Undermajordomo Minor

IV. THE CASTLE VON AUX

In the morning there stood at the foot of Lucy’s bed a small round human woman wearing an exceedingly white smock and a look of displeasure. She had short grey hair and her face was also grey. Actually her hair and face were similar in colour to the point of being confusing, even jarring, to Lucy. Her hands, resting atop her stomach, were so deeply red as to appear scalded. This was Agnes, the cook.

“Were you not told to lock the door?” she said.

“Hello. Yes. Good morning, ma’am. I was.” Lucy’s head was throbbing, and his throat was so dry that it was difficult to speak. His boots were peering out from beneath the blankets and Agnes, pointing, asked,

“Is this the custom, where you come from?”

“I fell asleep,” Lucy explained, sitting up.

“That’s to be expected, when one is in bed. But why did you not take the boots off before sleep came, is my question.” Agnes drew back the blanket; the sheets were stained with earth and snow. When the puppy clambered out, Agnes gasped. “Goodness! I thought it was a rat.”

“It’s not a rat, ma’am.”

“That’s clear now.” She reached down and scratched the puppy’s chin. “Does Mr Olderglough know you keep an animal?”

“No.”

“And how long were you planning on hiding it from him?”

“It’s nothing I’ve been hiding, ma’am. That is, it’s only just come to pass.”

“It’s something he will want to hear about.”

“I will be sure to tell him.”

“Very good. And when will you be rising, I wonder? Mr Olderglough has had to fetch his own breakfast, and yours is getting colder all the while.”

“I’m sorry about that, ma’am; it won’t happen again. I’m getting up now.”

Agnes nodded, and crossed the room to go. Pausing at the door, she said, “You will remember to lock up?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“It’s not something to be forgotten.” She looked over her shoulder at Lucy. “Or possibly you don’t understand how important this is.”

Lucy swung his boots from the bed, and to the floor. “I suppose I do.” He scooped the puppy up and deposited her in his pocket. “Actually, I don’t,” he said. “Why exactly must I lock my door, please?”

“We all must lock our doors.”

“But what is the reason?”

She measured her words. “It’s not for nothing, and that’s all you need to know.”

Agnes took her leave, and Lucy sat awhile, pondering. “I should like to know quite a lot more than that,” he said at last. Later, he would wish to know less.

He moved to the window, telescope in hand.

Mr Olderglough was sitting in the servants’ dining quarters, a cramped and cheerless room annexed to the scullery. His hand was free from its sling, apparently on the mend, and he was poring over a large leather ledger, to the side of which sat his breakfast, consisting of a bowl of porridge, a thin slice of dry bread, and a cup of tea. An identical setting had been laid out for Lucy; he sat, sampled the porridge, and was not in any way impressed by its flavour, texture, or temperature. His tea was likewise cold, in addition to being bitter, but it washed away the taste of wood shavings the porridge imparted, and so he drank it down in a gulp.

“Good morning, sir,” he said, gasping.

Mr Olderglough nodded but did not respond verbally, distracted now by the sawing of his bread, three cuts lengthwise and three on the height, making for nine squares in total. Once this was accomplished, he stuck out his tongue and lay a square on the fleshy pink appendage. Withdrawing his tongue, he chewed, proffering a look which dared Lucy to comment. Lucy did not comment. He said,

“I find myself wondering, sir, if I might keep an animal.”

Mr Olderglough swallowed. He was moderately alarmed. “An animal?” he said.

“A dog, sir, yes. A puppy.”

“Where in the world did you get a puppy?”

“From Memel, sir. His dog gave birth to a litter.”

“I see. Sloughed the burden off on you, then, did he?”

“I wouldn’t say sloughed.”

“Every man for himself?”

“Not exactly, sir. In point of fact I’m happy to have the puppy. If you’ll allow me to keep it, that is.”

A look of confusion had affixed itself to Mr Olderglough. “When did all this happen, may I ask?”

“Only recently, sir.”

“Clearly.” Staring into space, now, Mr Olderglough said, “Do you ever get the feeling the world is passing you by?”

“I don’t know about that, sir.”

“An occasional rapidity of time? Things occurring in an instant?”

“I’m not sure, sir.”

“A speediness of events? And then, once the speedy event has happened, it cannot unhappen?”

“I suppose that’s true, sir.”

“Yes. Well, at any rate, if you desire a companion, then who am I to stand in the way of your happiness?”

“So I may keep the puppy, sir?”

“And why not? It’s none of my affair what you get up to of a Sunday. I’m a proponent of individual freedom.”

“Yes, sir.”

“One should search out his heart’s desire, wouldn’t you agree with me?”

“Oh, yes, sir.”

“We’ve only got one go-round, eh, Lucy?”

“One go, sir.”

“Once around the park?”

“That’s right.”

“Let’s make it count, why don’t we?”

“Let’s do that, sir.”

Mr Olderglough pointed. “Why aren’t you eating your porridge?”

“Because of the taste of it, sir.”

Mr Olderglough looked about the room, then leaned in and whispered, “Dump it in the fireplace, why don’t you. And mine as well. Agnes stomps and clomps if the plates aren’t licked clean.”

Lucy did as he was told, then returned to his chair.

“Is it a he or a she?” Mr Olderglough asked.

“A she, sir. I hope that’s all right.”

“I have no preference. I’m just making conversation at this point. Would you like another cup of tea?”

“No, thank you.”

“I believe I’ll go again.” Mr Olderglough poured himself a second cup and took a dainty sip. He said, “Did you know that I myself keep a bird?” This last was spoken as though he’d forgotten it to be so, and only just remembered, and was surprised by the fact of it.

“I didn’t know, sir, no,” said Lucy.

“A mynah bird,” said Mr Olderglough, “named Peter. I had thought he might brighten my room with his chirping song. Alas, not a peep.”

“I’d thought the mynah was the chatty one.”

“That’s what I’d been led to believe as well. Consider my displeasure, then.”

“Yes.”

“Study on it.”

“I surely will. I wonder if there’s something the matter with him.”

“Or else the showman’s desire is absent. Anyway, Peter is mute as a stone.” Mr Olderglough sighed. “I could do with a bit of music, to tell you the truth, Lucy. I could do with a bit of cheer.” He propped his head against the back of the chair. “I’ve always liked the name: Peter. That’s what I’d have named my son, if I’d had one. Well, it wasn’t for the lack of trying. If I had a penny for every barn dance I attended in my youth.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Some of us are fated to roam the earth alone, it would seem.”

“Sadly true, sir.”

Mr Olderglough pushed his plate away. “Would you like to meet him? Peter?”

