Lucy entered Mr. Olderglough’s room, breakfast tray in hand. Mr. Olderglough drew himself up in his bed, patting his lap, casting back his sleeping cap, and looking pleased at the fact of being doted on. After the tray was delivered he began the artful preparations of his tea; Lucy stood by, wondering how he might give voice to his thoughts. At last he decided there was no other way than to simply say it, and so he did: “A man tried to enter my room last night, sir.”
Mr. Olderglough was distracted by the cautious measuring-out of his sugar. “What’s that, my boy?” he asked. “What is it, now?”
“A man, sir. Tried to enter my room last night.”
“A man?”
“Yes, and a strange man he was.”
“Is that right?” Mr. Olderglough said wonderingly. Pouring in the cream, he stirred and sampled his tea; finding its taste satisfactory, he nodded in appreciation at life’s small but dependable comforts. “And what was so strange about him, I wonder?”
“Well, the fact of him trying to get into my room was strange.”
Mr. Olderglough pondered this. “I don’t know that I would call that strange, in and of itself. What are rooms for if not entering, after all. Or else exiting. Indeed, think of how many rooms we enter and exit in our span of days, boy. Room to room to room. And we call it a life.” He chuckled at the folly of it. But Lucy was in no mood for Mr. Olderglough’s wistful opining; in fact he was feeling peevish toward his superior, who was quite obviously acting the innocent when he surely knew just what Lucy was talking about with regard to the visitor of the evening prior.
Lucy said, “I most certainly would describe it as strange, sir. For we must consider that it was not a common-use room, but my own room, and that I was abed, and that it was the middle of the night. If that isn’t strange, then I don’t know what is. To say nothing of the fact of his attitude.”
“Oh, was his attitude strange as well,” asked Mr. Olderglough flatly.
“It was. He seemed in a fever, and was speaking to himself—cackling and grumbling and disagreeing.”
“As though he were two people, do you mean?”
“Or several people, yes, sir. You are aware of this person?”
“I am, lad. And aren’t you glad you locked your door, like I told you? I’m no spring chicken, I won’t deny it, but I know of what I speak.”
“But who is he?”
“He is very rarely about, these days.”
“And what is the matter with him?”
“This and that. Actually, I suspect he’s mad.”
Lucy took a breath. “That he’s mad.”
“Yes.”
“You’re telling me that there’s a madman stalking the halls of the castle at night, is that correct?”
“Stalking,” said Mr. Olderglough, shaking his head as he spread marmalade over his bread. “There you go with your theatrical wordage again.”
“Is he not stalking, sir?”
“He is walking.”
“But what does he want?” said Lucy, his voice taking on a shade of exasperation.
“Who can tell? Surely it isn’t only one thing.”
“And why is that?”
“Because no one wants only one thing.”
As calmly as he might, Lucy asked, “Can nothing be done about him?”
“What would you suggest, boy?”
“Expel him?”
“Excellent idea. And do let me know how that pans out for you, eh?”
“All I know, sir,” said Lucy, “is that I shall never feel safe here, knowing he might pounce on me at any moment.”
“No, no. He only comes out late at night. This I can say with certainty. You get to your room at a decent hour, and lock up your door before turning in, and all will be well with you. Now if you don’t mind, I—”
“The man thought it his room, sir.”
“What?”
“The man thought my room was his own. He seemed quite sure of it.”
“Is that so?” said Mr. Olderglough.
“It is so. And would you care to tell me why?”
“Why?” said Mr. Olderglough, blinking politely.
Lucy said, “Whatever happened to Mr. Broom, sir?”
Mr. Olderglough’s face formed a scowl, and a low growl came from the back of his throat. “No,” he said at last. “I won’t speak of it.”
“And why not?”
“Because it is unspeakable.”
Considering the grandly mysterious awfulness of this statement, Lucy became lost in private thought; this was ongoing for such a length of time that Mr. Olderglough felt it necessary to admit, “I find myself wondering when you’ll leave my room, boy.”
Lucy retired in a sort of daze, and spent the rest of the morning feeling chased by his anxieties. His duties were performed in half measures, and he found his thoughts turning increasingly to recollections of Bury, the safety and comforts of his home. Mr. Olderglough, intuiting this mood, and hoping to re-establish a bond of congeniality between them, came to Lucy in his room that afternoon bearing the news that Lucy would travel to the town of Listen the next day, to be fitted for a new suit of clothes. This made little impression on Lucy, who was sulking in earnest, now; but when Mr. Olderglough passed over Lucy’s cap, this captured his imagination.
“The little village girl brought it,” Mr. Olderglough said.
“Klara?”
“I don’t know her name. The small one with the twinkly eyes.”
The cap issued a muted crumpling, and Lucy discovered a note folded beneath the sheepskin flap. Klara’s penmanship was cautiously deliberate, and the words fell at a slant, as though they would march off the edge of the paper:
It’s because we like you that we tease you, Lucy. Please will you come and visit us? Your Klara.
Mr. Olderglough peered over Lucy’s shoulder, that he might also read the note. “Are you in the midst of an intrigue?” he asked.
“I don’t know yet, sir.”
“Will you tell me when you find out?”
“I will.”
“Because I’m curious to know.”
“I’ll tell you, sir.”
“Very good,” said Mr. Olderglough, and he left the room.
Lucy spent some moments rereading and handling the note and considering its importance, the influence it might wield over his future. The puppy sat at his feet, looking up at him.
“My Klara,” Lucy said.