“You have an ancestor who built on a broken crossover passageway?” Sophie snorted.

“Boggles the mind, doesn’t it?” Kathryn gave her a speaking look.

Sophie grinned. “I can just imagine how odd the house must be.”

“The stories get pretty entertaining. Entire wings disappeared and reappeared, and the scenery outside the windows changed. People got lost inside, and they couldn’t find their way out again. One pair of children disappeared for weeks before they reappeared again, dirty and starved, and babbling of strange adventures.”

She leaned forward. “Do you have written records of what they saw?”

Kathryn shook her head. “There are hardly any written records other than land ownership, just legends passed down by word of mouth. After a couple of generations, the family couldn’t cope with the strangeness any longer. They built another house and moved and left this place abandoned. Every few years, someone would go to check on the property to see if it was still standing. My father said the last time he went, he could turn the key in the lock, but he couldn’t get the door to open. The last time I checked the property, I couldn’t even get the key in the lock.”

Sophie looked down at the photograph she still touched, drawn there by the frisson she felt underneath her palm. Gabled and oddly shadowed, the house looked like something out of Dark Shadows, a cult show that ran on classic TV networks and had both delighted and terrified her as a child. “Did anybody try to break a window?”

“My father said he tried, but the window wouldn’t break.” Kathryn smiled. “The place is like a Rubik’s cube. The pieces are all there—I think—but none of the colors line up. We took to calling it the family albatross. It’s been hanging around our necks all this time.”

Sophie raised her eyebrow again. “Did you hire experts to try to get in?”

“Of course, but no one managed it. I don’t think anyone has walked through those halls since before the sixteenth century and only then intermittently, as the house had been abandoned some time before. The gods only know what might have been left inside. There aren’t any written records of that either.”

“How mysterious,” Sophie murmured.

Kathryn turned brisk. “Now we come to the crux of the matter. The terms of my father’s will state that I am to seek out the children he rescued, one by one, and extend an offer. Each person may have ninety days to find a way to get inside the house. If anyone does figure out a way in, they may take ownership of the house, any contents that may still be in it, and the grounds, which includes five acres, a small lake, and a small, four-room house that used to be the gatekeeper’s cottage. They also receive a trust that is entailed to the property. Both the property and the entailment can be passed on to their beneficiaries.”

Sophie blinked. And blinked again.

Grounds. House. Two houses.

Kathryn really was offering her an inheritance.

The incredulous laughter threatened to come back. She repeated, “A trust. You mean actual money?”

“Yes,” Kathryn said. “The trust is tied up in investments, so the annual income is self-perpetuating. It isn’t an outrageous fortune, but it’s enough to pay the property taxes, cover the cost of grounds upkeep, and there’s perhaps twenty-five thousand pounds a year over that. Depending on fluctuations in the exchange rate, that’s roughly around thirty-seven thousand dollars a year. Let’s face it, after so long, the interior of the manor house must be unlivable, but I’ve actually stayed in the gatekeeper’s cottage, and while the furnishings are dated, it’s cozy enough. If you buy a Pocket Wi-Fi, you can even get Internet service inside the cottage itself, although there’s too much land magic in the countryside to get reliable connectivity everywhere.”

“Thirty-seven thousand dollars,” Sophie repeated flatly. “A year. Just for breaking into a house.”

Kathryn laughed. “Keep in mind, nobody has managed to do it so far. And yes, we will pay to get rid of the family albatross.”

“A trust that can generate thirty-seven thousand dollars a year is a hell of a generous payment.” Sophie traced the edge of the photograph with a forefinger.

“It’s only a portion of the family estate, and England is an expensive place to live,” Kathryn warned. “That kind of annual income wouldn’t go nearly as far as it would in, say, the American Midwest. Although the cost of living is much cheaper outside of London. If somebody were interested and wanted to make a go of it, I think they could live well enough if their needs were modest and they were frugal. There would be no rent or mortgage to worry about. That would already be taken care of, which would make the money stretch a lot further. But in order to receive the inheritance, you—or someone—would have to prove that they had actually gotten inside the house.”

“What kind of proof would you require?”

“Photos would be sufficient, if a camera would work inside the house, but the broken crossover magic might prevent that. If a camera would work, given the position of the buildings, you should be able to get a clear photo of the gatekeeper’s cottage as you look out the front windows. Or if you could get someone to take a photo of you standing inside the house, that would also work. Failing that, a signed affidavit from reliable witnesses would be acceptable.”

Sophie touched the edge of the roofline to feel the tingle of magic again. “Ninety days is a long time,” she said slowly. “For a lot of people, taking a two-week vacation overseas is stretching their resources, let alone taking that much time away from their jobs.”

Kathryn nodded. “I’m afraid I can’t help with the issue of taking time off work, but as far as the rest of the trip goes, the estate would provide a temporary living stipend along with travel expenses.” One corner of her mouth tilted up. “Honestly, I think most people have taken the challenge just to get a three-month paid vacation. They either had no interest or any ability in trying to get into the main house itself.”

Instead of looking angry at the possibility of exploitation, the other woman still looked amused. Since the same thought had occurred to Sophie, she asked carefully, “That doesn’t bother you?”

Kathryn shrugged. “The money comes out of the trust that was set up specifically for this property. Since it’s entailed, I couldn’t access those funds for myself even if I wanted to. If somebody could just break into the house, I can stop hunting down people my father rescued and making the same offer over and over again, but other than that, it doesn’t particularly bother me one way or another.”

“You have been doing this for over twenty years,” Sophie murmured reflectively. She was almost unaware of how her fingers stroked the photograph. Almost. “You must be very tired of it.”

“Actually, it’s become something of a hobby.” Kathryn sipped coffee and set her cup carefully back on its saucer. “My career is stressful and demanding. If I’m not careful, it can suck the life out of me. This takes me outside of that, and it even gives me a reason to travel. Finding people whom my father rescued when they were children has become rewarding and even comforting in a way. It has been heartwarming to see how far his influence spread. He saved a lot of lives, and I’m really proud of that. Of him.”

Sophie rearranged the photos in front of her, watching her hands. “I’m sure not everybody would have welcomed it. Until I had a friend at the LAPD trace the phone number you left in your message and run a background check on you, I was certain you were running some kind of scam.”

“True.” Kathryn nodded. “And sometimes it’s hard to discover that not everybody has thrived after being rescued. One died in a car accident, and someone else joined the army and was killed in battle. But more often than not, people are like yourself.”