First published by Allen & Unwin in 2020
Copyright © Sean Williams 2020
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.
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ISBN 978 1 76087 736 1
eISBN 978 1 76087 411 7
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Copyright © Cover illustration: Louie Joyce, 2020
Cover and text design by Mika Tabata
Map illustration by Katica Pedisic
Set by Midland Typesetters, Australia
For Garth,
who told me to write it down.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
EPILOGUE
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
The boy stood at the bottom of the stairs, anxiously clutching the worn, canvas satchel that held all his worldly possessions. Amongst them was the soapstone pendant carved with his name, Almanac, that his friends at the orphanage had given him for luck. Losing it would be a terrible way to mark his arrival at his new home.
Almanac was twelve years old, or possibly thirteen, with a shock of brown hair and eyes to match. His skin was neither light nor dark, but somewhere in between, a colour people had always called ‘boggy’ in a derogatory kind of way, until he himself had come to wonder if there was something wrong with it. He had known nothing but that orphanage and those friends until an invitation arrived two days ago, offering him a useful place in society in a stately home not a day’s journey away on foot. Apprentice second footman of Spoilnieu Manors sounded like King of Yvernia to one who had no prospects, so of course he had said yes, despite a twinge of nervousness. Everyone at the orphanage wanted to live in the outside world. He was too old now for a family to take him in, but this was his one chance to find another place to live.
The manor gardens, dense with walnut trees and hedges, so preposterously grand compared to the stony-grey yards he knew … and the house, with its gabled roofs, many towers and ivy of glossy green … It was almost too much!
Fear was a sure sign that opportunity was a-knocking, or so the mistress of the orphanage liked to tell her charges. Usually an opportunity to be better behaved and avoid the rod.
Yet he hesitated.
At the top of the stairs was a deep verandah made of wood and a door painted sky-blue, with a brass handle and a knocker in the shape of a winking lion. No one came out to greet him, even though Almanac’s much-mended boots had made a lot of noise coming up the long, gravelled avenue. Indeed, he had seen no one at all since passing through the imposing gates at the entrance to the estate.
Almanac took two calming breaths. Then, before he could change his mind, he mounted the stairs and reached determinedly for the handle attached to the winking lion’s-head.
But before Almanac could so much as touch it, the well-oiled door swung open with the faintest of creaks. Through the doorway, he saw a lobby that was as opulent as it was empty of life. With one sweep of his awe-struck gaze, he took in a crystal chandelier, a carved oak umbrella stand, an elegant hat and coat rack, a telephone on a jade-topped table, and a gilt-framed portrait of a young girl with piercing green eyes hanging above a small, marble fireplace neatly stacked with kindling. The painted ceiling was so high that the breath caught in his throat when he gaped up at it.
On the brink of entering the house, Almanac called the name of the head butler, who had written his invitation.
‘Mr Packer?’
His inquiry journeyed through many splendid rooms and stately halls before echoing back to him, unanswered.
Almanac craned his neck across the sill of the door, puzzled by this lack of welcome. Could they have forgotten he was coming?
‘It’s me, Mr Packer – Almanac, the new apprentice second footman … Hello?’
Manners had been instilled in him, along with letters and good sense. He didn’t like to cross the threshold unannounced, but what choice did he have? Sitting on the porch would show a lack of initiative. Leaving the estate now was impossible.
One pace into the house, both feet suddenly jerked out from under him. His heart lurched and he gasped in shock and pain. The sensation was just like one of those nightmares in which he dropped a pudding bowl he’d been drying or slipped at the top of the orphanage’s hard, stone stairs …
But then the feeling was gone as suddenly as it had arrived, and he found himself on scuffed knees in the middle of the lobby, satchel laying beside him on the elaborately tiled floor and face flushed with embarrassment. He must have caught his toe on the sill, he decided, through the hammering of his pulse. Thank goodness no one was around to witness his clumsiness. If they had, Mr Packer would send him back to the orphanage for certain, and he didn’t want that!
Almanac scrambled upright and dusted off his pants.
Only then did he notice the shelf beside the door, upon which rested a small pile of clothes, neatly folded, and a note addressed with his name. He read cautiously at first, but then with greater ease. The message was written on thick, yellow paper in a long, looping script that he instantly recognised as belonging to the man who had changed his fate for the better.
Young Almanac –
Welcome, welcome! Herewith, your uniform.
Don it without delay, for the new chambermaid fast approaches and your first duty is to give her a tour of the premises. I am otherwise engaged.
