The Wizard's Butler

by Nathan Lowell

  He flicked off the lights and made sure the door locked behind him before picking up the morning paper and a fresh flower for Shackleford’s breakfast tray.

  The house kept surprising him, but what did he expect for his first actual day on the job? There were whole rooms he hadn’t been in and had no clear idea what the daily routine might be.

  He dropped the paper on the counter in the kitchen and went back to replace the garage key in the safe in his quarters. The lone book on the shelf caught his eye. He took it back to the kitchen with him, wondering what he’d find in the Shackleford House Butler’s Bible. If the information was half as good as Pettigrew’s work on his uniform, he looked forward to digging in.

  The morning light gave the kitchen a warm glow and he pulled one of the tall stools over to the work table. He poured a fresh cup of coffee and settled with the book. He flipped the cover open, skipped the few opening pages and found a table of contents. The topics Uniform Expectations and Daily Routines caught his immediate attention, while farther down the list he found Building and Grounds Maintenance and Financial Responsibilities. He eyed the chapter headings of Staff Management and Vehicle Protocols. Given that he was a staff of one and pretty used to managing himself, he ignored that while filing the vehicle one away for the moment.

  As he scanned down the long, long list—flipping to the next page to see even more—he began to consider that a year wouldn’t be enough time for him to figure the whole thing out.

  He sat back and sipped his coffee, surprised at the sense of regret that the gig would be over in a year even though he’d be rich. Looking around at the opulent kitchen and picturing the location of the house on the street, he recalibrated that thought to “well, richer.” He put the coffee cup back into its saucer and flipped back to the Daily Routine entry. “Page forty-seven,” he said, grabbing a few pages and flipping the book open to the right page on the first try.

  He dug into the chapter and immersed himself in the minutiae. Each day of the week had a routine but the variations all fit within an overall structure. Mr. Shackleford rose at 8 a.m., sharply. He carried out his morning ablutions privately and was not to be disturbed. He enjoyed his breakfast in the library at 8:30 a.m., imparting daily orders to the staff. See Meal Preferences and Variations, Appendix M, page 921. Roger blinked at that but checked the time on his pocket watch—only 7:30—and the day of the week on the front page of the paper. Thursday. He nodded and dug back into the daily routines. It seemed Mr. Shackleford enjoyed lunch on the balcony when the weather was fine (“see Map Inset”), preferring to stay in the library during the colder months or in inclement weather.

  Roger sat back, intrigued. The old man had a balcony off the back of the house in a room taking up the corner opposite his suite. He remembered seeing the sunny corner room on the running tour that Naomi gave him—was that just yesterday? He’d have to check it out. Summer in the city wasn’t a good time to be out at noon, but if the balcony had some shade, it might be pleasant enough.

  Each day had some housekeeping chores besides meals. While some had schedules—changing linens on Monday, trash pickup on Wednesday, and a dry cleaning service that picked up and delivered on Thursday afternoon—some appeared to be required daily. He hadn’t done any of them yet but took out his notebook and opened to a blank page, marking it with the ribbon. He jotted down the four things he needed to do before noon, which included picking up the paper and seeing to Shackleford’s breakfast, already done of course, but also “service the master suite” and “deposit outgoing correspondence.” All of them made sense to him and soothed his military sense of required order and cleanliness. He finished his notes, closed the notebook, and slipped it back into his pocket.

  Looking ahead to the afternoon, he saw that afternoons were dedicated to a specific task. It seemed he had his choice of Saturday or Sunday off. His years in the army had inured him to working 24/7, and his EMT days were the civilian version of watch-standing, so he hadn’t really had a regular day off for most of his adult life. He wondered what he’d do for a few moments before giving himself a little shake and looking back at the book. Somewhere there was an Appendix M with meal preferences. He found the reference to page 921 and flipped to the back of the book.

  He checked the page number and realized he’d hit it the first time. “All right, Mr. S. What do you like for brekkie?”

