Lost and Found: A Tale of the Tylwyth Teg

Chapter 6 - The First Door on the Staircase to Nowhere

Anne was waiting for me at the gate when I got home, her eyes fixed on her cell phone. I was greeted with a very shrill, "Where have you been? It's been..."

"...four minutes, m'Lady Anne." I was grabbed by the hand and paraded around the side of the house into our quirky backyard, with the seven-foot-tall teapot, the swings without seats, and the staircase...that now had a door frame and door on a brand-new landing.

"Did you have a hand in this?" asked my better half, "Please say yes. Because if it's no, this writer will be scared witless. I mean, I write about magic all the time, but this...look, it's impossible for something like this to be built in under 24 hours without our noticing, right? Right?"

I began to reply, but in a rush of words propelled by fear of the unknown, she said, "It's possible the wind chimes and the metal fish on Magritte's Terrace were unusually noisy last night, so noisy that we didn't hear anything? But they'd have needed big, bright lights – so that's out! Please say I'm wrong, because I am absolutely not ready to accept magic into my world. Hell, this world isn't ready to accept magic into it – can you imagine what magic wars would be like? Can you..."

I put my arm around her and lead her through the back door into the spacious kitchen with its small table, and the large woodblock island we'd brought with us. Anne was babbling on and on. I'd never seen her quite like that: At a loss for the right words to say but searching for them again and again. I fixed us both a cup of tea, sliced her a piece from the Tambini's sourdough and slathered it with butter, and sat down opposite her.

"Stop, dearest and most treasured piece of my heart. Shh! Have some tea and bread. They're from Frankie and Lucia." She devoured the toast, and I poured both of us another cup. She finally ceased her babbling and looked at me.

I began as most of our serious discussions do, by asking: "Tell me exactly what you're thinking, Anne Hansen Bellefleur."

A spark lit her eyes, although she spoke in a hushed tone. "I'm certain that there is no way that I know of that the door and doorframe could have been soundlessly installed without our knowledge. But they were, so there is some unknown way that they were constructed."

"Now play Devil's Advocate," I prompted.

She clenched her teeth. "Magic is real. Fairies are real. Or ghosts are real, and our beautiful home is haunted."

I was tempted to reply, "And pigs can fly", which would have either made her laugh or set her off. Taking the safe route, I simply asked, "Do you know that the landing and the door are real? Technically, that much additional weight would unbalance the stairs, not to mention send Magritte's Terrace crashing to the ground."

"Lils, I am no fool. No, I did not climb the stairs and try the door. Besides, it has no knobs, anywhere." A chill ran up my spine. Of course, it had no knobs. I opened the drawer that most American homes have, one reserved to put things in that have no immediate purpose, but should be kept because – well, you never know, do you? I grabbed the knobs and noted that the frames already had screws in them. I grabbed a screwdriver as well.

Anne, who'd been watching me, stood up and pointed at the door hardware I'm carrying. "I'd completely forgotten about those!" she said, as we walked outside. The sky was suddenly overcast, the clouds thick with rain. And there was thunder. In case you're wondering, these days both are rare in California. I stopped at the bottom of the stairs to nowhere.

"Lils, please don't. I over-reacted, I know. There's a logical explanation for this." She pleaded, and normally it never reaches this point. I've usually given in long before. "All right, I'm coming with you!"

My brave warrior-lady followed me closely. We made it to the second landing, and the stairs held steady as a rock, defying physical law. The hanging decorations were swaying in the wind badly enough to bang into each other. The door, which had been indistinct when seen from below, was made of highly polished wood. There was a small stained-glass window in the center, featuring a Red Dragon so tightly entwined with a Gold Dragon that the two almost seemed to be one creature.

Unsurprisingly, the door plates lined up perfectly to the indentations and holes. The screws, made of wood with blunt tips rather than pointed, appeared to be much older than the brass plates and knobs. As soon as they were fitted together, I tried to open it. When the hair on the back of my head stood up, I pushed Anne to the floor as three sounds erupted, one right after the other.

First, the sound of machinery whirring, gears turning inside the door that meant it was locking itself. I also heard things humming or whirring inside the house. Second, the sound of a lightning bolt that struck inside our seven-foot teapot, that sent chunks of sculptor's plaster everywhere. And the cacophonous cawing of a murder of crows, followed by the sky opening up and bathing one house in all of Cambria with a cone of warm golden sunlight. Our house.

Needless to say, we both ran inside, locked the doors and held onto each other for dear life. For just a few minutes, mind you. Maybe an hour or so later, I said, "I guess this means we're going to need another key."

Anne had decided to busy herself by making a sausage and pumpkin casserole for the crockpot – her excuse, as if she needed one, was that she wanted to use the herbs from the Tambini's garden while they were still fresh. My job was to peel and cut the pumpkin. Honestly – we were both trying to hold it together.

"I think," she said as she began chopping some garlic, "that the next key will be given when you find something else. One of my feelings, mind you."

I'd tease her whenever she had one of her 'feelings', but through experience knew better than to dismiss them. She didn't have them often, and they always were prescient. Somehow, she sounded cautious tonight.

"What aren't you telling me?" I asked. She microwaved two cups of the remaining pot of tea and handed me one. She set the crockpot timer and motioned to the drawing room, where I sat on my easy chair, and she settled into her 'marshmallow sofa.'

"In case today wasn't enough of a hint, I believe I'm the one that's supposed to enter that door."

I said "Don't be ridiculous" so quickly I couldn't breathe, I couldn't take it back, and I fruitlessly tried to apologize. But she was having none 'of my pseudo-patriarchal malarkey' and 'why is she left out of adventures, isn't she just as capable, I've got an animal sidekick – Eddie. Was I a Disney princess wannabe?'

"Milady, it's a door to no place on a staircase to nowhere! If you step through, you'll most likely fall and hurt yourself!"

"We don't know that!"

"Point conceded. We do not." Sometimes I hate it when she throws my own logic back at me, especially when I'm trying to shield her from being hurt. She picked up Bertha's Diary and began our nightly read. She sipped her tea first, smiling what was undoubtedly a victory smile.