Shortly after he was tied to his bed the Baron came to, and upon registering the fact of his apprehension, then did he begin to flail and wail, to curse and spit, to roar from his depths, taken up with such manner of rage that he lost control of his functions; or perhaps it was that he intentionally encouraged this action as a non-verbal means of expressing his ire—either way, Lucy found it a grisly spectacle. Mr. Olderglough, conversely, took it in stride, and with something beyond patience; one would have thought he was looking after a temperamental infant rather than a raving, matter-smeared psychotic. Shy of the dawn, however, his years began to show, and he excused himself to rest and regroup. Lucy was ordered to stay and watch over the Baron, and he did this, sitting at a distance and monitoring the Baron’s ongoing tantrum, until such a time as the man exhausted himself, dropping into spent sleep; and so too did Lucy succumb to fatigue, sitting upright in his chair. They were the both of them awakened some hours later by the fact of the too-bright afternoon daylight. When the Baron spied Lucy from the corner of his eye he swiveled his head, and a calm came over his face. Perhaps it was his having rested, or possibly his mania had temporarily receded of its own accord, but he was, all at once, human again.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“I am Lucy, sir. Hello.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I live here, sir. I’ve taken over for Mr. Broom.”
“Broom.” The Baron said this gloweringly, as if the man were antagonistic to his well-being. Suddenly there was a seriousness about his person, as if some pressing thought had come to him. “You will untie me, now,” he said.
“I mustn’t do that, sir.”
“You will untie me or you will be dismissed.”
“I’m very sorry to disagree with you, sir, but I have my orders from Mr. Olderglough, and I shall defer to him.”
“Mr. Olderglough,” said the Baron; and it was clear by his tone that he felt a fondness for the man. “And where is he now?”
“Here I am, I always am,” said Mr. Olderglough, entering the room looking greatly refreshed and carrying a steam-trailing soup bowl. “Wherever I find myself, and there I be.” He sat at the Baron’s bedside and, recognizing his present-ness, rejoiced. “Oh, welcome back, sir. It does me good to lay eyes upon you, and that’s the purest truth.”
The Baron smiled. “How have you been, Myron?”
“Up and down, sir.”
“More of the same?”
“The trials of a life.”
“What of the melancholy, may I ask?”
“Stubbornly persistent, I’m sorry to say.”
“If only modest joy were so dogged, eh?”
“You said something there, sir.”
The Baron gestured with his chin to the bowl in Mr. Olderglough’s hands. “What have you got, there? Agnes hasn’t been knocking about in the scullery again, I hope.”
“I’m afraid that she has, sir.”
“And I suppose you’ll want me to partake, is that the idea?”
“It is indeed.”
“May I ask what’s in it?”
“Better you go in blind, is my thought, sir. Just know that it’ll revitalize the spirit.” Mr. Olderglough brought a spoonful of broth to the Baron’s mouth. The Baron reluctantly received this, his face screwing up to a squint.
“Her admiration for pepper has not waned.”
“She is devout, sir.”
The Baron was peering into the bowl. “What is that floating, there?”
“One way to find out, sir. Let’s get on with it, and see what else the day has in store for us, what do you say to that?”
The Baron acquiesced, and the meal resumed. In watching this pair, Lucy wondered at the years that had passed between them. They were so perfectly comfortable with one another as to appear of a piece; it seemed the most natural thing in the world that one should be spoon-feeding the other. After the bowl had been emptied, Mr. Olderglough asked,
“Now, was that so bad?”
“You know perfectly well that it was,” the Baron answered, though he did look ever more hale. “Now,” he said, “I believe the time has come to address the fact of my being tied to my own bed, in a state of undress, and in need of several concurrent baths.”
“Yes, about that, sir,” Mr. Olderglough said. “It goes without saying I’m sorry you find yourself in such a condition as this. But at the same time, I can’t claim it wasn’t a necessity, because it was.”
“I have been—misbehaving again?” said the Baron.
“For some months now, sir, yes. Do you not recall it?”
“Somewhat I do.” Here he peered through time, and shuddered at what he found there. “It is unpleasant to consider,” he said.
“You’ll get no argument from me there, sir. Possibly it’s best not to dwell.”
“Yes.”
“Let us look to the future rather than mull over the past.”
“It’s a nourishing thought, Myron, and thank you for it.” The Baron sniffed. “And will you untie me, now?”
“I will not, sir, no.”
“Do you have a time in mind when you might?”
“Quite soon, I hope.”
“You were always a fair man.”
“I like to believe it, sir.”
The Baron grimaced. “Why does my head hurt?”
“Well, sir,” said Mr. Olderglough, “you were in such a state that I was forced to club you.”
“Club me, did you say?”
“Indeed.”
“I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“Nor did I. Actually, and if I may be so bold, it was somewhat thrilling.”
“Surely it must have been. You’ll have to tell me about it one day.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Has anyone else been injured?”
“You clipped my wing some time back, but I’m one hundred percent at present. And you gave young Lucy here a fright that resulted in a knock on the skull, isn’t that right, boy?”
The Baron looked across at Lucy, and a sorrowful mien came over him, as though contemplating Lucy’s porcelain countenance in the honest light of day brought his sins back to him, so that a shame took hold of him, and he turned away to bury his face in his pillows and bedding. He was for a time consumed by his sadness, his tone a high, whining wheeze; and Lucy studied the Baron as a pitiable but highly sympathetic individual. But Lucy’s empathy was short-lived, as a brief while later the Baron’s voice took on a gruff edge, and now did his rage come creeping back, and he began once more to rant and spit and curse, his alter ego having reclaimed stewardship of his spirit. Lucy found this disheartening, not to say frightening; but Mr. Olderglough was not the least surprised. He led Lucy from the Baron’s chambers. In the hall he regarded him kindly. It was to be, he assured his protégé, an undertaking.