Mr. Olderglough stood in the underlit entryway, an elegantly skeletal man of sixty or more outfitted in a suit of black velvet. His white hair was uncombed or unsuccessfully combed; a lock spiraled past his brow and over his eyes, to roguish effect. His right arm hung in a sling, his fingers folded talon-like, nails blackened, knuckles blemished with scabs and blue-yellow bruising. Bowing a bow so slight it hardly amounted to a bow at all, he said, “I apologize, young man, for my vulgarity of a moment ago. I woke up in a foul mood this morning, and the world’s been against me ever since.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, sir.”
“I had a terrific nightmare, is what.” Mr. Olderglough leaned in. “Eels,” he said.
“Eels, sir?”
“That was what the dream was about.” But he offered no further information regarding the eels, no description of what malice they had represented. Lucy made no inquiries about it, the reason being that he didn’t wish to know any more. As his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, now he saw that Mr. Olderglough’s attire, which had appeared so regal at the start, was actually quite scruffy—buttons mismatched, and stains illustrating his lapels. Lucy thought he looked like an aesthete chasing a run of foul luck. Pointing at the sling, he asked,
“Have you had an accident, sir?”
Mr. Olderglough stared at his hand with what Lucy took for regret. “No, not an accident,” he answered, and now he laid his left hand atop his injured right and began to stroke it consolingly, which summoned in Lucy a revulsion he couldn’t put words to. Mr. Olderglough emerged from his reverie and asked if Lucy would like a tour of the estate; before Lucy could answer, the man tottered away down the darkening corridor. Lucy followed after, not because he wanted to particularly, but because he could think of no other option, and because he didn’t like the idea of standing alone in the dim, dank place. Other than the stillness of the air it was not noticeably warmer inside the castle, and he did not unbutton his coat.