Lucy did not particularly care to, but it seemed to be expected of him, and so he said that he would. Mr Olderglough clapped and stood and began expediently buttoning his coat.

Peter was a deeply antisocial bird. A passerine of middling size with drab brown plumage and a sharp orange-yellow beak, he squatted sullenly on his perch, looking not at but through his visitors. Actually, Lucy thought his expression, if a bird can have an expression, denoted legitimate hatred.

“This is Peter,” Mr Olderglough said.

“Hello, Peter.”

“Say hello, Peter.”

Peter did not say hello, but burrowed his face in his breast and pulled up a leg, standing motionless, and it seemed he would be thus forever.

“Closed up shop,” said Mr Olderglough. “You see how it is, then?”

“Yes, sir, I think I do. And you say he’s never made any sound whatsoever?”

“None.”

“Something which will make him sing, sir.”

“Nothing will.”

Mr Olderglough moved to rest upon a faded fainting couch in the corner of his parlour. Muttering to himself, the man was lost for a time to his reveries, and Lucy took advantage of this to survey his superior’s quarters: at once tasteful and dire, formerly grand, utterly dated, and coated uniformly in dust. It was a room in which time hung more heavily than was the norm, and Lucy had the feeling he was the first to pay a social call in a long while.

A wall clock chimed, and Mr Olderglough said, “You’ll be wanting to meet the train, now, Lucy. In the entryway you’ll find the Baron’s letter on the side table, as well as a list of what’s needed from the village.”

“And with what shall I pay for the goods?”

Mr Olderglough stood, patting his pockets but turning up nothing. “Do me a favour, boy, and pay for them yourself. I’ll get it back to you soon enough.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, sir.”

A twinge of panic struck Mr Olderglough. “Haven’t you any money handy at all?

“None.” Lucy paused. “Perhaps, sir, if you were to give me an advance on my wage?”

“Hmm,” said Mr Olderglough. “No, I don’t believe I’ll do that.”

“I was wondering when I might be paid,” Lucy admitted.

“You will be paid on payday, naturally. For now, you will wait in the entryway, please.”

As Lucy travelled from Mr Olderglough’s room to the castle’s entrance, he was struck by the fact of his enjoying the position, enjoying being told what to do, the marvellous simplicity of it. He had always sensed in his mother and father a desire for him to do something, to do anything, but they were remiss in sharing particular instructions and so, being unambitious himself, he accomplished nothing, and only continued to disappoint them. But now, all at once, he was useful, was being used, and this filled him with a sense of dignity. Arriving at the entryway, he stood by the side table awaiting Mr Olderglough and basking in this feeling. Alas, as the minutes passed by, Lucy’s buoyant attitude turned to restlessness, which then evolved to candid boredom. He scanned the shopping list but this offered nothing in the way of entertainment, and so he found himself wishing to steal a glance at the mysterious Baron’s letter. He knew he must not do this, that it was in direct opposition to what Mr Olderglough had told him, but the desire grew and grew further, and soon he gave in to it. Edging a fingernail under the wax seal, he opened the envelope and unfolded the paper.

My Darling,

What news have you? Will you tell me you no longer love me? Whether or not I would prefer this to the damning silence, I won’t say. The truth is that I am no longer steering this devastated ship. I took my hand off the wheel long ago, and have no concerns or thoughts for a destination. May we be dashed over merciful rocks!

Why do the happy times dim in my memory, while the evil ones grow ever more vivid? And furthermore: why do I bother asking you anything anymore? A marvel: how can the days be so full of someone wholly absent? The scope of your void humbles me. It is vast to the point that part of me hopes you have died. This at least would explain your nonappearance, and so would afford me some slight comfort. Also it would make it simpler for me to die. And yet I love you still and more, with every day that floats past.

I am yours alone,

Baron Von Aux

Lucy read this in a rush, and then again, more slowly. It seemed that emanating from the words there was a dim rumble or vibration, and it caused him to bend his ear nearer the page so as to drink it in. He recognized something of himself in the letter; but also he found himself feeling envious of the Baron’s heartsickness, which was surely superior to any he had experienced. This jealousy struck him as childish, and yet he wasn’t in any way ashamed of it. He returned the letter to the envelope and had just set it back on the side table when Mr Olderglough arrived. “You’ll have to make this stretch, boy,” he said, pressing some coins into Lucy’s hand. Calculating their worth, Lucy thought it impossible, and said as much to Mr Olderglough, who in turn espoused the merits of a credit-based society. It was at this point that Agnes came around the corner. Her red fists stabbed and jabbed at the air as she walked, punctuating her evident rage.

“Which of you dumped his porridge in the fireplace!”

“It was Lucy,” said Mr Olderglough, quickly quitting the room. Agnes did not notice his leaving; she moved towards Lucy as if on oiled wheels.

Lucy received his reprimand with what he hoped was something approaching grace. He wiped away the traces of spittle adorning his face and stepped outside, lamenting having lost his hat, as the cold set upon him at once, clinging to his neck, ears, and scalp. He turned up his collar and pushed on; he could hear the train but could not yet see it. Walking towards the tracks, he peered sideward at the village. There was a trickle of smoke seeping from Memel and Klara’s chimney, and Lucy wondered if it was she who had made the fire. He decided she had; and he thought of her crouched before the stove, the flame drawing across the wood. He imagined the smoke spinning in cresting coils before the draft from the flue pulled it taut, encouraging it upwards, and to the open spaces. Lucy felt an aching in his chest. He wanted to know just what Klara’s days looked like.

Arriving at the station, he found Memel and Mewe on the platform, standing toe to toe, engaged in another argument. Memel held a dead hare in his hand, which Mewe lunged for once, twice, three times. Memel yanked it just out of reach; Mewe was fuming. “Hand it over,” he said.

“I will not,” Memel answered.

“But you know that it was in my snare.”

“If it was in your snare you’d be holding the hare, for I would never claim an animal that was not my own.”

“But that’s precisely what you are doing!” Mewe lunged again, and again Memel held the hare at arm’s length. “The most disturbing part of all this,” Mewe said, “is that you’re actually starting to believe your own lies.”

“God Himself only knows what the most disturbing part of it is.”

Mewe wagged a finger. “You always bring God into arguments you know you’re losing, for the liar is lonely, and welcomes all manner of company. Now, I’ll ask you one last time: will you hand over the hare or won’t you?”

“You know that I won’t.”

