An old diary is given to the new owners of a house in Cambria, California. Designed by famous architect Julia Morgan, it has some oddities - including a spiral staircase in the backyard, leading to nowhere. What they discover involves old Welsh magi...
I stepped back to look at our new home. It had taken over a year for Anne to find the right antiques, the period leaded stained-glass windows, and hand-crafted Craftsman furniture scattered around the world. It had turned out to be more costly than we'd planned, but it was so worth it.
In 2019, I'd been rummaging through a second-hand bookstore in Cambria, California. Anne and I had just celebrated our 20th anniversary, and went to see Hearst Castle, designed by Julia Morgan, America's first successful licensed female architect. The shop owner was talking with another customer when I'd heard her mention Julia's name. It seems that there was a house for sale in town that she reputedly had designed in a melding of both the Victorian and Craftsman style, although the architect was named only as a 'friend' of the owner, a Ms. Bertha Draconis.
We'd made inquiries at a local realtor, who informed us that the house was being sold by a relative who lived out-of-town. He'd given us the address, and we found the house to be breathtakingly beautiful, as well as quirky and curious. It was in need of a good coat of paint, for one. But the oddities were numerous: a winding staircase that began in the middle of the backyard and ended three stories up into mid-air; a children's swing set with three seatless swings; a scaled-down replica of Conwy Castle in Wales, perched inside a beech tree; a giant teapot with a door in the bottom leading nowhere.
Thanks to some intensive research by friends, I found the relative, who was happy to sell it at a price that was a fraction of what you'd have expected. Anne had asked her why, and she tap-danced around the reason, admitting at last that the house had been rumored to be haunted. She stressed that she knew nothing about the original owner, who'd apparently vanished one day without a trace.
Fourteen months later, we went around Cambria, introducing ourselves to the many admirable and artistic shop owners we were likely, as a journalist and an author, to come into regular contact with. When I entered the second-hand bookshop, the owner remembered me on sight. "I had a feeling you'd be the one. I've been saving this for whoever bought the old Morgan house. Not meant to be published, I think. Or spoken about to the world. The world isn't ready yet."
It was an old diary, beautifully worked with engravings that had been rubbed smooth, as if by many hands. "Just a moment," said the owner, whose name was Fay Buynite, "you learn a thing or two when your husband's a leatherworker. She pinched a bit of pencil sharpener dust over the cover and gently shook it. It revealed the face of a laughing child, behind which spread delicate dragonfly wings. But there was a lock. In the right-hand corner were the initials 'B.D.'
We parked our old VW Beetle on the dirt road by our fence. There was no proper garage, only a work shed – a building project I'd promised Anne that I'd see to before Christmas. As we walked towards the front door, I spied something in the grass. It was an old brass key. It weighed more than I'd thought it would. In the bow were the same initials 'B.D.' – but most striking was the image formed by the key bit. It was a ladybug.
"Lily," Anne exclaimed, "It is truly extraordinary how mysteries seem to find you." She squeezed my hand. "Let me fix us some afternoon tea, and we can open that diary. I'm as interested as you are to find out about Miss Morgan's dear friend. I'll meet you on Magritte's Terrace."
Turning the winding staircase to nowhere into an outdoor 'aerial' patio had been a suggestion from one of my readers, and once we'd braved the steps and seen the gorgeous view, it was decided. The patio was circular (naturally) and you emerged into what we'd made to seem like an aquarium. We'd commissioned an artist in metals to create large tropical fish, that swam around the perimeter using a solar powered system of tracks concealed under an undulating canopy of recycled plastic bottles. It gave the illusion of looking at the sky as if you were underwater.
Why the name 'Magritte's Terrace?' Anne was quite fond of Rene's works. The fish had apple-like bubbles floating from their mouths, and some had bowler hats while others held cocktail glasses or newspapers.
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She laughed, sipping Earl Grey and munching on one of the wonderful cookies from the Red Moose Cookie Company we'd bought earlier. Anne, besides being the most beautiful and amazing person on this planet, also has that rare talent of making the perfect cup of any type of tea. She says she inherited it from her English grandmother. I think it's a gift from a fairy godmother.
"Your thoughts are meandering, Lils. Open the diary!"
I might have imagined this, but when I removed the key from my pocket, the wind chimes ceased their music-making. I put the key in the lock, and turned it, hearing three notes.
"How lovely!" Anne exclaimed.
As I removed the key, I noticed that the wards had broken off, staying inside the lock. Crawling out of the keyhole was a ladybug. A sizeable crow landed in front of me. Startled, I dropped the key. The crow then ate the ladybug, cawed at me, grabbed the key in its claws and flew off.
"Come back, thief!" I shouted, "That's my key!"
Anne was stifling a giggle.
"Out with it. I know I'm shouting at a bird. But crows are smart! It knows it stole my key. It goes with the book!" My fury diminished, but only a little. Anne switched to her schoolteacher voice: "But you found the key. The book was given to you, but not the key. Perhaps it was just...on loan?"
"What?"
She knew that I knew she was right. My 'tell' was that I wasn't trying to support my position. "It is possible it belongs to the crow, who perhaps dropped it on its way to a new nest. You know, it's even possible that it may bring you a thank you gift in exchange. I've read that some crows are like that. Anyway – you weren't thinking of locking it again, were you?"
I automatically answered 'no' while thinking I should have said 'yes' at the same time. And that's definitely odd, because I am the most open and forthright lesbian you'll ever meet. Was I planning to use the diary myself, or did I feel protective of Miss Bertha Draconis, a woman I'd never met until tonight?
As our loved ones often do, Anne echoed my thoughts: "Come on, let's meet Miss Draconis!"