Yours,
Mr Packer, Head Butler
Almanac read the note once to be sure he understood it correctly, and then again to be completely sure. Mr Packer wanted him to greet a new member of the household staff and show her around – when he himself
had only just arrived? That seemed peculiar, but it was most definitely what the note said. Maybe everyone in the house was on an expedition to some far-off corner of the grounds – having a picnic, say? And who was he to disobey a direct instruction?
Picking up the uniform and satchel, and putting out of his mind the strange moment he had experienced, Almanac hurried to find somewhere a boy could change into his new life.
The uniform was too big, but judicious rolling, tucking and belt-tightening soon saw to that problem. Almanac was used to wearing clothes that didn’t fit well, having grown up with hand-me-downs from fellow orphans. His best friend, Josh, constantly complained about pants that fell down or shirtsleeves that didn’t reach his wrists, but Almanac, whose name had been given to him by his first handwriting teacher because of his remarkable memory and fastidious nature, couldn’t recall a day when either of them had gone cold, hot, or indecent for lack of clothes.
Now, with the unaccustomed scratchiness of new cotton and wool against his skin, the heft of a buttoned jacket across his shoulders, and the squeak of leather soles underfoot, he felt more fortunate than ever.
Stepping out of the closet in which he had changed, leaving his satchel and former clothes safely hidden, he called for Mr Packer once more. This time he expected no reply, and received none. He was alone and had a single task to perform: explore the manor house before the new chambermaid arrived, in order to show her around as best he could. He was mindful of the responsibility, and of the likelihood that this moment of silence and stillness might be his last in a long while.
The rooms on the ground floor were large and full of treasures. He hardly dared stick his nose into them for fear of dirtying or breaking something, so on locating the servants’ stairs at the rear of the house he hurried to the level below with some relief. There he found a laundry, pantry, poky scullery and cold store, all of which were as deserted as the rooms above, and a kitchen that had seen recent occupation. It was clean but disordered, with pots and pans in a state of disarray. He tsked in disapproval. The orphanage’s stern cook had instilled such a sense of order in her charges that he automatically began putting things to rights, setting dishes in their proper places and finding homes for things that didn’t appear to have one.
Halfway through, the sharp point of a carving knife plucked a thread from his navy-blue jacket, reminding him that this wasn’t his job. Indeed, he was shirking his orders and should immediately resume his exploration before the chambermaid arrived.
He pushed at the errant thread, hiding it in the weave if not actually fixing it.
A faint scuttling sound made him look up. Ash trickled from the chimney into an unwashed saucepan, and the noise abruptly ceased. Rats, he assumed. That was something else the orphanage cook complained about constantly.
A high-pitched shriek abruptly swept aside all reservations regarding the damage done to his uniform.
Someone on the floor above – by the sound of it, in mortal danger!
Bounding up the stairs two at a time, he found her in the lobby, a skinny, dangle-limbed, white girl in a green dress with long, black pigtails flung akimbo and a fierce look in her eyes.
He skidded to a halt with his mouth open to ask what had happened, suddenly confronted by the sharp tip of a finely-wrought hairpin she held upraised before her.
‘Was it you?’ she snapped, menacing him with the hairpin as threateningly as if it were a sword.
‘Was it – w-what?’ Almanac stammered, backing away in alarm. He had had little experience with girls, or strangers, and strange girls in particular.
‘You who attacked me?’
‘Who … attacked?’
‘Speak in complete sentences!’
‘I’m trying, um—’ He dodged the deadly point dancing in front of him, put firmly in his place by her imperious tone. ‘I’m Almanac, the apprentice second footman. Are you the mistress … the young mistress?’
‘Why did you attack me if you don’t even know who I am?’
‘I wouldn’t – that is, I didn’t … I mean, would you please lower that thing? It’s making me very nervous!’
She relented, glancing around in search of another foe. ‘Well, if you didn’t attack me, who did?’
‘I don’t know. Are you hurt?’
She looked down, as though asking herself that question for the first time.
‘I … seem not to be. But that doesn’t change a thing. Someone attacked me – by magic, too, I swear on Sofia Phronesis’s favourite fountain pen! I’d recognise magic anywhere.’
‘Magic?’ Almanac stared at her with big eyes. He knew magic existed, and that people more fortunate than him were gifted with it and trained in its use, but he had never met anyone with direct experience of it before – or even experienced it himself, beyond the cheap leak-proofing spell written on the orphanage’s roof tiles every winter. Orphans with magical ability didn’t stay orphans very long.