“Very well.” Mewe brought his boot heel down on Memel’s toe. The old man bellowed, and the hare was flung into the air, with Mewe dashing after. At the same moment he caught the somersaulting thing, Memel tackled him, and now the pair wrestled about in the snow, pulling at the hare and gritting their teeth and damning each other in the most base and common manner. Lucy found this spectacle more than a little intriguing and was curious to see who would emerge hare in hand; but now the train was approaching the station, and so he was forced to turn away.

Stepping to the edge of the platform, he held the letter high in the air. As the train bore down upon him he studied the darkened cockpit for a sign of the engineer; seeing no movement there he grew fearful something had gone amiss, when at the last moment there emerged a meaty hand, fingers splayed, poised to pounce. Lucy held his breath, and as the train hurtled past he was engulfed in a frigid wind, this of such force that he couldn’t tell if the letter had remained in his grip or not. Peering up, he saw that it hadn’t; he spun about to witness the blue envelope flapping in the engineer’s fist. Now the fist was withdrawn. The letter had been posted.

Lucy felt a sense of dizzy satisfaction, an amusement at the strangeness of the event. Being lost to the novelty of this occurrence, he stepped too near the train, so that he felt his body shudder, as though he would be jerked from the platform and into the grinding metal wheels and shrill mechanisms. All at once he understood the train’s unknowable weight and power, and he stepped cautiously backwards as it passed. He didn’t like to think of anyone’s death, least of all his own.

When he turned he saw that Memel and Mewe had ceased their fighting and were standing before him, panting and snow-coated, each of them clinging to opposite ends of the hare. They were smiling. Behind them, at the apex of the looming mountain, Lucy could make out the pops and puffs of the area war, the soldiers scrabbling about, insects swarming cream.

To Memel, he said, “You have taken my pipe again.”

“Yes, that’s true,” said Memel. “Did you want it back?”

Lucy said that he did, and so the pipe was returned to him. He found the mouthpiece was scored with teeth marks, and that the basin smelled of Memel’s rank, inferior tobacco. In a stern tone, he said, “I want you to stop taking it from me, do you understand?”

Memel raised his eyebrows, his head bobbing side to side, as though the notion were a fascination to him.

“Will you stop it or won’t you?” Lucy asked.

“Oh, all right.”

Lucy struck out for the village. That he had no use for company was clear, but Memel and Mewe were blind to this, and they hurried after, that they might walk alongside him. “We’re happy to see you, do you know?” said Memel. “You left in such a rush last night, we weren’t sure what to think.”

“Just that it was time for me to go, I suppose.”

“Clearly it was that. But will you come by this evening, I wonder? I’ve bagged a fine hare this morning, and Klara will prepare us a stew.”

“Actually,” said Mewe, “it was I who bagged the hare.”

“A hare was bagged, is all he needs to know.”

“I should think he would want to know the truth.”

“Yes, and how will he hit upon it with you spouting untruths?”

Lucy interrupted them. “I don’t think I will visit you tonight,” he said.

Memel and Mewe were taken aback by this. “And why not?” asked the former.

Recalling their leering, mocking faces in the candlelit shanty, Lucy told them, “I would rather not come, is all.”

Now the pair shared a solemn look, and Memel said, “Do you know something, Mewe? I don’t believe Lucy likes us.”

“I think you may be right,” said Mewe.

Memel meditated on it. “But why doesn’t he?”

“I don’t know why.”

“Well,” said Memel. “It doesn’t feel very good, does it? Being disliked?”

“No, it certainly doesn’t.”

Memel meditated further. “Do you think that perhaps he likes us a little bit, though?”

“Perhaps. But not enough to dine with us, it would seem.”

“It’s a pale flame, is that what you’re saying?”

“He likes us, but barely,” Mewe said, nodding.

“A pale flame indeed. Well, what can we do about it, eh?”

“Yes.”

“If he thinks we’ll beg after his friendship, he might think again.”

“Yes.”

“And, who’s to say? Perhaps he’ll acquire a taste for our company in time.”

“I think that’s quite possible.”

“I suppose there’s nothing but to wait and see, then.”

“That’s all, yes.”

“Wait and see and hope for the best.”

“That’s all.”

Chatting in this breezy manner, Memel and Mewe stepped away from Lucy. Memel was twirling the hare in a carefree fashion; he tossed it to Mewe, who caught it, and tossed it back. Lucy had fallen back to watch them go but now resumed walking, following them at a distance. He had his shopping to do.

Regarding the vegetables, Lucy fared moderately but not particularly well. The grocer, a grimly lipless woman in her later middle years, sold only potatoes, squash, carrots, and onions, and those available were not all that fresh. Upon inspecting the goods, Lucy requested superior merchandise, and was confident superior merchandise existed on the premises, but the grocer was disinclined to do a stranger favours, and made no attempt to mask this. Thinking in the long term, Lucy accepted the partial defeat with a brave face, wishing the woman a happy day as he stepped away from her stall. But he knew he must not falter in respect to the meat, for if this came to pass, then his maiden outing would surely be considered a failure.

As he entered the neighbouring stall he took on the posture of a man who could not conceivably be taken advantage of. He was confronted by a blood-streaked brute of a fundamentally dissatisfied man: the wily butcher, who might have said a hundred things in response to Lucy’s greeting, but who chose to say nothing; he merely stared, with a look in his eye that somehow imparted both malice and indifference. When Lucy pointed out the fact of his being newly installed at the castle, the wily butcher said, “No more credit.”

“Oh, I’ve got money, sir,” said Lucy, passing over the coin he’d received as change from the grocer. The wily butcher held the coin in his palm, studying it for a time. “What do you want,” he asked, and Lucy began to read aloud the list Mr Olderglough had made out for him. Halfway through this, the wily butcher said, “Stop.”

“But I’m not done with the list yet, sir.”

“That’s all you’re going to get for the coin.”

“Mightn’t you extend our credit just the once more?”

“I might not.”

“May I ask how much is owed you?”

The wily butcher named a figure which was much higher than Lucy would have thought. It was so much more than he’d have guessed that he could think of no words to say in reply, and he wished he’d never requested the information in the first place. The very naming of this numeral set the wily butcher off; his breathing quickened, and his face became increasingly red. “I’d be within my rights to take this coin and give you nothing, what with the amount due me. Is that what you want?”

“No, sir.”

“Then you’ll get what the coin allows, and go away happy.” Now he took out his long knife and began sharpening it, his back to Lucy, who stood considering what he might have done differently to have won the unpleasant man’s approval. But he could think of nothing, for he had done nothing wrong; the animus belonged to someone else. And yet, it occurred to him, if he came away with faulty goods, who would receive the blame? He alone. His reputation thus imperilled, he called out, “No gristle, now.” When he said it, the wily butcher became statue-still.

