making it look as if the door itself was on the verge of dissolving.
The key wouldn’t work. She knew that. She tried it anyway but nothing happened. It didn’t even turn. Time to put her lock picking skills to good use.
She set her backpack down on the step and rummaged inside, pulling out the two oldest picks she had. She knew they would work. They’d worked on this door before. It was the first lock she’d ever practiced on.
When she was little, the house had several locked doors that she and her friends would try and open, wondering what was on the other side. She learned lock picking just so she could show off to them. Behind the doors were only empty rooms but she kept practicing, even when she was taken into care. Who’d have thought she’d use those skills years later to get back into the house that had become hers?
She slid the first pick into the lock, adding the second and then beginning to find the cylinder points she needed. It took a couple of minutes, far longer than it used to until at last she heard the satisfying click she knew so well.
The door swung open. There was a gust of damp smelling air that blew out of the house as she straightened up. The last exhalation of a dying building? Or just a gasp of shock that she was back.
The hallway was about the only part that still had a ceiling. Letters were piled up haphazardly on the mat, the latest one addressed to her. God bless the postal service still delivering to a ruin.
But why was there a letter addressed to her? Was it some mailing list that thought she’d never left? Or someone who knew she was back even before she did?
She picked up the envelope and tore it open. A flyer for the annual open day at MacGregor Castle.
Today. 10am until 4pm.
She remembered the last open day she’d attended. She’d gone alone, her mother unable to get off work. She vividly remembered the day, glorious sunshine, lush grass filling the once cobbled courtyard.
The crumbling battlements stood as a fading testament to the huge wealth and power of the clan in its heyday. One of the towers was still complete and she climbed to the top of it, stepping out into the room under the thatched roof, wondering who’d once lived there. A man? Woman? A whole family?
She could suddenly hear life in the castle, voices talking in the courtyard, blacksmiths hammering on metal, the smell of baking bread in the kitchen. Then the moment passed and it was just a ruin again.
The front door of the house slammed shut behind her, bringing her out of her reverie. She wasn’t in the castle. She was in the house. Her house. The door closing reminded her how creepy she used to find the place.
A gust of wind no doubt. That was all. Nonetheless, it made her nervous. She turned the flyer over in her hand. On the back someone had written a note.
Rose, Come and see me. I have news of your mother.
She frowned. Who had written to her? Reading the flyer again, she tried to understand. Was it possible? Could someone at MacGregor Castle really know what happened to her mom?
She glanced at the time on her cellphone. Half past three. Could she get there before it shut?
She pulled open the front door, cramming the flyer into her backpack a moment later. Trying to resist running, she made her way back to the car.
