Izzy’s house was just a half block down from his own, and he was there in a few minutes.
The door opened with a creak after he knocked.
“Rory?”
Izzy’s mum, Pekka, stood before him. She was a tall woman with hair as curly as her daughter’s. She held a small bowl and muddler in her hands. An earthy smell rose from the bowl. “Heard you’re up at the manor now, eh?” she said, grinding whatever it was with the muddler. “Making a little money on your own, then?”
“Yes,” Rory said, “for me and Mum.”
“Rory!” Izzy shouted.
She rushed past her mum and threw her arms around him. Pekka jumped out of the way, almost dropping her bowl. “I thought you’d never show up again,” Izzy said. “They got you locked in up there or sumthin’?”
Rory untangled himself, feeling a little embarrassed. They were best friends, but never really hugged each other. “I, um—”
But that’s all he had time to say, as Izzy grabbed his hand and pulled him away.
“Be back for dinner!” Pekka shouted to their retreating backs.
* * *
Rory and Izzy had another favorite place to visit besides the docks at Quintus Harbor and the Glades. The Narcisse River ran parallel to the Strasse and was really more like a creek. The water was green and brackish, with several dead tree limbs rising above the surface, as if trying to reach the weak light of the seldom-seen sun. Birds chirped in the surrounding trees. Rory and Izzy sat on the bank, which was covered in soft green moss. Rory told her everything that had happened at Foxglove Manor. “It’s odd,” he said. “The whole place is strange.”
“But you can leave though, right?” Izzy asked. “No one’s keeping you prisoner.”
Rory shook his head and fiddled with a broken twig. “We need the money, Izzy. It’s just me and Mum. You know that.”
The deep rumbling of a toad sounded through the swampy reeds below. “Tell me what you heard again,” Izzy demanded. “The words through the door.”
The strange phrases came back to Rory easily. He didn’t think he’d ever forget them. “I heard, ‘She is coming. I can feel her upon the wind.’ And, ‘Long live Arcanus Creatura.’”
Izzy nodded. “And the other words?”
“‘A great harvest is coming. We will need more. Much more.’” The words gave him a vague sense of unease in the pit of his stomach.
“That is strange,” Izzy murmured.
“Do you know what any of it means?”
Izzy twirled a corkscrew curl around one finger. A moment of silence hung between them. “You know the cards I use? You know what they do, right?”
“Yeah,” Rory replied. “They tell people’s fortunes.”
“Right, but it’s a system—the minor and major . . . arcana.”
Rory’s ears twitched. “Arcana? Is that the same as arcanus?”
“Yes. Arcana means secret or mystery.”
“And creatura?”
“I don’t know that one. But it sounds like . . . creature.”
Rory tensed. “Secret . . . creature?”
Izzy nodded.
The vision of Malvonius and the animal face flashed in Rory’s mind. He swallowed. “Before I left today, I walked up on Malvonius, and he didn’t see me coming. I surprised him, and for a second, he looked . . . odd.”
“Odd?” Izzy repeated. “Of course he’s odd. You already told me that.”
“I mean really odd.” Rory persisted. “His face. It was like, for a second, I thought I was looking at an animal face. I know it sounds crazy.”
Izzy’s brow wrinkled in concern. “An animal?”
Rory tried to conjure up the memory. “It happened so fast I can barely remember. It was like a bird of some sort, with sharp eyes. It just kind of shimmered and then disappeared.”
Rory relaxed his shoulders. Just telling the story had made him tense. A fly landed on his neck, and he swatted it away. A fishy smell rose off the river.
Izzy turned away from the water to face him. “Remember what I told you? When I read your cards?”
He did, but he didn’t answer. The air was cool on his face.
“The cards said to be careful.”
Rory looked past the water, into the bare trees on the other side. A yellow-eyed hawk sat on a limb, patiently waiting for prey.
“Bones,” Izzy continued. “Animal faces. Strange words from a locked room. Sounds like a mystery.”
“What should I do?” Rory asked.