“What did you say to me?” he asked.

There was in his voice a just-contained fury, and on hearing this, then did Lucy become aware of the magnitude of his error. When the wily butcher turned to face him, the man’s expression was so grotesque that Lucy became fearful of physical violence.

“I meant no offence, sir,” Lucy told him.

“But what did you say,” asked the wily butcher, long knife gripped in his fist.

Lucy was considering retreat when a voice sounded behind him: “You heard perfectly well what he said.” He turned to find Klara standing there, a look of mischief on her face. “Now give him what he asked for already, you mean old bull.”

“Oh, hello, Klara,” said the wily butcher, his eyes dropping shyly to the ground. With her arrival, all the meanness had left the man, and now he resumed the sharpening of his knife. Klara stepped closer to Lucy. “Hello,” she said.

“Oh, hello.”

“Father says you won’t visit us again. Is it true?”

“I suppose it is,” he said.

She peered searchingly into Lucy’s left, then right eye, as one trying to locate something in a dark room. “But why won’t you?”

“Well, I’m very busy, is all.”

“What is it you’re so busy with, can I ask?”

“There are many tasks befallen me.”

“And will you name some of these tasks?”

“I suffer through any number of time-consuming endeavours.”

She said, “I noticed you watching us from your window.” Lucy hadn’t thought anyone could see him spying, and he blushed terribly to learn that it was so. Surely Klara noticed his embarrassment, but she had no reaction to it, which exhibited a kindness, he thought. Was there anything crueller than a body commenting on another body’s shame?

“What do you see, when you look at us?” she asked.

Bowing his head, he said, “Just, people.”

“No one special?”

“I didn’t say that.”

In a tight voice, she said, “But Father claims that you don’t like us.”

“No,” he told her. “That’s not what it is.”

“Well, what is it, then?”

“Just that I don’t enjoy being made to feel foolish.”

“And who is it that makes you feel foolish?”

“You do, for one. And Mewe, and your father.”

“But we were only teasing you.” She was picking at her sleeve, and Lucy noticed again how mangy the coat was, how worn and homely and unbefitting such a person as Klara. She’d got hold of a thread, and as she pulled on it the sleeve became ever more sorry-looking, and Lucy grew rankled by her intentional worsening of the garment. “Stop it,” he said, and she did. The thread had come loose and was sticking to her fingers; she snapped her wrist and the thread slipped away on the air, and they both watched this.

She turned back to face him. “Don’t you know why we tease you? Why I do?”

“It’s likely you find me funny in some way,” Lucy ventured.

Her face softened. “No, Lucy. That’s not what it is at all.”

“What is it, then?”

She thought a moment, then shifted her weight. She was opening her mouth to speak when the wily butcher laid Lucy’s goods on the counter with a thud. “Here,” he said. “And tell that Baron he might settle his debts one of these days.” Lucy took up his bundles, nodded to Klara, and exited without another word. As he cleared the village, his mind was teeming with notions and possibilities. It occurred to him that, much in the way one experiences a brightening when walking beneath a cherry tree in bloom, so too did Klara generate and throw light.

That night Lucy couldn’t sleep. He sat in his rocking chair before the stove, feeding twigs into its black mouth and staring out the window at the village, half-hidden in a shroud of unmoving fog. It was past midnight when, intermingled with the crackling of the fire, he became aware of an extraneous noise, a muffled bustle taking place behind him, and he turned to look, assuming it was the puppy settling in her sleep. But no, she was dozing leadenly atop his pillow, and Lucy thought he must have imagined the sound. He had resumed his window-watching when it occurred a second time, only more distinctly, and now Lucy’s attentions were drawn to the door.

The knob was turning. This was being performed slowly, as though whoever was doing it did not wish to draw attention to the fact that he was. When the knob reached the limit of its rotation, the door swelled in its jamb; but being bolted, it couldn’t be opened, and the knob turned backwards, just as cautiously as before, to its point of origin. Lucy stared, rooted by fright. When the knob began again to turn, he called out,

“Who’s there?”

The reply registered scarcely above a murmur. The voice was a man’s, and his tone was illustrative of one possessed by deep confusion and hurt:

“Why are you in my room?”

A simple enough question, and yet these six words summoned a tingling dread in Lucy. He stood away from the rocker, creeping sideways, and to the bed. Locating the heavy telescope under his pillow, he took this up in his hand, never looking away from the door. “This is not your room,” he answered, as evenly as he could. “This is my room.”

“No,” said the voice, and again: “No.” Now the man began pacing in the hallway, pacing and whispering to himself, hissing some unknown threats or remonstrations. Suddenly he struck the door with his fist, so that Lucy jumped back, holding the telescope high in the air like a club. “No,” said the voice a third time, then shuffled away down the stairs. Lucy moved to his bed but sat up a long while afterwards, regarding the doorknob with an anticipatory anguish, and he thought that if it began turning once more he would cry out from the shock of it. When he awoke in the morning, the telescope was still gripped in his cramping fist, and the puppy was sniffing at the base of the door.

Lucy entered Mr Olderglough’s room, breakfast tray in hand. Mr Olderglough drew himself up in his bed, patting his lap, casting back his sleeping cap, and looking pleased at the fact of being doted on. After the tray was delivered he began the artful preparations of his tea; Lucy stood by, wondering how he might give voice to his thoughts. At last he decided there was no other way than to simply say it, and so he did: “A man tried to enter my room last night, sir.”

Mr Olderglough was distracted by the cautious measuring-out of his sugar. “What’s that, my boy?” he asked. “What is it, now?”

“A man, sir. Tried to enter my room last night.”

“A man?”

“Yes, and a strange man he was.”

“Is that right?” Mr Olderglough said wonderingly. Pouring in the cream, he stirred and sampled his tea; finding its taste satisfactory, he nodded in appreciation at life’s small but dependable comforts. “And what was so strange about him, I wonder?”

“Well, the fact of him trying to get into my room was strange.”

Mr Olderglough pondered this. “I don’t know that I would call that strange, in and of itself. What are rooms for if not entering, after all. Or else exiting. Indeed, think of how many rooms we enter and exit in our span of days, boy. Room to room to room. And we call it a life.” He chuckled at the folly of it. But Lucy was in no mood for Mr Olderglough’s wistful opining; in fact he was feeling peevish towards his superior, who was quite obviously acting the innocent when he surely knew just what Lucy was talking about with regard to the visitor of the evening prior.

