I wanted desperately to be worthy of Mr. Locke’s love. “Yes, sir,” I whispered. And I was.
My father didn’t return until November, looking as creased and tired as his luggage. His arrival followed its usual pattern: the wagon crunched its way up the drive and stopped before the stone majesty of Locke House. Mr. Locke went out to offer congratulatory backslapping and I waited in the front hall with Miss Wilda, dressed in a jumper so starched I felt like a turtle in an overlarge shell.
The door opened and he stood silhouetted, looking very dark and foreign in the pale November light. He paused on the threshold because this was generally the moment fifty pounds of excited young girl rocketed into his kneecaps.
But I didn’t move. For the first time in my life, I didn’t run to him. The silhouette’s shoulders sagged.
It seems cruel to you, doesn’t it? A sullen child punishing her father for his absence. But I assure you my intentions at the time were thoroughly muddled; there was just something about the shape of him in the doorway that made me dizzy with anger. Maybe because he smelled like jungles and steamships and adventures, like shadowed caves and unseen wonders, and my world was so ferociously mundane. Or maybe just because I’d been locked away and he hadn’t been there to open the door.
He took three hesitant steps and crouched before me in the foyer. He looked older than I remembered, the stubble on his chin shining dull silver instead of black, as if every day he spent away from me were three days in his world. The sadness was the same as it always was, though, like a veil drawn over his eyes.
He rested a hand on my shoulder, black snakes of tattoos twisting around his wrists. “January, is something wrong?”
The familiar sound of my name in his mouth, his strange-but-not-strange accent, almost undid me. I wanted to tell him the truth—I stumbled over something grand and wild, something that rips a hole in the shape of the world. I wrote something and it was true—but I’d learned better. I was a good girl now.
“Everything is fine, sir,” I answered, and watched the cool grown-up-ness of my voice hit my father like a slap.
I didn’t speak to him over the dinner table that evening, and I didn’t sneak into his room that night to beg stories from him (and he was a champion storyteller, let me tell you; he always said ninety-nine percent of his job was following the stories and seeing where they led).
But I was done with that fanciful nonsense. No more doors or Doors, no more dreams of silver seas and whitewashed cities. No more stories. I imagined this was just one of those lessons implicit in the process of growing up, which everyone learns eventually.
I’ll tell you a secret, though: I still had that silver coin with the portrait of the strange queen on it. I kept it in a tiny pocket sewed in my underskirt, flesh-warm against my waist, and when I held it I could smell the sea.
It was my most precious possession for ten years. Until I turned seventeen, and found The Ten Thousand Doors.
The Leather-Bound Door
I wouldn’t have found it if it weren’t for the bird.
I was heading down to the kitchen to steal evening coffee from Mrs. Purtram, the cook, when I heard a twittering, thrashing sound and paused halfway down the second staircase. I waited until it happened again: the rushing silence of beating wings and a hollow thudding. Silence.
I followed the sound to the second-floor parlor, labeled the Pharaoh Room, where Mr. Locke’s extensive Egyptian collection was housed: red and blue caskets, marble urns with wings for handles, tiny golden ankhs on leather strings, carved stone columns orphaned from their temples. The whole room had a yellowy-gold glow to it, even in the almost-dark of a summer evening.
The sound came from the southern corner of the room, where my blue treasure chest still stood. It rattled on its plinth.
After I’d found my pocket diary I hadn’t been able to help circling back around to the chest every now and then and peering into its dusty-smelling depths. Around Christmas, a cut-paper puppet appeared with little wooden sticks affixed to each of her limbs. The following summer there was a tiny music box that played a Russian-sounding waltz, and then a little brown doll beaded in bright colors, and then an illustrated French edition of The Jungle Book.
I never asked him directly, but I was certain they were gifts from Mr. Locke. They tended to show up right when I needed them most, when my father had forgotten another birthday or missed another holiday. I could almost feel his awkward hand on my shoulder, offering silent comfort.
It seemed extremely unlikely, however, that he would intentionally hide a bird in the box. I lifted the lid, not quite believing it, and a gray-and-gold something exploded up at me as if fired from a small cannon and ricocheted around the parlor. It was a delicate, ruffled-looking bird with a marmalade-colored head and spindly legs. (I tried to look it up, later, but it didn’t look like any of the birds in Mr. Audubon’s book.)
I was turning away, letting the lid of the chest fall—when I realized there was something else still inside.
A book. A smallish, leather-bound book with scuffed corners and with dented imprints where the gold-stamped title had been partially scraped off: THE TEN THOU OORS. I riffled the pages with one thumb.
Those of you who are more than casually familiar with books—those of you who spend your free afternoons in fusty bookshops, who offer furtive, kindly strokes along the spines of familiar titles—understand that page riffling is an essential element in the process of introducing oneself to a new book. It isn’t about reading the words; it’s about reading the smell, which wafts from the pages in a cloud of dust and wood pulp. It might smell expensive and well bound, or it might smell of tissue-thin paper and blurred two-color prints, or of fifty years unread in the home of a tobacco-smoking old man. Books can smell of cheap thrills or painstaking scholarship, of literary weight or unsolved mysteries.
This one smelled unlike any book I’d ever held. Cinnamon and coal smoke, catacombs and loam. Damp seaside evenings and sweat-slick noontimes beneath palm fronds. It smelled as if it had been in the mail for longer than any one parcel could be, circling the world for years and accumulating layers of smells like a tramp wearing too many clothes.
It smelled like adventure itself had been harvested in the wild, distilled to a fine wine, and splashed across each page.
But I’m stumbling ahead of myself. Stories are supposed to be told in order, with beginnings and middles and ends. I’m no scholar, but I know that much.
I spent the years after the blue Door doing what most willful, temerarious girls must do: becoming less so.
In the fall of 1903 I was nine and the world was tasting the word modern on its tongue. A pair of brothers in the Carolinas were experimenting enthusiastically with their flying machines; our new president had just advised us to speak softly but carry big sticks, which apparently meant we ought to invade Panama; and bright red hair was briefly popular, until women started reporting dizziness and hair loss and Miss Valentine’s Hair Potion was revealed to be little more than red rat poison. My father was somewhere in northern Europe (my postcard showed snowy mountains and a pair of children dressed like Hansel and Gretel; the back said Happy belated birthday), and Mr. Locke finally trusted me enough to take me on another trip.
My behavior since the Kentucky incident had been impeccable: I didn’t torment Mr. Stirling or disturb Mr. Locke’s collections; I obeyed all Wilda’s rules, even the really stupid ones about folding your collars straight after ironing; I didn’t play on the grounds with “lice-ridden urchins just off the boat,” but merely watched Samuel driving the grocery cart from the third-story window of my father’s study. He still snuck story papers to me whenever he could finagle them past Mrs. Purtram, their corners dog-eared to his favorite pages, and I returned them rolled tight in the empty milk bottles, with all the best and most bloodthirsty lines circled.