The door was stubborn, inflexible.
Can a door be stubborn? Why not? Buildings take on the characteristics of people, or so the Hopi believe. A structure is more than a physical entity; it’s an environment impacted by the experiences of all its inhabitants, past and present. People, their ancestors, and their surroundings, combine with spiritual significance. Respecting those elements is vital for harmony and balance.
Cate respected that door so much, she set her shoulder against the ancient wood and shoved with all her might. 
She was meant to be here, she assured herself. 
The rusted hinges gave way, the door swung open, and she toppled inside. She thrust her umbrella down to prevent a fall. It had rained every day of the tour, but her hoodie offered better protection against the inclement weather than her flimsy umbrella, which got buffeted about by the wind.
The first thing she noticed, as her eyes adjusted to the dim light, was the smell. Damp, mildewy. Did all buildings smell like this seven centuries ago? How did the inhabitants tolerate it? 
She blinked to adjust her eyes, turned in a circle to survey the space. The room she’d stumbled into was scarcely bigger than a large closet. The longest wall, the wall she faced, was covered with shelves of empty glass jars. The jars were opaque, greenish, bulbous in shape, and filmed with dust. She wondered what contents those jars once held, what function they’d served. There was nothing valuable left, or another tourist would have carted it off long ago.
The floor was coated in a dark, earthy layer, remnants of old rushes that had decomposed centuries ago. Bits of old pottery peeked through the soil.
The tour guide had told her group this property was once the site of a thriving medieval town—until the thing happened that drove everyone away. Without knowing the details, Cate’s nose suggested the townspeople had good reason to leave.
Don’t wander off alone, she’d been instructed every day of the trip. These old buildings, these old grounds—particularly the ancient but not empty cemeteries—don’t assume they’re safe. Keep the tour guide in sight at all times.
But everyone else just wanted to look at the castles. It was always castles, with this crowd. Every night, the Americans would elbow each other and laugh into their beers, “If you’ve seen one castle, you’ve seen them all. And now, we’ve seen them all!” Yet they agreeably tagged along to the next castle—an endless row perched along the southern coast of England—as if worried they might miss something vital.
Well, the tour was called Castles, Knights, and Manors of England. Privately, Cate had hoped she’d encounter more knights than edifices when she’d agreed to this trip. 
“Take some time off,” her boss had encouraged her. “You’ve got more vacation days on the books than God, the Pope, and all the saints combined.”
But it was hard to get away from the rural Indian clinic where she worked as a nurse practitioner. The clinic was perpetually understaffed, and the clinicians were frequently asked to shoulder administrative duties. Some days she served in every role from receptionist to medical assistant to pharmacy tech. But she didn’t mind the work. What was more important than helping people who were sick and injured feel better?
Then a friend convinced her. Castles, Frannie had breathed. Royalty. Crown jewels. Rocky coastlines, white sandy beaches, quaint villages. About as far from Arizona as it was possible to travel. And then—no surprise—once she’d agreed to go, Frannie had gotten herself a boyfriend. Suddenly her friend didn’t want to take this trip—at least, not with her—and Cate faced the choice of going alone or cancelling and losing her deposit.
“Go,” insisted Má Masi. “Your chances of finding a nice man increase exponentially when you travel alone. Just remember it’s okay to let loose and have fun occasionally.” The older woman tugged on Cate’s long, thick braid, making her feel five years old again. “Go. Explore. Fall in love with a nice Brit. At the very least, fall in love with a haunted castle or two.”
Cate had found the first castle fascinating, the second interesting, the third and fourth and fifth indistinguishable. She’d expected the walls to be made of stone—duh, what else would they use for building materials along these rocky stretches? —but she hadn’t expected the interior walls to be painted a variety of colors. Many were covered from floor to ceiling with red lines to mimic blocks of masonry. Others had drawings of flowers—red, gold, and green—extending up to the rooflines. She didn’t recognize any of the images—they all looked like generic flowers and vines to her—but she wondered what botanicals might have grown here centuries ago.
The grounds around the castle and the townsite were missing their gardens now. The knights, alas, were also missing. Where was one of those dark-haired, square-jawed, sword-wielding examples of masculinity when a girl was finally done with school and immersed in a job and ready to meet a companion?
Hiding somewhere in this odd collection of ruined buildings? Not likely, she thought, taking a step back and surveying the tiny room again. She still wasn’t certain why she’d left the tour to explore these ruins alone. It wasn’t like her; she was usually very rule bound.
It seemed risky to touch the dusty glass containers filled with questionable substances, but she fingered a large wooden knob connected to a drawer beneath the shelves. Fingered it, and then, with a sensation that felt like another hand guiding her, tugged on the knob.
The wood was wet, swollen, and resisted opening. She sensed something in the far back corner caught in the slide. She tugged ineffectually, then, on impulse, crammed her umbrella into the opening as a wedge. The umbrella spine cracked, but her efforts were successful. The drawer opened. 
Inside there were more jars and wooden boxes, all fitting together compact and tight. Someone had a penchant for organization, even all those centuries ago. In the far corner, the likely reason for the resistance was a tangle of fabric. The weave was coarse, the color yellowed, but the borders were finely embroidered and edged in lace. An expensive linen handkerchief, she guessed.
She’d seen a stunning collection of medieval manuscripts at the Huntington Library in Pasadena, so she knew instantly what she was looking at.
Nesting in the fabric was a book, perhaps two inches thick, measuring around ten inches by twelve. Not so different in size from the books on her own shelves, she thought with surprise. There was no gold ink shimmering on the cover, but exquisite letters had been drawn with artistry and skill. There were four words sketched on the parchment cover. The beginning letters of each word were large and ornate, making them difficult to decipher. All around the edges of the cover were delicately rendered vines, flowers, roots, and leaves. The colors might have been vivid once; now, they were a mottled brown.
It was valuable, this item. She knew it was valuable, and dear to its owner. And yet, whoever had worked painstakingly on this exquisite manuscript had left it here. Cate had been told at the start of this morning’s tour that the inhabitants had been forced to flee overnight, and the disaster was so great the town never recovered. The book’s owner had wrapped it in a square of embroidered linen, then thrust it deep within this drawer for safekeeping.
Her fingers floated over the remarkable lettering. When she stepped back and let her eyes relax, she could decipher the Gothic script. Sacred Secrets of Healing. Yes, that must be right, given the decorative intertwining of flowers and vines. She hesitated, then gently lifted the cover using her fingertips, and scanned the inside page. The print was faint but still legible.