Lucy said, “I most certainly would describe it as strange, sir. For we must consider that it was not a common-use room, but my own room, and that I was abed, and that it was the middle of the night. If that isn’t strange, then I don’t know what is. To say nothing of the fact of his attitude.”

“Oh, was his attitude strange as well,” asked Mr Olderglough flatly.

“It was. He seemed in a fever, and was speaking to himself — cackling and grumbling and disagreeing.”

“As though he were two people, do you mean?”

“Or several people, yes, sir. You are aware of this person?”

“I am, lad. And aren’t you glad you locked your door, like I told you? I’m no spring chicken, I won’t deny it, but I know of what I speak.”

“But who is he?”

“He is very rarely about, these days.”

“And what is the matter with him?”

“This and that. Actually, I suspect he’s mad.”

Lucy took a breath. “That he’s mad.”

“Yes.”

“You’re telling me that there’s a madman stalking the halls of the castle at night, is that correct?”

“Stalking,” said Mr Olderglough, shaking his head as he spread marmalade over his bread. “There you go with your theatrical wordage again.”

“Is he not stalking, sir?”

“He is walking.”

“But what does he want?” said Lucy, his voice taking on a shade of exasperation.

“Who can tell? Surely it isn’t only one thing.”

“And why is that?”

“Because no one wants only one thing.”

As calmly as he might, Lucy asked, “Can nothing be done about him?”

“What would you suggest, boy?”

“Expel him?”

“Excellent idea. And do let me know how that pans out for you, eh?”

“All I know, sir,” said Lucy, “is that I shall never feel safe here, knowing he might pounce on me at any moment.”

“No, no. He only comes out late at night. This I can say with certainty. You get to your room at a decent hour, and lock up your door before turning in, and all will be well with you. Now if you don’t mind, I—”

“The man thought it his room, sir.”

“What?”

“The man thought my room was his own. He seemed quite sure of it.”

“Is that so?” said Mr Olderglough.

“It is so. And would you care to tell me why?”

“Why?” said Mr Olderglough, blinking politely.

Lucy said, “Whatever happened to Mr Broom, sir?”

Mr Olderglough’s face formed a scowl, and a low growl came from the back of his throat. “No,” he said at last. “I won’t speak of it.”

“And why not?”

“Because it is unspeakable.”

Considering the grandly mysterious awfulness of this statement, Lucy became lost in private thought; this was ongoing for such a length of time that Mr Olderglough felt it necessary to admit, “I find myself wondering when you’ll leave my room, boy.”

Lucy retired in a sort of daze, and spent the rest of the morning feeling chased by his anxieties. His duties were performed in half measures, and he found his thoughts turning increasingly to recollections of Bury, the safety and comforts of his home. Mr Olderglough, intuiting this mood, and hoping to re-establish a bond of congeniality between them, came to Lucy in his room that afternoon bearing the news that Lucy would travel to the town of Listen the next day, that he might be fitted for a new suit of clothes. This made little impression on Lucy, who was sulking in earnest, now; but when Mr Olderglough passed over Lucy’s cap, this captured his imagination.

“The little village girl brought it,” Mr Olderglough said.

“Klara?”

“I don’t know her name. The small one with the twinkly eyes.”

The cap issued a muted crumpling, and Lucy discovered a note folded beneath the sheepskin flap. Klara’s penmanship was cautiously deliberate, and the words fell at a slant, as though they would march off the edge of the paper:

It’s because we like you that we tease you, Lucy. Please will you come and visit us? Your Klara.

Mr Olderglough peered over Lucy’s shoulder, that he might also read the note. “Are you in the midst of an intrigue?” he asked.

“I don’t know yet, sir.”

“Will you tell me when you find out?”

“I will.”

“Because I’m curious to know.”

“I’ll tell you, sir.”

“Very good,” said Mr Olderglough, and he left the room.

Lucy spent some moments rereading and handling the note and considering its importance, the influence it might wield over his future. The puppy sat at his feet, looking up at him.

“My Klara,” Lucy said.

The tailor was a sallow man with a monocle, a wisp of a moustache, and blackly shining, harshly parted hair. He read Mr Olderglough’s letter of introduction and instruction with a serene detachment, elbow akimbo, one eye — the non-monocled — gently shut. After folding the letter away, he looked Lucy up and down and said the word: “Fine.” Lucy was made to disrobe to the essentials and stand upon a dais surrounded by tall, gleaming mirrors. Regarding his reflection, and being unused to such events and attentions, he felt self-conscious, this made all the more pronounced by the sorry state of his undergarments. His shirt was pitiable; his shorts, grievous. The tailor must have had an opinion regarding these unsavoury articles but kept it hidden, throwing himself headlong into his work; tape in hand, he fairly crawled all over Lucy, calling out measurements to an assistant who remained out of sight and who in fact never made any sound whatsoever.

Afterwards, Lucy dressed and rejoined the tailor in the front of the shop, where he was told the suit would be ready in two weeks’ time, and that it would be sent by train to the castle. Lucy thanked the man and was on his way out the door when he caught sight of a richly blue three-quarter-length cape hanging from the wall. He pointed.

“And how much is the cape, there?”

“That is a ladies’ cape.”

“Yes. How much does it cost?”

The tailor named a figure amounting to nearly twice the price of the suit.

“So much as that?” said Lucy. But in inspecting the cape he could see that it was of the highest quality: double-stitched and lined in silk, with fox fur ringing its hood. In a breezy tone of voice, as though it were half an afterthought, he told the tailor, “We will put that on the bill as well.”

The tailor hesitated. “Mr Olderglough makes no mention of this in the letter.”

Lucy waved his hand. “It’s nothing to him, I wouldn’t think.”

“I’m certain that’s so. But I should like to ask him first, if you don’t mind.”

“As a matter of fact I do mind,” said Lucy.

“I’d be glad to hold it for you until I receive his reply,” the tailor told him.

Lucy shook his head. “You will either hand over the cape now, and make a nice profit in the bargain, or forget it altogether, and content yourself with the few modest coins earned on the suit.”

Long moments passed with the tailor staring up at the cape. Lucy knew the only way his attitude would prevail was if the man was a merchant at heart, rather than someone idling in a temporary position. As it happened, the tailor had been raised in the shop. It was his father’s before him, and before that, his grandfather’s. The world of commerce was all he knew, and all he wanted to know; and while his not confirming the purchase with Mr Olderglough was a clear breach of protocol, he couldn’t pass up the opportunity to unload the cape, and so he took his chance, acknowledging the coup with a curious, twirling twist of his forefinger, followed by a birdlike, trilling whistle. Lucy did not believe these gestures were meant to pinpoint any one specific emotion, but rather were meant to celebrate, in the round, another fruitful day on earth. And so it was.

