Snow Season – Day 14 of 90, 47th Year of Creipus the Pious
“Ma’am.” There was a soft touch on your arm, like a cat pawing at a dead vole. “Ma’am, you alive there?”
You inhaled, letting the smell of horse and winter’s chill fill your senses. Head swirling with the weight of exhaustion, you swallowed thick saliva and licked your dry lips. The old cart rattled up the half-frozen road as the farmer dodged slush-filled potholes. His wind-worn face peered at you from the driver’s seat.
“Oh!” You startled to your senses. “Please forgive me. I seem to have dozedoff.”
The farmer looked into the back of the cart. You were propped against the wooden edge, curled under a blanket to fend off the cold. His young daughter was fast asleep, leaning on your arm. He smiled through the deep wrinkles in his leathery skin.
“Ought to be able to see Gravelorne around this here bend.”
“Thank you for waking me.”
You glanced at the cherubic girl and brushed a loose curl from her face. When you moved, the blanket shifted low around her waist. You shuddered in the frosty air and placed it back over her shoulders. She sighed and snuggled into the warmth of your body. It took everything you had not to coo.
“Were you a nurse in the war?”
You shook your head. “No. Why do you ask?”
“Ever since that foreign feller took Gravelorne Manor, I ain’t seen nothing but old soldiers and curious folk go there. You seem like the rich ones he has for dinner, but you ain’t come with your car and your ego.” He snorted at the same time as his horse. “Figured you might’ve been one of them war nurses come to stay with those that left more on the battlefield than bullets and body. Ya know? Someone who understands what it was like to be there and all.”
“No, I am just a simple maid in need of work.”
He looked you up and down before frowning. “You’re sure you cannot find another place?”
You laughed into your hand. “It would seem not. Apparently, the whole world did not require my services.”
He sighed. “Don’t seem right leaving a woman at the gate. It’s a bit of a hike to the house on foot.” The farmer paused before a gap-tooth grin broke on his face. He winked at you. “I just recollected that the cook owes me a bit of coin. What say you if I drop you around the servant’s side?”
“I would be very grateful for your kindness, sir.”
“River’s up ahead. You can see the manor from there.” He sniffed back a ball of snot. “Up in that hillside.”
Calling the pale rock that jutted upward like an explosion a “hillside” was like calling a dead body a speed bump. The rigid peaks before you climbed high enough to scrape the clouds on stormy days. Below the mountain was a small gap in the trees. From there, you could see the third story of a grey bricked manor. The front was flanked by twin peaks capped in pointed gables. Between them, recessed walls surrounded a limestone encrusted entryway. The symmetry would have made the professor weep. You covered your mouth to conceal the drop of your jaw.
“Aye, it is a pretty house. Staffed with ghouls, though.”
“Ghouls?”
The man turned back to the reins. “You’ll see. Bodies might be there, but it doesn’t mean the souls are in them.”
A shiver rippled down your skin. You pulled the blanket a little higher up your neck.
Over the short stone walls of the bridge was the muddy, grey river flowing east towards the coastline. The water rushed over the great slate slabs below the surface, churning into white foam at every dip of the bed. Dark woods on either side of the shore whisked away all sound under bristled bowers. It was as if the gods bid the lowland be hushed.
Past the bridge rose a towering stone wall better fit for a battlement than a border. It stretched across the forest edge, farther than the eye could see. The top of the brickwork cascaded into a series of perforated arcs. A wrought iron gate hung on heavy hinges between twin stone columns with recessed niches. You raised a brow at two translucent, white statues seated deep in the cavities. One was a rendering of Mirtha, the Goddess of Fate, weaving the life threads of all mortals into the tapestry of destiny. The other was Haltor, the God of Justice, holding his sword of judgment high.
“Is that… bone china?” you questioned.
The old farmer threw his head back and laughed. “Sure is! The statues contain the ash from the original manor.”
“Original manor?”
“The Gravelornes who built the estate all died in a great house fire before the new master bought the place. They were running outta money and most folk ‘round here believe they set the fire themselves for the insurance.” The farmer grinned. “Rather poetic, isn’t it?”
Who exactly was the ghoul in this area?
The farmer continued on: “When the new owner first arrived, he hosted a huge party. Told all of us in the village he wanted to commission statues in their honor and asked for ideas.”
