The house itself was a monstrosity—a gargantuan tapestry of brick, wood, and stone—jutting out of the earth like a madman’s nightmare. It leaned a little, too, as if the whole thing could blow over in a strong wind. Creeping green vines snaked their way up the walls and coiled around a crumbling, blackened chimney.
Rory swallowed hard.
Only a crumbly, old house, he reassured himself.
Mothsburg Lane was east of Copper Street and farther away from Quintus Harbor. The houses here were set apart from one another, giving the inhabitants room to breathe. In Rory’s neighborhood, most people lived in small row homes crammed together. But not here. Patches of green grass divided the houses, most of which loomed behind high gates and tall trees. Rory wondered how much money it would cost to maintain them. There would have to be a groundskeeper, maids, butlers, and all manner of servants. But he saw no sign of life on the street, not even a stray dog or a slinky, roaming cat, which were numerous around Copper Street and Market Square—closer to the docks and scraps of food, he figured.
He let out a breath. What would Izzy say if she saw him here now? He needed to tell her about the job he was seeking. She was his best friend after all.
Rory walked up a row of white steps and faced the door. He’d wanted to arrive early that morning, but he’d had chores around the house to finish first. Now it was already late afternoon. A gentleman’s valet, he thought again. That was a butler of sorts. Someone who helped rich people do stuff. I can do that, he told himself. How hard could it be?
Rory took a deep breath and reached for the door knocker. He shivered. It was a gruesome, leering face, the tongue being the knocker itself. He picked it up and let it fall, sending an echo down the block and back again.
The air was cool, and red and gold leaves swirled around on the stoop. The glass in the gaslight above his head was shattered. The air smelled like copper pennies.
He shuffled his feet. Why is it taking so long?
The heavy door opened with a creak.
A man in a black and white butler’s uniform stood before him. He was very tall and stooped, as if he had trouble straightening himself. His arms hung at his sides like some sort of simian creature.
Rory didn’t speak while the butler looked him up and down. Finally, he realized he should say something first. “My name’s Rory,” he said a little too quickly, “and I’m here about the gentleman’s valet job.”
The butler continued to observe him, and Rory noticed that one eye was blue and the other ice-cold gray, which Rory found quite unsettling. Long, dark hair hung flat on either side of his face.
“Are you indeed?” the butler asked in a deep, slow voice, his mouth opening and closing like a marionette.
“Am I indeed what?” Rory asked.
“Why, a gentleman’s valet,” the man answered, as if Rory was the dumbest boy in the world.
“Oh,” Rory replied, trying to put on a good face. “Yes, well. I suppose so.”
The butler let out a dismissive humph, then straightened a little and pulled the door wide. “Follow me,” he said.
And that’s what Rory did.
He found himself in a long, narrow hall, with rooms to either side. Decorative brass sconces were affixed to the walls, spreading weak light. He had heard of gaslight inside homes before but had never been in one that had it. Paintings were hung close together in ornate frames of gold and silver. There were so many that Rory could barely make out the color of the wall beneath. They were all portraits—men and women looking out from their frames with solemn gazes. They seemed to be from another era, one Rory was not familiar with—men with powdered wigs and ruffled collars, women with elaborate hairstyles and glittering jewels around their necks. Rory took it all in quickly, trying not to ogle at the strangeness he had just stepped into. At the end of the hall, a rusted suit of armor stood at the ready, silver lance in hand.
The butler made a right turn and Rory followed. The room they entered was like nothing he had ever seen. Tall windows let in light through faded yellow curtains. One wall revealed a towering bookshelf sagging under the weight of too many leather-bound books. Fancy chairs with scrolled armrests and clawed feet were spread about, and several candelabras sat on tables and pedestals. Paintings were hung here as well, but not as many as in the hall.
“Please,” the butler said. “Take a seat.”
Rory looked left, then right. He wasn’t sure where to sit but finally settled in a chair covered in a mossy-green fabric. A lighted candelabra flickered on a small table beside him. The man remained standing, reached within his suit jacket, and took out a small pad of paper and a black fountain pen. He flipped to a blank page, coughed, and then said, “Diseases. Do you have any?”
Rory swallowed. His mum told him he’d once had the ague when he was very little. Is that what the man meant? But he didn’t have time to answer.