While the cape was being wrapped by the same invisible assistant, the tailor and Lucy were toasting brandies in the upstairs office, chatting about any little thing, as though they were old friends with shared histories and attitudes. Lucy felt very worldly and pleased with himself. He managed to drink his brandy without gagging, and what a relief this was, for it would have ruined the entire adventure had it happened otherwise.

Klara opened the door to find Lucy standing in the darkness, a package tucked under his arm. After welcoming him in, she moved to the stove to pour out water for tea. Lucy sat at the table, the package on the bench beside him. The state of his nerves was such that he found himself growing over warm. He removed his coat, and then his cap, laying this on the table to study it. Klara spoke with her back to Lucy.

“I see you got your hat.”

“Yes,” said Lucy. “Was it very hard to find?”

“It was, actually.”

“Well, thank you for it.” He laid the package on the table before him. “And for the note, as well.”

Klara said nothing to this, but brought the tea to the table. When she saw the package she asked, “What’s that, there?”

“What, this?” Lucy said.

“Yes,” said Klara. “What is it?”

“This here?”

“Will you tell me what it is or not?” She poked the package with her finger.

Lucy pushed it nearer to her and she said, “What now? Am I to open it?”

“Yes.”

“But why?”

“Because it’s for you.”

This seemed to startle, even upset Klara. When at last she undid the ribbon, she used only one hand, leaving the other to rest upon her lap. The package bloomed, a crinkling, staggered blossom, and when she spied its contents, her spine went stiff. “What is that?”

“It’s a cape. Don’t you like it?”

“Why did you bring me this?”

“It’s just that I noticed your shivering the other day, in the marketplace,” he explained. When he said this, a look of shame came over Klara, and here Lucy recognized his mistake.

“You must think me very shabby,” she said quietly.

“No, Klara.”

“A shabby girl in need of charity, is that it?”

“That’s not what it is at all.”

But now she was rewrapping the package, and Lucy saw the moment was getting away from him. “Stop,” he said. “Wait.” When she did not stop, he said it again: “Stop.”

She paused to look across at him.

“Why did you bring me my cap?” he asked.

Her eyes hooded when he asked this, as though she thought he wasn’t playing fair by bringing it up.

“Why did you?” he persisted.

“You seemed to think we didn’t like you,” she said. “I wanted to show you we did.”

“But that’s all this is,” he told her, folding back the wrapping.

She drew a hand across the cape’s collar. “It’s too dear.”

“Who’s to say, though?” Lucy took up the cape and stood, holding it out before him. “Won’t you try it on, at least?”

“I shouldn’t,” she said.

“Please,” said Lucy.

“I can’t.”

Memel’s voice called out from next door: “Cease torturing the boy, already.”

“And us,” Mewe added.

“Try on the cape,” said Memel.

“It’s obvious you want to.”

At this, Lucy and Klara both went red in the face; but their self-consciousness soon gave way to stifled laughter. Lucy relocated his courage and approached Klara with the cape; when she stood, he rested the garment on her shoulders, and now she wrapped herself up in it, moving to the mirror in the corner of the shanty that she might admire herself. Lucy followed and stood behind her, watching her face, her pleased expression, and then his own. Closing his eyes, he was run through with a streak of pure happiness, for now he knew he truly was in the midst of an intrigue, just as Mr Olderglough had said. When he opened his eyes, Klara was watching him in the mirror with a look of fondness or perhaps, for all he knew, something more than that.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You’re welcome,” he answered.

“How does it fit?” Memel asked.

Lucy awoke to the sound of the area war. Sitting up in his bed, he trained his telescope over the mountain’s face and to the pivot of the battleground. He took an idle pleasure in witnessing the birth of the cloud-puffs, these “rudely bloomed” (the phrase had ambled into Lucy’s mind) then thinned by the wind, only to be replaced by yet more puffs when the following volley occurred. He could make out the soldiers’ movements but not their faces, and this was preferable to him. From this distance it all seemed something more like an elaborate stage play than actual combat — some ambitious recreation of a factual happening.

He worked all that morning assisting Agnes in the cleaning of the larder and ovens, then chopping and stacking wood through to lunchtime, but with his afternoon free, he wandered into the village. He had his pipe with him, the pipe he’d yet to master; it smouldered and had to be relit time and again, but no sooner had he done this than the wind would shift and hurry the smoke up his nose or into his eyes. Coughing, and with tears skating down his face, he put the pipe away. The puppy sat in his coat pocket, as before, taking in the sights with interest.

Lucy saw Klara standing in the marketplace, showing off her cape to a half-dozen village women, a meaty group of red-faced peasants turning her about as they studied the garment. Klara was smiling with pride as they handled and rotated her. Lucy stepped nearer, and now he could make out their conversation.

“And what does master Adolphus think of it?”

“Do I know any Adolphus?” Klara asked innocently, looking this way and that. “I see no Adolphus around here.”

“And how long has he been gone this time?”

Klara threw her hands up in the air. “Bah!” she said. Lucy entered into the group and Klara, beaming, told the others, “Here, now. This is the gentleman who brought the cape.”

The women swarmed Lucy, grinning devilishly, prodding him with stubby digits and speaking of him as though he weren’t there at all:

“What are his intentions, do you think?”

“Will he give her a ring next, I wonder?”

“Adolphus will rip this one in two.”

“Clean in two, I should think.”

“Will he buy me a cape? You can plainly see the state I’m in.”

They slapped at Lucy’s back, laughing and congratulating him for his boldness. He smiled weakly but said nothing; he didn’t suppose there was one among them he could better in a fair fight. Once they dispersed, Lucy was left alone with Klara, and these two stood awhile, looking at each other. Winter sunlight spilled across her face; Lucy’s vision smudged and blurred.

“Would you walk with me, Klara?” he asked.

“Yes, I’d like that,” she answered, and they fell into line, stepping through the marketplace, neither of them knowing just what to say. When Klara spied the puppy in Lucy’s pocket, she took her up to hold her, asking Lucy what she was called. He explained the name hadn’t arrived yet, and now Klara grew thoughtful, peering at Lucy from the corner of her eye. “Perhaps you might name her after your sweetheart, wouldn’t you think?”

“I suppose I could,” he said. “Only, I don’t have a sweetheart.”

“Oh no?”

“I did have one, once. Marina, she was called.”

“That’s a pretty name. And whatever became of her?”

