Chapter 3: 3 – Diana

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Diana circled the old house slowly, taking photos from every angle with her camera. It was a new digital one, and she had extra memory cards in her bag, so it was better to have too many than to miss some angle she might want later when putting everything together into a blog post. She was losing the light quickly, but the setting sun added a sort of mournful majesty to the old house that, under noon sun, might have just looked dilapidated.

The red brick contrasted beautifully against the white stone framing the windows and doors. She wished she could see it alive, properly maintained and with lights inside—although realistically-speaking, at that point, she’d have been at best relegated to the servants’ quarters, definitely not free to appreciate.

The sources she’d been able to unearth mentioned multiple outbuildings, but there were none visible. Not entirely a surprise after decades abandoned. She’d hoped to get here earlier, but life and work and transportation had conspired to delay her. A nocturnal prowl wouldn’t be as good, since she’d be able to see much less and would have to depend heavily on photos by flash and flashlight, and Hallowe’en did increase the odds of stupid pranks or interruptions, but she’d take what she could get.

Much of the back of the house was ringed by a broad marble terrace, bordered by a low stone wall; here and there, carefully symmetrical in position, were marble benches and urns. The semi-circular portico in the centre of the back face had columns two full stories high, the whole thing so immense that there was even a small second-floor balcony all but invisible under it—although according to her plans, it was probably decorative, since the other side of that wall should be the two-storey great hall. A relatively narrow patch of shadow broken by only two columns must be the open south face of the loggia, a sort of porch that was built in rather than tacked on and meant to be used regularly as living space, sheltered by the mass of the building and the many-windowed east wall. She could climb over the terrace wall easily and possibly get inside that way, but she’d greatly prefer to enter through the main doors and see it first the way it was meant to be seen.

The formal garden was a mess, there was no other word for it. Trying not to physically wince, she panned over it briefly and took several photos, then turned her attention back to the house. Further around, she started encountering hedges and overgrown trellises, separating the flat expanse of the lawn from what would have been the servants’ entrance and the service area in general. She wove her way through and around, and eventually came back to the iron fence ringing the forecourt. The only way to reach the imposing front door was via the gates that had rusted so long ago that leaves and dirt had built up around the bottoms of them, further anchoring them in place. She tucked her long denim skirt closer and stepped through the gap. On the way to the front door, she dug her flashlight out of the large canvas hobo bag at her side.

The tall glass windows flanking the front door were painted with blue jays and red cardinals and yellow goldfinches on green branches. It must have been amazing at night with lights on inside, glowing through all those vivid colours even with the bronze lamps above casting light over the steps—a welcome to guests and residents alike.

The door was locked, but there was a skeleton key lying on a table near the door. Curiously, she picked it up, turning it over in her hands. Iron, and someone had threaded a dark-coloured satin ribbon through its head. Could it be the key for the front door? Not very high security. If it had been left here deliberately, it was probably with someone specific in mind. But there was no one around, and if she left the door unlocked, then the intended recipient would be able to get inside. No harm done. She’d wanted to get official permission for her exploration, but hadn’t been able to track down a proper owner, which should have been impossible. If someone else showed up and they were meant to have the key, maybe she could get contact information from them while handing it over.

The temptation to see the interior was just too strong. She unlocked the door and went in, tucking the key safely into a pocket of her warm multi-layered zipped vest. A printout of the house floor plan was in her other pocket, but she’d all but memorized it. She’d already decided that she’d start in the library, and that meant bearing consistently to the left. Since she had a couple of options, she went straight ahead to the great hall, and followed a gallery to the left, admiring the old portraits on the walls.

Some of them looked a bit... strange, though. Had they been vandalized? She stopped for a closer look at one, a smiling red-haired woman in a green brocade dress; she was cradling a red fox in her arms, and her own ears were somewhat pointed, and she and the fox were wearing matching gold collars linked by what was probably meant to be a fine chain. Another had a blonde man in dark clothing, but his amber eyes had pupils slitted like a cat’s, and over the white cuffs of his fine shirt dark brown cuffs circled his wrists, connected with a couple of metal links. The white and gold finery of a darker man didn’t just have a feather motif, but appeared to incorporate actual feathers, unless those were his own, and it was hard to decide because the position he was in obscured too much. The eccentric details looked like they were original to the work, not added afterwards.

At the end of the gallery she turned left again, and followed this new corridor all the way to the end.

She opened the door to the library. Was she going to be lucky enough for it to still have books, and for them not to be riddled with mildew and insects? She’d never stoop to theft, but forgotten libraries sometimes held treasures. If she got a good look at the contents of the shelves, she could send that information to a friend whose hobby was old books; if any of them might be rare or valuable, he could be persuaded to help her hunt for the owner.

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Books.

The walls were lined with books.

Well, apart from occasional panels that held glass curio cabinets. Both shelving and cabinets reached above Diana’s head; on the tops, busts and figurines and other decorative items alternated with wooden-framed paintings that seemed to be largely classical Mediterranean and Near Eastern imagery, all of it broken up by drawn-back chocolate-brown fabric drapes. Otherwise, she saw a standing desk, resembling a podium, and a great table with a wooden chair on each long side, and a fainting couch with one raised end, all covered with drop sheets.

She walked along the walls, shining her flashlight along each shelf in turn.

She stopped at one shelf, and gingerly drew out one of the books. Could this house seriously have a complete early set of the Oz books? She’d loved them as a child, and her book-loving friend had introduced her to the original artwork. She was looking forward to reading them to her small daughter once Emily was old enough to understand them, though her boyfriend teased her gently about wanting to pass on her fascination with the past. With great care, she opened the book and began flipping through it.

It had colour plates. Images that children and adults alike would have enjoyed when the books first came out, right as the nineteenth century tipped into the twentieth.

She realized, belatedly, that she could see the artwork much more clearly than she should be able to with only her flashlight, and looked up quickly.

The gas lamps were all alight, spreading their yellow-tinged glow across the room.

“I do like the artwork in those ones,” a cheerful voice said. “It’s a pleasure to meet someone else who can appreciate it. And the stories themselves are such fun. So many odd, often unique, individuals, all accepting each other and caring about each other. I do feel bad for Ozma, though—it must have been terrible, being turned into a boy and raised that way to hide her identity as the true princess even from herself, and so jarring and so wonderful when it was undone. Which one’s your favourite?”

She’d been halfway expecting someone else in the house, but how were the lamps on now... and why was the rather pleasant female voice coming from above her?

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