Unseen Doors
Once upon a time, Mary Bennet read fairy stories.
Tales of fey folk who danced in meadows by the light of the moon. Of groves haunted by pixies and goblins. Of changeling children. Of men and women who ventured too close to some unseen door to Faerieland and disappeared, only returning centuries later, if they returned at all.
It’s been years and years since she read such stories, of course, let alone given any credence to them. Fairy stories are all very well for children learning their letters, but they do little to improve the mind and morals. Mary has long since left such childish pursuits behind.
On this morning, she is busily putting her things in order (Mary being a young lady who is quite fond of order). She makes her way to the drawing room with her sewing basket over one arm and a folio of sheet music under the other. She walks, as she tries always to do, with purpose and dignity.
The effect of which is rather undone when her foot comes down on something that rolls roughly beneath it, nearly toppling her to the floor.
Mary steps back and twitches her long skirt aside to see….. a curling iron.
Lying in the floor. In the middle of the hallway.
“Kitty,” Mary mutters impatiently. That girl is so careless and is always leaving things in the strangest places. With a huffy sigh, she picks up the iron and jams it into her sewing basket.
She will speak to her sister about her carelessness, Mary resolves as she pushes open the drawing room door.
In fact, Mary is so busy mentally composing her speech about the virtues of looking after one’s belongings that she doesn’t realize that the familiar drawing room is gone until the door swings shut behind her.
And disappears.
Tales of fey folk who danced in meadows by the light of the moon. Of groves haunted by pixies and goblins. Of changeling children. Of men and women who ventured too close to some unseen door to Faerieland and disappeared, only returning centuries later, if they returned at all.
It’s been years and years since she read such stories, of course, let alone given any credence to them. Fairy stories are all very well for children learning their letters, but they do little to improve the mind and morals. Mary has long since left such childish pursuits behind.
On this morning, she is busily putting her things in order (Mary being a young lady who is quite fond of order). She makes her way to the drawing room with her sewing basket over one arm and a folio of sheet music under the other. She walks, as she tries always to do, with purpose and dignity.
The effect of which is rather undone when her foot comes down on something that rolls roughly beneath it, nearly toppling her to the floor.
Mary steps back and twitches her long skirt aside to see….. a curling iron.
Lying in the floor. In the middle of the hallway.
“Kitty,” Mary mutters impatiently. That girl is so careless and is always leaving things in the strangest places. With a huffy sigh, she picks up the iron and jams it into her sewing basket.
She will speak to her sister about her carelessness, Mary resolves as she pushes open the drawing room door.
In fact, Mary is so busy mentally composing her speech about the virtues of looking after one’s belongings that she doesn’t realize that the familiar drawing room is gone until the door swings shut behind her.
And disappears.