“Don’t do anything right now,” Izzy replied. “Watch and learn. And if anything else weird happens, we’ll go from there.”
Rory nodded in agreement, but he didn’t want anything else weird to happen. He just wanted things to be normal. He turned to Izzy. “We?” he said.
Izzy smirked. “Of course, you urchin. You’re not getting involved in some adventure without me.”
Rory smiled despite the ball of fear beginning to form in his stomach.
Chapter Eleven
An Evening in the Salon
Rory saw Izzy home. They stood outside her door for a moment. A breeze stirred the air around them.
“Be careful, Rory,” she said again. “If you find anything out, you gotta let me know. Okay?”
Rory looked at his friend. “I will,” he said, “but it might be hard to get out again. I promise to try.”
“You better,” Izzy warned him. “You don’t want to see me angry.”
He gulped, then smiled, wanting to leave her on a good note. He knew she was kidding, even though her eyes flashed strangely for a moment before she went inside.
Rory turned and walked toward home. The time was passing too quickly. He only had a few hours left. The sky was dark already.
He opened the door to his house.
“Rory!” His mum rushed over and drew him into her arms. Thoughts of Foxglove and Malvonius left him immediately as the familiar scent of patchouli rose in his nostrils. His heart swelled. He’d missed her. More than anything.
“Ah, there he is,” said Ox Bells. “The young master returns.”
Rory looked past his mum to find that their small sitting room was filled with her comrades: Vincent, Ox Bells, and Miss Cora. He could see that some of the money Foxglove had given him had already been put to good use. There was a new couch and the walls had a fresh coat of red paint.
Rory stepped farther inside their front room, “the salon” as his mum called it. A few apples, a bottle of wine, and dried nuts had been placed on the table. Rory immediately reached for the nuts and popped a few in his mouth. Ox Bells clapped him on the shoulder—hard—which made Rory wince.
“What’s everyone doing here?” he asked.
“Just one of our little gatherings,” his mum said. “Cora shared a new poem with us earlier.”
Rory took a seat on the couch, and his mum joined him. The others were seated upon the few threadbare chairs spread around the room. Miss Cora, who was in the chair closest to Rory, waved her hand in the air dramatically. “I call it ‘The Journey of the Silver Faun,’” she said.
Rory didn’t know what a faun was and was about to ask, but Vincent spoke first. “Tell us all about your adventure at the manor,” he demanded, his monocle glinting in his left eye. His cane was propped against the chair he sat in.
“Yes,” chimed in Cora, caressing a feather boa coiled around her neck. “What’s really going on in that dreadful house? Ghosts? Spirits?”
Rory swallowed. Could he tell them? What would they think? Would his mum tell him to leave the manor immediately?
She shot him a concerned glance. Rory remembered she’d seemed a little hesitant when he’d first told her about the job. “You haven’t seen anything strange there, have you, Rory?”
Now’s the time, Rory thought. His mum’s friends had lived in Gloom forever. Maybe they knew something about Arcanus Creatura or the other strange phrases.
“No,” he said instead. “Just a dusty, old house.”
Vincent looked at Rory skeptically. “Years ago, I knew a man who said that Foxglove Manor was full of spirits. He said he saw one himself while attending a ball.”
“Ball?” questioned Hilda. “What kind of ball?”
Vincent withdrew a silk cloth from his breast pocket, then removed his monocle from his eye and polished it. “An affair, darling,” he explained. “A grand affair with important guests from far away. There was music, dancing, and—my friend said—a secret ritual at the stroke of midnight.” He replaced the glass eyepiece.
Miss Cora and Ox Bells sat motionless, enthralled by Vincent’s tale.
Rory’s pulse raced. “What . . . kind of ritual?”
Vincent looked at each of them for a long moment, clearly relishing the attention. “Well,” he continued, lowering his voice, “my friend said it was all about summoning a priestess. One from the old world.”
There was a moment of silence.
