He awoke the next morning in his own bed, Rose licking his face, his head gauze-wrapped, his skull lumped and tender. There came a knock on his door and Agnes entered carrying a breakfast tray. He sat up and she set the tray upon his lap; pouring him a cup of tea, her face was nearer to his than it had ever been before—he noticed she had a downy cheek, and the balled red ear of a newborn. She placed a spoon in his hand and moved to sit in the rocking chair, patiently and wordlessly observing Lucy while he ate. After he had finished, she removed the tray and set it by the door before returning to the chair. Folding her hands, then, and with what seemed to be repressed irritation, she said, “Now, I’d like to know just what it is you think you’re doing here, boy.”
Lucy said, “Ma’am?”
“Did you not hear what I said?”
“I heard. I suppose I’m not sure I understand the question. A position was offered to me, and I accepted the position.”
“But surely there’s some other type of work where you come from?”
“Not so very much. Nothing that suited me, anyway.”
“And what is it about this appointment that suits you, can I ask?”
“It’s far away,” he said. “It’s different.”
She spoke as though they had hit upon something key: “What if it’s too far away, Lucy?” she said. “What if it’s too different?” Now she fished a single gold coin from her smock pocket and laid this on the bed. “Here is your return fare. And I would like for you to go home, if you please.”
Lucy looked at the coin but didn’t pick it up. “You’re terminating me?”
“It wouldn’t be my place to do that.”
“Does Mr. Olderglough want me gone, then?”
“I don’t suppose he does. But then, Mr. Olderglough is not currently of a mind to make such judgments.”
“How do you mean, ma’am?”
She assumed the demeanor of one wondering how much she might prudently say. “Do you not find him a peculiar man?”
“Frankly, ma’am,” said Lucy, “most everyone I’ve met since I’ve left home is peculiar to me in one way or another.” Agnes was visibly dissatisfied by the response, however, and so Lucy added, “But yes, I suppose I do find him so particularly.”
She nodded, and asked, “Now, would you be surprised to know that he is more than peculiar?”
“I don’t know what you mean by that,” said Lucy, which was true—he didn’t.
Here Agnes began removing hypothetical bits of grit from her smock. “Far be it from me,” she said, “to besmirch the man’s good name. God knows I looked to him for support and guidance any number of times over the years. But I can’t say, Lucy, that I would look to him for guidance at present.” A sadness came over her, and she said, “Listen to me, boy. Can’t you see that a mistake has been made in bringing you here?”
“But I don’t want to go home, ma’am,” said Lucy. “I’m not happy there.”
“You’re happy here, then?”
Lucy didn’t answer for a moment. He was thinking about Klara. “Possibly I am.”
“You understand that you’re in danger?”
“Yes.”
Agnes stood. There was an air of finality or defeat to her carriage, so that Lucy felt he had let her down in some way. She said, “What happened to you last night will happen again if you stay here. The situation will not improve. On the contrary.” With this, she turned to go. Lucy asked her,
“But why do you stay on, ma’am?”
She lingered in the doorway, considering her reply. Speaking over her shoulder, she said, “Many years ago, I made an agreement with a friend. So long as he remains, then so will I stay as well.” Her eyes were kinder now, smoky, and crowded with emotion. “Hold on to that coin. If the impulse to go seizes you, I want you to heed it. Will you do that for me, boy?”
“All right.”
“Don’t just say it to say it. That’s what Mr. Broom did, and look what it got him.”
It sent a shiver through Lucy, to hear Broom’s name. “What is the matter with him, exactly?” he asked.
“The matter with whom?” Agnes asked.
“With Mr. Broom.”
Agnes shook her head, and she regarded Lucy as though he were a pitiful individual indeed. “You really don’t understand at all, do you?”
“Understand what?”
“Mr. Broom is long dead, Lucy. The man you met last night is the Baron.”