“There you are,” Izzy said. “Where you been hiding?”
“Hey, Izzy,” Rory greeted her. “No customers?”
“Been slow all night,” she moaned, and plucked one of the cards with her forefinger.
Rory sat in the little chair reserved for patrons and looked at his friend. They’d known each other since they were small. They were neighbors and grew up together. Best of all, they shared a birthday, though for some reason, Rory couldn’t remember the last time there was a birthday party in Gloom.
“I got a job,” he said proudly.
“Where?” Izzy exclaimed. “At the docks? You’re not old enough.”
“No. Not the docks. It’s . . . Guess.”
Izzy rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on!” she complained, but Rory wouldn’t budge. She twirled a strand of hair around her finger. “Chimney sweep?” she ventured.
“Nope.”
“Lamplighter?”
“Nope.”
“Bird poop sweeper?”
“Nope.”
“Fish gutter?”
“Nope.”
“Bird poop sweeper?”
“You already said that.”
Izzy blew out a breath. “Okay. Enough, you urchin. What is it?”
Rory, now satisfied, leaned back in his chair and placed his thumbs behind imaginary suspenders. “I’m going to be a valet at Foxglove Manor.”
Izzy wasn’t easily frightened or impressed, but the look on her face was something between the two.
“The manor?” she said. “That creepy old place? Great seas, are you mad?”
“That’s just a bunch of stories,” Rory protested. “They already gave me an advance on my earnings. Mum can pay off Bumbailiff for a whole year!”
Izzy made a sour face at the mention of the landlord. Everyone on Copper Street knew him, and he was despised by them all.
“Interesting,” she said. “So what’s a valet do anyway?”
“I don’t know,” Rory confessed. “All kinds of stuff. I’ll have to live there for a while too.”
Izzy looked down at her cards and then back up again. “Our little Rory’s come up in the world, hasn’t he?” she teased. “Gonna forget about all your friends, then? You’ll be working in the mansion, serving tea and biscuits to important folk.”
Rory smiled. He knew his friend was only saying this because she was going to miss him.
Izzy drew the cards together so they formed a stack. “I’ll have to read your fortune first. Can’t go running off without knowing what you’re getting into, right?”
“I guess so,” Rory agreed.
A bottle shattered on the floor beyond the curtain, followed by shouting.
Izzy looked past Rory for a moment and then swept a strand of hair from her face. She pushed the deck in front of him. “Pick one.”
Rory didn’t really believe in Izzy’s carved deck, but other people did. She wouldn’t have a job at Black Maddie’s reading fortunes if they didn’t. He lifted a card from the deck.
“Scorpion,” Izzy said, and placed it face-up at the table’s edge. “Go again.”
Rory drew another.
“Goat. One more.”
Rory turned over the next card.
He sucked in a breath.
It was a hanged man, his neck cocked at a gruesome angle.
Izzy tapped her finger on the image. “Hmm,” she murmured, and put the card next to the others. She studied them for a long moment.
“What does it mean?” Rory finally asked. He didn’t want to seem frightened, so he kept his voice as steady as he could.
“Don’t worry,” Izzy replied. “It doesn’t mean you’re gonna get hanged. The hanged man means doubt. Uncertainty.” She pushed the goat card forward. “But the goat represents you. And the scorpion is a threat.”
Rory swallowed. He didn’t understand how she could get all this from a bunch of painted wooden cards. Then again, Izzy’s family was known for being a bit strange, even for a place like Gloom. She once told Rory that her mum came from a long line of witches, but he thought she was just having a laugh. Whenever he pressed her on it, she always turned the conversation to another subject.
“The scorpion’s sting can kill the goat,” Izzy said, bringing him back to the moment.
Rory shifted in the hard wooden seat. “What does it mean?” he asked again.
Izzy swept the cards back toward her. She stared at him. “It means you have to be careful, Rory. Very, very careful.”