Even he, though, had heard of Sofia Phronesis, the most acclaimed and mysterious sorcerer in the world, Magical Advisor to the throne and bitterest enemy of its enemies.
‘Oh yes. Aunt Aud is the village bondswoman. She took on my seventh sister as her assistant last year. I can smell the ink on Dizzy when she comes home.’
She paused and corrected herself. ‘Could. Could smell. Came home.’
The girl’s manner and her association with magic had led Almanac to assume that she was a young mistress of the manor. Now he thought again. She looked as lost as he felt.
‘Who are you?’
‘I’m Etta Jacobs,’ she told him with spirit. ‘The new chambermaid.’
Regret Jacobs, known to all but her mother as Etta, was the youngest of twelve daughters. Her father had yearned all his life for a son, and on learning the sex of his last child he had finally succumbed – alas, terminally – to lost hope. Etta knew him only through portraits and blurry daguerreotypes that showed a jowly man with a tetchy expression bearing little resemblance to the many high-spirited Jacobs women he left behind.
That his dozen daughters needed futures was very much on the widow Jacobs’s mind. After her husband’s death from disappointment, she did everything in her power to ensure livelihoods for all of them.
There were, however, only so many opportunities for young women in the village and its surrounds. Other families had daughters who needed placements, too. By the time Etta came of age, therefore, every opportunity had been exploited, and she found herself utterly without prospects.
‘Assistant estate manager?’
‘Misery already took that position, Regret.’
Misery was Missy’s real name, and accurately summed up Etta’s growing mood. ‘What about apprentice to the mayor?’
‘Master Grubb has made it clear he doesn’t need one.’ Mrs Jacobs sighed over her needlework. ‘If you only weren’t so gangly—’
‘Ma, stop! I’m too young to be married.’ Her sisters Annie (Anguish), Dolly (Dolour) and Tory (Purgatory) had already succumbed to that fate and did nothing but complain about it.
‘You’re not too young to be engaged. I’d rest easier knowing you were in someone’s hair other than mine!’
Etta couldn’t help feeling unwanted, and sullen as a result.
When the offer came by private note, delivered by regular mail coach, of a respectable chambermaid’s position, Etta immediately accepted it as fate. At least someone thought she was worth something. Without saying goodbye to her mother or sisters, she stole by moonlight from the house she had lived in all her life, carrying nothing but a change of clothes, the meagrest supply of food for the trip, and her mother’s most valuable possession: the hairpin she had worn on her wedding day, which Etta purloined in case the chambermaid position went awry and she needed resources to survive on her own in the world.
The two-day journey was a trial, but she survived it by virtue of being thirteen, extremely stubborn, and used to taking care of herself. On arriving, finally, at a fancy sign that ma
tched the one on her letter, next to a gate that led into impressively large grounds, she had marched right on through as though she owned the place, disturbing a person with a limp whom she assumed to be the gardener toiling in the bushes. When she reached the old-fashioned but well-maintained manor and its open door, she didn’t hesitate.
It was then, just as she had been congratulating herself on the success of her venture, that she had been attacked.
‘Who are you?’ asked the foolish-looking boy in the ill-fitting uniform who had rushed in to the lobby and thought she was the mistress of the manor.
Some of Etta’s stuffing had been knocked out of her by the reminder that she was an unwanted daughter with no prospects and that her position was precarious. So what if she had been magically assaulted? It had only been the once, and it had left no lasting effect. She needed this position, hairpin or no hairpin.
Going home was not an option.
She told the boy her name, because if he hadn’t attacked her, then surely he had been sent to welcome her. ‘I’m the new chambermaid.’
‘Really? Oh, I mean … it’s nice to meet you. I’m Almanac.’
‘You told me. Apprentice second footman.’
‘Yes, I suppose I am.’ He stood straighter at that, but the hem of his pants still dusted the floor. ‘I’m to give you the guided tour.’
‘All right,’ she said, taking in the contents of the lobby for the first time. It did all appear very grand, especially the portrait of the green-eyed girl, which looked as though it might have been painted by a master. ‘Where do we start?’
‘Um … I don’t … that is, it’s my first day too, and I have no idea … where—’
‘Anything is?’ she said, having grown tired of waiting for him to finish his sentence. He nodded. ‘Well, that doesn’t make any sense. Who told you to do this?’
‘Mr Packer, the head butler.’
‘And where is he?’
‘I don’t know, but he left me this note.’
She took it, read it, and learned little as a result. ‘My invitation came from Lady Simone. Do you know where she is?’
Her Perilous Mansion Page 1