“Have you ever been to Outer Europica?” The butler continued.
“No,” Rory answered.
“The Isle of Falling Clouds?”
“No.”
“Have you ever seen a snake shed its skin?”
“No.”
“Been bitten by a tarantula?”
“No.”
“Have you ever found a golden egg?”
Golden egg? Rory thought. What is this all about?
“No, sir,” he said. “I’m here about the job. The valet job.”
The butler looked up from his pad. His gray eye moved around in its socket, while the blue one remained still. “Why, what do you think we are doing, young man? This is an interview. Lord Foxglove is taking great care with whom he shall hire for the position.”
“Lord Foxglove?”
The butler closed his eyes and then sighed. “This house is called Foxglove Manor, is it not?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “That means, quite possibly, that someone by that name might reside here. Do you understand?”
Rory swallowed. “Yes.”
This interview wasn’t going very well.
The man turned away and walked to the bookcase. He rubbed his chin, then extended a long finger and pulled a book from the shelf. Rory watched him as he turned and made his way back. He had a strange gait, more animal than human, almost as if he were walking on his tiptoes. He stopped in front of Rory and handed him the book. The cover was dusty, and Rory felt his nose tingle as if he were about to sneeze, but somehow he avoided it.
“Can you read?” the butler asked.
“Yes,” Rory answered. Reading was one of his favorite pastimes, though good books were hard to come by in Gloom. They were all sad stories with unhappy endings.
“Very well,” the man replied. “Open to any page and read a passage.”
Rory shifted in his seat. He felt a coiled spring underneath him and thought it would burst through and poke his backside. Why does he want me to do that? Maybe he’d have to read shopping and errand lists for Lord Foxglove if he was hired. He couldn’t think of any other reason.
“Ahem,” the butler sniffed, impatient.
Rory looked at the cover. Words in an unknown language stared back at him. Maybe it was different inside, he thought, and opened the book. The butler crouched down, close to Rory’s face. Rory caught a faint whiff of something unpleasant. He wrinkled his nose.
“Anywhere will do,” the man instructed him.
Rory scanned down the page, which seemed to be some kind of brittle parchment. He exhaled. “The ancient sea mariners of old crafted ships from the finest ebony—”
“That’s enough.” The butler cut him off and rose back up to his full height.
Rory closed the book. Dust coated his fingertips.
A sly grin formed on the strange man’s face. “You didn’t say you could read Old Aramaic.”
“Old what?”
“Aramaic, one of the oldest languages in the world.”
“Well, I can’t,” Rory said rather bluntly.
“Well, you just did, young man. You just did.” He crouched down again, and Rory saw a long, black hair curling out of one nostril. “And how, pray tell, do you explain that?”
Rory gulped. “Luck?”
His interviewer straightened back up. Rory wanted to check the book again and get a closer look, but it was quickly snatched away.
“Lord Foxglove has charged me with finding a valet.” The butler sniffed. “You’ll do.”
Rory contained his excitement. He had a job!
“Come back tomorrow and the lord of the manor will take a look at you.” The butler reached into his suit jacket and took out a scroll of paper, which unspooled to the floor like a ribbon. “It’s all in order,” he said, handing Rory his fountain pen. “Please sign.”
Rory held the heavy pen between his fingers. Take a look at me? he thought. What did he mean by that?
Rory lifted the bottom of the page and brought it close to his face. Several passages were written in English, as well as other languages he didn’t recognize. It was as if a colony of ants had swarmed the page. “What exactly am I signing?” he asked.
“I thought you said you could read,” the butler scolded. “You are signing a contract, and in order to do that, one must be able to read, don’t you think? That is why I asked you in the first place.”
A contract, Rory thought. He had never signed anything before, especially something as important looking as this. He tried to focus. He had a decision to make. He and his mum needed money, that was certain, but he didn’t know what all of these words meant. Just do it, he told himself. Mr. Bumbailiff’s threat rang in his ears: One week . . . with interest. If not, you’re out.
Rory steeled himself, and then signed on the dotted line.
The butler quickly snatched the paper from his hands. It was only then that Rory saw, very clearly, as if it had just come into focus, a few words in a small, fanciful script at the bottom of the page, and they struck him like an arrow:
Upon Penalty of Death.