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The anniversary of my grandpa's death usually ramped up my emotions a few degrees, and with Gran dying a year before him—almost to the day—the twin losses turned me a bit more introspective than usual. And for almost five years now, I'd missed their presence. Something in the acknowledgment of the length of time they'd been gone, or the fact they'd have loved visiting Scotland with me, ushered in a deep longing. For the home I once knew with them, maybe? For their infectious love? Certainly.

A set of black iron gates appeared on the left with the letters C.H. embossed on them, though the gold had partially stripped off over time. 

"Craighill, up ahead." Archie's gravelly voice pulled my attention away from the shadowed woods, and I barely held in a gasp. The trees spread aside like a curtain to reveal a magnificent structure rising up from the clearing. Gray and tan bricks created a towering edifice with jutting rooflines, towers with parapets, and even two turrets. No, it wasn't as massive as Russia's Winter Palace or Prague Castle with its fifteen hundred or so rooms, but the way the landscape behind Craighill House swooped into an almost cinematic expanse created a unique sort of captivation. As I looked behind me through the scattered tree line—a mixture of rolling hills and massive mountains of stone rushed to meet the rocky shore of the loch and tucked behind a hillside—I caught a glimpse of a steeple.

Perhaps that was Glenkirk.

At least living Edwardian came with an impressive view.

The clouds deepened, changing the landscape from magical to broody in a blink. Perhaps my emotions were just tracking with the weather.

"I'll collect your bags." Archie doffed his cap and then tapped his meter as a not-so-subtle clue for me to get his fee ready.

With a deep breath, I grabbed my purse and camera and stepped out onto the graveled drive.

The house rose four stories above me, the stormy sky bringing out more of the gray in the stonework. I gave an internal dare to a few of the resident ghosts, paid Archie for his excellent services, and walked toward the entrance with my bag rolling behind me, half expecting a procession of servants to greet me as they did on some costume drama.

After a few stops to take a picture or twelve, I knocked on the massive wooden door.

Nothing.

I scanned the front and then noticed a small, vintage-looking button to the right with the word Press at the center. A bell-like sound erupted from inside at my touch... followed by an indistinguishable call.

Maybe I was supposed to let myself in? The official start to the Edwardian world wasn't for a couple of days, so maybe they hadn't pulled out the butler and maids yet. I chuckled. I rarely dressed in costume for my travels, but as my viewers knew, I was always up for a new adventure.

With a look back at Archie—my only ally in Scotland—I pushed open the door, and someone immediately grabbed my arm and jerked me inside. My assailant turned out to be a small, dark-eyed woman, wearing something that resembled a maid's dress from an old-fashioned mystery movie. White lace collar, simple black gown, complete with apron.

"Close the door!" Her pale, wide eyes stared into mine, and she cried, "Merlin has escaped!"

Without another word, the young woman slammed the door behind me and dashed off down the hallway, tossing another entreaty for me to help find Merlin.

Merlin? As in the wizard? I stared at her disappearing silhouette as she turned the corner of a narrow hallway where a massive stuffed ostrich stood sentry. Ostrich?

Sure, the whole King Arthur legend was wrapped up in Scottish lore, but a maid searching for Merlin in a Scottish house with a stuffed ostrich? Had I fallen asleep in the taxi, and this was all a weird side effect of eating one too many of the Twirl bars I'd purchased from an airport vendor?

A vaulted white deco style ceiling rose two floors above me, carrying the woman's echoing plea through the room. On either side of the entry hall in which the maid had disappeared stood two suits of armor, both holding lances at their sides as if guarding the way forward.

Was I in Craighill or some sort of madhouse? 

My face cooled. Perhaps they were the same.

Maybe I should take the advice of those armored suits and return to Archie's nice familiar taxi. But then I saw paintings. I released my hold on my suitcase and shuffled a few more feet forward on the glossy, checkered marble floor. Just up ahead the most spectacular floating stairway spiraled up and out of sight, but along the surrounding walls hung dozens of framed paintings of all sizes.