Carter shouted in pleasure, and would have slammed the book shut and rushed to find the lost toy, but his father held him, saying, “Wait, there is more. Turn to page seven.”
Carter obeyed, and upon the page, written in gold, were seven words.
“What are these, Father?”
“These are the Seven Words of Power. They are in another language, but we will say them together, you and I.”
So they did, the man speaking them clearly, the boy stumbling on their curious sounds, and as they pronounced each one, the gold letters burned like fire, but were not consumed, and Carter felt heat upon his forehead. When they were done, his father said, “You are young and will not remember the Words, but someday, if you become Master of Evenmere, you will find them again in the Book of Forgotten Things.”
“Can I see the next page?”
His father hesitated, but said, “Yes, but only one.”
When Carter turned the page, it, too, appeared blank, until the kind, smiling face of his mother gradually rose upon it, her eyes filled with love.
“Mamma,” he said softly.
Then she told him how precious he was, and how perfect, and what a beautiful boy, and he smiled as he had when she had once said the words, three years before, though he had not remembered till just then. And then the picture faded, and he looked wistfully at the book.
“It was Mother,” he said, turning to Lord Anderson. But his father sat staring at the wall.
“We will go now,” the Master said, his voice quavering.
They climbed down from the chair, holding hands. “Father, you didn’t look at the book at all, did you? You didn’t see her.”
His father knelt beside him. “I did not see her, but I heard you call to her. None of us see the same thing when we look into the book, but only that which we ourselves have forgotten.”
“But why didn’t you look?”
Tears sprang to the corners of Lord Anderson’s eyes. “There are some things too painful to see.”
* * *
Two years passed, and Carter thought little of that day with the Book of Forgotten Things, as he played alone, or accompanied Enoch or Chant on their rounds, or sometimes Brittle. His father had acted less sad in the last year, though his absences had increased.
One day, as Carter was playing with his wooden soldiers in an upstairs room, Brittle came to him. The tall butler looked down upon him in a way that was all Brittle, his eyes quite wise and not unkind.
“The young master will need to accompany me now, to bathe and change clothes.”
“But it’s the middle of the day, not suppertime.”
The butler could be quite stern, but his severe mouth turned up slightly at the small rebellion. “It is indeed not suppertime, but your father has gone for the afternoon, and will be returning shortly with a guest. He wishes you suitably attired.”
Mystified, Carter followed Brittle toward his own room, but it was late afternoon before his father returned from somewhere in the back of the house, accompanied by a tall, blond woman, dressed in sky-blue silk blossomed all over with sham daisies, gold bracelets on each wrist, and a carcanet studded in amethyst about her neck. Spiderweb lace, the same color as her dress, descended from a white, wide-brimmed hat, covering without concealing her brilliant blue eyes. Her gloves were white.
“Lady Murmur,” his father said. “This is Carter. Carter, Lady Murmur is a friend of mine.”
She was very beautiful, but when she looked down her long falcon’s nose, Carter saw a gleam in her eyes that made him shiver. Her voice was deep, as if she were always hoarse, and he did not much like it.
“Hello, young man,” she said. “I have heard many good things about you. You are not as tall as a nine-year-old should be, nor yet as handsome as your father, though I am sure that will come.” She smiled sweetly at Lord Anderson.
Thereafter, Lady Murmur came often, until she and Carter’s father were married in the spring of that year, beneath the blue skylight in the long picture gallery, between the rows of yellowed paintings of the former Masters of the house. Many people attended the wedding, until Carter thought the entire manor must be filled, and he saw lords and ladies, and even kings and queens, all splendidly dressed, so that he knew his father must be a great man indeed. He played all day with the children who had come, and it was a wonderful wedding, but that evening, after Lord Anderson and Lady Murmur left for their honeymoon, Carter went to his room, threw himself upon his bed, his picture of his mother clutched between his small hands, and wept.
