“That’s everything,” Rory’s mum moaned. “All our money. Gone.”
Rory sat down next to her on the couch. Dull afternoon light drifted in through the window.
“It’s okay, Mum,” he consoled her. “I’ll think of something.”
“But what?” Hilda questioned. “You’re too young to work on the ships. That’s all the work there is in this awful town.”
It was true, Rory knew.
In Gloom, most boys and girls worked on the ships that set sail from the docks at Quintus Harbor—cleaning and scrubbing the decks, sewing sailcloth, and working their way up to becoming riggers, who were in charge of furling and releasing the sails. But Rory was only twelve—thirteen in a few short weeks—and the rules said you had to be at least fourteen years of age to work. Rory had no idea who came up with the rules or how they were even enforced. He knew a boy once named Petru who worked on the ships when he was only eleven years old. He was tall for his age, though, and his father just happened to be a quartermaster. Come to think of it, Rory mused, that must’ve been the reason.
“I’ll find a job,” he said. “Promise.”
Hilda Sorenson pulled a cloth from her dress pocket and blew her nose. It was as loud as a honking goose.
Rory laid a comforting hand on her shoulder, which she clasped in return.
“All is not lost yet,” she said. She rose from the couch and smoothed her wrinkled dress with her hands, then bent back down to the floor. A loose slat of wood creaked as she pulled it up. Underneath was a small glittering mound.
“Where’d that come from?” Rory asked in surprise.
“I saved it,” his mum replied, standing. “Just enough to buy us a few days if we ever fell behind.”
She counted out several shiny coins and handed them to Rory. “Run to the market and get enough food for the week. Spend it wisely. No cakes or pies. Understand?”
“Right,” Rory said reluctantly.
Without warning, she threw her arms around him and held him tight. “It’ll be all right, Son,” she said. “We’ll be okay.”
“I know, Mum,” he replied, his eyes stinging. “I know.”
Outside, Rory passed the belching factories and foundries on Copper Street. Small, low houses and bleak taverns dotted the landscape. The smell of iron forges and the clanging of smiths hard at work could be heard in the distance. Specks of black dust floated in the air around him.
Rory lived here, along with a few hundred other unfortunate souls. It was one of the poorest neighborhoods in Gloom, but it was all he and his mum could afford. Most people didn’t come to Copper Street unless they wanted trouble. Roving gangs armed with brass knuckles and blunderbusses were known to prowl the streets late at night, looking for easy victims. “Marks,” the villains called them. Rory didn’t want to be a mark, so he kept a brisk pace and tucked his chin. But that wasn’t strange. Everyone in Gloom walked like that.
Rory took in the sights as he went about his way, but there really wasn’t much to see. The town was situated alongside Quintus Harbor, which fed into the Black Sea. He stopped by the docks for a moment and watched men and women unloading nets of fish from their boats. White gulls and other seabirds hovered in the air around them, hoping to snag a tasty morsel. The sailors were hard people—wind chafed and grim from spending their lives on the water. The bounty they usually brought in was tremendous: huge sea crabs and scallops; eels, urchins, cod, and shrimp. Rory, and every other person in Gloom, grew up on food from the sea. They ate so much that folks far and wide said their blood was made of salt water.
Every now and then, Rory and his best friend, Izzy, would sit on the docks and stare out over the bay. Once, they saw a fighting ship far in the distance, its massive sails snapping in the breeze. Rory loved ships and often fantasized about sailing and adventure. Of course, he was always the hero in these stories, most of them having to do with battling giant squids and visiting far-off lands. As he’d looked out over the water that day, he wondered who was on that ship and where they were going. From time to time, people in Gloom spoke of war in a faraway land, but Rory didn’t know anything about that. He figured they were just making up stories to explain things they didn’t really understand.
After a few more minutes of walking, he arrived at Market Square, an outdoor space open year round, where vendors’ stalls lined the perimeter. To the east of the square, tall trees stood at the edge of the forest known as the Glades, another favorite haunt of Izzy and Rory’s.
Even though it was midmorning, a pallid grayness hung over the town, courtesy of the foggy marine layer that rolled in daily. It usually took several hours for it to clear, and the fog seemed to seep into everything, which made Gloom even gloomier.
The square was bustling with vendors selling everything from fish to bread to oysters to clams. Rory bought two speckled trout, a jug of milk, a loaf of crusty bread, and a packet of salt. He still had two coppers left. He licked his lips at a stall called Miss Julia’s that sold pies and sweets. Rory loved a bit of sweet after a meal, but they couldn’t afford it. He sighed and lifted his pack over his shoulder. Before he turned to leave the square and make his way back home, a handbill pasted to a lamppost caught his eye. Rory leaned in to read it:
Gentleman’s Valet needed at Foxglove Manor for duties befitting the title.
Must be familiar with the tools of the trade.
Pay requisite with experience.
333 Mothsburg Lane
Rory’s pulse raced. Here was a job he could do. He didn’t exactly know what a valet was or what the tools of the trade were, but he was sure he could figure it out. He was smart like that. There was only one problem.
It was at Foxglove Manor.
Everyone in Gloom had heard of the place. It had been in the town for generations and was the source of incredible tales and rumors. People said it was haunted by the spirits of previous tenants, that it had rooms that appeared and disappeared at will, and, most frightful of all, that you could be turned to ash just by stepping inside.
But Rory didn’t believe any of those things. The people of Gloom were a superstitious lot, and the first to blame bogies and spirits for the most easily explained events. Truth be told, it was probably the dark clouds that hung over the town year after year that caused this malaise. It was part of Gloom. It was in Gloom.
“A job,” Rory whispered. “Money to help Mum and me.”
He tore the handbill from the pole and raced home.
Rory rushed into the house out of breath and waving the handbill. “A job!” he cried out. “For a gentleman’s valet at Foxglove Manor!”
He set down his pack on the table. His mum was in front of the fire, drinking a cup of tea. She got up and turned to him. Rory could tell she had been crying. Her face was splotchy and wet. “At Foxglove Manor?” she asked warily.
Rory handed her the notice and watched as she read it. “Seems on the up-and-up,” she said, handing it back. “But—”
Rory raised an eyebrow. “You don’t believe all that stuff about the manor, do you, Mum?”
Hilda sat back down by the fire, and Rory took a seat in one of the chairs beside her.
“No,” she said, “not really. I’m sure it’s all just rubbish.”
But Rory saw concern etched on her face. She wasn’t sure about it.
“We need the money,” he said urgently. “If I get the job, we won’t have to worry about Mr. Bumbailiff, at least for a while.”
Hilda took out her handkerchief and dabbed her eyes.
Rory was taken aback. “What is it, Mum? What’s wrong?”
“This shouldn’t all fall on you, Son.” She sniffed. “You should be out enjoying being a boy, not worrying about whether you have a roof over your head.”
“But it’s not all on me,” Rory countered. “You work two jobs every day, Mum. It’s only fair I do my part as well.”
Hilda turned to him. She clasped his hand. Embers pop-ped and hissed in the fireplace. Rory looked into the flames. “I’ll get the job,” he said quietly, “and we’ll pay off that miserable Mr. Bumbailiff. Then, maybe we can go on a little trip. Set sail and see all of Europica. How’s that sound, Mum?”
In answer, Hilda Sorenson squeezed her son’s hand a little more tightly. “That would be splendid, Rory. Absolutely splendid.”