My ticket in! I thought, jumping up so fast, I startled Mrs. Sutter. I didn't actually want the job-l had plans to tour cross county before attending universitybut an interview would get me onto the estate, inside the house.

"Oh, there I've gone and offended you." Mrs. Sutter sighed. "I forgot how proper you English folks are."

"I'm American," I said, bluntly enough to prove it, then remembered my manners. "Would you excuse me? There is something I need to do-to do as soon as possible."

I hurried upstairs and grabbed my coat. Certain that the vigilant Mrs. Hopewell wouldn't answer a third call from the same number; I headed out in search of a pay phone.

At 4:20 that afternoon, about ten kilometers outside of town, Mrs. Sutter-Amelia, as she had asked me to call her-pulled up to the iron gates of Mason's Choice.

They swung inward, triggered by an electric eye, an orb less discriminating than Mrs. Hopewell's. My plan had worked. Having used a phone at the local college, a bad French accent (I was afraid my American Southern wouldn't convince a native), and a polite request to speak to Emily Westbrook, I had gotten past the housekeeper.

My job interview was at 4:30, but the gloomy weather of early March made it appear later than that. A chilly fog had settled over the Eastern Shore, turning even the small wood that shielded the estate from Scarborough Road into the forbidding forest of a fairy tale. Massive vines and dripping black branches crowded close to both sides of the private road that led to the house. Amelia sped up, as if eager to get through the wood. A broken branch whisked across the windshield. Past the wood was an open area of lawn, bounded by a long hedge, perhaps three times the height of an adult, with a keyhole cut through where the entrance road passed. As a child I had found this living wall rather menacing; it didn't seem much friendlier now.