Chapter Seven
The Valet’s First Day
As Rory tried to sleep that night, he thought more and more about what Izzy’s cards had revealed. Even though he didn’t believe in her fortune-telling, it still got under his skin.
He remembered a few of the strange things his best friend had done over the years, things he couldn’t rightly explain. Once, when they were sitting on the docks of Quintus Harbor, Izzy called out to a bird, and to Rory’s amazement, the black-and-white magpie landed on Izzy’s hand, its small, glittering eyes blinking rapidly. Another time, when they were exploring the Glades, he could have sworn she started a campfire without flame or kindling.
Just coincidences, he told himself. Or tricks of the eye.
* * *
Rory rolled over in bed and sniffed the air. The pleasing aroma of fried clams and hot bread drifted up the stairs. His mum must have gotten up early just to make him a good meal. That didn’t happen often. She usually slept late because she worked into the night at Black Maddie’s.
He rose from his small bed and splashed water on his face from the basin on his nightstand. It was cold, but he didn’t feel like heating it. He needed to get going.
He stuffed the few pairs of pants and shirts he owned into an old canvas bag, along with his best socks (the ones without holes), a deck of playing cards, and an assortment of rocks he’d been saving for as long as he could remember. He wasn’t sure what he would do with the cards and the rocks, but he took them anyway. It was a comfort of sorts, to have a few mementos from home in his bag and pockets.
As for the advance Lord Foxglove had given him, Rory’s mum would be paying a visit to the notorious Mr. Bumbailiff first thing that morning. Rory wished he could stick around long enough to see the expression on the awful man’s face when the debt was paid off, but knowing he and his mum were in the clear was reward enough.
Rory looked in the small piece of mirror glass nailed to the wall. He dragged a comb through his curly hair. At one time, he’d thought about growing it out in long, ropy strands, a style he’d seen on a sailor who’d stopped in Gloom for a respite from the sea. The man had skin like him, dark and smooth. Rory had wanted to talk to the sailor to find out where he came from and where he was going. What had he seen in the great, wide world? Rory never gained the courage though, and only watched him from afar and made up stories about him.
His mother greeted him as he walked into the kitchen. “Thought you could do with a nice breakfast first,” she said.
The coal stove was hot, and the room was cozy. Wan light trickled in through the one small window. The cries of birds sounded outside.
“Thanks, Mum,” Rory replied, and sat down.
This was a special breakfast, Rory realized. He usually had a piece of fried bread or a boiled egg. It seemed his mum wanted to send him off with a full belly.
As Rory ate, he wondered how soon he’d be able to come back and visit. He imagined his mum was thinking the same thing, as she studied him intently, a forlorn look plain on her face.
He ate the last of the clams and then sopped up the sauce with his bread. His mum hugged him tight, and he inhaled the woodsy scent of patchouli oil. Every morning, she dropped a trembling bead of the liquid from a stopper onto her wrists and rubbed them together. “Do your best, Rory,” she said. “I know you’ll do a good job.”
Rory knew he couldn’t let her down. She was counting on him. He had to make her proud. “I will, Mum,” he said.
; And with that, he threw his bag over his shoulder and headed to Foxglove Manor.
* * *
Cool sea air caressed Rory’s cheeks as he walked. He looked out over the bay and was reminded of the time that he and his friend Petru had spent an afternoon on the ocean. Petru’s father had taken them out on his small, single-mast ship, but the trip was cut short when a storm suddenly hit. The boat rocked back and forth on the water, dipping and bobbing, sending seawater onto the deck and soaking Rory’s clothes and face. He remembered the color of the sky that day. The clouds had been bruised and angry, almost completely black. But he hadn’t been scared. He’d actually enjoyed it, and had wondered what it would be like to spend your life on the sea.
The loud cry of a gull snapped Rory out of his daydream. Now wasn’t the time for lollygagging. Izzy’s words came back to him again: It means you have to be careful, Rory. Very, very careful.
What exactly did that mean? he wondered. Is something bad going to happen at Foxglove Manor?
