Peter was a deeply antisocial bird. A passerine of middling size with drab brown plumage and a sharp orange-yellow beak, he squatted sullenly on his perch, looking not at but through his visitors. Actually, Lucy thought his expression, if a bird can have an expression, denoted legitimate hatred.
“This is Peter,” Mr. Olderglough said.
“Hello, Peter.”
“Say hello, Peter.”
Peter did not say hello, but burrowed his face in his breast and pulled up a leg, standing motionless, and it seemed he would be thus forever.
“Closed up shop,” said Mr. Olderglough. “You see how it is, then?”
“Yes, sir, I think I do. And you say he’s never made any sound whatsoever?”
“None.”
“Something which will make him sing, sir.”
“Nothing will.”
Mr. Olderglough moved to rest upon a faded fainting couch in the corner of his parlor. Muttering to himself, the man was lost for a time to his reveries, and Lucy took advantage of this to survey his superior’s quarters: at once tasteful and dire, formerly grand, utterly dated, and coated uniformly in dust. It was a room in which time hung more heavily than was the norm, and Lucy had the feeling he was the first to pay a social call in a long while.
A wall clock chimed, and Mr. Olderglough said, “You’ll be wanting to meet the train, now, Lucy. In the entryway you’ll find the Baron’s letter on the side table, as well as a list of what’s needed from the village.”
“And with what shall I pay for the goods?”
Mr. Olderglough stood, patting his pockets but turning up nothing. “Do me a favor, boy, and pay for them yourself. I’ll get it back to you soon enough.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, sir.”
A twinge of panic struck Mr. Olderglough. “Haven’t you any money handy at all?”
“None.” Lucy paused. “Perhaps, sir, if you were to give me an advance on my wage?”
“Hmm,” said Mr. Olderglough. “No, I don’t believe I’ll do that.”
“I was wondering when I might be paid,” Lucy admitted.
“You will be paid on payday, naturally. For now, you will wait in the entryway, please.”
As Lucy traveled from Mr. Olderglough’s room to the castle’s entrance, he was struck by the fact of his enjoying the position, enjoying being told what to do, the marvelous simplicity of it. He had always sensed in his mother and father a desire for him to do something, to do anything, but they were remiss in sharing particular instructions and so, being unambitious himself, he accomplished nothing, and only continued to disappoint them. But now, all at once, he was useful, was being used, and this filled him with a sense of dignity. Arriving at the entryway, he stood by the side table awaiting Mr. Olderglough and basking in this feeling. Alas, as the minutes passed by, Lucy’s buoyant attitude turned to restlessness, which then evolved to candid boredom. He scanned the shopping list but this offered nothing in the way of entertainment, and so he found himself wishing to steal a glance at the mysterious Baron’s letter. He knew he must not do this, that it was in direct opposition to what Mr. Olderglough had told him, but the desire grew and grew further, and soon he gave in to it. Edging a fingernail under the wax seal, he opened the envelope and unfolded the paper.
My Darling,
What news have you? Will you tell me you no longer love me? Whether or not I would prefer this to the damning silence, I won’t say. The truth is that I am no longer steering this devastated ship. I took my hand off the wheel long ago, and have no concerns or thoughts for a destination. May we be dashed over merciful rocks!
Why do the happy times dim in my memory, while the evil ones grow ever more vivid? And furthermore: why do I bother asking you anything anymore? A marvel: how can the days be so full of someone wholly absent? The scope of your void humbles me. It is vast to the point that part of me hopes you have died. This at least would explain your nonappearance, and so would afford me some slight comfort. Also it would make it simpler for me to die. And yet I love you still and more, with every day that floats past.
I am yours alone,
Baron Von Aux
Lucy read this in a rush, and then again, more slowly. It seemed there was a dim rumble or vibration emanating from the words, and it caused him to bend his ear nearer the page so as to drink it in. He recognized something of himself in the letter; but also he found himself feeling envious of the Baron’s heartsickness, which was surely superior to any he had experienced. This jealousy struck him as childish, and yet he wasn’t in any way ashamed of it. He returned the letter to the envelope and had just set it back on the side table when Mr. Olderglough arrived. “You’ll have to make this stretch, boy,” he said, pressing some coins into Lucy’s hand. Calculating their worth, Lucy thought it impossible, and said as much to Mr. Olderglough, who in turn espoused the merits of a credit-based society. It was at this point that Agnes came around the corner. Her red fists stabbed and jabbed at the air as she walked, punctuating her evident rage.
“Which of you dumped his porridge in the fireplace!”
“It was Lucy,” said Mr. Olderglough, quickly quitting the room. Agnes did not notice his leaving; she moved toward Lucy as if on oiled wheels.