  * * *

  Roger gave his uniform the once-over and nodded before taking the tray with two poached eggs on a single slice of buttered wheat toast, coffee with cream and sugar, the flower he’d picked in the garden in a familiar square vase, and the morning paper. According to the Bible, he’d inadvertently committed a faux pas by serving without a full setting of silver, which he’d corrected this morning.

  At 8:29 he climbed the stairs to the library and knocked twice on the door with his knuckle, a tricky maneuver until he learned to balance the tray on his left hand, only using the right to steady it as he walked. The door latch clicked and the door swung inward.

  “Breakfast, sir.”

  “Thank you, Mulligan. I see you’re finding your way.” Shackleford sat in his usual place beside the window, but the chair no longer had wheels and he held no book. “Put it on the table, please.”

  “Yes, sir. Mrs. Pettigrew’s guidance has been invaluable.” Roger heard the words coming out of his mouth and felt both pleased and puzzled. The suit must have come with a thesaurus.

  Shackleford smiled and nodded. “Thought she might be. Do you have any questions?”

  “One, sir. I took the liberty of touring the garage this morning and noticed the empty bay.”

  The old man stood and walked to the table, taking a seat in front of his breakfast tray.

  “Yes, Perkins had a vehicle he used for jaunts on his day off. His estate claimed it when he passed away.” He glanced up from his poached egg. “You did this, Mulligan?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m not known for my cooking skills but I can boil water and cook an egg.”

  “Thank you, Mulligan. I appreciate your efforts.” He finished stirring his coffee and took a sip. “If you have a vehicle, you’re welcome to park it in the garage if you like. Comes with the job.”

  “I’m without a vehicle at the moment. It never seemed to be worthwhile in the city.”

  Shackleford nodded. “The offer stands. You’re welcome to use any of the cars there should you have need.”

  Roger shook his head. “Thank you, sir. I’d be afraid someone would hit me. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for something happening to one of them.”

  “The cars are safe in the garage, Mulligan, but being safe in the garage is not what cars are for. Isn’t that the saying?” the old man asked with a grin.

  “I believe it’s ships are safe in harbor, sir, but I take your point.”

  He tilted his head to one side and nodded, turning to address his breakfast. “Probably so. Thank you, Parsons. Carry on.”

  Roger gave his little bow. “Thank you, sir.”

  He left the library, pulling the door closed behind himself and turning to the master suite at the end of the short hall. Double doors opened to a large corner room, windows on two sides. It shared a wall with the library, and a door in the other wall opened to an en suite bathroom. The room had a light and airy feeling in spite of heavy drapes and a lot of dark wood. A king-sized four-poster held pride of place, and some familiar-looking wardrobes and dressers stood at attention around the room. A cozy reading nook with chair, ottoman, reading lamp, and side table occupied the corner between the windows. He set about putting the room in order, collecting clothing and making the bed. He’d have to find the linen closet to get sheets to change it and procure some fresh towels. He pulled out his notebook and jotted down a reminder before he forgot. Shackleford’s robe hung on a hook behind the bathroom door; his pajamas lay in a heap beside the surprisingly modern chrome and granite tile shower. Roger picked up the pajamas and gave them a shake, folded them neatly, and
placed them on the vanity. He really wasn’t sure what to do with the room beyond basic straightening. At some point he’d need to do a cleaning pass on the bathroom and run a vacuum over the rugs in the bedroom proper. He’d need to wipe down the lateral surfaces. His Bible probably had guidance that he’d overlooked but, putting on his barracks inspection hat, he mentally checked off the points he’d look at in that situation. It felt overwhelming for a moment. He shrugged it off.

  A few minutes’ work had the room in order, if not inspection ready. Even barracks don’t get inspected every day.

  He nodded to himself and left, closing the doors behind him. He sighed. He had a lot to do.

  Chapter 4

  Roger started carrying his bible with him as he went around the house. If nothing else, the map insets aided in his navigation. The linen closet turned out to be on the third floor, so the laundry on the first floor meant carrying the linens down to be cleaned but back up for storage. It seemed an inefficient arrangement but he worked with it, promising himself not to change anything until he discovered the reason it existed.

