Too complex for some children maybe.
“And who carries the most powerful one?” Treena asked.
“I suppose Professor Pearl or Hyperia DeLay, the Baroness of Everstay. She invented sinth.”
With that it was time to get to work. They had to clean the various conductors — pocket watches, goggles, lights, rods, staves, and canes. Madam Phoebe would ask them to hold each one aloft to examine the shine. They would hold it while the woman examined their grip, the angle of the light, the position of the arm, posture, everything. Grim wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to do any more polishing. Madam Phoebe was very particular.
“Now, I will see you again tomorrow. I believe that you all have other chores to be seen to.”
They departed, Grim rubbing his stiff shoulders.
When he reached the kitchens, plumes of smoke poured from the chimneys. He walked in to find seven man-sized metal stove tops at the far end, all hot and blazing. Cast-iron pots hung over a couple of fires. Across from them were three large ovens baking bread. The near wall was lined with another seven tall cookers, each with chickens barbecuing. Sitting out on large tables were row upon row of candied apples, as well as chocolate drops and other sweets.
The kitchen was robust with activity. Ten other children ran about the place peeling potatoes, plucking chickens, removing slabs of bread from the hot ovens, and stirring vats of slop. They were all sweating ― profusely.
“Chores?” asked a rotund woman in a white apron. Her grin was nearly toothless.
“Yes,” said Grim, fanning himself.
“A’right, in wit ya den,” she said, and guided Grim to another room filled with pots, tables, wash basins and rags. “Dat dere’s da cleanin’ room. You get da pots an’ pans today; dishes tamarraw. Da brush is dere and you can use da washin’ tub in da corner. Da water in dat one is still warm. Dat dere,” she said pointing to a leaning pile of pots, “is yers. Clean ‘em up good so I can see me face in ‘em, orphan.” She walked away laughing to herself.
Grim eyed the huge stack of dishes. He’d be here for hours. He tried to think of some way to make the dishes clean themselves; some contraption that had arms and could polish the dishes. And while he let his mind churn, he dipped his hands into the suds and began to scrub.
Grim got only a brief respite from the pots when he joined the others for dinner. He struggled to eat the boiled pig’s snout and a sour dessert that tasted like flour and lemons with no trace of sugar to be found. He said little to the others, focusing solely on swallowing his food without gagging.
He then slipped back into the kitchens to resume his chores, and dreaded to see the mountain of pots. As he walked in, he was surprised to find the Madam of the Kitchens was not there waiting for him.
Instead he found a gaunt-looking woman kneeling over the tubs. Her tattered sleeves were rolled up her arms and she was elbow-deep in suds. Her matted hair covered half of her face. She flashed a hideous grin of crooked teeth and gaping spaces. Grim had never seen anyone in more need of braces.
“Hello, dear, you here for kitchen duty?” asked the woman in a low pleasant voice.
“Yes,” he replied, still standing in the doorway.
“Well, that’s lovely. I’m Veerasin. Come in, come in. Don’t wait in the doorway. I don’t bite, at least not at this hour. Would you like some tea?”
“Tea?”
“Yes, dear, tea. You do know what tea is, don’t you?”
“But I’m here for chores.”
“Oh, don’t you worry about that for now. We can get to those later. Pull up a chair and I’ll make you a nice tea. Maybe some biscuits too?”
“Thank you,” Grim said, and sat down at the table. He removed his cap. He decided it would be best to be polite. Besides, the tea and biscuits might help get rid of the taste that still lingered in his mouth: Orlanda Kennelworth’s Very Special Lemon Tart. And when it was served to the orphans, Grim had noticed the Madam of the Kitchens peering into the room, chuckling to herself.
“Don’t worry about the dishes and pots for now,” commented Veerasin. “That lovely Madam Kennelworth will be here shortly and there is another shift after you. They usually get off without much work, so it won’t hurt to let them do extra today. I like to get to know the newbies that come in. Here you go,” she said and handed Grim some stale biscuits and a cup with a dark liquid that he assumed to be tea. It was surprisingly good, with a hint of some kind of berry.
