Gates of Paradise (Casteel 4)

"You knew her, too!"

"I knew of her," he said.

He knew more than he was saying. I could tell. Who was this man? Had I been too adventurous to accept his invitation so quickly? We were heading deeper and deeper into the--great maze. I wrapped my arms about myself protectively. Part of me wanted to go right back to the house, but a stronger part of me wanted to see the cottage, wanted to know more about this mysterious, fascinating man.

"Are you cold? It does get quite co

ol in here." "I'm okay. Is it going to be much longer?"

"Only a few minutes more. We take this turn and then that and then go straight into another turn and another and then we'll be on the other side."

"I can see how someone could easily get lost." "People do. Your mother once did."

"She did? She never told me about it."

He laughed.

"The first time I saw her. She couldn't find her way back."

"Please tell me about that," I begged. "She was so reluctant to talk about her days at Farthy."

"It was the first time she had gone into the maze. I was working in the cottage--making little suits of armor for tiny knights, I think--when suddenly she appeared at the door. She looked innocent and lost, almost like an angel who had stepped out of the mist . . . so beautiful and so full of determination. It was very foggy that day and had grown dark quickly. She was afraid she wouldn't find her way back."

"Was Troy there, too?"

"Yes, he was."

"Well, what happened next?" I asked, impatient with his dramatic pauses.

"Oh, we calmed her down. Gave her something to eat, as I recall, and then directed her back through the maze."

"It's funny to think of my mother as a young girl."

"She was a very beautiful young lady, much like yourself."

"I'm not feeling particularly beautiful these days, though."

"You will. I'm sure. Well, here we are, one more turn." We went around a corner and emerged from the maze.

Before us lay a path of pale flagstone lined with tall pines. Directly ahead was the small stone cottage with a red slate roof crouched low amidst the pine trees. I couldn't keep the small cry from escaping through my lips.

It was Mommy's toy cottage, the one she had given me on my eighteenth birthday. The Tatterton replica was exact. How eerie, I thought. It was as if I had just stepped into a fantasy world, truly a toy world where people lived their dreams.

Oh, I thought, if only Luke were here. He would see that all our make-believe could come true. Those two toy figures in the toy cottage really would be us.

There was the knee-high picket fence, not meant to keep anything out, winding its crooked way around the cottage, giving support to climbing roses just the way they were in the replica.

Unlike the rest of Farthy, the grounds around the cottage were well cared for, maintained with a loving hand . . . grass rich and trim, the fence whitewashed, the walk clean and smooth, the windows glistening.

"Well . . . there's the cottage."

"Oh, it belongs in a picture book. How I wish I could come here to paint it!" I exclaimed.

"You paint?"

"Oh yes. Painting is my passion. I'm even doing it now while I recuperate. I want to study art and work on my talent forever and ever," I added hopefully.

"Of course. Of course," he repeated, once again sounding distant, lost in his own memories. "Well, then maybe you will paint it someday. Why not?"