Gloom Town

by Ronald L. Smith

  The heavy, gray sky seemed closer to the ground than usual. It had always been dim in Gloom, but lately, it was getting darker earlier and earlier. People went about their tasks as if in a trance—from the fishmonger laying out gleaming, silvery fish to the old woman who sold wilted flowers. Rory felt bad for her. The flowers were just as forlorn as the people in Gloom. No one ever bought any because they were so pitiful, with dull petals and drooping leaves.

  Rory turned down Mothsburg Lane and Foxglove Manor came into view. He hadn’t noticed before, but there was a balcony on the second floor, with a railing where one could look out over the town. The gray paint was peeling, and the wooden eaves above it were water damaged, revealing misshapen islands of green mold.

  Rory walked up the steps and faced the frightful knocker again. He took a breath, then lifted the tongue and let it fall. His heart raced. The thought of meeting his new employer had him on edge.

  The door opened slowly. It was the butler. He looked just as strange as he had before. “Ah, there he is. I was wondering when you might show.”

  “I wasn’t sure what time to arrive,” Rory said, contrite.

  The butler frowned. “Taking initiative is a trait Lord Foxglove finds most admirable in young people.”

  Rory wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or not.

  The man led him through the reception hall and Rory glanced at all of the paintings once again. Instead of turning right, as they had before, into the room with all of the books, they continued straight. Rory thought the butler was leading them directly into the wall, but once they passed the suit of armor at the end, another hall came into view on the right. More gas lamps ran along the rose-colored walls, which were adorned with intricate molding and chair rails. They passed a closed door painted deep red, which seemed odd to Rory, as it didn’t match the rest of the fancy decor he had seen so far.

  “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “To meet the lord of the manor, of course.”

  Rory gulped. He was finally going to meet Lord Foxglove.

  The hallway ended at a door. The butler opened it. Rory felt cool air on his face. Spiraling stone steps led down into darkness.

  The more they descended, the darker and colder it got. The only thing that kept Rory from stumbling was the handrail he instinctively reached out for. Why were there no lights down here, like upstairs? The vague silhouette of the butler loomed in front of him like a floating shadow.

  Why would the lord of the manor be down here? Rory wondered.

  After a moment, he rounded a final curve of stairs and stepped onto a hard floor. An actual flaming torch affixed to the wall was the only source of light. It seemed to be a sort of entryway or foyer, a word Rory had learned from books.

  The butler paused in front of a set of wooden double doors with unusual carvings. Rory glimpsed twisting tree limbs, a flock of shadowy birds in flight, and a woman’s face. But before he could study them, his guide spoke.

  “Three things,” he began, and held up a finger. “One, do not speak unless spoken to.” Another finger rose in the air. “Two, always address him as Lord Foxglove. And three, never, under any circumstance, ask about money.”

  Rory was taken aback. How would he know what he was going to earn if he couldn’t ask about his wages?

  The double doors groaned on their hinges as the butler pushed them forward.

  And then, they both stepped inside.

  Rory was immediately hit by a blast of even colder air. There were lanterns that cast a little light, but not enough to brighten the whole room.

  He took in the long, rectangular space before him. On one wall, hundreds of bottles of wine were arranged on a rack. Next to it, on an ornate table of glass held aloft by slim brass legs, sat several beautiful decanters filled with murky liquids. Strange, Rory thought. What could that be? The opposite wall displayed more portraits, just like upstairs, most of them showing men with powdered wigs and ruffled collars. Rory looked down to his feet. The marble floor was a mosaic of black-and-white tiles. His head spun. He felt disoriented for some reason.

  “Pardon, my lord,” the butler said.

  Only then did Rory notice, at the far end of the room, a man sitting behind a massive wooden table littered with stacks of paper, bottles of ink, and other curious objects he couldn’t make out.