You forced a polite smile over gritted teeth. “Why justice and fate though? Choosing those two almost sounds like…”
“Oh, it’s exactly what it sounds like, ma’am.” The farmer snorted. “All of the villagers hated them idiot nobles. They’d let their dogs run free, biting people and killing livestock. Not a one of us was sorry to see them gone. Mr. Estrova has been a much better land steward.”
You stared at the delicate piles of curls atop both the deities’ heads. “Are they not rather fragile for outdoors? Why not marble?”
The farmer chuckled. “The gardener’s wife used to be Royal Master Ceramist for the Queen herself. The pair of them wouldn’t be parted, so Mr. Estrova hired them both. Mr. Norton’s got a huge glasshouse garden to run, so the master likes to give Mrs. Norton lots of projects to stay busy. Happy wife, happy life, I suppose.”
The old farmer coaxed the horse to a stop and hopped from his cart. On stiff legs, he huffed over to the wall. Muttering to himself, he began to palm his way down the mortar lines.
“Can never even find that stupid butto—Oh! There it is!”
As his thumb pressed a hidden switch, the great archway groaned open. The little girl on your arm mumbled in her sleep and nuzzled into the wool of your cape. Her father returned to the cart, hoisting himself up into the driver’s seat with a groan and several loud pops.
“The gearboxes on the backside are ugly as sin, but ‘tis nice not to have to drag the stupid thing open.”
As you passed through the opening, you could see two black metal canisters clinging to the masonry like bats to a cave wall.
“Are those electric?” you asked.
“Nah. Steam. Can’t run wires this far up. What electric they got comes from the steam generator at the back of the house. Stupid thing makes a monstrous racket when it’s running. All burbles and gurgles like it’s got a belly ache.” He rolled his eyes. “The Queen’s energy might be better for your lungs, but if you want my opinion: old coal fire’s crackle ‘tis a lot kinder on your ears.”
The cart’s wheels started to whine as the dirt road gave way to a sleek asphalt drive. Like a great black serpent, it wound through five full switchbacks before it reached the top. Looking up it made your knees ache.
“I really must thank you for taking me up to the house,” you insisted.
The old man tipped his hat. “It’s not any trouble, ma’am.”
Gravelorne Manor was even more imposing up close. A full fifteen sets of windows, each much larger than a grown man, winked in the afternoon sun. Traditional white marble carvings, like those of the old masters, flanked the entrance. On the left, a statue of a woman with bat’s wings clutched a drawing to her chest. To the right, her lover stood above a blank scroll, a pen held tight in his fingertips. Each reached out a hand to the other—destined to never touch. You recognized the story from the professor’s book of legends: “The Nightmuse and the Seventh Son”. It was a tragic tale of love at first sight.
A dubious snort flew from your nose. “Love at first sight,” you muttered to yourself with an eye roll. “As if that really happens.”
Below the central eaves was a small circular carving. Eight spindly legs joined at a plump thorax. On the long, pelican-like head, four pairs of eyes, cast in bronze, glittered in the sun.
“Is the family crest a spider?” you asked.
“Don’t know that them foreigners have family crests like we do. I think he just put it up there to frighten off folks that’s not welcome. Far as I know, the man has a thing for cats.” Your escort sniffed and pointed to the east wall of the manor. “See up there?”
At the top of the brick partition that divided the house from the garage, licking its paw, was a fine feline with plush white fur. It flicked its ear and looked down on you with glowing green-yellow eyes. Then, with a swish of its tail, it slinked off in the direction of the roof.
The back of the home was hidden by a well-groomed hedgerow and a gated archway. Behind them, the servant’s entrance sat in a small muddy yard off the asphalt drive. Jutting from the rear of the main house was a long corridor with squat windows. Amongst the stonework were tiny vents that loosed the occasional puff of steam.
The old man stopped the cart and reached over the side to shake his daughter’s shoulder. “Time to get up, princess. The lady has to go to her interview.”
With a squeaky yawn, the child wiggled her nose and wobbled into a sitting position. One tiny fist came up to rub her eye. Tucking the blanket around her, you took the old man’s hand and descended from the cart. Your tingling legs were unsteady, but tapping your toes on the road helped some.
