Page 27 of Cackle

Between the trees is a small hut. An assembly of sticks with a thatched roof partially caved in.

“I’m only joking,” she says. “If I had better jokes, I would tell them.”

“What if I’d been like, ‘Oh, wow, so nice, so cute.’ ”

“I would know you were a dirty liar with a heart of gold.”

“I don’t know. I’ve seen some apartments in the city that aren’t as nice as that shack and are way more expensive.”

“Dreadful,” she says. “All right, this is slippery right here, so let me help you.”

The ground slopes upward, and Sophie climbs, holding up her dress. I don’t know how she manages to look so graceful climbing, but she does. When she’s at the top, she reaches back for me.

I accept her hand and use it to steady myself. I fear I’ll take us both down, but she’s solid. She keeps us upright.

“We’re out of the woods!” she says. “I’ll reward you with tea and treats and pie.”

She threads her arm through mine, so we’re linked at our elbows. For a moment, the bright early-afternoon sun burns a hole through my vision. I close my eyes and watch the rust-colored orb float there. When it begins to fade, I open my eyes again and am stopped dead by what’s before me.

“Is that your house?” I ask. It’s a stupid question, because the structure at the bottom of the hill isn’t a house, the same way a T. rex isn’t an iguana.

It’s basically Versailles.

“Yes,” she says, her voice heavy and slow with reluctance, as if she’s a child admitting to coloring on the walls. “It would have been torn down if it had stayed empty. I thought it would be such a shame to destroy something so beautiful, with so much promise, just because it was out here alone, having lost some of its former glory.”

I’m not sure how it could possibly be more glorious. Parisian limestone with intricate carvings, multiple turrets, dormers, wonderfully ugly gargoyles leering from high above. Two massive wings unfurl from a hulking center tower with a conical roof trimmed with greening ornamental copper.

It looks like a famous museum or a summer palace for royals. It doesn’t look like a residential home. For one person. I can’t believe she lives here. Château Sophie.

“What do you think?” she asks me. “You’re being quiet and I’m nervous.”

“It’s incredible. Are you kidding?”

Her cheeks go pink, and she claps a hand to her face. “Oh, I don’t know. Everyone has their own opinions.”

“I don’t know if it’s a matter of opinion,” I say. “It’s gorgeous.”

Now that I think about it, it suits her. I can’t imagine her living anywhere else. Her home is as beautiful and enchanting as she is.

“It’s not the coziest,” she says as we approach an enormous arched doorway. Sophie pauses, then digs inside her cleavage.

“Forgive me,” she says.

For what? I want to ask. For being impossibly endearing?

“Got it,” she says, pulling out a large iron key.

“That can’t be comfortable,” I say, “to have that wedged in your bra.”

“No more comfortable than the bra itself,” she says. “All right, welcome home.”

She pushes open the door, its hinges howling in complaint.

We step into a grand foyer. Far, far above me hangs the largest chandelier I’ve ever seen. Layers of crystals dripping, shimmering in the light, projecting pastels along the limestone walls.

A majestic staircase coils its way up, up, up. There’s an ornate gold banister on one side, on the other a series of Gothic wrought iron sconces.

“Don’t look at anything for too long,” she says. “You’ll see cobwebs. Dancing dust mites. This place is terribly difficult to maintain.”