  Rory gasped as the man stood up. He was skinnier and taller than any person he’d ever seen. His head was bald, but he bore a magnificent black beard that rested on his chest. A long, black waistcoat slashed with daggers of red clung to his frame. Underneath was a gleaming white shirt, complete with a gray ascot tucked into the neck. He had an air of stuffiness about him, as if he were royalty or something. He was certainly different from anyone Rory had ever seen in Gloom.

  “Ah, Malvonius,” Lord Foxglove began. “So this is the boy?”

  Rory was almost too shocked by Lord Foxglove’s appearance and dress to realize he had just learned the butler’s name: Malvonius. What kind of name is that?

  “It is,” the butler answered. “He has . . . accepted the position.”

  Accepted? Rory thought, but then realized he had signed the contract: Upon Penalty of Death. He swallowed hard.

  “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Rory,” the lord of the manor said, stepping around the desk. His voice wasn’t deep nor was it high, but somewhere in between, with a reedy quality to it, as if at any moment he would purse his lips and whistle. His eyes were as cold as ice chips.

  Rory was dumbstruck. Was he supposed to bow? Kneel? He wasn’t sure. In the end, he gave a solemn nod of his head.

  “Do not be afraid, boy,” Lord Foxglove said. “Mr. Root has told me all about you.”

  Root. Malvonius Root. A strange name for sure. And exactly what did this Malvonius tell him?

  “Do come closer.” Foxglove beckoned, offering an open palm in invitation. “I won’t bite.”

  Malvonius actually chuckled, which sent a shiver down Rory’s spine.

  Lord Foxglove walked back around to the table, swept his coattails behind him and sat, then waved a big hand to a chair beside him that looked much too large for Rory. “Please. Sit down. Bring us something cool to drink, Malvonius.”

  Something hot would have been better, Rory figured. It was as cold as an icebox in the room. The butler inclined his head in obedience and turned around.

  Rory stepped forward and sat in the chair, his feet hovering a few inches above the floor.

  Malvonius returned bearing a silver tray with a crystal pitcher of red liquid and two etched glasses rimmed with hammered-copper bands. He approached and set it down on the table. Rory watched as the butler poured. It looked like blood.

  “Ah,” Lord Foxglove said, raising his glass. “To your health.” Rory followed his lead. He let Foxglove swallow first and then did the same. His mouth soured. It was certainly a different kind of taste—sweet and tart at the same time.

  Malvonius retreated toward the door. Rory’s new em-ployer set his glass on the table in front of him and leaned back in his chair. He studied Rory intently, and Rory found it hard to hold his gaze. His eyes were a little too pale and odd. Finally, when the silence was almost too much to bear, Lord Foxglove said, “I suppose you want to ask about . . . you know.”

  Rory bit his lip. He was curious. How much was he going to earn? Why was Lord Foxglove so skinny? He had so many questions, but in the end, he only nodded.

  Foxglove smiled. “It’s pomegranate juice,” he said.

  Rory looked at the pitcher of red liquid. “Oh.”

  The lord of the manor threw his head back and laughed. It was a sharp, barking sound that Rory found unsettling.

  “Let me ask you,” Lord Foxglove said, regaining his composure and steepling his hands together, which revealed several glittering rings, one of them shaped like the head of a snarling wolf. “Are you qualified for the job?”

  Rory shifted in his seat. He wanted to appear eager and ready, but his nerves were a
ll jangly. “Yes, sir, and I’m a quick learner, too.”

  “Good. You will find room and board here, and it will be deducted from your wages.” He paused. “A valet has many duties. Do you know what they are?”

  Rory wasn’t sure. He wanted to bite his fingernails, but that would have made him seem nervous. “Um,” he started, but his new boss cut him off.

  “Once, this house was full of servants—footmen, scullery maids, butlers—but now those days are gone. Changing times and all.”

  Rory nodded, as if he understood what it meant to have servants.

  Foxglove laid his hands on the table. Rory noticed that each fingernail ended in a sharp point. “I need someone to take up those duties. Do you understand?”

  Rory wasn’t sure he did, and his face must have betrayed his thoughts.

  “That means sweeping the chimneys, polishing the silver, beating the dust out of the rugs.” He paused and sipped his juice. “Now, do you think you can do all that? Are you up to the task?”

