The Window Seat

My flat overlooks the Royal Mile.

It’s rather comical, really. My mother would give me such a hard time for having landed myself right in the middle of this pocket of Edinburgh infested with tourists. That is, if my mother were still around.

It’s not like I went searching for this property. It belonged to my crotchety Great Aunt Agatha. I received the rather unexpected call a week ago, just after I finished my shift at the Larder. The solicitor seemed an odd choice for my aunt, as he was quite chipper. Perhaps, her negativity glanced off of him and she was fascinated. However, they had come to be acquainted is beside the point. Julian Benedict requested to meet with me as soon as possible to go over the details of my newly acquired living quarters. It was humble, no doubt, but very comfortable and in a part of the city that would make tourists and locals alike green with envy.

“But…has my aunt died?” I asked with a sort of detached concern. I would be sorry for her passing, of course, but sorry in the way you feel when your parents’ beloved dog dies, the one who was at the best of times indifferent to your existence and at the worst suspicious to the point of growling at you and snapping at your heels.

“Oh, goodness, no!” Benedict chortled. “No, I reckon your aunt has the willpower to outlive us all.”

“I’d wager you’re right,” I mumbled. Aunt Agatha was the spinster matriarch of our family, who I had in truth never met in my life. Before my mother died, we received frequent letters to the house from her, typically full of the same scoldings for leaving the family and demands for my mother to meet for tea. Mum laughed them off and didn’t respond to a single one. But something about them always bothered her for days afterward. “But then…I don’t understand. Why is she giving me her flat? She’s not…I’m not expected to live with her, am I? Because—“

“Oh, it’s nothing like that. You are her closest living relative, and she has decided to expedite the entailing of her possessions. Trying to save herself the fuss for when she needs the strength to breathe, I believe is how she put it. And from the way she talks of you, I think she does have a unique sort of fondness for you, in her own way.”

I snorted involuntarily. “I’m sorry. But where will she live?”

“Why, her country house, of course.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Mrs. Findlay has quite the large estate out in…well, she was vague as to where. Are you telling me you do not know of it? She said it was her childhood home and that she and your grandfather grew up there.”

“I know of no such place.”

“Ah. Well. That’s really neither here nor there. The main thing is the flat. It’s yours. Oh, that and £20,000.” I marveled at Mr. Benedict so casually throwing in this second bit, as though people come into these significant sums every day. Which, I suppose, in his line of work they do, but again, beside the point.

“I just need you to come in when you can to sign some papers. Maybe give it a couple days, I think she’s still readying the place. I’ll give you the keys, and then you may do as you wish!”

“Readying the place? For me?”

“Well, of course! She has her best people on it.”

“Huh.” Seems like a lot of work for a niece she doesn’t know.

It really did end up being just about as simple as he promised. I was able to stop by his firm between my shift at the café and my shift at Waterson’s to scrawl my signature in a few spots. The odd bit were the keys themselves.

Julian scratches his head. “So, if I recall correctly, this one is for the door off of the close. This one,” he holds up a slightly rusted brass key, “is for the door that opens onto your terrace. And this last one with the blue cover is for the apartment itself!" I had nothing else to do, so after he assured me that if there was anything I needed I could just give him a ring, I walked to Old Town.

In the daylight, the close that holds the entrance to my new abode is quaint and picturesque with just a twinge of mystery. But as I quickly turn the lock in the key, I shudder to think of unsavory characters lurking here in the darker hours, coming off of the main road unexpectedly or creeping in from the courtyard out back. The key turns and I quickly step into the narrow hall with the staircase, which proves to be yet another romantic and simultaneously creepy feature to this place. I wriggle the knob a couple times to make sure the door is locked behind me. I can’t place why I’m so jumpy these days, but I have been doing this a lot lately, looking over my shoulder, feeling…odd. I begin my ascent of the curling staircase and about halfway up, there’s a window overlooking the close. Perched in the window is a gray and purple-feathered pigeon.

“Well, hello, little fellow! There’s certainly nothing unsavory about you, is there?” I said, leaning towards the window. In response, he flaps his wings, hovering towards me and I shriek and take the rest of the stairs at a run. I fumble for the key that gets me onto my little balcony, stumble through the door, and slam it shut, gasping for breath. Perhaps I need to rethink this living situation.