“Thank you. I’m Grim. Grim Doyle,” he said. He shook her hand. It was warm and strong.
“Well, that’s a lovely name. It sounds Southern. Where are you from, sweetness?”
Grim wasn’t sure how to answer. “Very far away,” he said. “You probably wouldn’t know it.”
“Well, I know little of anything south of here, but why don’t you give me a try.”
Grim answered with the easiest thing he could think of.
“Earth.” He almost grimaced after it fell from his lips.
“Never heard of it. Is it far?”
“Very.”
“Did you come here alone, sugar plum?” Veerasin sipped her tea and it dribbled off her pointed chin onto her dirty apron.
“No.”
“Oh, you must be with all those brothers and sisters that just started.”
“Just Ellen is my sister.”
“And what about your parents, who are they, dear?”
“Well, they are, or rather, they were a Duke and Duchess,” he said, wondering if the story was coming out sounding false.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” she said, and patted Grim on the hand. “I’m sure you have no part in what’s going on up here, then. Resistance, suspicion, treason, deception, and calls for war and revenge. It’s a terrible time.”
“I don’t really know much about it,” Grim said, sipping his tea.
“Well, best I not tell you. The ignorant are the happiest, I always say.”
Grim drained the tea cup, leaving just the leaves in the bottom.
“Tell me, young Grim, what do you most want to be?”
“Like my dadss-s-s-so I suppose…”
Gah! This was harder than he thought.
Veerasin’s eyes smiled. She hadn’t seemed to notice. “Hand me your cup, honey sweets.”
Grim passed it to her and the odd woman stared at the leaves at the bottom. Veerasin turned it around in her hands, looking at it in different ways.
“Is something wrong?” Grim asked.
“Well, it would seem I can see almost nothing from your leaves. You see, I read some people’s lives in their leaves, but I read little in yours. Your past is all over the place and your future is clouded, but if I had to guess, filled with … well that can’t be right.”
“Filled with what?” Grim asked, leaning over to look at the bottom of the cup.
The woman furrowed her eyebrows.
“Well…” The cup seemed to draw her in until her eyes were right up against its rim. “I see you surrounded by flames. And I see a Gargoyle. He is hooded and there is hatred in his eyes. He is expanding his wings. And there is fire, terrible burning fire. And there is a Jinn! You are in great peril! Run, Grim, run!”
The woman blinked and dropped the cup. It smashed on the floor into tiny shards. She shook her head and then grinned at Grim with crooked teeth, as if everything was smiles and sunshine.
“Never you mind, sweetums,” she said. “That can’t be right. Your future is quite blurred and I must be reading that wrong.”
Grim stammered, unsure of what to say.
Flames? And a Jinn? Great peril?
Veerasin looked out the window. One of the moons was just rising above the city, full and bright. It illuminated the stone gargoyles of the buildings across the street. Their eyes were black sockets ― vacant and soulless.
“Well, I think that’s enough talk and I wouldn’t mind if you want to leave early. My shift is done now.”
“Um, shouldn’t I be helping?” Grim
asked.
“Well, you can wait here and stay with Madam Kennelworth if you like.”
She threw her towel and apron on the wooden chair. They slid to the ground.
Then Veerasin slipped out the door and her voice trailed behind her. “…good night, cupcake.”
Grim picked up the items from the floor and hung them over the back of the chair. He contemplated remaining and then thought of the charming Madam of the Kitchens.
He quickly swept up the shattered remains of the tea cup and snuck out the door as a howl sounded in the distance.
The following morning, Quinn waited for Grim after breakfast. Grim hoped the young Lord might hustle off ahead of him, but he was not bound to find any such luck.
“Good morning, Quinn,” Treena greeted.
“Still living with us orphans, I see,” Rudy said, studying Quinn from over the rims of her goggles.
“Good morning,” Quinn returned, ignoring the comment. He coughed until he gagged.
“Still got that cough as well, huh?”
