Rory left Foxglove Manor in a daze. His thoughts were scattered. He knew he had just signed a contract, but the memory of it was floating away second by second, like a dream.
He felt mesmerized. Under a spell. How had he been able to read all of those strange words? The butler had said it was Old Aramaic. How could that be?
And what about Lord Foxglove? Shouldn’t Rory have met his employer?
Oh well, he thought, nothing to do for it now.
A gray and white cat lazily strolled in front of Rory as he passed Black Maddie’s, Gloom’s most popular inn. It was a small, one-story building made from white stones covered in slick, wet moss. Loud, raucous music drifted out the door and into the street.
Rory climbed the steps and wiped his muddy shoes on a straw mat. Inside, the strong aroma of beer, smoke, and cooked mutton filled the air. It was a familiar scent and one that clung to his clothes every time he visited. Darkness lay over the place like a cloak but for a few fat candles placed on the square-cut, wooden tables. Music rose above the din of clinking bottles and raised voices. Rory looked to the makeshift stage built with planks of wood stacked higher than the floor. One melancholy voice rose in the air and he smiled. It was his mum, singing a sad sea ballad, one that she had sung to him when he was a child, and he knew the tune well:
“So I signed aboard a whaling ship
and my very first day at sea,
there I spied in the waves,
her reaching out for me.
‘Come live with me in the sea,’ said she,
‘down on the ocean floor,
and I’ll show you many a wondrous thing
that you’ve never seen before.’”
Hilda Sorenson raised her arms in the air. The pianist, a man as skinny and white as a bleached skeleton, hammered away at the keys. A few strands of lank hair clung to his bald head. Rory shifted his gaze back to his mum. She had bright-red hair that flowed down her back and a thin, sharp nose—two things Rory had not inherited. He was darker than most in Gloom, with close-cropped, curly black hair and almond-shaped eyes. When Rory asked his mum why they looked so different, she’d told him that he favored his father and left it at that. Rory could tell it was something she didn’t want to talk about.
His mum stood against a backdrop of a rippling sailcloth painted sky blue. If you looked at it closely enough, you could imagine seagulls and small white ships riding the waves. After the song was finished, Hilda and Rory sat at a table in the dim back of the room. Rory ordered a cinnamon root elixir from the barkeep. It was his favorite drink. There were certainly stronger cordials available at Black Maddie’s, but Rory wasn’t of age to drink them. Plus, he didn’t want to. More than once, he’d seen the men stumbling out of the inn, their legs too rubbery to hold them up. They usually fell into a heap and didn’t move again until morning, when they dusted themselves off and went about their way.
“There’s my love.” Rory’s mum kissed him on the cheek. She had dark circles under her eyes from too many nights singing for tips after working at the leather tannery during the day.
“Well?” she asked eagerly, raising her eyebrows in anticipation.
Rory sipped his drink. He had good news, although the circumstances were still a bit odd to him. He decided to draw out the moment, and slurped again.
“Rory.” She persisted.
He set his glass on the table. “I’ll be working at Foxglove Manor as a valet.”
Hilda Sorenson almost jumped out of her seat, which was quite dramatic for someone who lived in Gloom. “Oh! That’s wonderful, my boy! Splendid. Now, tell me all about it. When do you start?”
“Tomorrow.” Rory paused.
He had no idea what time he was supposed to show up. All he remembered was that the butler had said to come tomorrow to meet Lord Foxglove. Take a look at you, he recalled with a shiver.
“Tomorrow?” Hilda repeated. “Not much time to get ready then, huh?”
Rory shrugged.
“Well,” she said optimistically, picking a speck of lint from Rory’s frayed sweater. “I’ve taught you a few things, haven’t I? You know how to tie a cravat, mix a whiskey sour, press a shirt, and tell a good joke. So, do you think you’re prepared?”
Rory nodded. “I think so.”
But inside, he wasn’t really sure. He remembered the words on the contract he had just signed: Upon Penalty of Death.
He swallowed the last of his drink.