“Doorbell is on the right side,” the farmer instructed before jerking his head towards the back of the building. “I’ll head over to the kitchen to harass Cook.”
You bowed your head. “Thank you again.”
He waved his hand before climbing into the cart. The little girl fluttered her fingers from the back. All too soon, they disappeared around the rear wing of the house.
Turning to face your fate, you took a deep breath, hitched your travel satchel up, and climbed the ramp to the door. You bit your lip. A trembling hand reached for the bell.
“Look out below!”
Whump, clang!
Whipping around to find the source of the noise, you widened your eyes. There, laying on the pathway behind you, was… a leg?
You stared at the disembodied limb. It was shin high and constructed from a series of pistons, springs, and corrugated conduits. The foot piece was a curved blade that arched into a brace near the calf. At the top, a smooth leather cup tapered down into a small metal valve.
“Sorry! You alright down there!?”
You looked up at the voice only to see a bright-eyed redhead waving at you from the second-floor window. His pale face was splattered with freckles and his brown jumpsuit with oil. He grinned and scratched the back of his neck.
Before you could reply, the door swung open to reveal a dark, coily haired man with a wide nose and a stubble beard. His silk vest was delicately embossed with iridescent coppertone paisleys. Each of the buttons on his waistcoat was custom-molded with the same spider seen on the front of the home.
“Oh! My apologies, ma’am!” He bowed at the waist. “I didn’t hear the bell ring.”
You glanced from him to the leg and back. Your hand was still extended, a mere flick from the button. You squatted to collect the escaped limb and presented it to the man at the door.
“Ah, looks like Lyle’s still fiddling with it,” he said, taking the leg from you. His apologetic grin was dazzling. “I’m Garrick Reeves, the footman. I guess you are the maid we’ve been expecting?”
Fiddling? Stars above, his language was so casual. Still, as you scanned his handsome face, you knew he was not lying. Footmen were notoriously hired for “the look” and this deep brown beauty certainly had that.
“Have I… come at a bad time?” you asked in a halting voice.
Reeves fixed the window above with a hard glare. “No. I’m ashamed to say that this is not wholly out of the norm at this house. Please ignore him. We do.”
The redhead cringed. “Oh sure, like it’s my fault the light in here is so bad I gotta use the window sill to work!”
“You are more than capable of changing your own light bulbs!” Reeves’s eye twitched. “And don’t you have a pressing apology to make?”
Lyle turned to face you with a crimson flush from neck to ear tip. “Sorry about the scare, ma’am! Hope you weren’t hurt or nothin’.”
“No, no. I am well,” you called back, nodding to the open air behind you with an uneasy laugh. “As luck would have it, you seem to have missed me.”
Reeves rubbed his temple and rolled one hand at the young man in the window. “Your name?”
The redhead’s spine went straight as a board. He took off his goggles and gallantly swept them in front of himself. “Lyle Watts, ma’am, at your service.” He beamed and thumbed his chest. “I’m the house’s mechanic.”
“Yes, I gathered as much.” With a bow of your head, you added: “It’s a pleasure to meet you. My name is—”
All at once, a primordial sense of alarm sent the hairs on the back of your neck straight up. With a nervous gulp, Reeves turned back to the hall behind him. There, looming in the shadows, stood a stern-faced elderly man in a black tailcoat. His deep grey vest was engraved with the same paisley pattern as the footman, but in a metallic shade of milky silver. His dark face pulled taut with controlled fury.
“Mr. Watts.” The butler’s voice was deep and carried like a battle horn. “While the master tolerates an insufferable amount of your antics, I will not have you injuring our visitors.”
The young man looked about four years old. With the haste of a rabbit, he ducked his head back through the window and bolted the sash shut.
Behind round-framed glasses, the butler’s brown eyes flashed in your direction. “Mr. Reeves, you will put on your coat and escort this woman to the back parlor. Bring her some tea and I will be along after I deal with this”—he glared up the stairwell— “unacceptable buffoonery.”
