Keyhole heart and purple rose on an arm

The gatehouse at Carrick Hollin has lost its portcullis and most of its roof, but the chapel door still stands, and it still has its lock. Mr Fenwick sent me up with the iron ring of keys on Tuesday and told me to find the one that fit the heart-shaped escutcheon, the one the old lord had painted red and gold so the servants would know which room was his. I tried eleven keys. The twelfth was no key at all but a sliver of brass wedged in a crack between the flagstones, green with age, and when I pushed it into the lock the bolt slid back with a sound like a held breath let go.

Inside there was no treasure, only a rose carved into the lintel, its petals worn soft as bread, and a small wooden box on the sill with a letter folded inside it. The letter was addressed to someone called Eleanor and began: If you are reading this, the swirls have stopped turning and the keeper has gone down to the sea. I have not read past that line. It did not feel like mine to read.

I have left the box on the sill for the new owners, who are coming in spring to turn the place into a hotel with a view. I have kept the brass key. It is in my apron pocket now, warm from my hand, and I find I keep touching it the way you touched Mother's locket on the train, as if checking that the thing you love has not walked off without you.