  “Yes,” Rory said immediately. He needed this job more than anything. He had to help his mum.

  “Good,” Lord Foxglove said. “Very good indeed.”

  Rory swallowed nervously. He needed to know about wages. But the butler—Malvonius Root—had told him to not ask about money.

  Foxglove stood up. “Report here tomorrow morning at half-past eight,” he said. “You can begin then.”

  Rory rose out of his seat. He thought he was starting today. But it didn’t matter. He had the job, and that’s what counted.

  Lord Foxglove reached down, pulled open a drawer in the table, and rummaged around. He drew out a brown leather pouch and held it in front of Rory like a master giving a dog a treat. Rory stuck out his hand hesitantly, palm up. Time seemed to slow down as the bag dropped. Rory felt the weight of it immediately.

  Money.

  He wanted to shake it to hear the coins clink but used every ounce of his will not to.

  “That should be enough for now,” Foxglove said. “There’s more where that came from.” He leaned down close and lowered his voice. “If you do a good job, that is.”

  Rory couldn’t believe it. He could only imagine how much money was in the pouch. “Thank you, sir. I won’t let you down.”

  Lord Foxglove smiled, and for the first time, Rory noticed that his teeth were as sharp as his fingernails.

  * * *

  Outside, Rory stood on the steps. He couldn’t even wait to get down the street. He had to know. Now.

  He opened the drawstring on the pouch and looked inside. He drew in a breath. Silver and gold coins winked in the dim afternoon light. Rory had never seen so much money before in his life. He and his mum could buy their way out of Gloom with this!

  For a moment, he thought to run home and tell her to pack her things because they’d be going away. But just as suddenly, the thought left his head. That would be stealing. This was an advance of sorts, for a job he had yet to perform. Lord Foxglove trusted him for some strange reason. It was wrong to steal.

  Rory stuffed the pouch in his pack and headed home, the coins clinking with every step he took.

  Chapter Six

  Isabella, Also Known as Izzy

  Rory walked home along the docks, the pouch of coins safe in his front pocket. He wanted to keep it close to his body, just in case he saw any villains about. His head was spinning. He and his mum would be able to pay off Bumbailiff for the rest of the year with this much money.

  Suddenly, his mood darkened. What would he have to do to earn such a generous amount? Lord Foxglove said there were lots of duties to perform. But Rory could handle that. He knew how to do all kinds of things, and he had learned them all on his own. He knew how to tie a bowline and a reef knot, to scale and gut a fish in seconds, and to start a fire with wet leaves. He’d taken it upon himself to learn all these things through trial and error. He was curious like that.

  Rory picked up his pace. A few men sat on the edge of one of the piers, passing a bottle between them. A frothy tide slapped against the pilings. Rory thought back to his interviews. The whole experience was extremely odd, Lord Foxglove being the oddest. Why was he so tall and thin? He looked like a skeleton. And were those teeth of his actually sharp, or was it just a strange trick of the dim light?

  But the thing that concerned Rory most was that he’d have to live there. He’d never been away from home for more than a few hours, except for school, which didn’t start again for another few months.

  What would his mum do without him to run errands for her?

  He had to take the job. Paying work was hard to come by in Gloom. He’d heard that lots of rich people were different. Eccentric, he thought it was called. That’s what they were: eccentrics. That’s all.

  Rory was reminded of the tales people told about Foxglove Manor, which made him think about some of the other stories he’d heard over the years. Supposedly, people called mages went from town to town long ago, casting spells for those who could pay for their services. They healed sick sheep, filled dry wells with fresh water, and made barren fields bloom with seed.

  Rory wasn’t sure about all that. Just people making things up, he figured. But there was one story that everyone knew. It was the tale of Goldenrod, the Black Mariner. He was a sea captain who sailed the oceans of Europica. His hair was golden and his skin as black as the sea itself. He fought dragons that lived in the watery depths, tamed a giant seahorse as his steed, and once married a mermaid. Rory knew none of it could be real. But he liked the stories anyway.

