The Scent of Old Sock Races

With another room magic-free and all of us relatively intact (though I caught Meinwen sucking her thumb once or twice) our attention turned to the remaining doors. "Left or straight on? I asked.

Meinwen flung open the curtains and weak evening light filtered through years of grime highlighted the dust and yellowing wallpaper. Using a corner of the moth-eaten velvet, she rubbed a circle of glass clean enough to see through. "That's the front of the house," she said, pointing to the door opposite the kitchen, "so the other door must be the stairs."

"I'll check." Winston opened the latter to find himself confronted with an ancient vacuum cleaner and other cleaning sundries. "Nugget's Furniture Polish," he said, picking up a tin. "I haven't seen that in years. Our mam used to use it all the time." He smiled with the memory. "Latitia and I used to have sock races down the hall." He opened the tin and sniffed. "Sniff that," he said. "That takes me right back."

"It'll take you somewhere else if you're not a bit more careful about opening tins," I said. "This house is too full of traps to take anything for granted."

"You're probably right." Winston pocketed the tin and closed the door. "Let's have a shufty at the front parlour, then.