‘Oh, stop looking like that,’ he says. ‘They were fine, just . . .’
‘A bit intense,’ I say, nodding. I look at him and grin. ‘I think I get it.’
‘Ha ha,’ he says drily. ‘Come on then.’ He pulls me forward. ‘Let’s see what else we can find to liven things up. Only you’re not to press any more buttons.’
The laughter bursts out – I can’t help it. The sight of him flapping about with that alarm and all the springs pinging up at him, the look of surprise on his face. Brilliant. He’s just brilliant.
My heart is jumping at the thought of actually finding the rift and being able to do something about it. I guess I never thought it would actually happen. I didn’t think any of this was possible. I thought I’d just be here forever, shoring up the barrier. But we already found one secret doorway, and who knows how many more there will be. Every corridor, every nook and cranny suddenly seems full of possibility. Angel’s conviction is so powerful, I can’t help getting carried along by it. I pull her up another narrow little staircase, concentrating on not banging my head, and by the time we reach the next corridor we’re both covered in dust, looking a bit like ghosts ourselves.
‘I’m sure I’ve just eaten a spider.’ She grimaces, swiping cobwebs from her sleeves and bunching her shoulders up around her neck with a shudder.
‘I didn’t think you’d worry about a little thing like a spider,’ I say.
‘I don’t like them.’
‘You’re OK with the raksasa though . . .’
‘Well, they’re not so fiddly. They won’t get into your ears or down your top.’ She shudders. ‘Ugh.’
We check the little dark rooms off the corridor, old servants’ bedrooms with narrow wardrobes, all of which Angel insists upon checking, as though we’re looking for Narnia, and then the way opens out into the main house again, and we get to the wing I shared with my parents, before they went.
The rooms here are bigger, the ceilings higher, and somehow it’s all just a bit grander. Oversized furniture looms up over us, and ornate chandeliers tinkle as we pass, sending yet more dust to cover us.
Aoife never liked it in this part of the house. Even when Mother and Father were here, she said it didn’t feel like a home, more like a museum. When they left she moved us all to the south wing, where the main kitchen is and the light streams brighter through the windows. I didn’t mind; I was happy to have a new start. The rooms fit better. It felt cosy. Homely, I guess. Being back here now is unnerving; familiar, and yet different. The air is cold and stale, and the portraits in the corridors watch with haughty gazes, as if they’re offended by our presence.
‘Ooh, look at this!’ Angel calls from the room ahead.
I hurry after her. It doesn’t sound like an ‘I’ve found the portal’ sort of voice, but I’m learning you can never tell with her.
‘It’s beautiful!’ She turns to me with a look of wonder on her face as I walk in, and I can’t help but smile. It’s the orangery that sits at the top of one of the towers. Of course. How is it that I’ve become such a stranger in my own home? How could I forget about this place? A stained-glass dome rises up above us, tiny intricate panels of blue and green leading up to a rose in the centre.
‘Don’t you ever come in here?’ she asks in a hushed voice.
‘No,’ I say, looking up, watching the light change as the clouds shift. It’s dusk, and that eerie grey light makes the whole room seem to glow, colours dancing in the dust on the floor. All around the edges of the room are enormous terracotta pots, and the trees within are spindly and grey-tinged with neglect. There are green leaves among the pale, dry ones, new shoots still shining with life.
‘It seems a shame,’ Angel says, turning and turning. ‘What did you do in here?’
I shrug, but the picture is already there in my mind. This was where Mother would come on quiet days, where she’d read, or try to do embroidery. I don’t think she was very good at it; I never found a finished one. The trees were thriving then, glossy green leaves and tiny orange fruits that she would share with me.
Angel is like a kid in a toy shop. She starts uncovering elegant, high-backed sofas and little wooden tables, and then she finds matches in a box on an old mahogany dresser, and lights the candles in the brass sconces that line the walls.
‘It’s amazing,’ she says, as the room takes on a new, warmer glow. She pulls at another of the cloths to reveal a small piano, where my father would sit and play. I flinch when it emerges. It was the most at rest I ever saw him, caught up in the music. I can almost hear it still . . . almost see him sitting there, his tall, narrow frame curved over as he played.
‘Can you play?’ Angel asks, rolling back the dark wood cover to reveal the keys. She fingers them gently, and the notes are a mellow whisper that make my chest ache.
‘Used to, a bit,’ I say.
‘Show me?’
I look around. It’s a quiet room; it always was. No portraits in here, just small paintings of landscapes: moonlight on a lake; the house under the amber glow of what a stranger might think was only the sunset; tiny songbirds on silver branches.
‘I don’t know what to play.’ The piano seems so small; the stool is like a perch. I sit there, and she beams at me, and so I feel like I should try. But my mind is blank.
Sometimes, when you’re not thinking, your body seems to know just what it’s doing all by itself. My fingers are clumsy at first, about four times too big for the keys, all knuckles and far too heavy. How did Father do it? I close my eyes, flinching on the inside, remembering what it was like in those rare moments when they were both here and we pretended that was all that ever existed.
‘Softer, Bavar – let it come out of you. You don’t have to push so hard . . .’ My father’s voice, almost a whisper.
I don’t know what the piece of music is called, but I remember how it filled the room, rose up to the peak of the dome and seemed to settle there, ringing long after the last note was played. How we’d sit, and my mother would tell stories while the stars came out.
There were good times here. I’d almost forgotten.
Wow.
I never saw anyone play the piano like that.
I don’t know whether it’s the magic in the house, or the memories of this room, or just Bavar, but the whole place comes alive with it, and outside it gets darker, but in here there’s a hazy golden glow, as candlelight plays with dust motes that dance in the music. The leaves in the dome glitter, the glass rose blooms, and the birds in the pictures shuffle their wings, turning their bright eyes to watch him.