  As his home came into view, Rory ran the last few steps, flung open the door, and rushed inside, barely stopping to wipe his feet on the straw mat.

  The house was warm, and the smell of shrimp stew filled the air. His mum sat at the kitchen table, scraping clams out of their shells with a small knife. Her red hair was loose and flowed down to the middle of her back. She looked up. Rory dropped the pouch, which landed on the table with a resounding thunk. Hilda Sorenson peered at the bag warily.

  “Go on, then.” Rory urged her. “Open it.”

  Hilda continued to stare. Finally, she picked up the pouch and shook it. The sound of clinking coins rang out.

  “Is this what I think it is?” she asked, an air of wonder in her voice.

  “Open it,” Rory said again.

  Hilda slowly loosened the drawstring and leaned her head forward. Her eyes grew as large as teacups. “All this?” she said in astonishment. “Is this . . . is this from the job? Why, you’ve barely even begun.”

  Rory smiled. “I know,” he said. “I actually don’t start until tomorrow. I had to meet Lord Foxglove first. Make it official and all that.”

  Hilda upturned the bag. Gleaming coins clattered onto the table, forming a mound of silver, gold, and copper. Rory even saw a few doubloons, a type of gold coin from the far side of the world.

  His mum stared for a long moment. “By the sea gods,” she finally murmured, running her fingers through the glittering bounty. “Tears of a fish.”

  * * *

  The shrimp stew was delicious, and Rory attacked it eagerly. “I’ll have to live there,” he said, slurping the last bit of broth from his bowl. “I’m supposed to look after him, you know. Do his errands and such.”

  Hilda’s soup spoon froze in front of her mouth.

  “Mum?” Rory said.

  Hilda set down her spoon. “Live there? Away from home? But . . . surely you’ll have a day off now and then?”

  Rory wasn’t certain about that. Neither Lord Foxglove nor Malvonius had mentioned it. “I suppose so,” he said. “I’m sure they’ll tell me more when I start.”

  Hilda leaned back in her chair and sighed. “Your da would be so proud of you,” she said, eyes shining, and then she sniffled, which made Rory’s eyes water too.

  He didn’t know his father, and his mum didn’t talk about him often. He had died before Rory was born. He was a sailor who’d drowned at sea, his mum had told him. Rory’s only con
nection to him was the stone he wore around his neck—a misshapen nugget of black onyx threaded through with a silver chain. His mum said Rory’s da had given it to her before he left on his fateful trip.

  Rory fingered the chain as he thought of the father he never knew.

  * * *

  After supper, Rory made his way to Black Maddie’s. He still had to tell Izzy about his new job and say goodbye. They wouldn’t be seeing too much of each other if he was going to live at Foxglove Manor.

  Live at Foxglove Manor.

  The thought struck him like lightning. He was actually going to leave home. But his mum would be close, he consoled himself. It’s not like he would be traveling across the globe, like Goldenrod did in his adventures.

  It was early evening now, and the gas lamps sputtered and hissed, casting a sickly glow on the cobblestone streets. Rory walked briskly and kept his eyes and ears peeled. One of the gangs in Gloom was called the Canaries, and Rory didn’t want to run into them. They wore pale yellow slickers and black wool caps that they pulled over their faces during getaways. People said they liked to make their victims sing. He wasn’t exactly sure what that meant, and he didn’t want to find out.

  A slight rain began to fall, and Rory felt the fine drizzle on the back of his neck. He made his way up the Strasse until he got to Black Maddie’s, then wiped his feet on the mat and stepped inside. Shouting from the barkeeps and mingled voices greeted him. He wound his way through the noisy patrons and toward a little room in the back. A thin red curtain served as a door. Candlelight flickered within. He pulled the curtain aside.

  A girl the same age as Rory looked up from a table, a deck of painted wooden cards fanned out in front of her. Her hair was red and frizzy, with corkscrew curls going every which way. A spray of freckles peppered her face.