Lillian Hogarth searched for almost half an hour before she found the old-fashioned brass key in the back corner of her sock drawer, between the plaster handprint her son Jamie had made in Year 1 and the clear plastic box containing her long-abandoned rosary beads. She picked the key up by the loop of green velvet ribbon she’d threaded through its eye so it wouldn’t get lost. “I hid you too well,” she said as she returned with it to the dining room.
She’d had to start locking the Tudor-style sideboard when her daughter, Kate, had turned 15 and hit the inevitable phase of rebellion which, Lillian thought ruefully, was now in its 16th year. It had stayed locked because by the time Kate moved out of home, Jamie was old enough to go looking for alcohol to sneak into his backpack on a Friday night. Though Lillian had never really worried about him getting into the cognac and whisky.
As she knelt in front of the dark wooden doors, Lillian’s chest tightened, and she had a fleeting sensation of not being able to get enough air into her lungs. She hesitated, key in hand, wishing she could somehow freeze time and enjoy life as it was a little longer. and had become obsessed with finding a portal to the magical world in his own home.