  By the end of the second week, Roger had a daily routine down. His exercise in the morning, the uniform of the day, his duties varying within a framework of meals and cleaning. He’d used his day off to move out of his apartment—donating whatever he didn’t want to the local thrift and storing the rest in a storage locker. Bookkeeping remained a mystery process that he went through based on the handbook’s step-by-step instructions. It made him uneasy that he didn’t understand it. A few pages gave him what he needed to know about managing the master suite and the old man seemed happy—or at least didn’t complain—about the state of his rooms. Shackleford seldom left the library, leaving the rest of the house to Roger to prowl alone. He’d even become comfortable in his uniform—cycling the clothes through the dry cleaning pickup and delivery along with Shackleford’s suits.

  He’d just finished paying the latest utility bill at the desk in his quarters when he heard and felt the old man fall.

  He bolted from his chair and took the stairs two at a time. Bursting through the library door, he found Shackleford collapsed on the rug. A quick visual pass revealed no obvious injury, no limbs misplaced or bleeding. He located the old man’s pulse—steady but a bit weak. His skin felt normal and his color, while pale, didn’t indicate any extreme condition. Roger sat back on his heels to consider the options. By the time he’d made up his mind to call 911—probably a full minute later—the old man stirred on his own.

  “Blast,” he said, stretching his limbs and rolling over on his back. “Mulligan. Help me up, if you please.” He held out an arm.

  Roger pulled him to his feet, surprised by the strength in the old man’s grip. In fact, his arm—his whole body—displayed much more strength as he stood than Roger would have expected from a man who spent so much time in a wheelchair with a blanket on his lap. “Are you all right, sir?” He pulled a chair out from the library table and turned it so Shackleford could sit.

  Shackleford took the chair and nodded. “Nothing to be concerned about. If you could get me some water?”

  Roger went into the master suite and returned with a tumbler of water from the sink there.

  The old man took it and upended the glass, pulling the water in with deep gulps before giving the glass back. “I do this to myself,” he said. “Dehydrated. Stood up too fast.”

  “Is this why you use the wheelchair?” Roger asked.

  Shackleford shrugged. “Partly. Another?” He nodded at the glass.

  Roger refilled the glass and returned it to him. “Should I keep a pitcher here, sir?”

  “That shouldn’t be necessary,” he said, then shrugged. “It couldn’t hurt, but I’m normally not this—” He paused and glanced up at Roger. “This weakened.” He took a few swallows of water.

  “Should I consult your doctor, sir?”

  Shackleford seemed to consider it for a moment but shook his head. “Fusty old pill-pusher. He’ll just tell me to drink more water.”

  Roger nodded. “Very well, sir. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “There is one thing, Mulligan.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “The pixies are complaining that you’re doing their jobs.”

  “The pixies, sir?”

  He nodded and offered a sheepish shrug. “I should have mentioned it sooner. You don’t need to be quite so diligent with the dusting and cleaning.”

  “Because that’s the pixies’ job, sir?”

  “Yes, Mulligan. I know it sounds mad, but the house gives them shelter and they repay it by keeping it clean.”

  “So, you’re saying I don’t need to dust? Sweep the floors?”

  “Correct, Mulligan.” He smiled. “You haven’t noticed that things don’t get particularly dusty? Even in rooms we seldom use?”

  Roger shook his head. “No, sir. I haven’t.”

  “They’ve taken to leaving the kitchen and your quarters to you. It’s a protest of sorts. They still look after my room and here in the library, of course.”

  Roger glanced around. “Of course, sir.”

  “I’d hoped you’d understand,” Shackleford said, taking a few more swallows of water before placing the glass on a nearby coaster. “How are you adjusting, Mulligan? I know this position is not one you’re trained for.”

  “Aside from the pixies, sir?”

  Shackleford smiled. “They can be a bit of a handful at times, I know. If they give you any trouble, splash a little whiskey in a saucer and leave it on the counter overnight. Not too much. A few teaspoons or they’ll drink themselves silly.”