The boy took a swig of his elixir. “I’m sure it will pass shortly.”
The others said nothing in response and made their way outside through a thick fog that had settled upon the city. It came from the east. They could barely see and almost stumbled into Master Galan.
“Good morning,” he said, waving the mist away from his eyes.
“Master Galan?” Quinn asked. He blinked a couple of times in surprise.
The old man appeared just as speechless.
“Lord Quinn,” he said, practically choking on his words. “I-I-I wondered if I might see you here. I’m …pleased to see that you are well, and I’m truly sorry for your loss. Your father was…well, he was a good man.”
Quinn looked nervously about and cleared his throat. “Yes, well, thank you. We should be off now.”
“Well, I won’t hold you then. Good day,” he said.
When he was out of earshot, Treena turned to Quinn.
“How do you know Master Galan?”
“He was our family’s Alchemist.”
“He was?” Rudy asked. “That means he’s not anymore.”
Quinn nodded. “The day before I left for Madam Malkim’s he was summoned elsewhere.”
Grim thought of the old man’s arrival at their home.
Good timing.
“Why was he not surprised to see you here?” Rudy asked.
Quinn held his head high and put on a brave face. “I suppose you’re going to hear it eventually,” he said. “My father was killed by a rogue Changeling, and my mother was taken away for her own safety. Our lands are under the protection of the Lord of Harland Manor. I fled here for safety.” He flipped a switch on his platinum walking stick and it whizzed before morphing into a rather large blaster. “This is all I have left of my father. It was his.”
Grim struggled with what to say. “Wow, sorry. But at least your mother is still alive.”
Quinn shrugged. “I guess.” He marched forward into the fog and all they heard of him was the whizzing sound once more, and then the rapid tap-tapping of his walking stick on the cobblestone ground.
Grim found that it took time to adjust to his new surroundings, especially when he had to serve people who acted as if they were his betters. Almost all of the nobles that studied at Madam Malkim’s were complete snobs and treated the orphans like garbage ― especially Gorkin, the Lord of Simeon Manor. It was as if he made it his duty to torment them.
Grim learned to get out of his way when he saw the boy’s flaming red hair heading in his direction. He was scrawny, with a slitty nose, bulging black eyes, and his skin was so pale and shiny he resembled a salamander. Many of the other students groveled at his feet, especially the two that were always on his heels: Jackmeister and Ninnipence, the Duke and Duchess of Terl. The siblings looked like hyenas in human clothing. Even their laughter had that sickening cackle to it.
The three of them were just horrid, especially to Treena. They kept taunting her about her father, whom they referred to as the Pleader of the Resistance and mocked his pelt. In fact most of the students would make snide remarks at Treena or try to trip her while she carried bundles of wood across the grounds. Of course, none of this was done in the presence of the Tutors, although some of the adults might have even been responsible for a few of the extended feet that tripped her. And nothing stopped the pompous snobs from going after Grim and Rudy as well ― guilt by association.
There were the exceptions, like Halriette ― the Duchess of Finn, and Oslo ― the Duke of Polter. They always had a kind word, offered their thanks, and would help to pick up items from the ground if either Grim, Rudy or Treena were tripped. And the two seemed to take quite a shining to Sam and Ellen. They were often seen escorting them. Sometimes they even chased Ninnipence and her lot away. But their like were few and far between.
With that said, after a few weeks Grim felt a little more settled into the routine of his new life. He may have begrudged his dads for it, but he was getting used to it.
Between cleaning Master Avon’s massive pipe organ; mending linens and clothing that whizzed by with Madam Slone; and further time spent with Orlanda Kennelworth in the kitchens, there was little time for Grim to think about his parents or about whether or not he missed his old life. And whenever Madam Malkim or one of the Tutors saw him coming, more chores were piled on to his already hectic schedule. So far he missed three sessions with Madam Phoebe. Although often late, he did manage to keep up his time with Master Cobblepot. Between gobs of yellow spittle, the old Hobgoblin often spoke freely of all kinds of history.