Everything changed after Murmur came to live with them. She rearranged all the furniture and moved all the pictures; nothing seemed to suit her, not even, after a time, his father. But when they had been married less than two years, she bore him a son, blonde and blue-eyed, who they named Duskin, and things went better for a while. And Murmur called the boy, “the little heir,” though never in Lord Anderson’s hearing. A nanny was hired to watch Duskin, and Murmur used every pretense to keep Carter away from the baby, so there was no joy in having a brother after all. During the times when his father was gone on business, Murmur acted especially cold to Carter; he could not see Duskin at all then, and her remarks made him ache a bit, deep inside, though she always smiled sweetly as she said them. Carter learned to avoid her. When Enoch was away, and the Lamplighter grew too cerebral for the company of a child, he wandered the house, playing alone.
It happened one day, when his father had been gone an exceptionally long time, and Murmur’s comments had stuck like a thousand small pins, that Carter retreated toward the back of the house, to the servants’ stair, which led to the upstairs bedrooms.
Taking his wooden soldiers with him, he opened the narrow door to the alcove behind the stair, a room he had never explored before. To his surprise, a gaslight burned, suspended on the wall about two feet from his head. It was a narrow room, with old hats and coats lying scattered among boxes brown with dust, and at its back wall stood a thin, green door, which Carter tried at once, but found locked. The doorknob was of glass, with the most marvelous miniature inside, an image of Evenmere itself, complete with all its towers and gables, red roofs and brown cornices, colonnades and picture windows. Carter studied it in delight, tugged on it to insure the door was really locked, then sat down before it and looked around. Behind one of the boxes he discovered a marvelous toy carriage, carved with exacting detail in soft pine. Pulling his wooden soldiers from his pocket, he spent a happy hour in play.
Wearying of that, lulled by the warmth of the room and the sputtering gaslight, he had nearly fallen asleep when he heard a soft, scraping sound. Glancing around, he saw the slow turning of the glass knob. He stood up, uncertain what to expect, until the door opened and Lord Anderson squeezed through. Despite his delight at seeing his father, Carter also noticed the wonderful keys the Master held in his hand—the ring was of bronze; a hundred keys slid around it, all different colors, bright as toddlers’ toys. The skeleton key that he had used to open the green door was green itself, but dark like malachite, with speckles of blue, as if carved of stone.
“Father!” Carter cried, startling his sire so badly he fumbled for the Lightning Sword by his side. Lord Anderson looked weary, as he often did after his sojourns. There were deep crimson stains upon his greatcoat, and once he recognized his son he appeared little pleased to see him. He locked the door quickly and stuffed the keys into his pocket.
“What are you doing here, Carter?”
“Why, just playing, Father. But you’re home!”
Lord Anderson took him quickly by the hand and led him out from beneath the stairs. “I don’t want you going in there anymore,” he ordered.
Since his father was seldom stern, Carter looked about in confusion. “But, where does the Green Door lead?”
“Nowhere you should ever go! I want you to promise to speak no more of it. Do you understand? And stay away from the stairs! Do you promise?”
“I … I promise. I’m sorry, Father.” Carter was close to tears.
Seeing his son’s distress, Lord Anderson softened. “It’s all right. No harm was done. Come now, let’s go see your brother.”
* * *
On the southwest side of the High House, at the garden entrance, a little door led outside from the kitchen into a yard overshadowed by immense oak trees, bordered by a brick fence four feet tall, with short bronze statues of angels with longbows drawn, standing atop the wall at each of the four corners. A wishing well, surrounded by red lacecaps, stood in the middle of the yard, with snails drifting like sailboats up and down its sides, and a bronze plate along its rim that read:
Masonry From the Ifdawn Marest.
A row of tall hedges filled the northern portion of the court, forming a haphazard maze where Carter often played. He loved the yard; it was cool on hot summer days, and when the wind blew, the leaves of the trees rustled like the wings of giant birds. He liked to sit with his back to the well and read books, adventure stories such as
The People of the Mist
or, even better,
The Well at the World’s End
, which he thought must be much like this well. Beyond the short wall ran a cobblestone path that circled the entire house, and in its midst stood a black lamppost. Every evening, Chant strolled out the white wooden gate hidden behind the grape arbor, singing snatches of verse as he lit the lamp. Ivy covered the fence; verdigris covered the angels; a heavy layer of peace covered the whole yard.