Balcony is a generous term. It’s more of an enclave enclosed by bars and something of a mesh material, for safety measures, I suppose. There is a little table and chair set situated in the corner that looks surprisingly new. My heart rate returning to normal, I fit the final key into the lock of the door that finally leads to the apartment. I cross the threshold. I let out an involuntary gasp.

The place is spotless, gleaming even. I expected a rundown, barebones place, but this is…chic. The entry hall I’m standing in has a tasseled rug and glass table with a key bowl. I step cautiously into the space, afraid my presence will mess things up. The living room holds a blue velvet couch adorned with cream pillows. There is a marble top coffee table in front of the couch, standing on top of the white rug. A built-in bookcase lines one wall, stuffed with glossy bestsellers, color-coded and stacked in a haphazard yet purposeful way. Two more bookcases stand sentry to the fireplace, one with old leather spines, the other with all of the cream pages turned out. The window is fitted with sheer curtains and a window seat, a blanket draped on top.

I backtrack, going down the short and narrow hallway that leads to the bedroom. It is simply heavenly. A creamy linen duvet covers the expanse of the queen bed. Plush blue pillows are propped up at the head. Above them is a watercolor painting of the Scottish Highlands. A squashy inviting chair sits in the corner with a leather pouf in front of it, and there is yet another window seat. This one has a lock so I assume the bench can be opened. I try and lift along the thin outcropping of the cover but it doesn’t budge. Locked.

As I stand up from my crouched position, I hear a rustling. No, it was more like I could feel a rustling. The smart thing to do would be to stay where I am and frantically look for something I can wield as a weapon. But I inch out into the hallway.

I peer around the corner into the living room. Nothing. I look the other way towards the door. Nothing.

Well. Nothing except for a black notebook at the foot of the door.

A notebook that must have been slipped under the door on the third floor behind two other locked doors.

My curiosity gets the better of me. I tiptoe down the hall, scoop the notebook from the floor, run back to the safety of the bedroom, close the door and lock it. I open the cover to discover a crisp white, lined page with a brief note in neat cursive: “Ms. Blythe Taylor, your presence is requested at the Findlay Estate at 7 o’clock sharp. For most efficient transportation, we recommend you use the window seat (try sliding the bench over rather than lifting). Best, Agatha and Julian.”

So what else am I supposed to do when a mysterious notebook directs me to use the window seat to access my great aunt’s mansion that is miles out into the countryside? I heed it, of course. I walk across the room, kneel on the ground, dig my fingers into the corner between seat and wall, and push. It slides right across to reveal…nothing.

What was I thinking? I sigh with frustration. I lower my head into the box and scan it for anything out of the ordinary. Still nothing, still just as spotless as the rest of the flat. I stand up. Since I have nothing to lose, I place one foot in the box followed by the other. And then…there it is again! That rustling. Except this time it grows more intense. The room begins to spin, and suddenly the solid wood I am standing on vanishes, and I plummet into darkness. Naturally, as one is wont to do, I let out a bloodcurdling scream. But the sensation shifts; suddenly, I feel myself whooshing upward, defying gravity. And as quickly as my fall began, it ends, and I am right back in the window seat. Except…I am not in a quaint bedroom overlooking the Royal Mile.

“The invitation said 7 o’clock sharp, did it not? It’s not even half past four!” The old woman across the massive, oak-paneled library huffs.

“I would hardly call a note in a mysterious journal an invitation.” I reply weakly.

“Cheeky. You’re exactly like your mother.”

“You must be Agatha.”

“You must be Blythe.” When I don’t say anything to that, she waves her hand impatiently. “Get out of there before the spell gets going again, and let me get a good look at you!” Then she turns to look over her shoulder and bellows, “Julian, she’s here!”

Julian Benedict, hair a bit ruffled and glasses askew skids into the room. “But the invitation said seven!”

“I admit I was a bit skeptical at the notion of a magical window seat. My apologies. I will work on my timing in the future.” I roll my eyes. “Now will someone tell me what just happened? Why am I here? How am I here?”

“Isn’t that obvious? You are here to claim the last portion of your inheritance.”

“And what exactly would that be?” I cross my still shaking arms.

“Why your powers, of course! Now, shall we get started, or would you like some afternoon tea first? My chef makes a splendid haggis pastry.”