right window of the Volks. It was vine-covered but in excellent repair. Iron spikes jutted up from it, hooked out at their tops. Perhaps the incursions from the town had grown more aggressive in recent years. There was no scaling that wall now and dropping over, sweaty and breathless, knees skinned and heart pounding.
The main gate, which Mandy had never before entered, was securely closed. Mandy pulled up and got out of her car. The gate was simple, almost stark, made of wrought-iron bars topped by more spikes. It might as well have enclosed a prison. Along the top of it were the familiar brass letters, “This Land of Dark,” from a line of Constance Collier’s great poem. Faery : “Entered she this land of dark, borne by the mist’s own hand.”
How very quiet this place was, and how old. The trees soared huge and silent. The only sound was that of an occasional leaf whispering to the ground.
Beyond the gate was a narrow dirt road, curving off into a thick forest the kids had always avoided, preferring to go the long way around, by the fields.
Mandy pulled and pushed at the gate until her feet scraped on the brick paving. The hinges didn’t even creak.
She looked left and right—and saw a small gateman’s house with its iron door hanging open. Inside was a disused telephone on a frayed cord. She picked it up, put it to her ear. “Hello?” Dead. “Great.” It was now 9:30 exactly. “Marvelous.” She was getting off to a wonderful start. She would be fired before she even met her employer.
But she mustn’t be fired. This just had to work, it had to. Her alternatives were bleak: illustrating the covers of paperbacks or maybe getting into advertising. To Mandy there was no thought more horrifying than that of being forced to abandon her vision and just use her skill. She had seen such people, had even interviewed in a few ad agencies. It had chilled her to walk down the long rows of trendy offices, each with its light box and drafting table, and see the gray people huddling there in frayed designer jeans and Yves Saint Laurent shirts.
She deliberated climbing the gate.
Then she saw that there was another door in the back of the gateman’s house, one that led into the estate. It opened easily. As she pushed it, paper rattled. There was a note taped to the back, where it couldn’t be seen from the street. “Please be sure this locks behind you, Miss Walker.”
Obviously this was the way she had been intended to come. Nice of Will T. Turner to tell her. He really was a very marginal person.
Once inside the estate she went around to the back of the main gate and looked for some sort of a handle. There was nothing.
Furious that none of these procedures had been explained to her, she hurried back to her car and parked it as far off the road as possible, then dragged her precious portfolio out of the back seat and reentered the estate on foot. All of her most important work was in this worn black case, everything she had ever drawn or painted relating to Grimm’s fairy tales.
The portfolio was heavy. Mandy couldn’t be too mad at Will. He tried hard. If she had been planning intelligently, she would have called Miss Collier last night to reconfirm, and found out about this hike.
A few moments after she started off she found herself slowing her pace, despite her lateness. Finally she stopped altogether. She simply could not help it. She was in a wonderful cathedral of trees, their black trunks stretching to crowns of brilliant autumn color. Leaves littered the dirt road, marking the dust with bright splotches.
This was awesome. Too many months in Manhattan had made her forget the passionate silence of the woods. She began to walk again, now also noticing the rich scent of the air, cleansed by autumn rot.
This place was not only beautiful and dark and huge, it was also something else she could not quite name. The very slightest of shivers coursed through her body and she began to walk a little faster.
The main gate, which Mandy had never before entered, was securely closed. Mandy pulled up and got out of her car. The gate was simple, almost stark, made of wrought-iron bars topped by more spikes. It might as well have enclosed a prison. Along the top of it were the familiar brass letters, “This Land of Dark,” from a line of Constance Collier’s great poem. Faery : “Entered she this land of dark, borne by the mist’s own hand.”
How very quiet this place was, and how old. The trees soared huge and silent. The only sound was that of an occasional leaf whispering to the ground.
Beyond the gate was a narrow dirt road, curving off into a thick forest the kids had always avoided, preferring to go the long way around, by the fields.
Mandy pulled and pushed at the gate until her feet scraped on the brick paving. The hinges didn’t even creak.
She looked left and right—and saw a small gateman’s house with its iron door hanging open. Inside was a disused telephone on a frayed cord. She picked it up, put it to her ear. “Hello?” Dead. “Great.” It was now 9:30 exactly. “Marvelous.” She was getting off to a wonderful start. She would be fired before she even met her employer.
But she mustn’t be fired. This just had to work, it had to. Her alternatives were bleak: illustrating the covers of paperbacks or maybe getting into advertising. To Mandy there was no thought more horrifying than that of being forced to abandon her vision and just use her skill. She had seen such people, had even interviewed in a few ad agencies. It had chilled her to walk down the long rows of trendy offices, each with its light box and drafting table, and see the gray people huddling there in frayed designer jeans and Yves Saint Laurent shirts.
She deliberated climbing the gate.
Then she saw that there was another door in the back of the gateman’s house, one that led into the estate. It opened easily. As she pushed it, paper rattled. There was a note taped to the back, where it couldn’t be seen from the street. “Please be sure this locks behind you, Miss Walker.”
Obviously this was the way she had been intended to come. Nice of Will T. Turner to tell her. He really was a very marginal person.
Once inside the estate she went around to the back of the main gate and looked for some sort of a handle. There was nothing.
Furious that none of these procedures had been explained to her, she hurried back to her car and parked it as far off the road as possible, then dragged her precious portfolio out of the back seat and reentered the estate on foot. All of her most important work was in this worn black case, everything she had ever drawn or painted relating to Grimm’s fairy tales.
The portfolio was heavy. Mandy couldn’t be too mad at Will. He tried hard. If she had been planning intelligently, she would have called Miss Collier last night to reconfirm, and found out about this hike.
A few moments after she started off she found herself slowing her pace, despite her lateness. Finally she stopped altogether. She simply could not help it. She was in a wonderful cathedral of trees, their black trunks stretching to crowns of brilliant autumn color. Leaves littered the dirt road, marking the dust with bright splotches.
This was awesome. Too many months in Manhattan had made her forget the passionate silence of the woods. She began to walk again, now also noticing the rich scent of the air, cleansed by autumn rot.
This place was not only beautiful and dark and huge, it was also something else she could not quite name. The very slightest of shivers coursed through her body and she began to walk a little faster.
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