Lucy watched his breath horseshoe in the wind. An unpardonable lie came to him, and he clapped his hands to welcome it into the world. “If I’m to tell you the truth of it,” he said, “she died.”

“Oh, no,” said Klara. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

“Yes, thank you.”

“But how did she die?” Klara asked. “That is, if you don’t mind talking about it.”

Lucy held up his hand. “I don’t mind at all.”

“You’re certain?”

“I don’t mind in the least. Which isn’t to say I enjoy talking about it.”

“Of course not.”

He cleared his throat. “Yes. Well. We were happy enough, Marina and I — in our modest fashion. But then she got it in her mind to marry, and when I wouldn’t go along with this, she became so distraught about it that she killed herself.”

Klara gasped. “Oh, but that’s dreadful!”

“It was a sorry occasion,” Lucy agreed.

“And why wouldn’t you marry her?”

“She was not my own true love,” he stated simply.

“But you were hers?” Klara ventured.

“I suppose I was. As a matter of fact, I can state that I surely was, for she told me this many times over. So, when she came to understand I would never be hers alone, then did she hang herself — and from a tree before my own house.”

Klara covered her mouth; Lucy nodded sympathetically.

“Perhaps worst of all,” he continued, “she had pinned a note to her dress, a note addressed to me, but which all the citizens of the town read before I had a chance to. In this way, all were made to know the finest details of her ruination.” Here Lucy paused, as if the memory were too much a burden to recall.

Klara laid a tender hand on his forearm. “Is this why you’ve come here?” she asked. “To get away from the memory of it?”

“That’s partly the reason, yes.”

“Only partly? I would think that would be reason enough, all on its own.”

“Yes, surely it would be. But then the matter was compounded by another unpleasant element, this in the shape of a local man, named Tor. He had always been after Marina, but he was such a stupid and ugly and sickening individual that she rebuffed him at every pass. This ate at Tor like a rot; then, once she had hung herself, for another man no less, Tor swore an oath to all who would listen that he would avenge her honour.”

“By coming after you, do you mean?”

“Just that.”

“And did he do this?”

“Yes, he was a man of his word, I won’t deny it. In fact, hardly any time passed at all before he broke into my house and came upon me like a storm while I slept.”

“While you slept!”

“Yes, yes.”

“A madman,” Klara said, shaking her head in wonder.

“Not mad,” said Lucy. “Just simple. A barn animal, really. I might put his mental age at that of a five-year-old, and not a particularly bright five-year-old, either.”

“But whatever did you do?”

“I defended myself, naturally, and forced Tor from my home. Not without a knock or two to remember me by, I might add.”

“You? Oh, but you are so slight.”

“I am agile, is what.”

“Is that so?”

“Very agile and quick and fit.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed it.”

“I could cross a room in the time it takes you to blink your eyes.”

“Well.”

“Yes. So it was that I sent him packing that first night, thinking that would be the end of it. But he was relentless, and it seemed that each time I left my home, then Tor would come barrelling around a corner and make for me.”

“Who in the world could live under such circumstances?” asked Klara.

“Not I.”

“No one could.” Klara became thoughtful, and again she regarded Lucy from a sidelong angle. “Perhaps it is that this misfortune will lead you to something better,” she said.

“Perhaps you’re right,” said Lucy. “As a matter of fact, I’m sure you are.”

This made Klara happy, and she hooked her arm in Lucy’s. “But, what shall we name the puppy?” she asked.

“I don’t know.” Lucy was staring at her snaking hand.

Wistfully, she said, “I like the name, Rose.”

“Rose?” said Lucy.

“Rose,” she repeated.

Her hand came to rest atop Lucy’s, and he said, “We’ll call her Rose, then.”

And they did do this.

She invited him over for tea, which led to supper, with only the two of them in the shanty, as Memel and Mewe had gone away to Listen to work the crowds at a solstice celebration. The hours drew past, and there was nothing like a slack moment, for no sooner would Klara answer a question of Lucy’s than she would ask a question herself, and then back again, until the village had gone quiet, and all were in for the night. At one point Lucy screwed up his courage and said,

“Just who is this Adolphus?”

Klara looked away. “He is a soldier I knew.”

“Knew or know?”

“Know. I don’t know. I haven’t seen him in months. And I don’t know where he goes, when he does.”

“But you wish you did?”

“Sometimes I do.” Klara looked back at Lucy. “Perhaps you might find it flattering, that I have an inclination to lie to you about this.”

“Perhaps I might,” he said.

Rose lay on the table, dozing in between them; they both stroked her but were careful never to touch each other’s hands. Lucy could have stayed up all night, but when Klara stifled a yawn, he stood, and said he would take his leave. Klara nodded; her hair was mussed and she smiled at him as he stood at the door. He walked through the village and up the hill to the castle, crossing the still entryway and pausing at the bottom of the stairwell to fish out a squat candlestick from his trouser pocket. Rose began to squirm, and so he let her down onto the ground. She disappeared around the bend of the stair and Lucy, lighting the candle, followed after. The bulbous flame was jouncing up and down as he took the steps; arriving at the mid-point landing, he paused, thinking of how pleasing Klara’s face had appeared in the candlelight, and of the way she’d hid her smile in the shadows. He recalled looking over to find she was drawing her cheek back and forth against the fur collar of her cape; and this was a proud moment for him, one that he knew he would revisit any number of times in the coming days and months.

While cataloguing these happenings, he’d been peering absently into the darkened recess of the landing; and to look at him was to see a young man without a care or concern, a person for whom life posed no problems whatsoever, only opportunity, and adventure. But gradually this look left his face, and by degrees was replaced with an ever-more severe and serious one. A thought had entered his mind, a terrible suspicion, which was that the darkness into which he had been gazing was not empty at all, but that it held, or hid, something; that it held someone. He stared with an increasing intensity, scarcely drawing a breath. There was no movement in the darkness, but with each passing moment he became surer and surer that there was a body hiding in the recess; and, furthermore, that it was aware of his being there — that it was watching him as well.

Now a sound became audible, but this was so slight at the start that Lucy couldn’t be sure he was hearing anything at all. Soon it increased in volume, not so very much, but loud enough that Lucy could not deny its existence. He wasn’t certain what the sound was, but thought he could identify it; and he hoped with great fervency that he was mistaken. Alas, as it became louder, his suspicion was confirmed, and he lamented this, because of all the noises to hear, at this late hour and in this lonely location, here was the one he least wished to witness, and it filled him with the direst dread. It was the sound of someone hungrily, gutturally eating.