He shook the thought away and continued on. He didn’t believe in Izzy’s carved deck, anyway.
* * *
Rory spent the first day at Foxglove Manor learning all about the house. Malvonius led him around as if he were on a leash behind him, barking commands with brusque efficiency:
“Off-limits.”
“Floors should be scrubbed every other day.”
“Polish the brass doorknobs.”
“Sweep the carpets.”
And all manner of other duties. Outside, Malvonius had shown Rory a rambling tangle of weeds, plants, and shrubs that was supposed to be a garden. It would need tending as well. He certainly had his work cut out for him.
The right side of the main hall revealed a small powder room, which is where people went to wash up, Rory knew, even though he had never been in one. Beyond that was the drawing room—where he’d had his first interview. Farther down, the suit of armor stood guard before the right turn that led to the red door and Lord Foxglove’s cellar study. To the left of the hall was another powder room, a kitchen, and something called the “great room,” which had dramatic double doors and was for “very important guests,” Rory was told.
“Where’s Lord Foxglove’s bedroom?” Rory asked.
Malvonius stopped and peered down at him. “The lord of the manor roams wherever he pleases. It is not the concern of servants.”
Rory looked away, embarrassed. He really didn’t like Malvonius Root. Not one bit.
Upstairs was a suite of dusty rooms, the smallest of which was situated at the end of a dim hall and was to be Rory’s. The only source of light in the hallway came from a paraffin lamp set upon a long table shoved against the wall.
Rory’s room was more like a closet, really. There was a small wooden bed and side table, a pitcher and basin for washing up, and a smelly oil lantern with a very short wick. The glass in the window over the bed was cracked. It was cold most nights, and the thin blanket did nothing to warm his bones. His meals, which were regular but not very appetizing—mostly fish stew and bread—usually had to be eaten while sitting on the side of the bed with the plate on the low side table. Either that or balanced on his knees. Malvonius had said that he could eat in the kitchen only at the end of the day, as long as he didn’t “disturb anyone,” whatever that meant.
The manor not only had gas lamps but indoor plumbing as well. Unfortunately, Malvonius had told him the powder rooms were off-limits and reserved for guests. Rory had to make do with the basin in his room, which left a lot to be desired. If he wanted to clean with hot water, he had to fill a pot from the kitchen, heat it up on the stove, then carry the steaming kettle upstairs, all while trying to avoid the glare of Malvonius. Suffice it to say, he didn’t bathe with hot water very often.
The odd thing was that even though Rory was hired as a valet, he never had much interaction with his employer. He kept Foxglove’s coats and trousers clean with a boar-bristle brush that Malvonius had given him, but the lord of the manor kept to himself and never seemed to go anywhere. Rory didn’t know why such care was taken for his master’s appearance if he never entertained or even left the house.
Each morning, a note was tacked to Rory’s door listing his duties. He supposed it was Malvonius who left them. The thin, spidery script seemed in keeping with the butler’s mysterious demeanor. On any given day, Rory had to light and tend fireplaces, clean the mahogany furniture with water and lemon, sweep and beat the carpets, make sure the rooms were free of spiders and other creepy-crawlies, and, most important, polish Lord Foxglove’s boots, which were made of leather so black Rory could see his reflection in them when he was finished.
One afternoon, Rory got a look at something he had been curious about ever since his first day, when Malvonius had showed him around the manor.
He was polishing the suit of armor at the end of the main hall when he heard the distinct clicking of Lord Foxglove’s boots on the floor. Rory looked up as Malvonius and his employer strode past without so much as a glance and turned down the smaller hall to the right. Rory quickly peeked around the corner. They were standing in front of the red door.
Rory ducked back and ran the cloth along the armor, staying alert the whole while. He heard murmuring but not the actual words. It was much too dangerous to steal another glance.
There was a click, like a key being turned in a lock, and then a door being closed shut.
Rory stopped his polishing. He knew that the best way to do something dangerous was to do it right away, so he rushed around the corner.
