"Pretty," I had to admit. "Let's take a closer look before—" Midge was already out of the car.
She ran around to my side and stood facing the cottage, the brightness in her eyes increased. No disappointment, no disillusionment, there. She bit nervously into her lower lip, but all the while her small smile remained. I joined her and slipped an arm around her slim waist, studying her expression at first, and smiling myself. Then I turned to take in Gramarye more fully.
A tiny shock of recognition touched me, but the sensation was fleeting, too nebulous to be understood. Had I been there before? No, never in a thousand years. I couldn't remember having even visited this part of the country at any time. Yet there was something familiar about . . . I shrugged off the feeling, putting it down to some form of déjà vu, perhaps a peculiar but mild backlash of anticipation.
There was no need to ask Midge her impression so far: it was all there shining in her eyes. She left me and slowly walked toward the gate; I had to call out to remind her of my existence. She turned and my mind freeze-framed.
The shot's with me now, always will be, clear and sharp, and almost mysticaclass="underline" Midge, small and slender, dark hair falling without curls close around her neck, her lips slightly parted, and in those sweet blue-gray eyes that tilted a little at the corners, a gleam of wonder and joy, an expression that disturbed me yet made me happy for her at the same time; and she wore jeans, a loose short-sleeved blouse tucked into them, sandals on her small feet; and behind her loomed—no, not loomed, because the whole scene, with Midge in the foreground, blended so well, was so complete— stood Gramarye, its white walls now visibly crumbled and stained, windows lifeless yet somehow observing, the grounds sun-dazzled with colors, while beyond and around was the all-encompassing forest. You might say it was a storybook scene, and certainly one to be impressed on the mind.
Then she'd turned back, breaking the spell, and was leaning over the gate's catch. The entrance squealed open and Midge stepped inside as I moved to join her. I reached to take her arm but she was gone again, tripping down the overgrown path like an eager child, making for the cottage door.
I followed at a more leisurely pace, noticing that on closer inspection the late-May flowers were not quite as bright as they had appeared from the distance. They had, in fact, that end-of-summer look, when most flora is past its prime and wearying into decline, their petals curled and dry. Not to put too fine a point on it, they looked pretty sick. Weeds flourished everywhere, healthy enough specimens these. The path was made of flat broken stones, and long grass pushed through the cracks, almost smothering the hard surfaces in parts.
I found Midge peering through a grimy curtainless window, one hand forming a shadowed tunnel between fore-head and glass. Grubby though the panes may have been, they were of good old-fashioned thickness—I could see smooth ripples near the base where the glass had relaxed before hardening. Unfortunately, the frames were rotting and flaky.
"Not exactly House and Garden, is it?" I ventured, loaning forward to peer in with Midge.
"It's empty," she said.
"What did you expect?"
"I thought there might still be furniture inside."
"Probably auctioned off soon after the Will was settled. We'll have a better idea of how the place could look without the old lady's clutter."
Midge gave me a reproving glance as she straightened. "Let's see around the outside before we go in."
"Uh huh." I was still gazing through the window, wiping at the glass with my fingers for a better view. All I could make out was a big black range set into a chimney breast.
It'll be great cooking on that."
"The range? It'll be fun." There was no dampening her enthusiasm.
"More like a forge," I added. "I suppose we could have both—an electric cooker as well as that monster. Still, no shortage of wood to fuel the thing."
Midge pulled at my arm. "Could be very avant-garde in a 'back-to-our-roots' sort of way. Come on, let's take a look around the back."
I pushed away from the window and she stabbed at my lace with her lips, then was off again. I trailed behind, examining the front door as I went. The wood looked sturdy enough, although there were one or two thin cracks running the length of its lower panels. Above, set in the frame, were two narrow windows no more than four inches deep, and a bell pull hung to one side of the door, mounted against the brickwork. The entrance was sheltered by an open-sided storm porch, which looked thoroughly useless to me. A coach lamp hung on the opposite side to the bell, its interior smeared with cobwebs. I tugged at the bell's handle as I passed and its chime was dull and disinterested, but the clunk gave Midge cause to look back. I hunched over and did Quasimodo for her, mad-eyed and tongue filling one cheek.
"Be careful the wind doesn't change," she called as she mounted the steps running around the building's curve.
I lumbered after her, catching up on the fourth moss-layered step. Arm in arm we rounded the curve and began to appreciate better the cottage's structure. The main portion certainly was circular, with the kitchen area (where the range was located) and the rooms above branching off as an extension. All very small scale, you understand. The shape certainly gave Gramarye character, and undoubtedly added an odd charm. Unfortunately, its general condition was as poor as the unhealthy flowers in the garden.
The brickwork, originally washed white but now graying and considerably stained, was crumbling in parts, the pointing virtually absent in several sections. Tiles littered the ground beneath our feet, so I imagined the roof to be pitted with holes. The steps had led us to another door, once painted a dismal olive green and now blistered and peeling, revealing rotted wood beneath. The door faced south and the woods that were no more than a hundred or so yards away across an expanse of tall grass and bramble, a few individual trees dotted here and there like members of a cautious advance party; a clearer area, obviously trampled down over the years, spread out ten or twelve yards from the building, with smaller trees—plum and crab-apple I thought, though I was no expert at the time—standing fruitless (and somewhat dejected, I also thought) closer to the cottage. On this side, because Gramarye was built into the embankment (or rise) the cottage appeared to have only two stories, and was as round as an silo. The apparent "ground"-floor windows were arched at the top and Midge had already left me to press her nose against one.
"Mike, come and look," she called, "it's fabulous inside."
I joined her and was as impressed as she—although "fabulous" was stretching it a bit—for the curved walls accommodated three longish windows which must have enabled the room to capture the sun's rays throughout the day.
Opposite, and through an open doorway, I could make out a hallway with stairs leading up and down; presumably another door led off into the squared section of the building from the hall. Sunlight fairly glowed from the walls, no shadowed corners to be found, even the dirt on the windows unable to suppress the radiance from outside. It looked warm and happy in there, despite the bareness. And oh yeah, it looked inviting.
"Let's sit for a moment." I'd noticed a weather-beaten bench tucked in the corner where the straight wall of the cottage peeled away from the circle; the wooden seat looked as if it had either taken root or had grown from the very earth itself.
"I want to go inside," Midge replied impatiently.
"Sure, in a minute. Let's just take stock of what we've got so far."
She was reluctant, but moved with me to the bench, where we sat and gazed out at the nearby woods. They seemed thick and impenetrable, but at that time not the least bit sinister.