“Tears of a fish,” Rory’s mum said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I’ve heard enough. Don’t need you putting stories in my Rory’s head.” She gave Rory a sympathetic look, like he was a child who needed to be protected.
Ox Bells took a bite of an apple, splitting it clean in half with one great chomp, and began to talk with his mouth full. “Years ago, when I was in the circus, the ringmaster said he wouldn’t come to Gloom because of Foxglove Manor. Said something dark was in there. Something . . . evil.” He took another huge bite, chewed loudly, swallowed, and then belched. “Any more apples, Hilda?”
Rory’s mum ignored him. “Don’t you believe him, Rory. He’s mad, I tell you. Bloomin’ mad.”
Rory forced a smile, but the animal face he’d seen on Malvonius and the words he’d heard behind the red door were heavy on his mind.
A priestess from the old world, Vincent had just said.
She is coming. I can feel her upon the wind.
Could Foxglove’s strange guests have been talking about a priestess? Rory wondered.
* * *
Hilda heated up fish stew on the stove and then passed bowls around the table. Even though fish stew was all Rory had eaten at the manor, his mum’s recipe put that gruel to shame. He leaned his head down and inhaled deeply. A mélange of seasonings wafted toward his nose: basil and marjoram and pepper. It was a smell he’d desperately missed.
“Don’t they feed you in that place?” Miss Cora asked, watching Rory sop up his stew with a heel of bread.
Rory didn’t look up from his bowl. “Not much,” he said.
“Nothing like home cooking,” Ox Bells said, patting his expansive stomach.
“Yes,” Rory’s mum said. “You should try it sometime.”
“And why would I do that, Hilda,” Ox Bells replied, “when you set such a fine table yourself?”
Vincent laughed so hard he almost lost his monocle.
Rory looked around the table and smiled. He was glad his mum had good friends to keep her company while he was away.
After they were finished and the plates and bowls were put away, everyone drank small glasses of wine, except for Rory, who settled on a mug of tea.
“Who’s up for a tale, then?” Vincent asked. Rory knew Vincent was the storyteller of the group and had heard a few of his tales himself, usually outlandish ones. They all nodded, and Vincent shifted in his seat.
“Many years ago,” he began, “there lived a very bright boy who loved the sea. His mother was a great sailor, who was known for her daring voyages to unknown waters.”
“His mother?” Cora asked.
“Indeed,” Vincent replied, “she was of Sumerian blood, and the women of that noble lineage were renowned adventurers.”
Rory’s ears pricked up. He’d heard of the Sumerians. They were an ancient people recognized by their dark skin and skill on the water. But he’d been told they were long gone now, lost in the ebb and flow of history.
“Now, this boy liked to sail very much,” continued Vincent, “and was always asking his mother about her adventures, but she forbade him from going too far out on the water himself without her accompaniment, lest he be lost.
“But one evening, he began building a boat in secret, while the people of the village slept. He used the finest ash and pine to build the hull, polished the deck with myrrh and lavender oil. The finishing touch was the prow—a mermaid sculpted from red lapis.”
“Lapis?” Miss Cora whispered. “The rarest of gemstones.”
“Indeed,” Vincent replied. “The rarest in the world, found only in the great mines of Sumer.” He lifted his wine glass and took a long swallow. Rory sat silently, drawn into the story. He could see the boat as Vincent had described it, polished wood gleaming in the sun. How he longed to sail himself one day.
“Finally, the time came,” Vincent continued, setting his glass back down. “The boy had finished his work. When he took the ship out, it glided on the water like no other vessel before it. He sailed to the far edge of the continent, where, under the diamond stars, he learned the mysteries of the sea mages.”
“Sea mages?” Rory whispered. He had heard of mages before, but not these. “Who are they?” he asked.
“Were,” Vincent corrected him, “for they no longer roam this earth. But they were men and women with great knowledge, Rory. Some said they could read the thoughts of others and have them do their bidding, that they tamed creatures from the depths of the ocean and used them as their steeds, and that they could quiet raging storms by casting spells.”