One day, as twilight slipped gray over the world, when the Lamp-lighter had already done his work, Carter lingered upon the lawn, watching a blue beetle, big as his thumb, making its way along the bottom of the fence. Its shell crackled like papyrus as he cautiously prodded it with a stick.
In the midst of his investigation, a shadow fell between him and the lingering sun. Glancing up, he gave a cry of fear, dropped the stick and backed away, for a man stood, watery as a mirage, on the other side of the fence. In the dimness and the long shadows, when he had first glanced up, he had thought the stranger had no face at all, but a smooth, pink blankness. He saw now this was not so, but it took a moment for his heart to calm. Although he had never actually seen an English bobby, he recognized from illustrations in books the man’s tall helmet, dark uniform, and long, wooden billy, swinging on its cord. When he smiled, he had a round, pleasant face.
“Did I startle you, lad?” he asked, in a low, rasping voice, belieing his affable stare. “Terribly sorry. I’m Constable Pratt.”
“Pleased to meet you, sir,” Carter said, remembering himself. “Has there been trouble?”
“None at all. None at all. I’m simply making my rounds. It’s good to check on things.” The Bobby drew close to the wall, though he did not touch it.
Carter thought it peculiar that a constable should make rounds so many miles from any village, but he said nothing. His first fear had been replaced by a solid dread, a kind of quiet horror. He did not understand it, but it was made worse each time he glanced away from Pratt, for the illusion of his facelessness returned when Carter saw him only from the corner of his eyes.
“I wonder,” the Bobby said, “could you perhaps let me in through the little gate? I’d like a bit of water from that well, if you don’t mind.”
“I … I couldn’t do that, sir. Chant keeps it locked. I could get Brittle to let you in if you’d like.”
The Bobby exhaled with a noise like a low hiss, but he smiled again. “No, don’t trouble him. Perhaps you could bring me a cup of water, then?”
“Of course,” Carter said. If anything, his fear had increased. He fought the urge to back his way to the well, as if he were retreating from a viper, yet every step with the Bobby out of sight filled him with panic. He wanted to dart inside, shouting for Brittle and Enoch, but instead he lowered the bucket and drew water from the well. He dipped the tin cup in, filled it, and brought it toward the constable, who waited, hands outstretched.
And suddenly he knew, as surely as he knew the faces of the angels on the fence, that the Bobby could not pass beyond the wall, that it served as a barrier he could not cross. This, then, was the line, and if Carter handed him the cup, he would be crossing it, over into a country where he could be reached. He paused.
“That’s a good lad,” the Bobby rasped. “Bring it to me.”
Carter stretched his hand out and gently set the cup upon the wall. “Here, sir.”
Just at the corner of the constable’s eyes, so slight Carter thought he might have imagined it, he saw the dagger malice of one thwarted. “Thank you, lad,” he said, but he did not take the cup.
“You’re welcome. I … I have to go in now.”
“Wait! Before you go, come closer and let me ask you something.”
With all the courage he possessed, Carter stepped toward the fence, not even certain why he obeyed, but quite careful not to cross it with any part of his body. The Bobby, too, drew as near as he dared, and spoke in a whisper.
“What if you took the keys on the brass ring? You could see what was behind the Green Door. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”
Even as he said it, the Bobby leaned closer toward the wall. His hand shot out, clawlike, toward the boy, but struck an invisible barrier above the fence. In that instant, his features went blank again, and he stood like a faceless doll, struggling against the obstruction. Carter backed away and the Bobby did likewise, his features returning.
“Think about it, boy.”
Carter bolted for the house, his courage expended. He dared not look back until he had locked the heavy door behind him. Then he peered through the leaded glass. The Bobby stood away from the wall, beside the lamppost, his head turned downward, hidden.
* * *
Carter saw the Bobby no more that summer, though many evenings thereafter he looked from the windows, half expecting to see him lurking at the lamppost. Neither did he tell Lord Anderson the tale, though he did not know why. Perhaps it was because he had never thought of taking any of his father’s things before, and so wrestled with the temptation the Bobby had placed within him. As time passed, he found himself watching Lord Anderson, to see where he kept the keys, though Carter told himself it was only curiosity. His father had them with him always, in his greatcoat when he traveled, but otherwise in his pocket.