Reeves snapped to attention and clicked his heels. “Yes, sir.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Ellsworth,” Lyle babbled from out of sight. “Really, I am! It was just—”
“Silence.” Despite his cold countenance, the butler’s eyes blazed like the pits of the lower world. He stalked up the steps, eliciting a whine of terror from the younger servant. “Words are meaningless. You are a grown man, and your actions will reflect that or so help me, I will—”
As the butler vanished out of sight, you could hear the apologetic rambling of the mechanic bouncing off the walls. The low growl of the butler’s admonishments reverberated down through the servant’s quarters like the grumblings of a dragon on a distant peak. You exhaled the breath you did not know you were holding.
The footman hurried to a nearby rack and snatched up his tailcoat before thrusting both arms down the sleeves. With two sharp tugs of his lapels, he turned back to you. “Please follow me, ma’am.”
At the end of the servant’s hall was a wide, heavy door. When Reeves opened it, you clenched your teeth to keep your jaw from dropping.
The main passages of the home were unusually wide, with walls papered in a fashionable damask of ivory and gold. Richly stained, dark walnut floors looked like ink below your feet. Every door you passed was embossed with ribbon-like carvings trimmed in aluminum leaf. China vases filled with fresh flowers dotted the hall tables. While most nobles favored the stuffed heads of woodland creatures for decor, Gravelorne’s walls were dressed in oil paintings in dreamy pastels.
“Just in here, ma’am,” Reeves instructed, ushering you into a room at the end of the hall.
The parlor itself was no less splendid than the preceding decorations had promised. Mint green wallpaper with subtle tessellations of flower petals matched the pristine jade and marble fireplace. Wide windows looked out onto a well-groomed hedge maze. In the right corner, a glass and silver grandfather clock ticked away.
This was the back parlor!?
“Please have a seat,” Reeves instructed.
You stiffened at the thought of a maid taking tea in such a fine room. “I do not wish to—”
The door clicked shut.
“—impose,” you murmured to no one.
Alone in the room, your eyes fell upon the delicate porcelain figurines in the white cabinets. The fired lace dresses worn by the women were as fluffy as pastries. The men were clothed in elegant tailcoats with powdered wigs and ruffled cravats. Even one of those statues was apt to be years of a maid’s salary. You scooted away from the cases and took a seat on the edge of the sofa. As you focused on keeping your muddy boots off the cream rug, one thought ran through your head: Touch nothing.
When Mr. Reeves returned, your nausea only deepened. On an embossed silver tray was a coral and white bone china tea set with scalloped stripes. He set the finery upon the coffee table and poured your drink. The scent of mint filled the room. As he handed you the cup, he said: “I hope you like the blend. We grow the mint in the conservatory.”
Your hands clenched in your lap. “Will the lady of the house not miss her tea set?”
“Lady?” There was a snort followed by a toothy chuckle. “Forgive me, ma’am. The master is just fond of florals. There is no woman inside this house, save yourself.”
Your fingers picked at the darning on the edge of your glove. “But surely this set is far too nice for…”
“For a servant?”
You nodded.
Reeves sighed and scratched the back of his neck. “Now I see what Ellsworth is on about.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh!” Reeves waved his hand. “Just some self-deprecation, ma’am. Most of us were not brought up as servants, as I’m sure you’ve gathered from our manners. Mr. Ellsworth is training us, but…”
He stuffed his hands in his pockets and examined your straight posture and neat hair. Compared to his fine uniform, your dark, utilitarian clothes made you look like a puddle of shadow which could disappear under a chair at anyone’s convenience.
“Anyway”—he continued with a cough—“in this home, you will find that there isn’t a lesser set of anything. Our patron only bothers with the best. Consider it a habit of his.”
“Of course,” you replied. “Please, forgive my protests and any inconvenience they may have caused you.”
Reeves’s smile was as warm as the tea. He held the saucer out to you. “You were just being polite. That’s easily forgiven.”
Nervous hands gripped the handle like the cup might flee at any moment. You stared through the liquid, admiring the fanciful peony blooms glazed to the bottom of the china. When you looked up, Reeves’s brown eyes were upon you. As your gaze met his, he glanced away.
You smiled at him. “Thank you for your kindness.”
“Just following orders,” he replied, rubbing the back of his neck. Taking up the tray, he strolled to the door. “Enjoy your tea.”
When the latch clicked shut, you took another sip. This time, it did not feel like you would choke on it.
In the hall, a bitter laugh escaped Reeves’s throat. With a guilt-riddled smile, he repeated, “We’re all just following orders.”