“The Tower of Celest was founded by a very powerful Mystic over twenty generations ago.”
“What are the Mystics?” Grim asked.
Master Cobblepot looked at Grim in surprise and then his gaze softened. “I suppose, since you were born after the Tower was closed, you’d know little of these things.” He pointed out the window, towards the eastern mountains. “Half way between here and those mountains is a tower — sealed by the last of the Mystics. They could call upon Jinns, and cast spells of incredible power. Of course, that was before the Darksworn showed up and magic began to fade. True magic, that is.”
“Darksworn?”
“Dark Mystics.”
“Why was the Tower closed?”
“What good is a Mystic’s Tower when there are none to occupy it.”
“What happened to the last of the Mystics?”
The old man shook his head. “Perhaps in search of magic elsewhere, but no one knows for sure.” He began another coughing fit and filled the bowl to the brim. He then waved Grim to go and empty it.
The time with Master Rickett almost made up for all of it though. A number of contraptions required fixing and the man led Grim through various secret passageways to get at the mechanisms from behind the walls. Grim wasn’t entirely sure what all of them did, but he watched the man’s every move as they repaired auto-dressers, cookers, sinth-like refrigerators, and fold-up beds, one of which had trapped a student. It also gave Grim the opportunity to suggest a washing machine and dryer.
“Such things already exist, boy, but they’re too expensive, even for Madam Malkim. The same with machines that wash dishes. And why would she buy them when she has orphans to do the work for almost nothing?”
Grim remained silent.
The man grunted and to Grim’s dismay, moved on to the fixing the toilet, or as often called, the crapper.
“Stick your arm in there and unclog it, boy.”
Grim sighed, pulled up a long glove, and held his breath.
After a less-than-hearty dinner that was comprised of a fish head sitting in a bowl of lukewarm soup, Grim tried pocketing a small piece of bread to smuggle back to his room. If he didn’t start finding ways to eat he’d starve on this orphan slop. He and the others merged with the crowds of children in the corridor, weaving through the students.
“Ugh!”
Grim stepped back a
fter having walked into someone who barreled around the corner. The bread dropped to the floor where it was trampled by a boy about four years older than Grim. He was taller by more than a head and wore pointed black boots, a matching walking stick, and a flowing, purple cape around his shoulders ― a purple cape with fluffy white trim.
Grim nearly laughed out loud at the sight of him, but thought the extra chores wouldn’t be worth it. He’d likely be ordered to shine his boots or something ― and his boots couldn’t really be any shinier than what they already were. Grim covered his mouth to stifle his chuckle.
“Watch where you’re going, wretch,” said the boy, staring down his hooked nose at him. Something about his features seemed familiar, but Grim knew he couldn’t have known him.
“Lord Festrel,” said Quinn. He immediately bowed.
“Quinn,” the boy said. He did not return the gesture. “I heard that you were here. Your poor father,” he said, tsking, “killed by a rogue Changeling ― such a shame. And your poor mother and her spells of madness ― bad blood, you know. Until you’re old enough to rule, surely you would be better off under my father’s protection rather than being surrounded by these,” he faked a cough, “…orphans.”
He eyed Grim and the others with disdain. “Give it some thought. You would be well cared for at my father’s Manor.”
Quinn’s face glowed with a slight tinge of red.
“Wait a minute,” interrupted Treena, turning towards Quinn. “I thought your―”
Quinn held up his hand to silence her. “So what brings you here?” he asked.
“Duty,” Festrel replied with a smirk. “I’m here to visit with some of the nobility of Harkness and I thought I would see what your little Madam Malkim’s was all about.” His eyes scanned over Rudy. “You seem to be keeping rather common company.”
Quinn stuttered, unable to speak.
“I suppose you already know who I am,” he said to Grim. He adjusted the cape and flicked off a piece of lint.
Grim shook his head. “No, but nice cape,” he said with a smirk.
Festrel’s lips twitched into a sneer. “I’m Lord Festrel, heir to Harland Manor,” he said. “Who might you be?”
Land of Verne Page 8