Lucy raised his candle, and this cast a jewel of milky light in the darkened corner, where he could now make out the proportions of a man, and a wretched man at that, crouched on the floor and outfitted in nothing more than ragged tweed trousers. His bare back was all bones, the flesh coated in grime, and the bottoms of his feet, tucked under his legs, were painted in the blackest filth. Lucy could not see what the man’s feast consisted of, his face being hidden behind a curtain of long and grease-matted hair, but he ate with something beyond gusto, groaning slavishly, his body shuddering as the consumption of his meal reached its pleasurable capstone. Lucy’s hand was trembling, and so the candlelight also was trembling. Where is Rose? he thought.

The man ceased eating and turned towards Lucy. His face was covered in blood, and he held in his hands the remains of a small animal, its middle section eaten away save for a ribbon of black fur connecting its halves. A smile crept across his face as he stood; fur and red-purple flecks of meat and entrails clung to his emaciated body. He was panting, and his eyes were so wild that Lucy could not regard them directly. The man was laughing, but stifling this, as though he didn’t want to make any sound, as though he might disturb someone; or, bizarrely, as if fearful of offending Lucy. He stood and moved closer, holding the remnants of his feast up to the candlelight. Lucy found he couldn’t not look down, and in doing so he was at once encouraged and discouraged to see not the body of Rose, but that of a very large rat. The man too was watching over the carcass, only with something like adoration, or satisfaction. When he lifted the remains to his mouth and lovingly chewed at the stubborn string of fatty fur to halve the thing, Lucy’s revulsion was such that his world became liquid, and he lost consciousness, falling away to the ground.

He awoke the next morning in his own bed, Rose licking his face, his head gauze-wrapped, his skull lumped and tender. There came a knock on his door and Agnes entered carrying a breakfast tray. He sat up and she set the tray upon his lap; pouring him a cup of tea, her face was nearer to his than it had ever been before — he noticed she had a downy cheek, and the balled red ear of a newborn. She placed a spoon in his hand and moved to sit in the rocking chair, patiently and wordlessly observing Lucy while he ate. After he had finished, she removed the tray and set it by the door before returning to the chair. Folding her hands, then, and with what seemed to be repressed irritation, she said, “Now, I’d like to know just what it is you think you’re doing here, boy.”

Lucy said, “Ma’am?”

“Did you not hear what I said?”

“I heard. I suppose I’m not sure I understand the question. A position was offered to me, and I accepted the position.”

“But surely there’s some other type of work where you come from?”

“Not so very much. Nothing that suited me, anyway.”

“And what is it about this appointment that suits you, can I ask?”

“It’s far away,” he said. “It’s different.”

She spoke as though they had hit upon something key: “What if it’s too far away, Lucy?” she said. “What if it’s too different?” Now she fished a single gold coin from her smock pocket and laid this on the bed. “Here is your return fare. And I would like for you to go home, if you please.”

Lucy looked at the coin but didn’t pick it up. “You’re terminating me?”

“It wouldn’t be my place to do that,” she said.

“Does Mr Olderglough want me gone, then?”

“I don’t suppose he does. But then, Mr Olderglough is not currently of a mind to make such judgements.”

“How do you mean, ma’am?”

She assumed the demeanour of one wondering how much she might prudently say. “Do you not find him a peculiar man?”

“Frankly, ma’am,” said Lucy, “most everyone I’ve met since I’ve left home is peculiar to me in one way or another.” Agnes was visibly dissatisfied by the response, however, and so Lucy added, “But yes, I suppose I do find him so particularly.”

She nodded, and asked, “Now, would you be surprised to know that he is more than peculiar?”

“I don’t know what you mean by that,” said Lucy, which was true — he didn’t.

Here Agnes began removing hypothetical bits of grit from her smock. “Far be it from me,” she said, “to besmirch the man’s good name. God knows I looked to him for support and guidance any number of times over the years. But I can’t say, Lucy, that I would look to him for guidance at present.” A sadness came over her, and she said, “Listen to me, boy. Can’t you see that a mistake has been made in bringing you here?”

“But I don’t want to go home, ma’am,” said Lucy. “I’m not happy there.”

“You’re happy here, then?”

Lucy didn’t answer for a moment. He was thinking about Klara. “Possibly I am.”

“You understand that you’re in danger?”

“Yes.”

Agnes stood. There was an air of finality or defeat to her carriage, so that Lucy felt he had let her down in some way. She said, “What happened to you last night will happen again if you stay here. The situation will not improve. On the contrary.” With this, she turned to go. Lucy asked her,

“But why do you stay on, ma’am?”

She lingered in the doorway, considering her reply. Speaking over her shoulder, she said, “Many years ago, I made a pact with a friend. So long as he remains, then so will I stay as well.” Her eyes were kinder now, smoky, and crowded with emotion. “Hold on to that coin. If the impulse to go seizes you, I want you to heed it. Will you do that for me, boy?”

“All right.”

“Don’t just say it to say it. That’s what Mr Broom did, and look what it got him.”

It sent a shiver through Lucy, to hear Broom’s name. “What is the matter with him, exactly?” he asked.

“The matter with whom?” Agnes asked.

“With Mr Broom.”

Agnes shook her head, and she regarded Lucy as though he were a pitiful individual indeed. “You really don’t understand at all, do you?”

“Understand what?”

“Mr Broom is long dead, Lucy. The man you met last night is the Baron.”

Lucy sat for a long while after Agnes had left, trying to connect the author of the elegantly lovelorn letters he’d been delivering each day with the feral and cretinous apparition he’d seen on the landing. When he found he couldn’t link these two, he elected to let it lie awhile. A restlessness came over him and he dressed, descending the stairs and crossing the entryway for the outdoors. Stepping into the cool morning air, he pulled on his cap, careful not to disturb the officious bandaging. He felt an affinity for his head wound; was there not a certain sweetness in its aching pain? He wondered what Klara’s reaction to his injury might be, and he imagined her gentle hands searching his skull to pinpoint the epicentre of tenderness. He would tell of how he came to be hurt, and she would swoon and marvel at his trial of fright, afterwards comforting him with a cup of tea, and perhaps a slice of poppyseed cake. And this moment, would it not make the entire ordeal worthwhile for Lucy? Alas, this was not to be, for when he arrived at Klara’s door he discovered she was not there, and neither was Memel, and neither was Mewe, which isn’t to say the shanty was empty, for it was not; in fact it was filled to capacity, filled with soldiers, the same group Lucy had met when he’d first arrived at the castle. All were standing save for the exceptionally handsome man, who sat in the centre, at the table, and he held Klara’s cape in his hands. His face was drawn and grim, and he was not in the least pleased with Lucy.