As Rory tried to sleep that night, he thought more and more about what Izzy’s cards had revealed. Even though he didn’t believe in her fortune-telling, it still got under his skin.
He remembered a few of the strange things his best friend had done over the years, things he couldn’t rightly explain. Once, when they were sitting on the docks of Quintus Harbor, Izzy called out to a bird, and to Rory’s amazement, the black-and-white magpie landed on Izzy’s hand, its small, glittering eyes blinking rapidly. Another time, when they were exploring the Glades, he could have sworn she started a campfire without flame or kindling.
Just coincidences, he told himself. Or tricks of the eye.
Rory rolled over in bed and sniffed the air. The pleasing aroma of fried clams and hot bread drifted up the stairs. His mum must have gotten up early just to make him a good meal. That didn’t happen often. She usually slept late because she worked into the night at Black Maddie’s.
He rose from his small bed and splashed water on his face from the basin on his nightstand. It was cold, but he didn’t feel like heating it. He needed to get going.
He stuffed the few pairs of pants and shirts he owned into an old canvas bag, along with his best socks (the ones without holes), a deck of playing cards, and an assortment of rocks he’d been saving for as long as he could remember. He wasn’t sure what he would do with the cards and the rocks, but he took them anyway. It was a comfort of sorts, to have a few mementos from home in his bag and pockets.
As for the advance Lord Foxglove had given him, Rory’s mum would be paying a visit to the notorious Mr. Bumbailiff first thing that morning. Rory wished he could stick around long enough to see the expression on the awful man’s face when the debt was paid off, but knowing he and his mum were in the clear was reward enough.
Rory looked in the small piece of mirror glass nailed to the wall. He dragged a comb through his curly hair. At one time, he’d thought about growing it out in long, ropy strands, a style he’d seen on a sailor who’d stopped in Gloom for a respite from the sea. The man had skin like him, dark and smooth. Rory had wanted to talk to the sailor to find out where he came from and where he was going. What had he seen in the great, wide world? Rory never gained the courage though, and only watched him from afar and made up stories about him.
His mother greeted him as he walked into the kitchen. “Thought you could do with a nice breakfast first,” she said.
The coal stove was hot, and the room was cozy. Wan light trickled in through the one small window. The cries of birds sounded outside.
“Thanks, Mum,” Rory replied, and sat down.
This was a special breakfast, Rory realized. He usually had a piece of fried bread or a boiled egg. It seemed his mum wanted to send him off with a full belly.
As Rory ate, he wondered how soon he’d be able to come back and visit. He imagined his mum was thinking the same thing, as she studied him intently, a forlorn look plain on her face.
He ate the last of the clams and then sopped up the sauce with his bread. His mum hugged him tight, and he inhaled the woodsy scent of patchouli oil. Every morning, she dropped a trembling bead of the liquid from a stopper onto her wrists and rubbed them together. “Do your best, Rory,” she said. “I know you’ll do a good job.”
Rory knew he couldn’t let her down. She was counting on him. He had to make her proud. “I will, Mum,” he said.
And with that, he threw his bag over his shoulder and headed to Foxglove Manor.
Cool sea air caressed Rory’s cheeks as he walked. He looked out over the bay and was reminded of the time that he and his friend Petru had spent an afternoon on the ocean. Petru’s father had taken them out on his small, single-mast ship, but the trip was cut short when a storm suddenly hit. The boat rocked back and forth on the water, dipping and bobbing, sending seawater onto the deck and soaking Rory’s clothes and face. He remembered the color of the sky that day. The clouds had been bruised and angry, almost completely black. But he hadn’t been scared. He’d actually enjoyed it, and had wondered what it would be like to spend your life on the sea.
The loud cry of a gull snapped Rory out of his daydream. Now wasn’t the time for lollygagging. Izzy’s words came back to him again: It means you have to be careful, Rory. Very, very careful.
What exactly did that mean? he wondered. Is something bad going to happen at Foxglove Manor?
He shook the thought away and continued on. He didn’t believe in Izzy’s carved deck, anyway.
Rory spent the first day at Foxglove Manor learning all about the house. Malvonius led him around as if he were on a leash behind him, barking commands with brusque efficiency:
“Off-limits.”
“Floors should be scrubbed every other day.”
“Polish the brass doorknobs.”
“Sweep the carpets.”