Rory saw images of Vincent’s tale in his head as he spoke. “Goldenrod,” he said. “The boy you’re talking about grew up to become Goldenrod, the Black Mariner.”
Vincent ran his fingers across his ivory-tipped cane. “The one and only,” he replied.
“Goldenrod is a myth,” Hilda scoffed. “A children’s story.”
Rory wasn’t sure whether he believed in Goldenrod or not. He knew it was probably like his mum said: tales of Goldenrod were for children, stories meant to plant a spark of imagination in the otherwise dull lives of Gloom’s citizens.
But still . . .
“He’s just a man,” Ox Bells suddenly declared. “Nothing more.”
“They say he’s fighting a war on the far side of the world,” Miss Cora added.
“War?” Ox Bells scoffed. “If there were a war, I’d know about it.”
Hilda smirked. “Oh really?”
Ox Bells puffed out his already large chest. “I’ve fought with the best of them,” he boasted. “Brigands, pirates, smugglers.”
“Those were bar fights,” Vincent said. “The war Cora speaks of is real.” He paused, basking in the moment again. “It is an invisible war, fought in the shadows.”
The air in the room suddenly felt very close. Rory tugged at his collar and absently touched the black stone around his neck. “Invisible?” he heard himself ask.
“How can a war be invisible?” his mum added.
“It is beyond our understanding,” Vincent said. “But a great war is being waged out in the larger world. I’ve heard stories of flames in the clouds and vengeful spirits riding the wind.”
“And where have you heard this?” Cora asked. Her eyes were heavy lidded. Perhaps she’d had too much wine, Rory mused.
Vincent sniffed. “I have my sources. Believe it or not, there is much more to the world than this sad, little town.”
There was a moment of silence.
Could it be true? Rory wondered. A great war being fought that no one in Gloom even knew about?
“Well,” Hilda said, “the only war I know about is the battle to get fresh vegetables around here.”
Laughter broke the ominous atmosphere. A night bird whistled outside. Rory yawned. He was getting tired and knew that, soon, he’d have to leave the comfort of his home behind and head back to the manor. The thought filled him with dread. He didn’t want to go. It was warm and cozy here, and his belly was full.
“Who’s up for a song, then?” Hilda asked.r />
They all murmured in agreement, and as Rory watched and listened, his mum began to sing a song about a mermaid trapped on land and longing for the sea.
Chapter Twelve
Portraits in the Hall
Rory returned to Foxglove Manor just before nine, tiptoed up the stairs, and slipped into his room. The house was quiet, and he saw no sign of Malvonius or Foxglove. Probably down in that cold cellar, Rory thought. Or in the room with the red door.
Do not fret. A great harvest is coming.
He thought of what Vincent had said earlier that evening: . . . summoning a priestess. One from the old world.
Something dark was in there, Ox Bells had added. Something . . . evil.
Was it real or just stories? Maybe he should have asked his mum’s comrades about Arcanus Creatura after all. Vincent sure seemed to know a lot about Foxglove Manor and other mysterious things. But then his mum would worry about him, and that was the last thing Rory wanted her to do.
He got into bed and stared up at the ceiling. He felt the weight of the house settling over him, like he was being smothered. He wished more than anything that he was back home in his own familiar room. He felt safe and loved there, not like here, where he seemed to be more of a nuisance to his employers than a help.
He soon fell into an uneasy asleep, thoughts of Goldenrod and the invisible war flickering in his mind.
* * *
Rory didn’t receive a note in the morning instructing him on the day’s duties, but that didn’t mean there wouldn’t be any work. Malvonius cornered him in the hall when Rory came downstairs. “You must polish all of the frames in the main hall,” the butler instructed him. “They hold very valuable paintings. If you damage any of them, even the slightest scratch, it will be at a great cost to you. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Rory said immediately. He didn’t want to give Malvonius the slightest reason to admonish him, so he kept his head down and his answers short. He thought of the animal face again. What was it? Creatura. Creature, Izzy had said.
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