Free The Vintage Girl by Hester Browne

stop and make notes, and just … breathe in the history. But I suppose you’re used to it by now.”
    “Nope,” said Robert, somewhere behind me. “Mum and Dad only moved up here a couple of years ago. Takes a bit longer than that to get used to living in Scotland’s biggest attic.”
    “You live in the
attic
? Aren’t there enough rooms?”
    “Metaphorically speaking.” He laughed. At least I think he did. “It’s like they never threw anything away—they just stuck it in a case. If you think this is bad, you should see what’s actually
in
the attic. I keep telling Dad: just because it’s old doesn’t mean it’s
important
.”
    This time I knew Robert wasn’t being faux-modest; he sounded genuinely repulsed. In fact, he sounded a bit like Alice: she was always threatening to start a localized fire in my garage to “cure my hoarding.”
    “Well, one man’s junk is another man’s priceless collectible, as a wise man once said to me!” I replied. “It’s all part of someone’s life, isn’t it? And those people are part of your life.”
    We’d reached a dimly lit corner of the paneled corridor, and I hung back, waiting for him to hit the next light switch. I couldn’t resist tapping a dark oak panel with my knuckles. Then the one next to it.
    “Sorry, what are you doing?” he asked.
    I looked up. “Tapping the panels. To see if there’s a hidden passage.”
    “And what sort of noise would one of those make? Out of interest.”
    “I’m not sure,” I admitted. “I’ve just seen them do it in films. You tap the oak panels and one of them … swings back.” As I said it, I realized how ridiculous I sounded.
    “To reveal what?” Robert raised his eyebrows inquiringly. “The slide down to the Bat Cave? Or the chute for the discarded servants?”
    “You never know with houses like this,” I said. “You read about noblemen hiding chests of gold pieces during enemy raids, and then dying in battle so they’re undiscovered for centuries.” My eyes widened. “Wouldn’t that be fate?”
    Robert sighed and raised his hands. “Fine, let’s get this out of the way before dinner,” he said. “As far as I’m concerned, there is no buried treasure in this house. No unburied treasure, either. Kettlesheer is a giant white elephant, full of someone else’s colonial supermarket sweep. I’m
embarrassed
by some of it, frankly.”
    My mouth dropped open. “But there are some wonderful historical things here that—”
    Robert held up his hands. “So give them to the Museum of Scotland. A house this size is a massive drain in this day and age. It’s ruined at least three recent ancestors, and I don’t want to watch my parents dragged down by the stress of keeping it going. Selling little bits here and there for the roof, to do the electricity—waste of time. Personally, I’d sell it tomorrow.” He made a chopping gesture in the air.
    “But it’s your family home!” I protested, swamped with disbelief that he could dismiss it so coldly. The spectral McAndrews around us must have been clutching their jabots in shock.
    Robert ran a hand over his face. “Our family home was a perfectly nice villa in Wimbledon, by the common. Big garden, tennis court, ample parking. No bats. No sculptures in the bathroom. I’m not saying this
isn’t
beautiful—it’d make an amazing hotel, or a nursing home, or something. But it’s not a
home
home.”
    “It
is
!”
    “It’s a
museum
. To tat and kleptomania.”
    I couldn’t believe I was hearing this.
    “But you can
see
it’s a home everywhere you look,” I protested, my voice so high even the aforementioned bats could hear it. “It’s just a bit more … scaled-up. You’ve got portraits instead of photos. I mean, that worn-down foot-scraper by the door, and … and … this mirror here—can you
imagine
what that mirror’s seen over the years: the changing costumes, and the hopes, and the romances—”
    “There’s nothing
romantic
about