Winterhouse: Part One

His hair was slicked back in a style Elizabeth associated with men from old Hollywood movies, and though he appeared elegant and refined in his dark suit, he studied her with cold, inquisitive eyes while she stared back at him.

Elizabeth Somers was about as plain and unremarkable as any girl could be. It was only when she was upset or frustrated and pursed her lips or scowled so deeply a little furrow appeared in the space where her eyebrows almost met that Elizabeth looked anything close to formidable.

She sat in the dark and allowed the dream to drift away as the bus chugged onward; very slowly the unease she had felt began to subside.

There, before her, lit up as brightly as midday, rose the colossal hotel—a fortress of golden-colored brick, leaping ramparts, crystalline windows, and high turrets, all adorned with a blaze of lights, waving flags, and what seemed like a thousand silver banners each with a “W” in clear, shining white.

Balconies stood out here and there, and arched verandas and overlooks decorated with Chinese lanterns; tinseled, glistening trees lined the hotel’s frontage like stage lights.

Behind it she could make out, in the reflected light from Winterhouse itself, the smooth ice- and snow-coated surface of a vast lake with the lines of a ski lift to one side; and on its far side a crest of mountains rising into the distance like a sky full of boat sails, ghostly gray against the starry darkness.

“That is my collection of books!” the man in black said sternly, pointing out the crate to the bus driver. “Be careful with it!”
“It looks like a coffin,” someone in the crowd said wryly, and the others began to laugh—but not the man and woman in black.

It was so enormous and so well-ordered—with its paneled walls, sprawling chandeliers, diamond-puzzle of a rug, and curtained windows overlooking the silver lake—that Elizabeth halted in place and simply stared all around.

Two elderly men in suits were standing beside a long table examining something intently, as though they were focused on a complicated game or studying a document.

The woman in black, as if she’d heard something or smelled smoke, glared at Elizabeth for a moment before returning her attention to the bellhop she and the man in black were berating.

His face was ruddy, and he had a thin mustache and a trim beard—not one of those bushy ones that look untamed and dirty, but one so neat and white it made him look dashing.

“Besides, I looked over a list of people who were supposed to arrive today. Elizabeth Somers was the only eleven-year-old girl scheduled to come by herself, and she was the only eleven-year-old girl slated to arrive on the late bus—and right now you’re the only eleven-year-old girl standing here in front of me at ten o’clock at night. So you must be the one and only Elizabeth Somers!”

“Please excuse me,” Jackson said, glancing furtively at the other bellhop speaking to the couple, “while I assist my colleague.”

It had a picture of the Winterhouse Hotel stamped on it, and underneath it were the words “Norbridge Falls—Proprietor.”

On it was painted an imposing stone temple with colorful flags all around it, and in the background a rise of snow-clad mountains beneath a brilliant blue sky.

Jackson and three other bellhops lifted the long crate and began to follow the man and woman in black, the whole group looking for all the world like a funeral procession.

He nodded proudly and lifted his hand from the small placard, which read ERNEST SHACKLETON’S PANTS.

“You’re a scholar as well as a puzzle expert and a seasoned traveler, that’s apparent,” Norbridge said.

Before she could answer, he pointed to the ornately paneled cherrywood door beside which they’d stopped.

On the wall next to the door was affixed a small silver plaque on which was written the following words: THIS ROOM RESERVED AT ALL TIMES FOR EDWIN AND ORFAMAY THATCHER.

She’d had candy in wrappers or in boxes or bags, but never any sort of sugary square sitting out on a plate. “What is it?” she said.
“Flurschen. Winterhouse’s world-famous confection,” Norbridge said, as if informing her of something as basic as the name of the president or what to say when you knock on someone’s door on Halloween.

The strange thing, though, was that Aunt Purdy and Uncle Burlap never bought candy or had any in the house; Aunt Purdy often informed Elizabeth that candy rotted not only a girl’s teeth but also her brain, though Elizabeth suspected her aunt and uncle just didn’t want to spend money on anything as extravagant as candy.

“It’s delicious,” Elizabeth said. “Make that—delectable!”

She imagined a modest little room with some shelves of books inside; and because she was restless, and because she felt the late hour might be a good chance to see the library without anyone else around, she dropped the silver door key into her pocket and slipped into the hallway.

“We are paying guests of this establishment,” the man in black said curtly, “and we want to visit the library. My wife is unable to sleep, and she is looking for a good book.”

“Look here, young man,” she said, her voice a staccato hiss.

Above the doorway she was about to pass through, painted in gold and decorated with elaborate petals and curled lines, was what appeared to be a family tree.

“Trouble!” Miles cawed from Leona’s shoulder and began to bob his head. “Trouble!”
Leona looked to the doorway as if she understood what the bird’s clamor signified, and her eyes widened.

“Our illustrious proprietor, Mr. Norbridge Falls, pays us a visit!” she said.

I was instantly smitten! I knew I wanted to live here, and I knew I wanted to run the library someday.

In winter’s tempo we remain, but when fair spring returns
Soon summer’s knit ’em, sky and storm, and scented heaven burns
October ear and April eye catch distant zephyr’s song

“They’re paintings of the whole Falls lineage,” he whispered.

The girl Gracella, though, as much as she resembled Norbridge, had a look of wariness in her eyes that the artist had captured. It looked distant and appraising.

“Many of us here at Winterhouse have noticed that, but to the best of my knowledge, no one has ever determined what those letters add up to or why they are on that book. I’ve asked Mr. Norbridge Falls himself about it, and even he has no idea.” Jackson shook his head again. “A complete and utter...” His sentence drifted off as he searched for the proper way to end it.
“Conundrum!”

At this point Norbridge paused and put a hand to his forehead as if to still his thoughts; he spread his arms wide to encompass the entire room.

Elizabeth was transfixed. Her own heart was beginning to pound, and she sat waiting to hear what would happen next.

He put a hand to his forehead as though trying to stave off a spell of dizziness.

“And now you are back to help us overcome the day’s doldrums?”

She began to read a chapter near the middle of the book—“How to make it look as if you’ve done a careful job of cleaning your room”—and learned all about how to take the messy junk on your floor and stuff it into pillowcases and within folded blankets before stacking these unobtrusively in the corners of your room.

If Aunt Purdy or Uncle Burlap had ever caught her traipsing around after midnight and knew she had spotted them doing something, there would be a round of yelling, berating, and withholding of food.