He stepped up to the door. It was indeed red, but it was much more unusual than that.
A forest of black, spindly trees covered the entire surface, from top to bottom. He stared, and after a moment, it seemed as if the trees were swaying in an invisible breeze. Rory felt the hairs stand up at the back of his neck. The trees were definitely moving. He reached out with a hesitant hand, but stopped. A hissing sound came through the door, like the sound a bellows makes when it releases air.
Then footsteps on the other side.
Rory dashed back to the suit of armor, cloth in hand, and pretended to be obsessed with a spot of rust.
Lord Foxglove and Malvonius stepped out, none the wiser, and headed toward the cellar.
Rory breathed easier. He fingered the chain around his neck that held the black stone.
He didn’t know what was behind the red door, but he was determined to find out.
Chapter Eight
A Feast Like No Other
Rory had slept uneasily the first few nights. He’d missed his mum—especially her cooking—and Izzy. He’d have to ask Malvonius if he was allowed a day off. He certainly couldn’t be expected to work every day. Could he?
On his second week there, as Rory was polishing a silver candleholder, Malvonius seemed to appear out of thin air. “Tonight, Lord Foxglove will be having very special guests,” Malvonius informed him. “You are to prepare the table and put out the linens. Do you understand?”
Rory looked up from his polishing and nodded. The butler’s face was set in a permanent scowl, with frown lines so deep they looked like scars. Rory doubted the man had ever smiled. How long has he been here? he wondered. Where did he meet Lord Foxglove? What is behind the red door? So many unanswered questions.
As evening approached, Rory took out the fine, bone-white china from a cabinet and placed it around the table in the great room. Bronze and alabaster busts of important-looking people sat atop pedestals in each corner of the room.
Rory lit the candles on the table with a long matchstick, the reflected flames turning into soft pools of light in the dark surface of the tabletop. Malvonius watched him like a hawk as he worked. Rory then laid out the silverware—he knew exactly where each utensil should be placed because his mum had showed him how it was done one evening when her comrades came by for dinner. The meal had been a simple one of only clams, bread, and eel soup, but his mum had wanted things to be perfect.
> Rory had no idea what Lord Foxglove’s guests were going to eat. In fact, he had never even seen the kitchen staff or a cook. The only food he ever saw was the pot of meager fish stew bubbling on the stove every morning. It seemed to be made especially for him, as he never saw anyone else eating it.
The guests finally began to arrive later that evening. Malvonius answered the door, and Rory took coats, hats, and gloves in the main hall and hung them up in a closet. All of the invited guests looked at Rory curiously, like they were sizing him up for something. Rory committed each face to memory. It was a gift of his—once he saw a face, he never forgot it.
They came in every shape: tall, short, fat, and thin. Some had exquisite walking sticks. Others wore top hats. Some wore rings on their fingers. The women wore long dresses of red, gold, and black, their hair knotted up in elaborate designs. But what really stood out to Rory was their scent. It was a deep, earthy smell, musky and sharp.
Who are these people? he wondered. He’d never seen them around Gloom. They all had the same eyes as Lord Foxglove—pale and cold.
Rory hung up the last coat and turned at the sound of footsteps. Lord Foxglove came down the main hall, his boots clicking on the floor. “Lord Foxglove has arrived!” Malvonius announced.
There was a moment of reverent silence as the lord of the manor took in his guests. “Gentlemen,” he finally said, pressing his hands together and looking around the hall. “Ladies. Are we ready to feast?”
Rory stood alone, unsure of what to do or where to go, as the guests rushed past him.
Malvonius pulled the double doors to the great room shut with a resounding thud.
Rory didn’t understand.
What were they going to eat if there wasn’t any food in there?
* * *
Rory pulled the ratty blanket more tightly around him. The bedroom was cold. He didn’t even have a fireplace to keep warm. His thoughts drifted back to a few hours ago. Who were those strange guests? And what about the smell that clung to them, like a dog who had come in from the rain with damp fur? It was certainly a weird smell for a person to have.
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