  “Anything else I should be aware of, sir?”

  “The fairies maintain the gardens. I don’t know if that’s in the Bible,” he said.

  “Fairies, sir?” Roger said.

  He nodded. “They keep the lawns and gardens in shape. Surely, you’ve noticed that the lawns haven’t needed mowing since you’ve been here.”

  Roger hadn’t but he’d been so engaged in learning his indoor duties he hadn’t given it much thought. “I see, sir. Thank you for the explanation.”

  “Any time, Mulligan.” He looked around the room and pointed to a book on the floor near his chair. “If you could pick that up for me, Mulligan?”

  Roger stooped and picked it up, recognizing it as the heavy tome that Shackleford seemed to have chained to his wrist. The title embossed on the cover meant nothing to him. Gibberish in a foreign language he didn’t recognize. The weight of the book surprised him, but he knew how much thin sheets of paper seemed to weigh when bound in lots of over a thousand. He handed the book to Shackleford, who easily one-handed it onto the table behind him.

  “Thank you, Mulligan. Carry on.”

  “Thank you, sir. Do you have any preferences for dinner tonight?”

  Shackleford gave the matter much more thought than Roger expected. “Dim sum, Perkins. I believe dim sum.”

  “I’m not sure I have the necessary skills to prepare dim sum, sir.”

  The old man waved the objection away. “Of course not, Perkins. Didn’t expect you to. Call the Dragon’s Pearl for delivery.”

  “The Dragon’s Pearl, sir?”

  “Yes, Perkins. Do we ever order dim sum anywhere else, man?” Shackleford frowned at Roger for a split second before his expression changed. “Oh. You’re not Perkins. Do I know you?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m Mulligan. The new butler.”

  “Mulligan,” Shackleford repeated.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Shackleford stared into Roger’s face, his gaze seeming to search for something between his eyes. “Of course. Mulligan. Roger Mulligan.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Sorry, Mulligan.” He sighed. “It seems to be getting worse, doesn’t it?”

  “I’m in no position to say, sir.”

  Shackleford nodded a few times, looking down at the carpet, the tip of his tongue tasting his bottom lip. “It’s getting worse,�
�� he said, almost to himself. “There must be an answer.” He glanced up at Roger. “Thank you, Mulligan. That will be all.”

  “About the dim sum, sir?” Roger asked.

  Shackleford grinned. “Excellent idea, Mulligan. Call the Dragon’s Pearl. They deliver.”

  “Of course, sir. Would you like anything with your dim sum?”

  “An order of moo shu pork? Yes, that would be lovely,” he said. “Their pancakes are to die for. Order some for yourself, Mulligan. You won’t regret it.”

  “Very good, sir. I’ll make arrangements.”

  “Thank you, Mulligan.”

  Roger left Shackleford staring at the rug, his brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed. Something percolated in that old brain of his, but Roger wasn’t sure what it might actually be. He walked down the stairs to the foyer and—on a whim—went into the parlor. The room hadn’t been on his housekeeping route yet and had been unused since the last time he’d seen Naomi Patching. He walked around, looking at the table tops and other lateral surfaces. He ran a finger across the side table. It left a faint streak but no trail. He tried the top of the window sash on the front windows overlooking the yard and street. Same result. Not a hint of dust on his fingertip. The place either had one hell of an air filtration system or very little dust filtered in from outside.

  He stood there for a few moments staring out at the grass, no taller than it had been on his first walk up the stone path. He shook his head. There had to be another explanation. A yard service that tended the yard with eco-friendly electric mowers might have snuck in while Roger was busy at the back of the house. They’d send a bill at the end of the month.

  He shook his head and chuckled. “Pixies.” He shook his head again. “And I fell for it.”

  He checked the time. Nearly three. The dry cleaner should be arriving soon and Roger still needed to collect the soiled garments. He found it somewhat wasteful, but his handbook said to rotate the jackets and keep Mr. Shackleford’s clothing in top condition at all times.