And all manner of other duties. Outside, Malvonius had shown Rory a rambling tangle of weeds, plants, and shrubs that was supposed to be a garden. It would need tending as well. He certainly had his work cut out for him.
The right side of the main hall revealed a small powder room, which is where people went to wash up, Rory knew, even though he had never been in one. Beyond that was the drawing room—where he’d had his first interview. Farther down, the suit of armor stood guard before the right turn that led to the red door and Lord Foxglove’s cellar study. To the left of the hall was another powder room, a kitchen, and something called the “great room,” which had dramatic double doors and was for “very important guests,” Rory was told.
“Where’s Lord Foxglove’s bedroom?” Rory asked.
Malvonius stopped and peered down at him. “The lord of the manor roams wherever he pleases. It is not the concern of servants.”
Rory looked away, embarrassed. He really didn’t like Malvonius Root. Not one bit.
Upstairs was a suite of dusty rooms, the smallest of which was situated at the end of a dim hall and was to be Rory’s. The only source of light in the hallway came from a paraffin lamp set upon a long table shoved against the wall.
Rory’s room was more like a closet, really. There was a small wooden bed and side table, a pitcher and basin for washing up, and a smelly oil lantern with a very short wick. The glass in the window over the bed was cracked. It was cold most nights, and the thin blanket did nothing to warm his bones. His meals, which were regular but not very appetizing—mostly fish stew and bread—usually had to be eaten while sitting on the side of the bed with the plate on the low side table. Either that or balanced on his knees. Malvonius had said that he could eat in the kitchen only at the end of the day, as long as he didn’t “disturb anyone,” whatever that meant.
The manor not only had gas lamps but indoor plumbing as well. Unfortunately, Malvonius had told him the powder rooms were off-limits and reserved for guests. Rory had to make do with the basin in his room, which left a lot to be desired. If he wanted to clean with hot water, he had to fill a pot from the kitchen, heat it up on the stove, then carry the steaming kettle upstairs, all while trying to avoid the glare of Malvonius. Suffice it to say, he didn’t bathe with hot water very often.
The odd thing was that even though Rory was hired as a valet, he never had much interaction with his employer. He kept Foxglove’s coats and trousers clean with a boar-bristle brush that Malvonius had given him, but the lord of the manor kept to himself and never seemed to go anywhere. Rory didn’t know why such care was taken for his master’s appearance if he never entertained or even left the house.
Each morning, a note was tacked to Rory’s door listing his duties. He supposed it was Malvonius who left them. The thin, spidery script seemed in keeping with the butler’s mysterious demeanor. On any given day, Rory had to light and tend fireplaces, clean the mahogany furniture with water and lemon, sweep and beat the carpets, make sure the rooms were free of spiders and other creepy-crawlies, and, most important, polish Lord Foxglove’s boots, which were made of leather so black Rory could see his reflection in them when he was finished.
One afternoon, Rory got a look at something he had been curious about ever since his first day, when Malvonius had showed him around the manor.
He was polishing the suit of armor at the end of the main hall when he heard the distinct clicking of Lord Foxglove’s boots on the floor. Rory looked up as Malvonius and his employer strode past without so much as a glance and turned down the smaller hall to the right. Rory quickly peeked around the corner. They were standing in front of the red door.
Rory ducked back and ran the cloth along the armor, staying alert the whole while. He heard murmuring but not the actual words. It was much too dangerous to steal another glance.
There was a click, like a key being turned in a lock, and then a door being closed shut.
Rory stopped his polishing. He knew that the best way to do something dangerous was to do it right away, so he rushed around the corner.
He stepped up to the door. It was indeed red, but it was much more unusual than that.
A forest of black, spindly trees covered the entire surface, from top to bottom. He stared, and after a moment, it seemed as if the trees were swaying in an invisible breeze. Rory felt the hairs stand up at the back of his neck. The trees were definitely moving. He reached out with a hesitant hand, but stopped. A hissing sound came through the door, like the sound a bellows makes when it releases air.
Then footsteps on the other side.
Rory dashed back to the suit of armor, cloth in hand, and pretended to be obsessed with a spot of rust.
Lord Foxglove and Malvonius stepped out, none the wiser, and headed toward the cellar.
Rory breathed easier. He fingered the chain around his neck that held the black stone.
He didn’t know what was behind the red door, but he was determined to find out.