6. Maeve

What the hell am I doing here?

The question bounced around inside my head as the taxi bumped along a narrow road edged on both sides by towering bushes bursting with bright white flowers in bulbous clusters. The taxi driver chattered on about the bushes – he called them hydrangeas, which I knew I’d forget tomorrow because I hardly knew anything about plants – explaining how the flowers bloom green but soon burst into white before fading to green again and dropping their leaves all over the road like an end-of-summer snowfall.

“They’re a devil of a thing to wash off your car,” he said.

I nodded, staring out the window as we clattered past. In the warm sunlight that was so unlike the harsh heat of Arizona, the hydrangea bushes looked pretty alien to me, like everything in this place – fences made of neatly-clipped gorse tangled together into thorny lines, rolling hills that looked like something from the front of a chocolate box, and houses and walls made of beautiful shaped stones or Tudor wattle-and-daub.

I’m in England.

Why the hell am I in England?

Nerves swirled in my stomach. When I bought the plane ticket and packed my clothes and books, I’d been high on Kelly’s enthusiasm and too distracted by my absence of grief for my parents to really think about what I was doing. Now that I touched down in Heathrow and had several conversations with people who talked like Harry Potter characters and was heading out to my very own castle, the full weight of the decision pressed down on me.

I’d really come to a foreign country to live in a castle with four strangers all by myself. If nothing, this little excursion proved to me that Kelly was right – I really hadn’t taken enough risks in my life, because this one was freaking me the hell out.

Here we are, luv.” The driver turned down a wide driveway flanked by tall oak trees. I pressed my nose to the window to admire the carefully sculpted beds and espaliered fruit trees spread along a crenulated garden wall. We passed under a stone gatehouse with a sign bearing the English Heritage logo along with opening hours and a ticket booth. I gathered from the website that we have visitors to one wing of the castle, which helped pay for its upkeep. Thankfully, the castle wasn’t open on Mondays, so at least when I met my tenants for the first time there was no risk we’d get poleaxed by a selfie stick.

The driveway wound on and on through a forested area and then rolling green hills where tiny sheep munched on lush grass. I expected them to be fluffy like cumulus clouds, but they were all scraggly and skinny and covered with tufts of wool.

The driver explained that they were Wiltshire sheep, and their wool fell off during the summer to help keep them cool. “The farmers love them because they’re self-shearing.”

This taxi driver was such a fount of knowledge, I wished I could keep him.

We rose over the crest of a hill, and I got my first glimpse of Briarwood House.

And what a house it is!

We drove under another stone gatehouse, inside the outer stone wall. The central keep rose like a column from the top of the hill, flanked on two sides by battlements and turrets. I had read on the website that it was an original Norman keep, with the outer walls and Tudor addition added later when the castle became a residence instead of a fortress. Arrow slits and tiny windows wound around the turrets, and crenulations circled the roof of the tower. Victorian mock-Tudor additions jutted out from the entrance, providing a glass conservatory and a small annex and garage. I could see a solar panel array attached to one of the roofs.

Wow.

A castle.

Mycastle.

“Right, luv, that will be a hundred and eighty-four quid.” The driver pulled up in a small parking area around a dirty fountain. I fumbled in my wallet for the money, counting out the strange notes I’d extracted from a machine at the airport. Was a quid the same as a pound? Was a hundred and eighty-four pounds a lot? I was usually good at math, but I couldn’t get my head around the exchange rates. It didn’t help that my mind felt like cotton candy after ten hours on the plane. I’d managed to get a little sleep, but another nightmare about the Ferris wheel woke me and I couldn’t keep my eyes shut after that.

I slid out of the car, in awe of the way the huge stone walls loomed over me, pressing me down into the earth. Now I was outside the car, the vibrant colors and scents of the garden assailed me.

How was it possible for the air to smell so sweet and green?

Two huge wooden doors on ornate metal hinges greeted me. The driver helped me lift my bag from the trunk and carried it to the door for me. My stomach twisted as I lifted the ancient knocker from its cradle and allowed it to clatter back into place.

Maybe no one will be home. Maybe I won’t have to deal with meeting four new people right now?—

The door swung open, and I nearly toppled back down the cobbles.

Standing in the threshold was Mr. British – the guy from the county fair.

The same guy who had grabbed me and pulled me back from the flames that consumed my parents.

“Hello again, Maeve,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”